Washing up quickly, I wrap a towel around my damp body and walk into my bedroom, where I snatch my purse off the bed. I write out a check for $5,000 to Tanisha Gordon and stuff it into an envelope before I can change my mind.
PULLING UP TO Le Meridian, I see my girls standing in front. Amaya, dressed in a short denim miniskirt, a yellow tube top sprinkled with pink rhinestones, and huge Dior sunglasses, tries to angle her body in different poses in the hopes that the gaggle of paparazzi staked out in front of the hotel will snap her picture. Doesn’t she realize by now that unless you’re one of the sexy six—Halle, Beyoncé, Gabrielle, Nia, Vivica, or Jada—photographers don’t care about shooting black actresses? Viv, dressed in khaki pants and a crisp white linen blouse, waves as I stop in front of the valet stand.
“Hey, y’all. Sorry, Tanisha called,” I say, by way of explanation for being late for the spa date I hooked up at the invitation-only Saks Fifth Avenue/Jimmy Choo Awards suite. As the Golden Globes, SAG Awards, and Oscars, approach, Hollywood kicks into full-on get-fabulous mode and companies host luxury suites in hotels so stars, stylists, and other A-listers can stop by for treatments and to shop for gowns and accessories.
“How’s your dad?” asks Viv as we make our way into the hotel’s bustling lobby.
“Well, I’d love to tell you, but I can’t convince my sister to take him to see the specialist that Sean recommended, so I really don’t know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She called because the doctor at the clinic wants to run some tests that Medicaid just happens not to cover, and, of course, we got into it.”
“That has to be so frustrating,” says Amaya as she pushes the elevator button.
“This Dr. Wills character has been screwing us around for months. Remember I told ya’ll about that time I found that $19,000 charge for a mastectomy on my daddy’s bill and when I confronted him he said it was just an accounting error?”
“I don’t know why your sister won’t listen,” says Viv. “That would make a heck of a story: Medicaid fraud in the ’hood.”
“So why don’t you write it, little Miss L.A. Daily News?” I ask.
“Because I’m too busy blowing the lid off of world-changing events like who wore what nail polish to whichever party, teen-star eating disorders, paternity test results, and botched Botox procedures,” she says, only half-joking. Viv’s been threatening for years to quit her mind-numbing beat and write serious features.
“Well, I’d rather read about all that fluffy stuff than some Medicaid craziness,” says Amaya, pushing her shades up into her hair. “Too much of a downer.” Viv and I both shake our heads.
When the elevator doors open, we step into the spa’s elegant reception area and I start to relax. This is just what I need. As we approach the desk, the receptionist, who is on the phone, glances up at us and then continues her conversation.
“Oh, I know she isn’t trying to ignore us,” says Amaya. The receptionist flips her peroxide-blond ponytail in our direction and turns her back.
“Uh… excuse me.” I try to get her attention but she continues what sounds like a chat with a friend about an audition.
“After I read my scene he said he thought I could be the next Kimberly Springfield,” she giggles, her hand caressing a script with TA’s red cover-sheet. Viv rolls her eyes. Fed up with the lack of respect threatening to kill my beauty buzz, and still bent out of shape from my sister’s phone call, I’m in no mood for games. I reach across the desk to disconnect her call. She continues to blather on until she notices my finger on the phone.
“What the hell…” she exclaims as she swivels around in her chair; an angry flush stains her cheeks. She stands up as I remove my finger from the phone. Her anorexic frame shakes in her tight jeans with the indignation that only a white woman could muster when faced with three angry black women. “Did you just hang up my…”
“Yes, uh…” I squint to read the nametag pinned to the pink polo shirt that strains against her surgically enhanced breasts and then set my wait-list-only navy Hermès Birkin bag on the desk. “Yes, Jessica, I did disconnect your call. Now call Parker Jamison and tell her Trista Gordon, with The Agency, and her party are here.”
“Chop-chop.” Amaya claps her hands in Jessica’s face to punctuate my statement.
“Ms. Gordon?” she says sheepishly, her face registering my six-thousand-dollar handbag, my name, and, most important, my affiliation.
“And party,” snaps Viv, clearly enjoying Jessica’s discomfort.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Gordon,” she says, rushing from around the back of the desk. Just as she seems to be about to kneel down and kiss our feet, I see Parker crossing the reception area in our direction.
“Trista, darling,” says the always flattering spa manager as we exchange air kisses. She then removes a tiny bell from the pocket of her black Mandarin-collared jacket and gives it a slight ring. Suddenly a muscular waiter in tight white T-shirt and jeans appears by her side, holding a tray with flutes of champagne.
“Trista, I’m so glad you and your lovely friends could join us today,” says Parker as she hands each of us a glass of bubbly. “Is Jessica taking good care of you?” We all turn expectantly toward the flummoxed receptionist, who is now hiding the script behind her back and looking down at the floor. I decide to use my powers for good today and spare her dreams of fame, and this little minimum-wage job.
“Yes, she was just perfect,” I say, smiling brightly. “And, Parker, we’re ready to get the works.” As nothing escapes Parker’s attention at her spa, she raises a razor-thin eyebrow at Jessica as we head back to our private cabanas to change, a clear indication she’ll be back to discuss our reception. Jessica slumps back down in her chair, still holding the script.
AS WE SIT IN our private treatment room, in fluffy white robes with fragrant avocado and mint masks on our faces, three nail technicians begin our paraffin pedicures, our final treat for the day.
“Girls, I could get used to this,” says Viv, sipping her glass of Pellegrino and adjusting the massage setting on her chair. In the past three hours we have been plucked, waxed, buffed, rubbed, and polished to within an inch of our lives. “Shoot, I’m not even mad at that little girl at the front desk anymore.”
“I know that’s right—although you really should have slipped her Sean’s card so he could fix those sad little lopsided silicone sacks,” offers Amaya.
“You are so wrong for that,” I say, laughing. As Amaya’s C-cups runneth over naturally, she loves to pick on the less fortunate of us. But she has a point. There’s nothing more unattractive than bad plastic surgery. Poor girl probably got them down in Tijuana with a coupon. Some things you really just shouldn’t skimp on.
“If I could hang out like this every month, I’d never need a man,” says Viv.
“Shit, why do you think we’re doing all of this stuff?” asks Amaya, leaning forward in her chair. “You think I got my coochie waxed in the shape of an arrow for my own viewing pleasure? Shit, somebody’s got to see that and show some appreciation.”
“You got a what?” I ask, positive I can’t have heard her correctly.
“You heard me, an arrow.”
“What the fuck for?” asks Viv.
“Exactly for that. To fuck!” The nail technicians exchange glances under lowered lashes and giggle softly.
“Girl, what are you talking about?” I ask.
“Don’t you know that nothing makes a brother drop to his knees quicker than seeing your coochie all done up with a special design. Shows that you were thinking about him and you wanted it to be nice and smooth for him—and his tongue.”
“Eww, girl, you so nasty,” says Viv as she takes a slice of cantaloupe from the glass plate of fresh fruit resting on her lap and slips it in her mouth.
“Shit, you need to ask them if they can wax your stuff into the shape of a scalpel to get Sean to pay some attention to you!” Amaya says. We all burst into laughter.
“Hold up—seriously, though, you me
an to tell me you two don’t wax?” she asks.
“I wax,” I answer defensively. “But I just have them clean up the sides so it’s nice and neat, but none of that crazy Brazilian shit or whatever X-rated thing you got going on down there.”
“What about you, Viv? You still running around here looking like a bush baby?” Amaya asks with a challenge in her voice.
“That’s none of your business,” she says, sliding down deeper into her seat and closing the robe tightly across her thighs.
“I guess I just got my answer. Look, y’all, if you want to compete with these other women out here you got to up your game, show the brothers that you got something special to offer. And for me, ain’t nothing more special than my coochie-coo.”
“Then why are you always giving it away?” I snap. Viv reaches across Amaya and gives me a high five.
“Don’t be jealous, girls. There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy sexual appetite and sharing the wealth with a deserving gentleman. I keep my men wanting me at all times. Surprises in the bedroom, videos, lingerie that’ll make a porn star blush, and a little text sex.”
“Text sex?” Viv and I say in unison.
“Yes, my little innocents,” she says impatiently, clearly growing bored with our lack of knowledge. “Phone sex is played. You’ve got to get with the twenty-first-century technology, ladies. Text-messaging my man dirty little thoughts throughout the day, and sometimes attaching a naughty little picture with my camera phone makes sure that Keith’s thinking about my pussy at all times. When we finally hook up after I’ve been sending him messages during meetings, you best believe it’s off the chain, because he’s been thinking about sliding between my thighs all day.”
Amaya reaches for her silver cell phone from the pocket of her robe, punches a few buttons, and then passes it to me. Viv leans over and we scroll through a series of saved messages that appear to be an exchange Amaya and Keith had a while ago. We’re both speechless. Much of the text reads as if it came straight out of the script of an X-rated movie. Thankfully she doesn’t show us any photos.
“Uh, okay,” I say, handing back the phone. And while I make a mental note never to borrow her cell phone, I can see why Amaya keeps her men coming back for more.
“You better get with it, ladies,” she says. “Plus, you got to compete with what these other hos out here will do.”
“What are you talking about?” Viv asks.
“The white girls. You know, brothers think they are freaks and will do anything in the bed. And the Latina girls ain’t much better, with all that ‘sí, papi’ bullshit.”
“You need serious help,” Viv says, shaking her head and smiling at the giggling nail technicians, who are trying to act like they aren’t listening. I’m not really worried, though, as Parker would personally eviscerate any employee found gossiping about clients. Le Meridian is the model of discretion.
“I’m dead serious, Viv. You need to know what you’re competing against out there. And use everything you’ve got to get what you want.”
“It’s not a competition,” says Viv.
“Right, and you sound like your mother now,” I say, chiming in.
“Are you two kidding me? The brothers out here in L.A., at least the ones worth giving a shit about, are getting prime, grade-A pussy thrown at them by chicks that will fuck them every which way. And please don’t even get me started on the DL brothers—those switch hitters are just messing it up for everybody. It’s gotten so bad that falling in love with a gay man is like a rite of passage. I’m telling you, if you two don’t get it together, you won’t make it. Shoot, you guys are the first ones to roll your eyes when you see a good-looking brother walking down the street with some J-Lo type, but did you ever ask yourself how it is she’s got him? It’s because she’s giving him what he wants, what he needs.”
“So you’re saying if I wax, Sean will come back to me?”
“Not just wax, girl, you got to give him something special in the bedroom. Spice it up. You got to put it on him like a porn star.”
“Amaya!” I exclaim, grabbing her arm, hoping that will make her lower her voice.
“Look here, I’m just telling the truth. Especially to you, Viv. You can’t even imagine the type of freaky shit those groupies have begged Daddy MC to let them do to him. You guys can keep doing the same old stuff if you want to, but I’m taking the Vow seriously—I’m in it to win it.”
“And who are you trying to win now? Still going after the married man with the hopes that he’s going to leave his wife?” I ask sarcastically.
“By the time I am through with Keith, you bet he’s leaving her old dried-up ass.”
“All because of the arrow?”
“It’s not just the arrow, ladies. I’m the total package.”
“Total package?” Viv asks.
“Yes, sweetheart, the total package. You got to learn what your man wants, the freaky shit he’ll only whisper in your ear when he’s about to come, the stuff he doesn’t really want you to know he’s into. And once you show him you’re down, he’ll be yours.”
“And just where, pray tell, did you learn to whip it on the brothers so well?” asks Viv, only half-joking.
“Some of it I must admit is a gift,” Amaya answers as she adjusts the robe across her ample breasts and raises her champagne glass in a toast to herself, “but most of it I picked up in classes.”
“Classes?” Viv and I exclaim in unison.
“Yes, girls, classes. I guess it would be too much to expect that you two would know anything about the Pleasure Principles Center in West Hollywood.”
“Uh, can’t say that I’m familiar,” I answer. At the same time I try to raise a brow, but the avocado mask won’t let me.
“The PPC is an institution dedicated to the arts of pleasure and intimacy. They offer classes on everything—self-stimulation, tantric sex, BJs, S&M workshops, even private couples sessions. I can’t believe you guys haven’t heard of this place. Lots of people go there—first wives, second wives, of course all the third wives, stars, singers, gay men. Girl, everybody goes there.”
Viv and I both stare at her with open mouths.
“And what happens in these, uh, classes?” I ask, afraid that the answer to my question is the disgusting orgy of writhing body parts I can’t get out of my head.
“It’s not what you think, silly. Actually, it’s kind of like a regular class we took at UC. Like, there’s a small group of students and usually one instructor, or two, depending on the course and the type of demonstrations needed, and you’re encouraged to take notes. Although there’s no final exam. But I guess you figure out if you passed or failed by your man’s reaction,” she says, laughing.
“And what classes have you taken?” asks Vivian.
“Just a couple. Uh, let me think. I took the BJ one—got to control those gag reflexes—Self-Stimulation for Maximum Pleasure, Bondage for Beginners, and Totally Tantric. I think that’s it…”
“I guess I can understand why you’d take the BJ class,” I remark, “but why self-stimulation? You don’t strike me as the type that needs help getting in the mood.”
“It helps you figure out what you like so you can help your lover turn you on and achieve maximum pleasure. I’m about to sign up for the Blow and Get Low class.”
“Why Blow and Get Low?” asks Viv.
“Because my girl Pam told me her husband Paul bought her a new candy-red XJ-6 after she whipped something she learned in that class on him. Want to join me?” she asks, daring us. Viv and I look at each other.
“Forget it, I’m just going to sign all of us up,” she declares. “It’s just the thing you two need to jump-start your missionary-only groove thangs.”
“Okay, well, sounds like that’s solved,” I say, worried about what may happen but also a little excited at the thought of what we may learn. And who knows, maybe I can pick up some tongue techniques for Garrett in the process. Maybe I should give him a PPC gift certifi
cate for his birthday…
BY TUESDAY THE spa treatments I enjoyed with my girls have lost their luster. Work is kicking my butt. And as the conference room empties out from this afternoon’s meeting, I scoop my portfolio up off the table and practically sprint back to my office on the other side of the building. Lots to do. When I walk past Adriene, who is sitting at her desk with a curly black bob today, she reminds me that I’ve only got a couple of more hours before Garrett will pick me up for a Valentine’s Day fundraiser.
Scrolling through my email messages, I forward most to Adriene with instructions for her to handle them, and then open one from an unfamiliar address and an intriguing subject line.
TO: Tgordon@TA. com
FROM: Dreynolds@GMF. com
Subject: I’m moving to L.A.
Trista,
Before you delete this email, please read it all the way through. I’m moving to L.A. My firm is opening an office there. I want to talk to you. Please give me a call at 816-555-5245 or email me back. I really want to explain what happened in Atlanta. Hope to hear from you soon.
—Damon
Damon Reynolds
Vice President
Global Investments
I slump down in my chair. Is he serious? I can’t believe he had the nerve to email me. What does he want? Real estate advice? A smack upside the head? Another romp in the sheets? Well, whatever the hell he’s selling, I’m sure not buying. I start to delete the message, but first I need to forward it to the girls. I need witnesses to this bullshit.
After clicking send, I drag the message to the trash with my mouse and immediately empty it to make sure the message is permanently gone. I’m on a roller coaster right now, with a couple of weeks of premieres, parties, and a bunch of important meetings ahead of me. Not to mention, I’m excited about seeing Garrett tonight. I shake my head to erase the memory of the night Damon and I spent together. I will not allow myself to get sidetracked over an insignificant email from someone I no longer care about. I have moved on.
The Vow Page 12