Unbuttoning the waist of her pimento suede low-rise pants, Fancy slid her hand underneath her orange lace thong, inhaled, pressed her middle finger against her engorged clitoris, closed her eyes, and quietly exhaled. After leaving Mandy’s office, and before Desmond picked her up for the comedy show, Fancy had taken a vow of celibacy, and after only a few hours her vagina adamantly protested, but Fancy wanted a break from men. Well, not completely. What Mandy made Fancy realize was that Fancy required time out from d-jaying different men. D-jaying, disc-jocking, riding, fucking, having sex with, whateva. All Fancy knew was Miss Kitty was officially on sabbatical and the next brotha was going to have to work overtime just to get a whiff.
Thinking back on her past affairs, maybe love, in many ways, was like having an orgasm. She had to experience her first life-altering high and heartbreak in order to appreciate the next. Understand the ex. Then learn how to become the best mate she could without hording or dumping her emotional baggage on everyone else.
If anyone in heaven was listening, Fancy asked for forgiveness if she didn’t find the humor in not knowing her father, not loving her mother, and having to learn through trial and tribulation how a man should treat a woman. A role model would’ve been nice. A few times Fancy secretly observed her girlfriend, SaVoy. Since SaVoy was a Christian and all and was raised by her father and she was still a virgin, Fancy figured SaVoy had to know how a good man treated his woman.
But when SaVoy accepted Tyronne’s proposal, a man who was more of a thug than the derelicts Fancy’s mother dated and was nowhere close to the refined millionaires Fancy had dated, Fancy figured SaVoy’s prayers either weren’t specific enough or SaVoy, like Fancy, had no definition of a real man.
The crowd became consumed with laughter again, interrupting her internal monologue as Chris cursed some woman out. Not literally. Chris joked about her being in the mistress protection program. Fancy rolled her eyes at Chris then contrived a chuckle trying to join in the laughter with Desmond, but Fancy didn’t have a clue what Chris’s point was. Her self-imposed frustrations had nothing to do with anyone in the theater. Mistress—the word echoed in her mind. Yeah, Fancy, too, had believed she was in that program last year dating a married man. Turned out Byron wasn’t married at all.
Softly sighing, Fancy eased her hand from under her thong then interlocked her warm, moist fingers with Desmond’s, thinking the only New Year’s resolution she needed this year was a revolution. A revelation. Someone to confirm that one day she, too, would be happily married to a financially secure man, preferably a man wealthier than Chris Rock. Scanning Chris’s impeccable chocolate complexion, his large, bright white teeth, and his Delco Cabana leather jacket, money had definitely improved his appearance.
Starting with her honeymoon, Fancy would settle down, fuck her rich husband beyond satisfaction, and then stay in bed, elevating her legs over the headboard, welcoming each of his sperm racing to fertilize her eggs. But did Fancy really want a husband or simply to have a baby for a wealthy man to secure her financial position?
Fancy had witnessed that married couples begrudgingly living in matrimony for years were happier after their divorce, and single people once married seemed the happiest of their existence—that was, until the honeymoon ended. Having worked diligently to conquer the man of her dreams—wealthy, attractive, successful, young—somehow Fancy’s fantasy had unfolded into an endless saga, spiraling into a sweat-drenched nightmare Fancy had last night about giving birth to a stillborn child. Or in her case, having had that abortion. Painful. Terrifying. Yet in many ways satisfying. Fancy would rather exercise choice than rear a dysfunctional child by herself like her selfish mother had raised her. What if Desmond was the father? He couldn’t afford to take care of them.
Fancy had learned that maturity came with time. Wisdom came in time. And happiness, well, that was something she’d searched for as long as she remembered through the eyes of men. Why couldn’t her men make her life joyful and drama-free? Why did she expect them to?
In retrospect, things between Byron and Fancy could’ve worked if Fancy had trusted him from the beginning. Perhaps if Fancy hadn’t memorized that number on his cell phone, then dialed the number as soon as she’d gotten home. Fancy vividly recalled being taken aback by the sound of a sleepy but sultry voice that had answered, “Hello.” Instantly Fancy had assumed that the bitch on the other end of the line had to be Byron’s wife.
“Huh.” Fancy exhaled, squeezed Desmond’s hand, and then continued her thoughts. Fancy felt pretty damn foolish to have independently drawn such a conclusion before affording Byron the opportunity to explain that Mrs. Van Lee, who had Byron’s last name, honestly was his sister.
Unless a woman was Oprah Winfrey, Venus or Serena Williams, or some other household name, married women ought to give up the self-identity crisis bullshit and use their husbands’ last names. That way Fancy would’ve at least had a clue of who she was stalking. The old Fancy would’ve still fucked a woman’s husband then eagerly sent him home right after he sponsored her rent. Fair exchange was no robbery. After sucking his dick real good, he’d be happy, Fancy would be sheltered and satisfied, and his wife could sleep peacefully at night knowing her husband loved her enough never to leave her over a piece of ass.
Unfortunately Fancy didn’t discover the truth about Byron’s sister until after Fancy showed up at the woman’s front door, pretending to be an appraiser working in the area doing comparables, sat in her dining room socializing, and then ran away when Byron’s sister’s water unexpectedly broke, forcing her into labor.
Maybe if that—Pow!—sound of a gun signaling the start of a race blaring in her mind hadn’t triggered Fancy to sprint so fast that she saw herself crossing the threshold of the woman’s front door before Byron could question how she’d gotten his sister’s address, Fancy would be Mrs. Fancy Van Lee not Miss Fancy Taylor. Now Fancy realized that that unnecessary confrontation was all her fault. How could her man have explained an unasked question?
Except for that mishap and the fact that Byron had strangled her and left her for dead stranded on that mountain overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, Byron was ideal marriage material. Or was Dez, the man who’d searched in pitch darkness until he rescued her off the mountain, ideal marriage material?
If only Fancy had trusted Byron and not called the police to report the Mercedes he’d bought her as a stolen car because he’d taken the car back. Naw, fuck that. Fancy was pissed. Fancy had earned that damn Benz! What man gave a woman a drop-top convertible or any gift then repossessed the item? Yeah, she’d accepted the car back but not until after she’d made Byron feel guilty about hurting and abandoning her.
If only Fancy hadn’t carried her insecurities, baggage, broken heart, sleepless nights, disappointments, resentment, and fucked-up past relationship issues into Byron’s life, they’d be married or at least still engaged. Now that Byron wanted to forgive her, it was too late for them to develop a healthy relationship—she thought.
The mental scars of Byron’s fingers choking the life from her precious temple were indelibly etched in a place Fancy called her “sabotaging subconscious.” Fancy had somehow managed to fuck up every single relationship she’d had. Even if Fancy took Byron back, she’d never trust him again. Fancy knew because she’d played that lead role before. Lying to herself about how the relationship could’ve worked.
Fancy, if only you hadn’t, or, Fancy, if you had been just a little bit more patient, or less demanding, or more sensitive to his needs . . . Fancy quietly blamed herself because most of her relationships ended in disaster. Truth was, her insecurities and inability to trust men ended her relationship with Byron years before they’d ever met, including the night they’d met at the New Year’s Eve gala Desmond had proudly taken Fancy to.
Squeezing Desmond’s hand again, Fancy continued her thoughts. Fancy loved Desmond, she thought. Yeah, in her own special way, she did. But New Year’s Eve a little over a year ago, Desmond had spent two
whole paychecks to take Fancy to a gala where she’d already plotted to meet a rich man well before Desmond had picked her up from her condo. Time revealed Byron was that man. Now Fancy realized there was nothing Byron could’ve done to make her trust him and there was nothing Desmond could’ve done to gain her love. Intentionally Fancy had used a good man, her best friend, Desmond, to find a better man. Or she believed Byron was better simply because he was richer.
SaVoy was right when she’d warned Fancy, “Stop using Desmond before you ruin him.” Too late. Fancy was responsible for changing Desmond’s loving, considerate, selfless attitude toward women. The next woman, probably Trina, would be handed Fancy’s Olympian-burning torch with which she’d emotionally scared Desmond, but Fancy would try to heal his broken heart as best as she could before Desmond left her house tonight.
The same emotional trauma held true for another one of her sponsors, Adam. Except Fancy never wanted to marry Adam but somehow ended up feeling betrayed when Adam married someone else and stopped sponsoring her rent, manicures, and hair weaves. Actually, Fancy had stopped fucking Adam when she met Byron because she believed Byron was all the man she needed. Byron. Now the thought of his name made Fancy laugh aloud. What a joke.
What the hell had Chris said that had Desmond holding his stomach instead of her hand? Whatever. Fancy continued mentally entertaining herself with thoughts from her past because Fancy was getting too old to depend on a man. Funny how the men Fancy had, she didn’t want, and the man she’d always dreamt of having, she never had.
Like Desmond. Desmond was too accessible, too poor, and too immature. But Desmond was the only man who truly loved Fancy just the way she was. Regardless, that didn’t change the fact that Desmond wasn’t established like the rich men Fancy was accustomed to dating, and Fancy refused to settle.
Sadly, Desmond was leaving her tomorrow. Trina was single, never married, and from how Desmond bragged, anxiously awaiting his arrival. Damn, Fancy couldn’t believe she was jealous of another woman she’d never met. But Fancy had met Desmond’s current woman, Carlita. Carlita was admittedly more woman than Fancy but Carlita was too old for Desmond. She’d offered to relocate with Desmond but he refused her while urging Fancy to go with him. How would Fancy and Desmond look together? What would people think? Fancy dressed in her designer wardrobe fit for a runway in Milan, and Desmond a college student kickin’ around campus in denims.
Fancy had seen Desmond out of his blue jeans and felt his naked flesh making love to every part of her body and soul but that wasn’t enough to convince Fancy to be his woman, let alone his wife. Fancy couldn’t continue hurting Desmond. But she had convinced Desmond to return the engagement ring he’d bought for Carlita and buy a friendship ring for her. Fancy loved Desmond. She thought.
Fancy was certain there was a reason why she didn’t have a man. Didn’t trust men. She wished she could say it was because she wanted every man to be just like her father. And although Fancy wasn’t a Christian like her best friend SaVoy, Fancy thanked God that her exes were nothing like the blue-collar, alcoholic bar patrons Fancy remembered as a little girl, who’d fucked her mother Caroline at hours when decent, respectable men were asleep. They never stayed. In the middle of the night, they’d just cum and go, and the more they’d cum the more Fancy hated her mother for loving them. Why couldn’t Fancy have said all of this to Mandy earlier?
The suitor Fancy hated most, Franze, was thankfully killed by his jealous wife. Caroline worshiped Franze. If Franze said jump, Caroline didn’t ask how high, she’d simply jump as high as she could. But no matter how much Caroline did to please Franze, he was never satisfied. Was any man ever truly satisfied?
Caroline wanted Franze so badly that when he started slapping her face, she felt the pain as a sign of caring, claiming she shouldn’t have made him upset. Fancy was glad Franze was dead because if his wife hadn’t killed his black ass, Fancy would’ve eventually beaten his brains out of his head.
Guess his wife grew tired of the beatings, too. The palms of Franze’s heavy hands landing against Caroline’s cheeks gradually turned into fists pounding her eyes. Sometimes old bruises, before healing, became new bruises. When one eye opened, he’d close the other one. Fancy hated Franze. Still did. Because Franze was the reason Fancy lied on Caroline’s ex, Thaddeus.
The first time Fancy witnessed Thaddeus hitting Caroline, she dialed 9-1-1 then sat on the steps of their blue porch and waited for the blue police car with the blue flashing lights to arrive. Since childhood Fancy had hated everything associated with blue, and Desmond being a blue-collar worker and all didn’t help her to like him, but she loved him. She thought. Fancy thought this because she didn’t know what love was. But after her last session with Mandy, Fancy discovered that she wanted to be loved.
“Are you o—” the policeman had began to ask.
Before that officer, dressed in a dark blue uniform, completed his sentence, Fancy had hysterically cried. Flashbacks of black eyes turned blue covering her mother’s face sent her into a frenzy.
“He raped me!” Fancy yelled, reaching to wrap her arms around the cop’s waist. Thaddeus had never touched her, but before Fancy experienced her first menstrual cycle, Franze had stolen her virginity, causing her to bleed vaginally, and then threatened to beat and kill her if she told anyone. Rape was another reason Fancy wanted to kill Franze. But since Franze was dead, Thaddeus would pay for all the men who abused her and her mother. The police officer’s fingers swiftly clasped around Fancy’s then twelve-year-old wrists before Fancy could grab his gun.
Struggling to break his grip, Fancy’s voice escalated. “My mother’s boyfriend raped me! And he’s inside beating my mother. I want you to take him away from here! Now!” Fancy screamed until the word trailed down her throat and fake tears rolled down her then chubby cheeks. Suddenly lights throughout the neighborhood had popped on one at a time, just like her gross fat cells had melted away one pound at a time as Fancy had starved herself down to a size seven.
Without questioning her, Fancy watched the cops enter their house and later exit, handcuffing Thaddeus while escorting him out in his blue boxers. One of the officers placed his hand on top of Thaddeus’s bald head like a fitted cap, forcing Thaddeus into the back of the police car behind the caged divider where he belonged. Racing barefoot onto the porch, Caroline scrambled to tie her robe around her naked protruding waistline just as the patrol car drove off.
Placing both hands on her lumpy hips, Caroline had stared at Fancy and demanded, “Fancy, what in the world did you tell them?”
Looking up at her mother’s bleeding blue face, Fancy told the truth and a lie at the same time. “To protect you, I told them he raped me.”
Caroline’s hands shot toward heaven as she yelled, “What! Fancy, no! Why?”
Since Caroline couldn’t protect herself, somebody had to protect Fancy’s mother. Good or bad, Caroline was the only mother Fancy had and Fancy was her only child.
“Maybe the cops will beat Thaddeus until he turns black and blue like he beats you so he can see how it feels. I hate men! I hate you! I hate myself! I wish I were never born! I hope they keep him and never let him out of jail!”
Rolling her eyes, Caroline had replied, “Fancy, it’s not that simple. Thaddeus is going to jail but when he gets out he’s going to be angry with you and angrier at me.”
Heartlessly Fancy stared Caroline in the eyes while the blood in her veins sizzled, then whispered, “Then I’ll just have to make sure he never gets out.”
Gripping her hand now, Desmond softly asked, “Are you okay? You’re trembling and your palm is sweating.” Tracing her hairline, his fingertips affectionately lifted her damp hair, laying the wet darker strands atop the dry ones.
The heated air inside Fancy’s lungs quietly bypassed her deflating chest and exited her nostrils as Fancy lied to Desmond once more, pretending she was fine. Truth was, Mandy was right. Fancy could’ve been one of America’s top supermodels, perfect fig
ure, flawless hairweave, name-brand designer clothes, including her underwear, but mentally Fancy struggled to stop suppressing the real woman inside. Whoever she was. Selfishly, Fancy wanted Desmond to stay in Oakland to console her. What would happen if Fancy told Desmond the truth? For once, Fancy could just tell Desmond that she loved him.
She thought.
Back at her condominium, Fancy decided to forego celibacy for the night. Removing Desmond’s shirt, she licked his nipple, lightly grazing his other nipple with her nails. Fancy desperately needed Desmond. Her hands floated lightly over Desmond’s body, remembering each hairless curve, each firm muscle, his birth mark and flesh moles.
Laughing, Desmond said, “Chris Rock is a stone fool. He still got me laughin’ and I can’t even remember the jokes.”
Fancy wasn’t joking when she said, “Dez, I want to make love to you tonight,” laying him backward on her bed then caressing the nape of his neck. Her lips gently pressed against his tasty chocolate lips, journeyed to his smooth cheek, along his protruding collarbone, and then down to Desmond’s sexy chest.
Desmond stopped laughing and uttered, “Fancy, what are you saying? What does this mean?”
Straddling Desmond, Fancy told him the truth. “I love you, Dez. And tonight I need for you to love me. Inside and out.”
Rolling Fancy onto her back, Desmond quietly undressed Fancy, dropping her pants to the floor on top of his. Easing below her navel, Desmond buried his face in Fancy’s bush. Inhaling the inviting fragrance of a good piece of sushi, Desmond sniffed and sniffed and sniffed then held his breath. “I want to remember your scent. Every time I want you in my mouth”—Desmond’s fingers parted Fancy’s vagina—“I’ll eat a California roll or a fresh piece of coconut to remind me of your taste.” He licked and sucked then licked his lips. Without looking up at Fancy, Desmond said, “I love you,” as though she was the only woman he’d ever loved.
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