Defining Moments

by Ben Burgess Jr.

  I sat back on the couch and took a deep breath as I prepared to relive the whole ordeal from start to finish.

  For the past month, my latest guy, Trevor, had been wining and dining me. I told him early on that I wanted something “real” and wasn’t looking for a purely sexual relationship. I didn’t fuck him right away, but we did talk about all the dirty things we wanted to do to each other when the time came. Trevor told me he’d never been with a “black girl” before, but I thought I was more than that to him. I legit thought he liked me.

  Last night, I was tipsy after partying with Trevor. We went to his place, and things got heavy.

  * * *

  “Take off your clothes,” he ordered in a sexy, demanding tone.

  I smiled and did as he asked.

  “Now, turn around and bend over. I want to see that big, juicy black ass of yours.”

  I smiled. I heard the condom wrapper rip and the rubber slap against his penis as he put it on, then felt his manicured hands grab hold of my hips and pull me to the edge of the mattress. I watched Trevor in the mirror hold the base of his cock and ram it inside me. He wound his fingers through my hair, closed them into a fist, and yanked my hair so hard my head flew back. He was rough with me, putting me in every position imaginable as he fucked me like a whore, but I was fine with it as long as I was exclusively his. But his dirty talk made me really uncomfortable because it was race-driven. He shoved his dick in my mouth and asked me if I loved sucking his big white cock. He wasn’t huge, about average in length and girth, but he had stamina. He then fucked me anally and asked if I liked feeling his white dick in my big black ass.

  Despite being turned off by his dirty talk, I did every freaky thing he asked of me. I wanted him to see that if we were in a relationship, I could please him.

  “Yes, baby! That’s it. Don’t stop!”

  His faced turned red. I felt him become rigid, shudder, then relax as he pumped his load inside me. The bastard couldn’t hold on just another minute for me to come, and I was so damn close. We collapsed side by side on the bed.

  “Can you go down on me so I can come?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  I held him and gave him a false smile to hide my disappointment in the sex. Trevor pulled away.

  “Can you get off me?” he asked.

  I released him and said, “Huh?”

  After the douche bag had got his rocks off, he did a complete one-eighty on me. His whole demeanor had changed. He stood up, belched, rolled off the condom, and flushed it down the toilet. He reemerged from the bathroom and lay down with a look of satisfaction.

  “So, I hope you see what you’re getting in a relationship with me,” I said, tracing my fingers along his chest.

  “If we’re talking about a fuck-buddy type of relationship, then I’m all for it.”

  “I told you from the beginning that’s not what I wanted.”

  “Well, that’s the only type you’ll get from me.”

  That hurt. I sat up, folded my arms tightly against my breasts, and shook my head.

  “You used me. You fucked me, and now that you got what you wanted, you don’t give a shit about me or what I want and feel.”

  “Don’t act like a victim. You owed me.”

  “What did I owe you?”

  “After all the dinners, drinks, gifts, and money I spent on you, I paid for this fuck in full.”

  I curled my lip in, holding back tears. “Was that all I was to you?”

  “Look, don’t make me out to be the villain. I really enjoyed fucking you.”

  “But you don’t see yourself dating me?”

  He laughed. “I don’t believe in dating outside my race.”

  “Didn’t we just have sex?”

  “We’re not in a relationship. I don’t have to like you to fuck you.”

  “So, I’m good enough to fuck, but I’m not good enough to date?” I said, even though it was more of a statement than an actual question.

  “Hey, it is what it is ... Anyway, I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said, flinging my clothes at me.

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  “You’re trying to make me out to be a villain, but you’re a pretty smart girl,” he said. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know what this was.”

  “I guess I’m not that smart, because I didn’t.”

  “I guess not. Well, it was nice meeting you, Shaniqua.”

  “It’s Simone.”

  “Sorry, nice meeting you ... Simone.”

  His racist, inconsiderate ass had kicked me out and left me standing there looking stupid in front of his closed door.

  * * *

  I turned and faced Becky.

  “Why does this keep happening to me? Every time I get my heart broken, it always makes me question if there’s something wrong with me. Men always see me as a good enough fuck, so why wouldn’t they want to be in a committed relationship with me?”

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “Trust me. Before I met Ben, I was in the same boat.”

  “This always happens to me, though. Awhile back, I was dating another white guy, Matthew. He gave me the sob story that his friend Mike was getting deployed to Iraq and could die over there. He convinced me to have a threesome with him and Mike because it was something they always wanted to try. I was stupid and gave in. I let them film it—only to find out that his friend Mike wasn’t even in the military. When I called them out on it, they laughed at me and told me I was a stupid black bitch that deserved to get played.”

  Becky looked at me with sympathetic eyes and rubbed my shoulders as I continued.

  “I remember them saying, ‘You acted like a ho, so we treated you like one.’ Hearing them refer to me as a ‘ho’ made me feel like my mother. I was ashamed of myself, but instead of stopping dating, keeping my legs closed, and healing from the experience, I went out that night, got drunk, and had another meaningless, one-night stand. I probably helped another white guy cross fucking a black girl off his bucket list.”

  I held my face in my hands and wept. All of my shitty past experiences were rising to the surface, and it was becoming overwhelming.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should take a break from white guys or maybe even dating in general until you’re mentally ready,” Becky said.

  “I know what you mean. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know black men aren’t evil. I have my uncle and my cousin that are great examples of that, but when I get approached by black men, it makes me think about my parents.”

  “I know things were bad with your parents, but you were a little girl back then. You’re grown now. Don’t let your past control your future.”

  “You want to know the truth?” I asked. “I don’t date black guys because I try to shield myself from anybody and anyone that reminds me of my parents or my old life in their old neighborhood.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Underneath my designer clothes and fancy shoes, I still feel like that poor little black girl. Do you know how it felt growing up knowing my mother was a junkie that sold pussy for money, and my father was a pimp? I remember my first day of school when Uncle Curtis first gained custody of me. All the kids were talking about what their parents did for a living, and I was embarrassed and ashamed of mine. No matter what I did in life or what clothes I wore, I could never shake that feeling that I’d never amount to anything—just like my parents. My mom never called or came to see me. As a kid, it felt as if she were just as embarrassed by me as I was of her. I never met my father, and according to Uncle Curtis, it was never going to happen anyway. He keeps trying to get me to meet my sister.”

  “You told me.”

  “I don’t know if I should, but all this talk from Uncle Curtis has me thinking about her every day. I wonder if she’s as fucked up and wounded as I am.”

  Chapter 14

  Ben

  The Same

  “Shit,”
I mumbled as I rewound the clip of Reggie arguing with the victims.

  I was sitting in my office watching all the surveillance videos from the club and local businesses around the area on the night of the murders. The video showed Reggie shove one of the guys and throw his drink in the other’s face. Reggie’s two linebacker-sized bodyguards pulled him away from the men, but he shook out of their grasps, sprinted over to the couple, and swung wildly at their faces.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on my door. Mark Cruz, another associate for the firm, poked his head in and said, “What’s up, Ben? You got a minute?”

  I gave him a halfhearted wave. “Yup.”

  He walked up to my desk. “Richard wants you to focus your time and energy on your murder case. He assigned all your other cases to me. I need your case files.”

  I nodded.

  Mark was Puerto Rican but very fair-skinned and could pass for white. He wore a thin mustache and kept his black hair slicked back. When around other Hispanics, he spoke fluent Spanish, but in front of the partners and white people, he pretended to struggle with the language. He was a decent lawyer but was favored by the partners because his father was heavily involved in politics.

  Mark tossed a manila envelope on my desk. “It’s the forensic tests for your murder case.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No offense, but I’m glad I got all your other cases and not this clusterfuck.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, but it just seems like a lost cause,” Mark said. “Well, on the bright side, you did all the legwork for these cases I’m taking over, so they should all be easy wins for me and improve my case record.”

  I gave him a faux grin, shuffled through the files in my desk drawers, and handed him two boxes full of files and paperwork for my reassigned cases. “Glad I could help.”

  He winked and nodded as he left my office with the boxes.

  I didn’t like him.

  I opened the envelope, and, as expected, the forensic tests came back showing that the gun that was in Reggie’s hand was the murder weapon used to kill the two cops and gay couple. The test also confirmed Reggie’s DNA was found on the trigger. The other tests came back positive, showing that the blood on Reggie’s clothes was also from the murdered couple. There was another set of fingerprints found on the magazine of the gun. They belonged to Kuwuan Mitchell, a known criminal arrested several times for selling illegal guns. Even though the cops had no idea where he was right now, they didn’t suspect him because he was never arrested for violent crimes, and Reggie was found at the scene holding the weapon. Things weren’t looking promising for Reggie’s defense. The only things I had going for me were Kuwuan’s fingerprint on the magazine and the grainy footage that showed the killer wearing a red and black hat and matching sneakers. Reggie was found wearing black boots and no hat. It was all I had so far to save him. I needed to talk to him and see if he could help me get more.

  * * *

  Reggie strutted into the lawyer room at Rikers Island wearing his orange prisoner attire. “What’s up, Oreo?”

  “Reginald.”

  He gave me a death stare but got my point.

  “How are things going in here?” I asked.

  “Shitty, but I’m mentally preparing myself to spend the rest of my life in here, so I’m adjusting.”

  “Don’t say things like that. It’s bad for your psyche. I’m trying my best to make sure that doesn’t happen, but I need you to help me understand this case, Reggie. All signs are pointing to you. Give me something. What am I missing or not seeing? I need you to help me.”

  “Are your folks still together?”

  I rubbed my hand down my face and curled my lip. “Reggie, I’m not here to talk to you about my parents. We’re fighting for your life here. My parents’ marriage is irrelevant in this case, but, yes, they’re still together.”

  “My dad wasn’t around growing up,” he said. “He was out running the streets. My mom tried the best she could to raise my three brothers and me on her own.”

  I could hear in his voice that this situation made him reflect on his life and the actions that got him to this point. I put my pen down on my notepad and heard him out.

  “Your mom must be a very strong woman. That’s a hard task to ask of anyone, to raise four kids alone.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, she was strong. That’s a lot of mouths to feed, you know? She died of a stroke when I was fourteen.”

  He nodded and continued, “Since I was the oldest and the man of the house, I did what I had to, to help us survive. I didn’t have the luxury of living a Cosby Show life like you did. I was slinging dope at twelve.”

  “Now that you finished giving me your family history, do you think we can get back to discussing your case?” I asked.

  “In a few. I like you, Ben. You’re not as big of an asshole that I thought you were, but I still have a feeling you don’t see that you and I are the same.”

  “We’re the same, huh?”

  “Yup—the only differences between you and me are our environments and circumstances. If the roles were reversed and we traded pasts, you’d be where I’m at, and I’d be sitting in your seat.”

  I nodded and questioned if he were right. If I grew up in his surroundings, would I have turned out like him?

  “Reggie, I don’t doubt that we have similarities, but what overrules your environment and circumstances argument is choice. You had a rough environment and a dysfunctional family life, but you could’ve chosen not to sell drugs. That ‘choice’ led to you going to prison. You could’ve not fought with people after prison, which would’ve not given you a history of violent assaults. Your choices were what led to why we’re here now.”

  “You’re right. Some of my choices could’ve been avoided, but that doesn’t change the fact that you and I are the same,” he said.

  “Can we get back to discussing your case? Your record label is spending a lot of money on your defense. You’re important to them, so let’s not waste any more time.”

  Reggie sucked his teeth. “I’m important to them now because I fill their pockets. I watch the news in here. I know my drama is making all of my albums fly off the shelves, and they’re making money hand over fist right now, but if I’m found guilty and convicted, best believe they’ll drop my black ass like a bad habit. I’m no different than you. Your bosses use you as their golden boy and make tons of money off the cases you win, but don’t get it twisted—they don’t think you’re anything special. Trust me: lose a couple of cases in a row, and I’m sure they’ll look at you as just another nigga the same way how the record executives will look at me once they can’t make money off me anymore.”

  I nodded. There was some truth to what he was saying.

  Reggie laughed. “You got a lady at home?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you got a lady? A girlfriend? A woman at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  Reggie smiled. “I bet money your girl is whiter than Wonder Bread.”

  I didn’t confirm or deny his claim. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I can tell you’re the type that likes things easy. You guys probably never argue. She’s probably really submissive, and she doesn’t challenge you with anything.”

  “My girl is white, but as far as things being easy, that couldn’t be further from the truth,” I said. “Nothing about our relationship is easy. Between people like you calling me a ‘sellout’ and her a ‘nigger lover,’ people openly insulting us to our faces, my family and friends picking on her, her family and friends believing I’ll never be good enough for her, and society in general thinking interracial relationships are bullshit, nothing’s easy about it. My girl and I challenge each other to be better every day. We argue and have problems just like any other couples, but I love her enough to endure all that shit.”

  “See. I love when you get like this,” Reggie said. “You’re a fighter. I told you we weren’t different. Deep
down in you, I know you see it too. I bust your balls a lot, but I’m trying to pull that fighter out of you, so you’ll stay motivated to help me beat this case.”

  The scary thing was that he was right. He was much smarter than I thought he was. His way of thinking was different than mine, but he also made good points and a lot of sense. Reggie had me questioning how I viewed myself and what the world thought of me.

  Chapter 15

  Ebony

  Irritation

  “No justice, no peace for the racist police,” the crowd shouted.

  It was pouring over Washington Square Park. Rashida and I were soaked. I was tired and cranky from spending hours being cursed out by angry protestors. Their outrage came about because a cop in North Carolina shot and killed an unarmed fifteen-year-old black boy. People all over the country were protesting, but these protesters weren’t mad at just the cops involved in the incident—they were mad at the system and law enforcement in general. The crowd seemed to heckle me more because I was black. Protesters stood inches from my face and yelled, “You should be ashamed of yourself, sista!”

  “Look at you, taking orders from your new-age slave master. Don’t you know they’re just using you?”

  “You’re lost. You need to stop disrespecting yourself.”

  One woman shook her head and folded her arms. “Does it feel good oppressing your own people to suck the white man’s dick? How do you sleep at night?”

  I looked at all these angry faces, and they didn’t see me, a woman that fought and worked her ass off for the community—they just saw the uniform. My skin was as black as most of theirs, but they only saw me as blue. It was hard to stop yourself from developing that “us versus them” mentality when you felt like the world hated you because of your profession.

  “What’s wrong with you, sista?” a young protestor asked.

  She was brown-skinned, in her early twenties. I stared at her and curled my lips to hold my tongue.

  I knew I shouldn’t respond. Nothing I said would make this situation better. It would be best if I just stayed quiet, but I replied, “How do you know that I’m not as pained by this as you are? Why do you assume that I don’t care about this young man’s life?”