“Knock knock.” Into my office walked Jason with purple African violets in a Styrofoam cup. “This is for you, pretty lady.”
“Thank you.” I took the flowers, smiled, and pretended not to know that the city of Chicago had African violets arranged beautifully in large pots at every El train station. “That was thoughtful,” I said.
He leaned in my doorway. “How was your weekend?”
“It was okay,” I said. “And yours?”
“It was cool. I didn’t do much,” he said. “I couldn’t really get you off my mind, though.”
“Really?” I asked, and wondered if the free drinks had anything to do with it.
“Yeah, you’re an amazing kisser,” he whispered. “I thought about that shit the entire weekend.”
I offered him a genuine smile. “Thank you,” I said, but found myself wondering what it might be like to kiss Cortez.
“Think there’s a chance we can do that again?” he asked. “You know, going out and kicking it, and possibly another kiss?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Wow.” Jason took a step back. “You shuttin’ me down like that?”
“No, I wasn’t saying it like that,” I lied. “I just meant we’ll have to wait and see what happens the next time, ya know?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Well, we get paid this Friday, so I should have a li’l something to play with and be able to do it right this time. You free on Friday night?”
“Actually, I just made plans to have dinner with a friend from out of town on Friday.” I wasn’t lying.
“No problem.” He seemed disappointed. “Well, stop by my area before you leave today if you can. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks again for the flowers.”
“No need to thank me, all thanks to you.” He winked. “See ya.”
Jason didn’t seem like a bad guy, just an average guy with below-average judgment and little drive. Those were all things that could be enhanced if he so chose, so I was willing to be cordial with him until he got himself together. However, on my way to say good-bye to him, I spotted a floral arrangement identical to mine in a much nicer blue Solo cup on Leslie’s desk, and decided that Jason wasn’t worth any more than the pot he didn’t have to piss in. I turned toward the exit, and heard the frosty wind howl as I approached the door. I bundled up in my coat, and pulled my hat on tight, because it would be a shame for this human-hair-lace-front wig to be found on the Dan Ryan in the accident lane clinging to life.
“What’s up, chica?” Stacy’s voice resonated in my Bluetooth earpiece.
“Nothing much. What’s going on with you?” I said as I turned onto the highway. “Anything crazy happen today?”
“Something crazy always happens at Rush.” I loved hearing all of her emergency room nurse tales. “A man came in this morning with a TV remote control in his rectum.”
I thought about it, then gasped. “What the . . .” I exploded into laughter. “Ew.” I nearly choked.
“You see everything in the ER.” Stacy giggled. “You name it and I’ve seen it.”
I had to know. “Was he masturbating?” I asked.
“No, Garcelle, he stumbled and fell on it.” She laughed. “Of course he was masturbating.”
“Shut up!” I smiled.
“He was trying to TiVo himself,” she joked. “So, how is a day in the life of the senior reports director at Blare?”
“Ha-ha, don’t let the e-mail signature fool you, darling. I’m only senior because I’m the only damn one.” I clarified, “The only one doing the work of three.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Trace teased. “Why don’t you get them to hire someone else?”
“Because then I won’t have a job. They’ll find out that it takes me almost no time to do what I do.” I giggled. “I get my work done mostly before lunch every day, and then I shop online and play Second Life the rest of the time.”
“That’s just trifling,” Stacy said. “I bet your boss–”
“Oh,” I interrupted her. “Speaking of bosses, remember that guy Cortez I was telling you about who works at our home office?”
“Yeah, in Jacksonville, right?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah.” My voice went up an octave in excitement. “Well, he called me today to go over some changes, and, at the end of the conversation, he told me that he was coming here this weekend and wants to take me out to dinner.”
“Whoa!” she exclaimed. “I assume you said yes?”
“I did,” I said uncertainly, “but, honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“What?” She tried to figure out what the problem was. “What, you don’t know what to wear?”
“No,” I whined. “I wish it were that simple.” I laid out my dilemma. “As far as I know, Cortez has never seen me; he’s just inviting me out based on our conversations. What if I’m physically not his type?”
Stacy chuckled. “So, you wanna burn a man at the stake because he’s willing to get to know you based on your personality rather than your looks?”
“No.” I fought to explain. “What I mean is what if he has high physical expectations, or is looking for something different?”
“Looking for something like what?” Stacy asked.
“Something like, like . . .” I thought. “Like you, a damn size six and not me, an eighteen, a sixteen in the summer months,” I said.
“Oh, Garcelle, stop it,” she scolded me. “You act like you’re the biggest woman in Chicago.” She went on. “You don’t even look like an eighteen, and if you don’t like it, then you know what to do to change it.”
“Well, I’m gonna try this three-day diet thing I read about online,” I said. “I’m starting tomorrow, and, hopefully, by Friday I will have lost a little something.”
Stacy probably didn’t know much about my smoke-and-mirrors technique. It is said that magicians often use smoke and mirrors during their acts to conceal things that would give a trick away. Well, I did the same thing with Spanx, duct tape, Body Magic, two bras at once, etc. You name it and I’ve probably tried it. Nearly took my nipple off with duct tape, but it did do the trick. I just didn’t know how to get it off without my skin following.
“A three-day diet, Garcelle?” I could tell she was rolling her eyes. “I’ve invited you to my gym countless times.”
“Stacy, your gym is like a club. Men are posted up on the walls watching women with hardly anything on, there are down-low brothers stalking the bathroom stalls, fights in the parking lot, and drag queens on the treadmills.” I laughed. “What the hell? That’s just too much drama for me. I want a simple gym, preferably one without a DJ booth.” I laughed.
“You are too silly.” Stacy cracked up. “Enough about that, what are you gonna do about Friday?”
“Well,” I sighed, “I plan to go, but if I don’t hear from him before noon or so on Friday, I’m probably going to do something else.”
“Something else like what?” Stacy called me out. “You don’t have anything else to do on Friday night but call and bother me when I’m trying to conceive!” she reminded me. “I should be ovulating on Friday, so please don’t think you’re coming over.”
“You are such a skank,” I said.
“Whatever,” she replied. “At least give him until about five to call if he’s traveling on Friday; he might have stuff to do. Damn, have a heart.”
“I guess,” I stubbornly agreed. “I’ll give him until five, and then I’m crashing the ovulation party,” I joked. “Nah, I hope this is it this time.”
“Me too,” she said. “Keep your fingers crossed, again.”
While she discussed her adventures of trying to conceive, my mind drifted off to the last time I had had sex. It had been months and months by choice, not by accident. After Mitch left my place that hot August night, I made a vow to put my pussy on ice for a year. However, I think I was ready to release it on six months’ time served.
Mitch was a guy I had met at the
supermarket. We passed each other in several aisles. He saw the puzzled look on my face as I searched for a can of San Marzano crushed tomatoes, an ingredient to make Paula Deen’s eggplant parmesan. “May I help you find something?” he asked.
“Huh?” I looked him up and down. He wasn’t wearing the store uniform. “Do you work here?”
“No, but it looks like you need help finding something,” he said. “Two heads are better than one.”
“Well, I’m looking for a can of San Marzano crushed tomatoes,” I said.
He scanned the cans, then stopped. “I don’t know if they carry San Marzano, but what about Heinz?”
“I guess that will have to do,” I said, as he reached down for the can. “Thank you.”
He introduced himself as Mitchell Williams, and asked me to call him Mitch. We exchanged numbers, talked that night, and texted a lot over the next week or so. The night I had planned to make my eggplant parmesan, I invited him over. He showed up on time and ready to eat . . . me. Our text messages had become increasingly sexual, but I didn’t expect Mitch to literally, as his messages said, pick me up and put me on my dining room table to devour my tasty treat moments after walking through the door.
“Wait a minute,” I said, trying to get off the table.
“I told you that I was eating this pussy straight out the gate, didn’t I?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I thought you were kidding,” I said, as he reached between my dangling legs, pushed past my thick thighs, and landed on my panties. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” He pressed my shoulders down until my back was against the table. He rubbed my clit through my underwear and groaned. “I’ve been thinking about this since that day in the store.”
He pulled my panties down and spread open my legs, getting a good look at my chocolate-covered peach as he rubbed himself through his jeans. “Damn, that looks good.” He pulled my ass to the edge of the table and fell to his knees.
“Wait.” I tried to sit up, but his strong hand pushed down on my chest.
“Let me take care of this for you,” he said. “I will only go as far as you want.” He let up on my chest. “Relax.”
Of course, I could’ve stopped him, but a part of me felt guilty for encouraging him via text message the way I did. He started lapping my juicy puckering lips like a thirsty dog. I ground my honey pit into his tongue and then he started to drill me slowly with it. I worked his tongue like a stripper on a pole, but he moved with me and grooved me into ecstasy. He stood up with a condom over his dick and slid into me, or, at least, I thought he had. He was making all the motions and shaking the table, but I couldn’t feel a thing.
As he moaned and groaned, I thought of the chocolate raspberry cheesecake recipe I saw in Paula’s cookbook, then I thought I heard the table crack. “Stop.” I squeezed him around the waist with my knees. “Let’s get on the floor.”
Mitch lay on the floor and I straddled him. His dick “on hard” looked smaller than the average man’s did without an erection. I rolled my eyes and just bounced on it. “Oh, yeah, baby,” he called out, and grabbed my hands. “Fuck that big dick.” I wanted to laugh, and I probably could’ve, because his eyes were shut real tight. “Choke me.” He put my hands on his neck.
I was caught off guard. “What?”
“Just squeeze me real tight.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not into that.”
“I am.” He pushed up fast and hard as if he actually thought his dick was making it close to anything in me that mattered. “If you do it, it’ll make me cum real fast.”
Okay, choking it is! I squeezed my hands around his neck, and he opened his eyes. I was trying not to apply too much pressure, but his rocking under me made my hands jerk back and forth on his throat. When his eyes rolled back and he stopped moving, I stopped. “Mitch?” He didn’t respond. “Mitch?” I called a second time, and, as soon as I started to panic, he turned his head to the side and vomited on my carpet.
“What the fuck?” I screamed, and jumped up.
“Damn, that was good,” he said, stretching as if he had woken from a dream. He looked over at the yellowish goo on my rug. “Shit, I should’ve told you about that,” he said nonchalantly. “Get me a towel.”
“No, get the hell out.” I was sick of being nice. I let him fuck me because I didn’t know how to say no. “Please leave.” No more Miss Niceness.
“I can clean it up,” he offered again.
“No, thanks.” I pulled my dress down. “Just go.” Within a minute, I was closing the door behind Mr. Choke Me ’Til I Puke. Since that day, I had decided to use better judgment when it came to sex and not just give in because there was a dick in the room. I knew nothing about Mitch, other than what he said his last name was, his cell number, and that he liked to text freakiness. After he left, I realized how dangerous the situation have been and put myself on a year-long sex fast. But after six months, I was convinced that I had learned my lesson.
On Friday, in typical “overdoing it” style, I called out from work, and was in my beautician’s chair at 8:00 A.M. and out at 12:30 P.M. To follow up, I stopped by my usual salon off Ninety-fifth and Western and got a fresh mani/pedi. And last, but not least, I found a plum, colored deep V-neck wrap dress with accessories to wear. I was on my way home when my phone rang. My heart practically jumped out and hit the brake pedal when I saw Cortez’s name.
“Hello!” I tried to sound unfazed.
“Hey, this is Cortez,” he replied. “How are you?”
“Oh, hi. I’m fine.” I faked it. “How was your flight?”
“It was okay until my bag went missing,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I gasped.
“Well, the airline says it’s delayed, but it still hasn’t made it to my hotel, so to me, it’s lost.” He chuckled.
“I’m so sorry.” I felt bad for him. “Well, we don’t have to meet up, since you have that going on.”
“Are you kidding? I already bought something to put on tonight just in case they don’t get here before you do.” He then checked. “That is, of course, if you’re still interested in joining me for dinner.”
“I am.” I paused. “But I’ve lost bags during traveling before and it’s a pain, and I know that you probably want to stick around the hotel to be there when they get there and make sure that all of your items are accounted for.”
“You’re right about that,” he said. “So, I was going to ask you if you would mind if we just stayed around the hotel. Heard the food in the restaurant is excellent.”
“Which hotel are you at?” I had to know because I had had a few bad experiences.
“The W on Lakeshore Drive,” he replied. “I checked in about an hour ago and have a view of the lake. Even though it’s frozen, it’s real nice to look at.”
“So, Mr. Sunshine, how are you dealing with this weather? Tell me your coat wasn’t in your checked bag.”
“No, I brought it on with me because I know that that Chicago hawk is no joke, that wind is serious,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, I haven’t always been a Floridian. I was born and raised in Cleveland. I moved to Miami ten years ago and moved north to Jacksonville four years ago, so I know about shoveling snow and all that. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it anymore.”
“How lucky you are,” I said.
“So . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to ask this, but then again, I’ve put off asking you this for so long already. Cortez paused. “Who shovels your snow?”
I assumed this was his way of asking if I had a man. “Well, I live in a condo on the ninth floor, so the only snow I have to worry about is on my car.” I laughed. “I can handle that.”
“Garcelle, you’re making this hard,” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend, husband, a man, or anything like that?” he boldly asked.
“No, I’m single,” I said with a smile.
“Okay, because the crime rate in Chicago is bananas and I don’t want to become a statistic tak
ing you out.”
I was all blushed out. “So, what time should I be there?” I asked.
“What time is good for you?” He put the ball back in my court.
I looked at the clock. “Eight would work for me.”
“Then eight it is,” he said. “I’ll be at the bar.”
“Sounds good.” I smiled and checked my rearview mirror to get over to the right.
“I’ll see you then,” he said.
“See ya.” I released the call and my palms were moist. I couldn’t believe that I was doing this.
I got home, jumped into the shower, and hoped that my nervousness would wash away with the soap, but it didn’t. My nerves actually helped me put on my dress, makeup, and shoes. As a matter of fact, it drove with me all the way down to 644 North Lake Shore Drive. When I pulled up to the valet, it really woke up. “Good evening, ma’am.” The driver politely reached in to help me out.
I stepped out into the night, which was accompanied by the frozen lakefront air, and my exposed legs that became thick chocolate popsicles because my coat was mid-length. I raced out of the weather and into the lobby only to find myself wanting to run back out of the door. To say I was apprehensive would be an understatement; I was petrified. I hoped to God that he didn’t have anything against a bigger woman.
“Hi, can you please point me to the bar?” I grinned and asked one of the ladies at the front desk.
“Sure.” The tall pale woman pointed. “Right around that corner.”
“Thank you,” I said, and forced my feet from going in the opposite direction. As I turned the corner, I saw several men sitting at the bar, but only two were black and only one made my entire body water. He was wearing black slacks and a beige sweater, and had short wavy hair and a silky goatee. He was turned sideways, looking up at the forty-two-inch plasma television airing a basketball game on ESPN. I was about ten feet away when he must have felt me staring and did a double take in my direction. And even with my two-sizes-too-big felt coat on, he didn’t look disgusted or let down. His face actually lit up, or was it the way the bar’s light cast on him as he stood? Either way, he looked more handsome than he did just two seconds before.
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