He's Just A Friend

by Mary B. Morrison

  “No. I mean it. Let’s go. I spent two whole paychecks to bring your ass here and this . . .” Desmond’s voice trailed off, then picked up again, “. . . is the thanks I get. You up in some rich dude’s face grinnin’ and shit,” Desmond grumbled. “Fuck that. I shoulda took Carlita out. Let’s go. I’m taking your ass home.”

  Fancy moved Desmond’s hand and walked outside, but not before looking over her shoulder to see if Byron was watching. Byron was gone. The back of Desmond’s jaw clenched several times as he ground his back teeth.

  Desmond’s mindset confirmed why Fancy refused to date blue-collar workers. His mentality and attitude didn’t fall far from his profession. Fancy smiled to avoid creating a scene. Desmond wasn’t her man. He was her friend. But somehow Desmond had gotten the two confused. Again.

  Fancy waited for Desmond to get in the car, then said, “Oops, I forgot my coat.” Fancy raced inside before Desmond could offer to get the coat for her. She hurried into the ballroom searching for Byron.

  “Looking for me, I hope,” she heard a voice from behind.

  Fancy smiled with relief when she saw Byron standing near the doorway.

  “Here’s my card,” Fancy said. “Call me.” She gave Byron a quick endearing hug. Byron held her coat as she eased her arms into the sleeves. Fancy strolled outside and got in the car. Desmond’s jaw was still clenched so Fancy sat quietly as he drove.

  Desmond was always getting upset over nonsense. He could keep his negative energy on his side of the car. Fancy’s new year was definitely starting out good. She reminisced the moments she’d shared with Byron on the dance floor, then fantasized about how passionately she’d make love to him after their first date. As soon as Desmond parked in front of her building, Fancy got out of his car and didn’t bother to say bye or thanks. Figuring she’d give him a real reason to be pissed off, Fancy slammed Desmond’s car door.

  She stood in her foyer. Easing her hands in her coat pockets, Fancy pulled out a card and frowned as she read, Byron Van Lee. Fancy kissed the card and smiled. Then she untied the red velvet ribbon from her dance pole.

  CHAPTER 3

  Desmond was Professional Auto’s “go to” man to fix their toughest mechanical problems. Although he made decent money repairing cars, the rich sophisticated women he adored loved him but not his occupation. His charming physique generally appeased women long enough for him to get a date and repair their cars. Once the females were tuned up, he didn’t hear from them until thirty thousand miles later or when they needed servicing again, whichever came first. Lounging in his boss’s office, Desmond spent his lunch break talking on the phone with his best friend Tyronne.

  “I ain’t never called no woman no ho, and I don’t plan to start now, but, man, some of ’em sho are triflin’. And the more money they make, the more they act like men. Fuck ya. Don’t call ya the next day. And when I call them, they act as though I’m interrupting them and shit. ‘Who’s this? Is everything okay? You all right?’ And most of ’em don’t even remember my name. The moment I say yeah I’m all right, before I can add anything else they say, ‘Let me call you back.’ Man, they don’t give a damn about my background or upbringing. And the more I go down on ’em the less they wanna know. Needless to say, I never hear from ’em again. That is, unless I call them back.”

  Desmond couldn’t recall ever breaking up with a woman. He didn’t have to. He knew, even the ones that did like him, eventually they’d find something about him that they either didn’t like or couldn’t change. Then they’d complain about how they never should’ve given him the pussy—as if he’d asked—and how they lowered their standards trying to raise his. As if they had a better man or any man waiting for them to walk through their door and say, “Honey, I’m home.”

  Desmond peeled the foil on his overstuffed chicken burrito from Las Pomas. His lips surrounded the warm tortilla as he held the phone in his other hand.

  “Desmond, you a fool, boy. Why you feel the need to be so damn analytical about females? Don’t you know women aren’t as complicated as men think? Women are simple. So keep it simple and stop trying to raise the bar for their asses. You gon’ make me call you Jesse B. Simple because that brotha couldn’t figure women out either. Besides, some of these females, you don’t wanna waste your money or your time on ’em. You see the shit you did for Fancy New Year’s Eve and how she back-kicked you in the damn teeth like a jackass. Dude you gon’ go broke fuckin’ around with these females. I’mma school ya, boy. Here’s what you need to do. Show them a little attention. Invite yourself over to her place. Don’t tell her where you live. And if she asks, give her a city. Any city. Oakland. Richmond. Vallejo. Like that. And when you get to her place, chill for a minute. Give her a few compliments and conversation. Ask her ‘How was your day?’ They really like that shit. Then give her the Big Daddy kiss and she becomes your little girl. Eager to please. The next thing you know she’s giving you a lap dance. Tap that ass. Then tap your ass right out the mutherfuckin’ do’. Whatever you do, after you get the pussy, leave.”

  Desmond and Tyronne had opposite opinions about women. Desmond believed a woman deserved honesty, love, and affection. But he had a difficult time finding a woman who met his standards. Beautiful. Intelligent. And preferably wealthy or at least well enough off to take care of herself. Except for Fancy. Desmond would do anything for Fancy.

  Tyronne felt women served a purpose. Mainly to stress him out. So since women created his stress, Tyronne used them to relieve his tension.

  Desmond couldn’t resist saying, “You remember Lisa, dawg?”

  “Aw, nigga, there you go. You just had to bring her up, didn’t you? Man, I put that sistah high on a pedestal and let her move into my place . . . The second she caught me kickin’ it with someone else Lisa lost her got damn mind . . .”

  Desmond did remember Tyronne’s horror flick chick. How could his boy have missed the warning signs that that feline was certifiably mental? One day Lisa just walked into the restaurant, spray painted Tyronne’s hair, food, clothes, and date. As if that wasn’t enough, she cursed him out, insulted his dick—loud enough for everyone in Kincaid’s to hear—then she walked out, leaving Tyronne looking like a blue smurf. How could his boy Tyronne, the pimp master, let something like that go down? Desmond shook his head.

  “. . . Lisa slept with my dick in her mouth like it was a mouthpiece. That’s probably why she lost her damn mind. And man, how did she know where I was?”

  If Lisa would’ve asked, Tyronne said he would’ve told her that the woman was one of his clients. That she was organizing a major conference downtown at the Oakland Convention Center and wanted Tyronne to get credit for sealing the deal with his beverage company.

  Tyronne lamented, “Hell, a sistah can’t even help a brother move up without his woman getting jealous. The same damn woman who expects me to pay the bills and wine and dine her ass . . .”

  From that day forward, Tyronne swore to Desmond women were no more than sperm receptacles. Mouth. Titties. Pussy. Ass. Of course, he couldn’t openly treat them that way. But Desmond knew Tyronne couldn’t trust another woman with his heart. Tyronne’s ex was drop-dead gorgeous and seemed so happy and accommodating when Tyronne first introduced her to him, but Lisa’s ass was perpetrating. Desmond chuckled at how upset Tyronne got whenever he mentioned Lisa’s name.

  Tyronne’s voice escalated. “. . . With the quickness of the Blue Angels jets flying over the Golden Gate Bridge traveling faster than the speed of sound, Lisa’s ass sped through her side effects.”

  Desmond mouthed along with Tyronne because he’d heard the story so many times he’d memorized it.

  “ ‘I’m crazy as hell will fuck you up if I ever see you with another bitch. I don’t forget shit because I have a memory ten times better than a got damn elephant trained all the Central Intelligence agents. I’m wanted in forty-eight states and a few foreign countries, too, by fifty plus pissed on and off men and I will kick your ass if I ever catch you c
heatin’ on me.’ But dawg, I swear, her titties were so big all I heard was, “Hi, my name is Lisa.”

  Changing the conversation, Desmond said, “Check this out.” Desmond paused at the sound of oncoming footsteps. After the thumping faded in the distance, he continued, “You have to have an opinion on this. You know dude who got my next-door neighbor pregnant. She met this guy and gave him keys to her house, her car, and she gave him money. In less than one month she was pregnant and he was gone. I mean gone, dawg. Without a trace. Took off in her car! The name he gave her wasn’t real. She didn’t know his peeps. With the few dollars he overlooked in her savings account, at least she was smart enough to abort the baby.”

  “Man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Simple. She should’ve at least made him wear a condom. You won’t believe how many females beg me not to slide a jimmie on ‘lé cheval.’ Once they lay eyes on the foot-long master, they start acting like they done won a got damn award and shit. Holding it next to their cheek. Kissing it. Smiling. One chick gave an acceptance speech. And check this out. Another feline said grace before she . . . ouu, I get hard just thinking about that church girl.”

  Desmond and Tyronne laughed together.

  “Women are desperate, Dez. Desperate. Lonely. Crazy. Putting on that ‘I’m so happy to be with you’ smile. Trying to act all sophisticated. The first opportunity they get they sneak through all your shit. Cell phone book. Glove compartment. Two-way. Pants pockets. PalmPilot. E-mail. And the second they find something, they flip the fuck out. And I don’t even want to start on the married women who give out their cellular and business numbers. They gettin’ worse than us, dawg. That’s why I stopped inviting ’em to my spot.”

  Desmond placed his boss’s invoices back in the in-box and said, “I want an intelligent woman—”

  Tyronne objected. “What? Why? Who gives a fuck if she’s intelligent as long as she looks good? ’Cause they all crazy, dawg. We just got to figure out how crazy before they fuck up our—”

  Desmond interrupted, “See, that’s where I disagree. If a woman can’t hold a decent conversation before making love, I don’t want her in my bed.”

  “Making love? Man you got jokes. Give me her digits. I’ll wax that ass for you,” Tyronne laughed, then said, “Women want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t give a damn about making love. Most of them don’t even know how to make love. Fuck her good and she’ll never forget you. She’ll even brag to her girlfriends, ‘Girl, Tyronne ate my pussy so good I’m still cumming.’ Make love to her. She’ll bottle that up inside and won’t say shit to you or her girls.”

  “Man, check this out and tell me what you think,” Desmond paused. Took a deep breath and started rapping.

  “I’m trying to wrap my head around females these days. And although I’m learning the ways of women, I don’t think I’ll ever understand them. So I flow like this . . . She says I’m just a friend. Was that before or after she let me slide the head in? She says I’m just a friend until another fe-fe is on my dime, commanding my time, then she bumps it up a notch with attitude. Step off, bitch, he’s mine. Funny, she didn’t feel that way when dude cruised by in his Benz. She rubbed the back of her neck. Then took a step back. And smiled at dude’s ass, making it clear she wanted his time. Not mine. Yeah, yeah. I’m just a friend. But last night she was bucking and sweating trying to wear a brotha out!

  “Females. Sometimes I want to tell all of them to go straight to hell. But then I’d have to stroke my own ego and my own dick. So I’ve concluded it’s best not to have expectations. Just kick it. Stick it. Penetration. But they won’t let me be. Venting their frustrations. They want a commitment. At least that’s what they say. When the shit is convenient for them. When they think I’m the best they can do. Then as soon as someone better comes along they wanna upgrade. But when the guy degrades her, then she wants to trade him in, for the brotha she claims was just her friend.”

  “Whoa, Dez. That’s tight man. Look, I gotta deliver these beverages to SaVoy’s daddy’s store. Now if she wasn’t so conservative and nice, I’d ride that sweet ass from the back all night long.”

  “Man, ask her out. That way you can kick it with SaVoy. I can kick it with Fancy. And we can hang out together since they’re friends and we’re friends; that’d be cool.”

  Tyronne instantly replied, “Forget it. I’d ruin that girl for life. I’ll have her singing that Erykah Badu song about my ass. And Fancy? Man, fuck that fake gold-diggin’ bitch. Friends, man. Just call all of ’em friends like they do us. Peace. I’m out.”

  Desmond continued sitting in his boss’s office, thinking. Maybe Tyronne was right. About the friends part. But he was wrong about Fancy. Desmond slurped his soda, thinking about the girls he’d met. Recently he had stopped telling females the truth and started saying whatever he figured they wanted to hear. Especially Carlita.

  Desmond reflected on when he’d met Carlita a year ago. Shortly after New Year’s Eve. Shortly after Fancy had convinced him to spend more money than he wanted to attend an affair he didn’t like. But he was in love with Fancy so it was worth it, he guessed. But two days ago Fancy had messed up big time. Desmond had a plan for Fancy. If she ever let him hit it, Fancy was going to fall in love with him. And when she did, well, he’d have to wait and see how he felt. He might pay her back. Twofold. For playing with his emotions.

  It had been a year ago when Carlita had pulled into the driveway at his job on Martin Luther King Jr. Day and left her engine running. Luckily for her, Desmond had forgotten to borrow his boss’s tools to tune up Fancy’s car. Carlita looked good in those low-rider hip-hugging faded blue denims. Underneath her leather jacket she wore a black shiny T-shirt with a silver skyline image of San Francisco. Her perky nipples protruded, commanding his dick’s attention.

  “The shop is closed. But I can’t leave a beautiful woman like you in need. How can I help you?” Desmond remembered asking.

  “Every time I turn off my car I have to get a jump to restart it.” Her hair swayed to one side, releasing a fruity fragrance that lured him closer. Carlita had already lifted the hood and was bending over. Her booty formed cantaloupe-shaped imprints under her coat.

  “Sounds like you may need a new battery. Let me check,” Desmond had said.

  Confirming his suspicions, he installed a used battery in Carlita’s car. His tightwad boss would dock his pay if he’d given away a new heavy-duty battery. But he did give Carlita a used portable battery. “Keep this in your car at all times. That way if your battery ever dies again, you won’t need to hook up to someone else’s car. It’s lightweight,” he said, handing her the battery. “Hey, you wanna join me? I’m headed to the city for Dr. King’s celebration in front of City Hall.”

  “Sure. Why not,” Carlita said with the most alluring gaze and a kind of come-closer smile. He got in his Mustang, insisting she leave her sports utility vehicle at the shop. When he parked at MacArthur BART Station, Carlita waited for him to open her door. She swung her purse in one hand and his hand with the other. On the train, Carlita laid her head on his shoulder. Because they’d just met, Desmond resisted running his fingers through her hair, fearing she’d slap him upside the head or something.

  In less than four hours Desmond had learned Carlita was off-the-chain funny. Sexy as hell. Had a big ole ass! Itty bitty titties. With a tiny waistline. Carlita was fine but she wasn’t the one he wanted to marry or take home to his mama. Desmond had decided Carlita was just his friend.

  Later he discovered Carlita could talk sports, shoot hoops, and cook! She had to cook for her four kids. Desmond didn’t have anything against an older woman or a woman with children, but in this world of instant gratification and commercialization, Carlita needed to realize having a baby didn’t guarantee she’d have a husband. Although she did come across as happy and content, Carlita had never been married. And Desmond didn’t plan on adopting any woman’s built-in family, so he knew she’d never become his wife. He wanted a family of his ow
n. Maybe if Carlita had one kid, they could tie the knot. But four? Desmond couldn’t get with that.

  Carlita had her shit together, though. She didn’t have to work because each of her almost grown and off to college kids’ fathers paid four figures a month for child support. Carlita was in court so many times the judge knew her by her first name. She was quick to say, “I’m not looking for any handouts, I simply intend to give my children what they deserve. I didn’t make ’em by myself and I’ll be damned if I’m gon’ raise ’em by myself.”

  Desmond went with Carlita to court a couple of times so he could learn what not to do whenever he did have kids. Carlita never lost a case and she gave her children all of what they needed and most of what they wanted. She owned her own home and she charged seventy-five dollars an hour, under the table, to help other females get paid for their kids and start their own businesses. Carlita prepared all the legal documents, and schooled her clients on what to wear. “Dress casual. Don’t look too rich or too poor. And do not wear gaudy makeup or too much jewelry. Cry quietly but only if you think it’ll help your case. Do not make a scene or curse out your baby’s daddy in the courtroom.”

  One morning Carlita was on the docket four times. Took all them guys, lined them up, and got everything she wanted. So the lesson Desmond learned that day was women focused on the kids and men focused on the money and dumb stuff like what they thought the woman was doing with the child support. Well, that might not be dumb but it sure in the hell was insignificant. The judge didn’t give a damn about those men complaining. In fact, the judge appeared annoyed whenever anyone didn’t put the child’s needs first.

  When Desmond did marry, he wasn’t getting a divorce. He was going to do it right the first time and take care of his wife and kid. Kids. Desmond would love for Fancy to have his son. Sons. And maybe one daughter. He wanted to fertilize three of her seeds. That’s why he invested so much time in Fancy on New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Eve was all that until she cheated on him with dude. He had the finest woman up in that joint on his arm. It cost him, but hey, what was life if he couldn’t splurge on his woman every once in a while?