Full Figured 2

by Alexis Nicole

  “Whoa, whoa!” He backed away. “Wait. What are you doing?”

  “Come back and let me show you,” I teased. “Come here.”

  “I better not.” He shook his head. “I think I gave you the wrong impression. I’m not interested in having sex with you.”

  “Oh.” The sober parts within me were embarrassed. “I just thought–”

  “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom,” he cut me off, and walked away.

  I felt like a complete idiot. I had sucked on the nipple of the man who was my boss’ boss, and he flat out shut me down. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, he was probably trying to save us from a professional headache, but I didn’t see it like that. My mind plagued me with thoughts that he didn’t find me attractive or wasn’t interested in me sexually. There was no way I was staying around for more. I grabbed my coat and brown Coach purse, and was on the elevator before he came out.

  As I headed south on Lake Shore Drive, my phone began to sing; it was Cortez. I reached for it, but there was no way I was going to explain to him the things going on in my mind. He would think I was crazy, extremely insecure, slutty or all three. Sure, I had some things I was insecure about; we all have things about ourselves we would love to change. I shielded my body as if it were a government secret. However, when it all boiled down to it, when the time was right with a man, I couldn’t hide anything, naked was naked, but I knew how to use smoke and mirrors in a candlelit room.

  Cortez called four times over and over, but I never answered. Instead, I called Stacy. Bobby picked up, sounding half-asleep. “Hello?”

  “Oh, shit,” I said under my breath when I realized the time. “I’m so sorry to call so late, Bobby. I guess she’s asleep, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he grumbled. “You want me to get her up?”

  “Nah,” I said. “It can wait.”

  “You sure?” He was concerned. “Are you okay? You need something?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I just didn’t know what time it was. It’s nothing serious. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  “All right!” He yawned. “Be safe.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  For a split second, I missed Noriah, our other friend. We fell out a year ago when she accused me of wanting to sleep with her husband. It all started when I became a member on this swinger’s site for black people. I didn’t know what I was looking for or expecting. I got the idea because Michael Baisden always talked about it on his radio show. I just wanted to talk to people in the lifestyle and learn how this type of relationship worked. It only took two days for my inbox to be full after I added a picture of my boobs.

  A guy who called himself Stamina4dayz wrote me and I wrote back. He sent me pictures of him below the waist and I was very pleased. We corresponded on Yahoo! Messenger for days. He said he was single and looking for a single female swing partner to have full swaps with other couples. I told him that I was new to the lifestyle and was just looking to slowly be introduced, or maybe just watch. We never exchanged numbers, just IMed every so often. After about a month, he wanted to meet me, so I suggested drinks at Bar Louise in Hyde Park.

  I was at the bar at nine on a Saturday night. He knew I would be wearing a red sweater, and he told me to be on the lookout for a six-foot, seven-inch, 250-pound dude in a Chicago White Sox fleece pullover. On the first sip of my second glass of Riesling, I saw Eric walk through the door in Sox gear, but didn’t make the connection; after all, we lived in Chicago. I hid my face with a menu because I didn’t want Eric coming over to say hi and never leaving when my company showed up. I then received a Yahoo message alert on my phone. “I’m here!”

  “Me, too!” I wrote back.

  He then asked, “Where are you?”

  “At the bar, red sweater, below the margarita sign.” I sent my message.

  Less than ten seconds later, there was a touch on my back, and I turned around to Eric’s hand. He looked like he wanted to faint. “Garcelle?”

  “Eric?” I said in shock. “You’re Stamina?”

  “Damn.” He hung his head. “Damn.”

  I thought of how Noriah was always bragging about her perfect relationship. “Wow!” I said, looking away from him.

  He was right behind me and in my ear. “Let’s pretend this never happened, please,” he begged.

  I turned to look at him, and heard, “So, this is what the fuck y’all been doing?” Noriah yelled from behind him. “You’re cheating on me with this fat bitch?” She slapped him several times in the face. “This is what you on, Eric? This is what the fuck you on, you punk bitch?” She tried to punch at me, but Eric pushed her back. She fell onto some man, spilling his drink, which fueled another commotion, and we were all put out; security escorted me to my car. Noriah had apparently seen our chats on Eric’s phone while he was sleeping earlier, and followed him out of the house to see who he was meeting and cheating with.

  During my short ride, I tried calling Noriah, but she didn’t pick up. However, before I even got home, I received a text that went out to everyone in her contacts: Garcelle Monroe is a nasty, sneaky, dick-hungry whore who is out to fuck any man her fat ass can get. Reading that was like injecting poison into me, it was killing me. I was so hurt that I didn’t give a damn about explaining things to her anymore. A few days later, Stacy spoke to her on my behalf. She told Stacy that she felt we had both been jealous of her relationship, and she wanted nothing else to do with either of us.

  So, our three was now only two. When I couldn’t talk to Stacy, I talked to no one. Now, rushing home from the hotel, I wished I had someone to cry to. Instead, I got home, crawled under the sheets, and recapped my evening with Cortez. It seemed like things had been going well. He expressed interest in me outside of the professional realm. He said I was beautiful, and loved my personality, so when he invited me back to his room, naturally, I assumed it was an open invitation to feast on his twenty-four-hour buffet. Then, like a badly made movie, my chest-licking scene played in my mind, and I cringed in disgust.

  Cortez wasn’t just some guy I met at a bar, and I couldn’t ignore him forever. Though I might never see him again, I would probably hear from him on Monday morning, and although it would be about work, it would be awkward. I was hoping that the weekend would take my cares away before Monday.

  On Saturday, my Second Life sorority, Alpha Phi Kappa, was set to cross a new pledge line, so when I logged into my account at 9:00 A.M., I stayed on my laptop until well after midnight. Second Life is a 3-D virtual world online where you can do anything, and when I say anything, I mean anything. You build your character or avatar to look like whatever or whomever you like, and once you learn your way around and meet the right people, Second Life could be extremely fun and addictive. It’s a place to do things you can’t or won’t do in real life. I had always wanted to be in a sorority, and there I had the opportunity. It felt so good to do the things we do that I regretted not pledging in college. Though it was all virtual, my twenty-seven sisters and I shared a true sisterhood. And though our Greek letters, AΦK, and chapter information couldn’t be found on any college campus, we took our vows very seriously.

  My sorors and I have step shows, and wear and represent our colors: chocolate, purple, and pink. We raise money for real life charities, have virtual garage sales, recruit new members, and throw the bomb parties. My entire Saturday was spent in the house because I was pledge master in AΦK, and had to help my sisters finish building the ceremonial platform, attend the crossing ceremony, and, immediately after, entertain a crowd at the crossing ball, all in Second Life. You’d have to see it to believe. Stunna76, one of our associated frat brothers, was my date for the event. He went all out picking me up in a limo, giving me a dozen roses, and a pair of the newest Stiletto Moody shoes (which cost $7,500 in virtual cash and amounts to about twenty-five dollars in real money). Not bad at all; twenty-five was even a good pair of shoes at Payless.

  At times, I felt like my virtual life was more
exciting than my real life. In Second Life, I owned land, a seven-bedroom mansion with perfect landscaping, countless cars and motorcycles, and furniture I couldn’t even get on layaway in real life. My avatar was honey brown, six feet tall, 170 pounds soaking wet, had wavy black hair to her butt, ten perfect full faces of makeup to snap on, and shoes galore, with a wardrobe I’d have to beg, borrow, steal, and kill to have in real life. I have been pregnant twice in my virtual world. My “daughter” no longer plays the game, and my “son,” in his real life, is going for his master’s and only logs on once a month due to being busy with school. They both played teenagers in the game and lived in my house. So, now, I had an empty nest and was single and ready to mingle. I was dating, but just like anywhere, you had your weirdoes, users, and losers, but in Second Life, if things didn’t go right, I would simply fake a system failure and fix it so that he wouldn’t see me logged in again for a while. I loved Second Life; it allowed me to have a life when I wanted to escape my real life. Not many people knew about this virtual wonderland, and I liked it that way.

  On Sunday, I spent some time at my parents’ house. My mom baked macaroni, and, as I did as a kid, I had my plate and fork ready and my hand on the oven door five minutes before the buzzer went off.

  “I’m joining Weight Watchers,” Mom said.

  “For what?” I asked her. “Momma, you don’t need to lose any more weight, you look fine.”

  “I told her that,” Daddy said, as he looked at her rear while she fixed his plate. “I like it just like that.”

  “Daddy!” I yelled to get his attention. “All that was so unnecessary and nasty.”

  “Leonard, what did you do?” Mom giggled as she asked.

  My face was balled up. “He was looking at your butt when he said that.” I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Well, if he didn’t like it, then you wouldn’t be here, baby.”

  “Oh my God. Gimmie the foil, Barry,” I said to my brother. “I’m taking my food to go. I can’t be around this.” I laughed. We all gathered around the table, prayed, and ate. We had a great time laughing, reminiscing, and even shedding a few tears together. Before leaving for the evening, I told Mom that I might possibly join her on Weight Watchers if the diet I had planned to start the next day didn’t work.

  Monday came, and all the hustle and bustle of the first day of Blare’s new Race to Results Fitness Contest took Cortez completely off my mind. The three-month challenge happened twice a year in the office, and it appeared to be serious business. So much so that when you went to be weighed in, you had to wear the assigned “Race to Results” company T-shirt. All this was since last year when Sarah McCall allegedly had eight bottles of water taped around her waist and lost twenty pounds the first week. I never joined one before. I always laughed about how fanatic everyone got, but, this time, I planned to be a part of the madness. In my tacky, too-tight tee, I ventured to the company’s gym to weigh in with Lena, the personal trainer hired to take our measurements, give us tips, and weigh us weekly. Lena and her zero percent body fat couldn’t be perkier, more perfect, and any more on my last nerves. One look at Lena’s legs in her spandex sickened me. I was hatin’ big time, but I couldn’t fault her for taking care of her body; I had the same opportunities.

  She weighed me, and the scale was merciful; it said 219.5, which was a half pound less than I thought I was. I told Lena about my plan to stay away from meat, fish, bread, and other starches starting the following week for about two weeks. She said that I didn’t have to do anything that drastic, but I told her that I wanted to. Lena told me to check with my doctor, and advised me of other good sources of protein since I wouldn’t be eating meat. She and I got to talking, and it turned out she wasn’t an evil skinny bitch after all. I left the room feeling encouraged and not scorned, taught and not scolded. Halfway back to my office, I realized that the information she had written down was left in the room. When I returned, Sandra, talking on her cell phone, was waiting outside of Lena’s door. Sandra was about five foot six and 140 pounds with her kids on her back, so I assumed she was only in the challenge for the weekly gift bags.

  I stood a few feet away from her, and wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but she was the only thing to hear in the area. “I’m certainly glad that you didn’t miss your flight to Jacksonville.” Sandra smiled into the phone. “Just remember what Mark said during the garter toss.” She cracked up laughing, as I found myself suddenly trying to crack a case. Did she just say something about a flight to Jacksonville and refer to a groom as Mark? “Oh,” she went on, “consider yourself lucky. When they lost my brother’s luggage, he didn’t get it for two weeks.”

  I found it hard to contain myself. The coincidences were astounding. She had to be talking to . . . “Cortez, I’ll call you this evening.” She paused to giggle. “I promise it’ll be the first thing I do when I walk through the door.” Sandra smiled. “TTYL.” Who says that? Isn’t that ridiculous shit restricted to text messages and IM? “See ya, Cort.”

  I was stunned, embarrassed, and hurt! I started to walk away, but when I heard Sandra on the phone again, I slowed my pace. “Hey, he just called,” she sang into the phone with glee. “Well, he’s definitely interested.” I stopped dead in my tracks. To hell with pretending I wasn’t listening. “I just have a feeling that this is it,” she said. “He’s the one, I can tell. He wants it bad.” I couldn’t bear to hear more. I made it back to my desk in record time, and also without my true emotions being detected on my face.

  As I rounded my desk, my office line was ringing. “Blare, this is Garcelle.” And, as though Satan himself were orchestrating my day, on the caller ID was the main number in Jacksonville.

  “Good morning.” Cortez’s voice melted like butter on my lightly toasted eardrum, but the silence that followed was violently loud. “You there?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’m here.” I was speechless. All of the words I had for him seconds ago were pinned to the inside of my mouth. “Is there something you need me to do?” My regular, everyday words to him surfaced.

  “Well . . .” He didn’t sound happy. “To begin with, how are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” I didn’t know where the conversation was going. I didn’t know who had the right to be more upset at the other. “If you’re calling about that daily sales analogy report, I saw the error on page two, and will correct it and resend it before the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Not calling about the error. I haven’t even opened the report or even my e-mail for that matter.” It sounded like a door closed. “You wanna tell me what the hell happened to you on Friday night?”

  “Nothing,” I said nonchalantly. “What do you mean?”

  “I came out of the bathroom and you were gone,” he said. “And I never heard back from you.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were calling it a night.” I paused. “I was drunk. I tried to call you, but it kept going to your voice mail,” I lied, and rushed on. “How was the rest of your stay?”

  “Garcelle, you should not have been driving that night, which is one reason I asked you to come up–”

  “Oh, that’s why you invited me up?” I said under my breath, but he didn’t hear me.

  “I was only in the bathroom for three or four minutes. You could’ve hung around a little longer.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “But, since you asked, my trip was nice.”

  I continued the conversation with as few feelings as I could pretend to have. “How about your luggage?” I asked. “Did you get it?”

  “Yeah, early Saturday, but wait.” He stopped himself, and I imagined him shaking his head. “Let me make sure I get this straight. When you left the room, you didn’t leave angry or anything?”

  “Angry? At what?” My façade was made of steel. “I guess I should’ve warned you about me drinking; I do crazy things like that.”

  “Damn!” He relaxed a tad. “Man, you had me worried. At first, I thought it was something I did or sa
id, or didn’t do or say.” He added, “And then, as the time went by, I just worried about you getting to where you needed to be safely.”

  “Aw!” I rolled my eyes. “You were the perfect gentleman.”

  “Well, you haven’t been very ladylike,” he scolded me. “When a lady receives a call, she should pick up the phone.” He turned the tables. “And I didn’t get to this age by being stupid.”

  “Huh?” I was stumped.

  “Come on, we had plans to go out the next night and all,” he said. “So, how long are you going to pretend that the way things went down didn’t bother you?”

  I sat down in my chair, and used the moments of silence to decide what would be the best thing to say. The problem had now multiplied into something I wasn’t even supposed to know about: Sandra. “Okay.” I went back to the basics. “No one likes to be rejected.”

  “Rejected?” he interrupted me. “Who was rejected?”

  “Look.” I tried to keep my voice down. “We don’t have to talk about it, it’s done. We can just pretend that Friday never happened, and never bring it up again.” I was serious, because I didn’t want a weird cloud hovering over me professionally. He and Sandra could do what grown people do and never have to worry about having me stir anything up. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. What makes you think that I was rejecting you?” he asked.

  “Well,” I reminded him, “you kinda said it.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He straightened me out. “What exactly did I say?”

  I whispered, “You said that you thought you had given me the wrong impression, and that you were not interested in having sex with me.”

  “Now, what part of that was rejection?” he asked.

  Hello, McFly!“Is that a trick question?” I laughed. “You said that you had given me the wrong impression and that you weren’t interested in me.”

  “I said that I wasn’t interested in having sex with you,” he corrected me. “You had gotten the wrong impression if you thought that I just wanted to have sex with you, and that’s because I wanted so much more from you,” he said. “I won’t lie. If we lived in the same city, then I would’ve been on you like ketchup, because then I would still have the daily opportunities to see you and get to know you. But, because I knew our time was limited, I wanted to build on those simple things like your smile, scent, and touch.” He brought his voice down. “Come on, sex I can get anywhere. Chemistry, I cannot, and that is what we have. We had it even before I got to Chicago. Would you say?”