Authors: Lori D. Johnson
I said, “Carl, blow out the candles and go to bed. Just do that for me, okay?”
“All right,” he said, sounding like that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. “Good night.”
So I waited. And waited. And waited some more until finally I figured the fool must have drifted back off to sleep. Aiming to go in there and thump him in the head, I’d just thrown back the covers when his slow-moving tail showed up at the bedroom door, carrying a candle and wearing a smile.
He said, “That was a good one. You got me. But that’s all right. Wait ’til you see what I’ve got in store for you.”
I told him, “Yeah, I’ve heard all the talk. But I can’t say I’ve seen much by way of action. And what took you so long, anyway?”
Still grinning, he set down the candle and started taking off his clothes. “Oh, it only took me a minute to figure it out. But I didn’t want to get caught trying to step to you with dragon breath, so I made a brief pit stop along the way.”
The brother is a mess, I’m telling you. For some reason, after stripping down to his shorts, he decided to entertain me with a few bodybuilding poses and martial arts moves.
Girl, I was ready, willing, eager, and tired of waiting, hear me? So I just told him, “I’m glad to see you’ve got your confidence back, but if you don’t hurry up and quit with all that Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Lee mess and bring your butt on over here, I’m rolling over and going to sleep.”
He peeled off his shorts and said, “Oh, you want some action? Girl, I’m fixin’ to give you some action you ain’t never gonna forget.”
Honey, there wasn’t anything I could say to that but “Umm-uh, have mercy.”
Okay, how do I say this without sounding insensitive or coming off like a complete jerk? Let me just put it to you like this—my first impression of Faye’s bedroom behavior was that she made love like a woman who’s accustomed to being in total control. But after it was over and I was lying there trying to make sense of it all, I realized I’d been mistaken. In actuality, Faye makes love the same way she lives her life—like a woman who’s desperately afraid of losing control or being somehow forced to relinquish it.
The only reason I opted for compliance over protest—when no less than five minutes into the smooching, squeezing, and stroking, ol’ girl indicated that she was ready to saddle up and ride—was that I assumed there’d be plenty of time for a few slow strolls here and there before we charged off into the wild blue yonder together. Man, not in a million years would I have ever expected ol’ girl to leap on top of me, dig in her heels, and take off in full gallop. I’m saying, she wasn’t even playing. And every time I tried to alter her course with something along the lines of
either a kiss or a caress, she’d either brush me off or shove me back against the mattress, as if to say that if it wasn’t ’bout the straight-up hump and grind, she wasn’t having it.
But after a few minutes of listening to my teeth rattle around in my head, I just up and told her, “Baby, I don’t mean no harm, but unless we slow this train down, I’m gonna reach my peak and that’s gonna be all she wrote.”
Ol’ girl paused for all of three seconds, then leaned over, looked at me like my name was Dudley Doofus, and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that was the whole point.”
Man, at that particular juncture in the road, it wasn’t in me to argue with her. I just grabbed hold of the side of the bed, closed my eyes, and pretty much let her have her way with me. When it was over I just laid there for a moment, like I told you, wiping sweat, trying to catch my breath, and wondering what in the world had just happened.
Faye as usual wasn’t exactly bubbling over with answers. After a speedy dismount she’d rolled onto her side and was lying there with her back to me. I wasn’t sure what to read in to her reaction. So I reached out and rubbed her shoulder, hoping for a moan, a groan, a grunt, or something, only to feel her stiffen beneath my touch, like I was some kind of stranger whom she’d suddenly found guilty of having violated her space. And rather than turning over to face me, she got up and started gathering her things.
I shot straight up in bed and said, “What? You’re leaving?”
She said, “Yeah, I was gonna take a shower first, if that’s okay.”
I asked if everything had been all right. “I mean, did I miss something? Did I do something wrong?”
She was like, “No, everything was fine, Carl. Really.”
So I asked her, “Then how come you don’t want to spend the night?”
She sighed and told me it just wasn’t something she generally did.
I could have left it at that. Maybe I should have. But something deep down inside wouldn’t let me. I said, “Faye, I’m sure to you this is gonna sound incredibly needy and pathetic, but I was really hoping you’d stay. I kinda miss having someone to sleep next to. You think maybe you could make an exception, just this once? Please?”
Hell, she acted like she hadn’t even heard me. Instead of coughing up a reluctant “yes” or even spitting out a sassi-fied “I don’t think so,” she snuffed out the candle on her side of the room, then went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
I just sat there for a while with my head in my hands before finally piecing back together the shredded bits of my ego and drawing together enough strength to get up and make a trip to the hallway john. After a brief stop by the kitchen for a quick sip of water, I headed back to the bedroom, fully expecting to be greeted by the sound of a running shower. Instead there was only silence, a faint hint of cigarette smoke, and surprisingly enough, Faye.
“I sorta prefer this side of the bed” is all the explanation she offered as she leaned over and blew out the last remaining candle, before settling beneath the covers in the spot I’d occupied just minutes before.
Hey, that was fine by me, and I said as much before maneuvering my way ’round to the other side of the mattress and lying down beside her. Even though the room was now pitch-black, I could tell that like me, Faye was positioned on her back. After a few minutes of lying there listening to her breathing and mine, I mustered up enough courage to reach out to her again.
My wandering hand lucked up and landed on the curve of one of ol’ girl’s silky brown thighs. I eased my fingers into the warmth I found there, kneading the softness ever so gently but fully expecting her to go into withdrawal on
me at any moment. Sure enough I felt her stir beneath my hand, but rather than break the contact, she indulged it—even went so far as to cover the spread of my fingers with her own.
Curious as to just how far I could push my luck, I said, “You think I could get a good-night kiss? Or would that be asking too much?”
She turned toward me and after a few seconds I felt her hand on my chest. “Just don’t forget, Carl,” she whispered, “we made an agreement. You can’t go getting serious on me.”
“I know,” I said, bypassing the opportunity to target her lips to give her the kind of royal treatment I generally reserve for my two princesses before tucking them in at night. “Three times and I’m out, right?” Then, using my fingers as a guide, I planted a soft peck on both her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, and in the curved space just below her lower lip.
She didn’t say anything, but if I’m not mistaken, I think I felt her smiling next to me in the darkened room. And when she rolled over on her side, instead of hugging the edge of the bed like I thought she might, she actually eased her body back toward mine and drew my arm around her.
Now, that part felt right, man. Ol’ girl’s behind pressed all up against my groin. My lips brushing against her neck and shoulder. My fingers freely navigating the wondrous stretch between her left breast, hip, and thigh. Her reaching back every now and then to pull me even closer. We fit together like two puzzle pieces—two lost puzzle pieces that had finally found each other amid all the other ill-fitting matches.
Yeah, ol’ girl’s got issues, man, and from the looks of things, big-time issues, to say the least. But don’t think I’m about to let that discourage me from getting to know her better. If anything, I’m even more enchanted with the whole
notion of having crossed paths with someone who actually seems more emotionally messed up than me.
I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there’s a reason fate brought us together. Maybe there’s a part for me to play in the soothing of her pain—and vice versa. Perhaps there’s even a part for her to play in the easing of mine.
I can’t remember the last time I spent the night—I mean the entire night—with anyone. Typically my preference is to wake up alone and in my own bed, irrespective of how good, bad, or indifferent the boot-knocking was. But there was something about Carl and, moreover, something about the way he asked me to stay that made me, well, that made me want to.
The God’s honest truth is, I didn’t really know which way I was going to swing until after I’d ventured into the brother’s bathroom, found myself lighting up a cigarette, and calling Nora from my cell phone. When I told her not to look for me because I was at Carl’s and wouldn’t be coming home, you know she had to trip.
After she finished cracking up, she said, “So what y’all doing over there? Having an all-night-long video marathon?”
I told her I’d thank her to mind her own durn business, to which she replied, “Well, just don’t hurt the poor boy, Faye. I know you ain’t had none in ages.”
See, she don’t even know. And if she was going to tell me anything it should have been to snap out of it and bring my big butt on home before I allowed myself to be sucked in any deeper than I already had been.
When I woke up the following morning I found the spot next to where Carl had lain empty and cold. He’d left a note on his pillow telling me he’d be right back and asking me not to leave before he returned.
Even though I had him to thank, in part, for some of the best sleep I’d enjoyed in quite some time, waiting around on his slow-as-molasses behind wasn’t something I planned to do. Uh-uh, it was already after nine and despite my hedonistic performance the night before, I still had an eleven o’clock Sunday service I had every intention of making.
After showering, I was sorting through the bundle of clothes I’d deposited on top of the hamper the night before when I realized all my toiletry items were still in the purse I’d left on the floor next to Carl’s bed. My plan was just to dart out, grab the bag, and dart back in again. But something told me I’d better cover up. So, I grabbed Carl’s robe from the back of the door and sure enough when I tipped out, there he was cradling a cup of coffee and waiting on me with that big, silly grin.
I might have smiled back at him, had I not been so distracted by the spread he’d set up in my absence. On the dresser, not too far from where Carl stood beaming, sat a silver-plated coffee urn, with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. On a small table that Carl had moved next to the bed was a bowl of fruit and a basket of assorted muffins and croissants.
Too stunned to do much of anything else, I went over and peeled back the napkin covering the pastries. He’d just taken them out of the oven and he warned me that they were hot.
On closer inspection I noticed both the white carnation he’d laid across my pillow and the surprising fact that he’d actually changed the linens.
“Well, just don’t stand there gawking,” he said. “Go on and help yourself. At least have a seat.”
I shook my head and, hoping I didn’t sound too ungrateful, told him I wasn’t too big on breakfast. While he poured me some coffee, I made a big to-do of thanking him for his efforts before stuttering through an explanation of my desire to make New Hope’s eleven o’clock morning service.
Looking disappointed, he handed me the coffee, then shuffled over to the bed, sat down, and said, “I wasn’t trying to keep you. This was just my way of, you know, trying to be hospitable.”
Oh yeah, that’s when the guilt grabbed hold of my ankles, and instead of racing from the room, I stayed planted long enough to sugar and cream the cup of brew Carl had poured me, before dragging my weighted feet across the carpet and settling down next to him. I told him he really shouldn’t have gone through all the trouble and asked if he went to similar lengths for every woman who happened to spend the night.
He looked at me funny for a second, then in a quiet voice said, “You’re the first I’ve ever asked to stay overnight.”
Girl, I wasn’t about to touch that. The implications were much too profound. So I just left it out there hanging while I blew on my coffee, nibbled on a muffin, and proceeded to bury my head deep within the folds of the Sunday paper.
I knew at a glance the window of opportunity Faye had so begrudgingly granted me was a small one with a worn sash and a faulty jamb. Even with my talent for laying on the butter thick, and in all the right places, I understood at any given moment the whole thing could come crashing down on me like a double-edged guillotine. But I figured
what the hell, it was worth the pain if only to get another glimpse of ol’ girl’s ever-elusive “soft and gentle side.”
So while she sat there pretending to be engaged by the news of the day, I went ahead and stuck my neck out. I nudged her and said, “You sure everything was all right last night?”
She rustled the paper before clearing her throat and saying, “That’s the second time you’ve asked. Might you be just a tad insecure about your abilities, or lack thereof?”
There’d been a twinge of amusement in her voice, but I told her in all seriousness, “If you ever meet a man who tells you he’s not—he’s a liar.”
She cut her eyes at me and said, “Like I told you last night, Carl, everything was fine.”
I let her take a couple swigs of the coffee before I eased up on her with a “Well, don’t you want to know how it was for me?”
The entire right side of her face drew up like a fist and a big ol’ vein in her neck popped out and started pulsating. Still, rather than confront me head-on, she kept her gaze fixed in front of her as she issued me a right frigid “No, not if you’re getting ready to tell me you didn’t get yours.”