She might as well be the nymph to his Pan-infused seduction. Sabra wanted to be taken and ravished in a take-no-prisoners scenario.
The way he brushed against her and closed in, her body responded in bone-deep pleasure. Her core sizzled with arousal as he did things to her body that her mind couldn’t comprehend. Moans and pleas for more hovered on her lips, shy to speak lest he drift away.
Then, as if obeying her fears, he was no more.
Awareness of conscious thought ate away the thin veil of impossible possible as realization mounted its heinous attack.
“No, don’t leave!”
Sabra’s audible cry of frustration carried enough energy to pull her back from the cliff of longing. She stirred enough to realize the encounter for what it was—another wanton dream for a man that seemed far out of her league in reality.
Graveled and garbled her words slunk out, slow and sad. “Damn it—another dream. Ugh! Sorry body, not happening anytime soon. Not with someone like that at least.”
Ache was a poor description that lacked the truth of how much her body wanted to be consumed and taken in an avalanche of pleasure. Could she die from sexual frustration?
But the encounter had been so expressive and vivid, like those old movies in Technicolor. Damn how Sabra wished she could be that smooth and free in real life. She’d been a sexy siren this time. The way she led him directly to that exact spot—yeah, the one that made her want to faint, that one—was exactly how she wanted her sexual encounters.
“Stop it. Time to get up.”
The words cut through her drowsiness enough for Sabra to catch herself before she fell back into the pull of the illusion. That’s all this was—a seductively enticing encounter that was nothing more than an illusion.
Her sigh punctuated the desperation of her soul.
The dream was the same. It had slipped into her slumber more frequently of late. Comforting as it was sensually pleasing, the dream and more importantly, the man in the dream was the best medicine for an alienated existence.
He would come to her like a wave of restrained power and intrigue. She would explore his form and essence with fingers thirsty for touch. He would return her affection with the closeness of his body, a sensual concoction of musk she could never recreate outside of their shared fantasy, and a protective shroud from the cares of the world that blanked out all her worries.
Without the sexual attention she received during these encounters, Sabra would have cracked all the way by now. Outside life was too brutal. As the days progressed, it appeared that Tilar couldn’t always be right. Instead of getting better, Sabra’s worst fears had come to pass. Today was the final nail in the coffin.
Maybe these dreams where what Tilar had seen in her reading? Nah—Tilar never explicitly said anything about Sabra having a new bae. Desperation still was no reason to edit the memory of what her friend had said.
Wakefulness smothered her connection to the dreams as thoughts and cares from her conscious world crowded in. Red numbers on her digital clock confirmed her need to get up and start, but she didn’t want to. Her hand reached out across the body-warmed sheets in vain to touch her phantom man.
An unexpected wave of emotions rushed in. A crescendo of loneliness crashed into her emotional defenses without warning. She rose to escape the empty warmth of the bed only to discover the dreams aftermath. Her body hadn’t recovered from the explicit stimulation. Panties twisted from her nocturnal gyrations were bunched and pinching. A quick hip thrust, garment adjustment, and realization that the crouch was wet, and Sabra hated her life.
Lusty dream make-out sessions with a sexy phantom couldn’t be the only way her sex life expressed itself. A lingering blush of sensation from the dream coasted through her body to nest at the sensitive entrance to her womanhood. Just a few minutes to finish off and she’d be set.
The idea of self-pleasure didn’t appeal to her in comparison with the real—or dream version of real—thing. Plus, Sabra had a long day ahead. No time to dilly dally.
A little laugh escaped at the thought of connecting the words—dilly dally—with her previous idea. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to find a great guy, but that was what happened when she worked almost exclusively with children and mothers.
Still, someone should have crossed her path by now. Sabra pushed the debilitating thoughts down to keep herself from fouling up an already tenuous mood.
Why couldn’t she find a good guy with great looks, sound morals, and flexible standards for the opposite sex who would be interested in a broke, overweight, average-looking but extremely hard-working woman with a shaky reputation?
Frustrated at the state of her body without any hope for satisfaction, Sabra inched out of the lonesome bed and padded toward the bathroom. She plopped down on the toilet to sit, stare, and strategize her day ahead.
Finished, she cleaned herself and prepared to enact her plans only to have her world flipped upside down. No, not this. Not today.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She looked down at the crimson evidence of her monthly torture.
With all the worry and bustle in her life, she’d lost track of her personal calendar. The wetness of her panties was more than arousal—her cycle had started.
“Damn it to hell.”
The next week would be trying as she thought about her usual symptoms of headaches and cramps during her cycle.
As if conjured from the thought of them, both started to make their presence known. Sabra finished her morning bladder relief ritual and began her morning routine.
Her electric toothbrush tumbled into the pedestal sink. The toothbrush’s base was too broad to share the narrow width of the sink with the tube of toothpaste and her other morning ritual instruments for socially accepted hygiene. A long sigh pinged off the small enclosed space to bounce back into her. It would take some getting used to the smaller accommodations of her temporary living quarters.
After a good cry, a vigorous scrubbing of her body and thick mane of coiled hair, and a quick pep talk in the bathroom mirror, Sabra was a little closer to starting the day.
Moving day—why did those two words strike fear in her heart? It was the most prudent thing to do. Her business was no more, and Sabra’s perseverance had taken the last chump shot she could endure with the last court ruling not going in her favor.
Dressed in moving-friendly sweats, Sabra took a last look at herself in the mirror.
“Whelp, this is the last part of your former life. Get in, get it done, and get on with your life.”
Another pep talk completed, she left the tiny bedroom. The industrial motif of the condo did little to mitigate the boiling emotions that simmered close to the surface. She wanted to cry. Her life had been reduced to a pitiful shell of itself.
Sabra almost tripped and fell on a faux jewel encrusted, six-inch heel that was longer than her forearm. That was the perfect incentive to remind her this would be as temporary as possible. Nothing like a great reason to get her butt in gear. Sabra would do everything in her power to make this situation a pitstop and not a phase.
Recovered from the near fall and raring to go, Sabra grabbed her purse, keys, and yelled in the direction of the other bedroom of the cluttered little condo, “Chloe, I’m ready to roll. Let’s go!”
3
Bria
Packing Day at The Doll Hair Studio & Happy Ever After Beauty Headquarters, Atlanta, GA
.
“Bria—Bitch,” her other closest friend, Chloe, dragged out her new favorite word, B-i-t-c-h, in a long drawl.
Sabra bristled at hearing the hated word. Her period-induced headache competed with the gnawing ache at the base of her back. Just great. Cramps, a headache, and Chloe on moving day was a prison sentence no one deserved. At least she’d have tomorrow to hole up in bed when the red tide of her heavy cycle took over her life for the next few days.
Sabra scowled as the other woman repeated the word—this time managing to turn Bitch into three
syllables.
She didn’t care that the word had become common in how it was used in casual everyday conversation. Call her a prude, but never a Bitch. In her estimate, calling anyone a Bitch was rude, not cute or endearing.
“You know I don’t like that word.”
Chloe kept going as if she hadn’t said anything. “I can’t with you,” as she looked around the sea of sparkly child-sized items that made up Sabra’s business.
“You can’t what?” Sabra gave in and asked.
She’d failed in her quest. Sabra decided earlier to not fall into a continuous stream of questions to understand what Chloe meant with her colorful word choices.
Chloe’s profession demanded she understood her clients, their culture, and turns of phrases. The Drag culture side of Chloe’s clients was renown as purveyors of the hottest sayings and trends, but Sabra didn’t have the bandwidth to try to keep up with Chloe’s barrage of it today.
“You know what I mean. Quit acting like a brand-new top bitch and answer that thing.”
“Chloe, oh my god—what does that even mean?” Sabra couldn’t spare the brain cells to make out her friend’s latest sayings or meanings. Daylight was burning too fast for unnecessary words or detours.
Tinkling bells echoed through the open-concept studio. The expensive digital life manager known as her cellphone had rung like crazy all day. These incessant intrusions knocked the chance of a good mood into a distant possibility. Would the harassment ever stop?
The ringtone reminded Sabra of happy children running across an Austrian hilltop in a musical. She’d make sure to change it as soon as she got up.
“It means you’re being obnoxious and sidditty.”
“How so? I’m busy.”
“By acting like you’re too good to answer the phone. You still have to work like everyone else. Stop pretending you’re above it all. It’s okay to change your mind.”
“Thank you. I’ve got my very own bootleg Iyanla, Fix My Life.”
“Bria, I still say you’re in denial. You should at least try to make it work. You should ride the storm out.”
“I’m not being an ingrate. I’m just tired and ready to move on is all.”
“But you’re so good at what you do. Nah, Bitch, don’t let them win.”
“Too late,” was all Sabra was willing to say further about the matter.
From here on, she’d work with adults who didn’t have angry, competitive, crown-addicted mothers intent on destroying her life. There was too much work to be done to waste time answering calls that would fuel the momentum of falling into unbearable depression.
Ring, ring… ring, ring.
“I really can’t with you—answer that damn phone!”
“No, that’s the business ringtone, and I told you I’m no longer in business.”
Sabra continued to pack the box with the closest items. There was not much rhyme or reason to her strategy except to get out of here before tomorrow morning when the movers would arrive.
Known to her best friends and associates as Bria, Sabra Patterson had become known as the Doll Hair Whisperer and top children’s hair stylist by the pageant industry. There wasn’t a child’s head of hair yet that she couldn’t tame and mold into an elegant and poised version of the child’s everyday self. That is until all hell broke loose three months ago.
Sabra banished the thought of that damned Melanie Peele and her pack of hyenas back into the dark recesses of her mind to focus on the now.
Chloe’s voice broke through the memories to say, “Bitch, answer your phone. It might be a potential client.”
Sabra’s reply was lightning fast and cynical as hell. “Or, it could be another reporter, law firm, or indignant Momager calling to harass me. Like I said, I’m not in business anymore.”
“You’re really giving up, just like that? You know that offer still stands. You could make wigs for my boys.”
“It’s not giving up, it’s being wise enough to know what season you’re in. And, thanks but no thanks. I’m done with hair and all things related to it—wigs included.”
“But you’re so good at making them. You’d be rich if you started making Drag wigs on the regular. You’ve become a wiggy legend with the ones you’d done for me in the past.”
That was it. Sabra huffed and let it fly. “I said no. I don’t want to!”
Chloe launched an impressive side eye. “Who you hollering at, Bitch?”
Sabra knew she was wrong and corrected herself. “Sorry, but I need you to not sweat me about my decision, okay?”
Chloe deftly ignored her apology while dropping another hair accessory on a small pile near Sabra. “You know, not everything Tilar says is the absolute gospel. You need to continue to fight.”
“Maybe you need to walk a mile in my shoes. From where I sit, everything Tilar said is true.” Sabra had the need to defend her other friend and her belief that her reading would eventually come true.
“Except for you getting a new man in your life. I swear I could see dust rising when you sat down.”
“Shut it and pack. Oh my God, I swear if I could have afforded to pay them, I would have bypassed you and gotten Ambrosia and his guy friend to help me pack.”
“Don’t go near my assistant. He’s threatening to quit over some new trade he’s strung out over as it is.”
Again, Sabra had no clue what that meant. It didn’t matter anyway. She was stuck doing this by herself. Overwhelmed and close to total mental collapse, Sabra had to focus her last bits of motivation to close this chapter of her life and face the unknown. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Chloe here.
Said woman’s voice cut through the haze of self-pity. “Quit being so dramatic. Come hell or high water you always get things done.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. It would be better with some help.”
“I’m helping in my own unique and special way.”
Chloe Reynolds hadn’t been her first choice for the moving task, but Tilar was busy with work. Tilar was good for working and doing. Chloe was better at organizing, directing, and getting in the way. As one of her closest friends, besides Tilar, Sabra leaned on the woman for emotional support. What she couldn’t rely on Chloe to provide was help packing.
Towering over both Sabra and Tilar, Chloe was a formidable presence. She used it to full effect for her occupation as a feminization coach and consultant to the LGBTQ community. As a cis-gender female makeup artist and character stylist at one of the premier Drag clubs in Atlanta, Chloe went toe-to-toe in daily battles with the best in her field. Most of her clients ruled the stages of the scene. Her business was growing with other opportunities to branch out, and Sabra was excited about her friend’s success.
It was the weird words and meanings that were the chore of being Chloe’s friend. Today wasn’t the best day for her to have to wade through the murky pond of Chloe’s colloquialisms. Sabra knew Chloe both appreciated the culture and held her own as a stylist.
That appreciation was the driving force behind the promise she made in her older brother’s memory. While the girls had been in college, he’d been killed in a hate crime while dressed in Drag. He’d never come out to his family. Chloe swore that’s what killed her mother and not the brain tumor that overtook her in a matter of months.
Straighter than a “stiff dick at an orgy,” as she liked to say, Chloe had to prove herself in her industry day in and day out, but she did it with flare and fantastic fashion. Let her tell it, there wasn’t a client yet who could best her with attitude, defiance, or Divadom.
“Sis, you need to take a night and get out there.” Chloe winked and loosed a conspiratorial grin as she looked around for something. “I’m sure some of my drag boos would love to take you out on the town. Let me find my phone, and we can have you ready in a few hours.”
“Not interested, and for the love of an impeccably laid lace-front, get to packing. You’re wearing me out.” Sabra wasn’t up to fighting off Chloe’s shenanigans t
oday. Not with all the crap she accumulated over the years needing to be packed and moved in hours, not days. Day after tomorrow meant another month’s lease payment would be due with a penalty for not vacating by the end of her lease.
“Your gaybies aren’t going to pitch in on the money I’ll owe if I don’t get out of here.” Sabra impressed herself with the use of a word from Chloe’s client’s lifestyle. She needed to impress on her friend how serious she was too. “Stop trying to sidetrack me. For the last time, this is happening. The business is closed. All I want and need for you to do is help me get through this. I need for this part of my life to be done and over with. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Sabra sucked in a huge gulp of ylang-ylang infused air to refrain from cursing her friend. She’d chosen the scent to combat the constant annoyance and antics better known as the Chloe effect.
It failed.
Chloe’s eyes softened as she considered her friend’s plea. She came over to the area where Sabra struggled to put non-related items in a box. Relief washed over Sabra as she bent down to hold down the flaps of the box. Good, she was going to help pack after all. Sabra ran the tape roller over the seams of the box and had it closed before her friend spoke again.
“You’re using that term wrong. Gaybies are gay couples’ children. Plus, I can’t be a Drag mother since I’m not a Drag Queen.”
“Enough with the unwanted Drag culture lesson” Sabra waved her off. “You know what I mean.”
A sly smile crept into view as Chloe lowered her voice. “You know, my boys, they’re so good at scouting out the best men—gay and straight,” Chloe said as if Sabra had said anything to the contrary. Sabra agreed but didn’t want or ask for their services.
Gah! Chloe would ignore a Zombie Apocalypse if she had a mind to.
“You don’t say.” Sabra allowed her hand gesture to do the rest of the talking.
Chloe brushed off Sabra’s middle finger response as she added. “I totally agree with that theory. I’ve seen them in action.”
Dragon’s Curvy Patient Page 3
