“I have the shirt in three colors—magenta, yellow, and blue. I have every skirt Kors put out last season. Thirty-two…thirty-seven pairs of shoes, and I preordered every Be&D Hobo for the summer—I haven’t even seen them yet. I spent $7,000 this afternoon in three hours and went by my parents’ place to hide some of the stuff in my old closet.” Without inhaling or looking at either of her friends, Troy reached into her purse and pulled out her little prayer pad. “It’s all there. Everything. Every sin I need to pray for. But I can’t stop it. I can’t.” She finally stopped and looked at Tamia, wiping a tear from her eye as she banged on the bar emphatically. “I can’t stop sinning.”
“Whoa, Christian chica,” Tasha said as she caught Troy’s arm from hitting the bar again and attracting more attention. “No need to put us all to shame. I still have a reputation in this city. The only sin you’ve committed is wearing Tory Burch with Michael Kors. They don’t go together. Kors can only go with Kors. No mixing.”
“Stop it, Tash,” Tamia said. “Troy is serious.” She broke off a bit of chocolate she was eating and gave Troy a piece. “What’s going on up there in Harlem?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what it is.”
“Well, let’s start small,” Tamia said. “You said you spent $7,000 this afternoon. What made you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Troy answered. “It was just like most days. I was at the church and I had a meeting with the Virtuous Women, and…” What little relief Troy was feeling after releasing the secret she’d been hiding for months was erased once she recalled the discussion about the incubus and succubus—the demons in the bedroom.
“Oh no, not the Virtuous Women again!” Tasha rolled her eyes. She’d run into the circle the handful of times an invitation from Troy and Kyle had forced her to attend a function at the church. While their smiles were big and welcomes came by the dozen from members, she found them completely suspicious and ridiculous. Then again, she’d found everything about every church she’d ever been in suspicious and ridiculous. A Hollywood baby with Hollywood principles, growing up she’d trusted only one church—the one on the set of her mother’s soap opera. Now she felt every church in the world was reading from the same silly script.
“Do you guys think sex is a sin?” Troy asked, ignoring Tasha’s disgust. “Not like the sex you have with your husband, sorry, Tamia”—she stopped and patted Tamia on the shoulder sympathetically—“but like wild sex…like wild sex.” Her voice was lowered to a whisper, though no one else in the bar was listening to her.
“Who’s having wild sex?” Tasha perked up. “Somebody’s having wild sex?” She squirmed around in her seat. “I knew Pastor Hall would be tapping that ass in no time flat. He doesn’t look like a missionary man. How does he like it? Downward Facing Dog or Pigeon?”
“Those are yoga poses?” Tamia asked and they all laughed.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. So, what kind of wild are you talking about, Troy?”
“Everything, anything. He has a penis ring…and this mask…I don’t even know where the mask came from.”
“Oh, he’s a fucking freak,” Tasha said, laughing.
“Oh no.” Troy bowed her head and began to pray.
Tamia and Tasha looked at each other.
“Troy, stop it. Just stop,” Tamia said. “There’s nothing wrong with what you said and you know it.”
“I’m so ashamed. I’m just so ashamed!”
“Of what?” Tasha asked. “That’s your husband. Shit, he was a virgin when you two got married. Can you imagine that? He’s just playing out all of the frustration he lived with for years. Shoot, there’s nothing wrong with a little freakiness in the bedroom. You need to be happy he feels open enough to be that way with you. There are too many husbands out there taking their freaky sides on tour—if you know what I mean.”
“I just feel like maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I made him this way,” Troy said. “Before he met me, he was so focused on his relationship with the Lord, and so pure. Such a good man. And here I am, just corrupting his soul.”
“You sound crazy,” Tasha said flatly.
“Tasha, stop it!” Tamia warned.
“No, somebody needs to tell her. That sounds crazy. Non-crazy people don’t say things like ‘corrupt’ and ‘soul.’ Come on. Is this a séance? Where’s Whoopi?”
“Troy, where is all this coming from? What would make you think there’s a problem with you having sex with your husband?” Tamia asked.
“I know it’s not those women in that group!” swore Tasha.
“Well, Sister Glover says that—” Troy tried.
“Sister Glover? She’s still in the group?” Tamia looked at Troy. When the Virtuous Women was started, long before Troy joined the church, the position of president was held by the First Lady of the church. When Kyle took over and he was unmarried, Sister Glover volunteered her services. “I thought for sure she was going to leave when you took over.”
“Well, I haven’t exactly done that.”
“What?” Tasha wasn’t sure about what Tamia and Troy were talking about, but it sounded bad and she was on her third glass of wine, so she jumped right in. “Why haven’t you done that?”
“She’s helped me so much—with my Bible lessons and showing me how to lead a more Christian life,” Troy explained. “I can’t just drop her like that. And I’m not ready yet. I don’t know everything there is to know about the church. She’s helping me figure it all out.”
“Sounds like she’s also helping you mess up your marriage!” Tasha said.
“No, don’t say that,” Troy said. “Sister Glover has troubles like anyone else, but she’s a saved woman, and we should all be so lucky.”
“Snap out of it!” Tasha playfully snapped her fingers in front of Troy’s face. “Snap-out-of-it.”
“What are you talking about?” Troy asked.
“Girl, don’t you get tired of letting these chicks run they asses all over you?” Tasha asked. “I would think that being my friend for over ten years would’ve given you some backbone, but Troy, it seems like you like being a skank salad.”
“What’s a skank salad?” Tamia asked, shaking her head at Tasha’s attack.
“It’s the food that skanks eat before they enjoy the big steak—which is usually a man. Look, first Skank #1 Miata came in and took Julian, and now Sister Skank #2 is working on Kyle! And what are you doing about it? Writing some list down in a notebook.” Tasha threw the prayer pad over the bar.
“I need that.” Troy desperately reached for the notebook, but a rushing bartender mistakenly squashed it to a soggy mess.
“No, you need a clue. In fact, we all do,” Tasha said. “You want to have sex with the man one minute, then you don’t. And you, Tamia, you don’t want the man around one minute and then you do. What’s going on?” She looked from Tamia to Troy on either side of her. “We need to stop doing all of this complaining and take control of our lives. It’s not all about these men. It’s about us. We’re the 3Ts, not the three lames. And look at us. We’re out of control.”
Troy watched as another bartender stumbled over her notebook.
“You’re right, Tasha,” she said. “Help me, Jesus, but sometimes I do feel I’m out of control. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” Tasha said. “We need to do a check-in, check-up, and check-out.”
“A Queen Bee Competition?” Tamia and Troy’s eyes glowed at the thought of the competitive sport the Ts played in undergrad to get through midterms and exam weeks. The Queen Bee Competition was how they kept one another in check, making sure the hard work they were supposed to be doing was actually getting done. No big talk without action. In one notebook, they’d check in by recording a list of goals and check up each week to see who had achieved at least some of those goals. At the end of the competition, they’d check out by seeing who’d done the most stuff and she’d be crowned the Queen Bee. The prize back then was a free dinner, but s
ince they’d long surpassed undergraduate budgets, they’d been trading Kate Spades instead.
“I can’t do all of that,” Tamia said, looking at her watch. “I have a new client…and I’m just swamped.”
“Great, then there’s no better time,” Tasha said. “No more complaining. We need to act.” She waved down the bartender and asked him to hand her the notebook she’d just tossed on the floor. “Now let’s see what goals we can write down. And who will be named the new Queen Bee of the 3Ts!”
Crowning the Queen Bee: A Little Competition Never Hurts
The difference between a dreamer and a doer is a magical word called “action.” The difference between a friend and a sisterfriend is a magical word called “support.” When you throw these two miraculous words together, in any situation, every sistergirl is bound to come out on top. No one can support you actively pursuing your dreams like your sisterfriends. They hug you and hold you through the process, and when they catch you slipping, they have the loving nerve to say, “Hey, sistergirl, weren’t you supposed to (ENTER YOUR DREAM HERE)?”
Put this recipe for success to the test by getting some of your sisterfriends together for a little active competition. Breathe life into your dreams by openly sharing with your sisterfriends the smaller steps to achieving them and resuscitate theirs by listening and loving. The goal of the Queen Bee Competition is accountability and bragging rights. The sisterfriend who achieves the most action is the winner, and the other sisters get to say they helped her reach her goal, and continue to work on their own.
Rules of Engagement
The Check-In: Gather your sisterfriends around to chat about the things you want to do, and discuss what small things you can do to get there. For example, if you want to become the next hot ballroom dancer, it might seem impossible, but sharing smaller goals, like finding a decent class and saving $30 a week to be able to afford the class, might seem more doable. Record all of your big and small goals on a sheet of paper, date it, and agree to meet a short while (a week or a month) later.
The Check-Up: At the next meeting, go through the list to see who has put action behind words. Did you find the dance teacher and save $30? Did your bestie pay one of her speeding tickets so she can get her driver’s license back? Did your sisterfriend reapply to take the LSAT so she can finally go to law school? Did Kim lose just one pound? Celebrate the small victories with a round of drinks and applause. Discuss the shortcomings with others to find out where they went wrong and how you can help. Set a list of new short-term goals, date it, and organize another short-term check-up.
The Check-Out: One pound a week can equal fifty-two pounds lost in one year! Taking the LSAT, researching schools, applying, and getting accepted can lead to a future lawyer. Paying tickets one by one will surely add up to a returned license. A class, a competition, and a trophy can make you the next ballroom dancing star. After a few short-term meetings, have a final, preplanned check-out date where the long-term goal is to be completed. The sisterfriend who has come closest to achieving her goal is the Queen Bee and must be crowned and celebrated with awe. A most luxurious gift and kind words should mark the occasion. This sister has worked hard, so don’t be cheap or short on praise. Other sisters should be happy too, though. While they aren’t yet Queen Bees, they’ve done something about getting closer to making their dreams a reality, and one more competition could put them on top.
3
Well-behaved women seldom make history.
—Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
Though she was only two years old, Toni was fast learning Ulrich’s abovementioned astute observation. When she cried, Tasha looked upset and usually left her alone. When she hollered, Lionel looked heartbroken, and usually picked her up and held her close. For her, this pattern of events provided the two things she wanted most—to be away from her mother and alone with her father. It was emotional ecstasy—two-year-old style. And while her brain hadn’t yet processed how she’d make this daily achievement a part of a permanent history, she was well on her way to developing a concrete plan.
However, one little girl behaving badly seldom topped a big girl behaving badly, and especially not when it came to the big girl’s man.
The morning after the Queen Bee Competition went into official 3T effect, Tasha had one thing on her mind—taking her husband on a date and having mistress-worthy sex with him (while on the date). And no amount of crying and hollering on the part of a little girl was going to stop her.
Toni’s shenanigans started in the morning when she overheard Tasha on the phone arranging an afternoon visit from Milania, a seventeen-year-old babysitter who lived a few houses down. She remembered what happened when her mother said the name “Milania” and understood the word “come.” Eating chopped bananas her father fed her with a silver spoon, Toni knew this meant one thing—he was leaving her. But he’d just gotten back. And they hadn’t taken a nap on the hammock in the backyard like they always did after playtime in the pool. She hadn’t smelled his spicy cologne and felt his heart beating in her ear as she drifted off to sleep.
Soon, Toni was crying, screaming, hollering, choking, and wailing on the floor.
Soon, Milania had arrived, was handed a wide-eyed Tiara, and was left standing beside Toni’s tearstained face.
Soon, Tasha was pushing Lionel into the car and pulling out of the driveway.
“We can’t just leave her like that,” Lionel said, turning and looking at the house as his wife drove up the street. “What if she doesn’t stop?”
“It’s a tantrum. She has them.” Tasha’s voice was flat, focused. Her eyes were locked on the rolling pavement.
“But she was choking and what if—”
“Baby, trust me. She’ll be fine.”
“I just feel bad. Coming home and leaving her alone. Maybe we should’ve waited and done this tomorrow—after I spend some time with the girls.”
“You have to be at practice tomorrow morning, remember?”
Lionel nodded sadly. He’d spent so much time away from his daughters practicing when he was at home, and when he went away, only for three or four days, and returned, he noticed something different, new about them. Tiara could grab his key chain. Toni had learned a new way of laughing at the old game of peekaboo.
“Look, honey,” Tasha said, “I just want to go to the spa to relax a little bit and unwind. I want to spend time with you. We can put the girls to bed together tonight. How does that sound?”
Lionel looked at Tasha.
“Okay,” he agreed. “Okay.”
Lionel and Tasha held hands throughout their massages. They winked and grinned like teenagers as they stole glimpses of each other’s oiled, nude bodies being touched by petite ladies with large hands. The dizzying scent of lavender filled the air and hot stones dissipated every care from their bodies. Soon, as the masseuses crept from the room, they were asleep, but still holding hands. Tasha dreamed of her husband on top of her and he dreamed of his wife on top of him. Together bodily in this world, and united mentally in another time, it was the most intimate they’d been in over a year. When he woke up, he found her asleep, her arms and legs splayed on the leather table, the thick white towel slipping away. He let it fall to the floor and threw his on top of it. Tasha’s nipples were hardened and facing the ceiling as she continued to dream. Lionel wrapped her legs around his head and consumed his wife in this world and in another time. She shook and writhed, calling his name so loud a collection of masseuses and clients had gathered outside the door. “How much is the couple’s massage?” one woman asked. She already had her husband on the phone.
“I fucking love you,” Tasha joked, sipping on cucumber water beside the indoor pool at the spa. She and Lionel were wrapped in thick, white terry-cloth robes.
“I’m sorry about the other night. It was just…I was stressed out and tired. You know I would’ve—”
“No, ba
by.” Tasha stopped Lionel. “Let’s just be in the moment and enjoy our date. I mean, maybe this is what we need. A little more us time, so we can get back…you know? To how things used to be.”
“Get back to what?” Lionel looked past Tasha to see that a woman who was reclined in a chair with only a small towel to cover her body had noticed him and was smiling hello with her eyes.
“Us…like the way we were before we had the girls and moved out here to Jersey. Do you remember how it was? We were so hot and young. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. People envied us.”
“But we have a family now, Tasha. It’s what we both wanted. It’s why we got married. Right?”
“Yeah, and I love our life. I love our daughters. But sometimes it’s so heavy. It’s so much. I just want to go back to how we were.”
“So that’s what’s wrong with you.” Lionel looked away from the woman, who moved her towel down to the tips of her nipples and peered at Tasha keenly.
“Wrong?” Tasha shot up. “What do you mean ‘wrong’?”
“I’m not the only one who’s been coming up short. Sometimes the way you touch me isn’t the same either. It’s like it’s good, but you’re tired,” Lionel said, admitting something he hadn’t told anyone else. Sex with Tasha was seldom without surprise and complete seduction, but lately, it seemed her passion had become practiced and ritualistic. She moaned and groaned, hollered and hooted, but sometimes he wondered if she even wanted to be there. If the show was more for him than anything.
“Tired? I’m fine.” Tasha shifted back into her chair and tried to laugh it off, but suddenly she felt as if Tiara and Toni were sitting right on her lap.
Playing Hard To Get Page 8
