Sex in the Sanctuary

by Lutishia Lovely

  “Who wants to pray?” Vivian asked.

  “I will!” Carla jumped in enthusiastically. “Lord knows we need to pray.” They all grabbed hands and bowed their heads. “Father God,” she began. “Please help Chanelle cook this food next week…” Everyone laughed in spite of themselves.

  Girls and boys didn’t look alike “down there”

  Cy was still smiling as he curled himself into his new toy, a midnight blue Bentley Azure. He was leaving City National Bank where he’d just met with his friend and business associate, Todd Green, a company vice president. Todd was the one who’d suggested that Cy get into real estate after liquidating his Internet stock and becoming an instant multimillionaire. So it was only right that Todd be taken to lunch with some of the one-and-a-half-million-dollar profit Cy had received from his latest real estate transaction.

  You could barely hear the mechanism that neatly folded the Azure’s convertible top into its niche across the backseat. Cy hit the CD button, and the melodies of Boney James filled the air from a system whose sound was so pure it was as if Boney himself was playing his saxophone from the passenger seat. Cy leaned back as he smoothly navigated through afternoon traffic in Beverly Hills, turning west on Wilshire Blvd., and heading to his next meeting in Century City, another investment opportunity. Cy was mulling over this possibility as he pulled up to the traffic light and heard a horn honk. It sounded a second time and Cy looked around. Next to him was an attractive blonde in a black Jaguar convertible. She took off her sunglasses, flashed a come-hither smile and shouted, “Hey! Love the car!” She then reached into her purse, pulled out a business card and, as the light was changing, tossed it onto his front seat, saying, “Call me. I’d love to buy you a drink.” Cy glanced at the card before continuing through the light and smiled as he shook his head back and forth. Women, how they did come on. That was the story of his life from the time he was six years old and Gracie May had pulled her pants down when they decided to play doctor in an isolated corner of the playground at recess.

  It was Cy’s first look at the female anatomy and his first knowledge that girls and boys didn’t look alike “down there.” He remembered being embarrassed and astounded before shouting out, “Look, y’all. Gracie May ain’t got no dingy!” That innocent admission had brought with it the attention of Mrs. Patterson, their first grade teacher, who marched over to the corner where they were “practicing” and asked the obvious, “What are you doing?” in a stern, commanding tone. By then Gracie May had pulled up her ruffled panties and tried to smooth her wrinkled skirt that had pieces of grass and a twig hanging on it from her lying on the ground. “Nothing,” Gracie had replied hastily, her head down, eyes wide and close to tears. They had to spend the rest of recess inside with Cy writing “I will not say bad words” across the chalkboard and Gracie penning “Pulling my pants down is bad” in her Big Chief tablet. He hadn’t realized that “dingy” was a bad word and thought belatedly that “thing” might have been a better choice.

  Cy’s cell phone rang as he neared the large business complex that housed the Morgan Group where his meeting would take place. He deftly navigated the crowded parking lot and slid the Azure effortlessly between two cars near the front of the building. He punched the speakerphone button as he turned off the CD. The world seemed almost silent with the absence of Boney’s “Sweet Thing.”

  “Cy speaking.”

  “Hey, Mr. GQ. It’s Pamela.”

  “Pamela! How are you?”

  “Better now that I’m listening to that gorgeous voice of yours. Busy?”

  “Yeah, heading into a meeting. Call you later?”

  “You better.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  The top of the Bentley clicked quietly into place as Cy reached back for his briefcase. Pamela. He smiled at the thought of her. Pamela was a sweet lady, funny and ambitious. She wasn’t bad to look at either. And most importantly, she wasn’t a member of Kingdom Citizens’. That was a huge plus. Dealing with Millicent had taught Cy a valuable lesson in the art of dating as far as the Christian community was concerned—stay away from family. “Family” was how the members of Kingdom Citizens’ referred to each other, and with good reason. Derrick and Vivian worked hard to maintain a close, friendly, family atmosphere in a church that was nearing five thousand members. Fellowshipping with family was one thing; dating family quite another. “Too close for comfort” took on new meaning when it came to a failed romance with a person you had to see every week and worse, even work with on occasion. Not that Millicent was unfriendly. No, she was kind and as efficient as always when they worked together. But Cy knew Millicent still carried a torch for him—well, everybody knew that—and it made him uncomfortable. He had told her in no uncertain terms after just a couple months of going out that while he found her to be a nice person and beautiful woman, she was not the woman for him. He knew she’d been hurt by that revelation, but Cy didn’t want to lead anybody on and have her hoping for something that could never be. After that, even though he was propositioned weekly if not daily by women at the church, he decided to steer clear of that pasture and look for companionship in another field.

  Not that his decision had stopped Millicent or other women of Kingdom Citizens’ and other churches from trying. Cy still received dozens of letters ranging from invitations for dinner to a “word from the Lord” about his future wife, usually the writer of the letter. One time it was a mother who’d written that she had dreamed about him and her daughter marrying. Cy remembered being tempted to reply to the mother and tell her to lay off the Tabasco before going to bed, but finally decided to ignore it and hope it and she would go away, along with the others. There had been more than one pair of lacy panties and other sundry items sent in packages to the church and more than one suggestive photograph. These all came from God-fearing, tongue-talking, bonafide daughters of the Kingdom. Then there was the photograph he’d taken innocently enough with a female member at a church banquet. The picture had been copied onto a piece of blank, lacy wedding stationery filled with flowers and bells and framed with a caption reading “Mr. and Mrs. Cy Taylor” at the bottom and sent to him, along with a letter of undying love from the woman in the picture who had knowledge from God Himself that they were to be married. Why hadn’t God told him? There’d been tickets to concerts, plays, sporting events and ski trips. One lady had gone so far as to purchase the plane tickets for a weekend in the Bahamas she was sure he’d enjoy. She’d even assured him in the letter that accompanied the ticket confirmation that he’d have his own room. How generous! And Mother Moseley was always bringing one nice lady after another up to him after church to “just say a Sunday hello.”

  And then there was Millicent, always there, always trying to help—looking at him, staring as if to read his very soul when she thought he wasn’t looking. He wished she didn’t feel the way she did about him. Most men would welcome the attention that being Cy Taylor brought, and Cy would gladly give it to them if he could. He’d much rather enjoy quiet anonymity in the background with a lady intelligent enough to carry herself in a manner that invited being pursued. Being hunted brought Cy no pleasure, but being the hunter, now, that was another story indeed! As if thinking about her had conjured her up, Cy looked down at his caller ID and noticed Millicent’s number. It had forwarded from the phone in his church office, and had a 911 after the number she’d entered. No, Cy didn’t like being pursued at all.

  Waiting on Jesus—Your Mr. Right

  The Jacuzzi’s jets pounded against Millicent’s back and leg muscles as she maneuvered herself into a position to better benefit from their rejuvenating force. This was her favorite part of the workout, the end. Aaron, her personal trainer, always laughed as she said this to him week after week while he guided her through the routine responsible for her slender thighs and tight abs, “My favorite part, the end!” She’d been adamant about not wanting to look like a weight lifter, just toned and healthy. She repositioned herself again and, w
ith her long hair wrapped in a towel turban-style, slid down into the warm, bubbling water. She straightened her long legs out in front of her while holding on to the steel railings, causing her to float in the oversized pool. As always, her thoughts were on her husband, Cy Taylor. At least he would be her husband if she had anything to say about it!

  Millicent, like most women, had fallen in lust with Cy the first time she saw him. Unlike most women, however, she obsessed over making this dream a reality. She’d pursued him with barely concealed zeal from the moment he became a member and was delighted when, after finding out about his investment background and asking him to look at her portfolio, he’d suggested they discuss it over lunch. By dessert, she’d decided. “I want this man.” Millicent usually got what she wanted.

  She pulled herself from the bliss of the Jacuzzi bath and dressed for her dinner date with friend and prayer partner, Alison Groves, an evening she was sure she’d enjoy. Not only was Alison fun and quick-witted, but she was also one of the most spiritual women Millicent had ever met. It was her spirit in fact that had drawn Millicent to her one year during a women’s retreat in Palm Springs, headed by First Lady Vivian Montgomery. It was following a session Vivian had taught on “Waiting on Jesus—Your Mr. Right.” Millicent had been quite moved with some of the points Vivian had so eloquently presented. Not that she’d agreed with all of them, particularly those that admonished her to be still and know that God was God. Millicent was tired of waiting for Cy to make a move. Where he was concerned, she much preferred the Scripture that said faith without works was dead.

  After Vivian’s presentation, Alison had seen tears in Millicent’s eyes. She walked over to the chair where Millicent was sitting and asked simply, “Are you okay?” They hit it off instantly and went to a restaurant that night instead of enjoying the conference’s buffet. They were best friends before dessert. Millicent even shared her dream of becoming Mrs. Cy Taylor with Alison. Alison listened intently and shared that she wasn’t picking up Millicent and Cy getting married in her spirit, but that she would be praying for her nonetheless. Alison never judged Millicent for believing it, though—that Cy was her husband—never told Millicent she was crazy or trippin’ or anything like her other friends had when she thought that Duane Lucas was her husband. She’d told everybody about that, in the manner of “name it, claim it,” and had been thoroughly embarrassed when instead of her he’d married a plain Jane named Melissa. After that she’d vowed never to be put out on “front street” again. In fact, she’d vowed never to tell anyone the next time God showed her who her husband was, but the words just seemed to come out of their own volition as she and Alison talked that night. From then on Alison had been there to support her, to pray with her, to hand her a Kleenex when she needed one. She’d already asked Alison to be her maid of honor.

  Glancing briefly at the mirrored wall before leaving the fitness center, Millicent looked at her watch and quickened her pace. She’d spent too much time in the Jacuzzi and would be cutting it close to get to Beverly Hills and Crustacean, the chic Asian-inspired seafood establishment, by eight o’clock. She could already hear Alison whining. Alison, who was never late for anything, hated waiting on those who were. Millicent was the epitome of class and success as she crossed the parking lot, her slender build complemented by the narrow, cream-colored skirt she wore just above the knee of her shapely, bare legs. She’d topped it with a cream angora springtime sweater from the Donna Karan collection and contrasted the ensemble with her bone-and-rust-colored sling-back, low-heeled pumps and matching purse designed to perfection in Calvin Klein’s understated style. Her shoulder-length hair glistened against the setting sun, sans dye or weave, and was secured at the nape with a wide, bronze hair clip. She did a quick point and click, deactivating the alarm on her beige 2005 Infinity. Her cell phone rang as she opened the door, and she smiled, knowing it was Alison without glancing at the ID.

  “I’m on my way,” she said, laughing while starting the engine and pulling out of her space.

  “On your way?” questioned the soothing, masculine voice on the other end.

  Millicent’s heart skipped a beat; the very person she’d been thinking about!

  “Hello?”

  “Cy?” Millicent didn’t know she’d been holding her breath until she let it out.

  “Yes, just finished a meeting and heard your message.”

  “Oh, right, I did call you earlier. How are you?”

  “Besides this crazy traffic on the 405, I’m fine. You?”

  “I’m fine, just finished another grueling workout with Aaron. You know how that brother can work you over.”

  Cy knew too well, from personal experience. Aaron was one of the most popular personal trainers in Los Angeles, and almost everyone knew firsthand or had heard of his infamous, individually crafted workout routines. But he didn’t want to talk to Millicent about her physical fitness. He hadn’t wanted to call her at all, but hadn’t wanted to be rude either. After all, they were working on a committee together for one of the church’s economic development projects. He’d missed the last meeting, and hoped the call was concerning that. Then again, maybe he was just too much of a nice guy.

  “So what’s going on?” Cy prompted, wanting to finish the conversation. “Do you have some information from the meeting at church?”

  “No, well, yes actually, but that’s not why I was calling. The meeting was brief, basically a reiteration of the things we’d discussed Sunday afternoon, just an update and confirmation of all the businesses participating in the job fair. We’ll have over a hundred companies represented, and it looks like the classes will be fantastic, especially the introduction to computers course. The office has received a ton of calls concerning it. And your money management class is, as usual, one of the most requested in the lineup. Are you ready, instructor?”

  Cy laughed. “For the class or the participants?”

  “Both,” Millicent responded, smiling at Cy’s comment. She was glad he felt comfortable enough with her to admit his women woes. “But I’m sure you can never be quite ready for those participants. Such enthusiasm!”

  “Yeah, right.” Cy paused, noting she was the most enthusiastic of all. “So what else is going on?”

  “Well, I got a call from Roland about my portfolio. He had some suggestions about diversifying and moving some of my more volatile stock into the safer mutual fund categories. I was hoping to run some of the details by you and get a second opinion.”

  “Well, I’d never second-guess the man; he’s one of the best in the business.” Cy had referred her to his friend and business partner shortly after their dating ceased and the phone calls with questions about her portfolio multiplied. “Roland is one of the reasons my portfolio is as strong as it is. He has an innate sense of timing when it comes to the stock market and the seemingly invisible mood swings of our nation’s economy. I’d go with what he says.”

  Millicent was disappointed but didn’t want to give up easily. “I was hoping I could fax a copy of the summary page to you and maybe discuss it over lunch tomorrow, my treat.”

  “I appreciate the invite, but that’s not going to be possible.” Cy decided to end the conversation before it became even more uncomfortable for him than it already was. “Like I said when I referred you to him, Roland really is the best person I know to guide you through the sometimes murky waters of stocks and bonds. Don’t worry. He won’t steer you wrong. Listen, Millicent, I’ve got to go—”

  “Yes, of course. So I’ll, uh, see you Sunday?”

  “Sure,” he said abruptly and silently added, hopefully from a distance, as he hung up the phone.

  Millicent began to daydream after the call disconnected. Before she knew it, she’d driven several blocks past Crustacean. Her cell phone rang again as she got in the left-hand lane, made a U-turn and headed back down crowded Wilshire Blvd. She looked at her watch and at the ID. Yes, it was Alison and yes, she was late.

  Sistah Almighty and Sist
ah Alrighty

  Hope’s mind was moving a mile a minute, and so was she as she rushed past the doors of the main edifice and headed for the walkway that would lead her to the side of the main building and the front of the multipurpose center that stood gleaming fresh and new, next door to the sanctuary. Among other things, the center housed the youth activities and was a jewel in the crown that was the church’s renovation and expansion project.

  Two church matrons, whom Hope had secretly named Sistah Almighty and Sistah Alrighty, exited the main building. “Praise the Lord, ladies!” she hollered cheerfully without breaking stride.

  She didn’t have to break stride or look back to imagine their reactions. Hope knew that Sistah Almighty thought the skirts she wore, only slightly above the knee, would send her straight to hell, and Sistah Alrighty was always glaring at her whenever she spoke to Pastor King, as if she were going to throw the man on the floor and accost him in the pulpit! They’re just jealous, Hope thought as she neared the door of the youth center, already hearing a swirl of activity inside. And they weren’t the only ones. Hope was aware of how some of the ladies in the church felt about her. They probably thought she was after the preacher. She’d been accused of that before. Well, she didn’t care one iota what those biddies thought; she knew she was flowing in purpose and destiny, and as far as those women were concerned, well, they could just kiss her Bible!

  “Hey, Hope, wuz up?”

  “Ooh, Hope, I like your shoes!”

  “Hope, are we going to finish the routine today?”

  “Hope, Selena likes Terron and is trying to get him to go out with her.”

  “I’m not either!”

  “You are, too.”

  “Unh-unh!”

  “Uh-huh!”

  “You a big fat lie!”

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Hope said, grabbing both girls, pulling them under her arms and giving each a chin nuzzle. “Since you both have so much energy, I’ve got some work for you two.” She stopped at the table in the foyer and opened her briefcase. Terron, the leader of the new dance troupe called Heaven’s Hip-hoppers, swaggered around the corner, sixteen years and one hundred sixty-five pounds of testosterone chomping at the bit.