These Are My Confessions

by Robinson, Cheryl; Smith, Meta; King, Joy; Parks, Electa Rome

  I sat behind my desk and pretended to be interested in what Kenya, one of my students, said about her weekend spent at the Indianapolis Black Expo, when in actuality my mind was hundreds of miles away back in Dallas, where I’d unintentionally left a deadly mark. It was easier for me not to think about what I’d done while I was there. Even though it was an accident, I’d still killed someone. And the part that concerned me more was whether I’d be caught for running away from the scene of the crime.

  Knowing that Melony was going to join me permanently made me wonder if I’d ran at all. We had arrived in Detroit a week before school started, but she was going back to Dallas in a few days to take care of some business. I was purposely avoiding my best friend Nancy, who’d left dozens of messages on my answering machine in a one week period, demanding to know how my summer went.

  “Welcome back, Miss Cartwright,” Scottie, one of my students from last year, said as he passed by my classroom, snapping me from my daze. I turned and gestured and then watched as he stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Dang, Miss Cartwright, what happened to you?” The classroom fell out in laughter as if it were an inside joke. Had I changed that much in two and a half months? I guessed so. Gone were the glasses and down went my hair. I’d turned in the flats for some stilettos and my buttoned-up blouse for plunging necklines.

  “I wish I could tell you, Scottie,” I said with a wink, “but you’re just a little too young.”

  “A summer fling…a summer fling. I got you,” he said as he disappeared down the hallway.

  If I were to write my own paper about my most memorable event of the summer, I doubt if I could pen it down to just one. And first I’d have to start with the moment that changed my life, which wasn’t the murder but my encounter with Black Exotica. This past summer was a wild ride from the last day of the school year to the first day back. And what happened in between was simply unforgettable.

  I stood from my desk. “Well, it’s been a great first day and I’m excited about the upcoming school year. No homework today but come prepared because you’ll have plenty tomorrow.”

  The last bell for the day rang and all of my students scattered out of the classroom. I gathered my belongings and stood at the window, watching the school kids rushing to their buses or the cars that waited.

  I walked down the hall to the teacher’s lounge to spend the last hour doing my lesson plans for the week. When I entered, all eyes were on the television screen mounted to the wall and blasting the twelve o’clock news.

  “Girl,” LaShandra, one of the teachers, said, “did you bring that serial killer back with you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Black Widow…they think she’s in Detroit. They found a dead man in a motel room and there were those markings left on the mirror. The room was set on fire. They say it’s the work of the Black Widow, the same serial killer that was murdering those men in Texas.”

  “It’s probably just a copycat,” I said.

  “I doubt that,” LaShandra said, “I really doubt that. You’re not the Black Widow, are you?”

  “Me?” I said, shaking under my skin. “I couldn’t kill a fly.” I took a seat by the window and stared out at the rain that had just started to fall.

  “That’s strange, though, isn’t it?” LaShandra asked.

  The door creaked open and in walked Jamal, the gorgeous math teacher I’d fantasized about last school year. He was carrying a Pizza Hut box. He was my type of man; well-groomed, cleanly shaven, with a bald head and a clear chocolate brown complexion. I could tell he worked out regularly by the way his clothes hugged his body.

  “Would you like some, Mrs. Cartwright?” Jamal asked.

  “I do, but not pizza,” I mumbled.

  “What was that?” he asked as he sat beside me.

  “Well, my little break is over,” LaShandra said, then stood and walked out of the door, the rest of the room following behind her, with the exception of Jamal.

  He opened the pizza box and pulled apart a slice. “Do you want some?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” I said, looking directly into his eyes, “I do want some…just not some pizza.”

  “Well, what do you want, Mrs. Cartwright?”

  “Just call me Alexis. And I’m not a Mrs.” I moved my chair closer to his. “I have a lot on my mind and I need to do something that will reduce my stress level. Any suggestions?”

  “Working out usually helps me.”

  “Really?” I said, leaning into him. “I’ve been telling myself that I needed to start working out, but I hate to do it alone. Would you mind training me?” I rested my hand on his thigh and rubbed my way up and over until I had his belt buckle in my hand. “We don’t need to go to a gym. We can do it all right here.”

  We both scrambled—I for the door and he for the window shade. The lights stayed on, so I could see just what I’d be working with. And as he stripped down to his birthday suit, I stood in awe of not only his perfectly sculpted body, varnished with tattoos and fraternity brands, but also the biggest muscle of them all—his ten-inch weight. “I had no idea you were that muscular,” I said, eyeing the weight between his legs. “I better change into my workout clothes.” I dropped my dress, removed my bra, and stepped out of my panties.

  “Before you begin any exercise, you should start off stretching the muscles you plan to work,” he said, tugging on his big muscle.

  “I need to stretch my pelvic muscles, and I want you to use your big muscle that you’re tugging on to help me.” I sat on the table on the open lid of his pizza box, spread my legs apart as far as they could go and started to Kegel. He walked over to me and without saying one word rammed his ten inch muscle inside of me. My muscles quickly tightened around his hard as steel dumbbell.

  “We’re going to do three sets of ten. Make sure you inhale and exhale,” he said between the heavy breathing.

  Within minutes I’d come. And to think I went all the way to Dallas to find something I had right here at home.

  He kissed me on the forehead. “How was that for a stress reliever?”

  “It helped,” I said as I stood from the table and got dressed. “Now we just need to establish a regular workout schedule—three days a week.”

  “I’ll see you again on Wednesday, then. I got something you can work your lip muscles on.”

  I walked out of the teacher’s lounge with a big smile plastered to my face and fresh thoughts of the best first day of school I’d ever had. The news report wasn’t far from my mind either. LaShandra called the news strange, but it was more than strange. It was obvious. Now I had a dilemma. The first man I killed was by accident. The second man I killed was on purpose. And even though I wasn’t the original black widow, I was trained by the best. Now that Jamal had sex with me, as good as it was, he had just become my next target.

  Native Detroiter CHERYL ROBINSON is the author of three novels: If It Ain’t One Thing, It’s Like That, and When I Get Free. She is a graduate of Wayne State University with a degree in Marketing. She resides in central. Florida and is working on her fourth novel, which will be published in late 2007. To learn more, please visit www.cherylrobinson.com.

  Divas Need Love Too

  Méta Smith

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my muse for inspiring me to write this story. You know who you are, Spock, and you know I love you.

  Thanks to my family and friends, especially my girls Angela Allen, Tracey Smith, and Dinora Lozano, for being there when I needed you. I swear I’d be in the loony bin without you. Or in jail! And once again, thanks Linda Duggins for keeping me sane, even when it’s not in your job description. I love you guys.

  Thanks to Marc Gerald for hooking this up, a million thanks to May Chen for your flexibility and patience while I worked on this project, and many thanks to HarperCollins for the opportunity. I’ve loved every minute of it.

  And of course I’d like to acknowledge the talented and
beautiful women who join me in this anthology: Electa Rome Parks, Cheryl Robinson, and my girl Joy King.

  Prelude

  A musky, exotic scent and the sound of soft music wafted through the air. I sipped my glass of Opus One and crossed my legs demurely, but I was feeling anything but demure. I repositioned myself in order to appear more alluring. There was no need to beat around the bush or pretend that I wanted anything besides an intense, passion-filled, uninhibited, buck-wild fuck session. My lover sipped a little more of his wine, allowed me to do the same, and then gently removed the glass from my hand and put it on the cocktail table. I lowered my lids and leaned forward, exposing maximum cleavage while parting my lips in expectation of a kiss. My lover allowed me to get inches away from his lips before running his hand through my hair, then slowly but firmly tightened his grip until he was almost painfully pulling my hair. I gasped in pain and delight.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he said, turning my head to face him and looking at me as if I were the sexiest woman alive.

  A soft moan escaped my lips. I licked them and tried to kiss him. He firmed his grip on my hair and yanked a little.

  “We have all night,” he told me. “There’s no reason to rush this.” His tongue darted across my lips and I strained to kiss him again.

  “But I want you so bad,” I begged.

  “Good, Songbird. Good.”

  He licked and nipped and nibbled at my lips, at times kissing me, at others allowing only his breath to tickle my lips as he hovered above me. I flicked my tongue outward in an attempt to taste any part of him. I caught the softly scented area beneath his chin and licked down to his Adam’s apple. He felt scratchy, where the coarse hairs of his beard where growing in. I inhaled his smell; just a whiff of his cologne made me wet. He released his hold on my hair, gave me a little shove onto the couch and stood in front of me.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered. I did what he wished.

  He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it from his body. Then he unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall to the floor before stepping out of them. I could see his hard-on bulging through the fabric of his boxer briefs, and I reached out to touch it.

  “Not yet,” my lover commanded. He approached me and stroked my cheek before letting his hardness brush against my face. His underwear was a little wet where drops of lubrication must have been oozing from the tip of his penis.

  “I want to suck it,” I told him. I needed to feel him inside of every part of me.

  “I want you to suck it,” he replied. I reached for him but he stopped me. He took both my slender wrists into one of his large hands.

  “I want you to suck it,” he repeated, “but you can’t touch it. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Kinky, I thought, and did what I was told.

  He lowered his briefs, a centimeter at a time, until his rock hard cock sprung forth and was throbbing right before my lips. I opened my mouth and leaned forward, growing excited as I tasted the faint saltiness of his pre-come. I looked up at him, and he was staring right back at me. I sucked the tip a little harder, using gentle suction to draw him farther into my mouth.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I want you to get it wet.”

  I slurped and sucked away, gradually engulfing more of his dick, until I was nearly gagging and saliva was dripping from the corners of my mouth and onto my breasts. I could tell my lover was growing more excited, which turned me on a great deal. He told me that I couldn’t touch him and ordered my hands behind my back, but I was going to break the rules. As he thrust himself in and out of my mouth, I caressed my breast and pinched my nipple with one hand, while slowly stroking between my legs with the other. Very soon my fingers were covered with my own juices as they slid in and out of me.

  “You’re cheating,” he said.

  I would have answered him, but my mouth was full. He pushed me away from his body.

  “You’re a naughty girl,” he said. “I’m going to have to punish you.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” I said, full of bravado. “Are you going to spank me?” I asked provocatively.

  “I could just keep this dick to myself,” he said.

  Damn, I hadn’t thought of that form of punishment.

  “Don’t do that,” I said quickly.

  “I won’t,” he replied. “I have something more devious in mind.”

  My lover’s hands moved slowly and deliberately as he let his fingertips dance lightly over my skin. I wanted him to grab me, embrace me, fuck my brains out. I couldn’t take the anguish of his slow seduction. I writhed and wiggled, arching my back and thrusting my pelvis, trying to increase our body contact, but he continued to take his time.

  My desire burned hotter as my lover’s hands caressed every inch of me. Articles of clothing fell from my body like a snake shedding its skin until I lay naked, shivering beneath his touch. He allowed me to touch him now, and my hands roamed over his taut, muscular shoulders. God, he had the perfect body, and I told him so. His skin was smooth and perfect, and he wasn’t too big or too small. As he gently sucked my nipples, his hands never ceased kneading my flesh between his strong fingertips, causing me to tingle.

  “Please,” I begged him. “You’re driving me crazy. I need you.”

  “Not yet,” he replied.

  He began to move lower across my torso, kissing a trail down my chest and over my abdomen until I felt his hot breath and the hairs of his goatee tickle the sensitive skin between my thighs. I sighed in anticipation, parted my legs and closed my eyes. I felt his fingertips as they spread my lips apart, and moaned when he began to taste me, flicking his tongue around my clitoris. And just as I was about to explode, he stopped. I thought he was giving me a break in an attempt to prolong my climax and that he would continue and eventually finish what he started, but he was gone.

  I sat up and looked around, searching for him through the dim light of the scented candles that illuminated the room.

  “That is so not fair,” I pouted.

  He reappeared, his erection standing out from his body in an intimidating arch. I hummed in approval.

  “I wanted to be ready,” he said. He’d put on a condom. Responsible…I can never hate that.

  He dropped back to his knees and began to lick me again. I threw my head back and began to sing in ecstasy, grinding my hips eagerly against his face. As my body tensed and I felt a wave of pleasure radiate from the inside out, he stopped eating me and entered me. I throbbed around him as he plunged inside me. I hit high notes that Minnie Ripperton and Mariah Carey could never achieve.

  “That’s right, Songbird,” he said, “sing for me,” he breathed into my ear, intensifying my climax.

  I moaned and sighed and screamed until my voice began to sound harsh and shrill. Then things got weird. I shut my mouth but I could still hear the shrill sound getting louder and louder. My body felt lighter and lighter, until finally I slipped from unconsciousness into the land of the living.

  Damn it! Another wet dream. Literally. I ran my hand over the four-hundred-thread count sheets that were now wrinkled and damp.

  I really, really need to get laid. I am hornier than a twelve-year-old boy who just discovered his father’s stash of skin mags. Maybe if I get laid, I’ll stop dreaming about him. My dream lover and I are over, and have been for some time, and moreover, there is absolutely no good reason for me to be wasting time thinking about him, my ex-boyfriend. He was the one who lost out on a good thing, not me! He should be in bed dreaming about me!

  I’m everything a man could want and then some. A few years ago I was a thirty-year-old college grad who was waiting tables and struggling to make ends meet, chasing the dream of being a star long after what most folks said was an appropriate age to make it big. Friends and family, though they may have meant well, totally discouraged my aspirations to sing, even though there was no question that I could not just sing, but blow, plus I write songs that stir the soul. But they thought that becaus
e I was “smart” and had a degree, I should get serious and get a “real job” and stop pining after my “childhood fantasies.” But I couldn’t give up on myself like that.

  I couldn’t take the easy road out just because things got tough. I’ve known since the first day I opened my mouth in the choir of the First Chicago Missionary Baptist Church that I was born to be a singer. I knew there was no expiration date on my talent. Now I live in a mansion in Miami and have a platinum album and a trio of number one hits to my songwriting credits because of my hard work, perseverance, and uncanny ability to say “Fuck the world, I’m going for mine.” Now I have everything that I ever dreamed of…except someone to share it all with.

  God, I know that sounds pathetic! But trust me, I’m not one of those women who simply because I’m a member of the “Dirty 30 Club” feels so desperate that I’m willing to jump on anything that shows an interest. And I certainly don’t subscribe to the bullshit theory that my life isn’t complete without a man. But a man would be nice! Lately I’ve been spending more time in the studio than out looking for Mr. Right or in the bedroom getting my freak on, and the lack of action is starting to take its toll on my peace of mind and my vibrators!

  It seems like the more successful I get, the harder dating becomes. I never thought that Waiting to Exhale stuff would happen to me, but here I am, thirty-something and still no better at relationships than when I was twenty-something. I’m simply no good at affairs of the heart. Either my judgment sucks or I think with the wrong part of my body or a little bit of both, but that just seems so…stupid. And I’m pretty sure I’m not stupid; I mean, would I have gotten this far if I was?

  Maybe there’s some kind of crazy generational love curse on me. None of my sisters are married, and my mother and aunts—and there are nine of them—never could stay married for long or are married to the wrong-ass men. My mom and aunts are smart; all of them have good careers and are making a decent living, and they’re all fine. Nine dimes. They should have it all together. But they don’t. My grandmother is the big dime. She was a straight-up fox back in the day: big legs, nice figure, with beautiful skin and hair, and a sweet disposition that hid an evil streak that struck fear in the boldest and most courageous of men. She married five times, but each of her husbands died strange and mysterious deaths at a young age. Needless to say, she’s the subject of many rumors, and there has even been some speculation that Tyler Perry’s character Madea’s penchant for killing men with sweet potato pies was inspired by my nana!