The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  “A manipulator of words of sorts. I’m a magazine editor.”

  Sean admired Lang’s beauty even more today than he did back then. Yet, it was still her mind, her conversation, that stimulated him most. It was what kept him in the house cleaning on a Saturday when he’d much rather be playing basketball.

  While the kitchen and the bathroom were strictly off limits to Sean, he was allowed to help Lang clean the living room—the “black love” room. The walls of their living room were covered with various photographs and prints of black couples together. There was an expensively framed poster of William H. Johnson’s Cafe, Leroy Campbell’s Charmed to the Bone lithograph, and a series of enlarged black-and-white wedding photographs featuring Sean’s parents, Lang’s grandparents, and Aminah and Fame, as well as one of Lang and Sean kissing in the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens surrounded by delicate white orchids.

  Sean brushed off the espresso-colored linen cushions and fluffed up the creamy off-white cotton pillows as the Ohio Players’ “Sweet Sticky Thing” blared from tall, thin, cylinder-shaped speakers in the living room. Upon entering the room, Lang patted and refluffed the very same cushions and pillows.

  “You’re such a perfectionist. I don’t know why I even bother to try to help you,” Sean said, flopping down on the couch.

  “Sean!” Lang screamed. “I just fixed those. Get your ass up.”

  “Come here, woman,” Sean said, pulling his wife on top of him.

  “Stop it. I’m not done with the couch. And I’m all sweaty and funky.”

  “Forget the couch,” Sean said, nuzzling her neck and then smelling her underarms. “And I love your sweat and your funk. Your natural scent turns me on.”

  Lang playfully tried to wrestle herself out of his clutches, but it was futile. Sean just squeezed her tighter until she stopped struggling. He flicked his tongue up and down her right nipple through her thin T-shirt. Then he circled the outline of her areola. Lang moaned and lifted up her T-shirt. Sean shook his head and pulled it back down. He sucked thirstily on her breast through her light cotton fabric, creating a big wet round spot and leaving her T-shirt translucent. He stopped sucking only to blow his cool breath over her full, ripe breast, causing her nipple to harden even more.

  “You still tryna get away from me?” Sean asked.

  “Uh-uh,” Lang answered with her eyes closed. “But lemme take off my T-shirt, please, baby.”

  “No,” Sean said, now sucking on her left breast and gripping his wife between her legs. With the ball of his hand he rubbed firmly against her clitoris. Lang tried to move his hand inside her shorts, but Sean resisted.

  “Be patient,” he whispered.

  “I can’t. This is torture.”

  Sean stopped fondling her and looked at his wife sideways. “No. Torture would be if I let your hot ass marinate on this couch till I got back from a pickup game.”

  “Don’t even play like that,” Lang pleaded in a breathy voice. “I can’t take it.”

  Sean lifted his wife off him and took a seat in one of the dark chocolate leather chairs across from the couch.

  “Baby, you can’t be serious,” Lang said, frustrated. “How you gonna stroke the kitten and leave her purring by her lonesome?”

  “Lang, can’t you just relax for two minutes and let me do this?” Sean asked, annoyed. “You’re in such a rush to get undressed—just take all your damn clothes off then.”

  Lang lifted her eyebrows, smirked, and did just that.

  Try as he might, Sean could only remain so angry with a naked Mrs. Rogers. “Now lie down on the couch,” Sean commanded. “If you wanna take charge so badly, I’m gonna sit back and watch you make your own self come.”

  Langston lay back down on the sofa, fully stretched and spread out. She rubbed up and down her inner thighs. Then she lightly fingered herself, stroking her outer lips, her inner lips, her clitoris, never taking her eyes off her husband.

  Next Lang slowly slid her fingers in and out of herself, moaning. She then sucked on her fingers and played with her breasts, squeezing her nipples and lifting each one to meet her moist tongue. The sight of her husband’s visibly growing erection excited her. Sean stroked his own hardness as Lang crawled naked on all fours over to him.

  “What are you doing, Lang?” Sean asked. “You’re not done yet. Why are you so damn hardheaded? Mmmm, and so damn sexy.”

  “I need to taste you,” Lang growled. “I need to taste you right now.”

  Lang slid her husband’s shorts down and swallowed him whole.

  Sean groaned and palmed the back of her head.

  Lang sucked greedily, taking him in inch by inch until her lips pressed up firmly against his base.

  “Oh, shit,” Sean moaned. The pleasurable sensation of his throbbing piece fitting down his wife’s tight throat never ceased to thrill him. Each time was better than the last. She loved to give her all to everything she did. And this was no exception.

  Lang slowly slid her husband out of her mouth and straddled him. She gyrated and maneuvered her hips as Sean thrust deeper and deeper inside her until he finally released himself completely. He came, but she didn’t, and that was perfectly fine with Lang. The ecstasy of the act itself had been enough for her…for now. She got off on the thrill of the buildup. It just meant that the next time she would explode violently. She collapsed on her husband’s chest and listened to his heartbeat slow down to its normal, steady thump.

  She lay there thinking about the rest of her afternoon. If she hopped into the shower within the next ten minutes, she’d still be able to keep her eyebrow appointment with Guadalupe in Manhattan.

  “Sweetheart, when are you getting off the pill?” Sean asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “What? Where’d that come from?” Lang asked, confused.

  “I’m ready to start our family, Lang. I know we said when you’re thirty-five, but what’s a year earlier?”

  “Um, baby, I’m only thirty-three—that’s two whole years earlier.”

  “Not really. You’re not factoring in the nine months of pregnancy. I want the baby born no later than your thirty-fifth birthday. I don’t want to just be getting started at thirty-five.”

  Lang slid off her husband and back into her shorts. “Wow. I guess I had a different understanding of our timeline.”

  “Look, Lang, I don’t want to wait anymore. You asked me to wait for you to pitch and sell this magazine idea that you had, and I did that. What is it we’re waiting for exactly?”

  “I dunno, the right time, I guess.”

  “But what makes thirty-five a better time for you than thirty-three?”

  Lang had to carefully consider her answer because she wasn’t really sure. One thing she was certain of, though, was that she definitely didn’t want to still be messing around with Dante if and when she was finally ready to get pregnant. That was a bit too foul, even for Lang. But she couldn’t plan on ending something that hadn’t even begun. And now surely wasn’t the time to confess to her husband that she was actually reconsidering having children, period.

  “Baby, I want to start our family, I really do,” Lang said hesitantly, concerned more about appeasing him than admitting the truth. “And you’re absolutely right. There really isn’t a reason to wait, except I have to know in my heart that I’m ready to be a mother.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Lang?” Sean asked.

  “I’m saying we have to time this pregnancy right. I need to get proactive in naming an executive editor and grooming that person to take my spot so I can take at least a six-week maternity leave.”

  “Okay, now you’re speaking my language,” Sean said, reaching inside her shorts.

  “Babe, I gotta get ready for my appointment,” Lang said, sliding away from her husband’s reach. “We don’t have time for round two right now, but there’s always tonight.”

  “Keep talking. I like what I’m hearing,” Sean said, smiling.

  “Oh, really? You think we can take
the sequel to the bedroom the next time?”

  Sean laughed, grabbing his basketball shorts off the floor, sliding off his wife beater, and heading toward the bathroom in all his naked splendor, leaving Lang alone in the “black love” room to smooth out her cushions and fluff up her pillows again.

  Chapter 7

  “You’re callin’ me, frontin’ like everything’s lovely, when really you’re pissed to hear that I’m not available and at your service.”

  Sean dropped Lang off at a Starbucks within walking distance of the salon. Her appointment with Guadalupe wasn’t until three, so she ordered an unsweetened Venti iced coffee with light ice and heavy cream and then leisurely strolled toward Excellent and Innovative a few blocks away. As she passed a popular seafood restaurant with outdoor seating, she spotted a diamond-white Escalade.

  Okay, he doesn’t have the only iridescent white Cadillac SUV in New York City, Lang thought, kneading away her brewing anxiety. The mental massage lasted only seconds though. Her black lace thong still hung from his rearview mirror.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered. Okay, this could be just a coincidence, she thought. But Lang knew better—she’d also seen his vanity plates, UNVME. Shit, shit, shit, I wonder where he is.

  Lang glanced around, looking out for both Sean and Dante. Did Sean say he was going to watch a game on West Third Street or play in a game at Chelsea Piers? Either way, neither was far enough for her to feel even remotely comfortable right now. As she crossed the street, instinct told her to glance back again. This time she spotted Dante. But he wasn’t alone. He was with another woman, and they were both laughing as they sat at one of the Blue Water Grill’s outdoor tables. Lang couldn’t stop watching as the woman reached over and touched Dante’s hand.

  “Well, don’t they look all cozy and happy,” Lang said out loud, flipping open her tiny Motorola. “I should call Aminah right now and tell her what this motherfucker has the nerve to be doing.” She paused. “Aw, damn. She’s the last person who’d want to hear about this. Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  She called Dante instead. Lang stood across the street with her arms folded and blatantly stared at the laughing couple from behind her gold-studded Dolce&Gabbana frames.

  “Whassup?” he asked, answering the phone in a rather short manner. Lang sensed she was interrupting something.

  “Oh. Hey, you sound busy.” Lang mustered up all the casualness in her tone that she could fake.

  “Actually, I am. Can I call you back later?”

  “Yeah, sure, sure….” She paused.

  “You all right?” Dante asked, knowing she wasn’t.

  “Yes, of course, of course, can I ask you something though?”

  “Yeah, but make it quick.”

  “Are you with somebody right now?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted casually.

  “Are you on a date?” Lang asked with more than a little attitude.

  “What’s with all the questions?” he asked, more amused than annoyed.

  Lang sighed. “Fine, Dante, fine.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Lang,” Dante said, chuckling.

  “How you figure?” she asked.

  “You’re callin’ me, frontin’ like everything’s lovely, when really you’re pissed to hear that I’m not available and at your service. You’re heated that I’m with someone else. Admit it.”

  “What-the-fuck-ever, Dante.”

  “I know you didn’t think you were the only woman—I mean, chick—I was dealing with,” he said, correcting himself. “My bad, I used to think I was dealing with a grown-ass woman, but now you got me wondering. Listen, Lang, I’ma talk to you later.”

  “How are you going to say all that to me and then get off the phone?” Lang asked, perturbed. “What’s your rush, Dante?”

  “Oh, so you wanna play games?” Dante asked, chuckling. “That’s cool. Because like I said, I am with someone right now, and I don’t want to be rude.”

  “So it is a date then?” Lang asked, hoping that maybe he was just showing his cute cousin from out of town around New York or something.

  “You know what? I’m not exactly sure. If you wanna know so badly, hold up and lemme me ask my friend.”

  Dante asked the nice-looking young lady sitting across from him if they were on a date.

  “My friend says yes.”

  “I don’t believe you, Dante,” Lang said.

  “You don’t?” Dante responded, deliberately misunderstanding and handing his phone to his date. “Lisa, do me a favor and say hi to my friend Lang.”

  “Hi, Lang,” Lisa purred into the phone.

  “Put Dante back on the phone!” Lang barked.

  “I don’t think she wants to talk me,” Lang could hear Lisa say as she handed Dante back his phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Fuck you, Dante,” Lang said, snapping the phone shut, turning on her heels, and rushing toward the salon.

  “Soon, baby, soon,” Dante said, smiling and watching Lang power walk down the street.

  Chapter 8

  “I think you get off on making me wait.”

  Lang arrived for her appointment at Excellent and Innovative about seventeen minutes late, aggravated but by no means surprised that the salon was packed. There was no way she could start the workweek off with stray brow hairs. Not to mention she had The Fabulous Life of Beyoncé to shoot for VH1 on Monday.

  Guadalupe, her favorite Columbian aesthetician, waxed and tweezed her brows into the cleanest natural arch without fail, and she’d been doing so for the past ten years, back when the salon was over on Madison and Thirty-Third.

  “Okay, Langston, dear, come on back,” Guadalupe said a torturous hour and a half later. She’d skimmed through the July and August issues of Essence and studied the latest issues of Sister 2 Sister, Us Weekly, and In Touch, her direct and indirect competition. “So sorry for the delay, my dear.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” Lang said. “I got held up in Union Square and lost complete track of time.”

  “Are we doing your upper lip, too, dear?” Guadalupe asked.

  “If it needs to be done, sure, why not.”

  As Guadalupe spread the hot wax between her brows, it reminded Lang that she needed to schedule a Brazilian with Babbi at Bliss Soho. Babbi’d been out on maternity leave, and Lang simply did not trust anyone else to shape up her lust nest. Other salons and spas had left her completely bald and, quite frankly, humiliated. Other aestheticians at Bliss didn’t quite understand exactly how much hair she wanted to leave on her mound.

  Lang required what she called a Brazilian Basic Bikini Combo, and Babbi understood her vagina vision like no one else. No hairs between her butt cheeks or her perineum, none between or on her outer labia either, but please do leave just enough hair for a nice, even, medium-width (not too thick, not too thin), not-quite-a-bush, upside-down pyramid (not a landing strip, nor Hitler’s mustache)—a nice, full, inverted triangle that came to a precise point right above her clit. She’d call them on Monday and see if Babbi was back. Otherwise she’d be rocking a fuzzy-wuzzy for a few more days.

  “Is there anyway you can squeeze me in for a quick manicure or a polish change?” Lang asked as Guadalupe placed the astringent-soaked cotton pads on her eyebrows and above her upper lip to minimize any redness or swelling.

  “Sure, dear, but not for another hour or so.”

  While waiting in the salon, Lang called Sean to see if he was still in the city, but he was just crossing the Manhattan Bridge at that very moment.

  “Aw, babe, I wish you’d called me ten minutes earlier,” he said, disappointed. “You want me to swing back and get you?”

  “No, don’t do that, babe. It’s not a problem, really. I’m still waiting to get my nails done.”

  “What? You’re still there?” Sean asked, surprised. “Damn, baby, I thought your appointment was only gonna take fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. It’s going on five thirty, and you’re still waiting? Maybe
you should look for a new salon if E&I runs that far behind schedule.”

  “No, babe, it’s not even their fault. I got here late.”

  “How’d you do that?” he asked, a little confused. “When I dropped you off you had, like, a whole hour to spare.”

  “Yeah, I know, babe, but I was so into this American Legacy article that I was reading at Starbucks that I lost complete track of time,” she lied.

  “Really?” Sean asked, more surprised than suspicious. “That’s not like you at all. You put the capital P in punctuality. Must have been a damn good article.”

  “Yeah, it was. Oh, she’s ready to do my nails now. I gotta go,” she lied again.

  Lang waited another forty-five minutes for Guadalupe. It was after seven PM when she finally got out of there. A simple eyebrow appointment that should have ended no later than 3:20 became a marathon day of sit-and-wait, thanks to Dante Lawrence. Lang thought about calling her lover before she went home to her husband, but Sean had just called minutes ago to let her know that he was cooking one of her favorite meals—grilled salmon marinated in bourbon on a bed of steamed spinach, drizzled in his special-made honey-sesame soy sauce. And for dessert, spoon-fed fresh strawberries drenched in whipped cream. Yeah, she needed to go straight home. But damnit, it was still annoying her that Dante hadn’t called her back.

  “Hey, Dante, it’s me,” Lang said, leaving him a message. “Look. I just wanted to apologize for spazzing on you earlier. I know it’s the weekend, and weekends are suppose to be off-limits for us, but I figured since you broke that rule last Sunday that I could do the same today.” She paused. “Anyway, I look forward to seeing you this week. Um, enjoy—” His voice mail interrupted with an abrupt, robotic “good-bye” before she could even finish her lengthy message.

  Lang stood on the corner trying to hail a cab back to Brooklyn. It was times like these that she regretted letting Sean convince her that they needed only one car. He thought their BMW 745Ci was indulgent enough already. He reasoned that between her company’s car-service account and all the yellow taxis at her disposal, each of which was either tax deductible or work-expense-able, there really was no need to incur yet another liability. Not to mention that the good, old-fashioned subway was often the quickest way between Brooklyn and Manhattan, particularly during rush hour.