Lookin' For Luv

by Carl Weber

  “I never thought about it that way, but I think I like that.”

  “Okay,” he said with devilish grin. “Answer this question for me. How do you know if a man had an orgasm?”

  “He shoots sperm. What kind of a question is that?”

  “And as a woman, how do you feel when he has that orgasm?”

  “Really good. Like I know he’s satisfied and happy.”

  “Now let’s switch places for a minute. I’ll be the beautiful woman for a minute, you be the man.”

  “Okay.” She was intrigued.

  “You’ve just made love to me.” He sprawled out all over the couch. “Two minutes before I was moaning and groaning your name, telling you how I was having an orgasm.”

  “I really did a job on you, didn’t I?” Carol laughed, thinking about how much fun it must be to be the man.

  “Oh, yeah, I won’t be able to walk for a week,” he answered, still lying on the couch. “But how do you know I really had an orgasm?”

  “You told me you did.”

  “Exactly.” He sat up quickly. “There is no way any man can be one hundred percent sure that his woman had an orgasm even if she said she did.” Taking both her hands in his, he smiled and delivered his punch line. “Oh, and, Carol, I just put on an Academy Award—winning performance. I never had an orgasm.”

  She frowned when she heard him say that. Of course she knew she was not a man and they didn’t just have sex, but somehow she felt inadequate next to him.

  “Now you know the pressure and stress a man’s under during sex.”

  Carol nodded. “I still don’t understand why you said selfishness is the reason you like oral sex so much.”

  “To be honest with you, Carol, having someone go down on me is the most gratifying experience imaginable. It’s the only time I can truly concentrate on nothing but my own satisfaction. There really is no way to describe the pleasure.”

  “I have noticed men seem to have a weakness for oral sex,” she commented as he massaged her hands.

  “Well, that’s enough about oral sex. Whose turn is it now?” He was satisfied with where the conversation had gone. He had laid the groundwork for his conquest.

  “Your turn, I believe.” She handed him a card.

  “Would you like the other player to give you a passionate French kiss?” he improvised, ignoring what was really printed on the card.

  “Yes.” She opened her arms and lay back on the couch, waiting for Maurice to kiss her.

  It was 6:25 A.M. when Carol awoke, still lying on the couch in the condo living room. Sitting up, she slowly picked up her bra, halter top, and miniskirt. Half asleep, she searched for her panties before realizing she was still wearing them. Standing up, she walked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet to relieve herself. Her jaws were killing her, so she reached for her bag and a bottle of Advil.

  Walking from the bathroom to the bedroom, her knees gave out on her when she realized Maurice was not in bed. Quickly gaining her composure, she checked the other bedroom, which was also empty. She bolted first to the living room, then to the kitchen, desperately searching for his suitcase, which was nowhere to be seen.

  “Goddamn you motherfucker,” she screamed, crying as she slid down against the front door. “I went down on your ass three times last night and you couldn’t even leave a note.” She couldn’t even begin to imagine how she would get herself home from Jamaica. Maurice had been holding both of their plane tickets.

  Maurice smiled as he handed Carol’s ticket to the ticket agent.

  “Hi, I’d like to exchange this ticket for another one. It’s an open ticket. I paid for it on my credit card.”

  “Sure, sir. I just have to void this ticket out and print you a new ticket. What name would you like on the new ticket?”

  Maurice turned around and looked at Debra, who was still wearing her desk-clerk uniform from the condo.

  “Debra, honey, what’s your last name again?”

  “Warner,” she said to the ticket agent. She was ecstatic to be going to New York City with this handsome man. Little did she know that she would be left stranded by him in the biggest city in the world less than fifteen hours later.

  30

  TYRONE AND SYLYIA

  Tyrone sat on a bench in Roy Wilkins Park watching his two daughters, Donna and Kim, play on the monkey bars. Sylvia sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulders.

  “Look at me, Daddy,” his younger daughter, Kim, shouted. “I can hang upside down.”

  “I can do it too, Daddy.” His elder daughter didn’t want to be outdone.

  “You girls are amazing,” he told them, wrapping his arm around Sylvia.

  “They’re really good kids,” Sylvia told him softly.

  “Yeah, I know.” He gave her a hug. “Hey, Syl, you okay? You seem a little bit down. The girls aren’t stressing you out, are they?”

  “No, they’ve been great. I’m just concerned about Bernard. He’s been complaining a lot about being tired. Then his secretary told me he’s been freebasing a lot of coke. I’m really worried. He’s been my best friend for years.”

  “I wouldn’t sweat it. Bernard’s a big boy. But I’ll tell you what. After our meeting with him, I’ll have a little talk with him about the drugs, okay?” He looked down at Sylvia. “I know you didn’t forget about our meeting with him tomorrow, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t forget. Matter of fact, I was planning on going back to your apartment with you and working on your portfolio”

  “Working on the portfolio or working on me?” he joked.

  Sylvia looked at him very seriously. “I know, I usually laugh at your jokes, but this is serious, Tyrone. You’re never going to get another chance to impress Bernard. He has a personal rule. He never looks at an artist’s work more than one time. So your portfolio can be the difference between imported champagne and that disgusting Old English ale you like so much. We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to get you an exclusive showing.”

  “I know, Syl.” He shrugged his shoulders as if it were no big deal.

  Sylvia shot him an annoyed look. “I don’t think you do. This is your future we’re talking about. Don’t you see, Tyrone? If Bernard signs you to an exclusive, your girls won’t be playing in a broken-bottle-filled park. They’ll be playing on their own swing set in the backyard of your five-acre home in Long Island.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know so,” she answered confidently as both girls jumped into their father’s lap.

  “Daddy, can we get some ice cream? Please!” they said in unison.

  “Sure, we can get some ice cream on the way home. It’s about time I take you two home anyway.” He hugged them both. “Aunt Sylvia and I have a lot of work to do on my future tonight.”

  Tyrone dropped off his daughters and walked back to Sylvia’s car. He thought about what she had told him. She was right. With an exclusive contract from Bernard, he could do so much more for his girls. He might even help their mothers move out of the projects. He was hopeful as he got back in the car. Opening up the driver’s side door, he slid in behind the wheel and turned toward Sylvia to get a quick kiss.

  “What’s is it? What’s wrong, Sylvia?” he asked, seeing her eyes full of tears and her cell phone in her lap.

  “It’s Bernard. His secretary just called me. He’s in the hospital, Tyrone. He has pneumonia.”

  “Damn, is he aw’ight?” Tyrone placed his hand on Sylvia’s back to comfort her.

  “No, they think he might die.” Sylvia burst into tears.

  “It’s all right, baby,” Tyrone said with sympathy, “I had pneumonia. Doctors can treat it.”

  It was hard for Sylvia, but somehow she looked up through her tears and said, “Bernard has AIDS, Tyrone. Pneumonia might kill him.”

  “Oh, shit.” Tyrone was worried, not just about Bernard’s health, but about what effect this might all have on his art career. “What hospital is he at?”

&n
bsp; “North Shore University Hospital in Manhasset. Take the Long Island Expressway east.”

  It had been two days since Tyrone and Sylvia had visited the dying Bernard Ridgewood in the hospital. Tyrone stepped out of the cab in front of his apartment building very upset. Bernard had passed away a few hours earlier. Taking a deep breath of the spring air, he sighed. He had not lost a dear friend, as Sylvia had, he had lost what he figured was his only chance at a career in art. He knew he was being selfish, but he couldn’t help it.

  The day after the guy’s supposed to look at my work he ups and dies. Dammit, I can’t catch a fucking break, he thought Standing in front of the entrance to his apartment building, he pulled out his keys to open the door.

  “Remember me?” A voice startled him from behind.

  Quickly he turned around in a martial-arts stance before realizing it was his ex-girl.

  “Shelly! Don’t do that shit, girl! You could have got kicked in the head.” He suddenly remembered that he owed her money. “What you doing here anyway?”

  “I saw you walking through the projects earlier today, so I thought I would come over and get payment for the money you owe me.”

  Reaching into his pockets, Tyrone pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “You can have this twenty, but it’s all that I have. I swear.” This was the final straw to this devastating day.

  Shelly snatched the twenty dollars, then kissed his lips. “I said I wanted payment. I didn’t say anything about money.” She caressed his crotch before putting the money back in his pocket.

  “Shelly, you don’t know how much I want to ...” Shelly had began to feel his butt with both her hands. “But I’m kind of seeing somebody.”

  “I don’t give a shit about some other chick. I just want to get some tonight. Tomorrow you can be all hers again.”

  Tyrone’s facial expression didn’t give Shelly the answer she was looking for, so she grabbed his hand and placed it under her pantiless skirt. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t want any of this?”

  He felt the intense heat between her legs, and it was definitely enticing.

  “No, I’m not saying that I don’t want some. I’m just saying maybe I shouldn’t take some ’cause it’s wrong. It wouldn’t be fair to my girl.”

  Shelly laughed hard. “You didn’t think it was wrong when you were screwing me behind my husband’s back. Shit! If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably still be married. Besides, who has the best stuff you ever had?”

  “You do,” he said honestly, remembering how good she was in bed.

  “And who gave you the best head you ever had?”

  “You did.” He didn’t need any more convincing. He grabbed her hand and led her up the stairs.

  They stood at the edge of his bed, kissing. She had stripped off her blouse and bra as soon as they entered the room, not allowing him a chance to change his mind.

  “My girlfriends and I were talking last night about the best lover we ever had. I was telling them how you were the only guy who ever wore me out.” Shelly massaged his neck and shoulders. “Do you know one of those bitches had the nerve to ask me if I still had your phone number?”

  “Damn, and I thought brothers were cutthroat.”

  “I ain’t gonna lie. All that talk about sex had me horny as hell. So when I saw you dropping off your daughter Donna, I decided I was gonna forget all about that two hundred dollars for some really good sex.”

  She reached down and stroked him through the thin material of his pants, disappointed to find that he was not even aroused yet. She decided to remedy the situation. Slowly kissing down his neck to his chest, she worked her way to his belt buckle, fumbling to unlatch it. Before she could even open his fly, Tyrone grabbed her gently and pulled her up off her knees.

  “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Shelly. I just can’t do this.” He buckled his pants and sat on the edge of the bed, handing her the blouse and bra she had dropped on the floor.

  “I don’t care how good you are in bed. I’m in love with Sylvia. I’m sorry, but I’m just going to have to pay you twenty dollars a week until my debt is paid. Now, if you don’t mind, could you please get dressed?”

  Shelly left without an argument, wondering why Tyrone hadn’t been this faithful when she was the woman in his life.

  Kevin walked into Ridgewood galleries, holding Denise’s hand as he looked around at the stunning, lavish lobby. They were at the gallery to attend an art auction held in memory of Bernard Ridgewood, who died four weeks before from pneumonia. The proceeds of the evening were going to be donated to AIDS research. Tyrone had asked Kevin to attend because the auction was to be a special evening, and he wanted all his friends there. He had gladly accepted and called Denise so that she could clear her calendar for that evening.

  There was no longer a question about the two of them going out together in public. Since Denise had done so much to help save his sister’s life, Kevin had endured the stares and remarks from strangers without a comment. Whatever their reasons for disapproving of the interracial relationship, Kevin was sure those people had no idea what a difference she had made in his life. He no longer cared what color her skin was, because she had shown herself to be nothing but generous and helpful toward him. She had planned her act very carefully and never once slipped to reveal her scheming side to him.

  Kevin smiled as his friends entered the lobby. Antoine held the door for Keisha, Tyrone, and his daughters. Dressed in evening wear, the men looked incredibly handsome. Denise wore a sexy black cocktail dress that complemented her gorgeous legs, and Keisha wore a tight red evening dress that revealed plenty of cleavage.

  Kevin pulled Antoine and Tyrone to the side as soon as they approached. The three had a long talk earlier in the day, and Kevin finally told them about his relationship with Denise. As expected, Antoine was upset and actually called him an Uncle Tom. However, he soon apologized when he heard how instrumental she had been in saving Whitney’s life.

  “Antoine, I hope you’re not going to be uncomfortable with Denise around. If seeing the two of us together is going to be a problem, we can leave.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Kevin. You’re my brother. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” He gave him a hug. “Plus I really like what she did for Whitney. She’s all right with me.”

  “Well, bro, this is your big night.” Kevin playfully punched Tyrone’s shoulder.

  He was right. This was Tyrone’s big night. Somehow Sylvia had used her influence to get one of his paintings included among the art to be bid on at the First Annual Bernard Ridgewood Memorial Charity Art Auction. It was virtually unheard of for an unknown artist to be included in such a prestigious event, but Sylvia had faith that his talent was worthy of the evening. Black artists from around the country had donated art for this event, and buyers and critics from all over the world were expected to be in attendance. This was indeed his big break.

  Walking down the wide corridor toward the main gallery, the group oohed and aahed at the magnificent African paintings and sculptures.

  “Wow, this is incredible. I’m not into art, but this stuff is awesome.” Antoine touched a large mahogany statue of a bushman.

  “This is the cheap stuff,” Tyrone told him. “You should see the stuff they sent out on tour from the main gallery, which we’re using for the memorial service. Now, that, my friend, is art.”

  “Daddy, did you do all these pictures?” his daughter Kim asked.

  “No, honey. Daddy did only one of the paintings.” He handed their tickets to the woman standing outside the main gallery.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jefferson. We’ve had quite a few people ask about your painting so far. I’m quite impressed.” She pointed them in the direction of Tyrone’s painting, then handed him their seating assignment.

  “Tyrone, Denise and I are going to the rest rooms. Would you like me to take the girls? Your little one is dancing in place,” Keisha asked, taking the girls’ hands when Tyrone nodded. She and Denise led them tow
ard the ladies’ room.

  Kevin and Antoine gave each other a hopeful glance when they saw the small crowd gathered around Tyrone’s painting. He had painted a picture of what appeared to be an African goddess surrounded by children. Each child represented the different shades, hairstyles, and features of children of African descent. The artwork was something all African Americans could relate to.

  “Look, Jim.” A woman pointed at the painting. “That little girl looks just like Michelle when she was a baby.”

  “I think we should put in a bid for this one,” another man whispered to his wife.

  The three friends stood at the periphery of the small crowd and listened to the positive feedback for several minutes without saying a word. Sylvia approached them, grinning.

  “I hear you’re a big hit,” she whispered, kissing Tyrone on the cheek.

  “Well, we have to sell it first, but I’ve overheard some good things from the crowd.”

  “Don’t worry about that. When I start the bidding at three thousand, my rivals will take it from there,” Sylvia promised, wondering why Antoine was staring. “Excuse me. Do I know you?” she asked him politely.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” He extended his hand to her.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyrone cut in. “Sylvia Johnson, this is Antoine Smith. He and Kevin work with me.”

  Sylvia shook both their hands graciously, but inside she was panicking. It hadn’t occurred to her that Tyrone had friends from work who might have been introduced to her as Maurice’s wife at one function or another.

  “Excuse me, Tyrone?” It was the museum curator Joan Jemerson. “You don’t mind if I introduce you to the crowd, do you?”

  “Not at all.” Tyrone smiled.

  She turned around to the crowd in front of the painting. “Excuse me, everyone. I’d like to introduce you to the artist of this marvelous painting we call ‘Children of Color.’ This is Mr. Tyrone Jefferson.”