Between My Thighs: An Urban Erotic Tale

by Naija

  When we woke up the next morning, I told Dorian that I had picked up his phone mistakenly, thinking it was mine, since we did have the same model. He had this twisted look on his face when he thought I’d answered it.

  “You can stop looking like that. I didn’t pick it up,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” he replied, relieved.

  Dorian was hiding something. His expression gave it away. I had been open and honest with his ass about everything up to this point. He knew about my trip to New York and my relationship with Troy.

  “I gotta run,” he said.

  “Sure,” I replied, dressing to head to work.

  “I’ll hook up with you in a couple of hours, and we can grab breakfast with your friend,” he said.

  “No problem.” When Dorian leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head and hurried him out the door. His funky attitude earlier had pissed me off, and whatever his ass was hiding, I intended to find out.

  My client was waiting for me at the office. Unlike most new patients, she was thirty minutes early. My assistant Lisa had given her the new-client paperwork, and a pot of coffee was brewing.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hello,” she replied.

  The aroma from the coffee filled the air. I settled in, offered her a cup, and invited her into my office.

  “I’m Dr. Howard,” I told her.

  “My name is Kristie Johnson,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you. What brings you here today?” I asked.

  “I’m having marital problems. I think my husband is cheating on me.” Kristie replied.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He doesn’t come straight home from work, his cell phone bills go to another address, and when he says he’s working, he isn’t. We have two children together, and most of the time he isn’t there. He has had fidelity issues in the past. I’ve caught him cheating before,” she said.

  “Can you supply the details of that incident?”

  “The last time I caught him, I actually walked in on him and a lady in our house. He claimed she was over working on a project with him for a business venture he’d started. One thing led to another, he said.”

  Kristie appeared to be a professional woman and didn’t display any attributes of paranoia, schizophrenia, or multiple personality disorder.

  “And this time?”

  “My husband doesn’t drink but lately he’s been coming home smelling like alcohol. He uses it as mouthwash to erase the scent of another woman from his breath, usually when he’s been eating pussy.”

  Her comment shocked me slightly. “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “Because. That’s the shit he used to do when we first hooked up, gargling with liquor after licking my coochie-coo.”

  “Was he involved with someone when you met him?”

  “Yes. He was going through a divorce. Listen, I’m not crazy. I’ve been taking medication because I can’t sleep at night. I’m usually up waiting on my husband.”

  “Have you shared your concerns with your husband?”

  “Not this time,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have enough evidence.” Kristie twisted in her seat, then moved over to the chaise longue that was in my office. She positioned herself until she was comfortable and continued. “My husband suffers from a number of disorders.”

  “I would like to back up a moment, if you don’t mind. What do you hope to accomplish by seeing me?” I asked.

  “I would like to understand how to deal with my cheating husband,” she said.

  “Well, you have a number of options for dealing with him. Has anything specific come to mind?”

  “Kill his ass.” She chuckled.

  That’s when I grew concerned. Kristie didn’t display characteristics that would make me think she was capable of committing murder, but her comment alone aroused my interest. It was too soon to prescribe medication, without having her prior medical records, but I didn’t want to dismiss her statements.

  “I would like to schedule frequent appointments with you to help you get through some of the problems you face,” I told her.

  She didn’t have medical insurance but agreed to return for monthly visits.

  I sipped on the cappuccino my assistant had given me while completing notes from my meeting with Kristie and waiting for my next patient.

  “Dr. Howard, Eva is here to see you,” Lisa announced over the speakerphone.

  “Thank you. Please send her in. Hi, Eva. How are you? I asked when she walked in.

  “I’m doing better today, doctor.”

  “How’s the medicine working for you?”

  “It’s made me feel a lot better. A little drowsier than usual.”

  Eva had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, a psychotic disorder characterized by withdrawal from reality, illogical patterns of thinking, delusions, and hallucinations, and accompanied by intellectual disturbances typically associated with dopamine imbalances in the brain, defects of the frontal lobe, and genetic factors. She’d been a patient of mine for six months and had improved dramatically since she first came to see me. Eva also suffered from multiple personality disorder, commonly known as MPD. Since I’d been seeing her, I’d been able to reduce the number of personalities she displayed from ten to four.

  There was Yvette, the lesbian who always surfaced when Eva experienced problems with her husband. Yvette had been in a relationship with another woman for about a year before her husband realized they were more than friends.

  Then there was Mya who saw dead people. She was the oldest personality Eva had. She’d been around since Eva was a child.

  Lilly was highly promiscuous and into a number of bondage and dominatrix-type activities. She frequented sex clubs and often engaged in drugs and acts with strangers. She obsessed with recording the acts. When her husband found her stash of videos, they came to counseling together.

  A chain of mental illnesses ran in Eva’s family. She even had a couple of violent streaks that we were able to subdue with medication.

  “So what brings you here today, Eva?”

  “I’m not Eva. I’m Monique,” she replied.

  “What happened to Eva? Eva walked through my door, not Monique.”

  “Okay, you got me. It’s me Eva,” she said and burst out laughing.

  It was days like today when I questioned why I got into clinical psych in the first place. Part of it could be attributed to the fact that in some ways it helped me deal with my own shit.

  I wrapped things up with Eva and headed to meet Loren and Dorian for breakfast.

  • • •

  I was having a flashback about Dorian on the drive to get Loren. Dorian was my hometown beau. Troy was my fantasy. I reminisced on the time when Dorian bent me over his pool table and gave me a piece of his love. Balls were flying everywhere. He slapped my ass with a pool stick and chased me around the table. I had an imprint of the eight ball and little diamonds from the edge of the table on my chest when I got up.

  My daydream ended when I pulled up in front of the Crowne Plaza. Loren was sitting in the lobby having an espresso when I walked in.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning, lady. Ready?” she asked.

  “Sure. My friend Dorian is joining us for breakfast. His treat.” I smiled.

  “Cool,” Loren replied.

  When we arrived at Bob Evans Restaurant, Dorian was seated in his car having what appeared to be a meaningful conversation. When he saw me, he motioned for us to go inside. There was a fifteen-minute wait before we could get a table.

  “You like to travel, don’t you, Raquel?” Loren asked.

  “Yes, I love it,” I replied.

  “You should go with me to Miami. Girl, it would be so much fun. You can meet my boyfriend and hang out with my girl Charla. She’s like the male version of me.”

  “I’ve never been to Miami. That sounds cool. I could use a travel buddy.�
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  “Well, let’s get the tickets before I leave. We can go at the end of November. My friend is throwing a big celebrity party on his yacht. Besides, the weather will be shit here and lovely there during that time.”

  “Sounds good,” I replied. Just as the hostess called our name, Dorian entered.

  “Hi. I’m Dorian,” he said, introducing himself to Loren.

  “Hello, I’m Loren. Nice to meet you,” she responded.

  Dorian was scaling Loren up and down. Something about her had his attention. I wasn’t insecure nor pressed. When he asked Loren for her phone number, insisting he had a friend with whom she would click, I just sat back and observed.

  “You guys resemble,” Dorian said.

  Laughing, I replied, “Yeah, we’ve heard that before.” While we were in New York, people kept saying we looked like sisters.

  After breakfast, Dorian went his own way. I took Loren shopping because she wanted to see what the stores were like in Detroit, a place on the verge of a makeover. Since none of the upscale stores resided in the city itself, we had to drive about an hour to Somerset Collection, a mall in Troy where Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Versace, and Neiman Marcus lived.

  Loren had talked a good game about spending money in the stores. She was specific in for what she was looking. When we arrived at the mall, the bitch didn’t buy anything. It was at that point that she confirmed her façade. She talked a good game, pretended to be a baller, but really was a struggling sack chaser. On the ride back, she brought up Dorian.

  “Dorian and you make a cute couple. How long have you been dating?” she asked.

  “Thanks, not too long,” I replied.

  “You can tell he’s into you,” she said.

  “No you can’t.”

  “Sure you can. He’s very attentive to you, and he doesn’t take his eyes off you,” she said and smiled.

  “Yeah, well my heart is elsewhere.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “In New York.”

  “Who’s in New York.”

  “Troy. Met him when I visited.”

  Loren had shown too much interest in my relationship with Troy, questioning how we met and if we were still in touch. I couldn’t wait to drop her ass off at the airport. Originally, I’d felt obligated to show her around because she didn’t know anyone other than me, which led me back to my original question: What the fuck was the purpose of her trip?

  Chapter 7|

  By the time I arrived at the gym, all the treadmills were in use. I needed to exert some energy and went to the gun range instead. I was a professional target shooter. I’d gotten involved with the sport after my brother was killed. My weapon of choice was a Glock G17 nine-millimeter. I shot with precision and skill. I knew how to shoot for all occasions, whether it was to back someone off me or stop them cold.

  Once I finished my rounds, I got in the car heading toward the direction of my therapist’s office. I had a standing bi-monthly appointment with Kevin Frazier, my personal shrink. He specialized in psychiatry and had gone to school with me while I worked on my doctorate. He also specialized in hypnosis, a practice in which I wasn’t comfortable participating. Primarily, the loss of control when you go under concerned me. I didn’t know what would come out of me.

  Kevin’s office was soothing. He had a waterfall in the lobby. You could hear the sound of water flowing, hitting the rocks at the bottom. You could see clear through it from inside his office, but people on the opposite side couldn’t see in. It was a nice illusion.

  “I’ll just be one second,” Kevin said, acknowledging my presence. “Go ahead and make yourself cozy. I’ll be right back.”

  When Kevin returned, I tried to get everything out that I could before our time expired. “The nightmares have been getting worse,” I said.

  “What’s happening now?” he asked.

  “I keep having this recurring dream. In one case, I’m on this dark road driving up a huge incline. There is a large body of water underneath me, like I’m on a bridge. The water isn’t calm; it’s very angry and dark. Suddenly, the road disappears, and my car is falling down toward the water. Just before I hit, I wake up covered in water from my perspiration.”

  “What you’ve described is an emotional imbalance usually tied to stress. Your stress levels are higher than they should be, causing you to feel this anxiety. It sounds like you fear something, which is why the water below is choppy and dark. You fear the unknown. You are unsettled, Raquel. That is why the water is violent, and just before you hit the water, you pull back, just as you do in real life when facing challenges.”

  “It doesn’t end there. I’ve been seeing my brother more and hearing voices,” I hesitantly told him.

  “What are the voices saying, and are you awake when you see your brother?”

  “I’ve seen my brother’s spirit both while I was asleep and awake. The voices, they are constantly having conversations, talking about how I’m cursed, how no man will ever want me and that’s why my father left.”

  “When’s the last time you’ve been to church, Raquel?”

  “It’s been twelve years.”

  “You haven’t been to church since your brother was murdered? Do you find that odd?”

  “I pray all the time, Kevin, and I read my Bible daily.”

  “Then why don’t you worship in church?”

  “What does this have to do with what I’m telling you?”

  “Raquel, the fact that you are hearing evil voices that try to convince you that you’re cursed is not a good sign. You seeing your brother…you’ve always had a psychic gift. You need to rebuke those voices you hear and concentrate on finding your religion again.”

  “Why aren’t you concerned that I’m seeing ghosts, Kevin?”

  “Because you’ve seen them all your life, Raquel. Be honest with yourself. The real issue here is you’re suffering from the lack of a father figure. It’s common in women your age who are raised in single-parent homes.”

  “Kevin, that shit is bananas. Maybe that applies in someone else’s world, but I’m not tripping because my father wasn’t around. I never knew him to miss his ass.”

  “It isn’t that you long for your father, rather, the comfort from a man that most little girls get from their daddy wasn’t afforded to you.”

  “I’m not addicted to sex, and I’m not looking for a man to be my daddy.” Kevin often angered me during our sessions. I respected his talent, but I felt he misunderstood me. He always managed to incorporate my absentee father into my sexual appetite, faulting the deficiency for my promiscuity.

  When I was born, a veil covered my face. From a scientific approach, it was just a thin layer of the fetal membrane. Traditionally, it was believed to allow one to see spirits and have some sort of psychic ability. Naturally, my experience in seeing the dead led me to believe the latter was correct.

  It wasn’t my style to divulge myself personally. It took a lot of hours and long nights before I relaxed and felt comfortable speaking with Kevin, and even though we disagree, I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my problems. This is why I rarely got close to people, including men. Yeah, I got close to them physically, but mentally, I didn’t care about most of the men I fucked, and Kevin was wrong, I just used those niggas the same way they exploited females, it had nothing to do with my father.

  • • •

  I spent the next month engrossed in my work. I was seeing patients during the day and doing freelance graphic design work at night. My excitement that Troy was coming the following month continued to be reinforced as each day passed. I was now marking the days off the calendar.

  I’d pulled back from Dorian. He’d been asking about Loren since she left. As far as I was concerned, she was one more thing he was hiding. I think they may have fucked before she went home. He had her phone number, she wasn’t staying with me, and he was certainly acting suspect. I also didn’t want Dorian thinking he was getting any pussy, because it was on reserve i
n anticipation of Troy’s visit.

  Just as the thought crossed my mind about Loren, Dallas rang the phone. I’d told her not to call me again. She just didn’t listen. I answered the phone with an attitude, but was hardly prepared for her response.

  “What the fuck did you say about me to Loren?” she asked.

  “Who the fuck you talking to like that?”

  “You,” she exclaimed.

  “That shit you smoked this morning got your ass thinking you bad. I’ve told you not to call me again, but since you did, I didn’t say shit about your grimy ass to Loren. She did the honors, telling me your ass was pregnant twice by that dope dealer on your block who was beating your ass and giving you some of his supply, how you were pregnant when I came to visit, and how you played your friend Tiffany, trying to fuck her man in her crib. Don’t get me started on how you exposed your titties to Loren, showing her some tiny hairs that protruded from your nasty-ass breasts.”

  “What are you talking about? She came back telling me you were talking about me,” Dallas said.

  “First of all, whatever shit the two of you are trying to pull, it isn’t working. You gave that bitch my number. You tell so many people your business, you don’t even know who said what when the shit circles back and hits you in the face.”

  Dallas listened intently as I told her about Loren’s allegations. Apparently, I had hit a sore spot.

  “Loren also told me how you came on to her after taking a shower. The whole time she was telling me the shit, I didn’t have a goddamn thing to say because after you crossed me, I knew you were scandalous.”

  Dallas was on the other end of the receiver dead silent. I knew Loren wasn’t lying. Troy had said the same shit about her hairy-ass chest. Finally Dallas said, “I can’t believe she said those things.”

  “Believe it, bitch.”

  Loren was foul for flipping the script and telling Dallas I said those things. I was ready to fly to New York and kick both of their asses. I knew she didn’t like Dallas, but never expected her to stir up this type of drama, the kind where Dallas got the balls to call and confront me. I was curious what Loren had told her about Troy. Now I understood why Loren came to Detroit in the first place—to get some shit started.