My Best Friend and My Man

by Cydney Rax

“Let’s go, Demetria.”

  “Okay, be that way.”

  “No, chill girl. Everything is under control.”

  I request a to-go carton, pack up my remaining food, and we leave Niko Niko’s.

  We head north toward downtown, rushing back to work as fast as the synchronized traffic lights allow.

  “So,” Demetria asks, “how’d things go back there? You keep your cool?”

  “Yep. It probably helped that Ursula wasn’t actually eating lunch with him. She just happened to be in the restaurant. And they talked. And that’s fine. But I can’t shake this feeling that there’s more to them than he wants to admit.”

  “Why you say that?”

  “It’s like what you told me. Go with your gut. Well, my gut is telling me all kinds of stuff I don’t want to hear.”

  “Listen,” Demetria says. “There are times when we sense things about men that we really don’t want to face, but that are true. For example, my boy Darren—he’s sooo good at making love that I can’t help but wonder how many women he’s slept with. I mean we always use a condom, but I still don’t like to think that he is too experienced. Yet it’s a catch-22, because he’s able to give it to me like I love to get it.” She actually shivers and reaches for her cell phone.

  “Hmph,” she continues. “Thaddeus is flying to Connecticut, so hey, why I gotta be lonely?”

  “So is Darren your standby?”

  “I call him my placeholder. He’s always game, and I could use some attention right about now.”

  “And you don’t feel guilty?”

  “For what? Girl, I deserve having a man that does everything I want him to do.”

  “Shoot, it’s been so long since I’ve had sex…”

  “Okay, we’re going to have to do something about that. We’ll start with finding someone you can hook up with just for sex.”

  “Demetria! I’m not that kind of girl. I’d rather be in a monogamous relationship than have bed buddies.”

  “If that’s how you feel…”

  “That’s exactly how I feel. I want the whole enchilada. Nothing else will do.”

  “Well, then, you’re going to have to take matters into your own hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Girl, you’ve gotta call him.”

  —12—

  SEAPHES

  “Hello,” I say into my cell phone.

  Silence.

  “Hellooooooo.”

  “Is this Seaphes Hill?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  All I hear is a long sigh. And I would hang up, but I know it’s a woman on the other side of this attitude. And I wonder, what the hell? It’s Friday night. I’m supposed to be celebrating getting through another work week, and this is what I’m forced to deal with?

  “What can I do for you?” I say in an even tone.

  “You can answer a question for me,” says the soft, tender voice.

  “Wait, who is this?”

  “Let me just talk first, and I’ll tell you who I am in a minute.”

  I pause. “Okay.”

  “What type of man are you?”

  “W–what? Who is this? How’d you get this number?”

  She laughs. I could have sworn I heard her whisper idiot.

  I hang up.

  The phone rings again.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry, Seaphes. I-I really just want to talk to you, and I know I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

  That softens me up. “And you are?”

  “It’s…V-Veron.”

  Veron, Veron, Veron. Oh! The lady who bakes. Nice round patty-cake ass, smooth set of long, shapely legs. Calm, cool demeanor. Soft feminine voice. Gentle personality, but really baffling sometimes—this one is as mysterious as a Raymond Chandler novel. And that intrigues me. Hell, I’ve been around so many types of women that I’ve discovered they all fall within a few basic categories:

  1. Sluts—Doesn’t take much to get them to spread their legs. To anybody. Anywhere. 24/7. For them, responding to a booty call is like sucking in oxygen. Happens on a constant basis without much thought. Sluts equate sex with love, which means they love some of everyone’s body. They’re searching for love in all the wrong places: the workplace, the club, cruise ships, bars, BlackVoices.com, MySpace.com, HerSpace.com, you get the picture.

  2. The Hypnotized Dumb Chicks—Have you ever seen a goat herder who has to lead the goat wherever it goes? If the herder doesn’t pop the goat on the head every once in a while, the poor little goat will stand around isolated from everyone, happily grazing in the field, looking about as dumb as a…well, a goat! That’s the characteristics of the Hypnotized Dumb Chick. This type of woman cannot think for herself—she only believes what her man tells her. Even though she holds a master’s degree, has a good job, and may be the head of her department, she never investigates the foolishness her man feeds her. This is the type of woman that backs her man even though everyone knows her lover is sleeping with any woman who smiles at him. Yet poor Dumbo isn’t catching on, because she thinks her guy is so friendly and handsome that women can’t help but smile back at him. Her dumb ass dangerously believes that just because a woman is ugly she doesn’t have to worry about her man pushing up on “that fat, black, and ugly woman,” but usually it’s the ones who he always bitches about, accuses of being “crazy,” and claims aren’t his type whom he’s really kicking it with. Yet Dumbo is too hypnotized to wake up and face reality: she doesn’t have half of what she sadly believes is hers.

  3. Very Independent—These chicks don’t have a man, don’t need a man, probably earn more than you, are good at making their own decisions, and are able to hop on a plane to Paris for the weekend just because. They wear the latest designer everything, are very well put together, educated, refined, and wouldn’t dare TiVo soap operas. They rarely date—no time for it. And if they do get cheated on, they won’t believe it if you tell them. They stupidly assume the world revolves around their expensive pussies, not realizing that they’re not the only women who have those. After years of climbing that corporate ladder, they have the funds to buy the 5,000-square-foot house, the Lexus, and join the investment club, but she’s manless, childless, and wonders why no man is running after her trying to wife her.

  4. Gold Diggers—These skanks expect you to pay for everything ( jewelry, vacations, rent); they want you to rescue them from every crisis; they pretend to be dumb and weak so they can make you feel as if you’re smart and strong. You gotta pay to play with this one—so break out the checkbook and the credit cards, because she eats lobster and filet mignon and caviar and drinks bottles, not glasses, of Pétrus at five grand a pop.

  5. Wounded, Bitter, Bruised Sista—She’s been hurt so many times that she doesn’t trust anybody, including herself. She thinks all men are dogs and she won’t even let you go to the corner store without imagining you’re really scheming to meet a woman to have sex in your car for five minutes. Her baggage is so heavy that her shoulders are always sagging, and she can’t see the future for the past.

  6. The Scandalous Wench—Scheming, conniving, can’t tell the truth even when it’s obvious, she falsifies documents to get whatever she wants. She’ll steal money out of your wallet and claim she won the money by playing the lottery; she’ll learn all the passwords to your e-mail accounts and snoop out info; she’ll do drive-bys on a Friday night just to see who’s parked outside your crib, so she can accuse you of screwing other women. And she’ll stoop low enough to use her kids’ social security numbers to apply for another credit card. But she won’t feel guilty because “it’s all about me. So deal.”

  7. The Beauty Queens—They do not leave the house unless their hair, nails, feet, and makeup are intact. They have zero depth, and instead of sleeping with a man, they sleep with a mirror, a comb, and tubes of lipstick that they stash next to their pillow. They know nothing about politics or foreign affairs or the economic climate; they lack the patience to read
the New York Times (“there are too many words and the print is so small”), and you’d never catch them watching MSNBC for hours. They haven’t voted in years, because war, poverty, a national health care system, and the world economy are not their issues. Because the way they see it, if a fingernail gets broken, all hell’s gonna break loose.

  8. The Psycho—She is paranoid, overanalyzes everything, gets depressed if you don’t call every hour, and will whip out a knife and chase you with it while screaming obscenities—but won’t even explain what you’ve done wrong. She’ll give you her house key on Sunday and ask for it back on Monday. At twelve noon, she swears she loves you, but by 12:10 she’s yelling, “I hate your black ass!” She’s an emotional rollercoaster whose middle name is “Drama,” and the worst thing is she never believes she’s at fault.

  9. Women Who Try Too Hard—She is a man pleaser to the nth degree. She will overdo everything. Buy you expensive gifts thinking that you’ll be so moved by her generosity that you’ll vow always to stay by her side. If you get mad at her, she blames herself, even though you were clearly at fault. She is scared to lose you, even though you haven’t given her anything to lose. Her self-esteem is so low that she doesn’t believe she is worth loving as she is, so she does things to please you without ever taking the time to please herself. This woman really needs to learn how to say (and mean), “Screw you. Good-bye, asshole.”

  10. The Kind of Woman a Man Wants to Kick It With—She is supportive, secure, and doesn’t expect you to call her every five minutes. She trusts you when you do right, she calmly questions you when you fuck up. She can take you or leave you; she’s happy whether there’s a man in her life or not. She’s powerful and confident and doesn’t apologize for being strong. She has a popping personality and shines no matter what challenges come her way. She doesn’t play high school games, gets straight to the point, doesn’t expect you to read her mind, and never assumes anything (something that causes all kinds of problems in relationships). She understands what men like and how men think and doesn’t try to change the way God made us; she just learns how to effectively deal with us. She’s thoughtful and generous but doesn’t overdo it to the point that you take her kindness for granted. She doesn’t wave drama in your face, and she wouldn’t dare start trouble just to be doing something. You get along well with her, and you enjoy being around her because she’s laid-back and has a positive attitude. She strokes your ego and lets the man be the man. The sex is so off the rafters she makes you want to suck your thumb while she sucks your dick and then hold her close in your arms until you both peacefully fall asleep. This woman keeps it real, keeps her man in check, and doesn’t get things twisted. She’s exactly the type I’m looking for…if only I could find her.

  Now, the problem is trying to identify which category this Veron chick falls into. I mean, as far as I know she could be a straight-up 8, a 10, or a combination of several. I can’t tell right off the bat, and I’m curious.

  “Well, hello, Veron,” I say. “I’m glad you identified yourself.”

  “Me, too,” she says in a voice that sounds like she’s blushing. “Look, Seaphes,” she continues, “I appreciate that you were straight with me about Ursula, and I’m choosing to believe you.”

  “That’s cool, I guess. But why are you calling?”

  “Why do you think I’m calling?” she asks. Is she trying to be cute? This is annoying.

  “Why are you talking in riddles?” I ask her. “Why can’t you just say what you want to say? Look, I’m over thirty, and when you are a mature person, you don’t have a lot of time to play games. I don’t want to play games with you, and I’d appreciate it if you felt the same.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Seaphes.” She sounds surprised, which makes me wonder more about her.

  I tell her, “Look, I’m okay with talking on the phone, but I prefer face-to-face. Can you meet me somewhere?” We agree to hook up within an hour at Panera Bread in Memorial City Mall off the Katy Freeway.

  —13—

  VERON

  If I could clearly see into my future, I’d know right now if I am making a mistake or not. He asked me to meet him so quickly and unexpectedly that I abruptly said yes—but it’s so last minute I’m afraid I’m messing up.

  And I don’t want to screw this up. God knows I am attracted to this man. I like that he is a black, professional, degreed male who seems strong and in touch with who he is. I love the sound of his voice, a voice that is slightly baritone, that is friendly and welcoming but still no nonsense, not down for tons of BS. There’s something about Seaphes that makes me feel safe. And I want this safe feeling to continue, to wrap its arms around me and squeeze me tight. I kinda wish I had Demetria’s brain and instincts inside of me right now. She’d know exactly what to do and wouldn’t have any problem executing it. But when I attempted calling her an hour ago, she told me she couldn’t talk. She was in the middle of something, and she’d get back with me tomorrow. So I’m on my own. But I think I got enough of this book in my head now that I’ll be okay.

  When I finally walk into Panera restaurant, Seaphes is casually browsing USA Today. The aroma of freshly baked bread and bagels fills my nostrils and gives me a sense of peace and satisfaction. I immediately feel more relaxed than I initially thought I would. Maybe it’s because he’s offering me a warm, connecting smile.

  “Hey, there. You look nice,” he tells me with a nod.

  “Oh, thank you,” I say, blushing. “So do you.”

  “So what did you want to nibble on? I’m getting that cheesy French onion soup and a sierra turkey sandwich and am going to wash it down with some honeydew green tea.”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  Seaphes invites me to go have a seat while he attends to our order.

  I find a brightly lit corner spot near the front entrance and sit down in a seat that allows me a chance to stare at Seaphes. He’s dressed casual tonight, in some tan Dockers and a black short-sleeved polo that shows off his arms’ bulging muscles. When I was getting dressed to meet him, I made sure to wear a twirly black and white skirt in that same cut as the purple dress, with a short-sleeved white blouse and some cute black strappy heels.

  Seaphes juggles our drinks in each of his hands and approaches me. He walks with a little strut, which greatly turns me on.

  “So,” he says. “Let’s get to know each other.”

  That’s so quick. Again, I’m caught by surprise, and what I’ve actually been wondering about all day bursts out. “How many women have you been with?” I ask.

  He just stares.

  I cough and clear my throat. “I guess that info is none of my business, huh?”

  “Veron, even though we’re just getting to know each other, you can take one look at me and tell I’m not a virgin.”

  I blush. “I know that. I’m not, either.”

  “Okay, so we’re even.”

  “I beg your pardon. For all you know I just gave up my virginity a year ago.”

  “For all you know I could’ve done the same.”

  I nod slowly, staring intently at this intriguing man.

  “When were you born?” I ask, deciding to shift gears.

  “March twenty-eighth.”

  “And you’re in your thirties? Never married?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that? I’ve been in love but haven’t found the right woman yet, but don’t worry, I’m one hundred percent pure man.”

  “I can see that.” I laugh. We loosen up, and soon the conversation turns to past loves. He tells me about his ex, Murenthia, that they were going to get married but things didn’t work out. She took the breakup hard, especially when he asked her to return both the engagement ring and a secondhand car that he was nice enough to let her drive.

  “She kept the ring, fine, but ain’t no way I’m obligated to give her a car. It was the first car I ever owned, a Mazda RX-7. Very old but in tip-top condition.”

  “What color?”
<
br />   “I don’t care if it was pink with white polka dots, it was my car and I did her a favor by letting her drive it.”

  “So the million dollar question is…”

  “Did I get back my car? Let me tell you, Veron, I had to go through hell to get it back.”

  “What happened?” I am still smiling at him, not because I am gleeful about his past drama but because I love to hear him talk. He has a tendency to stare deep into my eyes while he’s explaining himself, something that I find intoxicating and reassuring.

  “Murenthia may not have been the sharpest cheese in the dairy section, but she was very much a routine person. So after politely asking her for the car for the tenth time, I decided I had to do what I had to do. It was a Friday night, and I knew she’d be at Supercuts. So it was in November, you know, when it gets dark early. I had my buddy drive me. Sure enough, there was my car sitting a few yards away from the front entrance of Supercuts. Thankfully, I had an extra key; I hopped out of his ride, quickly popped open the locks to my ride, started the car and drove outta there like a volcano was erupting behind me.”

  He actually throws back his head and starts laughing so hard his shoulders shake.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re laughing about it all now.”

  “At the time it wasn’t funny. She pissed me off, you know? This is a woman who claimed to love me and she acted foul like that? Love does crazy things to people.”

  “Tell me about it.” We are having such a good time talking that I can barely enjoy my sandwich.

  “Seaphes, did this Murenthia chick scare you away from being with women?”

  “What?” he scowls. “Never that. I love women.”

  I skeptically raise one eyebrow.

  “I love women,” he insists, looking into my eyes.

  I smile and feel heat warm my face. His pure boldness and confidence arouse me. He refuses to apologize for who he is, and I respect that. He’s not trying to hide himself from me.