by Pynk
Darla took over, raising her glass even higher. “May you both enjoy the sanctity of marriage in a way that is the ultimate love for the world to see. What God has put together, let no man put asunder. Here’s to you, Mr. and Mrs. Miller Lockhart. We wish you all the happiness in the world and pray that the love of your hearts reaches beyond your God-given years, into eternity. May you never be farther than the arms of your hearts can reach. Magnolia, you found your soul mate. Cheers.”
The bride and groom and everyone else said, “Cheers,” and took sips to seal Rebe and Darla’s words. Magnolia had a tear rolling down her cheek, and Miller kissed her right where it flowed.
The song “Spend My Life with You” by Eric Benet began, and Miller removed his tux jacket, took his bride by the hand, and led her to the dance floor. When Magnolia heard the words, “Never knew such a day could come,” she fanned her flushed face with her hand. She faced her new husband in her vintage dress as their family and friends watched, and placed her head on his chest, left ear to his heart, and the words continued, “I was incomplete till the day you walked into my life.” And then, the record scratched, and Magnolia and Miller looked at each other with a question mark, looking over toward the DJ, who began to play Heavy D & the Boyz, “We’ve Got Our Own Thang.”
Miller suddenly sang along like he was okay with it, getting the feeling, “Everybody shake your body, we don’t ill we chill at a party,” and he broke out into his own corny version of poplocking, attempting to moon-walk to the beat, encircling Magnolia as she watched him like she was shocked, but by the next chorus, Magnolia raised the fabric of her petticoat, exposing the baby blue garter Darla had given her, and turned around to him, backing it up and working her hips. He put his hands up in the air, waving them around like he just didn’t care. “Started with a pow and I’m going to end it with a bang, we’ve got our own thang.”
Everyone started clapping, and singing along, while Magnolia and Miller did their prerehearsed routine, skipping and jumping, doing some youngster moves, and then heading over to those standing around to bring them into the mix, even Trinity who had stood up with the baby, and Magnolia’s Grandma Grace took Darla’s father by the hand, bringing him onto the floor, hugging him while they did a funky slow dance version.
Miller’s son and daughter and their families jammed too, even his ex-wife, and Darla and Rebe danced together, with Rebe making a point to head right on over to Miller, bringing her backside around to his front side, and she shook her moneymaker around in a circle, while he first looked at Magnolia for approval, but before he got it, he focused down at what Rebe was working with, pretending he was rummaging through his pockets to look for dollar bills, throwing fake bills up into the air to make it rain. Rebe pretended to catch each one and stepped back to Darla after passing by Magnolia who gave her a look of warning and pointed her finger. “Okay now. Don’t let me tell Darla on you,” Magnolia whispered. She then held her hand up. The silver heart friendship bracelet from Rebe dangled. She gave Rebe a high five, and said, “Our sixty-nine days are over, girl.”
“Agreed,” said Rebe, without a word of disagreement.
Rich, Miller’s best friend, took Rebe by the hand and they danced, doing what Rebe loved to do most. They did a version of the whop, holding hands the entire time. She smiled continually, finally a real true wide, continuous grin. Like maybe if she kept dancing, the curse would be broken.
Darla danced back over to Grainger and sat down, staying close while he whispered what he was going to do to her when they got back to his place. Darla swatted his arm and then hugged him closer, whispering back to him to bring it on.
And Magnolia looked in the eyes of her new husband, her arms draped around his neck, feeling as though she could really truly exhale, her large rock and his diamond band on their ring fingers shining bright as symbols of their life together.
The next song was theirs alone.
The floor cleared and Etta James resounded from the speakers. “At Last.”
Magnolia’s gaze was triumphant. Her life was like a song. Her love had come along just when he was supposed to. They moved in slow dance, swaying to the tune, Magnolia humming the song to him, Miller humming the song to her. The song later wound down with all eyes still on them.
As the song “Perfect Combination” by Stacy Lattisaw began, another selection of Magnolia’s, Gigi appeared behind Magnolia, though shorter than her, on her tiptoes, touching her on her back and making an effort to whisper in her ear as Magnolia leaned back to get closer.
Magnolia could smell her peppermint breath as she spoke in a low tone. “Excuse me, baby girl, this is your new husband’s ex-wife. Her name is Beth. And she is the most beautiful spirit. She asked me to introduce you.” Gigi looked at Beth. “Beth, this is my granddaughter, Magnolia.”
Magnolia ceased her dance and turned toward them, keeping one hand clasped in Miller’s.
Gigi stepped away, headed back toward Darla’s grandfather, whose eyes expected her return.
Beth stepped forward, giving a quick smile and head nod to Miller, who looked frozen, and then she took Magnolia’s other hand into both of her hands. “You are a beautiful bride.” She smelled like roses.
“Thank you, Beth. It’s nice to meet you.”
Beth was short and slightly plump, in her sixties, but looked hip in black caged Louboutins, in a black tulle dress with pearls, and auburn hair cut into a classic bob. She wore three-inch red nails and bright red lips. “And I want you to know, you are my children’s stepmother. We welcome you. I honor you for allowing me to come today and see my children’s father get married. A lot of women wouldn’t have been able to do that, but you did. I got your invitation and was thrilled. That’s all I wanted to say. Thank you.”
They gave cheek-to-cheek kisses.
Magnolia told her, “Thank you for coming. That’s so nice of you to take the time to be here, and to introduce yourself. Believe me, if my mom says you’re okay, you’re okay.”
Beth patted Magnolia’s hand and then let go. “I’ll let you two finish your dance.
Magnolia took Beth’s hand into hers. “No. Here. You dance with Miller.” She placed Beth’s hand in Miller’s hand.
Beth looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
Magnolia looked certain. “I am.”
“Miller?” Beth asked, seeming cautious.
Miller gave a bow, as in, May I have this dance. “My wife knows me, Beth. It’s my pleasure.” He pulled Beth close, and they danced together, chatting while he led the way.
And Magnolia walked away in her designer wedding dress, feeling nothing but happy. Nothing but secure. Nothing but free. Free, now knowing what the feeling of being cherished can do.
Having learned to trust and experience life from the other side. Magnolia Lockhart, just like her best friends, was changed.
And changed for the better by trying something just a little bit…different.
Epilogue
“Better Days”
Girlfriends
INT.—MAGNOLIA AND MILLER’S HOME—MIAMI— AFTERNOON
January 1, 2011
By that next New Year, it was a new way of celebrating hot new lives on a chilly first day of 2011. There was no longer a girls’ night out on New Year’s Eve. It was a new and different day for Magnolia, Rebe, and Darla.
Miller and Magnolia had everyone over to their new waterfront, Mediterranean home in Indian Creek Village to bring in the year, and to celebrate Magnolia and Darla’s birthday.
Rebe was there with fifteen-month-old Tristan. And she was also allowed to bring Randall’s daughter, Chyna, who was three and a half. Chyna called Rebe T-mom, meaning she was Trinity’s mom. Rebe and Kandi were actually on speaking terms.
Trinity, who did not graduate from college, but promised to go back, got her own place in New York and was finally working as a runway model. She was making a lot of money, even without a degree. Rebe knew she probably would not return to school. She was just ha
ppy that Trinity was happy. Also modeling in New York with Trinity was Armani.
And Darla had ended her first year in the black. She was up to date on her condo payments and had cleaned up her credit.
She sat on Grainger’s lap in the sunflower leather chair in Magnolia and Miller’s family room, watching little Chyna try her best to dance to the song “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson. They laughed and clapped their hands to the beat. On the ring finger of her right hand, Darla wore her tiny black diamond ring in yellow gold. She and Grainger were simply promised. But this time, the subject of sex before marriage was not an issue for her.
And in the backyard on the deck, along the edge of the narrow creek, surrounded by a menagerie of towering trees, minding the grill, in the sixty-degree weather, was Darla’s father, grilling the chicken and ribs for their feast, working the barbeque pit like he was thirty years younger.
“Do you need anything? Are you okay?” Gigi asked, coming outside in her sundress from the kitchen after making her signature cabbage and turkey wings, stepping up behind him to wipe the sweat off his brow with her hand. She still wore her same old wedding ring. She handed him a bottle of Dos Equis.
“Yes, dear.” He still wore his same old wedding band.
They kissed on the lips.
“Watch it now, Mister,” Magnolia warned Darla’s father as she stepped outside to check on him.
“I’m good,” he said, sipping on the cold bottle. “Very good. Excellent,” he told Magnolia, eyeing his new woman down. They’d spent nearly every day together at one or the other’s place the entire year of 2010.
Miller came outside and joked, “Okay now, don’t burn those. I spent a lot of money on that meat.”
“Oh he’s got it just fine. My spousal equivalent knows how to grill, all right,” Gigi said, chomping on a piece of hard candy. Her light brown eyes devoured his image.
Darla’s father said, “Yeah. If I burn one, it’ll have your name on it, Miller.” He laughed and Gigi laughed louder. She sat down at the patio table and continued to watch him do his thing.
Magnolia said, looking protective, “Spousal equivalent. How cute.” She spoke directly at Miller. “My grandma is happy.”
“Looks like they both are.” Miller took Magnolia by the hand and led her back into the kitchen and then into the family room. “Happy birthday, love.” He leaned into her.
“Thanks.” Magnolia held on to his arm and kept her shoulder to his.
As the Michael Jackson CD ended, Grainger picked up the TV remote and turned up the volume, switching to ESPN. That’s when Rebe heard a familiar voice.
“I will continue my contract as the WNBA head coach of the San Antonio Silver Stars. These allegations are untrue. I have not been involved in a sex ring, as I’ve been falsely accused of. I am innocent until proven guilty.” He had a cleft in his chin, big man, perfect goatee.
Magnolia and Rebe watched as well, seeing the familiar face, all ears.
The sportscaster said, “That was Marcus Cotton, former track coach at New York University, who left his position to coach the WNBA team recently, who’s under fire for alleged charges of promoting prostitution. We’ll have more tomorrow after the team’s press conference. Back to you in the studio.”
Rebe looked as though she’d seen a ghost. She was in sheer shock. Her eyes were the size of ice cubes.
Two years after she met him, she found out her baby’s father’s name was not DeMarius Collins. It was Marcus Cotton. She now, at least, knew who he was.
“Ain’t life a flip,” Rebe said to her BFFs, and then looked over at her and Marcus’s young son, Tristan, who was curiously toddling near Chyna. Tiny dimple in his chin.
“Yes it is. A real flip,” said Darla, looking stunned.
“It surely is,” said Magnolia, still holding on to Miller. “In an instant.”
The best part of life is when your family become your friends, and your friends become your family.
Unconditional commitments to imperfect people.
LINKS TO FACTS AND ISSUES FROM SIXTY-NINE
Every two minutes, someone in the United States is sexually assaulted. For further information, you can visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network website at www.rainn.org.
Depression is not something you can just snap out of. Take charge. For further information, you can visit GlaxoSmithKline’s website at www.depression.com.
For further information on enhancing fertility after the age of forty, you can visit the Mothers Over 40 website at www.mothersover40.com.
For further information regarding issues of sexual health, you can visit Dr. Laura Berman’s website at www.drlauraberman.com.
For resources and connections for women entrepreneurs, you can visit the Ladies Who Launch website at www.ladieswholaunch.com.
For a dating site on interracial love, you can check out the Salt and Pepper Singles website at www.saltandpeppersingles.com.
For information about pole dance workout classes, you can visit the S Factor website, www.sfactor.com.
You can log on to www.scarleteen.com to learn about your pink anatomy.
BEING SEX-SEE
From the Undersexed to Paying for Sex
The theme of Sixty-Nine is sexual freedom, and also showing the shame, disgrace, and consequences of reckless lust with the undersexed, just as I did with the oversexed in Sexaholics. It’s a thin line.
Each character had a goal, and some sort of conflict that kept each woman from that goal. I wanted to challenge these women to go beyond their comfort zones. Sometimes it’s safer to experience what we know, and not challenge our self-built boundaries. These boundaries often come from our upbringing and society’s standards, etc. But when inner happiness and self- satisfaction and faith come first, we are better able to go beyond the norm, within reason, and just be free to be. I hope you enjoyed Magnolia, Rebe, and Darla as they lived out their nonmissionary risks and discoveries, as much as I enjoyed creating them.
And my next Pynk book, preview chapter ahead, is called Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.
I’m intrigued by the many stories in the news about how men of power and privilege, in sports and politics especially, feel such self-empowerment, as though they feel they can get away with anything. Funny how we don’t hear about female politicians getting caught— some say because maybe we women are better at cheating. Maybe so, but I think sometimes these men of privilege are the guys who didn’t get laid in school and now they have the power and money to get attention. Men romanticize the women they cheat with or pay to sleep with, and the more innocent the woman, the more desirable she is to the man, and the more he feels like a man.
It’s about entitlement. Some well-known men in prestigious or public positions often feel they can’t be touched. Can’t be punished. They love the prostitute with the heart of gold who doesn’t give them any grief, and start to trust her, sometimes even falling in love with her. But all things in time must come to a head. And what happens in the dark must come to light. Even the most passive of women can reach their breaking point, prostitutes or not.
In Politics Escorts Blackmail, you might even see an appearance by Trinity and Armani, from Sixty-Nine, or even Marcus Cotton, the escort who is the father of Rebe’s son.
Some say bread eaten in secret is more filling. I guess so. Because in this story, Money Watts’s world of call girls and guys, escorts and mistresses, is being served up on an undercover Pynk platter. Enjoy!
PREVIEW CHAPTER
Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.
by PYNK
Notice from PYNK:
If you are erotica squeamish, be prepared to squirm.
Consider yourself warned!
Prologue
March 2012
In a City of 8.4 Million People
Hey there, Mr. Big.
I’ll bet you think this book is about you, now that it’s all said and done, right? Wrong. It’s not. It’s about me. Money Watts. And how the world of politic
s, escorts, and blackmail came to a head, all in one day in 2011. It’s about my side of the escort coin. The side of making a business out of sex for money.
This is my own version of Sex and the City. Sex in the Big Apple. Sex with big names. Sex for big money. Sex that made big news. You were my Mr. Big. But now…well, like I said, this story is not about you.
I had the baddest high-end call girls and call guy in New York City. My agency, called Lip Service, was comprised of just the four of us. We kept it small, we kept it exclusive, and we kept it high-class. And I kept all the juicy names in my little pink e-book.
I was the provider, or organizer. And they, the clients, were called hobbyists. We did it all over the Internet on an adult website, or sometimes over the phone. Sometimes the hobbyists would even rate each of us and give reviews. They’d rate us on price, cleanliness, honesty, and attractiveness. And we always received ten out of ten. This was no street corner operation. These were not escorts of ill repute. This was not a brothel. This was about meeting a classy man or woman to “escort” you to dinner, and then going somewhere after for an intimate evening together. That’s it. No different than a first date with someone who doesn’t call the next day. Only there’s a booker who gets ten percent. I split the rest fifty-fifty with my escorts. And at two thousand dollars per hour, sometimes even thirty thousand per weekend, we did very, very well. We were providing a very necessary service. And we were very, very good at it.
