I smiled at her, then asked, “What are you?”
“My father is British Chinese and Cherokee American, and my mother is Black Jamaican and Irish.”
“Your friend?”
“I think her mom is Puerto Rican, Scottish, German, and Jewish. I know her dad is from Sri Lanka.”
“Yeah?”
“You?”
“Black with some Mexican in our blood. Mom is black and Mexican.”
“So you’re like the singer Miguel.”
“More or less.”
The door opened; the brunette’s blond girlfriend was back, holding a bag of beer, wine, and snacks. Blondie undressed, then sat and watched, a finger twirling her hair as she bit her bottom lip. She waited for her turn. When hers came, I was behind her, had her facedown. The brunette smiled, sipped beer, and danced until it was her go again. I positioned myself, held Blondie’s hips, went in deep, came out to the tip, then went in as deep as she would let me go. I did that over and over, slapping her narrow butt. Brunette opened a beer, gave me a swallow.
“We’re in America having a sex party with a celebrity.”
“I know, right?”
Brunette licked her lips, anxious for another turn.
I asked Brunette, “This your one-bedroom number on the beach?”
“Heck no. Like, this is our Airbnb. We’ve been here two days and leave for London tomorrow.”
“Where you from?”
“Vancouver. She’s from Quebec. We met and became BFFs at University of Toronto.”
“Okay if I stay the night? I’ve missed my check-in time at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“We would be offended if you didn’t. But we’re going to party awhile. We want to catch an Uber and hit a couple of bars before they close. We can get our selfies while we party like rock stars with a big-time celebrity.”
“I lost my wallet and charge cards, think I was pickpocketed, so you’ll have to pay.”
“No problem. I’m using my dad’s charge card anyway. It will be my honor.”
The brunette came over, kissed me, joined in the fun. The price of fame.
The brunette moaned, then pouted, “He won’t let me take a selfie like this.”
Blondie said, “Too bad. It would break the Internet. And break up your relationship. Be smart.”
“I just . . . want to . . . see . . . what . . . what . . . what I look like.”
“Do I make faces like that?”
“If he let you . . . take a selfie . . . you would know.”
They worked me, took my lion king roar down to a soft meow. I left both of them purring like cats.
We slept an hour, then hit a local bar, had drinks, danced, came back, had another session. Strangers fucked like it was fucking National Fucking Day. The brunette let us know she was coming, as the blonde touched her again. The brunette was demolished by orgasm, fell away from me. The blonde laughed, took her place. The brunette eased out of the bed, dancing. She moved in slow motion, went to do a line of cocaine, then sipped beer. The blonde gave me a sloppy blow job until the brunette insisted she could take care of that part. She was my number one fan. Said she would be honored. The way she used her mouth, she was the goddamn devil. It was a good orgasm, one that was voluptuous and substantial, a much-needed one that rivaled the Hoover Dam bursting. This was therapy, the kind that wouldn’t cost me two hundred bucks an hour. This killed anxiety, kept me from popping a pill that would turn me into a zombie.
I needed a place to hide until the sun came up, a place that didn’t have four tires and a seat that reclined. My charge cards were maxed out, and I didn’t want to blow the little skrilla I had. I’d followed the groupies, done this so I could get off my feet, get a hot shower, and rest a few hours, horizontal, in a bed, even if that bed was crowded.
I did what I had to do to make sure I had money left when I got to see Fela.
CHAPTER 19
BRICK
MOCHA LATTE LEFT Penny’s crib and came out to my car looking like a movie star. She had on a va-va-va-voom black backless midi-dress, a curve-loving stretchy number that hugged her figure. The rounded neckline exposed her back down to where her butt started to bubble, and there was a kick pleat at the back.
She eased on her big glasses, asked, “This too much?”
“Sensual, sexy, and sophisticated.”
“This dress makes me feel pretty.”
“You make that expensive dress feel the same way.”
“Goodwill. Seven dollars. No, wait. Purple tag. Three dollars.”
“Damn.”
“Your gray suit. Those shoes will give a woman a shoegasm. Spectator shoes. Like in The Great Gatsby.”
“Our daddy made us take pride in our appearance at all times.”
“Your clothes are expensive. Nothing cheap.”
“Every man or woman has a habit they have to keep under control.”
“I see why you have a ten-thousand-dollar debt to the IRS. Four thousand in credit card bills. Most of that four grand was spent on wine. You buy wine the way a woman buys shoes and lingerie.”
I said, “You went through my mail. Cooking. Snooping. Do you think you’re my wife?”
“You owe Kaiser over one hundred thousand.”
“Not cheap to stay alive in the USA.”
“You sick or something?”
“Been better, been worse.”
“Yes or no.”
“I’m fine.”
“Still being vague. Yes or no.”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Move to Canada. Use their health-care system. Save that money.”
I said, “Marry a girl who loves to eat poutine, Montreal smoked-meat sandwiches, and Nanaimo bars.”
“Hockey-loving Canadian girls across the border love two things: Tim Hortons and black men.”
“You date white men?”
“I was engaged to one.” She eased into a nervous grin. “My dichotomy runs deep.”
“A white man.”
“A man who happened to be white.”
“Still white in my book. Not judging what you prefer, just saying.”
“My grandmother told me to marry a white man and improve the race. She is Portuguese, dark-skinned, and she believes in the philosophy behind the famous painting called The Redemption of Cain. You marry white, create a mulatto; they marry white, and now your family tree is officially white. That’s her brainwashing, a way of being accepted, safe in a hostile world. You marry white until all the lynching vanishes from your family tree.”
“For protection. To keep other white people from fucking with you and your kids.”
“She used to say, ‘Marry white, create a better life.’ No, wait. It was a rhyme. Wait. Yeah. It was, ‘Be a white man’s wife, have a better life.’ Same difference, I guess.”
“At the risk of being stereotypical, I assume the white fiancé was the attorney?”
She nodded. “We were a striking couple.”
“You’d make any man look good.”
“We got so much attention. Too much at times.”
“What about the Eastside guy?”
“We were Hood Prince Harry and Chocolate Meghan Markle.” She smiled. “Nobody noticed me with him, not in a big way. I was invisible, just half of a good-looking black couple, unless we were in white spaces; then it felt dangerous being with him, or dangerous to be too black, like we could become hashtags based on our looks.”
“Which scenario did you prefer?”
“No one wants to feel invisible. But no one wants to be stared at like an animal in a zoo.”
“I understand your granny’s philosophy, one based on fear, but I don’t agree.”
“You date white girls?”
“Never have.”
“Why not?”
“Because God made black girls.”
“Not once?”
“We need to see healthy and meaningful relationships between black people.”
“It’s evolving. Bit by bit. I read on Twitter that only two percent of white British people date interracially, compared to almost thirty percent for black British people.”
“Your point?”
“It’s that way over there and will be that way over here soon. I’m ahead of the tsunami.”
“Renaissance woman in a three-dollar dress.”
“You know it.”
I looked behind us as we got into Miss Mini. Penny was in her living room window, watching us. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed in leggings and a T-shirt that showed her belly, collegiate book in hand, in study mode.
Mocha Latte knew about my monthly debts like she was my brand-new woman. Coretta had known about my debt, but she had kept her own bills hidden. Hers had been diverted to a post office box over in the Ladera Center. She changed the passwords on her phone and social media at least twice a month. She kept all of her truths hidden like they were more valuable than the KFC recipe. Mine were always on the table. I was like that in a relationship, when I was a fool in love. If I loved you, all that I owned also belonged to you. No limits. She knew how much I made at my white-collar gig, how much I owed my creditors. She didn’t know about Kaiser and City of Hope, but that didn’t happen on her watch, so I had no guilt. It was like Coretta walked out and cancer walked in. She didn’t know I’d been ill, had stopped working, had done treatment, had endured weeks of poison while my mom and stepdad were in Texas, while Dwayne was away on tour and André had so many comedy shows from coast to coast he was never in town either. Taking my issues to Dwayne Sr. would’ve been like spitting in the wind. I decided to deal with it until I needed help. I’d caught it in the early stages. I was scared. Numb. And at the same time, I didn’t want anybody to worry. It was selfish of me. I knew that. Part of me had wanted to call Coretta, tell her, maybe get that ex-lover’s sympathy, or enough “I still love you” empathy for her to want to take that journey with me. Now I was better. I’d done it alone. Coretta hadn’t been around long enough for me to trust her with that issue.
Maybe it was because of the way I’d found out about Coretta and Maserati Mama.
One Saturday morning, a week after Coretta had left me, while I thought that maybe she’d cool down and come back to me, I was in a barbershop on Crenshaw and Forty-Third, and a tall, dark-skinned woman sweet-walked in and sat next to me. It was Maserati Mama. I didn’t know who she was then. But the Nilotic woman got in my face and laughed a nasty laugh, and when I asked the gorgeous creature what was so funny, she told me we had something in common, more like someone in common. She said Coretta was living with her in Fox Hills. She told me Coretta was her woman and wanted it to be clear that Coretta had left me, was happy now, and told me to stay out of their way. Maserati Mama said it in a room filled with black men, was in my face like she’d kick my ass if necessary, then got up, did a smooth Naomi Campbell walk to her ride, slapped on shades, and drove away. Not for that, I might’ve called Coretta.
We’d only been broken up seven days, but it already felt like a year in the desert with no sign of rain.
CHAPTER 20
BRICK
CENTURY BOULEVARD. LAX’S hotel row.
I parked in the pay lot, then accompanied Mocha Latte to the festive and crowded lobby. Her date hadn’t arrived yet. First the plane was late; then Mocha Latte received a message, saying it was stuck on the tarmac.
It was going to take at least thirty more minutes to hear back, so we went to the bar.
I told Mocha Latte, “This is how it works when you’re with me. I will give you a code phrase. It will be the first thing you say when I call your phone, or the first thing you say when you call mine. After that, I will know that things are okay and we can talk. If you say anything different, it means things are bad and I will come kick down the door. I am here to protect you. What you do is your business, but I am here to make sure you are safe.”
She was nervous. Kept bouncing her leg while she sipped wine. Across the bar, I saw a good-looking woman, an Amazon of a certain age, looking at us. Our eyes met. She was a woman who looked powerful, important.
Mocha Latte pulled my attention from the woman. “Worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“I slept with my high school history teacher.”
A surprised smile took over her face. “No lie? How old were you?”
I saw my teacher in my mind, and just like that I was back in time. She was under me, looking up at me, smiling as I stroked, her hands caressing the sides of my face. While I came, she smiled the way a proud mother did.
I answered Mocha Latte, “Fourteen.”
“How old was she?”
“In her twenties. About ten years older.”
“Was thinking she was in her fifties or sixties.”
“Gross. If I was hitting granny panties, it would be gross.”
“Ageist. There are some sexy older women out there. But twenty-four is still wrong.”
“Pedophiles come in all genders.”
“What was her pedigree?”
“She had a master’s from Stanford.”
Mocha Latte’s cellular rang. She answered, then told whoever called, “No, I don’t accept Bitcoins.”
I chuckled. “Coochie for cryptocurrency? Is that a thing?”
“I’m not TurboTax and this ain’t free free free.”
She ended the call, rolled her eyes, checked her messages, went back to her drink, then back to me. “Anyway. You were fourteen. Damn, bro. Get caught getting your education? How long did that affair go on?”
“Nope. Went on for two years, until she got married and moved away.”
“Until she got married or until she moved away?”
“Until she moved to Texas. She saw me after she was married.”
“A pedophile and an adulteress wrapped in one.”
“She married on a Sunday, and the next Sunday she took me to a motel.”
“What did she say about her husband?”
“We didn’t even talk about her being married.”
“Sounds like she had a double life too. That duality thing is a fatherfucker.”
“One day she asked me to meet her in Compton. At a restaurant called Coco’s. Rode my bike an hour to get there. Saw her for ten minutes. We had sex in her ride. She kissed me good-bye. She was crying. She drove away. She was just . . . gone. There was no confirmed good-bye.”
“What was it like being with girls your age after that?”
“Disappointing. Physically and emotionally disappointing.”
“You’re good at keeping secrets.”
“It’s only a secret if one person knows. Therefore, technically, I own no secrets. I have some information that is, as far as I know, only shared by two, but even that is not guaranteed.”
The refined woman across the bar was on her phone, her face intense, like a CEO giving orders. She looked monied, definitely high-class, and very confident. I stared; she did the same. Then I sipped my drink.
Mocha Latte said, “The teacher, Penny, your ex. You have had a rough go with women.”
“As rough a go as some women have with men, only because they pick the wrong ones.”
“That story fascinates me. You were sprung at fourteen, then heartbroken at sixteen.”
“Young, dumb, and full of come. Now older, with two-thirds of the same irrepressible traits.”
“Use protection with your pedophilic teacher?”
“Never did.”
“She didn’t bring any?”
“Nope.”
“She was your first orgasm?”
“The first time, it was like she had taken
control of my soul. I thought she had broken my penis and killed me. Twenty minutes later I wanted her to kill me again. I thought she was a witch and had worked black magic.”
“She took you three levels?”
“She did. I did the same with her. She taught me how to make love to a woman.”
“Whatever with that bull. Can’t no fatherfucker do no three-level-orgasm shit like that.”
“Seemed like we would go for hours until I was drained.”
“Bareback.”
“That bothers you?”
“Just surprised. You could’ve been a dad by the time you were fifteen.”
“Me and my older brother would have had kids the same age.”
“Wow, Brick. Wow. I didn’t have sex until I was a junior in college.”
“So that’s the long answer to your question.”
She smiled, shook her head with her thoughts, chuckled, and moved her faux-Afro from her face.
I asked, “What?”
“This is odd, but nice. Talking. Laughing. Being honest. No holds barred. Getting to know each other. Drinks. Dressed up at a bar. Sitting this close. Sort of feels like a date. Or the way I want one to feel.”
“Yeah. Drinks. Music. Good company. Sort of does feel exciting . . . like a date.”
She said, “You have BDE.”
“What’s that?”
She winked. “It’s a good thing. You have BDE and don’t even know you have BDE.”
I looked around the room at all the women and wondered how many were here for the same reason as Mocha Latte. Knowing Penny and this pace of asses made me see the world in a different way.
I said, “The cougars are on the prowl. That table over there is MILF City.”
She asked, “You know the tale of two wolves?”
“That wolf you feed becomes stronger.”
“We’re watching them struggle with the two wolves inside. They have husbands. Wives. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Children. And they are here, at a bar, dressed up, struggling, surrendering, feeding a wolf.”
I asked, “Why are they here, still searching, still hungry, never satisfied?”
“Life is too much for them, and not enough at the same time. They probably have love, or lovers, but they’re hungry for a better love. In the meantime, they deal with the wolves inside begging to be fed.”
The Business of Lovers Page 13