by Tiana Laveen
“What?”
“I like my father, Yasmine. Despite all the shit he and I have been through, and how we argue, I really like that man.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I told you, he is super smart, he’s funny, he’s got a good heart – but he’s got a really bad temper. That’s what makes our relationship so hard sometimes. I’m not going to put it all on him, though. I know I’m not always easy to get along with.” He raked a hand through his black tresses. “I get in a mood, remember something he did or said that pissed me off, shit that he refuses to be sorry for, and then I put space between us… I don’t wanna talk to him. I ignore his text messages and calls. I’ve got anger towards him that I am just now really looking at, tryna get to the bottom of. I’ve got anger issues, period, but something about him and me is so damn toxic. Before, I would just say he was fine, ya know? I’d say, well, he’s all right, a good father even though he drank too much. To some degree, I still believe that, but I know I put a lot of shit off to the side because I didn’t wanna think about it. You’ve helped me open up more, get some things off my chest. Thank you.”
“You don’t like feeling sad. So, you push it away. Somewhere along the way, you’ve equated sadness with weakness. A lot of men do that, not just you. But I am here to tell you, baby, they are not one and the same. You prefer happiness and rage. Those are your two default emotions. That’s where you’re comfortable.”
“I know.” He kept his eye on the road, and she could see her building as they approached a red light.
“I had some anger towards my parents, too. You and I talked about this, Nix. It was unfair, though. Yes, I wish things had gone differently regarding Tamia. I wish a lot of things… but, that time is gone. Nothing any of us can do now. I have peace in my heart knowing that we all loved her though. My parents are flawed. I’m flawed. We’re all flawed. But, they’re good people.” Her heart welled with emotions as she reflected on her family. “They loved me and took good care of me. Yes, some things were not fair, but I thank them for life. Life isn’t fair.” She shrugged. “I can call my parents any time of the day or night, Nixon, and receive words of encouragement, good advice, a place to lay my head, a warm plate of food and a hug. Many cannot say the same.” He nodded in agreement. “I imagine being a parent is the hardest job on Earth.”
“I’m sure it is. That’s why I don’t want the position. All right, we’re here.”
He pulled into the front of her building, then helped her out of the car. She wrapped her arms around him, rose on her tippy toes and kissed him. Nixon wrapped his big, strong arms around her and squeezed her tight. The warmth of his breath massaged her scalp as he ran his hands up and down her back.
“Remember what I said about the emails. About everything.”
“I will. See you tonight.”
As she turned to walk away, he playfully slapped her on the ass. She laughed as he raced back to his car, got inside, and drove off like the wind. She stood for a bit, holding that bag of fragrant food… thinking. Nixon had been honest and told her early on that he didn’t want to be a father. He liked children, adored his nieces and nephews, but that was as far as it went. They had to be someone else’s offspring; definitely not his. He’d even told her about a pregnancy scare an ex-girlfriend had experienced several years ago, which had sent him into a tailspin.
He was so paranoid, he’d sometimes ask her about her birth control and once had even demanded to see it for himself. A part of her didn’t want children, either. In fact, up until she’d met him, she’d been content with the notion of not having any, though she certainly wanted to get married. Oddly enough, they’d never discussed this. Did they even wish to open that box, and potentially go down a rabbit hole of hurt and pain?
Kids? No way. She’d always been convinced none would come from her womb. Now, she wasn’t so sure anymore…
I don’t know what made me reconsider. I was on the same page as Nixon before I’d ever set eyes on this man. I think Nixon would make a good father, though, and I think I would make a good mother. Still, it’s not for everyone. I can’t be angry with him. He told me this early on. He was upfront.
She shrugged it off and returned to work. The news that her man never wished to create life wasn’t a deal breaker… but it did, in its own way, break her heart…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Family Matters
Being a Satyr drives me. It moves me. It’s my deepest passion. Giving women sexual experiences they never dreamed possible is a claim to fame that I hold dear. I gave all of that away though, to get something new: Monogamy. Being a Satyr and being monogamous at the same time can be accomplished. It’s just challenging to find the right fit. We must never lose ourselves and should remain true to who we are.
Being a Satyr is also an artform. I think that’s what some people do not understand. Not just any man with a dominant sexual style can do this. For one thing, you have to be capable of compassion. You can’t just be authoritative, with no sense of self, and offer no comfort to the one you are fucking, making love to. You need that woman to trust you. This trust has to be earned through consistency and you sticking to your word. A woman can only trust you if she feels you will not hurt her while you’re in your roles, that you will care for her when the rubber meets the road. In the end, her gratification comes first, and that’s what men like me feast from.
This, to me, is pure pleasure. I was born a Satyr. I didn’t learn this; there was no information geared towards people like me, in our youth, explaining this. By the time I was in my teens, I was already demonstrating a domineering sexual nature. It came to me naturally. My focus, however, was not strictly dominance. It was me using whatever means necessary to make a woman orgasm. I was doing this before the terms ‘Dom’ and ‘sub’ were even in my vocabulary. Just like I told Yasmine, I don’t like titles. I abhor anything that puts me or my lover in a box. I don’t need to attend a bunch of classes, read a shitload of books, go to any conferences, none of that shit. I can just be. We do what comes to us instinctively. We follow what our minds and bodies tell us. She has her kinks and I have mine. They blend together perfectly. This is about exploration, respect, and love. It’s nonconformity. Freedom is pleasure.
Now, I indulge in that pleasure with one woman, and one woman only. She is everything to me. She gives me what I need, checks all of my requirements. She’s my balance. I give her what she needs – nurturing, sexual dominance, care, romance, and so much more. Yasmine was a born Nymph; she just didn’t know it. This is why she never came with a man before I touched her. She was bored to death. Unfulfilled. Unlike some women who’d been assigned to me at The Club, Yasmine knew exactly what she was doing. I didn’t have to coach her. I didn’t have to take it slow.
This is an old hat for me. I know which women want to be broken and which ones desire it, but really can’t handle a man like me. Yasmine wanted this. She was the one in control the entire time, not me. I always let the woman set the pace – she just believes she doesn’t because I am so damn good at what I do. When I gave her the first command, I could see in her eyes she was ready. That is a rarity. Typically, I’d have to build up to such things, not go rushing in. But she was practically dying for it.
She needed someone to take over, but it couldn’t be just anyone. The man for the job had to be confident. He had to be able to match her intellectually, make her want to love him, be supportive and keep her guessing. She needed someone who refuses to be a doormat. She needed a man who busted his balls every day, a mover and a shaker. She needed someone who knew what the hell they were doing in and out of the bedroom and could provide for her should she need it.
A Satyr is not a man who cannot take care of himself. A Satyr is not a man who blames everyone else when things are not going their way. A Satyr is not lazy. He loves a party and a damn good time, but he works just as hard as he plays. A Satyr is not selfish. A Satyr is not God, nor does he think he is God. He thinks very highly of himself, but we know our limits. He�
�s not a narcissist, though he may have some mental hang-ups… because we’re human. A Satyr is not irresponsible and once we mature and see more pros than cons to monogamy, we secretly wish to be with our very own private Nymph. We worship women – that is why we are so hellbent on delivering pleasure.
As a Satyr I am constantly evolving, but one thing is certain: I can’t do vanilla relationships. I have never had that desire; it does nothing for me. I have to be able to push the boundaries, give into my kinks and fetishes, and most of all, find a willing bird who derives joy from putting her pleasure in the palm of my hand. I’m in control of her orgasms… her moans of ecstasy. I am the reason why she is shaking like a leaf in my arms. She’s not in a cage; she’s in my heart. Some may say my heart is like a cage because once I have found what I am looking for, I never want to let go. I’m possessive because she has me. She’s taken over my mind. My body. My soul. She’s in my system as sure as blood flows through me. I’m high off her.
I was so conflicted in the beginning. I wanted to be with her, if only for two months. But then, I fell in love. I knew if things went well, the probability of that was high. I am certain she knew it, too. I fell in love much faster than I imagined, and by the time I realized I was in deep, I was already drowning…
I hate drowning. I used to have nightmares of Sammie drowning for months, every night. I could see his face sinking… deeper, lower, gone. Drowning is helplessness. Not being able to breathe. Being pulled down by an invisible current that gets heavier, and heavier, and heavier… Falling in love is a birth, but it’s also a death. Falling in love within itself never scared me. I’ve done it several times before. Falling in love to this depth though is what frightens me because now, I am face down, on the ocean floor…
Nixon leaned forward in his home office leather chair, smoking a cigar. With each drag, he released enslaved wisps of smoke, setting them free to the heavens. Fletcher Reed’s ‘Between Waves’ played at a high volume. Standing, he slid his phone in his pants pocket. Yasmine had sent a text that she’d left the house and was on her way to the destination. Minutes later, he was on the elevator headed to his parked car, holding a good-sized shiny blue box adorned with a white bow. He’d done it. Yet another step in the right direction. This was a big deal; he was meeting her family – another step proving his commitment and devotion.
He was headed out to meet Yasmine’s family at her Aunt Toni’s anniversary party. After checking the address in Olympic Fields, a suburb of Chicago, he started the car and navigated the parking lot, then merged with city traffic. His mind was in a fog. Prince’s ‘Baby I’m a Star’ blasted out of his car stereo speakers and the smell of Mexican food, his carry-out lunch from earlier in the day, still permeated the air.
This area was supposedly where some of the elite African Americans called home. He had no idea how true that was, but Yasmine had shared the tidbit upon letting him know that her family was curious about the mystery man she was dating. He’d had several clients from the area – business owners, executives, and the like – so he was familiar with it. His map navigation service announced that he was approaching the house on Cambridge Lane in .1 miles. When he pulled up to the older two-story brick home, he noticed cars were parked back-to-back and the driveway was filled to capacity. After a few minutes, he secured a parking spot down the street. With gift in hand, he made his way up the narrow, tree-lined sidewalk, enjoying the scenery. The sun was setting behind a cluster of dim clouds.
Most of the trees had lost their leaves, which carpeted the ground in bright earth tones. Some blew about in the mild breeze, while some made a crunching sound under his shoes. A few houses had bicycles lying in the front yards. Some of the homes had stone water fountains on their beautifully manicured lawns, with water pouring from spigots into large basins.
It wasn’t often he wandered into the suburbs of Chicago. As of late, he felt as if he may as well pitch a tent in the middle of the courthouse. He spent more time there than at home. He breathed in the fresh, clean air. The houses were old yet sturdy, and attractive. They also had a nice distance between them. He reached the front door and gave it a hearty rap, then rang the bell.
The milk-chocolate-toned face of a young child pressed against the front window, her lips curled in a grin and showing several tiny white teeth. Her face transformed in laughter as their eyes locked. He waved at the kid, then turned and faced the door as he heard it open.
A tall, lovely dark-complexioned woman with a tapered curly afro greeted him. Her wide lips were covered in a deep burgundy lipstick and her slanted eyes popped with sparkly eyeshadow. Clad in an elegant red dress with a slit up the side, a long, curvy leg was on full display with a ladybug tattoo at the ankle.
“Hey, you!” the woman said cheerfully, showing a beautiful smile with a slight gap between her two front teeth. “You have a present in your hands, so you must be here for the party. Come right on in.”
“Hi, thank you so much.” Nixon stepped over the threshold and felt like he’d stepped back into the 1960s, only the retro-style furniture was all new. He was digging the vibe of the clear, round bubble chairs, white and tangerine couch with throw pillows. Abstract art hanging on the walls, the paintings large and simple.
The sounds of Gil Scott Heron’s, ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’ filled the room, sparking the time-machine-like mood. The scent of strong, premium marijuana, cigarettes, and cigars perfumed the air, while beautifully clothed black, brown, and beige skin basked before him like earth-toned watercolors on a vast canvas.
“My name is Toni, but I don’t know you, baby.” The woman took the present from his arms. “Thank you for the present!” she said. “Who are you here for, sweetheart?”
“I’m Nixon. I’m Yasmine’s boyfriend.”
“Hmph!” She dramatically rolled her eyes in a playful sort of way. “Well, I always said, if a sista is going to get her a White man, he better be a fine ass White man, have some money, and be damn good to her. I see she got at least one out of three right.” She gave him the once over, brows arched, as if still determining if he fit the bill. “Yaaaaasmine!” the woman called out over the music, then pulled him by the wrist and led him through the crowd.
As he swam in the ocean of people, he spotted her sitting in one of the clear chairs, a red drink in her hand, legs crossed, and looking good enough to fucking eat. His stomach literally rumbled as he eyed her in her white bell-bottomed jumpsuit, chunky white heels, and white fedora. Dark red lipstick coated her lips and diamonds sparkled in her ears and around her wrist and neck. She looked like a magical dove that would swoop down and grant peace to the entire fucking world.
Their eyes met and all he could say was, “Damn.”
She stood, wrapped her free hand around his neck and brought him close for a kiss.
“Toni, this is Nixon. Nixon, this is my Aunt Toni. She’s been married to my uncle Vernon for thirty-nine years.”
“Oh, so you got married at age nine?” he teased. This was followed by plentiful laughter from those around him. But he was being honest. It was a shocking revelation. The woman didn’t look a day over forty-five.
Curtis Mayfield’s, ‘If There is a Hell Below, We’re All Going to Go’ was playing right then. Suddenly, the child he’d seen glued to the window started running around. A tall, thin older man with long salt and pepper dreads grabbed the girl around the waist and hauled her away saying, “This ain’t a kids’ party! Kia, you gotta go upstairs and watch Nick Jr., girl!” His voice was gruff and hoarse.
Yasmine slid her arm around his waist. “That’s my cousin’s daughter, Kia. She’s being taken back upstairs by my mother’s half-brother, Lucas. Uncle Lucas comes once a year, usually for Christmas or Thanksgiving, but decided to switch it up this time. He lives in Colorado. He’s an architect.” The baby snuck out of the room she was in with her sister, her face bright and cheerful. “Aunt Toni’s parties can sometimes be a bit wild.”
“Sounds like my type of part
y.”
Yasmine laughed and playfully pinched his nose, then they shared a kiss.
“Come on to the den. My mother is in there.” They travelled through an even larger crowd of people, most holding a drink. A woman swaying back and forth to the sounds of ‘I’m Coming Home,’ by The Spinners, caught his attention. Her short, straight dark brown hair was parted on one side and glistened under a bright chandelier. She wore a cream jacket over a black silky shirt and form-fitting black pants, paired black heels, and a gold anklet. Her eyes traveled in their direction and she made her way over, gyrating her hips and snapping her fingers to the rhythm.
“Mama,” Yasmine said. The two women regarded one another, a glimmer in their eyes.
He extended his hand for a shake. “Hello, Mrs. Prince. My name is—”
“I know your name.” The woman cut him off at the pass. “You’re Nixon Angelo Rossellini.”
“Yes, yes, I am.” He kept his hand extended and for a brief moment, he wondered if the woman would leave him hanging. Then, with a gracious smile, she shook it, causing a gold bangle on her wrist to shake and rattle.
“Yasmine, honey, can you get your father, please? I believe he’s with JoAnne and Terrence in the kitchen. They were discussing the next family reunion, I think.”
“Sure, Mama. Nix, are you going to be okay?” Yasmine asked with a wink before taking a sip of wine from her glass.
“Why wouldn’t I be? Of course.”
She touched his shoulder in a playful sort of way, then dashed off, leaving him there. Yasmine’s mother cocked her head to the side, her arms folded, and a look of intrigue, with a dash of irritation, spread on her face.
“Nixon, I’m not the type of woman to beat around the bush so do you mind if I speak to you candidly?”
“Not at all.” He mirrored her stance. “Feel free.”
“Thank you. First of all, before I begin, let me say that my daughter has spoken about you quite often and extensively in the last few weeks. My issue is, you seemed to pop up out of nowhere. That’s odd to me. That’s predatory.”
