One Night (12 page)

He came to me, a man who reminded me physically of da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, and kissed me, picked me up. He picked me up, and that did it for me. Butterflies told me that this wasn't going to be a mistake. He carried me to the king bed, laid me down, studied my nakedness as Anita Baker sang in the background, this nakedness that was new to him, and he made a grunt of amazement. He massaged my body from my feet to my neck, then across my back, then my butt, massaged me so well that I didn't want him to stop. Then he turned me over and massaged my legs up to my breasts, stayed with my breasts as he stared into my eyes. My dreadlocks were open, loose, wild like Medusa, a beautiful Medusa, a sensual Medusa. One of three sisters in Greek mythology known as the Gorgons, Medusa had a destructive effect upon humans, and I wondered if I would have a destructive effect on him, if I would destroy his fragile marriage, if I would best an unseen foe, or if he would be my Perseus and destroy me. My mind went dark, had mean, devilish thoughts. I grinned, took many breaths, allowed myself to become his nymph, his young and beautiful goddess, a toy that would make him her plaything as well. I masturbated him. He massaged me. I was nervous to touch him again, because this was the start of the transition to the official invitation to enter me, but I did. I touched him as a signal that it was okay to do other things to me, a signal that trust had entered the room; therefore, soon, he could enter me.

I held him, stroked him, made him rise again, and made his hood vanish.

I whispered, “Nice. This is nice. Jesus, this is a nice piece of work.”

He made another sound of approval and arousal. He hardened in my hand. That turned me on. Soon I answered him with my own keen, a soft cry. He put his nervous hands on my damp flesh, touched each part as if each was a separate work of art, not combined into one sculpture, then tasted my neck, sucked my neck, made me tense, made me let out a stronger sound of arousal, made my back arch. He licked my breasts, kissed my stomach as if he were afraid, as if he were afraid of the consequences of adultery, and he put that damp fear on my sensitive stomach, fueling my arousal, my wickedness, his eyes searching for mine, searching for my satisfaction before he slipped his tongue inside my navel, moved his tongue into my navel as if he were trying to break into my body, and that faux penetration excited me, made me become wet with the anticipation of wrongness, then took his tongue to my thighs, sucked my inner thighs, moved his tongue across my vagina, used his tongue, opened me.

He opened that empty space, unlocked me with his tongue. With his fingers, he parted my walls, then with his tongue he painted my vagina, repainted its walls, then slid all of his tongue inside me. He sucked my clit like it was the cock of a woman. Legs trembling, muscles tense, I took a deep breath, one that rose from me between the sacrum and the diaphragm, and like I was the fat lady in the last act of an opera, I called out to heaven, then covered my mouth with my hands, tried in vain to silence myself.

He tongue swiped my sex like he was licking the frosting off a cupcake. I called out to heaven again. Then he gave me a strong lick, using the width of his tongue, licked me the way Huck licked Quinn. He licked in a hungry way that said I appealed to his palate. He was voracious. Rapacious. The greedy bastard devoured me. Seism after seism rolled through my body, tiny earthquakes, the warnings that preluded orgasm. My sounds encouraged his tongue to torture me. He dragged his tongue across my vagina. He took a mouthful of me, sucked, gave a little pressure, and woke up so many nerves. I quivered, cooed, held his head. Without embarrassment he sucked me like I was a man, made my back arch, and as I swallowed a dozen heated sounds, he ate me. Made slurping sounds. Glanced up at me as I looked down at him. Made his tongue dart in and out. Made circles. Then put all of his tongue deep inside me again. I lost it. People in planes, and on Century, Sepulveda, and Airport boulevards, heard my sexual pleas.

He stopped and whispered, “This is beautiful. So beautiful.”

I shook and gasped. “Your mouth, your mouth, stop talking and use your mouth.”

“What do you want me to do with my mouth?”

“Oh my God, Jesus Christmas. You know what I want, so stop talking and quit playing.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do. Be explicit.”

“Suck and lick my pussy the way you sucked my tongue in the parking lot at Denny's.”

He turned me over, made me raise my ass, and put me in doggy position.

Bent over on all fours, my spine arched, in a passive position, I didn't know what he was going to do, or which part of my real estate his tongue would regard as open house. This was
coitus more ferarum
, Latin for describing sexual intercourse in the manner of wild beasts. All sex is animalistic. The positions don't matter; that is when we are primal. Again his fingers opened my lips, exposed me to his breath, to a long stream of air being blown across my folds. He blew and blew, then painted his name on my sex. I eased down on my shoulders, reached back and spread my cheeks. Showed him what he wanted. He licked my sex with trills, rolled his wicked tongue in a vicious way, like the Spanish letter double
R
—
rr, rr, rr, rr
—written a hundred times in a row, and cameras flashed behind my eyes. My heart rate elevated and my sexual sounds, the vociferation of pleasure, expanded.

It was fanatical, heated, and lovely.

The eight muscles of his tongue were strong, like he did a hundred tongue push-ups every morning, and twice as many every night. He inserted his tongue, gave me its length. I felt beautiful and out of control. That tongue. He played with me, changed the shape of his tongue, lengthened it, shortened it, curled and uncurled its apex and edges, and flattened it out, licking me along my sex. I couldn't take it; I lost the ability to speak, could only breathe and swallow. The sounds he made while he was eating drove me mad. His tongue flitted in and out of me, moved with the speed of a hummingbird, and I grabbed the sheets, became the bird that hummed. It was light and swift, the way he darted, the masterful way he fluttered and trilled, and I couldn't stand it. His tongue was the bee, and my flower was in bloom, was wide open. Nerves danced and it ached so good, the itch and sweet irritation magnified, and I heard them calling, heard a fusillade of orgasms begging for me to surrender to the power of his tongue. I tried to hold out, wasn't going to let him make me lose control, not so soon, but I couldn't take it. It felt too damn good, and I wanted to burst. I collapsed and lay there smiling, eyes wide, the words I said all indecipherable. He fingered my sex as he massaged a nipple, then massaged my buttocks, gave each cheek a playful spank, a sting, then pulled my hair, turned my face toward him, kissed me, saw I was okay, then flipped me on my back and opened my legs wider than before. I was as flexible now as when I was a size-zero girl with long, straight hair, the kind Hollywood adored. Again his tongue came toward me. I adjusted my body, directed my sex, wiggled toward his tongue, and moved with a shameless urgency to put him back on the right spot. He made me hold both legs up in the air, pushed them back over my head, my bottom high in the air, like I was doing sexual yoga. He licked, suckled. I trembled. My body heated up more; I imagined flames coming from my pores. His hands cupped my butt, new fingers on my ass, strong hands. Then he moved his hands, moved them back to my breasts, and pulled at my hard nipples. That hurt so good. His cunnilingus was so good; the tongue could make me give up the need for good wood.

Breathing concise, in a throaty voice, I panted, “
Damn
. Do. That. Again. Again. Again.”

With a grin in his voice he stated the obvious, said, “You like that?”

“Damn that tongue of yours.”

He savored me. Made me squirm. Beg. Made me fall madly in love with tongue. Made me feel like misbehaving was worth the cost. I pulsated; the start of aurora borealis and contractions.

This was therapeutic. This was curative. This made all wrong seem right.

He tasted me rapidly, and I lost control, began to orgasm, as I processed the moment.

I was who I was, and he was who he was, and in life we were where we were.

He whispered, “Stop moving.”

“I can't.”

His tongue searched for that position that would make me confused and turn sex into love.

When his tongue was inside me, I felt as bright as the sun, and when he stopped, when I felt the darkness again, when I descended from heaven, I held his head. When I slipped away from what felt like the edges of love, I made him put his tongue back, until it was time for me to experience nirvana again.

When I had stopped trembling, I looked to the windows, looked at the dark skies and rain.

He spanked the side of my ass. A shock rolled through my body.

I panted. “Harder. Spank me harder. Make it sting. Please, make it sting.”

He hit my ass over and over, gave me lashes like I was a child.

The bright flash of pain. Pain covered other aches.

I lost my breath. Couldn't breathe. Had to inhale slowly through my nose. Tried to relax. Tried to exhale slowly through my mouth. He spanked me more. I squirmed. With his hands he opened my legs as wide as he could. His tongue played me like I was a piano with one key, strummed that magical key, sent me to a wonderful place, a place where I had no hardships, no overdue rent, no issues, a place I didn't worry about high gas prices. I licked my lips, squeezed my own breasts, trembled, danced, tried to suck my own nipple, but he moved my hand away, continued to squeeze one nipple as he rubbed the palm of his hand across the other breast. He gave me good head, and I lost control. He paused. Backed away. Stared at me. Watched me tremble and try to regain control. When I had stopped writhing, I looked toward the windows, looked at the dark skies, landing planes, and rain.

He whispered, “Are you ready for all of me?”

“You know what I want. You know what you kissed me and made me want.”

“Tell me.”

“Come put it in me. I want you in me until I can feel your balls tapping against Susan.”

“Dirtier.”

“Come screw me with that big cock. Give Susan that long, stiff dick.”

We laughed. It was fun, sounded ludicrous, was sexy, and we laughed.

“Dude, quit the madness. Stop making me become a parody of myself, and put it in.”

“So it's like that?”

“That kinda talk sounds so silly and contrived. I'm not a porn star.”

“Tell me what you like.”

“When it feels good, I'm an
oooh
and
ahh
kinda girl.”

“Really?”

“But it's up to you to make me go
oooh
and
ahh
.”

He came toward me. I pushed him away, pushed him hard, like a dominatrix.

“Put a hat on the soldier. The soldiers don't need to have an egg for breakfast, unless you want to buy breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the next eighteen years. Let's have fun, but keep it safe.”

He backed away, ripped open the condom. I touched myself. He watched me touch myself. I wanted him to see me touch myself. My lips were swollen, open, glutinous; sticky, thick with honey.

He touched himself, prepared himself, then came toward me, ready, anxious.

Then my phone vibrated. My siren screamed. It was him.

It was the man I had been waiting to hear from since early morning.

It was Chicken and Waffles.

I jumped, felt exposed, like the Moral Police had arrived with leg chains, tar, feathers, and scarlet letters, like I had been caught in bed with a married man. I became aware of everything, of every breath, of my nakedness. The spell was broken and I was anxious to get to my phone. Orange County looked at me, raindrops tapping against the window, the O'Jays at the top of the song “Stairway to Heaven.”

He said, “Damn.”

“Sorry.”

“Just like that?”

“But you knew I was waiting on this call.”

“You have to bounce?”

“He's available. He wants me to come to him now. Wants to kick it for a while.”

“This late? Takes him this long to call you back?”

“Guess I get the late shift tonight. He'll want me from now until just before sunrise.”

“He makes you leave his bed, in the cold, in the rain, before the sun comes up.”

“Don't judge me.”

“And you'd rather be in the streets doing a con and risk going to jail than to ask your boyfriend of six months for some help? He can call you this late, and you can't turn to him when you're in need?”

“Don't spoil the evening.”

“I think it's already spoiled.”

“Look. I really enjoyed sitting in Denny's talking with you. Almost felt like I was out on a date. Almost feels that way now. My boyfriend and I rarely do anything together in public.”

“Do you have a drawer at his apartment? Has he made space for you, or do you have to leave early in the morning in the same sullied clothes, doing that Walk of Shame women talk about?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Does he at least allow you to leave a toothbrush at his apartment? Or do you have to clean up all evidence that you exist before you bounce? Do you have to clean every pubic hair you leave behind?”

“You're judging me.”

“He doesn't care about you. He would have called you long before now. I'll bet he does as little as he can in order to get as much as he can. One call, you go running. Those five-cups-of-coffee moments are over, and you know they're over. He wants the benefit of your sex without the effort.”

“How do you know it's him and not me? Maybe I'm just using him to get what I need. Maybe that's as much as I can handle right now. Maybe I can't handle any more than the little he offers.”

“Get your phone. Answer him. Crawl to the phone like you're crawling to him.”

“Don't judge me.”

“Get your phone. Get dressed. I'll walk you downstairs to your car.”

He stood up. Went to his clothes. Picked up his pants, stood at the window, his back to me.

I said, “You're mad.”

“Not mad.”

“Then what are you?”

He sighed. “Just thinking. Sitting here questioning my life.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about love. Every other woman I have ever been with. Angela from Miami. Greta from San Diego. Kate from Puerto Rico. Another one, a medical student from Haiti. One from Botswana. Lori. Peggy. Pretty girls wearing pearls. At this moment, looking at the rain, not wanting to go back home to the life I have now, I miss them. I miss how my life was with them. I can hear their laughs. Remember how good the sex was. More than the sex. Some did amazing things, were uninhibited in bed and were very adventurous, but I'm not counting orgasms. I'm remembering how they made me feel as a human being. I miss how they made me feel. I do miss the sex, and lately I think about them, one of them, maybe imagine two of them at once when I masturbate. Maybe not at once, but the face changes with the act I am remembering. Life was exciting then. And those rare moments I'm with my wife, I have to confess, I'm no longer with her, but stuck in time, drifting on a memory, still with one of them. One I used to come with. We would orgasm at the same time. We didn't worry about brushing teeth before the morning kiss. I miss her scent. To be with my wife, I have to think of a love gone by, one of the women who were spectacular lovers, to keep myself sane. When I'm alone during the day, I miss how good the friendships were. I want to call them the way a person in a 12-step program has to call every person he has wronged. Want to look for them online, but I don't. Life goes on. People marry. Get new lovers. Have babies. We change. World keeps spinning. All the clichés. But that doesn't make me stop wondering why I chose this woman and not one of them.”

“You chose the jealous one. Jealousy can be confused for caring and passion.”

“I chose the one who would confront any woman she ever thought was interested in me.”

“She ran them all away.”

“She called them all. Sent them all e-mails. Even made a few threats.”

“Damn.”

“She told them I was married and their carnal or emotional services would no longer be required.”

“You had to think of the women you still lust for, you thought of them, to be with me?”

“No. I was focused on you. I was here with you. You weren't here with me. So now I am thinking of them to take my mind off you. I am trying to forget you. I just want to forget I ever met you.”

As he glowered at the rain, my body language and temperament matched his. I did the same, stood up, stood next to him, stared at the rain and thought of pangs and love, of boys since Vernon, of men since I'd become a woman, that total low, and my mind settled on the man I had thought I would love forever. Ricky was on my mind. That was back when in I lived in the Valley, off Sepulveda, the longest boulevard in Southern California,. I thought about love, spring break and trips to Vegas, gambling, too much partying, and vodka on the Strip, where there were no clocks in casinos, where many woke up broke and with hangovers and realized that somewhere between the blackjack and poker tables they had been diverted to a drive-thru wedding chapel and had given vows before a cockeyed, imitation Elvis Presley wearing blue suede shoes. Love and alcohol could make you wake up married in Vegas, and you'd think it was the best decision you'd ever made. It wouldn't matter if your parents disowned you for that. It shouldn't matter that he had moved on, married, was expecting a new baby.

That had been part of my journey.

The man from Orange County picked up his boxers.

I said, “Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't leave.”

“You're leaving.”

“Don't leave like this. I don't want to . . . break up like this.”

“You're leaving to go to him, right? You're choosing him over me, right?”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Rejection. Since that bitch messed you over in Vail, you've had so much rejection.”

“As much as you have had pain.”

“What did the wife do? Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, scowled at the rain. “Have you heard of a place called Houghmagandy?”

“You asked me about that at Denny's. Is that another country club?”

“Heard of a place called Decadence?”

“No. Is that an underground club in Hollywood? I don't have a budget like that.”

My phone sang and sang and sang, became my personal siren, my personal warning.

He said, “She has memberships to Houghmagandy and to a place called Decadence.”

“She belongs to a couple of country clubs—so what?”

I paused, relaxed, ignored my phone, smiled, and took his hands. Pulled him back to the bed. I touched the side of his face, his injury. I kissed his wound, asked no questions.

I had a gut feeling that his wounds had nothing to do with racquetball.

The way he had handled the thug at 7-Eleven, I could only imagine what had happened.

I said, “You exploded at 7-Eleven.”

“I did. I lost it. I really lost it. Lost it the way I did when I found my ex-girlfriend's lover.”

“You left that part of the story out.”

“I know.”

“What you did tonight was brave, foolish, and arousing. My nipples stood up and applauded.”

“You became a butterfly with a box cutter that looked like a wicked switchblade.”

“Somebody had to save you.”

We laughed soft laughs.

“Do you and the wife make sex tapes?”

“What?”

“Wanted to shock you. You were getting too down in the mouth. That nice smile went away.”

“I haven't made any movies. If she has, only she would know.”

“What's the point of marriage if you can't finally be a slut and no one can call you a whore? I'm joking about the slut thing, but serious about the sex-tape thing. Never been a slut, have to say that. Mickey Rooney had more wives than I've had lovers. That doesn't include guys I've made out with, just the ones who made it to the middle of the middle with more than a finger or a tongue. Anyway. I'd love to be married, to have a true husband. I'd write love letters every day, and every night would be the biggest freak for my husband. If I were married and my husband loved me like I loved him, I would want to record almost each time we made love. It would be like a video journal. We wouldn't do it in a pornographic way, wouldn't be no ‘Mimi and the shower rod' thing. I would be with my husband in a more artsy way, so we could see ourselves expressing that love over time. Real love expressed by intimacy. Us in bed, on the floor, in the shower, in the car, outside at some place being naughty, wherever, whenever, laughing, being silly, being serious, being lovers, being friends, being a husband and wife in love. We'd sit up and sip red wine and review our love history from time to time. Might record fellatio and cunnilingus here and there for kicks, a recording that showed me praising my husband for being my man, and record him praising me for being the awesome woman who gives him unconditional love, but what I would want to see is us as a couple, nurturing each other, bonding, being spiritual and inseparable, like we shared one heart, would want to see us aging in the arms of love and friendship. I'd want to see us go from being young lovers to an older couple with grandkids, still making love like we were newlyweds, bad hips, arthritis, and all. The camera would be on our faces, capturing our sounds, our words, not taping cocks and cunts and tricks for kicks. I'd want what's in our eyes. I'd capture that part of us, that private part of us on film. I'd want to capture the love and passion. You never wanted to do that?”

“Maybe I should've become a swinger. Maybe that would have excited my wife.”

“That's disgusting. People who live like that are infected with the devil.”

“Yeah. It is disgusting.”

I said, “I'm sorry. For jumping when he called. I really messed up the night.”

“It's cool.”

“Need you to kiss me again.”

“Why?”

I said, “Kiss me. Make me stay. Kiss me and make me forget about the rest of the world.”

We kissed. It was different. It was awkward.

He asked, “Who are you? You're not a real grifter. You're a brilliant, beautiful woman.”

I almost told him that I had been married, that I had married a man with a substance problem, and I thought that I could fix him, but in the end I was the one who ended up broken. After I had put a small coffin in the ground, I almost didn't make it to the next sunrise. Didn't want to go down that road, a road that ended in flames. I poured myself a glass of wine, drank it all in what felt like one gulp.

Rocking, gazing at him, hoping he couldn't see the real me, I asked, “Who are you?”

“Just a man who wishes he had met you earlier today. I saw your physical beauty, and my dick jumped up and slapped me upside the head and gave me brain damage, added to the temporary insanity. But your mental beauty, your voice, your mind, your humor—it has all gotten under my skin.”

“And my tongue ring.”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“Be honest. You saw my tongue ring and thought about two-hundred-dollar blow jobs.”

“All men look at tongue rings and think about blow jobs, only they want them gratis.”

“Why?”

“Because we're men. Same reason women look at Idris and their clits do the Riverdance.”

“It's an involuntary reaction with Idris.”

“Well, your tongue ring is to me what Idris is to you.”

“And my hair. You approved of my hair.”

“Your hair is simply amazing.”

“You became enamored by me one aspect at a time.”

“You're one helluva package. You don't see art all at once. Art has many levels, and many never comprehend the depth. They only see one color. You have to sit with art, gaze at art, take in the aesthetic beauty, and each time you discover something new. As one listens to you with his heart, he has to feel you with the eyes. See how your eyes are drawn to particular areas. Take in the composition, shape, shades, and shadows, see how you're well-proportioned. The rawness is beautiful and the depth cannot be ignored. The way you move, the way you dance, is amazing. You're shapely, art come to life, well-decorated intellect. Your voice—it turns husky, then becomes melodious, like honey at times. Each word you speak, no matter how vulgar, sounds like a song. You have character. You make me laugh.”

“Wow. If Hollywood saw me that way, I'd be the next Regina Baptiste—the brown version.”

“You almost made me wish you were my wife.”

“Jesus. Stop. I don't need you to start lying. You went too far.”

“I said almost.”

“Still too far.”

“That's how I was feeling. Now I just wish I had never turned around on the 605.”

I pulled at my dreadlocks, absorbed his sincerity, softened my tone, and said, “Can we start over?”

“Can we?”

“May I kiss you?”

“Your boyfriend might not like the taste of me on your tongue.”

“Forget him. You're right. When I need him most, he's never by my side.”