by Curtis Bunn
I couldn’t be mad at an apology. I didn’t agree with Rodney’s position that there was no need for anyone to apologize, that apologies didn’t matter.
Norman’s apology meant the world to me. I had grown to like him. I wondered about why he was interested in me; that was my self-esteem talking. I had been so down on myself for so long—or right after Troy left—that I had no confidence a man would be interested in me.
But Rodney helped rebuild my confidence.
“You want to come over?” I asked Norman. That was a show of two things: one, that I was becoming more self-assured and not concerned about appearances; and two, I was horny.
Norman had been a gentleman for the most part. He had been patient. I had grown attracted to him. It was time.
I showered as he took the thirty-five-minute drive from Cobb County to my place. I thought about Rodney and how I wanted him to meet Norman and give me his view on him. I wanted them to be friends.
But I couldn’t trust that Rodney would not have an episode.
And I wondered what was that about anyway? Did it mean he had romantic interest in me? Did it mean he was jealous? Or did it mean nothing? Maybe it just happened to be time for him to have an episode, and me telling him about Norman had nothing to do with it. I couldn’t really know.
Those thoughts were dismissed for another day when Norman knocked on the door. I went into seductive mode, a place I had not been but had become eager to visit. And after a few minutes and kissing and caressing right there near the door, I could tell by the look on his face and bulge in his pants that Norman was just as ready as me.
The buildup to the passionate moment was intense. I knew after a few dates that I would sleep with him. It was just a matter of time and how my feelings for him grew in the interim.
I didn’t believe there should be a certain amount of days before you slept with a man. I didn’t believe in sleeping with a man so quickly, in the first week or two, either. It sent a wrong message, one I believed and experienced could make the guy believe you were “easy,” and therefore not worthy of a relationship.
With Norman, it had been several weeks and I was comfortable we had passed that threshold of time. So, I passed on offering him a seat in my living room. It was go time, and a living room stop would have signaled yield. We went to my bedroom, where I had lit a candle and found the Sade station on Pandora.
Having to look up at Norman while standing barefoot meant a lot. Most women needed a man they have to crank their necks to see his eyes. There was some security in that.
Norman was smart; he did not mention Rodney’s name. Instead, he kissed me with a passion that solidified his earlier apology and confirmed it was our night to consummate the relationship.
I called it a relationship, but we had not set any ground rules. I knew the woman code calls for there to be a stated relationship status before sex, but I discarded it without a second thought. In fact, I thought it was lame at worst and unnecessary at best for women to try to pin a man down on a relationship status, especially just before sex. It was like a ransom.
As a grown person, I believed the decision on sex should come without the pressure of having to answer a useless question to validate whether it would happen or not.
It was a useless question because what was the man going to say with sex on the line? In most cases, he was going to say whatever he needed to say to have sex and deal with the inevitable repercussions later—after he got what he wanted.
So I didn’t bother. Also, I wasn’t sure I wanted a relationship with Norman. It had been about eighteen months since Troy had left. But it had only been about four months since I had gotten over it and began to feel I deserved someone wonderful to share to my body.
I liked Norman enough for that. I lot of women did the same thing—they just were not woman enough to admit it. They preferred to lie to themselves that sex was part of the relationship, when, really, there was no relationship in the sense of a commitment. The relationship was the sex.
For me, Norman delivered. I didn’t see the sky open up or birds chirping around my head, but he was patient and tender and unselfish. He was concerned with pleasing me, which was a change. Troy wasn’t dismissive of me, but he watched porn and focused on what a woman could do for him.
Norman and I tussled in my bed for about fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes that seemed like two days because I had been denied for so long. I was reminded how wonderful it was to be handled by a man, to be coveted, to be caressed. Norman was not the most skilled lover, but he tried hard and that effort was sexy.
He made it easy for me to appreciate his passion because he was eager and attentive. He wanted me. That alone meant so much.
Our night together restored the sexuality in me. Rodney awakened it by helping rebuild my confidence. Norman confirmed that I still had warm blood running through my veins. I rested on my back afterward in a euphoric state. And I didn’t even get an orgasm.
Orgasms mattered, but in that case it mattered more that someone I liked wanted me, found me attractive and treated me as a sexual being. I needed all that. The sex was important and invigorating. But it was more important for me to feel like a woman in a man’s presence.
“That was so good,” Norman said, lying next to me. Just having a man in my bed felt renewing. “I think we’re going to get along well.”
“I would have to agree with you,” I said. “Not so much because of sex, although I did like the sex. But I especially like that you’re a real man and you like me and respected me. I never felt rushed into bed, but I always felt like you wanted me. I appreciate your patience.”
He pulled me over into his arms. I rested my head on his chest and dozed off. But my last thoughts were of Rodney. I wondered where he was sleeping.
When we woke up that morning, I wanted some more. I eased closer to Norman and placed my ample, bare breasts on his back. He exhaled.
“Now that’s a nice feeling to wake up to,” he said.
I reached around him and grabbed his manhood. “Yes, this is,” I said.
He laughed, turned over and we hugged. And before long, we were at it again. I needed to climax this time—an orgasm with a man was more intense that a sex toy-generated orgasm.
And so I concentrated and opened my mind and body to Norman’s passion, and then it came—an inner explosion that covered my hot body and left me feeling suspended in air. I had almost become unfamiliar with that feeling. But it was cathartic. I felt better about myself.
The release helped me sleep more soundly than I had in years. I was certain I snored . . . and I didn’t care.
“Yeah, you were doing your thing,” Norman said. “But I wasn’t gonna bother you. Obviously, you needed that rest.”
“I did, huh? I’m sorry. But I slept like I was in hibernation. I don’t recall moving.”
Norman laughed as he gathered his clothes. It was 7:40 a.m.
“I hate to hit-and-run, so to speak,” he said, laughing. “But I’ve got to go.”
I was not offended. My body felt too good to feel anything but ecstasy.
“Let’s get together around six-thirty this evening. I have a spot I want you to experience,” he said. I was so glad Norman was interested in seeing me again. After so long, I wasn’t sure how he would react.
“Today? I can’t today. I’m meeting Rodney at that time. That’s a standing thing with us,” I told him.
That did not go over well.
“So, that’s how it’s going to be? I take a backseat to this guy who does not have a home but has a date with you?”
“Norman, we had a good night and a better morning. I can’t cancel on him. I just can’t. It’s important that we connect. It’s like therapy for us.”
“I thought you said you went to therapy with him.”
“I did. But . . . Why are you being like this? I already have plans. Can’t we go another time?”
I needed Norman to back off, and, thankfully, he did.
; “OK, it’s cool. I’m good. We’ll figure out another day. So, what are you and your boy doing?”
“Rodney and I are meeting at the J.R. Crickets on North Avenue and then going for a walk. We walk in the evenings. And talk.”
“OK, cool. I will see what the rest of the week looks like for me, and you can let me know what works for you and we can plan it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate you understanding.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: FIGHTING MAD
RODNEY
The session with Dr. Taylor was not as bad as it could have been. It actually was all right. I left there feeling like talking about what was going on in my head was a good thing.
I still had the same dreams about that night that changed my life, but only one each night, instead of what seemed like a continual loop playing in my head.
A few days later, Brenda met me at J.R. Crickets to go for a walk. I was a little disappointed, though, because I had called her the night before and she did not answer. And I did not hear back from her until the next afternoon.
I had no grounds to be disappointed; she had a life to live. But because I had grown to know her so well, I knew there was not much she had going on in her life. So it made me wonder.
But when she showed up five minutes early in the restaurant parking lot, I dismissed my issues. They were an overreaction.
She greeted me with a hug, and it felt good and right. She was my friend.
“You’re mighty perky,” I told her. “Why?”
Brenda seemed like she was hiding something. “Who? Me? I’m, huh, always perky, aren’t I?”
“No, not really. You’re definitely more energetic. Way more than when I met you.”
“I was a different person then. You know that.”
“I do.”
“OK, which way we walking?”
“We can walk downtown all the way to The Underground and back. I know the parking lot guys here. I’m gonna tell them to leave your car alone.”
“I brought some shrimp and veggies for us to eat when we get back.”
She always had my back, and I appreciated her for that. I couldn’t tell her that, though. It seemed like too much. So I kept it to myself as we walked up to Peachtree Street and turned left, toward the downtown skyline.
To get there, though, we had to pass the Peachtree-Pine shelter, which was only four blocks away. Most of the residents hung out on the Courtland Street side of the building, though.
“What’s it like inside that place?” Brenda asked as we passed.
“Not a place you want to visit. I sleep on the streets. That should tell you all you need to know. Oh, and this: There was a story in the paper at some point that said almost ninety percent of the cases of tuberculosis in Atlanta came out of that shelter.”
“Damn,” she said. I thought she was reacting to what I had told her about TB, but her response was about the guy coming at me from across the street. He went by Skip; didn’t know his given name and didn’t care.
He was a white dude who looked like he had been through it. He and I got into an argument about President Obama one day. Skip called him “Obama.” I told him, “You mean, President Obama, don’t you?”
And that’s when it went bad. He raised his voice, saying, “He doesn’t deserve to be called president. What has he done for anybody? Look at us out here on the street. What did he do to get us off the streets?”
“What did you do to get yourself off the street?” I told him. “You white people kill me. You want to blame President Obama for everything. He had nothing to do with your wife fucking your coworker and you losing your mind behind it.”
Men had to hold him back from attacking me. I stood there waiting and ready for him to break loose, so I could kick his ass. We were about the same size, but I was more coordinated and had boxed until I was fifteen. I was going to beat him down.
“Next time I see you, I’m going to bust your ass,” he said.
That day with Brenda was the next time. And her warning prevented me from getting blindsided by that angry white boy. I saw the horror on her face and turned to see where she looked. There was Skip running at me full bore with a knife in his hand.
I turned to face Skip and avoided his lunge with the knife by leaning to my left. He flew by and before he could gather himself and turn around, Brenda hit him over the head with her purse. He stumbled, mostly out of surprise than force. But his imbalance was the opening I needed to attack, and I did, pushing him to the ground.
He held on to the knife, though—until two swift punches to the face knocked it loose. A third punch to the chest and a fourth and fifth to the head opened a wound and alarmed Brenda. She first yelled for me to stop, and when I reared back to deliver another blow, she attempted to grab my arm.
But I was already in motion and ended up hitting her in the face. She fell over and my heart stopped. I jumped off of Skip and over to Brenda, who was conscious but holding her jaw.
“Oh, shit. Are you OK? You know I didn’t mean to hit you? Are you OK?”
She nodded her head, but tears rolled down her face as I sat her up. To our left, Skip was moaning in pain and bleeding. And as I got Brenda up on her feet, a police officer arrived on the scene.
Although Skip had the knife, I was grabbed and pushed against the wall by the cop.
“What are you doing?” Brenda asked. “What are you doing?”
“Miss, please back up. I saw what happened here.”
“No, you didn’t. Why are you harassing him? He was defending himself.”
“I saw from across the street that he hit you. Are you all right?”
He handcuffed me, told me “don’t move” and turned to Brenda.
“That was an accident, officer. This is my friend. We were going on a walk when this guy came over and attacked him with a knife.”
The cop turned to Skip, who tried to conceal his weapon.
“Is that true?”
“No, it’s not true,” Skip lied. “This guy has had it out for me for a week now. Threatening me every time he sees me.”
“Oh, he’s lying, officer. I promise you we were walking and I looked over and saw him coming at Rodney.”
“Where’s the knife you said he had?”
“I knocked it out of his hand, officer,” I said. “It’s on the ground over there somewhere. Or in his pocket.”
“Get over here on the wall,” he told Skip. “Where’s the knife?”
“I ain’t got no knife. I was minding my business and he jumped on me.”
“I don’t see a knife,” the cop said. “Both of you, turn around. What’s this about?”
Brenda could not contain herself. “Officer, I swear this man had a knife. I don’t know why he came after him, but he did.”
“Look at me. Look at my face. Does this look like I came after him?” Skip said.
“Looks like I whipped your ass. But you attacked me,” I said.
“Now, both of you shut up. What I saw was you beating on this man and hitting this woman.”
“Officer, she’s already told you we’re friends. We’re on a walk. This guy attacked me. What’s this about? Because he’s white and you’re white, you don’t believe me and you believe him?”
“Don’t start that racist crap with me.”
“But you immediately went to Rodney, and didn’t even consider that that guy had started it. So it doesn’t look like you’re being fair. Looks like you’re being biased.”
“I know what I saw, Miss. I saw him hit you.”
“Then you didn’t see everything. He came running across the street wielding a knife.”
“Where’s the knife?” the officer said. “I don’t see one. Do you?”
“Check him. He must have picked it up and put it in his pocket,” I said. “It was right there on the ground.”
“The man said he doesn’t have a knife.”
“And that’s it—you believe him?” Brenda said. “Rodney said the guy attacked him and
you didn’t believe him. But you believe the white guy?”
“Don’t make this about race.”
“If it’s not about race, pat him down like you did me,” I said. “If he has a knife, you know the deal.”
It was a gamble to say that because he could have tossed the knife when I turned to attend to Brenda. His certainty that he didn’t have a knife made me uneasy.
The officer seemed reluctant to search Skip, which was strange because that was protocol. But he did and found the knife.
“So what’s this?”
Skip didn’t respond. He turned him around to face the wall and took off the handcuffs from around my wrists.
“Go,” the cop said.
I had so much to say to the officer, and Brenda must have known, because she grabbed me by my elbow and pulled me away.
“Let’s just go,” she said as we walked away. Brenda breathed heavily and kept looking back as we walked on.
“You all right?” I asked. “Your face?”
She put her hand up to her jaw. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m just . . . That guy. Who was he? What’s his problem?”
I explained my history with Skip. “And for that,” she said, “he was trying to kill you?”
“Not everybody is sane. Not even me.”
“But you aren’t trying to kill people . . . are you?”
“Only myself. And you see how good a job I have done with that.”
“Well, we’re about living now, right? Both of us.”
I couldn’t answer because I was not sure. I had definitely taken some steps I had not expected to take—smiling, enjoying someone’s company and going to counseling—but my dreams still haunted me.
Brenda continued to look over her shoulder for the next few blocks—until the cop car came riding past us and we saw Skip in the backseat.
“Good. I don’t wish jail on anyone. But he has some issues. He really acted like he wanted to kill you.”
“We can’t worry about that now. It’s over. What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean? Nothing.”
“Nothing? I called you yesterday and never heard back from you. That never happened before.”
