It used to trip me out because I could never tell if she was flirting with me or if I was imagining things.
One time I was in her office when she came into the exam room in a clingy, leopard print Cavalli with a plunging neckline showing off her spectacular puppies. She seemed to be a little bit overdressed on this particular day but I didn’t object. She had the lab coat open so I could see the slit in her dress that inched up her thigh in quest of her amorous hips.
Her hair was pinned up and she donned a pair of black-rimmed glasses to top the fantasy off. Or at least that’s how I remembered it. I wasn’t the best at deciphering if this was a come on or not and I had been wrong before.
Doc Holiday turned out to be pretty slick I must admit. I can’t remember how many times I would distract a woman talking about frivolous shit as I was sliding her panties off her ankles. She did the same to me when she snapped the rubber glove on her tiny hand and chatted it up as she slid her two fingers up my ass to feel my prostate.
“I’m impressed, Dapper Carter, you have the prostate of a sixteen-year-old boy.”
“Thanks…I guess.” It’s better than hearing you have the penis of a sixteen-year-old boy. And it’s unquestionably better than having a male doctor stick his big-ass fingers up your ass! I was trying to make lemons into lemonade as best as I could.
As I walked along the boardwalk, I took off my shirt to feel the warm sun on my back. The sun on my face always made me feel better. I was doing much better than I had been and finally started to feel like I was living up to my potential. I was unconcerned about anything in the world until a familiar face caught my eye.
"Kennedy?" What she was doing rollerblading in Coney Island I will never know. It had been almost three years since the divorce became official and we had not spoken a word. I don’t think we were angry at one another, at least I wasn’t. We just didn’t have anything to talk about. We didn’t share any kids and she got all the property. Why torture myself by keeping in contact with her? Find a new best friend.
"Dap? Wow! You look really good. You look great, actually."
I thanked her. She looked great too. She cut off all of her hair, but that didn't surprise me because anytime a woman moved on in a relationship, her hair was the first to go. If you come home and your wife is rocking a bob cut, it sucks to be you. She's already made up her mind and she's leaving you.
"Thank you. How are you doing?"
"Good. I remarried."
Remarried? Damn, she didn't even let my body get cold. But I deserved that and she deserved happiness, so I took it in stride like water off a duck’s back.
"Good for you. I wasn't the right guy for you and you deserved better. Is he good to you?"
"Very, and he's rich." She showed me the five-carat, pear-shaped diamond on her finger that dwarfed the one-carat diamond I bought for her with her money. She cracked a slight smile as an uncomfortable second passed. But it wasn’t uncomfortable for long. I was finally at peace.
"Well, I'll see you around, KC." Shit! I still called her KC out of force of habit. It’s the only way I’ve ever known her to be. Kennedy Craig, then Kennedy Carter.
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries. I’m still KC. Kennedy Cohen.”
“You married a white boy?”
“Dapper…” I could tell she was a little bit embarrassed. She knows how I feel about that. But I was different and didn’t want to take the easy shot at her. “That’s cool. As long as you’re happy.” When cats get older we don’t have time to make sure the colors match. As I started to walk away she called out to me. "I did love you, you know?"
I spun on my heels so I was facing her again. It was a bit of redemption. It felt good. "I know."
"I loved you enough to let you go, so you could grow, be free, reach your full potential and all that good shit."
"I know and I appreciate it. Take care." I started to walk away again, but I had something I wanted to say now. I pivoted again. "I'm sorry…for everything."
"You should be," she joked. There. I had finally gotten that off my chest and I felt much better for doing so. Tell her, not me.
My Ex-Wife Went to Temple
After the forty-five minute subway ride home from Coney Island it was time for me to get in my workout. It baffled me why others didn’t take advantage of our proximity to the beach. Niggas from New York, however, weren’t like niggas in Newark. They didn’t go to the beach. Brooklyn heads are wayyyy too cool for that shit. But really, New Yorkers like to raid other people’s beach and tear their shit up. Jones Beach, Virginia Beach, Myrtle Beach, South Beach…
I quickly changed into my spandex running pants which I wore with basketball shorts over them, my scarlet Rutgers hoodie, and my $150 Nike Air Max running shoes. The one place I wasn’t cheap was with my feet. Be good to your feet and they will be good to you.
I was out the door like a shot, as always. I loved to run. It made me feel like a boxer in training. Most of the people in the neighborhood knew I was like clockwork, jogging at 6:00 a.m. before work and twice on my days off. I later found out that the reason no one fucked with me in the neighborhood was because they thought I was a cop. All that running plus the way I wore my cap, low and tight, on my haircut, which was high and tight. My clean-shaven face made it official.
I ran my usual route down Eastern Parkway past the Brooklyn Museum to Prospect Park. It’s funny how I never really liked to run as a college athlete, but once I got into my '30s I found that it was truly the only way to keep my weight down.
Gone were the days when I could just run up and down the basketball court to stay fit. I had to put some distance and time in now. I had gotten use to it by now and looked forward to my runs so I could clear my head. I would analyze the different periods of my life during my run, thinking about all I had been through to reach this point. Just three months ago I was on dates raving about my ex-wife still.
I would say stupid things like, “So, where’d you go to school?”
“Temple.”
“Get out of here! My ex went to Temple. Kennedy Craig. Did you know her?”
Or I might say something silly like, “Did you pledge any sororities?”
“I’m an AKA,” they’d reply.
“Get out of here! My ex-wife is an AKA. Kennedy Craig. Did you know her?” What an idiot I was.
After finishing my run, I was stretching by the park entrance when my BlackBerry began to vibrate. I upgraded from my flip phone to the Crack-Berry when I noticed that’s what most people in the business world were on. Unconsciously, I answered it. Fuck! It was Eva the Eata.
"What do you want, Eva?"
"I want you to turn around."
Eva crept up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I wheeled around, startled, and started to slug her as my Chancellor Avenue street smarts told me I was at risk.
“You probably shouldn’t sneak up on people in the future. Not unless you want to be picking your teeth up off the ground.”
“Point taken. I didn't know you ran up here, too?"
"The things you don't know about me could fill Madison Square Garden. I run here every day."
"I can tell. You're looking good."
"Thanks. Like I said, what's up?" As much as I used to want to smash Eva, her attitude had turned me off. She became porous to me and no matter how sexy she was, it just wasn’t worth the chase anymore.
"I just got some extra money (another sucker). Why don't you let me take you out?"
"I'm not fucking with you like that anymore, Eva. I'm tired of being your friend when it's convenient for you, which is usually when you need a meal."
She was flabbergasted. "So what are you going to do tonight, then?"
"Chill out by myself. Crack a bottle of wine, smoke a cigar, do some writing..."
“Don’t tell me you trying to get all deep now? Dapper Carter is going to be by himself? I don’t think so. You can’t be alone.”
I felt like Oran Juice Jones and
pulling out the jammy and flat blasting her. But instead I chilled.
“Well, I’m alone now,” I said.
“I’m sure that it’s not by choice.”
“Matter of fact, it is. I'm starting to like me, actually love me."
"Your self-centered ass has never had a problem loving yourself."
I stared at her throat wanting to choke her out. I had never put my hands on a woman before. I figured if it ever reached that point it was over between us because Mrs. Carter would never provoke me to want to cause her physical harm. So she definitely could not be the woman for me and it was time to go.
"Well, now I think I'm ready to love someone else."
“No you’re not. All you give a shit about is Dapper Carter. Why do you think you cheated on your wife and every other relationship you’ve ever been involved in?”
I thought about it briefly, but my answer didn’t require that much thought. It’s always been my answer to that question. “Because I can.”
And unfortunately it was true. But it was true on several levels. It was true in the sense that I had the balls to make that big of a statement and secondly, because the women would let me roam unchecked. Most women operate on the protocol to give a man enough rope to hang himself with. The problem was that I was the type of nigga in that if you give me a rope I want to be a cowboy. Sometimes you gotta give a brotha a warning shot to let him know you’re paying attention.
“So now you think you're all that?"
I was finished stretching out and even more finished with my conversation with her. She was so pathetic to me. Her attitude sucked and I didn’t want to fuck with it any longer.
"Bye, Eva!" I put my headphones back on and started running back down Eastern Parkway toward home. Most guys think they’re a man the first time they get some pussy. Actually, you’re a man the first time you can turn pussy down!
Speak of the Devil
Later on that night I sat on the roof of my building smoking a cigar and drinking a glass of Riesling. I had gotten tired of drinking martinis and needed to change it up. I sat and reminisced about how far I had come from the selfish way I used to be and the way I used to act (Rick James).
I uneasily remembered how I had propositioned Kennedy’s sorority sister, Destiny, at the wedding reception. I had slept with her back in college, which no one but she and I knew. I don’t think she told Kennedy about either incident nonetheless. It was our secret. I had a weird way of remembering every girl that I had ever slept with, her first and last name. I was meticulous like that. But I also figured it was the least I could do since they did share themselves with me intimately.
I recalled uncomfortably how I had gallivanted around town in Kennedy’s custom painted pink drop top BMW 328i with an assortment of floozies. I even coaxed Heather the Feather—which we called her because of her feathery light touch—to give me a blow job in the driver’s seat of her car. I thought about how I had slept with Stacy Parker; then slept with her sixteen-year-old sister, Stephanie, the following weekend when she came to visit. That actually happened twice.
A light rain began to fall corresponding with my personal cleansing. How fitting. I continued the personal assault, cringing over how I threw Raquel Bass out of my dorm room naked because she was a tease. Desiree Matthews slit her wrists because I didn’t want to be with her and she couldn’t handle the rejection.
But it wasn’t all bad. I thought about the first time I saw Rain’s face. How I liked the crease on her forehead when she was deep in thought. How she gave me butterflies for the first time since I was sixteen. How totally hot she was in every way, shape, and form. She also made me want to be a better person and share a family with her.
I was beginning to get waterlogged while sitting on my beach chair atop the roof surveying all of Brooklyn. I could see the clock beaconing from the top of the HSBC building in downtown Brooklyn. It was ten minutes past time to go in, but I loved the way the raindrops felt on my face. My mother used to ask me, “Don’t you have enough sense to come in out of the rain, Fool?” Evidently I didn’t.
I hustled downstairs and took off my saturated clothes, dropping them right where I stood. There were definitely advantages to living alone such as cleaning up after yourself when you get good and ready to.
Another advantage was being able to walk around in your house butt-ass naked. I never had been that open or even comfortable with my own body, so this was something new for me. I could see why one would feel it was quite liberating, but I felt more ashamed than anything. I grew up Catholic, so what do you expect? I had been dealing with guilt issues my whole life and, according to my parents, I’ve been to hell at least 100 times for the shit that I've done.
I casually strolled across my apartment in full glory to my closet. I threw on the first thing I saw, my satin purple paisley Morris Day robe. I stood in the mirror and flexed my abs hard because I hadn't seen them in a few years. I was seeing muscular separation between my deltoid, bicep, and triceps. I was pleased because anybody can get big, but it's a sign of discipline if you get can ripped.
Definition is all about diet and the only things I had been eating were fish, vegetables, fruit, and pizza. Pizza was the perfect food and I was able to rationalize my opinion because it comprised the three major food groups. It had carbs (the dough and vegetables), protein (pepperoni), and fat (cheese). I don’t care how perfect I eat, I will always eat pizza. It was my Achilles heel. My doorbell rang interrupting my bliss. I can't wait for the day when I can live in a building like Mrs. Robinson with a doorman. I opened the door-"Speak of the devil." Mrs. Robinson was posing in the hallway in nothing but a white raincoat.
"You haven't returned my calls," she bitched.
"Sorry, I've been really busy."
"I'll bet you have.” She glared knowingly. "Aren't you going to invite me in? It's a little chilly out here."
“Maybe if you had some clothes on you would be warmer.”
She took one step in the door and dropped the raincoat, showing off her perfect, forty-nine-year-old body. This was going to be harder than I thought. I contemplated whether or not I should knock her down one more time.
“Maybe you should warm me up,” she offered as she slipped into my personal space. I ogled her long and hard one more time. It was agonizing to think that I was going to let the biggest freak I had ever been with go. She was down for whatever including snowballs, rusty trombones, and taking a trip up the Hershey highway.
I instantly recalled all the shit I used to talk about how older women are more accepting of my behavior as a younger man. For one, they had some experience and knew something about men and how to treat a man. Second, their kids were grown and they weren’t trying to be nobody’s mama again. But when it’s all said and done and the day is over, ain't no woman going to let you just keep stealing her cookies and not get something out of it in return. No woman is ever going to stay comfortable being your number two forever. They all want to be number one. All of them. One hundred percent. Your momma, too.
And that includes being more important than your harmless social activities with your boys like watching football or playing golf.
"I can't," I decided.
"Can't get it up? You have been busy. I'll take care of that for you." She gleefully started to drop to her knees, but I caught her before she could get into crouching tiger and tried to hide my dragon.
"No, that's not it. I won't." I embarrassed her. I didn't mean to.
Suddenly self-conscious, she quickly put on her coat. "I don't understand. No man has ever turned me down."
"I'm not trying to make history. I'm just not interested in you like that anymore.”
At first she was dejected. She contemplated hard for a moment. She was probably thinking that if she had a brick, she would throw it through my car windshield. Fortunately, I didn’t have a car, so she did the next best thing. Mrs. Robinson sharply snapped the belt on her raincoat and tightened it snuggly around her twenty-two inch w
aist. Her confidence came back in a flash. I must admit, I liked her moxie.
"You're gay, aren't you?"
I shrugged my shoulders and decided to flat out lie to get her out of my apartment. "You're right. You figured me out. Now you've got to go because my man is on his way over." I turned her around and hurried her out the door. "Good-bye, Mrs. Robinson."
Woman’s Intuition
I sat atop the bleachers near the basketball courts on Washington Ave. reading my favorite book, ”The Art of War.” I used a lot of Tsung Tsu’s teachings in my sales presentations as well as my love life. The basketball court was still my sanctuary and always would be until the annoying bounce of a basketball destroyed my concentration. I tried to ignore it and stick to the task at hand but shortly thereafter a woman’s voice accompanied the bothersome bouncing.
"You come to the basketball courts to read? Very interesting, Dapper Carter."
It was Rain shooting baskets all by herself. She had pretty decent form, which fascinated me. I closed my book to take a closer look at her, partly to critique her shot, but mostly to lust after her. I craved Rain, too bad she didn’t know it. I found myself daydreaming thinking about what her name would look like spelled out after she became Rain Carter. That had a nice ring to it. And if we had a daughter we could name her Brooklyn, for obvious reasons.
She was agile and in good shape like she played some type of sport back in the day. We would produce Olympic athletes if we hooked up. She knew a little about the game from watching her brothers shoot in the backyard, so she shot baskets as a stress relief from her incredibly demanding gig as an attorney for the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union). I was going to ask her if she played on a basketball team until she threw up a brick, clobbering the backboard. That answered that question.
But my other suspicions were correct. She ran the 400-meter hurdles at Howard until she broke her leg on the final turn at the Penn Relays. Consequently, they rescinded her scholarship. What most people don’t realize is that college athletes are not really on a four-year athletic scholarship. It’s more like four, one-year scholarships that can be revoked at any time for any reason.
Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating Page 13