by Cydney Rax
“Man,” he said, opening and closing his eyes like a newborn baby adjusting to its first day of life, “what in the hell is your problem? Turn that thang down.”
I muted the volume. “Hey, Brad, sorry ’bout dat. I—I need to talk,” I said, standing over him.
“You need to do what?” he asked yawning. “Sound like my sister.”
“I’m not your sister, but I do need to talk.”
“Damn, man, what time is it?” he asked, his stomach still pressed to the floor.
“Don’t matter, sit up, Brad, man.” I urged him up with both of my hands, “Get up, this is serious.”
“Ah, hell. I didn’t know paying half the rent here would entail all this.” He mumbled a few other things that weren’t decipherable, but I tuned him out and stretched out on the couch. Brad squatted on the floor Indian-style and leaned his shoulder sideways against the couch.
“Okay, okay, Aaron. Whassup?”
“It’s this . . . this woman.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, digging underneath his fingernails. “So I take it you’re not referring to Lauren?”
“I said she was a woman.”
“Well, who is she, Aaron?” he asked, looking bored.
“She’s, she’s, uh, I can’t say,” I told him firmly.
“Damn.”
“It’s like that right now. Thing is, I haven’t admitted it to her yet, but I’m digging her big-time. She’s more mature but sexy as hell, and man, we have this chemistry.”
“So what’s the problem?” Brad asked, yawning once more and rubbing his eyes.
I winced. “I—I want to get with her, but it might be the wrong move.”
“ ’Cause of Lauren?” he said, pointing his finger in an I-think-I-get-it way.
“You got it.”
“If you want her that bad, sneak some but don’t tell Lauren,” he replied, and placed one foot on the carpet like he was about to get up.
“Sit back down, Brad. It’s not that simple.”
He groaned, but repositioned himself by leaning against the couch. “Why not?”
I looked at the floor. “Sh-she lives near Lauren. Too risky.” I looked at Brad. “Not out to hurt my girl.”
“Then don’t do it. Or bring the woman over here,” was Brad’s brilliant response.
“Hell, naw,” I said, but still picturing myself bringing Tracey over. Getting her alone. Helping her to release both our frustrations.
“Damn, man. Who is this mystery babe?”
“Take a guess.”
“Who is she, Aaron? Tell me.”
Should I or shouldn’t I tell?
“She’s . . . uh, better not.”
“Tell me, or I’ll tell Lauren you’re cheating on her,” he said like he was serious and wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.
“But that’s the thing, I’m not cheating on her.”
“But you’re thinking about it, right?” Brad said, and stared so intently I thought he was trying to see through me, trying to break me down.
I scratched the side of my face and patted down my hair. What was I doing? Sometimes things happened in such a way that it seemed I wasn’t taking time to evaluate what I was doing. Guess I never did feel comfortable thinking about stuff too much, seemed like that always made things too hard.
“Yep, you’re thinking about it,” Brad said with a satisfied grin, like he was a freaking relationship guru who could figure everything out in ten minutes.
“Why you say that?” I said in such a serious tone that my earnestness canceled out his grin. He pondered his words for a moment and shrugged. “Getting with somebody always starts with a thought. Apparently you’ve been thinking about this. Only a matter of time before you’re acting it out.”
Hmmm, is that right, I thought. All you gotta do is think about something, then you’ll be doing it? Hey, let me think about being a millionaire and watch the money roll in.
Yeah, right.
I looked pointedly at Brad. “Well, she’s been somewhat on my mind lately, but today was when I really started thinking about her.”
“Why today?”
“Saw her at the mall and . . . we hung out,” I said, holding on to the most treasured parts so I could savor something for myself.
“Oh yeah? Well, how she feel about you?” he asked, wobbling his legs up and down like he was starting to develop a cramp.
“I think I’ve hooked her and she tries to fight it, pretending like I don’t affect her. But I know she feels the vibe,” I said, surprised to hear the admission myself.
“Maybe y’all pulling each other, man.”
“I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, it’s powerful. Plus some other things are going on that I don’t want to get in to, but I gotta—I need to do something,” I told him, rubbing the soreness that was throbbing and humming on my neck. I couldn’t believe how exhausted I felt, mentally and physically, and it seemed something was definitely affecting me in multiple ways.
“What? You thinking about dumping Lauren and hooking up with old girl?”
“I can’t hook up with Tracey,” I tried to mumble.
“Oh, that’s her name? How old is Tracey? Where’d you meet her?” His black eyes sparkled and he actually smiled at me in a more genuine, less BS kind of way.
“Damn. Hey,” I said standing up. “I think this is a good time for you to take your exhausted self back to sleep. Maybe you’ll forget we had this conversation.”
“I will go back to sleep, but I doubt I’ll forget. Good luck, my brother,” Brad said, this time laughing a bit, but then he clumsily lifted himself to his feet just to spread back out on the couch with a dull thud.
I ESCAPED TO THE PRIVACY OF MY bedroom, firmly locking the door behind me. Dozens of unopened CDs lined the bottom of one wall. The other wall lodged my chest of drawers, a small oak desk and chair, and a portable stand with a combo TV/VCR. I slid out of my leather jacket, shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and boxers, and crawled on top of my queen-sized bed.
Ever since I’d been with Lauren, I’d forced myself to hold back, trying to wait on her and thinking she’d be worth the wait. But sometimes when a man misses the touch of a woman, waiting takes a backseat. I hadn’t had any loving in so long, I was scared to even try and remember. I wasn’t used to that. Being around Tracey, drinking in her feminine aroma, and brushing against her curves reminded me just how long it had been. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
I sighed, slipped underneath the bedcovers. I reached over to pull out an ancient pornographic magazine from between my mattress and box spring. Instead of browsing the mag from the beginning, my fingers fumbled right to the centerfold. Mmmm, yeah. An interracial cutie from Baltimore. I smiled at her. She smiled back at me with her gorgeous brown eyes. I traced my trembling finger across her thick lips, pouty and sensuous. Zeroed in on her legs, which were covered with lavender lace, and that got my mind imagining all types of things. And I studied her breasts, which were suck-happy huge, as big as watermelons. I took one final look at my new friend and clutched myself, stroking to rock hardness. I shut my eyes and pictured myself banging Lauren’s innocent vagina like I was a drill sergeant trying to drive home my point. Something I’d been aching to do for months.
By the time I entered my pleasure zone, shuddering like a satisfied fool, Lauren wasn’t on my mind anymore.
A COUPLE HOURS LATER I WOKE UP slimy, groggy, and crusty-eyed. It was two-thirty in the A.M. I sat in silence for a while, and once the drowsiness cleared from my head, I dialed Lauren’s phone number.
“Hel-lo,” a gentle voice breathed.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“Nooo, I was looking at Oprah and folding laundry,” she said sarcastically. “Who is this?”
“Tracey, it’s Aaron,” I replied in a soft voice. Hoped she wouldn’t be mad.
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised yet nonchalant.
“Uh, did Lauren ever call?”
“No, Aaron.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “You worried about her?”
“No.”
“Then why would you call here at two in the morning, wanting to know if she’s called?”
“Well, I also called to see if you’re okay, Tracey.”
There.
I said it.
She knew it, I knew it, now what was she gonna do about it?
“I’m not okay,” she told me.
“I’m sor—”
“I’m asleep. Or at least I was.”
“Sorry ’bout dat,” I said, and looked at the mag once more before sliding it under a pillow.
“Don’t be. I wasn’t sleeping all that great anyway. After you left, I felt kind of regretful . . . and abandoned, you know what I mean?”
“I know,” I said, voice thick.
“Mmm-hmmm,” she moaned. I heard a little movement.
I could imagine her tossing and turning in her bed.
Solo.
“Hey, you want some company, Tracey?” I blurted.
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re serious?” she said, like my request was just so fanciful.
“More than very.”
“Aaron, you’re crazy.”
“Oh, you don’t have to go there. Just asking,” I said wondering if I was making a mistake, wondering if I ought to leave this appealing yet dangerous woman alone.
“What are you doing? What are we doing?” she asked with a less sluggish, more awake voice.
“Just wanted to see you. I enjoyed hanging out last night,” I said, grabbing two pillows, and pictured myself holding her tight in my arms again.
“Mmmm, same here, but as enjoyable as it was, we can’t make a habit out of that, now can we?”
“No, we can’t.” I paused. “Well, we could, but we shouldn’t, right?”
“Right.” Her voice was husky.
I stroked myself again. Imagined my hand was Tracey’s.
Didn’t feel the same.
“Tracey, people always do what they shouldn’t do. Why should we be any different?”
“Sounds like you’re grasping, Aaron.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, and she didn’t either. The fact that she hadn’t ended the call gave me hope, and that was key.
“Do you want to be with me?” I blurted.
“Mmmm, I—I can’t answer that. I mean, I appreciate your attentiveness toward me tonight. Your listening ear. That was very sweet. But, well, we probably shouldn’t forget that you are dating my . . . my daughter,” she said in a breathy whisper.
“Ehhh, yeah, I know,” I half-laughed. “You’re right. Makes no sense.” I turned over in bed.
“Life hardly ever does, but . . .” she said, drawing her words out like she was singing.
“Yeah?” I told her, my body rigid.
“Well, maybe we can talk about this again sometime. Need time to think.”
“What’s there to think about? What are you getting at?” I asked, sitting up in bed.
“Well, the way things are going, I think it would be good to . . . to talk,” she said like she was sorting through her thoughts. “When? Where? I’m not sure. But I’ll get back with you, Aaron. Better go now. Good night, morning . . . or whatever the hell it is.”
She hung up.
I abruptly let go of my limpness.
Reluctantly let go of her voice.
Lauren 9
When I showed my face at the slumber party, no one else had arrived. Miss Indira, Regis’s mom, conned me into toting party grub from the kitchen to the dining room. They set up a buffet that made me want to kiss Dennis Rodman: Buffalo wings with horseradish sauce, sliced pineapples and jumbo strawberries, tiny little egg rolls stuffed with shrimp, ice-cold beverages, and a slew of other goodies.
Miss Indira rushed around, giving orders like I was the hired help. I didn’t think so. Last time I checked, I was a guest. But since this was my mom’s close friend, I put a clamp on my tongue. Plus I didn’t want to miss out on the eats. I couldn’t wait for this party to start.
“Where’s Regis?” I asked, after placing the last of the appetizers on the buffet.
“She’s upstairs getting ready,” her mom said while she hovered over a large tin pot of simmering meatballs. “You can go up there. People should be arriving any minute.”
Getting ready, I thought as I ran up the stairs. It’s her party, she shoulda been, been ready.
I knocked on Regis’s door twice, then tried to open it, but it was locked.
“Let me in, Hooch,” I yelled.
“Screw you, Heifer,” she yelled back, and swung open the door. She winked at me and went and planted herself in front of her usual stomping ground, the mirror.
Regis Collier has distinctive features: she’s ten shades darker than me and has these wide eyes, thick lips, and one of those descendent-of-the-Motherland noses. For the past couple of months she’s been sporting these beautiful long braids that are always covered by a colorful headband—you know, the kind that hides the crown of your head and then lets the rest of your hair peek from underneath. With these headbands, Regis resembles a teenage Jamaican queen; she walks with her head up and stares people in the eye. And Regis is petite, but I don’t think she knows it.
“Damn, I look good,” she said, and applied a few coats of grape-toned lipstick to her pouty lips. She pressed her lips together and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a tissue. I rolled my eyes and watched in her shadows.
“Don’t I?” she asked, looking at me in the mirror.
“Regis, don’t start. I’m not in the Regis Collier fan club, remember?”
“Girl, what you mean you not in the Regis Collier fan club? Shee-it, you the founding member.”
“Oh, pu-lease.” I sat on her bed and looked around. You’d have thought we were at a movie star’s house. Her queen-sized four-poster bed was arranged with at least eight pillows of all sizes, and matching pillowcases, a bed skirt, shams, and a comforter. Even with all her hardwood furniture, she still had room for a thirty-two-inch TV, DVD, stereo system, and an oak bookshelf (even though she doesn’t read books all that much).
“So, what you wearing, Lauren? I’ll bet you brought your jammies over in a duffel bag, didn’t you?” she chided.
“Yep.”
“I knew it. Too scared to wear your PJs over here. Nobody trying to look at you, chile.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead I stared at a wall and pretended to be captivated by a D’Angelo poster.
“Well, check out mine,” she said.
She went inside her walk-in closet and soon brought out a red and black satin baby-doll nightie with spaghetti straps.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said, holding the outfit against her. “Something wrong?”
“No, it probably will look cute.”
“Damn straight it will. Too bad no guys will see me in it, though.”
“You mean to tell me this will be a strictly female slumber party, Regis?”
“Hey, I tried to convince Moms to let me invite guys, but she wasn’t having it,” she explained, and tossed the nightie on her bed.
“Hmmm! Wonder why,” I mumbled.
“Smartass,” she said, and started getting undressed right in front of me. She wiggled her hips and scraped off a pair of jeans. Short as she was, Regis still sported an ample chest. After she pulled off her shirt, her tits were released from their one-hundred-percent-cotton prison.
“Lauren, you think I should leave on my panties?”
Within seconds, I escaped to the other side of the room.
“Yes, Regis, I think that would be a good idea.”
“You do? Hmmm. That settles it,” she yelped. “Off they go.”
She slid off her underwear, standing naked. I turned my back.
“Oh, hell,” she hollered and came and planted herself in front of me.
&n
bsp; “Lauren, what is your problem? We girls. All this is here, is some meat,” she said, rubbing both hands across her breasts and stomach. “Can’t hurt you.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Oh, I get it. You think I like girls, don’t you, Lauren? Humph! If you don’t know, you better ask somebody!”
“No need,” I replied, and shooed her away with my hands. “Please leave so I can get dressed. I heard the doorbell ring. Aren’t you going downstairs now?”
She looked at me like I sniffed permanent markers.
“Chile, when I do join the party, I plan to be the last one there, you hear me?” Regis announced.
She stood there gaping at me. I stretched my hand toward the door until Regis threw on her nightie and left the room.
It was going to be a long night.
AFTER EVERYONE HAD ARRIVED and when all seven of us girls were in place, Miss Indira hung around trying to make sure we were having a good time. Her presence actually prevented us from having any fun because no one dared cut loose. But she looked startled when we started talking about our favorite Old Testament scriptures and quietly left the game room. By then it was a little past eleven o’clock. Now the fun was really about to start.
Besides Regis and myself, the other slumber party attendees were Charisse Youngblood, Regis’s seventeen-year-old neighbor from across the street, Lia Brockington, Justine Knight, and Zoe Brand, classmates of Regis; and Hope Barnett, a cousin on Miss Indira’s side.
Charisse’s doe eyes were covered with pink glasses; she was wearing a pink-and-white short set. Lia, who’s on the plump side, wore a sky-blue gown that allowed her toes to peek from underneath. Justine, tall and regal, had her hair tied in a gold silk head wrap that matched her gold cat suit. Zoe had on a polka-dot boxer-short set, and Hope, the shortest one of all, wore a violet sleep shirt with bunny rabbit house slippers. I wore some checkered pajama pants and a black halter.
Lia snapped her fingers and said, “Cool, Miss Indira f iiinally got the hint. Let’s get this joint started.”
Hope replied, “I know that’s right.”
“Ah,” Regis scowled and pursed her glistening lips, “y’all shut the hell up. You coulda talked in front of my moms.”
“That’s a lie,” Lia protested. “If your wild butt held back, where does that leave the rest of us?”
