by Deena Bright
I CHOOSE A bar just outside of town. I want liquor and decide to start with tequila shots, my college favorite, quickly realizing that I’m not the sexy sorority girl I once was, who could drink any man under a table. First of all, I’m buying my own drinks. Nobody’s offering to let me do my shots off his body. And, after shot #3, I’m feeling pretty lit and coming up with multiple ways in which to separate Marcus’ junk from his anatomy. I can easily let it get all too depressing, hitting me hard, crumbling my already-shattered ego.
Just as I am about to call it a night and get a cab, I hear, “Miss Garrity!”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I haven’t been Miss Garrity in two years. The only people who still call me “Miss Garrity” are students I had in class. Everyone knows that I’m “Mrs. Marcus Flowers” now.
Or was.
Or am.
Or fuck. Just fuck.
I turn around to see who is calling me, and my jaw drops to the floor in a pile of wet, sloppy saliva. Briggs Alexander. Briggs was a senior in my class my first year teaching. He was good-looking back then, but time has been fine to him, very fine. If I recalled correctly, he was quite the “playa” in high school. He was one of those students who was always touching me, offering to rub my back, anything for close contact. Oh, he was a trip. He’d say things in class, like “I’m not hittin’ up Homecoming unless Miss G’s the lady on my arm. What do you say Miss G.?” Back then, no female was off limits or out of the question for him. That first year, I felt like I was fighting him off every day in class. It was exhausting, yet flattering too.
Briggs was an all-star running back who signed with Ohio State early during his senior year. That spring break, he went with his buddies to California where he was convinced that he could surf if “that one-armed white bitch could.” Apparently, he was so stoned that none of his friends could stop him. He actually rode a few big waves until one wave rode him straight into the rocks. He hit the crags badly, splitting his head open, and severely fracturing his skull in three places. He was unconscious for a few days; the concussion and damage were so severe, no doctor anywhere would clear him for football again. It was tragic. He had a future in football, pretty much his only future. Academically, he barely got by. I’m pretty sure that I inflated a few of his grades just so he could graduate. Once he knew OSU was never going to happen, he gave up. It was awful to see.
“Briggs Alexander, oh my God, how are you, hon?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t see the pain written all over my face.
When he hugs me, I’m awed by his body. It’s still as solid as a rock. Briggs is one of those stunning, lighter-skinned black men, who make women of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races go weak in the knees. His muscles ripple in his Under Armor tight-fitting shirt as he pulls me back to take a look at me. Briggs is certainly no longer a boy; I’m standing looking at a man, a gorgeous specimen of a man.
“Damn Garrity looks like you’re still the hottest teacher in school, lady. Looking sharp,” he compliments, giving me a once-over and an all-knowing wink. Still as cocky as ever.
Briggs fills me in on his life. After a few years of getting drunk and drifting around, he pulled his life together, taking large course loads, bound and determined to finish school. Briggs is actually going to graduate in December with a psychology degree. He plans to counsel athletes whose lives took a turn for the worse, ending their careers.
Not only that, but ESPN wants him. Apparently, ESPN wanted to get on the bandwagon of reality television and Briggs Alexander is actually going to counsel these athletes right on camera, exposing their raw emotions about leaving the sport that was their only livelihood, only passion.
I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes. Briggs Alexander is articulate, healthy, and has quite a future ahead of him—a bright future no less. But, he’s still the player I knew him to be. He’s cocky with confidence oozing out of every ounce of his being. He knows where he’s going and has success written all over his future.
My future was just thrown out in a condom in my own house! That bastard! Forget going home. I need another drink. Now. Slowing it down, I order a Tangueray and tonic. While retrieving my money from my wallet, Briggs places his hand on mine, and demands, “Put that away Miss Garrity, I got this. I owe you a lot more than one drink. I wouldn’t have finished high school without you.”
Laughing, I explain that he certainly would have. Convincing me to join him at a table for a drink, Briggs asks about my new last name, hearing that I’d gotten married since I had him in class. I wanted to tell him that my name would be going back to “Garrity” soon enough, but knew that I could not tell one of my students, an old student, something so personal and devastating.
“It’s ‘Flowers; I’m Mrs. Flowers now.” I cringe at the name and all that it means now—nothing. Janelle Flowers is a broken-hearted, embarrassed, horny woman. Miss Garrity had her whole life ahead of her. She was going to change the world, one student at a time. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, let alone for the rest of my life.
“But honestly Briggs, I need to get going. I can’t sit and chat with you. It’s getting late.” I take a long drink of my cocktail, and then finally say, “I’m just going to finish this and get out of here. Good luck to you though, hon.”
“Whoa, wait a second Miss Garr—Mrs. Flowers, just give me a few minutes.” Looking so sweet sitting there and begging me to have a drink with him, I challenge any woman to decline that invitation. Hell, I didn’t have anywhere to go.
“Alright, but drop the ‘Mrs. Flowers’ business, I’ll always be Miss ‘Garrity’ to you.” I couldn’t bear to sit listening to “Mrs. Mrs. Mrs.” all night, knowing that I would not be married much longer.
Yeah, I couldn’t stay married to him. Right? Of course not. I just don’t know if I’m ready to let Marcus go just yet. I love him, love being with him, love his scent, his touch, his body. That bastard. He broke us. Yeah, we had our issues, especially in the bedroom. Mostly in the bedroom. Evidently, he didn’t have any issues with Lauren in the bedroom. Maybe I should just screw the shit out of some guy and call it even. Find some guy, have my way with him and… Maybe…
“Miss Garrity, what’re you thinking about?” Holy crap. Busted. Alright Janelle, bring yourself down lady. He was one of your students, albeit a gorgeous, hot, virile student, but a former student nonetheless. Cool it down, honey.
“I was just thinking about how glad I am that it’s summer vacation. I think I’m ready for a break, maybe even a change.” I follow Briggs’ eyes. He’s staring at my hands. Absently, I’d been twisting and turning my wedding ring, sliding it on and off my finger.
“Damn woman, did you get tatted up?” Briggs asks, staring incredulously at my finger.
On our honeymoon, I decided it would be romantic to tattoo our ring fingers, so that we’d be happily married even when our rings weren’t on. Marcus said that he’d do it, too and loved my “dedication to forever.” I went first. I got a little strand of flowers around my ring finger to signify my new last name, Flowers. I would forever be Flowers. I loved how into our marriage and each other we were. When it was time for Marcus to get his ink, he realized that he didn’t have enough cash with us and could only afford my tattoo. At the time, I believed it was an honest mistake. Hell, we were in Cabo on the most romantic honeymoon getaway that money could buy, or at least my brother, Jasper, could buy.
Looking at my finger now, I truly want to chop it off, to “de-Flower” myself. How could I be so stupid, so full of trust in a man, who deserved none? I down my drink in two large gulps and say, “Yeah, that’s how in love I was. I mean… am.”
Briggs eyes me thoughtfully, beginning to say something, but stops. Suddenly, he grabs my hand, slips the ring off my finger, and kisses the flowers on my ring finger.
Instantly, my mouth goes dry, opening slightly. My breath catches. Briggs stares straight at me with the most crystal blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a black
man. I reluctantly and guiltily pull my hand away, shuddering quickly.
“So Briggs, what’s with the blue eyes anyway? That’s not typical with African-American men.” I ask, dumbly.
He laughs, really laughs, as he’s spinning my wedding set on the table. The diamond is still the shiniest rock I’ve ever seen. “Miss G, don’t YOU do your homework? I’m mixed. My dad’s a pretty good-looking, blonde-haired, blue-eyed white man. He’s a stud.” That can’t be true. I met his parents a few times throughout his senior year. They’re a well-educated, powerful African-American couple.
“I met your parents. Remember, we had to find a way to get you to read a damn book?” He never read a book in my class, as far as I knew, anyway.
He laughs again. It’s contagious. I love hearing him laugh, being able to laugh with him while my marriage and world is crumbling around me is quite welcome. I really shouldn’t be sitting at a bar, yukking it up with old students, while my world falls apart around me. But I have to ignore it. At least for now. I love having a distraction.
That’s the thing about teaching. It can be quite the distraction from other parts of your life. Once you get in the classroom, around the students, all other problems and woes cease to exist. But now, it’s summer. There’s no classroom, no students, no distractions—just the cold-hearted truth that I married a cold-hearted, unfaithful man.
“Nah, you didn’t meet my old man. My dad’s some country club prick who knocked up my mom when she was 18. As soon as he found out she was pregnant, he bailed.” Briggs spun my ring like a child’s top on the table, again. “My dad’s parents would’ve freaked their shit if they knew he’d gone black. The man you met, my dad, the one who counts, adopted me when I was nine. He made me who I am today.” He seems so proud of his adoptive father. Had always seemed so.
“I never heard this story. When I had you write your personal narrative in class, you wrote about starting Varsity as a freshman. Why wouldn’t you write about your adoptive father or the flaws in your biological father?” I question, completely shocked by this new information. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t know something so personal about one of my students. I’m the teacher who knows her students, who personalizes their educations, who they can talk to, come to, confide in. This is pretty important information. I didn’t know it. That’s unlike me.
“Shit. Right. I’m not even that deep now. You think I could think past Friday night then?” As I look at Briggs, I begin to realize that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. He was always a dumb-jock, with a beautiful body, and great athletic talent. I’d never given him the benefit of the doubt.
Continuing, he adds, “Actually, I think it’s some shit that black dudes always get the rap of knocking up our women and leaving our kids high and dry.” He takes a long pull from his beer. He’s such a man. A sexy man. “That’s total bullshit. My white dad bailed. The black one stayed. My white, dickless father can rot in Hell. He’s a son of a bitch.”
I can see the anger and hurt in his gorgeous blue eyes as they flare with venom and become a darker more prominent blue. “But he did give me these eyes, and they have certainly paid off.” He sits back, smugly, and puts his hands behind his head, his triceps rippling as he does so.
“I don’t get it, what’s that mean?” I’m lost with that last bit.
“Blue eyes on a black man are panty-creamers.” I stare at him blankly, not understanding. He laughs, leans forward, grabs my hand, pulls me closer to him across the table, and whispers, “When I look deeply into a woman’s eyes, any woman, with these blue eyes, I know I’m making her wet.” I blink, staring at him, not able to pull my eyes away. Finally, I chuckle, shaking myself free from his intense gaze.
Laughing it off, I reply, “Well I’m sure that works on a lot of young girls, Briggs.”
Still staring straight at me, he smiles slightly, winks at me and says, “Not girls Miss Garrity. Women—all women.” He slips my wedding ring back on my finger. Even that move is sexy and seductive.
With that, I decide that I need to use the restroom. I excuse myself from the table, but as I do so, Briggs gives me a wink and an all-knowing smile. He knows that he’s getting to me, but why? I’m old enough to be his… his sister?
My subconscious is talking, and I need to listen:
Alright Janelle, calm down, think this through. You’re hurt. This is about Marcus. You have NO feelings for Briggs. He’s getting you hot, because you haven’t had sex in 82 days, well 83 now. You walked in on your husband going to Y-town on Lauren, his secretary. You are just vulnerable, hurt, and in a bad place. Pull yourself together. Briggs is just a kid. Well, he should be about 23 now. Right? Let’s figure it out, talk it through. You had him in senior English your first year teaching. He was 17 or 18 that year. That was six years ago. Yep, he’s 23, maybe even 24. So, 23’s legal. He’s incredibly sexy and hot. But you’re married. Yeah, to a scumbag cheater. Yes, but you’re 29 years old and his OLD TEACHER. Not that old.
Oh my God, I don’t know why I’m letting my mind wander like this. Briggs Alexander is not hitting on me, and I’m not about to accept his advances if he is. He was my student. God, I am not that immoral and unethical. Clearly, he isn’t my student now, but for a short time period he was. He trusted me. His parents trusted me to guide him, teach him, and prepare him for the real world, a successful and meaningful future. I certainly did not spend all of that time educating him to guide him straight into my panties. I have to pull myself together. I dampen a paper towel and dab it on my flushed and warm face.
Damn liquor.
Damn sexy black man.
I shake out my hair and reapply some lipstick, knowing that there is nothing worse than smudging my lipstick. I never even drink with fresh lipstick on. Hopefully, applying lipstick will be incentive enough to keep my mouth away from places it shouldn’t be. Please let this lipstick work. I think lipstick stains are trashy, and I, Janelle Lynn Garrity-Flowers, am not a trashy woman. Not now. Not ever. I hold my head high, breathe deeply and leave the bathroom—with my lipstick set perfectly on my lips.
“Damn girl, what took you so long? Let’s dance.” As I exit the bathroom, Briggs grabs me around the waist and pulls me toward the dance floor. My attempts at protest are futile. I’m no match for his strength and power—Hell, his magnetism.
It’s the slowest rap beat I’ve ever heard. It’s no “Push It.” Where are Salt-n-Peppa when you need them? I cannot imagine how people dance to this music. It isn’t the fast-pumping rap or upbeat pop music I’m used to dancing to. It’s a slow, rhythmic pounding. I quickly learn that people don’t actually dance to it. They just slowly grind against one another. It’s hot, slow, and so erotic. It’s certainly a simulation of what else could happen if these movements were to continue all night. Oh, so hot. It’s been long, way too long.
Well this certainly isn’t helping my cause. Holy shit. Briggs places the front of his body tightly up against my back and bottom. I can feel his breath on the side and back of my neck. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me tightly against his pelvis. I can easily feel him rubbing, grinding, and moving into my backside, imitating a slow, easy, love-making motion. He uses his hands to move my hips in a way that he wants them to move. My body melts and melds into his. I lose control of my senses and actions, letting him control my movements, as well as my desires. This has got to be his ammo. These moves, this seduction, have to be his weapon of choice.
I can’t allow my will to cave, for a student to do this to me. But my God, it feels so good, so right. It’s been so long, so frustratingly long. I feel my will faltering, my decisions wavering. His penis begins to enlarge against me, finding its way to my ass. Only my linen skirt and thong and his loose-fitting athletic shorts stand between his hardening shaft and the crack of my butt. I can feel its size. Oh God.
“You’re so sexy Janelle.” His raspy whisper tingles my ear, making me shiver and long for more. He just called me Janelle. Oh shit. This is getting out
of hand. I have to stop this. Please give me the strength to stop this man. No, to stop myself. But instead of stopping it, I hear myself whimper, a sound of acquiescence. A sound of my will failing. I feel Briggs’ tongue slowly travel from the base of my neck to the tip of my earlobe. He starts to turn my body to face him. I moan and succumb to him, facing him. His blue eyes are smoldering with the most passionate look of desire, a look I’ve never seen on a man’s face before. Never. I have to have him. I lean in to him; our lips meet. His tongue finds mine, and my knees weaken. I want to have him, devour him, feel him. I need him. I swallow his moan and return my own. His hands run down my back, pulling me closer into him, onto him. I need this man. I have to—
The song ends, and the lights flood the bar.
It’s the last song of the night. I must’ve missed the “last call” when I was in the bathroom. Briggs looks at me, and my well-overdue emotional crumbling hits. My eyes well with tears as I run from the bar to my car, a car that I clearly can’t drive. I stand fumbling for my keys, not seeing through the tears that flood my eyes and streak my face. What has my life become? I feel him come up behind me, turning me slowly around. He kisses my forehead and pulls my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“I’m sorry Miss Garrity. I was out of line. I had no right—”
I have to stop him. This isn’t his fault. I can’t allow him to feel guilt or accept any blame. This is my problem, my shit to deal with. “Briggs stop. I’m the one who’s sorry. Before you got here tonight, I was drowning myself in Tequila.” I pause, afraid to go on, but I can’t let him feel my guilt. This isn’t his problem. I take a deep breath and explain, “I went home earlier tonight and walked in on my husband fucking his young, hot, slutty bitch of a secretary in our bed.”