by Raqiyah Mays
Chapter 10
Men always want what they can’t have. Women are the same. But for guys, withholding sex becomes like a fun tunnel-vision game of hide-and-go-seek-to-conquer-the-pussy. Emmanuel was on a mission to win me. He was funny. Sweet. Paid for lunch daily. But the intent look in his eye never changed.
“You need to come see my house.”
“Why? You want me to have dinner with your wife?”
“No, she works,” he said. “I want you to see where I live.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Yes, you do. We’re both adults here. You know the situation.”
I looked at him, impressed and turned on by the aggression.
“I’ll get some ganja, straight from Jamaica. None of that yard shit. We’ll pass by my spot, smoke, and I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I don’t want anybody from work seeing me leave with you.”
“Well, we can do it after the company holiday party next Friday,” he said. “There’ll be so many people that nobody will notice us leaving together.”
“Maybe,” I said with a smirk on my face. Our eyes met, and I felt the return of the inner leg throb. It felt as if the walls were vibrating, pulsating. I could feel stickiness in my panties. I wanted Emmanuel now. When I crossed my legs, my shoe brushed his foot. He smiled back, looking down at my chest.
“Hello, Meena.”
“Hey, Emmanuel.”
Caught off guard, I jumped when my tender flirty moment was interrupted by Regina and Joan. Regina was my supervisor and head of Merrill Lynch’s publishing department. Joan was her second in command.
“Oh, uh.” I coughed a little, after nearly choking on the ice I was sucking. “Hey.”
“Is Emmanuel teaching you a lot about the art department?” Regina asked.
Joan added, “He’s one of the best.”
“Oh, yeah. QuarkXPress and Photoshop. I still have to figure out how to use those programs, but I’ve learned a lot by watching.”
“Well, Emmanuel, you have to see to it that Meena learns all the ins and outs,” said Regina. “She’s a fast learner.”
“I noticed. I’m lucky to have her in the art department. Maybe we can get you on a computer tomorrow. One of the guys will be out.”
“Okay,” I said with a smile. “That would be cool.”
“We were just about to leave,” Emmanuel said. “You ladies want this table?”
“Oh, yes, thanks,” said Joan. “See you two upstairs.”
“Meena?” Regina motioned toward me and I quivered inside. I knew I’d been found out. I felt a reprimand coming on. “I left some things for you to proof in your inbox. I need it done by five.”
Relieved by the innocuous request, I got up with Emmanuel and our trays. Dumped them and walked upstairs. But not together. I headed for the bathroom. He beelined back to his desk. And for the rest of the day, all I could think about was him—inside me, throwing my body on a bed, pulling down my thong, and ramming me hard from the back.
The days until the holiday party ticked by slower than the hands on a broken clock. We hadn’t gone to lunch together since our run-in with Joan and Regina. He’d been at a weeklong art conference, recruiting new designers. So while I finished the brain-dead work of making copies, I daydreamed about my visit to his house. Visualizing which color underwear I’d slip off. Reminding myself to buy a matching bra. Shaking the nasty thoughts out of my brain until boredom allowed them to creep back in.
On the magical day, I took a cab with a few coworkers to the day party at an indoor sports park. The theme was California Christmas, and it was unlike any shindig I’d ever been to. Tents were pitched all over the venue crowded with hundreds of people, balloons, clowns, sand, volleyball nets, grills, and long buffet tables filled with seemingly unlimited free food and drinks.
At first I didn’t see Emmanuel. I looked around amid the flood of folks, feeling like a raisin drowning in milk.
“Who are you looking for, Meena?” A higher-up drone, Sally Donahue, was sipping on a hot coffee. Her blond hair with red highlights brought out the hints of rouge painted atop her cheekbones. “Do you know people in any of the other Merrill Lynch departments?”
“No, just looking,” I said, still surveying. “This is really nice.”
“Actually, it sucks. The same food, same thing every year, but they make us go. It’s the politically correct thing to do,” she said, making quote marks in the air. “I couldn’t even get my husband to come this time. He thinks everyone is fake.”
I laughed politely, still looking around for Emmanuel.
“Our department tables are this way,” she said, pointing to the left. “Section forty-two.”
I followed her to the tent, and as we got closer, Emmanuel came into sight, sitting on a bench, eating a hot dog. Relish oozed out of his mouth as he bit slowly and smiled when he spotted me walking closer.
“You’re my partner in the obstacle course,” he said, wiping the corners of his lips. “I can tell you’re in shape. Look at those legs.”
“I used to be. Don’t know about now,” I said. “But I’m wearing heels. Wish someone had warned me. I like to play.”
“I bet you do,” he said, looking me up and down. “I’ve seen your pretty toes. Do it barefoot.”
“Um . . . I just got a pedicure, so I’ll be running slowly.”
“That’s all right, I got you.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I’ll give you a nice foot massage and touch-up later.”
The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. I do remember being horny, drinking bucket-size cups of beer and eating seconds and thirds of chicken, hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad. Each time I got a nod of approval from E. “I like a girl who eats,” he said, laughing. “I love that you’re not shy about anything.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied, slowly cutting my barbecued chicken into small pieces before placing them into my mouth, conscious of his studying me, aware that I needed to appear delicate, demure. “Maybe I’m shy about some things . . .”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like when the lights come on.”
“I got a nice dark playroom I can show you.”
“I bet you do . . .”
I did a lot of smiling, and sweating, playing volleyball like a competitive medal was involved. Like I was vying for prize money. I jumped up to the net height and hit the ball aggressively, just to show off my athletic prowess to coworkers and, most of all, Emmanuel. I could feel the alcohol beneath his gaze, sticking to me like the sweaty company T-shirt they made us wear, peeling off my chest. He anticipated each move, salivating for the next muscle flex, pining, which made him miss balls bouncing his way. Pausing to give a cocky nod in my direction, the ball served from my team hit him with a blindside smack to the face. He bent over, holding his nose, seemingly expecting blood to run from the nostril. Amid a sea of coworker laughter, he sat out the rest of the game, watching me, again, with a smile. In the end, I walked to where Emmanuel sat and plopped down.
“Ooh, I drank too much,” I said, taking a sip of something he handed me. “I don’t even like volleyball.”
“You ready to make a move out of here? I got that smoke in the car.”
Our eyes met. And this time my mouth creeped into a mischievous smile.
“And you know,” he said, staring at my feet. “You still got that foot massage coming.”
“Yeah, but I stink now,” I said, patting a paper towel to my forehead. “And my hair is a mess.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You smell good to me.” He gave me another tissue and a cold beer. “And you look beautiful, natural. Plus, you can use the bathroom at my apartment if you want.”
I didn’t know about that. Even through my inebriated d
aze, I still preferred a room at the Hilton. “We’re going to your crib?”
“Well, yeah, how am I supposed to give you a massage? In the car?”
“Yeah. But what about your wife?”
“She’s at work,” he said, getting up and motioning me to come with him. “Don’t worry about anything, it’s cool.”
The ride from the company party to his apartment was awkward. Quiet. Bumpy. E and I said nothing as he drove through the streets. We dared not glance at each other as he turned down suburban avenues with meticulously manicured lawns dotted with Christmas decorations. The sidewalks looked newly cemented. The homes were pristine with upper-class statement. As he drove farther into the neighborhood and turned the corner, we eased into a new development of condos. Streets curved and circled until he pulled into a slim driveway.
“This is where you live?”
“Yup,” he answered, turning off the motor. The garage door closed behind us. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Now that we had arrived, his house seemed so real. Suddenly the wet fantasy petrified me. I stumbled out the car, looking around to see whether we were being watched. Butterflies fluttered, flaming up a fire of gassy bubbles in my intestines. With my heart pounding in my throat, I squeezed my butt cheeks and took a deep breath so I could focus and not pass gas. We walked up to his door, he slid in the key, unlocked two bolts, and stepped through. I slowly followed, nervously making chitchat.
“So this is where you live?”
“Yup.”
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“You like it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are the walls thin?”
“No.”
“Are your neighbors nosy?”
“Some.” He paused and gave me a searching look after closing the door behind him. “You sound like a reporter. Are you doing an investigative story on me?”
“No,” I said, with a quavering chuckle. “I just . . .”
“Do you want my Social Security number?”
“No,” I said, before taking a deep breath and exhaling. “I just think I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“You sure your wife won’t come home?”
“I already answered that question,” he said, flicking on the light to his living room. “She’s out of town. Come here.”
His voice was inviting. I walked toward him and he pulled me close, lifting my chin up with a finger, looking me in the eye. “You’re safe,” he said, before kissing me on the lips. “Relax. Okay?” Then he pecked me on the forehead.
I smiled like a five-year-old, whispering, “Okay.”
“I’m about to roll something to make you feel better. Get comfortable. Take your shoes off.”
Emmanuel’s condo was cozy, with a warm color scheme of grays and burgundys splattered across the room. An L-shaped, smoke-hued couch framed a small mahogany wooden table that sat atop a carpet adorned by brushstrokes of merlot and evening fog tones. The carpet was thin and matted, as if a day care of kids had spilled breakfast, lunch, and dinner atop its fibers. Along the walls were tall bookcases and an entertainment center holding a mixture of novels, tiny African statues, diplomas, and frames crowded with photos. I stumbled around and stopped at a collage of family pictures showing a smiling Emmanuel sitting with his son next to an overweight white woman with stringy red hair.
“Her name is Susan, right?”
“Yup,” he said, sitting on the couch rolling a blunt, carefully picking out the seeds from the weed. “That’s Sue.”
“How many months along was she when you took this photo?”
“Oh, she wasn’t pregnant in that picture,” he said, laughing. “You know we like big girls in Jamaica.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, a touch mystified. “Ain’t a thing big about me.”
“Yeah, but you’re sexy. Those eyes . . .” His words trailed off as I turned to watch him staring at me while slowly using his tongue to lick and seal the tightly rolled paper around sticky green marijuana. I sat down next to him as he lit up, took a few pulls, and passed the blunt to me.
“You should let me give you”—he started coughing out smoke—“a shotgun.”
Nodding in agreement, I passed the blunt and watched Emmanuel slowly place the lit end of the cigar into his mouth. He curled his tongue away from the ashes as I placed my mouth on the opposite side. He exhaled, I inhaled, and after a few seconds backed up. As I took in the smoke, its ecstasy of herbs floated me to the ceiling. Smoke drifted out my nose and what seemed like my ears. Suddenly, I couldn’t bear the overwhelming fumes and began coughing out the remaining smoke.
“Let me get you a drink,” he said, getting up. “This is the good stuff. Straight from Kingston, baby.”
“Thanks,” I said, still coughing, choking on my saliva, sounding like an old man with bronchitis. “I’m okay.”
Emmanuel cracked up as he walked to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Guinness from the fridge. I sat still, embarrassed, eyeing the front door, wanting to leave and at the same time squeezing my vagina, trying to suck in what flowed with every thought of kissing him. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I felt him approach. Then it began. Softness. Nothing but his moist lips on mine. They felt sticky, yummy, sweet. The flow between my legs grew as he lifted up my shirt and sucked my neck, then my left breast and right nipple. He stopped to take a look. But I kept my eyes closed. Too nervous to make eye contact. Insecure about letting him see the weird faces I made in the midst of pleasure with the lights on. I could hear the elastic of the plastic snap around his genitals. He grabbed my legs, pulled them forward, and within seconds was inside me. Mmmm . . . It felt so good. Hard and thrashing. I could hear the juices mixing. I felt out of my mind. Completely high and groggy. Mad that I’d smoked so much, upset that I’d not kept my head and been more focused on staying sober so I could enjoy the moment. An internal conversation clogged up my brain. Wait. I didn’t want this. He’s married. What am I doing? Fuck. I drank too much. Oh, God, this shit feels so good. Fuck me harder. Dizzy, spinning like a sexual vacuum, sucking secretions and hairs and body and vagina and pelvis all in one. He knocked a family photo down while flipping me over. And then I felt sick.
“Stop,” I said softly.
He kept going.
“Stop,” I said in a louder whisper.
“Come on, baby. This feels good.”
“I feel sick.”
He dropped my legs, staring at me as I slumped on the couch. Head limp. Eyes shut as I tried to stretch them open and lift my head. But I was too high.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dizzily shaking from side to side. “I’m fucked up.”
“Yeah, it’s good,” he said, rubbing my thighs. “Like your pussy. So tight.”
I wasn’t feeling like that at all. “I think I need to go home.”
“Why, baby? We’re just getting started,” he whined. “You want another beer? Take another sip.”
My eyes closed and I nearly dozed off. But I fought, holding my lids open with all of the mind strength I could muster. Something kept me awake, pushing through that super-intoxicated, spinning blur from a few puffs of weed.
“No,” I said, stumbling for my bag. “Take me home.”
“But I bought this weed for us.”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“You can take a nap here.”
“No,” I said, more certain now. “I need to go home. I’m going to throw up.”
He sucked his teeth as his car keys jingled to the tune of something inaudibly said under his breath. The only thing I made out was “Come on. Let’s go.”
I could feel the thick tension of disappointment sucking the air out of the room. I stopped to pick up the Disneyland photo we’d knocked over, carefully placing it back on the mahogany coffee table
next to the couch we’d had sex on. As Emmanuel opened the front door, fresh oxygen awakened my diminished consciousness enough to see him no longer looking at me like the fly young vixen he’d craved the past few weeks. When he pulled into the train station, he didn’t turn toward me or say good-bye. When I got out, he was staring straight ahead. I felt guilty, embarrassed, like a failure at home wrecking.
On Monday, I called in sick. Tuesday, I dodged Emmanuel and his calls to my extension. Wednesday was the same. Thursday he confronted me.
“You okay?” He slid into my cubicle, whispering, “You seem off.”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Nope,” I answered, eyes focused on the computer screen.
“Well, let’s go to lunch.”
“I’m busy,” I said, still not turning toward him.
“Okay,” he said, a sulk in his voice. “I hope you feel better.”
For the rest of the year, and into the new one, I found a way to never speak to Emmanuel again.
“Well, that was weird,” Meredith said that weekend as I told her what had happened. She stuffed a half-smoked blunt into her car ashtray and opened a bag of Cheez Doodles. “He still wants you, right?”
“Yeah, I still get constant e-mails from him, but he’s married,” I said, opening my bag of gummy worms. “That’s my first and last married man. I can’t do that karma. I already got a family curse to deal with ’cause of some infidelity bullshit. And I wish I didn’t have to go into work on Monday.”
“Yo, could you please stop with the man-curse talk,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Words are powerful. Words manifest. Your birthday is in a few weeks, wish for something nice. Wish to break that shit.”
Chapter 11
While most twenty-five-year-olds celebrated a quarter-century with huge bashes, immaculate celebrations, defining vacations, and spectacular fireworks, all I wanted to do on the second day of February, my birthday, was think. Plot the future. Plan my life. Change the cycle. I gathered a stack of old magazines from the garage and began cutting out pictures and words that symbolized the life I wanted and pasted them onto a visionary poster. I’d read about making one in Essence magazine. How seeing images of what you want in life helps manifest them. I cut out tiny pictures of career women like Oprah and female authors, with bestseller lists coloring my poster. The words “Confidence,” “Love,” and “Power” curved around cutouts of married couples, smiling families, and wedding dresses. In giant letters across the top I’d pasted the word “Happiness.”
