by Zane
“Well, it’s not my intention to make anything up,” he said. “I’ll only talk about whatever you want to discuss in the article.”
I smirked. “If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that.” I paused. “For the record, I wasn’t implying that you would. I was referring to some others who believe that writing lies about me, sensationalizing rumors, will somehow catapult their careers. Funny thing is, they write their bullshit, it’s tossed around by my other haters for a few weeks or months, I am still talented, my fans are still here, and no one even bothers to read their names on the bylines and they definitely don’t give a damn about them.”
“Yeah, that’s one reason I decided to start G-Clef. I wanted to put a positive spin on the industry. There is so much negative circulating about people who don’t deserve it.”
I smirked. “Some of them orchestrate their own drama. Don’t get it twisted. A lot of celebrities are encouraged to engage in fuckery in public, or to get into Twitter battles with each other, in order to stay relevant. A lot of them have to act a fool because their talent is mediocre. I’ve only seen a few who are exceptional do such things, and I’m convinced it is because of deeply rooted issues.”
I was talking mad shit, but I always did. I had my own demons, secrets, and debauchery going on in my private life, but I planned to keep it private. There was always that chance that someone would “blow up my spot.” My money was on Piece of Shit, which was why I made sure that he always had thick pockets so that temptation wouldn’t be there. Glaze seemed more faithful.
As for what happened to me that night at homecoming, the only living person who knew that I was Caprice Tatum was Daddy and, now, Dr. Marcella Spencer. I had yet to tell her everything, but I had already told her the truth about my identity. There was something about her that made me feel comfortable. Even during therapy as a teen, I never told the psychiatrists everything about my past; just enough about my thoughts and behavior to be diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder.
I had never discussed the fact with them that I would not allow any man to touch me in a sexual manner. I never revealed that I had sex only with inanimate objects or sex toys. I damn sure never talked about my BDSM life with them and my sex slaves that I enjoyed dehumanizing as I watched. I had tried dating a few men in my lifetime—all fine, successful, and kind—but when it came down to being intimate, I could never go through with it.
As I sat there looking at Jonovan, I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was. Was he married? I didn’t see a ring, but that meant nothing. Tons of married men stopped wearing their rings by the end of year one, if their wives tolerated it. They did it so they could troll for pussy and their sidechicks could always say down the road that they never knew the men were married. Game; all game. Was he seriously involved? Shacking? Someone’s baby daddy? Gay? Bisexual? Did he like to be blindfolded, whipped, and did he get off if a woman put a finger up his ass? So many questions I wanted to ask the one person who cared enough to save me in October 1987. My childhood crush who I had often thought about over the years. I had even tried to find him on Facebook a few years back, not that I would have said anything if I did come across his page.
“Yeah, that’s definitely true,” Jonovan said in response to my analysis of some other celebrities. “Those Twitter battles can be something else.”
I giggled. “I like the ones where thirsty chicks will post photos of them in bed with a male celebrity to prove that they’re manpooling with his other women.”
“Manpooling?” Jonovan was lost.
“Yes, that’s actually one of the songs on the new album I’m working on. A lot of women manpool like they carpool. Basically, the song is about sharing dick.”
He grinned. “Can’t wait to hear that one.”
“Oh, it’s fire. And nothing but the truth.”
“You’re a cold piece of work. You know that a lot of women are going to get in their feelings over that?”
“A hit dog will holler. No reason for them to get offended if it doesn’t apply to them. Even if it does apply, if they are willingly sharing dick, it should become their national anthem. You’d be surprised at how many chicks are actually proud to be a man’s side–ass action.”
“You definitely have a way with words.”
“You’re surprised? Where do you think my song lyrics come from? If I’m not going to go hard, I might as well go home.”
“So it’s a fact that you write all your own music?”
“I pen all my own lyrics and then, as I’m sure you know, I have a few producers who I collaborate with on the music itself. I bring the thoughts to life and they give me the beats to flow with. It’s a lovely thing.”
“So when is your next tour?”
“After this new album drops. While some may be able to pull it off, I can’t tour and work on new cuts at the same time. Those are two different lives completely. Touring is a twenty-four-seven process. Between traveling, sound checks, rehearsals, and the actual shows—where I cannot afford to disappoint—there is no time to go into a zone and create new music.”
“I’ve always admired those of you who do big tours. It has to be exhausting. I get tired even watching the performances. You must work out.”
I stood up and turned around, tapping myself on the behind. “With an ass like this, you know good and well that I have to keep it lovely in the gym.” I walked around the table and grabbed his left upper arm. “All this muscle you have on you, you must hit the gym daily.”
“I actually have a gym in my home.”
“Oh, do you and your wife work out together?” I asked, being nosy.
He looked up over his shoulder at me. “I’m not married. Well, I’m divorced actually.”
“That must be hard on your kids.” I let his arm go and sat down on the edge of the table, with my hip rubbing against his wrist. “How many do you have?”
“What makes you think I have any?” he asked, looking up into my eyes.
“You have a daddy feel about you.” He smelled so damn good as I inhaled his cologne. “We seem to be roughly the same age. Most men my age have a gaggle of kids.”
“Gaggle?”
“A flock of geese not in flight.”
“You’re a brilliant woman. I love listening to your choice of words.”
“Again, it’s the nature of my business. I would think that the other artists you interview are creative spirits. At least, they should be.” I sighed. “So how many kids do you have?”
Here is what Jonovan had to be thinking at that very moment:
Is Wicket coming on to me?
Oh my God, is Wicket really trying to pick me up?
This shit is crazy! Wicket’s coming on to me.
Truth be told, I had no idea what I was thinking. What I was doing was foolish, reckless, completely irrational, and unwise.
“I have a son, Jonovan Jr. He’s thirteen and he lives in Seattle with my ex-wife.”
“Why all the way in Seattle?”
“Her job transferred her there. She’s in IT.” He cleared his throat. “My father actually lives with me. He has Alzheimer’s and I didn’t want to put him in a home. At least, not yet.” He seemed to be visibly upset. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“That must be hard.”
“It can be a challenge.”
I got down off the edge of the table and walked back around to the other side. “I apologize for getting off track from the interview. Sometimes I enjoy hearing about other people.”
“It’s no problem. I’m just surprised you would even be interested in my life.”
“You have a very kind aura about you. I find it sweet that you would take care of your father. Is your mother still living?”
“No, she succumbed to breast cancer when I was in my early twenties.”
I remembered seeing Jonovan’s parents at school functions at Powers High School. They seemed so happy, and Jonovan was his father’s twin. It looked like he had spit h
im out and that his mother had been the carrying vessel. Strong genes, so I could only imagine that his junior was his split image as well.
“What about your parents?” he asked. “How did you end up in the orphanage in Guyana? Do you know if you have any existing family there? Were you scared to come to the United States? How long did it take you to learn English, or were you already speaking it? Did you have a thick accent at first?”
I chuckled. “You are really good. Journalism is about trying to get information, and even though I made it clear that I don’t discuss such things, you went for it anyway.”
He lowered his eyes. “Maybe I should go. I apologize. It’s just that—”
“I started getting into your business, so you assumed my guard was down.”
Jonovan gazed into my eyes. “Actually, I forgot about the interview and I only asked those questions because I was interested in knowing more about you.” He hit the end button on his recorder. “Again, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Shit, this was starting to feel like a date!
I spotted Antonio out the corner of my eye. He was probably wondering why I was doing such a long interview, even though we had never gotten to an actual one so far. He knew that if I ran my fingers through my hair two times, he was supposed to break it up. I didn’t do it. Instead, I guzzled down the rest of my mimosa.
“Off the record? Just two people shooting the breeze?”
He grinned. “Definitely. You fascinate me, but I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you. You’re a fascinating person.”
Then I blushed. “Guyana actually is the only South American country with English as its official language so, yes, I was already speaking it.”
“Wow, never knew that.”
Richard Sterling had known it, which was why he made up that lie about adopting me there.
“As for an accent, I did have one but I’m not sure when it went away. Daddy provided me with the best teachers that money could buy and one of those was a speech coach. I had a stuttering issue as a child,” I lied so easily, and now it was time to go into the truly big lie. There was another reason why Daddy had fabricated the Guyana adoption in 1978 when I was six. “Do you promise never to talk about what I’m about to say next?”
“I promise.”
I was not a trusting person, but even if Jonovan did betray in the name of press freedom, it could never be proven one way or another.
“My parents were killed during the Jonestown Massacre!”
“Wha . . . what?” He was stunned.
“When Jim Jones rented that land to build a compound in Guyana, my parents were among the few locals who joined his cult. I can’t explain why. I was too young to know what was going on. So when everything happened on November 18, 1972, my father willingly drank the poison, but my mother refused. She tried to save me, but they stuck her in the neck with a syringe.”
“Oh my God!” Jonovan exclaimed. “And you saw all of it?”
“Yes, I did,” I continued lying. “When this man was poisoning my mother to death, she let my hand go and screamed for me to run. So that’s what I did. One man almost caught me, but I slipped out of his grip and ran into the woods.”
“This is unbelievable! I heard that there were a few survivors—even saw a documentary about it on CNN—but this is crazy.”
“It’s past crazy,” I added.
“So what happened next?”
“More than nine hundred people died that day, including nearly three hundred kids. Many were never identified. I fell through the cracks. Since I was a local, no one assumed that I was a by-product of Jonestown. They assumed that my parents had been killed by the PNC regime. The seventies and eighties were hard times in Guyana.”
“But how did you even end up in the orphanage?”
“I kept running and running until I got to a village, and this American doctor found me and took me to the orphanage. I refused to speak, so they made assumptions and I let them. I was too traumatized and in shock to speak the truth. Seeing all those people die. I can still smell the poison to this day and can’t stand the smell of almonds, since it’s so similar.”
Jonovan reached over and took my trembling hand. I had the physical reactions down to a science. I had learned how to connect emotions in acting classes. Even though I was relating a fake story, I was remembering what had really happened to me. I had yet to actually act in a movie, even though I was constantly flooded with scripts. Outside of music-video skits, I had never ventured there. I was waiting on the right opportunity. I no longer feared that someone would recognize me. I was older, looked completely different, and was convinced that the world had long forgotten about Caprice Tatum. Who the fuck was she anyway?
“I am so sorry that you went through that. But . . . do you have any idea how many people you could inspire if you told the truth about your past? An escapee from the Jonestown Massacre in another country becoming the biggest musical star in America, possibly the entire world? Wow!”
“You promised,” I stated angrily. Maybe he couldn’t be trusted after all.
“And I will keep my promise.”
I ran my fingers through my hair twice and Antonio appeared within seconds. “Wicket, you need to get ready to head to the studio.”
Jonovan seemed disappointed.
“Sorry,” I said. “Time’s up.”
“I guess I blew it,” he replied, standing up. “I’ll make my story work with what I have.”
“Minus what we just talked about?”
“Definitely. You don’t have to worry.”
I started walking toward the house with Antonio on my tail, leaving Jonovan to be showed out by Nikki, who had also appeared suddenly, after realizing the interview was over.
“What was that all about?” Antonio asked. “What don’t you have to worry about?”
“It’s all good. Jonovan has always been a good guy.”
“Oh, you know him?”
Damn, I fucked up!
“No, just heard that he was a good guy from some other peeps in the industry.”
I was about to walk upstairs, and Antonio would have headed off to watch his telenovelas, but I paused and turned around.
“What are you about to get into?” I gazed into his eyes seductively.
“Hopefully you one of these damn days.”
“You know that’s not happening, but you could help me relieve some stress.” I dropped my eyes to his groin. “With that lap band-needing dick of yours.”
He chuckled. “You and your jokes. My dick’s not that big.”
“Shit, in whose world? Your dick is an urban legend. You have fucked up many a pussy and you know it. That’s why you’re never going to disfigure Thumper.”
Antonio moved close enough for me to taste his breath as I stood on the third step and he was at the base of the steps. “Thumper might enjoy being with someone so legendary.”
“I didn’t call you a legend. I said your dick was a legend.” I giggled. “So you want to play with me this afternoon or what?”
“Depends on what playing entails. But you know that I can never refuse you.”
“If you can never refuse me, then it doesn’t depend, does it?” I turned and started up the steps. “Give me twenty minutes to prepare and then make it happen.”
* * *
When Antonio entered my bedroom exactly twenty minutes later, I was showered and ready with the blackout curtains closed, candles lit, and I was wearing a sports bra and biker shorts with no panties.
“What’s this all about?” he asked as “Workout” by J. Cole played through the speakers in the walls.
“I thought we could do some Tantra Yoga. It makes me come.”
Antonio laughed. “That again?”
“Didn’t you enjoy doing all those poses and stretches with me before? Gazing into my eyes?”
“I want to fuck you, not do poses.”
“But you know we’re not fucking, so let’s cut the bullshit.” I walked o
ver to him and ran my fingers over his chest and then pulled his T-shirt out of his pants and pulled it over his head. “Damn, what have you been eating?” I teased. “You buffed up some . . . since last time.”
“You need to start calling me up here more often. K and D don’t know what to do with all of this.” He grabbed my hips and pulled me closer to him so his dick was poking me in my ribs. It was rock hard. “Can’t you imagine all this dick up in you?”
“I do imagine it—all the time.”
“Then let me hit it.”
“Hit it?” I pushed him away. “Um, no. But I’ll tell you what. Since you’re topless, I can rock with that.” I pulled off my sports bra, revealing my tatas.
“You’re so lovely. You could at least let me suck them.”
I contemplated actually letting Antonio suck my tits as “Adorn” came on and Miguel started singing about how his lips couldn’t wait to taste some chick’s skin. So apropos for the moment.
“You hear that?” Antonio picked up on the song lyrics fitting the moment as well. He moved closer to me and licked his lips as he started rubbing my right nipple with two fingers. “Let my love adorn you, baby.”
I took a deep breath and threw my head back as the magic in his fingertips got to me.
You’re almost forty, Caprice, I told myself. You’ve got to learn to let go.
Antonio picked me up by the hips with his other muscular arm and carried me to the bed as he started licking my other breast with the tip of his tongue.
“Aw, shit,” I heard myself say as he laid me down.
He took my breast deep into his mouth and I could feel Thumper start pulsating in my shorts.
“Ummm, you taste so good, baby,” he whispered as he came up briefly for air and moved his mouth over to my other breast.
I stared up at the ceiling, taking all the sensations in. I had played with my tits throughout my life, often masturbating with a toy, or even a towel between my legs if I was without a toy on tour, until I climaxed. But one of the major problems was that I never thought about what would be considered “traditional sex” when I masturbated. There were always at least two men involved, even if one of them was watching and waiting for his turn. I wondered if it was because the only time that I had ever actually been penetrated was under such circumstances. The men in my fantasies weren’t violent or raping me or anything like that, though. There was just always at least two, or more. It concerned me that I might not have been able to be content with a sexual encounter with one man, if I ever took it that far. I planned to open up to Dr. Spencer about that, if I could.
