“Well, like I said, a guy like you doesn’t deserve to be cheated on.”
“Does anybody deserve to be cheated on?” I asked.
“Sometimes there’s nothing like a little revenge sex to set things straight.”
“I hear you, TJ, but two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“He got his. What’s wrong with you getting yours?”
Maybe TJ was right. I mean the thought of a little revenge sex did cross my mind. After all, turn-around is fair play, right? And TJ was truly very attractive, and his not-so-subtle flirtation signaled he was more than willing.
“Listen, enough about me and my woes.” I took a sip of my drink and attempted to retrieve my flirting skills from the shelf and dust them off. “Tell me about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Okay, so where are you from?” I asked.
“I’m a native, born and bred right here in L.A.”
“That’s funny. So am I.”
“Wow. Not many of us around anymore. It seems like everybody here is from someplace else.”
“Yeah. My partner’s from the Dominican Republic.”
“Okay,” TJ said, in a moment of polite awkwardness. “So what do you do, Jesse?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“Cool.”
“How about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m an actor.”
Chapter Fifteen
Okay, I don’t really consider myself a rude person, but the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was get all chummy with a goddamn fucking ignorant-ass, self-centered, superficial, delusional, liar-by-trade ACTOR! And besides, as pissed off as I was with Étie, I knew deep down inside that revenge flirting, much less revenge sex, was not the solution to my problem. So the moment the word actor fell out of Mr. Ty January’s mouth, I was off that bar stool like it was on fire and out the front door of that hole-in-the-wall dive quicker than Richard Simmons flew out of the closet.
It was nearly seven in the evening. I walked the streets of Inglewood like a homeless orphan, feeling sorry for myself for being so unlucky in love. The queasiness of despair weakened me and I was wobbly on my unsure footing. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry in my mother’s arms and mumble “Mommy” in the warmth of her embrace. But having done it so many times before for the same reasons, I knew this perennial momma’s boy act was pretty much played out, not to her, but to me. She would always be there for me. Her arms would always by wide open to me, accepting my tearful wailings to the bosom of her unconditional love. But it was getting downright embarrassing. I’m forty-fucking-years old. And that’s the problem. I’m a forty-fucking-year-old man acting like a teenager…in more ways than one.
Sure, I’m a little old to be whining for my mommy. But not giving Étie a chance to explain himself wasn’t the most mature reaction I could have had, no matter how obvious the situation was. I mean, Hardy Ferrell creeping out of Étie’s dressing room and Étie in the shower is pretty close to me walking in on my ex Sean with Brad Pitt’s stunt-double’s dick up his ass. And still.
My God, what was wrong with me? Did I have “cheat on me” stamped across my forehead? And what the fuck did Étie mean by “If you do not trust, you do not love”? Hell, I have a history of loving and trusting and still getting pissed in the face for it. I loved and trusted Anthony back in high school while he was having half the football team behind my back. I loved and trusted Demetrius for six months before I found out he was doing porn on the side. I loved and trusted Sean, and look what he did with my love and trust? And I loved and trusted Étie. I still loved him, but I didn’t trust him. So if I didn’t trust him, how could I still love him?
Maybe Sylvester was right. Maybe love was for suckers.
No way! When it came to love, Sylvester was never right! Maybe love was just not for me. No way even more! My problem was, I fell in love with all the wrong people.
But Étienne was so right for me. He was the best thing to ever happen to me. So how could this be so fucked up? How could he do this to me? How could I think what he did was even possible? There had to be some explaining to do, on both our parts.
Okay. It was time for me to make the first move and do the right thing. I turned my phone back on and saw I had eight calls from Étie. I dialed his number…and got his voicemail.
Okay, okay, okay. I suppose I deserved that. Or maybe he was just too ashamed to talk to me. Aha! Guilt! Regret! Scratch that. Maybe he was just pissed off. Pissed off because Frankie and I showed up early and peeped his game? Hey, the loser in the game of gotcha is always the one most pissed off, because getting caught is a bitch. But isn’t catching your lover in the act beyond pissed? It’s crushing.
I didn’t leave a message. I decided to just go home so we could talk face-to-face like two grown men who really had something special between us.
I walked back to One Shot where my car was parked in the lot. Music was blasting from the open door of the bar. The kids were getting their happy-hour groove on. I got in my car quickly. I didn’t want to have a chance run-in with Ty. I started the engine, pulled out onto Crenshaw Boulevard and headed home.
A half hour later, I pulled into our driveway and parked in the garage. Étie’s parking space was empty. Hmmm. Suddenly a million grim thoughts flashed through my head. He only had one scene left to do after lunch, so why wasn’t he home? Now that he was found out, was he openly kicking it with Hardy Ferrell? Or if not kicking it with Hardy Ferrell, did he decide to say fuck it and give up on us, on me?
I finally entered our apartment and switched on the living room lights. It was as still as a painting.
“Étienne!” I called out forcefully. No answer. I marched to our bedroom and switched on the light. It too was still.
It took me a moment before I noticed the folded note in the center of our bed. My heart sank. Could this be it? Had he left me? Was this his Dear John letter to me? My feet were leaden on the floor. I could not move. My heart held me in the grasp of anguish, foreboding an end to a happiness I nearly couldn’t bear to lose.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Tears began to stream down my face. The pain and sorrow weakened me. Unable to bear the weight of this deep and utter hopelessness, I sank to the floor, on my knees, then on my haunches. I rocked and wailed like a new Pentecostal widow.
The sudden blast of my phone ringing and vibrating in my pocket startled me into a new glimmer of hope. I wiped the tears from my eyes and the dripping snot from my nose. I clumsily retrieved my phone and clicked it as I jammed it to my ear.
“Étie?” I whined anxiously.
“No, Jesse. It’s Sylvester Winfrey.”
I froze, immediately aware of the guard I needed to maintain, even in the light of my darkest romantic hour.
“Sylvester,” I finally said, clearing my throat.
“Sorry I took so long to return your call,” he responded stiffly. “I’ve been busy.”
“No problem, man. Are you still down in the islands?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. I’m sure you’re having a wonderful time.”
“Listen, Jesse. Let’s just cut the bullshit.”
“Sylvester, look, I’m really sorry about my behavior at Trudy Amberson’s.”
“You sure as hell ought to be.”
“I had a bit too much to drink.”
“To say the least.”
“I mean there’s really no excuse for my behavior.”
“Then why are you offering one?”
The note on the bed was staring so hard at me, I was suddenly barely aware of Sylvester on the other end of a phone conversation.
“Are you still there, Jesse?”
“Huh?” I fumbled. “Sylvester, listen, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of an emergency.”
“You’re the one who called me.”
“I know, I know. I had to let you know how sincerely sorry I am, but right now�
�”
“Bitch, you don’t even know how sorry you’re gonna be.”
And he hung up.
Okay. I knew it. I was up shit’s creek without a paddle and with a hole in the fucking canoe, but I had to prioritize. I ditched the phone back in my pocket, wiped away tears and snot with my shirtsleeve and marched toward the folded note on the bed like a general nobly facing a firing squad. I picked it up and unfolded it slowly with a hand steadied by a deep breath. I began to read:
Dear Jesse,
There is much I must think about, but because I am now very angry and confused, I believe I need time to settle into a good calm. I think the same is with you. Let us talk in a few days when we have both reached that calm.
Étienne
I felt both relief and despair—relief he was not saying goodbye, despair knowing he could very well be waiting to tell me goodbye face-to-face.
I sank to the bed, then pulled my phone back out. I dialed my sister’s number.
“Fraaankieeee,” I whined like a five-year-old when she picked up on the third ring.
“Hello, Jesse.” Uh-oh. I was in deep shit. Frankie only called me Jesse when I was in deep shit.
“He is really pissed at me,” I whimpered.
“Do you blame him?” she responded, unmoved.
“He’s gone.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“He’s here.”
“At your place?” I was instantly relieved and mildly ticked off.
“Yes.”
“I really need to talk to him,” I demanded
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Frankie was still unmoved and now unimpressed.
“I really screwed up,” I cowered.
“I know,” Sis agreed too casually.
“But he screwed up too,” I defended.
“How do you know?” she snapped.
“Eyes don’t lie,” I snapped back.
“You don’t even know what you saw.”
“Look, Frankie. I need to talk to him.”
“You can talk to him in a couple of days.”
“Huh?”
“And don’t come over here, Jesse. And don’t go stalking him on his job. You both need to work this out without the drama.”
“But, Frankie—”
“Goodbye, Jesse.”
And she hung up. I sat there on the bed numbed by the reality of my estrangement from Étienne. Yes, we had been separated before. There were those agonizing weeks and months we spent apart before he was given a green card and joined me in America. And there were the business trips, mostly location shoots I booked, which occasionally took me away from him. But this was the first time mistrust, possible infidelity and my own well-documented insecurities defined our separation as destructive. We were a Hollywood couple on the brink of a Hollywood break-up.
But being another Hollywood cliché was the least of my concerns. I still deeply loved him. I only hoped that he still loved me.
And so I waited for those two interminable days to pass. And while I waited, I took a long hard look at that man in the mirror. I began to realize I was not unlucky in love. I was the master of my romantic downfalls. I was the one who orchestrated my love life into the sewer. I decided right then and there, I was going to make a change.
Chapter Sixteen
For those two days, I firmly fought the urge to go to Étie’s job, not to talk to him, but just to see him. Just to see his beautiful face. But Frankie was right. We both—Étie and I—needed those two days to chill and reflect, especially me. During those two days, I set aside my concerns about Sylvester. My relationship with Étie was the priority. Dealing with Sylvester’s possible intent to destroy a relationship that could only be destroyed by the two principles—Étie and me—was secondary. After all, it was still possible that Étie and I had reached an end, a fate that would be one of the great devastations of my life. And even that had to take a backseat to the possibility of Étie being deported and my sister going to jail for complicity.
That realization was a learned lesson unto itself. There had always been a somewhat selfish side of me, a selfishness exacerbated by a “woe-is-me” self-centeredness. It was piteousness only attractive to me. Those two days of deep contemplation made me realize that my self-pity was not so cute.
I realized Étie’s love was not an entitlement. It was a gift, a blessing. It was not something owed me. I was fortunate to receive it. It was something I needed to appreciate as deeply as waking each day knowing there was a higher power—God, Jehovah, Allah, The Universe—gifting me daily with new and wondrous intangibles.
Had I taken Étie’s love for granted? Had I not fully understood his words when he said “If you do not trust, you do not love”? Had Frankie been right when she said “Maybe you’re just too tainted by your past, maybe you’re just too ruined for a good man like Étie”?
Maybe she was right. Was right, because from that moment on I made the decision to be worthy of Étie’s love. That is, if he still loved me.
That night I did something I had not done as often as I thought I needed to. I got down on my knees and prayed. I thanked God for all my wonderful blessings—great health, a loving family, a career that I loved and the experience of a good man’s great love. Although I knew it could quite possibly be over for Étie and me, I did not ask for spiritual intervention. Actions have their own consequences, and what would be would be the results of my own actions. This was a prayer of thanks. The only thing I asked for was forgiveness.
Since being with Étie, it was not always easy to sleep with him not in my arms. The first night of our estrangement was the worst for me. But after praying that second night, I fell asleep soundly. No, I did not have him in my arms, but I had him in my dreams.
* * * * *
At a quarter to eleven the next morning, the phone woke me from my deep sleep. I yawned and stretched with a smile as I picked up my cell from the nightstand. I checked the caller ID. It wasn’t Étie, but that was okay. It was still early in the day. It was my agent Carl. Great! News about Oprah! I clicked on the phone.
“Hey, Carl,” I answered as bright as the late morning sun pouring through the window.
“Hey, Jesse. I just got off the phone with Oprah’s people.”
“Cool!”
“Well, kiddo, maybe not so cool.”
“Oh?”
There was a long pause. I knew what that meant.
“They decided to go in another direction. Sorry, man.”
“No, no, Carl, it’s okay. I mean I know they were looking at a lot of folks, and we all couldn’t get the gig.”
“Yeah,” Carl sighed, “but you’re still one of the hottest shutterbugs in the business. There’ll always be something great poppin’ your way.”
“Well, that’s because I have one of the great agents in the business.”
“Thanks, Jesse.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Listen, let’s do lunch next week.”
“Let’s.”
“Okay. Look, kiddo. Gotta go. Give my best to Étienne.”
“I will,” I said, smiling as I hung up. Sure I was disappointed I didn’t book the Oprah gig. But maybe it wasn’t for me. The job wasn’t owed me, no more than Étie’s love.
And whatever Étie’s decision, I now existed in the glory of having dwelled in his love, and the hopeful possibility that I might continue to do so.
I sat up in the bed. My naked torso was bathed in the golden warmth of the late morning sun. The thoughts of him hardened me beneath the sheets. I slipped my hand beneath the sheets and into the loose Calvins in which my manhood was throbbing and growing. The vision of Étie danced inside my head. I closed my eyes. In my mind, he was standing before me in all his lovely nakedness, causing my heart to flutter. My throbbing dick—rock-hard in the palm of my hand—begged for freedom. So I flung the sheet away from me, snatched down my briefs and kicked them to the floor, my dick still in my
palm. I stroked it ever so gently in the cylinder of my grasp.
My mind’s eye beheld every inch of Étie’s body—his soft and curly hair, his beautiful face imperfectly perfected by the slight scar beneath his right eye. My mind’s sight of his full moist lips, puckered with a wanting, caused me to pant. His broad shoulders and chiseled pecs, his sculpted six-pack, revved my heart to rapid pounding. The vision of his dark and silky patch of pubes took my breath away. The erotic beauty of his thick uncut pinga, the tip of its head peeking desirously from the wrinkled edge of its loose and lovely foreskin, nearly made me come.
The sight of him was nearly too much for me. My free hand found the lube inside the nightstand drawer. I twisted off the cap and squeezed a glob of ooze into my palm. It joined my other hand still wrapped around my swollen dick dripping now with the thick slime of pre-cum. I lathered down the crescent crown of my dick and then its thickly veined shaft. I strangled it lovingly, causing me to shudder. As I two-fisted stroked it up and down, the vision of my sweet Étie continued to move toward me. His lips were still puckered, waiting to be kissed. With one hand, he was stroking himself, in rhythm with my own stroking. His other hand outstretched to me, causing me to gasp with unchained desire.
“Can you ever forgive me, baby?” I cried out to the vision, my heart pounding, my dick pulsing in the grip of my stroking palm. Tears dripped from my tightly closed eyes.
“Yes, my sweet,” I heard him say.
“Oh Étie, Étie, Étie,” I cried with agonizing rapture, unable to slow the wild stroking I gave my lubed member, taking my beating with a near-bursting swell and cacophonous smacking. And my racing heart and dizzied mind could see, in spite of eyelids shut tightly, my sweet baby jerking himself too, wildly, in concert with me. He was beating that beautiful pinga of his, beating it and jerking it and moving closer and closer and closer to me.
His angel’s form then climbed onto the bed. His golden length flexed and smacked in his busy hand. The head of his dick flashed teasingly from foreskin. He then eased slowly onto my lap. My stroking hands were pushed away and replaced with the warmth of his heavenly body easing down on me, burying the whole of me inside his tightness. And then he was riding me, working me, pleasuring me. His familiar hole squeezed me and sucked me. It slammed down and pulled up and slammed down on top of me, causing me to holler.
Hollywood Flames Page 10
