Saint And Sinners (5 page)

Saint had him sit down, and the big goliath explained in explicit detail that he couldn’t
get hard unless he was dressed like a motherfuckin’ baby. The actual diagnosis was
paraphilic infantilism. Saint had heard of such things more than once in his line
of work, but the imagery of big ass Ulysses wrapped in a Depends diaper, talking about
he wanted a binky from his lover, almost sent him over the edge. At that moment, Saint
realized his maturity and professionalism could have been compromised with the way
he had choked back laughter, pretending to cough several times during the session.
Ahhhh, New York, it brought out all kinds. Sure, California was chock full of strange
oddities and cocoa puff crazies as well, but they had a polish to them, a showroom
display of sensibilities. The Los Angeles lunatics didn’t feel, look, smell or taste
as authentic. Their brand of insane in the membrane came from the limited luxury line,
designer and dazzling with vocal-controlled suicide doors. No, New York brought him
individuals that liked having wooden broomsticks rammed up their tight asses. They
meant every damn word about it, and were barely ashamed. Matter of fact, they were
only there because their fetish bothered someone
else
. He missed those fucked up bastards…

Saint sat down, grabbed his remote and shoved his hand down the front of his pants,
Al Bundy style, until he’d reached his silky pubic hair. He hitched his boredom on
a ho-hum sigh until he found something mindless to watch.

Ahhhh, ‘Superfly’… Now, this could get interesting.

He slumped further into the chair until he was practically molded to the black leather,
blending in with the damn thing. The theater seating seemed suddenly overwhelming,
huge, threatening to swallow him whole as he lazed about. The movie screen now brandished
a suave, slick drug dealer, the notorious Ron O’Neil, also known as ‘Priest.’ What
captivated Saint most of all were the streets the man’s platform shoes smacked against…mothafuckin’
New York. His concrete Mama was calling his name. The South Bronx choked him nearly
to death with her bloodied and soiled apron strings.

That ‘woman’ placed her gritty and tarnished ring-covered hands around his throat
and attempted to snuff the life right out of his little, bad ass self. He sucked on
shit tainted air and jumped in stagnant puddles filled with prostitute piss and used
tampons, and yet…he yearned for that old bitch like a puppy trying to grasp its mother’s
swollen bullet-shaped nipples. Saint ran his hand across his face, ever so slowly,
his sight partially blocked as he peered through his fan-spread fingers. When he focused
back on the screen, Priest was about to righteously fuck the beautiful Shiela Frazier
in the damn bathtub. It was one of his favorite scenes hands down, and he made no
bones about it as he rose from his slumped position, sat forward, and clasped his
hands like a serious man in a heated debate. He focused solely on their slow-moving,
wet bodies intertwined in a seductive water dance and covered in white, frothy bubbles.
Saint ran his finger across his lower lip as if he were studying hard for an exam.

The first time I saw this shit, I was with Raphael. Tee told us there was a fuck scene
in it, and that’s all we needed to hear. The movie was old by then, I had to have
been about nine or ten, but we didn’t care – the king of silver screen drug dealers
was gettin’ it on with a woman I would’ve loved to have had a chance with, pluck her
from the life she lived and claim her as my very own.

He smirked at the notion. At the time, he thought it was highly probable. Most of
Saint’s fantasies as a youth involved older women…the kind that rode around in the
big fancy cars, the ones with flashy dresses, painted faces and slick vernacular.
He didn’t want some young girl back then. No, he wanted a woman who could teach him
a thing or two, take him between her thighs and show him how to please a Queen Bee.
Matter of fact, he was certain that for a while, he had a cougar thing going on.

They never called it that then; it was just ‘the old lady’ syndrome. Some who were
in love with Freudian theories would attribute it to his lack of a mother during a
pivotal time in his life. Others would say he just knew mature women were simply better
fucks. Fact was, back in those days, Saint didn’t discriminate. If he found a woman
attractive, it didn’t matter if she happened to be ten years his senior, or ten years
younger, as long as she was legal, ready and able. The only requirements were that
she be black, beautiful and stacked like a plate of pancakes for he planned to dismantle
and keep going until he devoured his latest conquest’s creamy middle, pats of butter
’nd all.

He continued to watch the movie, the lines so ingrained within him, he had the entire
cinematic masterpiece memorized. After a while he took a glance at the clock. He was
stirring, his energy mounting, and he had nowhere to park it and set it free. Getting
to his feet, he made his way to his fully stocked minibar and removed a gleaming shot
glass from the cherry wood cabinet.

This should help.

He poured the Scotch whisky into the glass, adding a bit of club soda and causing
the wheat color of the liquor to bubble and fizz. He tipped it to his waiting lips
and downed it like NyQuil, making a face as if it were similar to burning acid, but
needed to go down the damn hatch to cure all that ailed him. He stood there, holding
that tumbler and glaring at the screen from a short distance, his eyes glued to the
details, his heart breaking from the misery of it all. He could hear Priest speaking
clear as day…and he kept seeing that scene growing closer and closer to his heart.
Those damned East village streets replayed in his relentlessly churning mind. Earnest
feelings tiptoed through his body, soon turning hot and bothered.

The liquor loosened his inhibitions, and before he knew it, he’d left his coveted
lair, his sheltered domain, and resurfaced into the living room only to find Xenia
flipping through a glossy clothing catalog and Tyler fast asleep in a portable baby
basket beside her, as if he were a picnic lunch prepared just for one. He stood cattycorner,
gaining a viewable advantage then stopped in his tracks. She shot him a look from
over her shoulder. Her large, dark eyes turned to glimmering slits as she placed her
delicate index finger to her plush lips.

“Shhhhh….”

He nodded in understanding, then presented a different solution. Since he was not
allowed in her space, she’d have to come to his. He raised his hand and beckoned,
ushering her to come over. Her mouth drew tight, pursed, and a look of warning gleamed
in her eyes as the hush from the nearby television, barely audible, played as a lullaby
in the background.

“No.” He shook his head vigorously as he whispered, careful with the volume pouring
from between his lips. “I don’t want
that
…”

Her look of disbelief as she placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side
let him know there was no use in trying any scams, schemes or mischievous means.

“Well, okay, I do, but that’s
not
why I’m up here, Xenia.” He placed his hands around his mouth, as if speaking through
a megaphone, and continued to declare himself in a hushed tone, seemingly annoying
her even further as he pleaded his case. “I need to talk to you. Can you give me a
few minutes, please?” He quickly plastered on a dejected facade, the melancholy he
expressed definitely real, albeit exaggerated to render his desired results. Xenia
studied him for a few seconds, placed the baby on the floor in the basket and wrapped
him a bit more snugly before leaving her post. Soon, she stood before him, her hair
pulled back in a soft, curly Afro with a silk olive and gold paisley headband. As
he looked down at the woman, he felt himself instantly float into sensual scenes inside
the alcoves of his sordid mind. He reached for her, his fingertips slowly scanning
her collarbone. Her perfume sent his dick a message, causing it to salute and lift
its sleepy head in sudden awareness that delectable pussy was close.

“Yes?” she whispered, breaking his thoughts, forcing him back on track.

“Before I say this, do you, uh, know when the kids will be back?” He dipped low and
kissed her ear as he cupped her around her neck.

“Pretty soon, actually.” She rolled her eyes, most likely annoyed that the man was
clamoring all over her body after acting as if he had an urgent matter at hand. “Donna
has been calling me every fifteen minutes,” she continued. Normally, any mention of
that
person would have murdered his hearty libido and tossed the carcass in a makeshift
grave, but he was too wound up for that to do much damage. “That woman is going to
cause her own death if she doesn’t relax. I remember days like that. The first time
Mama watched Hassani for us, I kept doing the same thing to her, too. It’s hard.”

That’s not the only thing that’s hard…

Saint pushed the sexually deviant thoughts out of his mind and attempted to stay on
track. He really
did
have a pressing matter to discuss. This wasn’t simply dick and lip service.

“Yeah…look, I’ve been doing some thinking.” He peeped over her shoulder, as if the
baby could overhear, comprehend and go and repeat the private details he wished to
express. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and uh…” Suddenly, he realized
how bad this may sound. He stopped short, second-guessing himself. He had liquid courage,
had warmed himself up with the juices of the damned and emboldened by memories of
the images he’d just seen on screen. Was he being selfish? He wasn’t sure, but he
felt tired…so very tired. “Look, baby…”

“What is it, Saint?” He could hear the concern in her voice now as she glared at him
with those damn eyes. The eyes he couldn’t lie to, not one second longer.

“I guess I’ll just say it, get right to it.” He clapped his hands together and briefly
looked away.

“Yes, please do. I need to get back to the baby.” She shifted her weight, growing
annoyed with him yet again.

“How do you feel about moving?” He pulled her towards him once more and held her a
bit tighter, gathering the fabric from the back of her shirt in his grasp. It was
a desperate move, one to simply hold her just in case she told him to fuck off.

“…Moving?” Her dark, flawlessly arched eyebrow shot up as if pulled by a tiny, invisible
string. “Moving
where
? You don’t like our house anymore?”

“Nah.” He laughed lightly, his stomach fluttering a bit as he looked away from her.
Then he turned back in her direction, regaining his nerve. “That’s not it. I love
this house. I love it a lot actually.”

“Then what is the problem?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“The problem is I can’t relocate the house, Xenia.” Frustration dripped from every
syllable he now uttered. He was pissed at himself, but also in dire need and there
was no way to run from the reality of the situation, not one second longer. “I can’t
move the damn house. It’s not our pad, it’s this whole damn place!”

“Shhhhh! You are going to wake the baby,” she reprimanded while taking him by the
hand and leading him farther away from earshot, into the ‘piano’ area.

“Look, Xenia.” He gripped her arms, feeling desperate, as though, if the woman didn’t
give him what he required, he’d die right there on the damn spot, a broken pile of
nothingness for her to try and make sense of. “I want… to go…
home
!” His chest caved as he swallowed his own spit, practically choking on it. He must
have sounded like a child, a distressed toddler needing the comforts of his mother’s
lap but he couldn’t help himself—it had to be said.

“Saint, what is going on with you? You
are
home.” And then her expression softened and a side eye glance caught him by surprise.
“You’ve been drinking…” She smirked.

“Goddamn it, no! I mean, well, yes, yes, I’ve been drinkin’ but that’s not it.” He
spun in a circle, gripping his hair, forcing himself through the mess he didn’t quite
understand his damn self. He faced her once more.

“I want to go back to New York, Xenia,
my
home. I’m fucking sick and tired of L.A.! It’s killing me. Look at all the bullshit
we’ve been through?” He threw his hands up towards the ceiling as if the answers were
there before his eyes, and what he had to do was show her, and all would be well.
“Look at this craziness. I moved here because I
love
you.” His eyes narrowed on her as his heart seized with panic and sadness fell upon
him like New York snow. “Because I’m the one that asked you to marry me and I turned
your whole world upside down, I wanted to make sure you were not disrupted any further.
I never wanted to move here, baby. But I did it for
you
. That was my doing, you know, snatching you away from everything, so I felt like…shit!”
He turned away from her, frowning, trying to form the right words. This wasn’t going
the way he envisioned it.

In his mind, he said all the right things and before he knew it, a moving truck or
two would be pulled up and they’d be on their way. She’d accept it, just like that.
He realized at that point that he had in fact been watching too many movies and realism
had left out the backdoor without so much as a ‘goodbye.’

“I felt like I owed it to you, to make a go of it here. You had your show, and James
was here, so it all worked out, you know? It all fell into place. Now that your television
show contract is almost expired and you told me you aren’t going back next season,
I figured this is a good time to really consider this.”

He’d rendered the woman speechless. It was clear on her face and the way her dark
brown eyes drilled into him, she was completely taken aback, damn near flabbergasted.
Xenia’s mouth hung open, and her eyes widened even further, as if she’d truly forgotten
the entire English language…and Spanish, too. Her fingertips gently dragged across
her blouse as she glanced to the floor then looked back into his eyes.