Diamond Playgirls

by Daaimah S. Poole; Miasha; King Deja; T. Styles

  After work Dior went inside a quaint boutique that had caught her attention a few weeks before. There were two women in there, one behind the counter and the other greeted her at the door.

  “Hello, welcome to Chell-C’s. If you need help with anything please let me know,” the medium-height, skinny, pale woman said.

  “I’d like to see that dress in the window,” Dior told the woman.

  “Oh, let me get it for you. Would you like to try it on?”

  “What size is it?”

  “It’s a zero,” the woman responded.

  “Yes, please.”

  The woman took the dress off the mannequin and carried it to the dressing room in the back of the store. She neatly laid it across the plush lounge chair inside the dressing room and held the curtain up allowing Dior inside.

  “Let me know if you need help putting it on,” the woman said as she exited the dressing room.

  Dior stripped down to her stockings, panties, and bra. She slowly stepped into the knee-length long-sleeved dress that seemed to sit perfectly on every inch of her body. The fabric felt good against Dior’s skin and the deep floral print looked rich and made a statement. The dress was surely a one-of-a-kind. It was just right for Valentine’s Day at MoBay, sexy and bold, yet classy and sophisticated. Dior looked at herself in the mirror, turning to see her back and each side to make sure the dress looked good from every angle. Then she looked at the tag to see just how much it would set her back. Five hundred and fifty dollars, she read. Then her thinking cap went on as she rationalized spending that kind of money on a dress when she had a world of other priorities.

  This is the dress that I could be meeting my future husband in. It has to be something that stands out from the rest and it has to say all the right words. Now, I could easily go to Bebe or BCBG and get a cute dress for half the money, but I’d be risking walking into MoBay dressed like somebody else or two other people for that matter. Everybody shops at those stores. This is a first impression and it must be a lasting one, Dior thought.

  She gave herself one last look and one last justification before she decided to take the dress. Before paying for it, though, she asked what the store’s return policy was. She wanted to make sure she could get a refund if Mr. Good Black Man didn’t accept her invitation. Everything worked in her favor and she paid for the dress with her American Express card and left the store. I’ll pay the bill off as soon as it comes in, she thought as she took a deep breath. Outside the boutique, she raised her new dress slightly in the air, in part because it was her only means of getting the attention of a cab driver, but more so as a salute to her efforts. Here’s to giving love one more chance, she thought as she stepped up to a taxi and got inside.

  Dior couldn’t wait to get home to see if Mr. Good Black Man would say yes to meeting her in person at MoBay. And it wasn’t really about going on a date, either. She was more eager to read through his response. It became about the challenge at that point. She wanted to see if he would fall through or if he really was what he cracked himself up to be. Lord knew she didn’t need any more impersonators. She wanted the real deal, and if a man was not that he need not apply. Her time was too valuable for pretenders.

  “Mr. Good Black Man said yes,” Dior boasted.

  “Goodie!” Gordon cheered, clapping his hands. “So that’s one worry down.”

  “Yeah, one down and one hundred to go,” Dior replied.

  Gordon flagged Dior playfully and jumped right into the interrogation. “Are you excited? What are you going to wear? What time did you tell him to be there? You are going to arrive later than him, aren’t you? You’re not going straight from work, are you?”

  “Yes. A really cute dress. Seven. I don’t know. And no, to answer all your questions.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Gordon said, holding up a finger. “Yes, you are excited. Okay, good. You’re wearing a really cute dress, not so good.”

  “Why not? You think I should wear jeans?”

  “No, a dress is appropriate. But when you say really cute dress, it makes me think of a fifth-grade graduation dress, you know, something your grandmother makes for you,” he explained, frowning.

  “Oh no, not at all. When we Canadians say really cute we mean like…”

  “Hot?”

  “Yeah! Hot! It’s a hot dress!”

  “Okay, okay, now we’re talking. And you want him to be there at seven, but you’re not sure if you should arrive before or after him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dior said, leaning against Gordon’s desk.

  “I would say get there early. Not too early, just like five, ten minutes before him. This way you get to play what I call sneak peeks. Once I had a blind date and we were to meet at this club. And this is a club that’s known for fine men, so I was like if this guy turns out to be a monster, then I need to be able to diss him and get with somebody else in the club. The only way I figured I could do that was by showing up early and scoping out the guy first. See, we had planned to each bring a white rose so we could point out each other. Well, I hid my white rose in my man bag. I was sitting at the bar looking at everybody walk through the door. Finally he came in with that white rose and I almost fainted. Girl, he looked like King Kong and Shaba’s gay son.”

  Dior laughed.

  “You know who Shaba Ranks is, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m from Canada, not Mars, Gordon.”

  “I’m just checkin’,” Gordon said. “But anyway, that white rose stayed in my bag the whole time while I danced the night away with some other guy.”

  Dior and Gordon talked some more, Gordon giving Dior tips on what she should and should not do on her date. At the end of their lunch break, Dior retreated to her office and finally used her time to do some work.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dior,” Larissa said, placing a wrapped gift on Dior’s desk.

  “Thank you, Larissa,” Dior said, picking it up. Dior handed Larissa a box of candy hearts and wished her a happy Valentine’s Day also.

  “It’s an office survival kit,” Larissa volunteered, smiling.

  “Aw, this is so cute,” Dior said. “You would be the one to find a gift like this.”

  “I got Barbara a coffee mug that says ‘Boss’s Coffee, I am the Boss. Come and talk to me before you decide to piss in my coffee,’” Larissa excitedly told Dior.

  Dior chuckled. “That’s cute. Where do you find stuff like that? All I got her was a bottle of vintage wine.”

  “Well, she likes wine.”

  Dior shrugged her shoulders. “Next year I’ll be more creative.”

  “Well, I’m not going to keep you. I see you’re pretty busy,” Larissa said as she gestured at all the papers scattered across Dior’s desk.

  “Well, thanks again, Larissa.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you,” Larissa said, leaving Dior’s cubicle.

  Dior took a brief break to look through her gift from Larissa. She laughed at the comments that each candy referred to, particularly at the peppermint that read you pretend to work, we’ll pretend to pay you. “Imagine that,” she mumbled as she thought back on all the on-the-clock hours she spent surfing the Web. She put the candy back down and looked at her watch. It was ten thirty—six more hours before she would be able to go home, and two and a half hours after that she would be seeing Mr. Good Black Man for the first time. She couldn’t wait. The day couldn’t move fast enough.

  Dior worked constantly throughout the day, trying to make the time fly. She didn’t get online once, unless it was for research, and she only took a twenty-minute lunch. When four thirty rolled around, she was already on the elevator when normally she would just be shutting down her computer.

  Outside was pleasant, although brisk. But the winds were calm and there was no precipitation or signs of any, so for winter weather in New York that was considered pleasant. First, Dior walked a couple of blocks to the bank so that she could get some money from the ATM. She wanted to have cash on han
d to pay her drivers throughout the evening and in case for some odd reason she would have to buy her own drinks.

  On the subway ride home she leaned her head against the seat and drifted off; organizing what she would do when she got home in her mind. She would run herself a bath and while waiting for the tub to fill she would lay her dress out across her bed. She would get the nude bra and panty set she had bought specifically for the dress out of the Victoria’s Secret bag and take the tags off. Then she would take her Donna Karan nude stockings out of the pack and lay them across the dress. She would wrap her hair up neatly and get in the tub. She would put on her Michael lotion by Michael Kors and the matching perfume. She then would put on her undergarments, do her makeup, and let her hair down. Last, she would slip into her dress and put on her pumps. She would check herself out in the mirror. Then she would transfer all her important items such as her license, lip gloss, cell phone, money, and condoms into her new Gucci purse. Once all that was complete, she would put on her mink and walk outside to hail a taxi.

  Everything went according to plan when Dior got home. She was dressed to kill and ready to meet the man behind the MySpace messages. Her purse in one hand and a single white rose in the other, she got into a cab she hastily hailed at the corner. As soon as she sat down on the seat and gave him the address for MoBay, the driver turned around so fast you would have thought he had whiplash.

  “Oh no. Not you!” he said with a scowl.

  Dior looked startled as she tried to figure out why the driver was mad at her.

  “You’re the one who tried to run without paying me,” he reminded her.

  She put her hand on her forehead in frustration. “Oh God, it’s you. Listen, I’m so sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean any harm,” she said.

  “Sorry doesn’t pay the cab fare,” the driver snapped. “You want me to drive you to MoBay on 125th Street? That will be six dollars.”

  Dior nodded. “That’s fine.”

  The driver glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Show me the money.”

  “What?”

  “Show me the money,” he repeated stubbornly.

  Dior was ready to say to hell with the driver and try to hail another cab, but it was getting close to seven o’clock and she didn’t want to be late. And the fact remained that if the driver was acting shitty he had every right to do so. After all, she did try to stiff him for the fare. She blushed at the memory.

  She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “See!” she said, showing it to the driver.

  “Good. Now pay in advance.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  The driver shook his head. “How do I know you’re not going to stick that money back in your pocketbook and then jump out without paying me?”

  Dior sighed and handed him the twenty. “You can keep the change,” she said wearily.

  The driver looked at her queerly. “You sure? You gave me a twenty, you know. I said the fare would be six dollars.”

  “I know. This is just my way of saying I’m really sorry about what happened last month. And believe me, I’ve never even done anything like that before. Please, forgive me. But can you start driving now? I’m going to be late.”

  “Sure, and thanks.” He put the cab in gear and prepared to pull off but all of a sudden stopped.

  “Now what’s wrong?”

  “This money isn’t counterfeit, is it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Dior reached for the car door.

  “Calm down, calm down. I was just kidding,” he said as he started down the street. “So, you have a hot date for Valentine’s Day? You look real nice. I noticed that when you got in the cab.”

  I know this man isn’t trying to push up on me. Dior grimaced and rolled her eyes, then noticed the driver looking at her in the rearview mirror again.

  “Listen,” he said in an annoyed voice, “I was just trying to be nice. You don’t need to make a face like I’m trying to pick you up. You’re nothing but a fare to me. And shoot. I don’t even like women. I’m gay.”

  Dior blinked her eyes in surprise, then burst out in laughter.

  “What’s so funny? You have something against gay men?” the driver asked with a growl in his voice.

  “No, no,” Dior hurriedly assured him. “Listen, you’re not going to believe this, but…”

  As they drove down Malcolm X Boulevard, Dior spilled her guts about her tragic encounter with Chris, the encouragement she’d been given by Gordon, and her plan to meet a blind date that evening.

  By the time he pulled up next to MoBay they were chatting like old buddies.

  “Can you move up just a little so you’re not right in front of the club? I’m following Gordon’s advice and scoping him out before I find myself jumping from the fire into the frying pan. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you extra.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Besides, now that I’ve heard your story I almost feel obligated to wait for you.” He turned in the driver’s seat to face her. “No offense, but you don’t seem to have any kind of Gay-dar going for you. I want to stick around and make sure you get a straight guy this time.”

  Dior giggled. “I can’t even get mad. Thanks.”

  Patrons went in and out of the chic lounge, but none carrying the white rose Dior and Mr. Good Black Man agreed to bring with them. Butterflies started to dance in Dior’s stomach as she embraced the idea that she might have gotten stood up. She opened her purse and took out her mirror to touch up her makeup, and in that moment Mr. Good Black Man jumped out of a cab in front of MoBay and headed for the door.

  “There he goes!” the driver said. “That guy has a white rose.”

  Dior sat up in her seat and peered out the windshield. The only visual she and the driver could get of Mr. Good Black Man was his profile. But when he reached out and put his hand on the door to open it, he turned around and the two of them got a good look at his face.

  “Oh no! It can’t be!” Dior groaned and fell back onto the seat.

  “Isn’t that the guy who took care of your tab that day?” the driver said, oblivious of her reaction. “Naw, he ain’t gay. But no offense, because he was nice to you and all, but he seemed like he had the making of a real jerk if you ask me.”

  Dior was sick to her stomach. Mr. Good Black Man was pesky Jerome from her block. She was too through, wanting to go back home and cry herself to sleep. How could she have been so stupid? she thought. She should have seen through his “I don’t post my picture because I’m not superficial” routine. A Blair Underwood look-alike? Jerome was butt ugly, no matter what he was wearing, and he didn’t even bother to dress up for the blind date. He was actually walking into the club wearing that same old dingy army jacket. And a business owner who owned real estate? Jerome didn’t even have a job and he lived with his mother! She should have known better than to go out on a blind date with a guy she met on the Internet. She got just what she deserved.

  “So, what are you waiting for?” the driver asked, interrupting Dior’s pissed-off thoughts.

  Dior shook her head in disgust. Here she was all dolled up to meet the man of her dreams and the whole night was a bust. The thought of going back home and spending the night alone in her apartment contemplating her series of bad decisions brought tears to her eyes. No, she decided as she tried to blink back her tears. I’m out, and I’m going to make the best of it. She wasn’t going to go home and waste her stunning and costly outfit. Besides, she could use a drink, so she decided that she wouldn’t abandon an evening at MoBay. Instead, she paid the driver and right before she stepped out of the cab, she handed him the white rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Huh? What’s this for?”

  “You don’t really think I’m going to waste a perfectly good rose on that fool, do you?” she said with a smile. “And I’m certainly not going to let one monkey stop my show. I’m going to go in and have a good time by myself.”

  The driver g
rinned. “Good girl. But you don’t think he’ll recognize you?”

  Dior shook her head. “We never exchanged pictures, and I never even gave him a description of myself. He’ll recognize me from the block, but I don’t think he’ll have the nerve to come over and say anything to me.” She smiled when she remembered what Margie had told her about him not bothering people once they stood up to him.

  She walked inside MoBay and took a seat at the bar. “What would you suggest I have?” she asked the bartender when he came to take her drink order.

  “Harlem mojitos are the house specialty. Can’t go wrong with that,” the man answered politely.

  “Hey, that’s what I’m having. You’ll love it.”

  Dior turned and faced Jerome, who had come up behind her. The man seemed stunned. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dior said with a sneer.

  “Forget you. I’m here meeting my girlfriend,” Jerome said angrily.

  Dior snorted. “Judging by the way you look I can just imagine what she looks like.”

  “I’ll have you know she’s a professional woman with a job. And she looks better than you,” Jerome retorted.

  Dior snorted and turned back to the bartender, who was putting her drink on the bar. “Who’s that playing?” she asked him, pointing to a light-skinned man with long dreads blowing the sweetest sounds from his tenor sax.

  “Julian Meyers. He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

  Dior nodded, then noticed a couple getting up from their table. She hurriedly paid the bartender, grabbed her drink, and rushed over before someone else could claim the spot. Her mood still lousy, she placed her jacket over the back of the vacant chair at the table to make it look as if she had a companion who had perhaps gone to the restroom.