The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts

by Jordan, Sable

  Spinning.

  I hate these jeans. I need to feel his skin; crave the heat of him sinking into me while he kisses my mouth; want his dark scent seeping into every pore of my body while his wicked tongue continues its erotic seduction.

  Spinning faster.

  Another surge forward and I moan in response.

  I want this costume off. Now.

  The next moment his mouth is gone, and I tip my head back to gulp air.

  “Q…”

  His head is buried in the hollow of my neck; teeth nip my skin.

  “Q…please.” It’s breathy. My brain is dizzy. I can think of nothing but having him inside me. “Baby. Fuck me…please.”

  He licks up my neck, bites my earlobe. “No.”

  As quickly as it began it ends. Gently, he lowers me to my feet, steadying me against the wood. He’s breathing hard when he bends to retrieve my coat and bag, helps me back into them.

  I’m confused. Again.

  The door is open and he ushers me out into the cool evening air.

  Standing on the threshold, Q engulfs me in another bear hug, inhales deeply. “That’s everything I wanted from you…tonight.” He dips to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Get home safely, Rosie. I’ll see you next week.”

  The door closes with him on one side and me on the other. The absence of footsteps or the creak of hardwood tell me he hasn’t moved. Somehow I know he’s got his weight against the door, leaning toward me. I’m on his porch, one hand on the ornately carved wood.

  Spinning too fast.

  This isn’t my play anymore. I don’t know the lines, don’t know the stage cues, and I think…no, I know Q is still writing it.

  Minutes pass with the both of us just standing there, unsure of what we’re waiting for.

  CURTAIN CALL

  The drive home gives me plenty of time to evaluate my situation with Q. It does not, however, produce any solutions. I spend the time absently staring at taillights and rehashing the soft feel of his mouth on mine, the very thought constantly startling the grove of long dormant butterflies in my stomach. Somewhere during my encore I came out of character, and my audience loved me for it. As Wilde said, “I love acting. It is so much more than real life.”

  But with Q, real life is all I want.

  Exhausted in both mind and body, I pull into my driveway just after midnight. My limbs ache as I lift my bag and bin from the trunk; get them inside. I’m happy to shut my door and once again be nestled in the quiet of my home.

  I check the voice messages on my landline and go through the mail. My parents have called and want me to visit. One of my sister’s has just had her fourth baby, and Mom’s being Mom and wondering when I’ll settle down, get married, and start a family of my own; Dad’s asking if I’ve gone to church. They have no idea what I do. And although I long ago diverted from their path for me, they’re proud their little girl has made it on her own in the big bad city.

  Truth is, Rosalyn Patrice Hayes almost didn’t make it here, almost did get chewed up and spit out, almost returned to Georgia with her tail tucked. Despite it’s name, Broadway is very narrow. The roles in theatre are limited, especially for a southern-sounding black girl without the Juilliard credentials, and after six months of searching I hadn’t gotten my big break. So I made my break, chose to write my own play, Roz the Doxy; act out the dramas I create on the biggest stage—life.

  My choice. Best I’ve ever made.

  My mind replays all of my appointments today—from the Royal members of the Tower, to the intermission with Aiden, the wild ride with the Cowboys and the…I’m still working out what that was with Q—everyone was satisfied, especially the doxy. Even my interactions with Paul and Maria were stellar, I think.

  The ding of my cell phone has me searching my purse for it, a text message on the display screen. It’s Q: Home yet?

  Knowing he waited up to check on me brings a smile to my face. I reply: Yes.

  Q: Good… Can’t wait for next week. Tonight. 8pm.

  A delicious shiver runs through me. The butterflies stir.

  This could be a horrible idea. My nails tap nervously against the phone’s plastic cover while I try to decide whether or not to accept the role I’m being offered. Can I be Rosie in a play of Q’s making? Should I even try?

  Have you ever made a top spin? Set it up on its tip and given it a whirl? Humans are a lot like tops; we all have a point we revolve around—jobs, family, sex, love…. Funny thing about spinning: too slow or too fast and the top wobbles and falls over. There’s no satisfaction in watching it. But, spin us just so—fast enough—we become stable...

  The return message is off before I convince myself otherwise: No…6.

  Another ding: Staying?

  I could. Don’t usually have a show on Sundays. But should I stay? Is there magic in staying?

  Those butterflies are flapping like crazy and I wipe a hand over my face: Yes.

  I can feel the smile in his reply: Good night, Rosie.

  Night, Q.

  Peeking in the freezer, I grab the container of chunky monkey and pluck a spoon from the utensil drawer, and then I make my way to the living room, plop down on the couch. A click of the remote turns on the tube, and I stare at the images on the screen. There’s nothing on, nothing worth watching intently, and the only reason I’m doing this is to give myself a chance to be Rosalyn again.

  It’s not long before the ice cream is gone and I’m ready for sleep. I perform the nightly ablutions and slide naked between the cool sheets of my bed.

  In a few hours that giant spotlight in the sky will bring another day, another script. There will be more appointments to keep. New players. New settings. New dialogue. I know my entrances and exits.

  And there’s a dizzying new play to learn...

  I flip the page of my daybook on the nightstand.

  KILL HOUSE LIGHTS

  Alan Rickman said “Acting is about giving something away, handing yourself over to whatever role you are asked to play.”

  I give freely.

  I feel no shame when I forget myself like Gielgud, and like Wilde, every day I find pleasure in sharing with other people exactly what it is to be human. I turn slowly like Russell.

  I’ll spin fast enough for Q.

  Call me Roz.

  I’m an actress.

  I’m a doxy.

  Curled in the warmth of my comforter, I close my eyes.

  THE CURTAIN GOES DOWN

  -END-

  You’ve reached the end!

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  (I know, I know, no one said anything about homework…)

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  About the Author

  Sable Jordan: Stories so Whet, you’ll want to Lick My INK!

  Quick and dirty, I’m a writer of multicultural erotica and seductive romances, and whatever else comes to mind. Tattooed vixen. Wicked humorist. Incurable humanist. Proud geek! Closet badass. (Shhh…) Lover of pit bulls, fast cars, all music, and candy. That’s the nut in a nutshell.

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  If you liked THE DOXY’S DAYBOOK you may also like…

  EROS FELL

  By Sable Jordan

  Eros, god of love, has always been depicted as pure; an innocent, chubby-faced cherub slapped on today's Valentine's Day cards. Ever wonder how he got that way? Well, I'll tell you—he fell.

  And he wasn't alone.

  It's a secret no one wants you to know because if you did, you'd never look at Love the same again. You want to know? Promise not to tell? Okay, I'll whisper it to you. See, it was Eros who bit the apple....

  Warning: 18+ Only! This story is an untold myth you never heard in high school, and includes graphic language, sex, and all that fun stuff between two Immortals.

  Excerpt from EROS FELL:

  The ache in his groin had not yielded; her scent making his heart race. “Tell me your name, goddess, or you will have the wrath of Zeus to face, and Aphrodite, besides.”

  “Threats of Zeus?” she gasped and pressed her hand to her breast, “I shudder. I’ll make you a deal, Eros. A game, if you will.”

  Curious, he nodded for her to continue.

  “You wish me to cease my meddling with these useless peasants, yes?” She didn’t wait for his response. “I am perfectly willing to do so, will surrender my powers to the great and mighty Zeus himself so that I may never make mischief for you again, permitted you excel in my challenge. And as a bonus, I will gift you my name.”

  He eyed her suspiciously, crossed his arms over his chest. “What are the conditions?”

  A corner of her mouth ticked up. “For one-twelfth’s time of Apollo’s travels with the Sun, you must prevent my apples from hitting their marks.” She held out her dainty palm, and a golden orb materialized there. She handed the solid fruit to Eros, who studied it a moment before she plucked it back. She tossed it in the air, caught it in her hand. “You already know how to defeat them. Pierce them with your arrows and no catastrophe will befall a single mortal. Ha!” she laughed, “I even tell you how to ensure your victory. An easy enough task, yes?”

  Easy? Of course it would be easy. He was Eros, god of love, gifted with both speed and accuracy when stringing his darts and connecting with his targets. He would effortlessly shoot her every sphere from the sky for one human hour.

  “And when I win,” he clarified, voice deep and earnest, “I earn both your name and your promise to never cause the mortals ill again?”

  She nodded, a sibylline grin on her mouth.

  “And your oath is binding?”

  “Binding. Yes.”

  “And what would you require should you win?”

  A shoulder lifted nonchalantly. “A simple thing, really. Nothing you will miss.”

  “Out with it, goddess.”

  “A kiss. One little kiss, Eros.”

  He eyed her warily. “And that’s all?”

  “From the god of love? More than enough. Just remember, no other soul but me may touch the apples. Have we a deal? ”

  A warning blared in his head like trumpets heralding the arrival of Dawn, yet he could not resist the tempt of her lure. Love would overcome this challenge as he conquered all else, and have her name when he was through.

  The length of a human heartbeat passed and he’d changed from the mortal garb into lighter attire, white wings spread wide against red robes. “When do we begin?”

  The goddess morphed before him, no longer donning the heavy brocade and petticoats of the era but instead the shimmering silk gowns denoting her an eternal being. Her wings expanded; two raven-black appendages with a span not quite as broad as his unfurled from her back. Her hair twisted into a long, thick braid and then looped itself around her head like a crown. Eyes turned skyward, she marked the time. “Now.”