by Cydney Rax
“Okay, so you didn’t pick up his calls. But what did you do the rest of the night, Veron?”
She hesitates, then sputters, “I wailed. Hollered. Called on Jesus. That’s why I need new pillows.”
“Crying about a man won’t do any good, Veron.”
“Are you saying you’ve actually cried over—”
I frown and raise my voice, interrupting her. “I’m saying that tears aren’t going to move a man. Some men get to sweating under the arms and looking like they’re about to vomit when a woman soaks her face with tears. And although some men may want to try and help, have you noticed that’s one of the rare times when they really don’t know what to do with their hands?” I shake my head in amazement. “So in my opinion, you gotta scrap the tears. Ya feel me?”
“Demetria, you have all these cold, hard rules, but I just can’t understand why a man would be attracted to women who have zero emotions, like we’re just robots.”
“Girl, not crying all the time doesn’t mean you’re a robot. Not all women roll like Veron Darcey.”
Veron runs from me so fast I’m paranoid that my breath stinks worse than sour milk. I pop one long stick of mint flavored gum inside my mouth and figure the girl has major issues. Veron starts sifting through a bin of striped sheets in the linens section, but before she can dig in good, I place my hand over hers.
“Mmm, nope, Veron, don’t you even know how to pick out sheets?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You need to upgrade from that cardboard feeling one-eighty thread count and get at least four hundred or five hundred.”
“They cost a grip, Demetria.”
“Quality usually does. And these more expensive sheets will last until your kids are grown,” I assure her. If you ever have kids, I think to myself.
“Hmmm, I dunno, girl.”
“Look, I’ll buy them for you. Well, I’ll buy one set. You pay for the other. How’s that sound? I just want you to know how it feels to live your best life.”
“You sound like Pastor Joel Osteen.”
I laugh. “Vee, believe me, Osteen and I don’t have a thing in common, except I do care about you; you’re my girl and I want to see you happy. I want to see you smile. I don’t want to see you have a spaz attack ’cause some NGM acts foul.”
“No good man,” we say at the same time and high-five each other.
“You crack me up every time you say that,” Veron tells me.
“Well, as long as NGMs exist you’re going to be hearing me say that,” I tell her. “Don’t forget the characteristics of an NGM: Men who always blame their problems on ‘da White Man’ instead of taking responsibility for their own decisions. Men who act like they gots to be the head of the house, yet they don’t even have a job, they won’t pay any bills, or don’t earn head-of-the-household money. Men who put the ring on ya finger but here they are, still slipping out in the streets doing their thing the minute they don’t think you’re looking. And men who only go out with you because another heffa bailed out,” I add, to remind her that she needs to kick sorry-ass Ferris to the curb.
“Yep, girl, you’re right,” Veron agrees. “Should I get my number changed?”
“Why pay money to change your number just to dodge Ferris? Answer his call once, tell his funky ass hell-to-the-fucking-no, and stop accepting his calls. Mean whatcha say, and move on with ’cha life.”
“Mmm hmmm.” Veron nods her head affirmatively, but I can tell by the flimsy sound in her voice she’s not quite there yet. Sometimes I want to wrap my fingers around her neck and squeeze; I wanna shake her big ole head real hard so common sense can reach her clogged-up brain. But I know my girl needs support right now, not a constant bitchfest, so I soften my tone.
“You’ll be alright, sweetie. One day your dream man is gonna ebb and flow with you on the real, and treat you with the mad respect you deserve. You gotta have faith in order for good to line up and happen. Treat Veron like a prize and a real man will treat you like you treat yourself.”
Veron raises her hands to the ceiling and shouts, “Amen, Brother Osteen!” I laugh out loud and leave her confused ass alone so she can marinate on what I’ve schooled her.
You gotta start somewhere, right? I used to be like Vee back in the day. You know how when you’re in high school you really think you got it going on? No one can tell you a thing, and you walk up and down the hallways as if you, not the principal, are in charge. Well, growing up and experiencing life will introduce you to the real world, and I’m not talking about an MTV show where scenes are cut and edited. Once you get out here in this big ole indifferent world and go through some real drama, you learn how to survive, when to say no, how to discern what’s real, what’s fake. And you decide right then and there that you’ve walked down these tired fake roads too many times to count, so now you’re going to exercise your right to walk in a different and better direction. Life’s all about setting goals and getting what you want, and if I’ve learned how to get with the program, girlfriend can learn, too.
After I finally convince Veron to buy a finer grade of silky smooth sheets (one in midnight blue, one in sunshine yellow), we put her stuff in her car and head over to Borders so we can get lattes and I can fill her in on my date last night. The bookstore is half empty, I guess because it’s thirty-eight degrees in Houston (freezing for us southerners), and folks wanna stay inside a warm house looking at TV and watching the Texans getting humiliated on the football field.
So we nearly have the cafe area to ourselves. We grab an empty wooden table and sit next to each other where we have a good view of the store’s entrance—we need to be able to check out any cuties who happen to come in.
I dig in my purse and pull out the index cards that I always keep around.
“Ahh, haa,” Vee laughs. “Give me some blank cards.”
“Here,” I tell her and give her a black ink pen, too. I hop up and quickly place orders for our coffees. It only takes a few minutes before the drinks are ready, and it feels great to settle in and get comfy.
“So who was your date with?” Veron asks.
“Thaddeus,” I say, acting insulted that she would even have to ask…even though it’s true I could be referring to several men.
“Oh, yeah,” she says coolly. “Where was his wife?”
“Excuse me? Marilyn is his soon-to-be ex-wife. I’ve told you that.” I frown. “There’s a difference. Plus, they don’t even live together anymore and haven’t shared a bed in a year.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Hey, sometimes he lets me have his cell phone 24/7. If he’s still with her, you think he’d let me hold his phone?”
“I can’t tell you what he’d do, Demetria,” Veron says in a skeptical voice.
“On top of that, I’ve seen his divorce papers. The ones he’s going to file on her.”
“Now that’s different.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway, Thaddeus picks me up in the Hummer this time,” I say, eyeing Veron and daring her to interrupt. “And, of course, I’m looking all fierce. I wore my black leather coat with the mink collar, some thigh-high leather slouch boots I found in Manhattan, and this beautiful knit mini-dress.”
“Uh-huh,” Veron mutters, glancing at her fingernails as if she’s somewhat bored. But I know her ears are burning like fire ’cause she can’t wait for me to tell her more.
“So long story short, he made reservations at P.F. Chang’s in The Woodlands and we eat a delicious six-course dinner sitting next to a huge bay window with several candles flickering. And during our two-hour dinner he presents me with a beautiful greeting card that expresses how much he loves me, and inside it is a five-hundred-dollar Neiman Marcus gift card.”
“Wow,” Vee says, impressed.
“Plus, he got me my usual box of chocolate-covered strawberries.”
“Ooo,” she exclaims.
“Plus a beautiful mixed floral arrangement.”
“Dang.”
“Diamond studs?” Veron repeats, as if I’m making up info. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”
“Look, I don’t know why he does all that. True, Thad can be way over the top, but he knows I love to be romanced, and I appreciate that he listens to me when I tell him what makes me happy. It’s not like I ask him to do all the sweet things he does, but his actions prove I’m important to him.”
“I know, but isn’t there something inside you that won’t let you—”
“If you’re asking if I should be noble and tell Thaddeus to take it all back, that my pride shouldn’t allow me to accept his gifts, then you must think you’re talking to Boo Boo the fool. C’mon now, let’s not have a brain fart here. If it were you, I doubt you’d be shoving gifts back in your man’s hand! So why should I? Plus I deserve everything I get, all queens do.” We sit in silence for a minute, sipping our coffee.
“I swear to God,” Veron finally manages to utter, “Demetria, you are sooo lucky, all I can say.”
“Queens aren’t lucky. They’re queens, Vee.”
She coughs, then blurts, “Did the queen have sex with her married man?”
“The queen gave the soon-to-be divorced man everything he wanted.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I licked, sucked, swallowed, pumped, yelled, screamed, talked dirty, did the feathers, the baby oil, dressed up like a proud whore in my see-through baby doll nightgown and matching thong. Girl, you name it, Thad got it.”
Veron looks shocked at first, but then covers her mouth and giggles. I lean back in my seat and eye her as if to say, You can’t tell me I don’t have it going on. And maybe my friend will finally listen to a sister break it all the way down on how to get and keep a real man, instead of settling for half men who lack the potential to be real men.
“Was it any good?”
“Mmm,” I sigh blissfully. “As scrumptious as a triple-layered chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Thad sucked on me like I was a strawberry kiwi smoothie; he was squeezing me hard, too, and shaking so violently I thought the building was being demolished. Dude told me he loves me so many times I don’t think I could add it up on a calculator.”
“Sounds like he’s whipped.”
I glare at her. “What do you expect?”
“But you didn’t tell him that you lo—”
“Telling a man you love him is setting a trap for disaster.”
“So are you saying you have done that before?”
Frowning, I continue, “If you want to keep a man in his place, you’ve got to stop being so fucking emotional, Vee. That pouring-your-heart-out crap scares men. Always play it cool, as if you don’t care, and they’ll see you as a challenge. You think I got this watch by telling a man I love him?” She gapes at me. “No, nope, no,” I continue. “If you want your heart broken, be stupid and rush to tell him you love him, you’ll do anything for him. He’s the only one for you, all those desperate, pathetic words. Girl, a man won’t wife you when you keep acting in a way that he expects. Switch things up now and then and he’ll stay intrigued.”
“So, Demetria, to clarify, even though this man does all these wonderful things for you, you won’t part your lips to let him know you love him? Even if he asks?”
“Nope, I don’t do that,” I say confidently. “No matter how many times a man pours out his guts and gets emotional, I always manage to maintain my emotional intelligence. I’ll be sweet, of course; I’m very affectionate. I’m a wonderful, ‘Awww, boo,’ type of woman, but I won’t make the mistake of telling a man I love him.”
“Do they ever ask you why not?”
I laugh, then get serious. “I think men want to ask but lack the balls to come out with it. Or they might pout and make a jokey joke like they’re offended that I’m not falling all over them, but technically, no. Few men are brave enough to ask Demetria what’s really up.”
“Wow, I’m scared of you, too, girlfriend.” Veron studies me for a moment and sips her latte. The rich smell of cappuccino fills the room, and I inhale deeply and enjoy the aroma.
Suddenly a medium height black man wearing nerd glasses stumbles into the store. I grab a blank index card and write down 5. I wave the card at Veron and smile. She whips her head around, laughs, and says, “Yep, I feel ya on that one.”
“If only this guy knew we’re talking about his corny looking ass,” I tell Veron.
“Hey, men do this stuff, too.”
“My baby isn’t rating women,” I say. “Thaddeus would never give to other women what he gives to me. No way.”
“I heard that,” Veron says, “and he gives you so much it’s unbelievable at times.”
“Well, you can believe it. I’m not making it up. And I love it.”
“I ain’t mad at you,” whispers Veron. “You’re so confident that you’re his number one. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m jealous.”
“I feel ya, boo.” I smile sweetly. “Most women are jealous. And I don’t blame them. I’m living a life that most chicks only dream about.”
“So, Ms. Sparks, what is your secret? It sounds like Thad left his wife for you.”
“No, Vee, I’m telling you, I did not hook up with him until I knew he and his wifey were through. Believe me, I know I’m number one in his life, and that’s the only way we’re gonna roll.”
“Well, he treats you like you’re Jennifer Lopez or something, and you aren’t half as cute as her.”
“Fuck you!” I say and roll my eyes. “Jenny wishes she did have this body.”
“No, all jokes aside, Demetria, I mean it. You have that wow factor that causes a man to do all these wonderful things. I’m tired of dreaming about what I can have. I’m waiting on the day I can have everything I dream about.” Veron sighs and takes a deep, sad breath.
I feel for her, too. It’s one thing to dream and dream and dream about the things you want. It’s a whole other thing to be able to reach out and physically touch your dream. Like when I was a youngster growing up in Houston with my family. My pops would buy my mom nice gear every once in a while, but she spent so much time thumbing through sales papers and department store catalogs, taking a black marker and making circles around the jewelry, appliances, expensive clothes, and purses that weren’t in the budget. I’ll never forget the tears streaming from her eyes, because she wished so hard for things that seemed to run away from her.
“Girl, I want to know how to be a man’s number one,” Veron says with an unflinching gaze. “I want to know what it feels like to be the first woman he calls to go out on a date, instead of the last one. I’m sick and tired of being stuck in that awful ‘good friend’ zone, you know, when a man views you like a sister or a girl to call when he’s lonely, but you’re not a woman he wants to kiss and hold and brag about to his friends. I’m tired of doing nice and supportive things for men who will never do the same for me.” Her eyes quickly fill with tears.
“Calm down, sis,” I say with gentleness.
She thoughtfully chews on her bottom lip, and I take a good look at her. Even though Veron doesn’t realize it, the girl is hot. Two different men have passed by our table taking long lustful looks at her and trying to connect with her eyes, but she was too busy to notice, and they gave up and kept walking. Her fault. Her loss.
Veron goes on. “It just seems like even if I do find a man, they start out strong and promising and we may date for a few months. But then what happens? Homeboy mysteriously disappears with a fake lie instead of the hard truth. To make matters worse, I am sacrificing and doing so much: preparing home-cooked meals, washing his funky underwear, paying his bills, giving him cash, going all out for the freaky sex, yet dude still ends up getting restless and leaves for another woman. And usually that second-in-line chick is overweight, built like a New England Patriots linebacker, resembles the Tasmanian devil, is ignorant and ghetto, or she’s a straight-up bitch.” Veron whispers the B word
and whips her head around before she turns back to me.
The word gives me an idea. “I’ll be right back,” I say, hopping up from our table and running up two flights of stairs to the second level.
I head straight for the psychology section and grab the book that’s helped me be who I am today. I reach for a copy of Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl—A Woman’s Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship. If anything will do the trick, this will. I’ve known many women who have read the book and dumped their men because they got that much-needed wake-up call.
And it’s time for Ms. Veron Darcey to wake up herself. She’s hitting twenty-five this year. She’s never even dated anyone really seriously. Now I haven’t done much of that either, but our priorities are different: it’s not what I’ve been wanting, but Veron does. Yet most of her relationships last no more than four months—six, if she’s lucky. Just when she gets to know a man and falls in love, he ends up fleeing toward the sunset, leaving her dazed-and-confused ass a thousand miles behind. I’ve seen this happen to my girl so many times it’s starting to get hard—on me! Although I try to be real with her, sometimes I can’t say everything I want to say. I can’t tell my lonely friend how my boy Darren meticulously bathes my feet, then pours honey on top of them and licks and sucks my toes until I start shaking, moaning, and rocking with massive, juicy orgasms. I won’t always tell her how Gilbert can’t wait to pick me up from Bush Intercontinental Airport at six in the a.m. without complaint. Or how Thaddeus wants me to go on a Caribbean cruise with him as soon as his divorce is finalized. I don’t like to brag, but sometimes I am amazed at how these men run after me, and I want to share but can’t.
