Not About That Life

by Vera Roberts

  She was a peroxide-blonde perfection with the best plastic surgery Anthony’s money could buy. I’m almost positive if she were on a sinking ship and there were no life vests left, she would be okay because those two big-ass flotation devices she calls tits will keep her afloat.

  I carefully studied Elise’s face and could count the number of plastic surgeries she’s had, beginning with her too-inflated lips. All that money spent on looking like a black woman and still can’t get anywhere close to God’s creation. Beautiful.

  What’s even more disturbing is Elise is only a few months older than me. “Oh?”

  “Dry-ass turkey with dry-ass stuffing to the dry-ass pumpkin pie…how in the hayle do you make dry-ass pumpkin pie?” Emma’s face scrunched up. “Yo, Domi…you know that song by Destiny’s Child? Bills, Bills, Bills? The shit last year was dry, dry, dry.” She channels her inner-Beyoncé. “I can’t believe it’s dry, ohmygod it’s so dry, why is this so fucking dry?”

  “She’s triflin’, good-for-nothing type of mother,” the gay male cousin, Dalton, chimed in. He was Oscar’s rather flamboyant son. He had trimmed brown hair and light green eyes, and an air that whispered whatever act of pretentious his father had, Dalton truly lived it. He was Posh Spice. “Silly Tony, why hadn’t he found another?”

  “Someone his own age, why can’t he get a woman his age? Why must she act like she barely passed the third grade?” Emma continued.

  I covered my mouth to keep the laughter in. The extended Ferguson clan is a riot. “Oh dear,” was the only nice comment I could make.

  “Em,” Dalton blinked at her, “I hear Step Mommy Dearest is trying to get pregnant.”

  Emma whipped her head towards Elise and back at Dalton. “If that shit happens, I’m telling Gerald we’re redoing the prenup STAT!”

  “Little does Step Mommy Dearest know, Anthony had that taken care of years ago,” another cousin, Hannah, chimes in. She’s a natural blonde with stunning blue eyes and a quiet demeanor. She’s the type of girl who probably has a bag full of weed, listens to nothing but trap music, and could tell you why Missy Elliott is the greatest rapper alive. She strangely smells like a combination of incense, weed, and Chanel. She’s Hipster Spice. “I overheard him talking to my mom about it.”

  “Assuming Elise doesn’t know,” Dalton twirled a cocktail straw in his mouth, “she is the true boo-boo the fool.”

  Suddenly the men came out carrying dishes upon dishes of delicious food. Not only did the turkey look like golden perfection, but the other dishes – cream cheese mashed potatoes, stuffing made with beef broth, and candied yams – were made to perfection.

  My heart did small pitter-patters when I saw some Domi favorites such as collard greens, jambalaya, baked macaroni and cheese, and gasp! Are those oxtails I see?

  Be still my heart! Ian definitely is getting a blow job tonight.

  “All of this looks so amazing and interesting,” a cousin, Bianca, commented. She had an average build and average face, but there was nothing average about her. I later found out Bianca is a private sponsor of a BLM-type of group called Sisters United, led by Briana Gooding. She’s Woke Spice. “I can definitely tell this is Ian’s doing.”

  “Don’t be a racist dick, BeeBee.” Dalton tsked.

  “Fuck you, homo,” Bianca shot back and I gasped before they both turned to me. “We joke like that. He knows I’m far from racist and homophobic. We play with each other like that.”

  “My sense of humor is twisted, Domi,” Dalton nodded, “I love everyone but I’ll make fun of a bitch, too. Any of them. All of them.”

  I think that’s a slick reminder to always stay on Dalton’s good side. “Good to know.”

  “Dalton’s bite is friendlier than his bark,” Ian chimes in as he sets down the side dishes, “The only bitches he’s making fun of are the queens he follows on IG.”

  “They are horrendous!” Dalton shakes his head. “Pitiful, the lot of them. Who in the hell says green eye shadow is fierce? Who does that?”

  “I thought red was in this year?” Emma folded a napkin in her lap. “What’s the color of the year now?”

  “Hell, if I care,” Dalton feigned yawning, “I just like to go on IG and be messy.”

  “What a surprise,” Gerald puts a couple of dishes down, “a rich gay male with nothing else better to do than to start drama. Someone alert Perez Hilton.”

  Anthony finally comes through the kitchen carrying one of the biggest turkeys I’ve seen my entire life and sets it on a chopping block nearby. “Shall we begin?” He booms.

  Ian and Gerald take their places next to Anthony, who proudly holds the carving knife. Other family member quickly snap photos as it’s the perfect photo op. Someone’s Instagram is about to be lit. “Thank you all for coming today. It’s been a while since all of us have gathered here for Thanksgiving. I want to thank my son, Gerald, for arranging everyone to visit. I also want to thank my other son, Ian, for preparing what looks like a wonderful meal for all of us to enjoy.”

  “I can’t wait to try all of this delicious food!” Elise beams. “I never had ethnic food so I’m totes excited!”

  “Bitch, what?” Adrienne murmurs under her breath before I kicked her chair and reminded her she briefly dropped her Caucasian voice. “Oh yes, it all looks great.” She eyeballs me and I gave a polite shrug.

  “I’m totes excited as well,” I reply.

  After the Ferguson men carve the turkey, everyone begins to pass the sides like an automated assembly line. I hear the curious gasps and quiet wonders about some of the more…ahem…ethnic dishes that Ian made. I don’t have to wonder if anyone other than me and Adrienne (and Blake as an extension) have ever had soul food. Their faces say it all.

  “Ah, yes!” An uncle, Steven, beams. He’s tall and blond, with an unmistakable asshole charm that tells me he just might be racist but because he has a black wife, he won’t be considered as one. Nazi Spice. “Fish pie!”

  “Fish pie?” I question. “What’s that?”

  “Fish pie is what lesbians like to eat,” Dalton begins before Emma elbows him, “I mean, it’s an English dish.”

  “You’ve never had it, Dominique?” Steven asks.

  “Well, Ian hasn’t made it yet so no,” I reply, “I’m curious about it.”

  “Oh, you should try it. I think you’ll love it,” Steven pauses, “I’m sure it’ll spice up your palate in addition to the other colorful recipes you’re used to.”

  Colorful recipes? He just needs to come out and just say black. It’s on the tip of his tongue. “Okay.”

  “Domi has had a wide range of food,” Ian finally sits beside me and begins to fix his plate, “I’ve introduced to her a lot of different cuisine from all over. It’s just not the sadness and couscous in addition to the white bread and dry-ass grits you’re used to.”

  I fold my lips as Emma and Dalton break out into laughter. Even Gerald had to look away and smile. There’s no shade like English shade.

  Elise takes a bite of the jambalaya and sighs in contentment. “Oh Em Gee. This is like, so good! This is so good, Ian! What is this called? Jum-lie-uh?”

  “Did she just Miley Cyrus the word jambalaya?” Adrienne whispers and I hold my tongue.

  “It’s jambalaya,” Ian slowly speaks, pronouncing every syllable carefully. Something tells me this isn’t the first time he’s had to do this with Elise. “It’s a Southern dish from Louisiana.”

  “Hey Elise,” Dalton leans over, “can you say va-sect-to…” Emma elbows him before he could finish. “Bitch, don’t ruin the cashmere.” He rubs his stomach.

  “This is really good, Ian. Fantastic as always!” Anthony beams. “Are you going to be putting these dishes in any of your restaurants?”

  “I hope to debut it at Sentiment,” Ian answers. His tone is different when he addresses his father. There’s a strong sense of pride, love, and respect between the men and the feeling is very mutual. “I wanted to test it here first before I do.”
>
  The news is a surprise to me. Ian often changes the menus at his restaurants so he’s not serving the same thing all of the time. I’m not too sure how I feel about Ian wanting to incorporate soul food at a high-flauting restaurant where the guest list generally lacks melanin.

  I don’t want to outright say my fiancée is cultural appropriating but I can’t help but to wonder would he still be trying to introduce soul food if we hadn’t met?

  Before I could pursue any more thought, the doorbell rings, and Anthony leaps out of his chair to answer it. He came back a short time later with a stunning, older blonde woman. She wore a classic lavender cashmere sweater with daring white slacks and kitten heels.

  Her platinum blonde hair was coiffed into a perfect bob cut. Her jewelry was understated but expensive. She emanated royalty and grace, and I felt the need to bow all of a sudden.

  It seemed just about everyone knew who she was, especially Ian and Gerald. “Oh really?” Gerald looked over and met eyes with Ian.

  Ian paused mid-drink and looked over to their father and his new friend. I could tell Ian was trying to hold his smile back but it still escaped his lips. “Well, this should get interesting.”

  “Shit, why didn’t she come last year with the dry-ass food?” Emma sipped her cocktail. “I would’ve enjoyed it more.”

  “Who is she?” I quietly ask.

  “She is Cheryl Geoff,” Oscar chimes in, “she’s Anthony’s longtime girlfriend.”

  Adrienne choked on her water as my mouth hung open. “Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait…” I close my eyes.

  “Have you ever heard of the love triangle between Prince Charles, Princess Diana and I guess, Princess Camilla?” Bianca asks me.

  “Camilla ain’t no goddamn princess,” Dalton mutters before he takes a drink.

  “Anyway,” Bianca rolls her eyes and continues, “Prince Charles was married to Princess Diana, but he married her out of obligation and not love. The entire time he was married, he was having an affair with Camilla, the woman he wanted to be with. After he and Diana divorced, he just went public with her and got married a few years later after Diana’s death.”

  “Okay,” I’m trying to connect the dots, “so how does this apply to what just happened here?”

  “Cheryl is Camilla,” Hannah looks over to Anthony and Cheryl as they giggle like naughty school kids, “and Elise is…”

  “Bitch, you better not even say that on the princess’s grave,” Dalton shook his head, “no Princess Diana slander in this house.”

  “So, that’s what’s going on here,” I’m stunned and I’m trying hard not to stare at Anthony and Cheryl but they’re so obvious with each other and Elise…Elise is either blissfully unaware or she just didn’t care as long as she could go shopping. “So, will Anthony and Cheryl ever get married?”

  “Oh, that’s in the works,” Emma replies, “believe that.”

  I look over to Ian and he just blinks at me. “And now you know why I’ve been going to your family for Thanksgiving all these years.”

  “I hope this is it because Dad’s weddings are fucking expensive,” Gerald snares.

  “He’s had three additional weddings?” I ask. I’m well-aware Elise is wife number four.

  “And each time they become grander than the last one,” Bianca chimes in. “Elise’s was cute. Nothing but pink everywhere.”

  “A Pepto Bismol disaster,” Oscar replied.

  “Elise has lasted a lot longer than I thought she would,” Dalton dryly says, “a blistering three years. Good for her. Good for her.” He says it like he was giving a puppy a treat.

  “They started dating when she was 20?” I have yet taken a bite of food.

  “Whirlwind. She came in applying for an internship and they just, well…” Hannah trails off.

  “No, you can be honest, H.,” Ian replies, “she wanted me, I paid her dust, so she started fucking my father as a come up to get closer to me and I’m still paying her dust.”

  Now it’s time for Blake to choke on his food while Adrienne slaps the table and scoots her chair back. “I am drowning in a water tanker full of Earl Grey.”

  “Meanwhile Anthony married her so he could keep an eye on her so she didn’t get too close to Ian,” Oscar replies, “that’s why he was always sent away on holiday.”

  “She stopped trying when you came into the picture, Dominique,” Bianca adds, “I think she was intimidated by you. They recently installed a pole in their bedroom.”

  I just dropped my fork while Ian and Gerald chew their food like I just didn’t hear biggest mind-blowing thing ever.

  “So when this happens,” I nod over to the obvious to everyone but one person love triangle, “then what?”

  “Cheryl moves in, Elise moves out, she’ll get a nice check for her time, and she’ll keep all of the gifts and jewelry Anthony has purchased for her.” Bianca adds. “Same story as with the others.”

  Anthony has a definite pattern. “What happened to the others?” I cautiously ask.

  “Who cares?” Gerald comments.

  “Last I heard esposa tres was trying to get another sponsor,” Dalton chimes in, “she’s getting up there in age so I don’t know what man wants a plaything in her 40’s when he get younger and more fertile.”

  “I think dos is a feminist activist,” Hannah replies, “she went completely opposite of what she did.”

  “Well, when you’re broke-ass and your sponsor cuts you off, what else are you going to do?” Dalton rolls his eyes.

  I didn’t bother to ask if either woman was well-compensated after the divorces. It seems they got everything they wanted in terms of jewelry and gifts but the biggest thing – real estate – was something they didn’t get.

  Diversify your assets, Domi.

  I have a designer wardrobe that would make anyone jealous and all of the jewelry that’s worth a pretty penny. It’s time for me to look above and beyond the Bentley and Manolos; I need to think bigger.

  I needed to have my own place.

  Ian took a bite of his oxtails and smiled at me. “Are you scared yet?”

  I am; in more ways than one. “Not yet.”

  Six

  I ate too damn much at Thanksgiving.

  Despite the copious amounts of tea and not being able to eat because I was laughing so hard at Dalton, Emma, and Bianca shading the hell out of each other, I did manage to finish one big plate and half of another one.

  What can I say? My English bae knows how to make soul food.

  He even made sweet potato pie and Lord, if that didn’t promise me reparations and my forty acres and a mule, I don’t know what will.

  Still, the thought of Ian introducing soul food at Sentiment doesn’t sit well with me. I know it’ll be a hit and it’ll bring in more of a crowd. I’m not saying he shouldn’t; it’s his restaurant and he can most certainly do whatever he wants with it.

  But do I really want Ian to popularize something that’s been done for centuries? Everything is all good until Elvis Presley and Eminem make it cool. Next thing you know, they’re labeled as legends while the real pioneers are home listening to their records that sound just about white.

  Enough with the cultural appropriation, I need to focus on my routine. I’m hoping my fat ass won’t let me fall too hard on the hardwood floor. Maybe next time, I’ll have just one helping of sweet potato pie.

  I turn on “Untitled” by D’Angelo and feel the begging guitar strings course through my body. The sharp piano chords thump against my feet as I climb up the pole just a few feet from the ground. My legs slowly swim in the air. I stop momentarily and grab my ankle, creating a split along the pole.

  I close my eyes and imagine Ian. It wasn’t my intention to think of my fiancée but the song is so sensual, I naturally imagine I’m giving this dance just for him only.

  My intention goes from the haunting guitar strings to the hard piano chords. I flip backwards on the pole and immediately slam down to the floor in a full sp
lit. I fold my body over and stretch my right leg to my ear again.

  Damn, this is a hot position. I need to try this one with Ian. He’s already a fan of how flexible I can get.

  I fold my body back over and go into another split, showing all of me. I slither on the floor, swaying my hips to the melody and D’Angelo’s declaration how much he loves it when I get wet (damn, that really reminds me of Ian).

  My body is hot to the touch and I feel a familiar dampness in my bikini. My body flips over again and I slide to another pole, stretching out my legs along the length of it. I slowly gyrate against the floor before I grab the pole and bend over backwards as I lift myself up.

  My hands are all over my body as D’Angelo’s falsetto whispers to me. My nipples are rock hard, my breathing is slightly sporadic, and all I want is my fiancée to fuck my mouth. I feel so sexy, so aroused, and yet so incredibly focused.

  I slide over to another pole and circle around it. I feel the climax of the song approaching and I know it’s my cue for the grand finale. My mind can’t help but to wonder how each time Ian and I make love, it’s the last few minutes before the climax that are the most intense. Feeling his body slap against mine, his tongue shoved into my mouth, his wondering hands all over my body, as he stretches me out with each thrust.

  “How does it feel, angel?”

  “Mmm, it feels good, baby.”

  I quickly climb up the pole using only arms, as I spread my legs into open splits with every other movement. My movements are quick and fierce, with no breather in between – just like how Ian flips me over into another position.

  At the crescendo of the song, I delve into a full split as I hold one leg against my head while my body softly turns around the pole. I stop spinning long enough to grab the pole with both hands and make a perfect Y along the pole.

  I close my legs and ease down the pole, softly gyrating against it. Feeling all sorts of sensual and sexy, I walk to the center of the poles, softly dragging my feet and stand still as D’Angelo’s voice fades to black.