One Night (18 page)

It burst wide open. It felt like my head had burst wide open.

He attacked me. While I was naked, vulnerable, distracted, he attacked me.

I screamed and bent over, grabbed my head, my fingers drenched.

I cried out that I was going to kill him, and he found my sudden anger funny as hell.

The lights came on and he stood a few feet away laughing, colorful water balloons in each big hand. The balloons that I had left in the bathroom—he had filled them with water. He had commandeered my water balloons and attacked me like a child. Warm water dripped from my dreadlocks.

I yelled at him, “You hit me in the head with a water balloon? You wet my hair?”

He threw a purple one and hit me on the back. It exploded, sprayed against the curtains.

I yelled, “What, are you twelve? Put that down. I'm not playing. Put that—”

The next balloon burst on my hips as I covered my head and turned away.

I raised two middle fingers at him and said, “Oh, this is about to get serious.”

He threw another water balloon, but not hard, and I caught it.

I threw it back at him, made it explode against his chest.

I said, “Where are my balloons? This fight is on now. This is on and popping.”

He had filled up a baker's dozen of balloons, filled them all with warm water.

Like two children, we ran around the suite, laughing, having an all-out war.

I played with him as if he were a child, a little boy. We ran around our imaginary world like we were chasing aliens, monsters, and demons. Soft screams. Muffled laughs. I was once again a rambunctious little girl with wild hair, the child of a man who married a woman with fine hair, then was pissed off when his daughter didn't have the highly approved complexion of the woman he had married. One night, when he thought I was sleeping, I heard him grunt and tell my stepmom that I might be beautiful if I had the same flavor skin as my mother, that if I had fine hair like my mother's mother, if my hair had been less powerful and more delicate, like that of the European women generations before me, or more like the Guyanese, or like the manes of West Indians, then I would have been as beautiful as I was smart.

I thought of all of that in a flash, and two blinks later it was all gone, and I was focused, with a man who treated me as if I were the most beautiful girl in the world, a man who now behaved like a little boy. I saw the well-traveled and privileged boy who used to play with G.I. Joes and other action figures. I saw a strong man with high intellect, yet a fragile heart, a man who was raised and had two unhappy-yet-together-for-life parents who stuck it out, a boy who wasn't shipped across waters to live between two countries and two houses and two families and forced to spend time in noisy and crowded houses that never felt like homes with family that never felt like a real family. He was a man who had had better guidance. He was a man who hadn't procreated out of loneliness, hadn't had a baby because, in the end, even if the Las Vegas–loving, poker-playing, chain-smoking, herb-puffing, highly functioning alcoholic father of my child was a bad choice, and I knew he was a bad choice before he had entered me the first time, knew that after he had given me a two-inch scar on the crown of my head, a mark hidden by my dreadlocks, I knew that we were doomed, and if I stayed with him, in the end, I would be doomed as well. Still, there was a need. I wanted to have a child to love. I had chosen him because he was there. He had promised to stay, to support our child, but he had other women, so I knew that was a lie. His child had become unimportant. What I had needed was larger than anything he would offer. I wanted a child to give and receive unconditional love. The love I had inside me, I had to give it to someone. I had given it to her. I had felt whole. I had wanted to have my own family, even it was just us. I was a grown woman. Once you are paying taxes, you are grown, and your daddy has nothing to do with the perpetual fucked-up-ness in your life, not anymore. I was in charge of my own destiny.

I was in control.

The water balloon fight had us running like heathens, chasing each other, and having a ball.

It only took a couple of minutes, but soon there were twenty more water balloons, ten for him and ten for me, and we were going at it, balloons exploding, water splashing against lamps, mirrors, some bouncing off the art on the walls. Colorful bits of exploded balloon decorated our romping shop.

I ran to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and filled a plastic cup with water, then chased him, splashed him, and wet the television. We were soaked, holding each other, naked, skin sticking, sliding.

We laughed so hard we could barely stand.

I went to the bed and grabbed pillows. The war between representatives from Orange and L.A. counties wasn't over. Laughing, he ran to the other side of the king bed, tried to grab his ammunition.

Then we had a pillow fight, a war that lasted no more than another minute, thirty-nine minutes shorter than the Anglo-Zanzibar War that was fought between the United Kingdom and the Zanzibar Sultanate. But we fought with a playful fierceness, and like the war between China and Vietnam, both sides claimed victory. We were so juvenile. He never hit me hard; he mostly took soft swipes at my ass. He let me grab his pillow and beat him across his shoulders and head as hard as I could. He grabbed me in a frisky hug, lifted me up as I playfully kicked my feet in the air. He put me down on my tiptoes, and I stayed on my toes as I faced him, pulled his damp body to my bosom, and nibbled his bottom lip.

Our smiles were broad as we stood and rocked, gazing into each other's eyes.

We put on hotel robes and ran down the hallway to the bank of elevators and summoned one to our floor, and when it arrived and its doors opened, we jumped on and pushed the buttons, illuminating each floor before laughing and running back down the hallway toward our room, along the way stealing
DO NOT DISTURB
signs from every doorknob on the floor. Then we doubled back,
tap-tap-tapped, tap-tap-tapped, tap-tap-tapping
on doors hard and fast, like we were that irritating Sheldon on
The Big Bang Theory,
and called out that we were from room service, room service, room service, then hurried away, hands over our mouths to muffle our childish laughter. He made it to the room first and locked me out.

I banged on the door, again like Sheldon.
Tap, tap, tap.
Asshole.
Tap, tap, tap.
Asshole. Then I changed and started singing that song from the movie
Frozen
, asked him if he wanted to come out and build a snowman, or ride our bikes around the hall. He let me in, but not before a dozen pissed-off people on the floor had peeped out of their doors. He thought locking me in the hallway naked except for the hotel robe was ingenious and hilarious. He had a lot of frat boy in his blood. When I marched by him and complained about him leaving me in the hallway, a water balloon hit me in the lower back. He had hidden one; the sneaky bastard. Our laughter was loud, reverberated. The guffawing and snickering was infectious. It felt like we were two people who had met on a dreary night and become the happiest in the hotel, in the city, in the county, in the state, in the country, in the world, in the universe. The dystopia that had darkened our souls had been replaced by joy, and that joy was like the sun at noon over the West Indies.

The energy between us felt so sincere and intense, or maybe that was what existed inside me, once again radiating outward, but even if I was projecting, his actions, his attention, his focus, the energy was so profound. I gazed at him the way Eve must've stared at Adam in those first moments.

I looked at him as if I'd never seen a decent man before in my life.

Aretha Franklin sang a little prayer and we danced in the suits of our birth, swayed, turned, and he dipped me like we were in the movies. He had the moves of a jungle cat, and now he looked devastatingly handsome. He had become Idris, Denzel, Blair Underwood, Michael Ealy, the guy who plays Thor, the guy who plays Captain America, Prince, Bruno Mars, and Brad Pitt. Then the room shook and we stopped moving like we were Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and as the jolt from the angry earth rolled through our naked bodies, I held him tighter, in love's embrace, and he held me as if he wanted to protect me. The jolt came and went in less time it takes a man to have the best orgasm of his life.

The tremor wasn't bad, just enough to know that it was undoubtedly caused by fracking. Hydraulic fracturing of the earth was the big thing now. Fracking earthquakes were happening almost every week, would probably cause California to sink like Atlantis, but the sounds of both of our phones vibrating at almost the same moment was more powerful than any earthquake ever recorded. Others demanded our attention, but unwanted intrusions were ignored.

The digital clock glowed, but I refused to acknowledge that time was against us.

I used the imaginary powers inside me, tried to suspend time. This was a new road for me, an abnormal road that was traveled by others, but my lane remained unpaved. Unpaved, untraveled roads are always lined with life and flowers. I wanted a bubble placed around the space in which I existed.

I said, “On the bed; get on the bed.”

He did and we held hands, jumped up and down, up and down, up and down.

It wasn't New Year's Eve, not for some days, but before it was time to check out of this room, we would have to check out of this affair. Therefore we would have to sing our own version of “Auld Lang Syne,” the song they belt out as the ball drops, as a farewell. When we stopped comforting each other during this period of darkness; when it was the proper, awkward moment to end this recklessness; when the sunset to sunrise of this moonless sexual affair, this romantic encounter, took its last breath and sent us back to the lives we had before gaining knowledge of each other; when this fun, this feast, this party for two in a world of billions, this intense indiscretion lost its power and revealed its secrets and the sun fought through rain, smog, and marine clouds, then made it to both knees and rose above the horizon, there'd be a good-bye-forever song rendered on behalf of all that had been done, a misdeed not to be celebrated. He held on to me the way I held on to time.

We took towels, dried each other off. He used a towel to dry my dreadlocks the best he could, then we held each other and laughed. No words, just laughter; pure laughter, joy, and happiness.

LSD woke from its nap. He put a condom on. The laughter stopped.

Susan smiled an impatient smile. Tina and Marie rejoiced.

The doors to the church opened.

His other hand moved down between my legs, and he rubbed me, strummed where I ached. We kissed and panted and kissed and grunted and kissed and made love like we were animals. I thought of it as love. Something had changed, something inside me, and I thought of this tryst as love. A new addiction was trying to get its claws in me. I'd tried cigarettes, alcohol, prescription painkillers, ADHD medication, anti-anxiety medication, cocaine, and twenty kinds of marijuana, and none of that made me feel as good as I did with him inside me. Each stroke moved me further from free will and good choices.

When it came to love and sex, my brain was wired the way an addict's brain is wired for heroin.

He sweated, suffered. Then I was on my back and he had my ankles on his shoulders at first, then bent my knees until they were at my ears, then I rested the bottoms of my feet against his chest. He was going for the positions that allowed him to go deeper. The rhythm of him going in and out of me, of opening me, allowing me to close and then opening me again—it was madness. He grabbed my ankles and held my legs wide, and he plunged into me, stroked and stroked and stroked, used all of his weight and came down on me and plunged and gave it to me like he wanted to break me in half. I welcomed the pain. Wanted this to go on until Jesus called me home. With each stroke he was closer to coming, and with each stroke he became rougher with me, became as savage and powerful and desperate and unyielding as men do when they are in those final moments of madness. I made noises and said so many things. If security knocked on the door, I didn't hear. If someone was in the hallway listening, I didn't care. Where I was, in that state, I wanted to stay there forever, wanted to suffer forever, wanted to be as far away from pain, heartbreak, loss, and fear as I could. But it would end. He had to come, had to get it out of his body. It felt like he wanted to break me, but he couldn't break what was already broken. I sweated and choked up, suffering from nirvana as well, the orgasm that I held at bay my only reprieve. He gave it all to me and I called out to God. I cursed. He did it over and over, gave me his all. I was free. I was alive. Then I moved, challenged him, and showed him I was the type men loved to bed, but never would be able to handle. He represented men like him and I represented women like me. I showed him that women like me, those underappreciated, those underrated, were simply amazing in all ways. I closed my eyes again, sang the blues, my lamentation rising over and over, and moved my head from side to side, amazed at the sensation, almost overwhelmed by a fiery aurora borealis. Every nerve in my body was alive, on fire, and his erection massaged my spot over and over. I clasped his ass, clasped his ass and massaged and caressed his ass every time he rose and fell. Then another aurora borealis was on the horizon, the tingles again like fire on my nerves, shortening my breath. I hooked my ankles around his calves and he kissed me and we moved with desperation, the melody strong, our sinful hymn profound, feverish murmurs, frenzied woos. We moved like we were both on fire, everything so manic.

We battled as if we were in the middle of an unholy, sexual war.

The room phone rang. It rang and rang, and I thought it wouldn't ever stop ringing.

He slowed for a moment, wheezed, made faces like he was about to burst, then continued his stroke, resumed his measured ins and outs. The phone yelled again, but my cooing, his curt and repetitive grunting, our spiritual chant drowned out every intrusive noise. He went too deep, deeper than any lover had been, and the LSD hit new real estate, forced me to sing like Shakira; made me belt out a stream of trembling
ay, ay, ayes
and more
oooh
s and
ahhh
s than I had said since never. His laments told me that he was near climax; the grunts told me the climax was going to be a monster, and the way he pumped and pumped told me the severity of the sensation he felt was crucial. My noises. His sounds. It was a beautiful symphony. We harmonized, became a choir of two. He came. He came hard, like the volcano in Pompeii. He came with so much force it both terrified me and made me proud. He tensed and strained and used my body to get the last of his orgasm out of his body. He strained. Then he was done. The flash flood ended. Within seconds he slowed. I wanted to go on and on, but he had lost his urgency, so it was time for me to lose mine. Still aroused, I held him. He lessened and began to wind down.

Soon I reached down, made sure the condom hadn't slipped off.

The LSD was still covered. That made me happy. That gave me relief.

We inhaled and exhaled in spurts, then lay there like victims after a car accident.

He was the first to try to stand. I focused on the rise and fall of my chest, then looked at him, looked at his condom-covered penis. The condom looked like it was loaded with a frothy liquid, the same texture and color of spume resting on top of most of the drinks served at Starbucks.

I remained aware of my nakedness. I remained equally aware of his.

He would flush his seed and leave now. It was time for me to walk away.

He struggled to find his equilibrium, and asked, “You okay?”

I struggled with the same breathing and balance, groaned, “I'm fine. I'm great.”

“I came fast that time.”

“So did I.”

I looked at his penis, stared at that cyclopean monster and grinned. Condom dangling on penis, he staggered to the bathroom, moved like a man who had drunk one bottle of Jack Daniel's too many. The toilet flushed. My eyes closed. I focused on breathing. I heard the water running. He staggered back with a wet towel. He cleaned me. That was thoughtful. He tossed the towel on the floor, then turned the lights off, only the glow from the television on our dank, bare skin now. The baby-making music on the television could be heard once again. He put his hands in my hair again, massaged my scalp, and we exchanged energy. We heard a headboard slapping the wall. Soft taps that became rapid. Lovers next door. It was their turn to entertain the people on the floor. Orange County moaned a fake moan. I did the same. We moaned louder and louder until we were sure the people next door heard us competing with them. We laughed at our silliness and then we smiled. A short kiss later Adam led Eve back to the bed in their Garden of Eden. Lust danced with curiosity and this felt profound, like we had a deep friendship blended with a strong emotional and physical connection. I wanted all of him, but I knew that I could have none of him. Again I closed my eyes. I wondered if he would cut my hair if I fell asleep, wondered if he would become like Delilah and do me like she had done Samson, cut my hair, and steal my power while I was dead to the world. I tried not to sleep. I tried and failed. Again my body pulled me into a soft sleep. It was the first time in a long time it didn't feel like a mean sleep. There were no sirens in my mind. No fire trucks. No scent of burnt flesh. I was at ease. My mind wasn't racing. We had tranquility. In a world gone mad, for ten seconds, we had tranquility.

Then demons from hell broke free and banged on the door.