These Are My Confessions

by Robinson, Cheryl; Smith, Meta; King, Joy; Parks, Electa Rome

  But curse or no curse, I just can’t seem to get the hang of what almost everyone else acts as if it’s so simple: finding the man, hooking the man, and keeping the man until you die or kill each other. The real irony here, though, is that my name is Lucky. Straight up, it’s my real name, and yes, my mother named me that. She said it was because she loves to read those books by that chick Jackie Collins, about some ballsy mafia daughter named Lucky. But those books came out after I was born. My aunt told me the real deal—that my mom used to date a dude in high school named Lucky—but he’s not my dad, at least not to my knowledge. But with my crazy ass family, nothing would surprise me.

  I’ve come to respect love, not just desire it, I really and truly have. I’ve remained open to all the possibilities of finding that special someone, staying optimistic and not becoming bitter, but now my patience is starting to wear thin. I’m not old by any means, and I know I’ve got some time left before I become a spinster with no one but her cats to show her love. But I’m not getting any younger. In the meantime, I keep on believing, hoping that one day, as far as my love life is concerned, I’ll live up to my name.

  Verse 1

  I curled up under the fat, goose-down comforter and tried to go back to sleep. Despite the fact that my alarm clock had gone off, I could get in another thirty minutes before I had to get up and officially start my day, but nothing doing; the phone rang and destroyed any hope of catching more z’s.

  “Hey Lucky girl, are you up?” It was my publicist, Leslie. In my line of work you really need someone around that cares about what happens to you, and not just because your paycheck pays the note on their snappy little Jag, but because they have a conscience and ethics and integrity and a heart. Leslie is that someone in my life. She isn’t just my publicist, she’s my friend, and she helps keep me sane. She was also keeping me from the possibility of getting some extra sleep.

  “I’m up,” I told her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m up.”

  “I’m on my way and I’m going to use my key. If I come up there and your butt is still in the bed, I’m going to drag you out by your hair extensions,” she warned me.

  “I’m not in bed, I’m up!” I lied.

  “Good. See you in a minute,” she said, and hung up.

  I peeked at the alarm clock at my side, which read 3:30 A.M. Time to make the doughnuts. I reluctantly got out of the luxurious bed at my suite at the Peninsula Hotel in downtown Chicago, threw the curtains back, and took in the most magnificent skyline in the world. Sweet home, Chicago, my kind of town! I was the prodigal daughter who returned home a big success, and I planned on reveling in the glory of my accomplishments. I wanted all the naysayers and nonbelievers who thought I’d never make it to bow down and recognize the diva. I also wanted my ex-boyfriends to eat their collective hearts out.

  True to her word, Leslie breezed into my suite looking totally pulled together and chic in a cropped denim jacket, capris, and a funky T-shirt. She greeted me with a hug and got right down to business. Her curly hair bounced as she pushed back her glasses and spoke to me a mile a minute in her mellow voice tinged with a New York accent.

  “You ready to do this?” she asked, full of enthusiasm. I looked at her with wonder. Her copper skin was practically glowing and she seemed so organized. How she managed to be so fucking chipper, so focused, and look so good so early in the morning, was beyond me.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I said, looking longingly at the bed. Those Egyptian cotton sheets were calling my name.

  “Well move, girl, like your ass is on fire. We’ve got a schedule to keep!” Leslie clapped her hands at me. Any minute, the “glam squad”—the hair stylist and makeup artist dedicated to making me fly—would arrive. It was going to take them at least an hour to get me appearance ready, and my itinerary was crammed full of appointments, interviews, and the like.

  “Are you rested? You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, and tomorrow’s the big night, your CD’s platinum party!”

  “I slept all right, I guess,” I told her, thinking about my erotic dream. “But you know I’m a night owl. It’s too early to be waking up. I should be just now going to bed!”

  “Sleep is for the weak, so get moving. Take a shower.”

  I didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. We spent so much time together that Leslie could easily read my moods, even when I tried to disguise them.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I admitted. I was a tad bit worried about how my homecoming was going to go over. Hometown artists have it hard in the Windy City. Talented cats like Common and Twista still don’t get the love they deserve at the crib. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be respected by my hometown, afraid that the haters would take over. She’s not all that…I remember when she was a nobody…I hope she doesn’t think she’s special now. I could just hear the envious people saying all that about me.

  “You’ve got nothing to be worried about,” Leslie reassured me, grabbing my hand and leading me into the bathroom.

  “What if nobody comes?” I asked in an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt.

  “Stop tripping. People are going to come. Your friends will come.” She turned on the shower.

  “I don’t have any friends,” I told her.

  “Well, your enemies are going to come too,” Leslie said.

  “I don’t have any enemies.”

  Leslie rolled her eyes at me and laughed. “Yes you do!” she kidded.

  “Haters but not enemies,” I corrected her, punching her lightly on the arm.

  “Whatever,” she said. “People are going to be curious. You’re already a big star. And the buzz around you is phenomenal. You have nothing to worry about. When you see me worry, then you should worry.”

  “Okay,” I said, hesitantly. “You’re from New York. Chicago is not like New York. Chicago never supports its own people. This is the city of hate. Folks might not come just so they can see me fall on my face.”

  “Well, if they don’t come, they can’t see you fall, now can they?” Leslie quipped.

  “Shut up,” I said dryly.

  “Get naked, get in, get clean, and get out,” she ordered like a drill sergeant. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  I saluted her, and she left me in peace. I took off my clothes, looking at my body in the mirror as I did so. My full breasts were still firm, my waistline was still tiny, and my hips hadn’t spread to the point of no return. I was holding up very well. No, fuck that! I’m sexier than a motherfucker! I turned around to look at my ass and the back of my thighs for signs of cottage cheese. Not a ripple! My body was definitely tight. My finances were tight. I was talented and a nice person. There was no reason I could think of as to why I hadn’t found the man I’d spend the rest of my life with or why he hadn’t found me.

  I stepped into the shower and closed my eyes as I let the water run over my face in an effort to wake up and get energized. I tried to get focused on business, but found my thoughts drifting back to the ex-boyfriend who haunted my dreams. I wished that things had worked out with him. It was his fault I was alone. No one could compare to him. Dating other men after him seemed like a step down.

  The warm water rained down on my skin, and I began to soap my body absentmindedly with a bath pouf, imagining how my former lover’s hands felt. When the sponge glided across my nipples, they hardened, and I shivered as bubbles of cucumber-melon soap dripped around my areolas. I dropped the sponge and replaced it with my hands, touching my nipples, squeezing and caressing my breasts, not thinking about how long I’d been in the shower or who might come in and catch me. I wasn’t going to be able to do anything—I’d think of my ex all day—unless I released my sexual frustration.

  My hands traveled lower, across my stomach, until I reached my mound, and I slipped the tip of my index finger between the lips of my vagina. I wiggled my finger around until I found what I was looking for. My knees b
uckled slightly as my fingertip brushed across the hood of my clitoris, and I held onto a rail in the shower for balance. I rubbed my finger in slow circles, imagining that it was my lover’s tongue. I threw my head back and opened my legs a little wider as the water pelted my body, continuing to stroke myself, increasing the speed and intensity.

  I was on the brink of an orgasm when I stopped touching myself and detached the removable shower head from its base. I changed the setting on it so the water gushed forth in one powerful stream and directed the spray toward my clit. Then I inserted two fingers inside my vagina and felt the muscles contract as my fingers looked for and found my G-spot. I stroked it, slowly increasing the pressure, while pretending that my fingers were my ex’s hard cock.

  The heat from the water pounding on my clitoris, coupled with the stimulation of my sweet spot and my fantasy, sent me over the edge, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Wave after wave of pleasure shook my body in violent spasms as I came once and then again as the water mixed with my juices and flowed down my leg. I debated whether to go for a third orgasm but realized that my fifteen minutes were probably almost up. Deciding against it, I gasped for breath, composed myself, and hurriedly finished my shower.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, ensconced in a fluffy terry robe with a towel wrapped around my hair, the glam squad had arrived and lined up what had to be a thousand little jars, bottles, containers, and tubes of war paint, pomade, gel, and hair spray to prep me for the day’s activities. Leslie and I chatted as I sat in a chair and the glam squad pulled and tugged at my hair and face from every direction.

  “You feeling better?” she asked. “Refreshed?”

  “Yeah,” I said. She had no idea how much better I felt.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Girl, all of Chi-town is talking about your party tomorrow night,” the hairstylist Karl told me as he pulled sections of my hair through a ceramic flat iron.

  “For real?” I asked.

  “Oh hell yeah,” the makeup artist, Bonita, chimed in.

  “This girl was worried that no one would come,” Leslie informed them.

  “That won’t happen,” Karl said. “You know any guy you gave the time of day to is going to show up professing his love, trying to find a way to get back in.”

  “What would make you say that?” I asked him, hoping it was true, at least in the case of the ex from my dream.

  “I’ve seen it a million times,” he said. “Anytime a young entertainer comes up—especially a fine one, but hell, the ugly ones too—every time a woman blows up, all the men that fucked up and missed the boat start crawling out the woodwork!”

  “Well I hope not. I went out with some crazy motherfuckers,” I said jokingly. “I hope they stay well within the woodwork!”

  “Do I need to get extra security?” Leslie asked me, arching her eyebrow. I’m sure she was only half kidding.

  “Nah. There was nobody dangerous. A little touched, yes, but nothing the bouncers can’t handle.”

  “Sounds juicy,” Bonita said, digging for details.

  “Your nosy ass,” Karl said, teasing her.

  “Hell, I’m nosy too,” Leslie said with a giggle. “What kind of men should we be expecting to show up at your soiree?”

  “Well, if your theory is right and some of the guys I used to date are going to show up, then you’ll be expecting all kinds,” I said, rolling my eyes and sighing. The faces of the men I’d dated shuffled through my mind. “I’ve got more exes than the Nation of Islam! You wouldn’t know from the state of my love life now, but once upon a time, I dated so much that the chicks on Sex and the City looked like nuns in comparison.”

  “Yeah, well, that well’s run dry,” Leslie teased me.

  “Yeah, but when it was full, it was full. And I dated some fine-ass men. But most of them were just a little off,” I told them, traveling down memory lane. “Like there was this hotboy named Harley I used to kick it with. He was tall, a smooth almond complexion, and had muscles on top of muscles,” I said with a shiver.

  “He had a bangin’ body, but his fashion sense was wack. He used to wear sleeveless shirts and leather pants and motorcycle jackets and sunglasses all the time. No matter how hot, no matter how cold. He wanted everybody to know he rode a bike. But despite all that he was a good fuck, so you know we kicked it a minute. But outside of bed, his ass bored me to death. All he ever said was, ‘And stuff, you know, whatever.’ That was his way of answering damn near every question you asked.” I wrinkled up my nose and shuddered.

  “The men a woman will put up with just for some good dick!” Karl said with a smirk.

  I laughed and thought about another nut job I kicked it with.

  “It’s not always even about the dick, though. There was this guy Jeffery,” I said. “I met him at an art gallery and he was sprung. He sent me flowers and poetry; he e-mailed me, called me, you name it.”

  “You must have put it on him,” Bonita said, giggling.

  “Nope, not at all. We hadn’t even been on a date, he was just chasing it.”

  “Sounds like a stalker to me,” Karl said with a laugh.

  “No, that’s not what was wrong with him, but I’m getting to that. It wasn’t creepy or anything, I just thought he was really, really sweet. He was a gentleman, you know? It was cool he wasn’t pressuring me for some ass because I just wasn’t feeling him that much. He was a little on the short side, and he was too old for me, but I began to develop a kind of soft spot for him. Eventually, I let him take me for coffee, and we went to museums and stuff like that. Finally he stepped up his game and asked me out for dinner and dancing.

  “We went to Gibson’s and had filet mignon and champagne and talked and laughed, and I was feeling so relaxed and comfortable that I was thinking that I might even give him some. Then we went club-hopping after dinner, and I thought we were having a good time but I drank too much that evening,”

  “Please tell me you did not throw up on the man,” Leslie said.

  “No, I did not throw up on him. I wasn’t drunk, but I would have gotten drunk if I knew what I was in for. I’m going to the bathroom constantly, and after my third trip, the mood of the date shifted. Jeffery started bugging the fuck out and accused me of trying to ‘escape.’ He said that I was using the bathroom breaks as an opportunity to flirt with other guys. Then he started crying, right there in the middle of the dance floor. I mean bawling. Dude had rolled up in a ball on the floor!”

  “Oh my God, what did you do?” Leslie asked.

  “I hope you left his ass right there on that floor,” Karl said.

  “At first I didn’t know what to do. I asked him to get up off the floor. I told him to get ahold of himself. That just made things worse. He went into this rant about why he didn’t date in America anymore and preferred the brothels of Thailand, because at least then you knew what you were getting.”

  “All that fool was getting in Thailand was a transsexual and a trip to the STD clinic!” Karl hooted.

  We all cackled with laughter as they put the finishing touches on and I squeezed into a dress that was illegally tight. Leslie pulled out a black velvet bag and smiled as she unveiled the contents; a local jeweler was letting me borrow a couple of fabulous pieces from his pink diamond collection. Oh, the perks of showbiz! We oohed and aahed at the carats upon carats of pastel-colored ice set in platinum. Diamonds truly are a girl’s best friend, and I switched into diva mode the instant the jewels touched my body.

  The glam squad was rolling with us to make sure I looked my best during the long day ahead of us, and the four of us piled into a Hummer limo and headed off to my media appearances. I munched on a blueberry muffin and drank juice as we headed out toward the Dan Ryan Expressway, everyone still laughing at my crybaby ex.

  “If you think Jeffery sounds like a piece of work, let me tell you about this other cat I kicked it with named Jodeci,” I told them. They started cracking up again.

  “You gotta be fuc
king kidding me,” Leslie said.

  “I wish I was. This fool had his name legally changed because he loved them so much.”

  “And you went out with him knowing this?” Karl asked me. “What the hell was wrong with you?”

  “Look, he was fine as hell, okay! And he had a dick down to his knees. I was blinded by the dick; I’m not going to even front. He used to roll off Ecstasy, and that shit made him a big time freak who would do anything, and I mean anything that I asked him to do in bed, so hell, it was kind of working for me. But I got over that shit real quick when this fool stood outside my building unsolicited and uninvited in the pouring rain, singing ‘Cry for U’ by who else, Jodeci. I’m serious! He was howling at the top of his lungs! ‘Laaaaadddy, I-I-I-I, will cryyyy for youuuu, tooniiiiight!’ He may have been crying for real, but it was raining, so I couldn’t really tell. Plus I was slumped down on the floor in embarrassment with the lights out, praying he would take his crazy ass home. I guess he was high or something, but that didn’t explain the sweatshirt with my picture on the front and him holding a huge, neon pink sign that said he loved me. Don’t worry about him, though. It was easy to get a restraining order for him.”

  “Now I know I’m calling for extra security,” Leslie said, and we laughed until we arrived in Hammond, Indiana, an industrial suburb about thirty minutes south of downtown Chicago.