The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  As the festive, yet classy reception evolved into a full-blown, ghetto fabulous affair, it brought Fame back to his high school days of spinning at the local parties and skating rinks. He alternated well-known party songs with their original samples. He played De La Soul’s “Breakadawn,” Portrait’s “Here We Go Again!”, Michael Jackson’s “I Can’t Help It,” 3rd Bass’s “Gas Face,” and Aretha Franklin’s “Think.”

  The well-heeled wedding guests lost all decorum, sweated out their nicely coifed dos, and danced like it was their mama’s rent party and last month’s rent was way past due.

  Mr. and Mrs. Sean Rogers’s wedding was a splendid affair, courtesy of Aminah. She adored both of them and wanted their blessed day to reflect both her love for them and theirs for each other.

  “What exactly is it you think I am doing to him, Aminah?” Lang asked. “You haven’t even let me explain myself. You don’t even know what’s going on. You’re presuming an awful lot.”

  “Are you fucking him?”

  Lang hesitated. “Well…technically, no.”

  “I don’t believe you, Langston. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “My, my, my, we’re just full of profanity today, Mrs. Anderson,” Lang said in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been one of those days,” Aminah responded, finishing off her pink mimosa. “So how do you technically not fuck someone?”

  The truth of the matter was Dante had never entered Lang. His tongue had been inside her, yes. His fingers even—from pinky to thumb in fact—but that was all.

  “Okay Aminah. I don’t think we should talk about this right now. You’re getting upset over something you know nothing about. I would never do anything to jeopardize my marriage with Sean. You know I love him.”

  “Do you hear yourself, Lang?” Aminah asked, incredulously narrowing her eyes and turning up her lip. “You’ve already jeopardized your marriage, and for what? For some kid dick?”

  Lang laughed nervously.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “Kid dick, Aminah?” Lang asked, giggling a bit still. “That’s cause for at least a chuckle, don’t you think?”

  “No. For the love of God, Lang, I don’t. You’re taking this way too lightly for me. Do you even understand what’s at stake here? What you’re risking? What you’re throwing away?”

  “I’m not throwing my husband away,” Lang replied defensively. “I know that much, Aminah. And you know more than anyone how much I love Sean. He’s my best friend.” She paused. “Well, my second-best friend.”

  Aminah sighed and rested her head in the palm of her right hand. “I just don’t want to see you ruin your marriage. How old is this boy anyway, like, twenty-one?”

  “Twenty-three,” slipped out of Lang’s mouth between bites of crispy fried chicken swirled in the thick maple syrup dripping off her waffles.

  “Ten years younger, Lang? What could you possibly have in common? Wait.” She paused, shaking her head. “Don’t even answer that. You’re too young to be going through a midlife crisis, so that can’t be it.”

  “Do women even have those?” Lang asked before licking her middle finger and using the wetness to pick up the flavorful crumbs of the chicken.

  “Why, Lang?” Aminah asked. “Why risk everything you’ve built with Sean for some dick on the side?”

  “Um, are you sure you want to hear about this?” Lang asked, wiping the corners of her mouth with the cloth napkin.

  Aminah nodded her head and ordered another pink mimosa. Lang told Aminah that she’d met Dante at the Starbucks around the corner from her job three months ago, back in April. She was waiting for her unsweetened Venti iced coffee with light ice and heavy cream, and he was standing off to the side next to the napkins and sugar holding his tall soy chai latte just staring at her, looking all young and cocky. She’d tried to ignore him, but he just wouldn’t break his stare. She’d headed out the door, and he’d followed.

  “Excuse me, miss, what’s your name? Can you come hang with me?” he sang, doing his best Jay-Z rendition.

  She’d laughed and stopped right in her tracks.

  “I know you saw me checking you out, ma,” he said, looking down at her. Dante stood about seven inches taller than Lang.

  Damn, this young boy is fine, she’d thought.

  He pointed to her wedding band and asked if she was happy.

  “Very much so,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah, then why’d you stop?”

  Lang had sucked her teeth, rolled her eyes, and resumed her quick pace back to the office. The nerve, she thought. He was the one staring at her. The one singing corny-ass songs to her as she walked down the street minding her own damn business trying to enjoy her iced coffee. And then he’d had the audacity, the unmitigated gall, to judge her marriage.

  “Slow down, ma!” Dante yelled.

  Lang made a sharp right and kept on speed-walking toward Broadway.

  “Damn, if you hold up, ma, I can apologize to you correctly.”

  She turned around and yelled, “What-the-fuck-ever!” back at him.

  He laughed. “Wow. Beautiful and feisty, that’s a lethal combination. I’m diggin’ it though.”

  Lang had been just about to turn the corner when Dante’d grabbed her arm right in front of Jay-Z’s 40/40 Club and swung her around.

  Lang looked at Dante like he’d lost his damn mind. But before she could snatch her arm away and curse him the fuck out, she’d melted. Her fleeting anger was no match for that intense stare of his. She had a weakness for dark-skinned men, but unblemished ebony skin with long eyelashes that’d give M.A.C falsies a run for their money, and unruly naturally curly hair, were the equivalent of kryptonite.

  Shit, Lang thought.

  “Look, ma, I was wrong for what I said back there,” he said, still holding on to her arm. “But I saw a spark in your eyes, and for real, I still see it. I’m not gonna front. I even feel it right now.”

  “I—I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lang stuttered.

  He smiled. He knew he had her. Mrs. Composed-in-Designer-Clothes-from-her-Head-to her-Toes was indeed feeling him back. “Look, it’s not really my style to approach women in coffee shops,” he said, finally releasing her arm. “I don’t usually approach women, period. I’ve never had to. And if I had seen that ring before I’d looked into your eyes and seen what I saw—no offense, ma, but I never woulda stepped to you either. But it’s too late for all that now.”

  “Too late? What is it you think you saw?” Lang asked curiously.

  “Oh, I know what I saw,” Dante responded firmly.

  Just then Lang’s cell phone had rung. It was her assistant, Merrick. It was production week at Urban Celebrity, and they needed her to sign off on some layouts so the files could be sent to the printer that evening.

  “I’m right downstairs. I’ll be right up,” she’d said and hung up her phone.

  “Lemme see that,” Dante said, taking her Motorola right out of her hands. Dante punched in his number and dialed himself from her phone. When he saw her number show up on his caller ID, he asked for her name and then stored it in his phone.

  “Lang,” he repeated. “I like that. Well, Lang, I know you gotta get back to work. So I’ll give you a call later this evening.” He’d turned to walk back in the direction of Starbucks.

  “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Yeah, but you have my number, and I got yours.”

  Chapter 4

  “I can separate sex from love. Though we as women are not socialized to do so, I can and that doesn’t make me a bad woman or a bad wife.”

  Langston and Aminah leisurely nursed steamy cups of mediocre coffee not too long after finishing off their second helpings from the brunch bar. The striking duo looked like an Essence summer fashion spread shot on a sidewalk café. Aminah’s fuchsia jersey knit halter top and matching skirt couldn’t compete with her curves. She had
the kind of measurements that commanded a bodacious “Daaamn!” from men and women alike. Though her weight fluctuated with the seasons and the state of her marriage, she was genetically blessed; her waist was usually proportioned twelve inches smaller than her ample D-cup bust and shapely hips, allowing her to maintain an hourglass figure whether she wore a size six or a size ten. This summer she was a healthy 38-26-38. While Fame modestly took credit for making her ass a “hi-C,” it was her hundred-squats-per-day regimen that deserved the props for her lifted C-shape booty.

  Aminah routinely wore her shiny black hair, slicked back with Aveda’s sweet-smelling hair gloss, in a long, sleek ponytail, à la Sade. She missed wearing her thick, long hair natural, but Fame insisted she keep it bone straight. “It’s a good look,” he’d say. “It complements my image. I don’t want anyone mistaking you for some chew-stick, incense-burning bag lady. You’re the wife of a successful, self-made millionaire, not the wife of some wannabe poet in the struggle. Look like it.”

  Langston stood modelesque at five-ten with perky 36Cs, a small waist, nice ass, and long legs that rivaled Naomi Campbell’s. Combine all those assets with high cheekbones, pouty lips, and a copper reddish brown complexion, and it was no wonder that most people assumed she actually was some kind of a model. Lang would have considered the modeling profession, but she had absolutely no desire to deal with all the potential rejection and negative energy. She preferred to be complimented, not criticized. And beauty by American standards, though admittedly broader than, say, in her mother’s day, was still too reflective of the European aesthetic for Lang’s politics.

  Lang thought the fashion and beauty industries were still too subjective and, yes, still racist. She’d counted on one hand the number of black models on the catwalk of last season’s fashion shows. And magazine covers? Damn near nonexistent if you weren’t an A-list celebrity. And while she currently rocked an auburn curly weave by choice and convenience, she had no intention of ever chemically altering the natural texture of her healthy, coarse dark brown hair that fell well past her shoulder blades when blown straight.

  “So what’s this young boy’s name?” Aminah asked more out of annoyance than curiosity as she stirred raw sugar into her coffee.

  “Dante,” Lang said, relieved to finally share it with her best friend.

  “And you haven’t had sex with him yet?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Aminah looked at Lang quizzically.

  “Hold up,” Lang said, putting up her hands in protest. “I’m not saying we haven’t done things, but we haven’t had actual intercourse yet.”

  “Done things like what? You mean oral sex?”

  “Well, yeah, we’ve given each other head,” Lang admitted. “But it’s not just physical with him, Aminah. It’s more mental. He’s gotten inside my mind sexually. He’s invaded a space Sean has no idea even exists.” Lang looked visibly starry-eyed as she spoke of her lover. She was definitely smitten, and there was no hiding that.

  “Let me get this straight. After three months of seeing pretty boy, you’re having only mind sex and head with him?” Aminah asked skeptically.

  “No, that’s not just it, Minah. Damn.”

  “Well, do you want to have physical sex with him?” Aminah asked, genuinely confused.

  “Of course, of course, what kind of question is that? You’re not getting this, are you?”

  “Well, not exactly, Lang, and forgive me, but I’m not sure I can.”

  Lang sighed. “Okay, remember back in high school when we snuck in to see 9 ½ Weeks, and you thought it was twisted, while I was completely enthralled?”

  “Um, yeah, you said you wanted to be turned out like Kim Basinger. How could I ever forget that?”

  “Well, I’m still waiting to be turned out, Minah.”

  “You’ve got issues, Lang,” Aminah said, raising her left eyebrow and taking a sip of her coffee.

  Lang rolled her eyes. “What about when we rented that movie Secretary two years ago?”

  “That weird movie with that Olive Oyl–looking actress who let her boss spank her, put a saddle on her back, and stick a carrot in her mouth?”

  “Yes, Aminah, that one,” Lang replied, a bit annoyed that she’d reduced one of her favorite films to a horse-and-carriage flick.

  “I never got that movie,” Aminah said, dismissively flicking her right hand.

  “I know, but I did. I actually kinda envied Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character,” Lang said, smiling mischievously.

  “Who?”

  “‘Olive Oyl.’”

  “Oh.” Aminah laughed.

  “Anyway, her character finally met someone who intuitively tapped into her secret desires without her having to say a word or even explain herself,” Lang said enviously. “Desires that most people viewed as strange and abnormal—and she wasn’t letting that man get away from her. She bagged him by whatever means necessary.”

  “That’s ’cause they are strange, Lang,” Aminah said, throwing up her hands. “You know, you look so normal, so together. It’s mind-boggling.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “What? You want Sean to make you crawl on all fours while he throws money at you and orders you to pick it up like some kind of hooker?”

  “I can’t front—that’d be kinda sexy,” Lang said, smiling.

  “You’re one demented sister.”

  “See, that’s the thing. Why can’t I be both a together sister and sexually um, um…” Lang snapped her fingers, searching for just the right word, “…unbound?”

  “You absolutely can, but if you want me to attend your pity party because your husband would rather, oh, I don’t know, massage your feet after a long day at work than beat your ass with a belt—sorry, but I won’t be RSVPing to that affair,” Aminah said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  Lang finished off her disappointing cup of coffee, slouched down in her seat, and pouted.

  “I’m sorry, Lang. I’m trying to follow you, I really am. But after all I’ve been through with Fame, I just don’t get it, and I’m not sure I really want to,” Aminah admitted.

  “Well, then, let’s not do this,” Lang said, folding her arms and casually glancing over at the boys playing basketball across the street.

  Aminah also looked over at the basketball game and, once again, she found herself hating the actions of someone she loved. It was all so conflicting for her. She gestured for the waitress to bring the check. “Lang, I’m really trying to be your friend here, but you know where I’m coming from,” she said, reaching out for Lang’s hands and making her unfold her arms.

  “I know, Minah,” Lang said. “I mean, why do you think I’ve kept him from you for so long? If Dante hadn’t shown up at Pretty Inside, we wouldn’t even be talking about this right now. I’m not gonna lie. I know it’s selfish. I do. But for some reason it doesn’t feel so wrong. It feels perfect for right now.”

  “Lang, are you catching feelings for this kid?” Aminah asked. “I thought it was just physical—I mean, mental—I mean, sexual.” Aminah got flustered.

  “It’s all those things,” Lang admitted. “But, no, there are no feelings involved. I mean, I can’t say there’s an emotional attachment.”

  Aminah nodded her head, trying to make sense of what her best friend was saying. She signed the receipt and suggested they walk and talk. Lang grabbed Aminah’s hand as they exited the restaurant and swung it like she had when they were little girls in elementary school.

  “Aminah, just you trying to understand what it is I’m doing here means the world to me,” Lang admitted. “If I were you, I don’t think I could stomach listening to a girlfriend justify having an affair. It’s all fun and games for me, but you’ve been on the painful side of it. This is the first time I’ve ever felt so uncomfortable discussing something with you.”

  As Langston spoke, tears welled up in Aminah’s eyes. “The other side does hurt, Lang,” Aminah said, fighting back the tears.

  “I know, baby,” Lang said,
stopping in front of Aminah’s car and hugging her best friend tightly. “Let’s stop, huh? I mean, really, what’s the point in me sharing this with you?”

  “You’re my best friend. That’s the point,” Aminah said, pulling from her embrace. “And it’s not a game, Lang. It’s lives, real lives you’re messing with here. And I can’t just silently watch you ruin your marriage. It’s not worth it, Lang. I promise you it’s not worth it.”

  “But I can’t walk away from this, Minah,” Lang said, stepping back from Aminah and shaking her head. “Not now anyway. Not yet.” Lang gently wiped Aminah’s face with her hands and kissed her on the forehead.

  “You know, at first I thought I wanted to know everything about this affair,” Aminah admitted. “No, no, I’m lying. At first I thought I was gonna be sick when you finally confessed. But then I thought, as crazy as it sounds, I thought maybe, just maybe hearing you explain why you’d cheat on Sean would help me understand Fame’s rationale for cheating on me. But now…” Aminah shook her head, pacing next to her car. “Now I know I was right. It is as crazy as it sounds. Listening to you and this bullshit about not being able to get your freak on with your husband is ludicrous. I’m sorry, Lang, but I just don’t get how you could feel even remotely justified entertaining the idea of having sex with a man other than your husband. You have a good man at home.”

  “Yeah, but you saw him, Minah. The brother is fine,” Lang said defiantly.

  “Yes, but so is Sean,” Aminah countered.

  “I know, but it’s something about him,” Lang said, unsure of how she could explain that “something” to her girlfriend when she hadn’t quite nailed it herself. “Minah, he picked up on something within seconds of meeting me that my husband doesn’t have a clue about in the six years I’ve known him.”

  “What? That you’re a freak?” Aminah asked, folding her arms.

  Lang detested that word, and Aminah knew it. She’d always thought freak held such negative connotations. It denoted something being wrong with you, like you were some kind of a circus spectacle. No, she preferred sexually liberated.