Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  The door to the gymnasium burst open and Cruze had to jump out of the way as the throng of energetic boys stampeded out into the corridor. Their coach trailed behind them, yelling for them to quiet down.

  On his way to the parking lot, Cruze sauntered toward the exit sign, but the bouncing sound of a lone basketball drew his attention. He backtracked, peeked through the circular glass pane on the door of the gym, and was surprised to see that Barack had remained behind and was still practicing. Still perfecting his shot.

  That used to be me. A ball under my arm, arriving at the raggedy neighborhood court at six in the morning.

  Though dressed for the occasion, Cruze hadn’t planned on getting sweaty in his Alexander McQueen sweats, and he definitely hadn’t intended on getting any kind of marks on his fresh pair of white and metallic gold, limited-edition Air Jordan 10 OVOs. But unable to resist showing the young homie what was what on the basketball court, he stepped inside the gym for a little one-on-one.

  “Aw, you think you’re nice, young buck, but I’ma show you something,” Cruise threatened, wearing a deadly expression as he ran to the hoop and blocked Barack’s shot.

  “Oh, it’s like that, old head!” Barack yelled as he enthusiastically chased the ball. “You got the height, but I got the speed and the moves, man!”

  Cruze towered over the boy, guarding him, but Barack didn’t seem worried. Dribbling behind his back and between his legs, he showed off his flashy moves.

  “I’m watching you, little guy. I got you, I got you,” Cruze cried out, quickly growing breathless as he played defensive, running and repeatedly reaching for the ball. Barack faked him out with a sudden spin move, and maneuvered his way behind the three-point line. Before Cruze could get to him, Barack had elevated in the air, shot the ball, and scored!

  “Yo, I had you. I don’t know how you got away from me, lil’ man.”

  Barack laughed. “’Cause you slow, man. You can’t rock with me. I’m on some next level ish,” Barack bragged with a huge grin plastered on his face. Cruze couldn’t get over the self-confidence and maturity of the trash-talking basketball prodigy. Those attributes would take him far if he didn’t get tripped up by the risk factors associated with life in the ’hood.

  Suddenly, the door pushed open, and a woman who looked to be in her early thirties entered the gym. She was rail-thin, wearing a turban, and clutching a thigh-length sweater around her frail body. With the same nutmeg-brown complexion as Barack and the exact mouth and nose, Cruze figured she had to be his mother.

  “All your teammates left fifteen minutes ago. I’m standing outside waiting for you, while you’re still in here playing ball. Boy, do you realize you made us miss the bus?”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Sorry don’t cut it. Now, we have to wait forty-five minutes for the next one.” With a weak smile, she shook her head as she glanced at Cruze.

  “How you doing, ma’am? It’s not your son’s fault. I held him up and I apologize.”

  “Do you work here?” she asked.

  “No, I’m a friend of Mr. Hollis’s. My name is Cruze Fontaine.” Cruze extended his hand.

  “Nice meeting you, Cruze. I’m Barack’s mom, Roxanne Cannon,” she said, giving him a quick handshake. Turning away from Cruze and focusing on her son, who was still dribbling and shooting, she said, “Put that ball down, Barack, and go change into your street clothes. And hurry up! Since we have to sit around and wait for the next bus, I want you to go over to the study center and start your homework after you get dressed.”

  Bret had said that Barack’s mom was doing better, but she looked sickly to Cruze. And with that turban on her head, she had the look of a chemotherapy patient. Maybe she was recovering, but the poor woman looked like she should be resting in bed instead of traveling on buses to pick up her kid from basketball practice.

  “Uh, listen. I’m on my way out and I could give you and your son a ride,” Cruze offered, feeling somewhat responsible for her missing the bus.

  Roxanne raised a brow suspiciously as she eyed him. She shook her head. “No, thanks. We’ll be all right.”

  “But I feel bad, and like I said, it’s my fault.” Cruze held up his hands. “Yo, I’m not a serial killer if that’s what you’re thinking. Mr. Hollis can vouch for me.”

  “I’ve seen you around here talking with Mr. Hollis . . . and you probably are a nice guy, but I try not to impose on people.”

  “It’s not an imposition.”

  Cruze and Roxanne sat down on two folding chairs while Barack went to the locker room to change his clothes.

  “Your son is very talented,” Cruze said as Roxanne shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Making it into the NBA is never guaranteed, but his talent could get him a full ride to college if he sticks to it.”

  Roxanne bit her lip, a look of despair brimming in her eyes. “That’s the thing. We’re losing our place and have to move. I doubt if there’re any youth organizations in the town we’re moving to.”

  Cruze studied her for a moment as he carefully chose his words. “Do you want to move?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but I don’t have a choice. I only have ten days before I get evicted.”

  Recalling how frequently he and his mom used to move around, Cruze regarded her thoughtfully, and then asked, “How much do you owe? I know it’s not my business, but your son kind of reminds me of myself when I was his age. I wish I’d had a place like this to hone my skills. Maybe my life would have gone in a different direction.”

  Roxanne looked Cruze over, taking in his expensive-looking watch and leisure wear. “Looks like you made out all right to me.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess. But I know all about hardship. My mom was a single parent, who had to struggle to keep us afloat. I wish someone would have helped us out during some of the bad times.” Cruze looked off in thought, recalling his tough childhood. “I realize I’m basically a stranger, but I want to help, if you’d let me. I promise you, no-strings attached. You won’t owe me anything other than a yes.”

  Roxanne took a deep breath. “This is crazy.”

  “Life is crazy . . . and it can be harsh, too.”

  “Tell me about it,” she mumbled, shaking her head.

  “But sometimes, when you least expect it, you can find a little kindness in this cold world. So, um, how much do you need?”

  Thinking, she sighed. She uncrossed her legs, and then bent forward and crossed her arms. Then she shook her head firmly. “No. I can’t. Thanks, anyway, but it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know you. And I’m not a ho.”

  Cruze laughed a little. “I’m not asking you to be.” The idea of Roxanne turning tricks was unimaginable. It would take a really cold-hearted pimp to put such a fragile woman out on the track, and any scumbag-trick that paid for her services deserved to have his ass kicked.

  “All I’m asking is for you to let me help you ‘n’ lil’ man out,” Cruze continued. “Nothing more. I promise. So, tell me. How much do you owe?”

  She heaved a sigh, but relief was evident on her weary face. “I’m four months behind—I owe thirty-two hundred in back rent. Too much to ask of a total stranger.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. It’s not too much. I got you.” Cruze stood up and jangled the keys in the pocket of his sweatpants. “I’ll be right back, let me check the locker room, and see what’s taking Barack so long.”

  Five

  Runway ready and always fabulous, Arabia strode into the sleek Upper Eastside high-rise overlooking Central Park, where one of her fiancés, forty-eight-year-old Theodore Banks, took up part-time residence and rode the sleek private elevator up.

  Married with three teenaged-children, he was an investment banker who owned one of the two sprawling penthouses up on the top floor that could have
easily been featured in any of the luxury-home magazines. It reeked of power and wealth. Things Arabia believed every good man should embody.

  She glanced down at the three-carat solitaire engagement ring she’d pulled from her safe and slipped on her ring finger earlier this morning. She reveled in its blinding brilliance as the elevator’s lights shone down on it.

  She smiled.

  After all, she was worthy of nothing but the best. And she required it. Expected it. And, goddamn it . . . deserved it.

  Why shouldn’t she?

  She was exquisitely stunning and, in her mind, a rare gem that should be coveted. No. Arabia wasn’t a gold digger, unlike her mother, Claudia. But she loved a man who dug deep into his pockets, sharing his worth in gold—and diamonds, of course. The deeper he dug, the wetter her pussy became. Still, she never, ever, asked a man for anything. That would be in poor taste. And a woman of her caliber never stooped to such tactless methods. Asking a man. Mmph. Please. Not. She used creative coercion—okay, okay . . . she gently prompted a man when she had to—to get what she wanted out of him. But, truthfully, she rarely had to, though. The men in her life, more often than not, gave willingly.

  Oh, don’t be fooled by her sexual proclivities. Arabia wasn’t a home wrecker. If anything, she was a peacekeeper. She fucked her lovers with purpose—to keep them happy, then send them home to their wives in a state of sweet bliss. She had no interest in disrupting a cheating man’s life. She simply enjoyed sleeping with men who were sexually frustrated with their home situations, men who needed love and affection, and some stress-free pussy. Yes, she sought them out. Preyed on them. Those types tended to be more giving with their gifts and coins than any of her past so-called single lovers.

  So all any married man was good for was trinkets and trips and, hopefully, some good hard dick. And if he couldn’t keep a hard dick, a long tongue would do just fine. Truthfully—though she loved gifts, Arabia didn’t really need the treasures men bestowed upon her. She simply loved being pampered and spoiled. So she expected the men in her life—married or not, to keep her kept.

  Other than that, she didn’t need a man for his money. She needed him for . . .?

  Hmmm . . . wait. She’d have to think on that for a moment.

  What did she really need him for, besides his hard dick and wet tongue?

  Umm.

  Well . . .

  She didn’t.

  Men were simply a means to an end for her, period. They couldn’t be trusted. None of them; yet, she knew she couldn’t not have them in her life. She loved the feel of a hard-bodied man, especially a successful one. She simply loved men who had it going on financially. And she loved them successful—shakers and movers. Hung men who hungered good pussy; that’s what she loved most—powerful men who gave over their control—to her, losing themselves in heat and sex . . . in her.

  She loved seducing her lovers.

  Loved mind-fucking them.

  Loved sucking their dicks deep into her mouth, then watching each one become powerless. Her need for control, at times, could be daunting; something that made some men—hell, most men; especially black men—uneasy.

  Her mouth watered at the mere thought of it. Dick. Oh, God, how she loved it. Loved the way it felt, the way it tasted, the way it smelled—all manly and erotic. She loved sliding her pussy down on it, then using her walls to massage its shaft.

  Mm, yes.

  She felt her pussy clench at the thought of being stuffed with cock.

  She had to admit. She was looking forward to seeing Theodore. It’d been almost three weeks since she’d last spent any quality time with him. And, today, she was eager to have his dick in her mouth, then inside her pussy. Sure he came fast every time he was bathed in her liquid fire, but she tried not to hold it against him. His saving grace was that his dick was deliciously thick, and always gave her pussy the best fifteen-minute pounding a woman could ever hope for in a quickie. And he was, surprisingly, always able to recover in minutes, ready for another round.

  Still . . .

  It was sometimes frustrating and unforgiveable for him to taunt her cunt like that. Coming quick. Leaving her pussy humming for more. That was, that was—well . . . it was simply downright obnoxious. Hell. She’d given him a vibrating cock ring for his birthday almost three months ago—something to help his staying power—and he had yet to wear the damn thing.

  Mmph.

  Men.

  They could be so damn unappreciative.

  She caught her reflection in the elevator’s chromed interior, and smiled. She loved the image staring back at her. Perfection, that’s all she saw.

  At thirty-two, she still had the tight, firm body that most females half her age would kill for, or die trying to have. She couldn’t blame them, though, for hating on her for being beautiful. Her traffic-stopping looks and body had been cause for more than enough slamming brakes and head-on and rear-end collisions by men trying to get a second glimpse at what sexy and fabulous looked like wrapped in one body.

  Thanks to genetics and the help of yoga, kickboxing, and her morning five-mile run, she kept her perfect 34-22-38 body measurements tight and right. As far as she was concerned, being a top-shelf, sidepiece trophy required dedication and commitment. At all times.

  It meant staying fit, fly, fabulous and . . .always fuckable.

  Proudly, she was all four.

  Still, she was nothing more than “on-call pussy” as her mother had so eloquently put it one night after one of their many heated phone conversations over her not being married and with kids—like her sisters. Her mother resented the fact that she’d wasted all of her good damn coins on her education only for her to end up stupid . . .and still single.

  Claudia had been grooming her very early on how to snag a husband—not some damn married man. She hadn’t spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on sending her to all those fancy-schmancy charm schools, and whisking her off to private schools as a child, before shipping her off to Spelman in Atlanta, so that she’d simply acquire a college degree and want to do something with it. No. Her degree was meant to be a showpiece, something to hang up on a wall. Not put to use. How damn ridiculous!

  And Claudia hadn’t demanded her youngest daughter pledge her beloved sorority, either—although she’d pledged herself as did her other daughters—so that she’d follow the principles of Sisterhood, Scholarship and Service to all Mankind. She expected it. But to her chagrin—once again, Arabia defied her and pledged a rival sorority just to get under her skin.

  Simply put, her youngest was an ingrate. Everything Claudia set before Arabia was so that she’d land a Morehouse Man, a man of substance, a man with the right pedigree. As with her three older sisters marrying wealthy was all that Arabia should have ever aspired, nothing more, nothing less. Instead, the selfish little twit would rather slum around in stained sheets playing wifey to some already married man, being his nasty little cum dump.

  Claudia was utterly appalled at her daughter’s silliness. And, in so many words, she’d told her so. Why be a whore for many, when all she had to do was whore for one? What a stupid trick.

  Her words had stung Arabia. They’d felt like a slap to her face when they’d rolled from her mother’s lips. And, at times, she could still feel the sting. She had wanted to tell Claudia to kiss her plump ass. But she settled on disconnecting the call without so much as a goodbye.

  How dare that gold-digging bitch judge her?

  That’s exactly what her man-eating mother was. A gold digger!

  Arabia, along with her three sisters, had learned firsthand from their mother how to use what they had to get what they wanted. Claudia had used her Louisiana charm and striking beauty to seduce her way into each of her husbands’ lives, starting with their father’s. Bless his dead soul. She’d milked him for everything he had until she’d finally sucked him to his grave.
<
br />   Three months after he died, the sheets hadn’t even cooled and she was already in the arms of her next lover. They married two months later in a private ceremony in Maui. But that marriage only lasted for three years, before he suddenly collapsed to his death from a heart attack, leaving her all of his fortune.

  Since then, Claudia had been running through husbands and rotating them like tires. She was now currently on husband number six.

  Arabia shook away thoughts of her hateful mother, catching her reflection one last time. Fuck her. She was happy with the way her life was. Maybe it wasn’t the most ideal situation, but she wasn’t idealistic. She was a realist. And the reality for her was: she was living her life, her way and fuck anyone who didn’t like it. Married man or not, Theordore was still a good catch for shacking up with. And his long bankroll, and his long, wet tongue kept Arabia inspired to keep him.

  True. There’d never be any “I dos” or “happy-ever-after” being engaged to someone else’s man. Being the sidepiece didn’t come with any long-term rewards. But the short-term benefits were well worth all the empty promises and sweet nothings being whispered in her ear before, during and after a sweaty romp in the sheets.

  And, when it came to playing her position, Arabia knew her place. And she was comfortable in her role. She was more than okay with letting Theodore and all the others think the pussy was theirs. Truth was, no man had claims to what she held between her thighs, except her.

  And she suspected no man ever would.

  Still, she loved giving them the illusion that they held permanent stake to the prize. So what if he, along with her two other current lovers, had put rings on it?

  As far as she was concerned, she was still very much single. And always open to new possibilities. Did she love any of her current lovers? Absolutely not. Loving them would require her lying to herself. And that wasn’t about to happen. So, hell no! There was no emotional investment where any of them were concerned. They were simply hard dicks, and financial benefactors. So, no, love wasn’t on the blackboard for Arabia. Old-ass—well, maybe not that old. More like seasoned—wealthy men, horny and starved for attention, who, more often than not, felt unappreciated at home was the only thing on her menu, period.