Then, of course, there was Mount Zion Progressive. She had jumped in with both feet and the fervor of a new convert. She was the single, unattached one who could always attend a meeting, pick up teenagers, handle administrative work, choreograph a routine, hold a twenty-four-hour prayer session, and participate in other areas of the church besides her youth group, including inner city missionaries and the prayer line.
There was also John Madden, a friend of a friend at the newspaper whom she’d dated about six months before he dumped her because she wouldn’t let him go for the gold. Besides him, however, she’d been on her own for the two years she’d lived in Overland Park, and although there were occasions of affection here and there, none was lasting, none keeping her warm at night. She’d vowed to God that the next man she made love to would be her husband, and she had regular shouting matches with the Father, asking just where was her husband hiding? She used to threaten God with time frames and ultimatums such as “If I don’t meet my husband this month, I’m gonna fornicate,” but God had obviously remained totally unmoved as if to say, “If you feel froggy…leap!” The men at her church seemed either married, dogs, intimidated or gay. Oh, the homosexuals tried to keep it on the down low, this was the Midwest after all, but she knew that a couple of ’otha brothas were among God’s anointed at Mount Zion.
“What is wrong with me?” Hope pondered again as the television, having been on pause for so long, went to screen saver. She, like so many other single, lonely women, had done the self-survey under harsh, self-inflicted thousand-watt lights, and no matter the statistics, came up lacking. She was attractive, she thought, and fun and smart. A college grad, she held a good job with an upwardly mobile future. She was saved, sanctified and filled with the Holy Ghost. She knew how to cook and clean and liked to keep a tidy house. Although it had been a while and she had only the experience with Shawn, she liked sex. A lot. She didn’t have any bad habits to speak of, didn’t drink, curse or do drugs. She could be a bit anal, she admitted, when it came to cleanliness and order. Someone had once told her she had a Type A personality. But she wasn’t in debt, and although her credit had been ruined during her college years, she was working to get it reestablished. She had no children. She felt she was a good, decent, caring person who wanted to get married and who, she thought, would make someone a wonderful wife. “So why,” said the devil on her shoulder, “since you’re so good and decent and caring, are you all by yourself?” That was the million-dollar question for which she had no answer. So she sat in her nicely decorated living room with melting ice cream and hard fortune cookies. She sat with no one’s arms but hers wrapped around her, balled into the corner of her off-white leather couch, wishing she could sink into the cushions, the springs, the floor, the earth. She sat and cried, lonely and alone on a Friday night. And she didn’t know what had started it.
Hello, husband
It was a full five minutes before Cy realized he was no longer reading the report in front of him. It had become a blur of black and white against the backdrop of his thoughts, scattering first one way, then another like empty candy wrappers in the wind. He pushed back the report, leaned heavily against his plush, black leather office chair and began tapping his Waterman Edson Blue Sapphire fountain pen against the solid mass of his Plexiglas and chrome desktop.
Images began to play across his mind—images of different women and different times. First there was Stephanie, who’d helped him lose his virginity at the ripe old age of thirteen. She had been seventeen and a senior in high school. Always tall for his age and ahead of his classmates, Cy was a freshman at the time and had told Stephanie he was fifteen. He was a guard on the Cougar’s varsity basketball squad, one of their major offensive weapons and the golden boy of his domain. She was a cheerleader at their arch rival school, all legs, breasts and pom-poms. Cy was smitten. Stephanie was in love. They dated her entire senior year, but the summer she left for Spelman College in Atlanta, a new girl, Tatiana, moved into the neighborhood, and well, out of sight, out of mind was the melody that Cy’s adolescent body played after Stephanie had gone.
Then there was Jodie, the first White girl he slept with, and Eva, a hot little Hispanic number who could do the splits both horizontally and vertically. Cy warmed at the memory. She was also his first heartbreak because it was one of the few times he was dumped for another guy, Pedro, whom Eva met at her cousin’s wedding. They later married and the last he’d heard had seven children. Throughout his high school years there were others whose faces he couldn’t recall, names he couldn’t remember. Every woman who met Cy wanted him, and in his early years, he tried to be most accommodating. Cy had been wild by his own admission. He wasn’t proud of it, of the countless virginities he’d stolen and hearts he’d broken. It had been for him as it had for so many of his peers, a way of life.
Then came college and Trisha. A smart and sassy preacher’s daughter from upstate New York, Trisha had given him a run for his money. He laughed aloud as he remembered their first encounter while standing in the lunch line at the school cafeteria.
“Who is this pretty young thing standing in front of me?”
“Who wants to know?” She hadn’t even bothered to turn around.
“Turn around and see for yourself!” Cy responded with confidence.
“I don’t need to turn around to know I’m not interested.” But she did turn around. “You may think you’re the ‘meow’ to all the ‘pussies’ on campus, but if you’ll listen closely, you don’t hear me purring.” With that, she grabbed her tray and swished her big booty and short-cut curly ’fro across the room, settling down at a table full of her sorority sisters. Cy was stunned. And smitten. She had thrown down the gauntlet and the fight was on. Cy won.
Cy rose from his chair and went over to the window, taking in the nighttime cityscape glittering twenty-one floors below his penthouse view. Leaning against the marble column, Cy smiled at the memory, gently rubbing his chin as he did so. He said her name aloud as memories of their three and a half years together flitted through his mind. She was definitely his first true love, and may have been his only one had he not been so foolish as to chance a one-night fling with one of Trisha’s friends and sorority sisters, Jeannetta.
The smile on his face faded slowly at that memory. Jeannetta Harris. Cute and cunning, she’d played him like a saxophone. Lured him into her apartment on the pretense of sharing her large and diversified music collection with him. But Cy wasn’t stupid; he knew what was up. He could still see the barely there red negligee that draped Jeannetta’s large, yet shapely body, could still see those huge mounds of flesh bulging over the top of the sleek, silk material and looking like chocolate-covered grapefruit. Maybe if she hadn’t put on the Isley Brothers, there would have been a chance for logical thinking, but when Ron started crooning “groove with you” and Jeannetta asked for a dance, it was all over but the orgasm. It was what they’d both wanted.
He’d known Jeannetta had a thing for him. What he hadn’t known was the ongoing competitiveness Jeannetta had with Trisha. Trisha was everything Jeannetta thought she wanted to be: petite and pretty, smart and loveable, daughter from a rich family. If Cy was the only part of Trisha that Jeannetta could grab, she was only too willing to do so. The candles had barely burned down before the news had filtered to Trisha that Jeannetta had been with her man. Things were never quite the same between them after that. Even though it was the only time he had been unfaithful, Trisha, whose mother had suffered years of her husband’s infidelities, couldn’t risk the prospect of a similar future. Three months later she ended the relationship and never looked back.
He’d done everything to try to reconcile with Trisha, but her fear of an adulterous future within their marriage extinguished her passion like water on fire. She carried a love for him until John Rhodes, her next boyfriend who became her husband, helped her to put Cy and the pain he’d caused behind her. Cy wondered about them and how their life was now. Had there been children? After c
ollege, he had lost contact with her, and no one, not even her close friends, could seem to answer his questions regarding her whereabouts. Those sistahs stuck together! Except for Jeannetta, that is. There was another rash of names and faces after Trisha as Cy vowed to never give his heart away again.
Guess he forgot to tell his heart that. Because something about Joan, the woman he’d lived with for five years before finding God, had him placing his heart on a silver platter and serving it to her with kid gloves before their second date. Joan was very different from Trisha but special in her own way. Where Trisha was sassy, Joan was subdued. Where Trisha was the life of the party, Joan was the flower on the wall. Joan was intelligent and comforting, a calming presence and quiet strength. Her father was British, and she had his dry, cutting sense of humor. Her spirit was a balm for Cy’s soul.
He wasn’t sure why they didn’t marry right away. Of course, in hindsight, it was obviously not God’s plan. But at the time, there was nothing to keep them from tying the knot. Joan’s parents adored him, and his parents liked Joan as well. They had similar interests and enjoyed some of the same leisure activities. Joan was athletic and energetic and was one of the few who could give him stiff competition in a game of chess. Even her declaration that she didn’t want to have children—Joan was definitely a career woman—didn’t bother him. At first. Again, in hindsight, this gentle yet firm stance against a family was what eventually unraveled their otherwise happy union. And with each passing year, Cy wanted children more and more.
Remembering Joan made Cy think of Pamela. Like Joan, she was an aggressive career woman, one who’d worked hard to climb the corporate ladder of success. Now vice president in a highly respected public relations company, Pamela had broken through the glass ceiling and joined the ranks of her mostly White, mostly male counterparts. Her campaigns were some of the most successful in the field, and more than once she’d been courted by the competition in hopes of bringing her talent and skill into their corporation. But Pamela had plans of her own, and when the dust settled, it would be under a door reading “DuBoise & Associates,” and she would be the “big ballah, shot callah” in the house!
Cy tried to imagine Pamela and motherhood in the same sentence and couldn’t. His eyes narrowed as he replayed tapes of their conversations in his mind and tried to remember the mention of children. He did not. Yet, he wasn’t sure. He made a mental note to approach that subject on their next date. As hard as it was for him to fathom, Cy was feeling the urge to settle down with a wife and family. Golden boy, sought-after man-about-town, Cy Taylor. Who woulda thunk it? Millicent Sims was the reply that popped into his head, and frowning, he picked up the phone to discuss with her the marketing plan for the church’s latest venture. Despite her attempt to be “just friends,” her desires for a deeper relationship left Cy wanting to keep a distance between them. But church business made for regular conversations, almost weekly. How could he manage this without hurting her feelings?
Millicent leaned back and closed her eyes as she inhaled the luscious scent of sandalwood rising with the steam from her bathwater. The scent mingled with that of the candles placed around her large Jacuzzi tub. It was moments like this that justified the hefty mortgage payment on her rather small condo. It wasn’t always the quantity but the quality. And the amenities the complex offered, like her Jacuzzi tub, the marble floors and a surround sound audio system, in this gated neighborhood gave Millicent the feel of luxury she desired. After all, she worked hard and made a comfortable living as a marketing director for a large firm. She was worth it.
Lazily grabbing the remote, she turned up the volume of the classical radio station offering background ambience and slid even deeper into her aquatic cocoon. Quietly humming the familiar Brahms melody, Millicent took her finger and created a trail of soapy suds across her lithe form. I didn’t realize how much I needed this, she thought as she adjusted the bath pillow behind her head and settled into it. She made a mental note to schedule an appointment at the day spa next week for a full body massage and seaweed wrap. She might even splurge, grab a girlfriend and take a trip to her favorite spa in Palm Springs, topping it off with a luscious dinner at her favorite French restaurant there. She was definitely feeling inclined to treat herself like the child of God she was. Even if she wasn’t special to anyone else, she was special to God and that was enough. Well…almost.
Before the thought could complete its cycle, another one popped up. True as it may be about her being special in God’s eyes, it would mean the world for her to be special in another’s eyes: one Mr. Cy Taylor to be exact. She would do anything, anything to make that a reality.
Millicent reached up and turned on the pulse jets, then lay back and escaped into her favorite fantasy. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and she was in the foyer of Kingdom Citizens’ Christian Center. The church was full of witnesses and well-wishers to this, the most important day in her life. She was on her father’s arm, resplendent in a form-fitting, Vera Wang wedding dress, complete with a twenty-foot train. Her bridesmaids were gliding down the aisle, one by one in their off-the-shoulder green and gold satin creations, accompanied by Cy’s handsome groomsmen. The classical ballad she’d created and entitled “The Path To Love” was being played softly and brilliantly by the ten-piece orchestra she’d commissioned for the occasion. Finally Alison, her maid of honor, was in place, and the familiar strands of the “Wedding March” began to play. It was as if the sea parted and the floor gave way as Millicent floated down the aisle. She must be walking on clouds because she could feel nothing beneath her feet and had to grab her father’s arm with her other hand to reestablish connection with the earth. Her heart stopped beating, and everyone except Cy seemed to fade from her view. For a delicious, heart-stopping moment it was just she and he in a whirl of clouds and color and crescendos of melodies from every love song since the beginning of time.
Her father kissed her gently as he withdrew his arm and guided her to her place beside Cy, her husband. In only a few minutes, the dream of a lifetime would come true, and she would bear his name. She looked up into his eyes, and once again the world receded as she became lost in a sea of mahogany magic. She mechanically followed the words of Minister Montgomery, lifting her chin as she said, “I do,” with a clear, convincing voice.
“And now Mr. Taylor, you may kiss your bride.”
The persistent ringing of the telephone brought Millicent out of her dream. She blinked several times before realizing that she’d fallen asleep. The jets had turned off automatically and the water had cooled. Millicent rose and stepped out of the tub, grabbing a plush towel as she did so. After drying herself and spraying a body mist, she reached for her silk robe and stepped into satin slippers before heading out of the bathroom and to the phone on the nightstand next to her bed. She looked down at the ID and recognized the number immediately. A smile spread slowly across her face.
“Hello, husband,” she said to herself as she picked up the phone and hit the callback button. Cy’s phone began to ring right after he closed the door to his penthouse and headed toward the elevator.
Trying to separate the “two becoming one” into two again.
“Hallelujah! Ooh, that’s good!” Vivian exclaimed softly as her eyes misted over and her hands lifted in praise at the revelations of God. Ever since He’d given her the foundation Scripture for the upcoming Sanctity of Sisterhood Summit, Hebrews 2:11 which declared the Sanctifier and the sanctified were one, Vivian had marveled at how each stone of the summit topics had been laid and how each verse in the Scripture text fit succinctly with the topics of her initial outline. “Praise you, Jesus!” she said aloud as she put down her pen. She stretched and yawned, looking at her watch, eyes widening. Where had the time gone? She couldn’t believe she’d been in the study for four uninterrupted hours, yet looking at her desk and the masses of notes and outlines was evidence that she’d gotten a lot done. Vivian’s stomach growled as she reached for the phone, a further testame
nt to the singular focus since her early morning prayer time. She had gone straight into her study afterward, stopping only for a cup of herbal mint tea before typing out the things God had whispered during her quiet time with Him.
Those were the most exquisite moments of her day, those morning moments alone with God. After Derrick left for the office and the children had been dropped off at school, Vivian marked out an hour or so of time for meditation with “Daddy,” and He never failed to meet her with just the right nourishment for whatever diet her upcoming day prescribed.
Vivian could scarcely remember the fear that had almost overwhelmed her, right after she’d shared her summit idea with Ladies First. Just like the devil to get inside her head and try to convince her that what she’d envisioned was too much to undertake, impossible to pull off. Even with all the encouragement of her fellow first ladies, the loyal support of her church staff and Tai’s agreeing to speak, Vivian had fasted and prayed continually to work through the fear of failure that plagued her days following their luncheon. Derrick had been a pillar of strength and support as usual, but with his increasingly busy schedule and mounting responsibilities, Vivian knew this summit would be successful only with God’s conspicuous blessing and assistance.
Vivian sat back and picked up the phone. On second thought, she replaced the receiver, opting instead to head toward the kitchen and a much-needed lunch break. She paused for a moment at the window, taking in the beauty of the June afternoon before continuing down the stairs, into the kitchen. She pressed the speaker button on the kitchen wall phone and punched in the voice mail code for the office line before opening the refrigerator and getting a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a large Tupperware container of tuna salad. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and began scooping out chunks of tuna as the messages played. Derrick had called to ask her opinion on a business matter. Her mother had called just to say hi and to check on her favorite grandbabies. Mrs. Stanford called all of her grandchildren “her favorites”, but to her that was beside the point. Mother Moseley had phoned to see if she could stop by a little later on in the day. Knowing Vivian was working from home that day, her assistant, Tamika, had called to update Vivian’s calendar of counseling and meetings.
Sex in the Sanctuary Page 10
