Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  Arabia felt her stomach lurch. He made it sound so damn dirty. She hadn’t sought him out, though. He’d wanted her. He’d wanted to continue seeing her. He’d wanted to leave his wife for her. She hadn’t asked him to. Hadn’t pressured him to. He’d done it because that’s what he’d wanted to do. So why was he blaming her?

  He snorted. “Ain’t this some shit. So you’re telling me had I stayed with Gwen, you and I would still be together?”

  Arabia took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “Yes. More than likely.”

  She heard him curse under his breath. “What a sick fuck,” he muttered. “So you really never had any intentions of having a life with me, did you?”

  She shook her head as if he could see her. “No,” she said softly. “Well, yes. I mean, not one where we’d run off and get married. I’m sorry.”

  Eric grunted. “No. Fuck that sorry shit, Arabia.” There was an edge to his tone, but he managed to keep his voice low and steady. “Bit . . .” He caught himself from calling her a bitch. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, huh? Do you?”

  There was a deafening silence over the phone. And then she heard it. Sniffling. Then sobbing.

  Arabia blinked. Is he crying?

  She groaned inwardly. Oh God, no! He was crying.

  “I g-g-gave you my heart, A-arabia. And you took and twisted a knife in it.”

  She blinked again. Stunned that Eric had broken down in (or perhaps resorted to) tears. She didn’t know if they were real or not. But they sounded real. And he sounded wounded.

  She didn’t need this today—a grown man crying on the phone.

  “All y-you had to d-do w-was t-tell m-me the truth before I got all caught up in you.” He sniffed, then blew his nose. “Unh, shit. I can’t believe this shit. Crying over a fucking woman. All you had to do, Arabia, was tell me before I put a fucking ring on your finger that what we had wasn’t going anywhere.”

  She swallowed. “I know, Eric. I should have. I tried.”

  “You tried,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard her. “Well, obviously you didn’t try hard enough. All it takes is opening your mouth and saying what’s on your mind. Not once did you say, ‘Hey Eric, I’m only with you for as long as you’re married’ or let’s try this one: ‘Hey, asshole, I’ll keep fucking you for as long as you want as long as I’m your mistress.’ You accepted my engagement ring, Arabia, as a promise to spend your life with me. Not play fucking games, then turn around and dump me.”

  But she hadn’t been playing games with him.

  Had she?

  No, no, of course not.

  She’d never told him anything other than what he wanted to hear. And most of it had been true. She had wanted to be with him, as long as he stayed married—okay, so she hadn’t come out and told him that part.

  Eric blew his nose again. “You’re nothing but a user and a liar, Arabia; you know that, right?”

  Several seconds ticked before she finally said, “Eric, I never used you. Ever.”

  He sniffled, then grunted. “Bullshit, baby. And you know it. I know I said I wouldn’t call you out your name again. But face it. You’re nothing but a heartless bitch. How many other men have you used, huh, Arabia? How many other lives have you fucking destroyed?”

  Okay, so maybe she didn’t respect men like him, but she wasn’t that heartless.

  Was she?

  She didn’t seek out to destroy men. And she resented him for saying that. She wasn’t the malicious bitch he was trying to paint her out to be.

  She bit into her bottom lip. She was trying desperately to remain empathetic to his misery, but she was slowly losing her patience. He was pushing her to the edge. And she didn’t know how much more she was going to sit here and allow him to blame her for his mess. He and his marriage had both been broken long before he’d dragged (yes, dragged because she was minding her own damn business—thank you very much!) her into his world.

  She let out a breath. “Again, I apologize. I don’t know what more to say, Eric.”

  “Just say what a fucked-up human being you are, Arabia. Say it.”

  “Okay, Eric. I’m a ‘fucked-up human being.’ There I said it. Satisfied?”

  He grunted. “Hell no. You fucked my life up, Arabia.”

  She sighed again. Clearly he believed what he believed and she needed to let him.

  “Eric, why are you blaming me for this? I didn’t do anything to you. Or take anything from you that you hadn’t wanted me to have. Like I said before, I didn’t use you. Ever. Nor have I used anyone else. You make it seem like I plotted on you. Like I pursued you. You’re trying to make me out to be some predator who lies in wait to strike my next kill.”

  Well, she did—lie in wait when she had her sights on someone. But she hadn’t with him, so he didn’t need to know that he was right.

  “Who else are you giving that pussy to, huh, Arabia? How many times were you whoring around on me, huh . . .?”

  She blinked.

  “For all the whoring you do, you’re always so quick to judge me,” her mother had said nastily.

  “I don’t judge you, Mother. I simply find what you do, bouncing from husband to husband for his money, disgusting.”

  Claudia snorted. “Ha! Arabia, get over yourself. And you think what you do, bouncing from married man to married man for his hard dick is any better? What’s disgusting is you. Every man I’ve ever been with put a ring on my finger and made an honest woman out of me. Not parade me around as his dimwitted concubine.” She stared at Arabia, and sneered. “You’re nothing but a reckless, heartless whore, my darling daughter. Then you have the nerve to want to justify why you sleep with another woman’s husband. I didn’t raise you to play second best to anyone, Arabia. Ever!”

  “No,” Arabia snapped. “You raised me to be a gold digger! Same difference!”

  “No,” Claudia countered. “The difference is, I raised you to always be a lady in the streets, but to know when to whore for your own damn husband! Not another woman’s. And everything you hate about me is what you see in yourself. So do not think for one moment you can ever pass judgment on me without passing it on yourself. Remember that.”

  Arabia shook the memory from her thoughts. She was nothing like her mother. Nothing. And she refused to believe—

  “Huh, Arabia? Tell me. I asked you a question,” Eric said, bringing her back to their conversation.

  She let out an aggravated sigh. “Tell you what, Eric?”

  “Tell me how many other married motherfuckers you’re fucking over?”

  Arabia gasped. Her cheeks heated, and she felt herself suddenly shaking from the inside out with anger. “Whom I’m fucking is none of your business, Eric!” she snapped defensively. Her teeth clenched. “It’s over between us. Now don’t call me again, or you will leave me no other choice but to file for a restraining order against you.”

  And with that, she finally did what she should have done the minute she heard his voice on the other end of the line.

  She disconnected the call.

  Thirty

  2006

  “Moody’s bugging,” Cruze complained, and then bit into the messy cheesesteak he was holding in both hands.

  Sameer had two sandwiches in front of him: a cheesesteak and a hoagie. He shook oregano over the Italian hoagie. “You eating free, ain’t you? So stop complaining.”

  Cruze stretched out his legs and scowled. “Man, fuck a free sandwich. Ain’t we got enough delis right there in New York? I don’t see why we had to drive all the way to Philly to get that big-belly nigga something to eat. The way his gut’s starting to stick out, he need to be thinking about getting a gym membership instead of constantly stuffing his face.”

  “Word,” Sameer agreed, chomping into the hoagie. “Mmph! This shit bangin’, though.
You can’t get a real Philly hoagie or cheesesteak nowhere in New York.”

  Frowning as he chewed, Cruze wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Why can’t you? There’s a place over on—”

  “Man, don’t tell me you can’t tell the difference between those knockoff cheesesteaks and the real thing?” Sameer cut his eye at a chick in tight jeans standing at the counter of the steak shop. “Plus, look at the view. I ain’t never had no Philly pussy before. ’Scuse me while I go holla at shawty.” Sameer pushed his chair back.

  Cruze checked the time on his phone. “Man, we on Moody’s clock and that nigga’s timing us. So, you ain’t got time to get a hotel and you ain’t fucking the bitch in the car.”

  Sameer looked offended. “Why not? It’s my ride.”

  “Man, I put money into them wheels, too. I ain’t tryna ride all the way back to New York smelling pussy fumes mixed with stinkin’ fried onions. Fuck that, man. Get the bitch’s number and then get with her on your own time.”

  “You ain’t no fun no more, Cruze. Ever since shawty bounced, you been acting like a bitch on her period. Why you lettin’ shawty stress you like that?”

  “Ain’t nobody stressed over no bitch. I’m fuckin’ sick of Moody sending us on sucka missions, like we still corner boys. I thought he moved us up the ranks, but this here shit . . .” Rolling his eyes at the environment of the Philadelphia steak shop, Cruze let his voice trail off.

  “I don’t know about you, but I like being on Moody’s payroll and getting a certain amount of paper that I can count on every week—plus bonuses. Niggas will be lining up to take your spot if you don’t want it. So go on and hug the block again if that makes you feel like your own man.” Sameer shook his head disgustedly.

  Cruze let Sameer’s words sink in. He pushed his unfinished cheesesteak to the side. “I knew I shouldn’t have ate this greasy bullshit. Now, my stomach starting to act up.”

  “Damn. You startin’ to sound like a lil’ bitch, complaining about everything. I swear to God, if I had Ramona’s number, I’d call her myself and beg her to please bring her stripper-ass back home.” Sameer burst into his trademark stupid giggle.

  Cruze stood up abruptly, nearly toppling the table. “Ain’t shit funny, muhfucka! Talk grimy about Ramona again, and I’ma fuck you up in this dip. I can’t believe you took something I told you in confidence and threw it back in my face. Who else did you run your mouth to about Ramona strippin’?”

  Sameer reared back, looking disgusted. “I ain’t have to tell nobody, ’cause everybody around the way already knew. Niggas been throwing dollars at that ho for years.”

  Cruze glared at Sameer. “She ain’t a ho.”

  “I don’t see why you taking up for her when she dipped on you.”

  “Whatever. Just keep her name outta ya mouth.”

  Thirty minutes later, Cruze carried the box that contained six cheese-steaks back to the car. Brooding, he walked ahead of Sameer.

  The drive back to New York was tension-filled. Sameer had started off telling corny jokes, trying to get Cruze out of his funk, but Cruze didn’t feel like talking or laughing. Staring out the window, he sat in defiant silence.

  He missed Ramona so bad, the pain was palpable. Sleeping alone was the worst, and nights like this when the pain felt particular acute, he felt mad at the world. The thought of going back to his empty apartment made him feel like rolling his window down and retching. There were plenty of bitches he could get with, but fucking anyone other than Ramona made him miss her worse than he already did.

  Love sucked. It was torture. His head hurt constantly and his heart beat erratically, like he had a cardiovascular condition. Every creak of the steps outside his apartment door was Ramona coming home, where she belonged. But when he swung his door open, he’d find one of the neighbors climbing the stairs, which would cause his heart to drop hard in disappointment.

  Sometimes his heart hurt so bad, he felt like smoking some shit or sticking a needle in his arm. No wonder there were so many fiends in the world. Muhfuckas needed something to dull the excruciating pain of being lovesick.

  Sameer’s phone vibrated, pulling Cruze out of his dismal thoughts. Sameer peeked at the screen and put it on speaker. “We on our way, Moody.”

  “Y’all niggas should be halfway here by now,” Moody grumbled.

  “Yeah, man. We close.”

  “How close?” Moody demanded.

  “Um . . .”

  Cruze sat up in his seat. “Tell that bastard—”

  “Shh!” Sameer held a finger to his lips. His desperate eyes beseeched Cruze not to lose his temper and blow their cushy jobs. “Uh, we in North Jersey right now, but we won’t be long.”

  “A’ight. Hurry the fuck up!” Moody disconnected the call.

  Cruze twisted his lips to the side and shook his head. “Man, you one ass-kissing muhfucka, you know that?”

  “Look who talkin’,” Sameer shot back. “You should know all about it, the way you kiss that bitch’s ass.”

  Cruze narrowed his eyes threateningly. “I told you—”

  “Fuck you, Cruze! You ain’t gon’ be talkin’ shit about my manhood and think I’ma sit back and take it.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is you need to get off that nigga’s dick.”

  Sameer gave Cruze the finger and they drove the rest of the way in silence. As they neared the elegant home that Moody was leasing, Cruze sighed, again. “I’m sick of working for this black bastard. He living like a king and treating us like peons. We need to put our money together and go out on our own. For real, Sameer. Something about Moody don’t rub me right. The shit he have us doin’ . . . That nigga gon’ fuck around and get us killed. My mom always told me—”

  Sameer gave Cruze the side-eye. “I know you ain’t go there—bringing up something your moms said. You need to chill, nigga, and play your position.” Sameer got out of the car. “Be patient. Moody got big plans for us.”

  “I bet,” Cruze said sarcastically. “He got plans for us to keep picking up cheesesteaks for his greedy ass . . . and dumping bodies.”

  Cruze opened the passenger’s door.

  Sameer held up his hand. “Nah, man. Stay in the car. The way you acting, you might fuck around and say something to Moody that’ll make him send our asses back to the block.” Sameer slammed the door and strolled to Moody’s doorstep with the box of cheesesteaks tucked under his arm.

  Sameer was right and so Cruze stayed in the ride and leaned his seat back further. To pass time, he perused the CDs in the console of the car. Then, hearing a familiar voice, he sat up suddenly and craned his neck in the direction of Moody’s front door, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Standing in the doorway, accepting the box of cheesesteaks from Sameer was none other than Ramona. What was his fuckin’ girl—well, his ex-girl. Whatever the fuck she was—what was she doing at Moody’s crib dressed in a sheer robe?

  Before Cruze realized what he was doing, he was out the car, slipping on damp grass as he raced to get to the front door. He had no idea what he planned to do, but punching Ramona in the face and then wrapping his hands around her neck was at the top of the list. He’d stomp Moody’s brains out after he strangled the life out of that no-good, cheating-ass, stripper-bitch whore!

  Mid-rush toward the front door, Cruze suddenly felt like he’d run into a brick wall. He hit the ground hard. It took a moment to come to his senses and when he did, he discovered Sameer on top of him. He’d forgotten that fuckin’ Sameer had played football in school and the muhfucka had tackled the shit out of him, knocking the breath out of his body.

  “Get it together, Cruze. You gon’ get us killed over that bitch, and she ain’t worth it, man.”

  “I’ma kill her,” Cruze gasped, trying to catch his breath. “I can’t believe she did me like this,” he gurgled. “And that dirty nigga, Moody! Out of all the bitches he could
have, why’d he have to take my girl?”

  “I don’t know, man. I had no idea about him and Ramona. But I ain’t tryna lose my life over no stripper and you shouldn’t, either. Come on. Get up and get the fuck back in the car before we both wind up at the bottom of the Hudson.”

  Sameer gave Cruze a hand and pulled him to his feet. The world spun fast and Cruze teetered, unable to keep his balance. Sameer helped hold him up as Cruze staggered and limped toward the car. With a hand over his chest, it appeared that he’d been shot in the heart and critically wounded.

  • • •

  Ramona ran her hand over the waves in Cruze’s hair, and he closed his eyes blissfully, grateful that it wasn’t a dream. She was really at the crib, taking care of him. When Sameer got word to her that Cruze was sick as a dog and hadn’t been showing up for work, she came to their old apartment to see about him.

  And after fucking him back to good health, she began putting on her clothes, ready to bounce.

  Cruze squeezed his eyes closed, unable to watch her as she prepared to leave him all alone, again.

  “Where’s my other heel?” Ramona asked, peeking under the bed. Her voice and noisy movement around the bedroom were making it impossible for Cruze to gather the inner peace he was trying to find.

  Agitated, his eyes popped open. “Just answer one question, Mo. Why dat ugly nigga?”

  Ramona let out a sigh. “You know why. I already told you I’m only with him for what he can do for me. But my heart is still with you, Cruze. I promise I’m gonna make sure you move up the ranks in the organization. Moody’s gon’ personally groom you. Trust me, babe. One day me and you are gon’ be running the show.” She hovered over him and caressed his arm.

  Cruze shrank from her touch and glowered at her. “Yeah, right—tell me anything.”

  “I’m serious. After you become second in command, we’ll get rid of Moody . . . somehow. I haven’t figured out all the details, but—”