One Night (11 page)

And the mind needs what it needs. Mine needed a distraction. It needed to feel free.

I sat up, took a long sip of wine, smiled, and whispered, “Let's get cleaned up.”

“That was abrupt.”

“The whole night has been abrupt, unexpected, odd, and so damn wonderful.”

He stood up. I stayed on the bed, my head hanging over the edge, viewing him as if he were upside down. It was a blow-job position, but that wasn't going to happen, not without him making me his Happy Meal first. That was on my mind; that naughtiness was on my mind, and I grinned up at him. He smiled. He would be naked for me very soon. Soon I'd be naked as well. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to move, but was frozen where I was, staring at the dick print of a man who wore boxers. He got on his knees, his face upside down to mine. Kissed me again. It was an electrifying upside-down kiss.

I said, “I want to do this all night, but I can only be here until he calls.”

“I'll need to leave soon, too.”

“What's the next move? How do we move from the fantasy of sex to the reality?”

On his knees, kissing my cheeks, he whispered, “Flip to see who showers first?”

He showered first, did whatever he had to do to relieve and clean his body, did what he had to do to prepare for intimacy, and came out with a towel around his waist. I stayed on the bed, resting on one of the pillows, the covers pulled back, and while he showered I sipped red wine from Argentina.

I moved my ring back to my right hand. I became an ex-wife, a former single mother.

He dropped his towel. He showed me what I had gotten myself into, what wanted to get into me.

He looked at me, nude, his dick exposed, on display. I nodded in approval, nodded and licked my lips with a different craving. It was nice, more than capable of growing to be a span, the width of a man's hand with the fingers spread apart. I shifted, swallowed, grinned, took in his nakedness, let out an abrupt sound of surprise, a short sound that lasted no longer than a hemidemisemiquaver.

He came to me, kissed me again; two minutes went by like two seconds. He felt what his kiss did to me, what sucking my ear did to me, what sucking my neck did to me, saw the change in my eyes, heard the change in the sound of my voice. I almost let him have me right then, almost took him.

It was going too far, too fast. I wanted it to go there, I think, but not before I was proper.

I stood up and nodded at the way his penis stood halfway up and bobbed at me. Its stiffness made me nervous. Looked like he was ready for some sort of sexual training camp, like he had a clear mind, a mind free of guilt, and was here in this hotel room in preparation for a long, rigorous season of fornication. But I knew I'd only be here an hour, maybe less. He had a wife. I had a boyfriend. We had other lovers to spend the night with. Well, for me, most of the night. There would be no breakfast at sunrise for me. I'd leave Chicken and Waffles and return to my own apartment, where I'd wait like a lonesome queen. This was my gift to me. This was a night that no one would ever hear about.

This was for me.

I took my bag and my glass of wine with me, passed by him with my tail wagging, my face grinning. He pulled my arm, stopped me. Kissed me. Made me want to get naked and dance on the ceiling.

I said, “Let me get cleaned up.”

“I want you like this.”

“Look, about one hundred and sixty-six thousand people are having some form of sex at this very moment, about a fourth of them cheating on spouses and boyfriends and girlfriends and mistresses, so if you want to join them, let me shower, because now you have my clit so swollen I can't stand this heat.”

We laughed. He let me go. His one-eyed friend never stopped bobbing and staring at me. Then I touched his cock, touched that flesh with one finger. He jerked and made pained sounds like he was super sensitive. Super excited. He looked embarrassed. His embarrassment made me bold, made me comfortable, made me become the aggressor. I intimidated him. He wanted me, but was afraid of me. My fingers closed around his long and strong cock, held it gently, massaged it, felt his energy. His eyes closed and his hands grabbed at the bed covers. I held his energy in my hand. When it was firm, when it was rising, I let it go, eased it down to his inner thigh, watched it spring back up. I took my hand away, dragged my palm to my fingers across that part of him, broke away, and walked backward.

He opened his eyes, whispered, “Jesus. That was nice.”

I nodded. “You haven't been touched in a while, have you?”

“Not like that.”

“I'm really nervous.”

“I know.”

“I'm not a one-night kind of girl. And you're a married man. Can't get past that right now.”

“You can change your mind anytime.”

“You've had one-night stands?”

“A few. In college. After that high school breakup, I was detached for a long, long while.”

“I do relationships. They're not the best, but I'm a relationship kinda girl.”

“I do marriage. I'm that type of man. Dating many women and sleeping around doesn't thrill me.”

“You kiss your wife the way you kiss me?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“The first thing to end is the kissing. You kiss less and less.”

“Not even when you're having sex?”

“No.”

“She sucks, you eat, but you don't kiss?”

“The ancillary part of sex, the fellatio, the cunnilingus, that becomes less and less, and soon it's just basic sex. Man on top. Woman on bottom. We have sex without kissing, when we have sex.”

“You have sex with no kissing. You become each other's whore.”

“We become each other's whore.”

“I should stop talking.”

“We should.”

As I went into the bathroom, the man from Orange County turned on the local news again. The volume on the television rose and I could hear the reports. The same news regurgitated itself. The mother who had killed her three children was being analyzed, her entire life torn apart, the father of those three children gone mad and crying, their family members being interviewed, each with more tears in their eyes than raindrops in the sky. I wanted to know all about that woman, wanted to know what led her down that dark road, but that story was ending and they went into the update I didn't relate to, the news about the old businessman who was robbed and beaten in Santa Monica. They said that it looked like a home invasion, that his children and ex-wife were now being interviewed. The update said he might not live to see Christmas, but those three children from the previous news report had barely begun to live and were already gone to play with Natalie Rose. That wasn't fair. He turned the television off and the bad news went away.

I took a dozen deep breaths and wiped tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.

While the world outside the hotel room fell apart, I sipped my wine, knowing that in a few minutes I'd be on that comfortable romping shop, inside this comfortable room, having sex with a stranger.

My knees trembled, my head felt light, and despite being unsure, I smiled.

I locked the bathroom door behind me, turned the handle to make sure it was secure, and then felt weird for doing that, but he had done the same, as if he thought I would break in to rob and rape him, so I followed protocol. Made me think that he was closed off, that this experience would be horrible, that despite the good kisses, he would be done in a couple of minutes, five minutes of me staring at the ceiling and wishing I were somewhere else, then I'd lie and tell him how good he made me feel, how he was an awesome lover, and we'd talk a moment, he'd fall asleep in the middle of the conversation, then see the time and jump up ready to kick me out of the room so he could go home. Men were different creatures after orgasm arrived and lust was erased by satisfaction. The urgency to have you changed to urgency for you to leave. They were different after curiosity had ended. Every hunter was a new man after the end of the hunt. He'd be ready to kick me out, then change the sheets and call the next chick over to his room. That was assumed, but I knew while I was staring at my nudeness with the water running in the sink, while I was checking for a message from my boyfriend, that the man in the other room was messaging his distraught wife. I needed to shave my legs, but that would take too long. And I had some hair outside the door to the church, but it wasn't much; it looked womanly, not like out-of-control foliage. I didn't want to use a razor—I preferred to wax—and all I had was a razor, so I might have to take a chance on getting bumps, then having to tweeze them out. I cursed and looked at my nude reflection. Outside of war paint, I had a toothbrush, toothpaste, and lotion. I had fake eyelashes, tea tree oil, rosemary oil, L-Lysine, mascara wands, wipes, cod liver oil, castor oil, hydrogen peroxide, Diflucan, Sporanox, B-12, novels, green tea, kale chips, and more clothes in my bag. I always kept a bag in my tattered and ragged car, kept a bag in case I ended up at my boyfriend's crappy apartment in his crappy neighborhood down off Crenshaw and Adams. I took out the peroxide and wiped down the countertop to kill all the germs, then took a plastic cup and soaked my toothbrush in peroxide, then sprayed some peroxide into my nostrils to kill bacteria, help clear out the passageway, and loosen any stalactites or stalagmites, then took a mouthful of peroxide and held it for a moment to kill germs, something I did every once in a while but not too often, then I used a towel and wiped the bottom of the shower with peroxide, in case he was the type of guy who pees in the shower. Men can be so damn nasty. And while I showered, I multitasked; I had coconut oil in my mouth, to kill more germs, and at the same time I poured peroxide in my hands and rubbed it across my hair. The peroxide helped keep my hair light naturally, and I didn't want to do that before having sex with a stranger, but had done that ritualistic motion before I could stop myself. I spat out the coconut oil and cursed again. Said two tears in a bucket, fuck it, then put toothpaste on my electric toothbrush.

To get to all of my things, I had taken the stash of balloons out of my bag. They had been on top of all my mess. I still wished that I had given them to the little girl at Denny's. My daughter would have loved to share with her. I took them out of my bag, placed them on the bathroom counter. Was going to drop them in the garbage. Didn't. Stared at the colors. Would get them before I left the room. Give them to a child.

When I was done, I inspected my butt, made sure it was presentable and didn't have ass acne like Montana Fishburne. I reached into my bag and pulled out a pair of red pumps, a pair of just-in-case-I-saw-Chicken-and-Waffles-and-we-actually-went-out-to-someplace-nice pumps, put them on, looked at myself in the magic mirror on the wall, asked it if I was the fairest of them all, then tried to decide if I wanted to walk out wearing only high heels and brown skin, then decided to not model the birthday suit. Then I changed my mind about the heels. Too slutty. Too much like that regrettable night in Las Vegas.

I looked at my right hand, at the wedding ring that rested on the wrong hand as if to symbolize that once upon a time I had been drunk in love and crazy about an alcoholic. A highly functioning, fun alcoholic, but an alcoholic was what an alcoholic was. I took the ring off, put it inside my bag, then looked at my hand, at my bare hand. I nodded. A wedding ring worn on the wrong hand meant that once upon a time a woman had married the wrong man. My life had been filled with encounters with the wrong boys and men. Tonight didn't need to be any different. Would be nice if it was, but not necessary.

I wouldn't be Mommy tonight. I'd get some pain for a while. I'd get some sweet pain.

Tonight I could put on red lipstick and pretend to be a dreadlocks-wearing Cinderella again; a woman with strong hair, not nappy hair, never nappy, hair with strength that has intimidated too many in the world. I could be Barbie with tats and brown skin, one that should be on the top shelf, and never on Black Friday special or marked down any other day of the year. I deserved attention, if only for a little while. I'd step out and be positive, would smile, laugh, wink, be sexy, not be a fussbudget.

I nervously left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my body, followed protocol, went to stand before Orange County like I had been created from his rib. There was music. Lights were off. Television was on a station that played music to make love by, music to make babies by, music to fall in love by. Would've preferred the blues, some John Lee Hooker groaning “I Cover the Waterfront
”
on repeat, but the music was nice. The television created an ethereal glow, a mood, brightened shadows without revealing the details of my imperfections. He evaluated me, then took his wedding ring off, as if he had meant to do it while I showered, then put it on the nightstand, as if that was all it took for a married man to become unmarried once again, as if that kept him from being culpable.

He stood, naked, looking like a professional had arrived and fluffed him before his performance. Holding a condom in one hand and his cell phone in the other, he saw me exit the bathroom.

We inched toward the big moment. We were about to cross that line.

I blinked and my mind spiraled in a hundred directions at once.

Online I had read why men had affairs: for more sex, for new experiences, to boost ego, for the thrill of the chase, to be opportunistic, to sabotage a current relationship, for revenge, out of entitlement. The same bloggers said that women had affairs when they wanted to improve their self-esteem or have new and better sexual experiences, when they felt lonely or wanted to explore their own feelings through sex.

Some women wanted to feel younger. The fear of aging, the fear of no longer being attractive, made many women reveal their secrets to new men. Money and power, the hard reasons that motivated many to barter with sex, and desperation and hormones—all those reasons were excluded from a woman's list. A woman's list was a record of lies made of sugar and spice, made us victims, fallen angels, spoke nothing of many of us being just as unscrupulous, self-centered, and vile, lacking in compassion and sans foresight and pessimistic and shortsighted with goals as our sperm-carrying counterparts.

Nuts or tits, we were all the same: same needs, confusions, fears, emotions.

On those pages of hackneyed logic that made men evil and manipulative and women saints deprived of what their souls needed, I had no idea where I fit in. It was probably a combination of all the darker reasons. It was almost Christmas. I had met Chicken and Waffles and fallen into bed with him near Mother's Day. That had been a hard time for me. I had been given the right to celebrate that day, and it had been snatched away, leaving the scars behind. I had been very emotional that season; I knew I probably would always be very vulnerable, or try to hide from the world, on that holiday. Last Mother's Day, I didn't want to be alone, and that was how the relationship with Chicken and Waffles had started.

That same energy was in my body now. That same need for distraction was just as strong.

I looked at the man from Orange County. I looked at the married man I'd just met. Ten million people were in L.A. County, and we had ended up at the same cardinal points. I was a woman and he was a man and there was some need and attraction and that was that. I didn't know if I would do this once. Or twice. Or if this would start me on a long spiral into hell. I wasn't verdant enough to think that he would want me only once. No man wanted me only once. All I knew was that I felt good in his presence, and I deserved to feel first-class, and he made me feel superior. Two hours from now this would be done, and I'd end up in my apartment, alone, surrounded by photos of Natalie Rose, Barbie dolls on the twin bed we once shared, as I rested on my side, watching the rain, watching God cry the coldest tears.

L.A. was flooded. I'd never learned how to cry, not like that, not so freely.

He asked, “Are you okay?”

I blinked again, only two seconds having passed since I had exited the bathroom.

He said, “You had that distant look again.”

“No, I didn't.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Was feeling more than thinking. I was thinking about how I love to make love when it's raining.”

“Do you?”

I whispered, “It's like God is crying.”

I left my thoughts and over-examination and self-awareness behind and nodded. I took three more steps, stopped just feet away from him, then grabbed at the carpet with my toes. He stopped texting and put the phone down, but kept a loose grip on the prophylactic. He saw me with no shoes on my feet to boost my height, my dreadlocks down and framing my face, saw the gloss on my lips, then licked his own lips and glanced at the towel that stood between me and nakedness, between him and sex with a stranger.

One thing that I had learned since my weight gain was that skinny girls look good in clothes, as does any mannequin, but curvy girls look good naked. He looked at me the way I look at art.

He looked at me like he wished his bony wife would give up tofu for Popeye's fried chicken.

He looked at me like he understood the power of a great ass.

He looked at me like he couldn't wait to get his dick wet.

He was intelligent, had his life together, and was comfortable in his own skin.

And he looked at me like he appreciated and craved what others had taken for granted.

I said, “That expression on your face.”

“What about it?”

“That smile. That is a big smile, like a ray of sunshine. Plus, you're holding your cock.”

“Why are you so goddamn beautiful, sexy, and intelligent?”

“I want the truth. I think I'm going to need some thought bubbles.”

“Physically, you're intimidating. You look like a woman a man should both desire and fear.”

“Desire me now. Desire and comfort me before you go to your distraught wife and comfort her.”

“You are better than Bettie Page. I'm intimidated.”

“Fear me later. Once I'm in that bed, two minutes from now when you're sleeping, fear me.”

“Two minutes.”

“Three, tops. You'll get thrown and need a rodeo clown to come and rescue you.”

“Let this begin.”

I grinned. “You make it sound like we're going to battle.”

“Maybe we are. You are equipped for the war of all wars.”

“Am I supposed to be afraid?”

“Maybe. That's what fear is all about.”

I said, “I have to warn you. I'm very sexual, and when I get like this, in this mood, I need to let loose and express that side of me, need to veer off into the darkness.”

“We're on the same page. I'm very sexual. I'm not kind in bed.”

“This swive could be a contest.”

“Swive?”

“Means to do the nasty.”

“Yeah. This is going to be a contest.”

I said, “Is that a challenge?”

“Sure is.”

I grinned. “Are we betting cheesecake?”

“Which flavor of cheesecake are you willing to lose this round?”

I hummed. “Caramel-pecan. I think I'll bet the slice you already owe me.”

“I see your slice of caramel cheesecake and raise you a slice of chocolate chip, cherry, and blueberry, plus chocolate-chip cookie dough, key lime, pumpkin, Oreo, red velvet, and Reese's cheesecakes.”

Again laughter. Again bonding through laughter.

The laughter faded and he said, “Drop the towel.”

I let my towel drop to the carpet. Nakedness stared at nakedness, and nakedness smiled.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Noticed your incredible figure at the gas station.”

“You looked at me like I was the ugliest bitch on the planet.”

“Quite the opposite. Beautiful face, your hips, your breasts, the swayback. Some package you have there, and I mean that in the most respectful way. Even wearing that Best Buy gear and that other hair, no matter how ill-fitting, you couldn't hide your shape. One glance at you and I'll bet men turn temporarily insane. Guess that's why I made that awful offer. Temporary insanity. That's the story I'll use in court.”

“Looking at you naked, all tall and toned, yeah, I'm curious about you. Guess I'll have to plead the same temporary insanity.”

“Your breasts. Nice. Amazing.”

“Left is a little bigger, right is more sensitive. The left one is called Tina. You touched the right one once, without permission, but now you have full permission to enjoy her texture and taste.”

“The one I touched, does it have a name, or is that one not speaking to me?”

“The right one is called Marie. And yeah, she's speaking to you.”

“Tina and Marie.”

“Marie has freckles and my birthmark, and the nipple is slightly bigger. Both love to be sucked.”

“You've named your breasts.”

“Tits this hot deserve to be named.”

“Tina and Marie.”

“Named my ass, too. I have a pretty hot ass.”

“What did you name your ass cheeks, Rick and James?”

“Ophiuchus. This sweetness you can't keep your eyes off is called Ophiuchus.”

“You named your butt after the thirteenth zodiac sign?”

“Wow, you're smart. Might have to rename it Callipygia. Starting to like that word.”

He smiled. “And your vagina?”

“Susan. I call her Susan.”

“Your vagina has a Hebrew name.”

“Means joy of life, and she is always joyful, bright, and cheerful.”

He laughed. “You know I could say a lot about the falseness of the zodiac and then give you a lecture regarding the name you gave your vagina. Joyful, bright, and cheerful? How about horny?”

I laughed, too. “No more long Obama-Clinton speeches, okay? Not when Tina and Marie are looking at you and wondering when you're going to introduce yourself and make Susan sing a melody.”

“I will meet them in a moment. Let me pretend I'm in a museum enjoying the art.”

“We don't have that kind of time.”

“Never rush art. Never. Especially when you will only be able to see it once.”

“We have places to be very soon, so the museum will have to close if you want the legs to open.”

He looked at me, eyes filled with wonder and lust. “More tattoos. Very sexy tattoos.”

“That's where too much of my money has gone the last two years.”

“You have a piercing in your belly button, too.”

“I do.”

“But I love the tongue ring the most. It feels a like a cute little pearl. It's like a clitoris—small, cute, and hidden in warmth. You have to find it to appreciate it.”

“Wow. Is that why guys and girls who like girls always hit on me? I have a clit mouth?”

“Any other piercings?”

“Nothing else. No clit piercing, if that's what you're asking.”

“You're addicted to the tats and body piercings.”

“The pain.”

He asked, “You like pain? Something happened to trigger the need for pain?”

“It was life-changing.”

“That was a lot of pain.”

“I could tattoo my body ten times over and it wouldn't be enough pain.”

“What happened?”

“So instead of pain, let's see what an hour with you can do.”

“You don't want to say, I will drop the conversation.”

“Why do you keep talking?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?”

“Have you seen you?”

“You can't be more nervous than I am.”

“You come across as cool, smooth, like this is no big deal for you.”

“Are we going to be naked, in a nice hotel room, start talking, and ruin the mood again?”

“Swive.”

“Swive. Give me a deeper pain.”