Any Way the Wind Blows (7 page)

I walked off the elevator toward the double maple doors that announced XJI Sports Management in bold brass letters and rang the bell. A few minutes passed, and I began to knock on the door with balled fists. The day’s frustrations had finally taken over, and my body began to slump toward the floor. This shit was tough. I was sitting with my back pressed against the door, when I felt a force pushing toward
me. I quickly jumped up, and a few seconds later, I was standing eyeball to eyeball with a very handsome man. For a few seconds I couldn’t stop looking into his mesmerizing gray eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I came for the modeling call. I think I’m a little late,” I said.

“The modeling call?” he said with a quizzical look on his face.

“Yes, sir,” I said politely.

“Oh, that was over around four,” he said.

“Did you hire someone?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The ladies in the office were in charge.”

“Can I leave my book or maybe one of my comp cards, just in case there’s still a chance?”

“Sure, come into my office, and I’ll give you the name of the person to contact.”

I walked into a set of well-decorated offices. The wood paneling and leather furniture made the space feel masculine. Gold trophies and sports photos lined the walls. When the phone rang, the man said, “I need to get that,” as he dashed into an open office. A few minutes passed and I took a seat in an armless black leather chair, picked up a copy of
Sports Illustrated
and mechanically thumbed through the pages. I had closed the magazine and put it back on the rack when His Flawlessness walked back out of his office.

“I’m sorry. That took a little longer than I expected. Here’s our marketing director’s card. Give her a call and see what she can work out,” he said.

“Who shall I say gave me her number?” I asked.

“Tell her Mr. Henderson, Basil Henderson. I’m one of the partners.”

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”

“No problem. Sorry about the mix-up,” he said.

I was heading for the door when I turned to get one last look at Basil Henderson. I wanted to see if I could memorize his handsome face so I could remember it on one of my lonely winter nights. When I turned, he was standing so close to me I could feel his warm breath caress my face.

“Would you mind looking at my book to see if I even have a chance at this job? I understand you’re looking for someone with an athletic body,” I said.

“Yeah, we’re looking for an ex-football player,” he said.

“Then I’m your man. Why not take a look?” I asked as I passed him my book.

“You played ball?” He looked skeptical, but I figured I had nothing to lose.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Where?”

“Morris Brown.”

“What position?”

I knew only two football positions, so I quickly said, “Tight end.”

“That’s the position I played. Come on into my office, and I’ll take a look,” he said.

I followed Basil into a large room with an oval-shaped glass table, a softly glowing computer screen and a breathtaking view of a snow-covered Central Park. He sat in a black leather chair and began looking through my book. He began nodding to himself and then he said, never raising his eyes, “Nice abs.”

“Thank you,” I said. I wanted to tell him he could drop a quarter on my stomach and it would bounce twice before it found a home.

“Yeah, you got some nice shots here,” he said. If I wasn’t mistaken, he had looked through my entire book and then started again. I didn’t know many straight men who enjoyed my photos, especially the nude ones, as much as Mr. Henderson appeared to. As he pored over my book, I had a chance to study him. His skin was so golden brown, he looked like he had been scrubbed in sunshine. He was wearing a cobalt-blue business shirt, a lemon-yellow tie, with dark suit pants. When he looked up at me, my knees buckled, and his sexy smile revealed two perfect rows of white teeth. Fuck this job. What I really wanted was a gig with the handsome Mr. Henderson, but I had to be quick.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Bartholomew,” I said.

“Is that your last name?” he asked in a very seductive tone.

I prayed he was looking for something more than a last name, but I said, “Dunbar.”

“As in Paul Laurence Dunbar,” he joked.

“The same,” I said as his sensuously full lips mesmerized me.

“Ahh … I don’t want to keep you. Give Sherrie a call tomorrow,” he said.

“Sherrie? Who’s Sherrie?”

“The marketing director. Her name’s on the card,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Thanks again,” he said. I thought I detected some nervousness in his voice, like he might be fearful of my seductive powers. I decided there was only one way to find out.

“Mr. Henderson, in case I can’t get in touch with Sherrie, maybe I should let you tell her what she missed.”

I sat on the edge of the black chair, pulled off my Timberlands, and threw them like they were trick-me-fuck-me boots. I stood up and unbuttoned my skintight black jeans and pulled them to my ankles, then reached up and pulled off both my candy-red sweater and thermal nightshirt with one swoop. I was thrilled I wasn’t wearing any underwear. When I looked at Mr. Henderson with a confident smile, I could tell he was happy as well.

“So what do you think?” I asked as I turned slowly to give him a view of the back. When I turned around, he was leaning back in his chair licking his lips. I stepped out of my jeans, then walked over toward his desk with the speed of a character from
The Matrix
.

“You didn’t answer me, Mr. Henderson.”

“Call me Basil. Your body is sweet,” he said.

I took his very large hands and whispered, “Touch me.” His hands were both smooth and hard as I placed them on my stomach and then my ass.

“Stand up,” I said.

Basil stood up, surrendering himself as I unloosened his tie. I slowly began to undress him, like he was a long-lost lover. I undid his belt buckle and then allowed his suit pants to drop to his ankles. I slowly unbuttoned each button on his shirt like they were precious diamonds. I removed the shirt from his broad shoulders, then moved to my knees as I
slowly pulled down his body-hugging gray-and-black boxer briefs. His dick was swinging like a saloon door, and my manhood was hanging stiff and long. Basil’s body was amazing, every muscle, so perfectly proportioned. I was about to climb on top of him like he was a ladder, when he finally spoke again.

“Do you have protection?”

“No, but I’m clean. I get a checkup every six months.”

“Sorry, dude, but as much as I want to, I can’t swing without a coat.”

“Can I just taste it?” I pleaded like I was a little kid wanting to lick the icing from the cake bowl.

“How bad do you want it?” Basil asked.

“Bad … real bad,” I said.

Basil bent over and pulled up his underwear and pants, then reached for his shirt.

“I think you should put your clothes on. I mean, if you want it …
real … real
bad,” Basil said.

“What do you mean?”

“If you can get your clothes on as quick as you took them off, then maybe, just maybe you might get to taste something real good.”

I almost tripped over my own boots as I raced for my clothes while shouting, “You ain’t got to tell me but once.”

I
imagine it was probably a woman who said men in unexpected situations think with their third dangling leg. And as much as I hate to admit it, she was probably right. I mean, how else could I explain the man, with a banging body, now in my bathroom using one of my spare toothbrushes, pink no less, that I reserve for my female first-timers? Explain to me how I came closer than a condom on my jimmie to smashing this dude in my office without even thinking about how it would look if one of my partners or assistants or the cleaning crew came in unexpected. To make it even worse, I’m pretty sure this Bart is at the very least a white liar, since he told me he had played college football but later he didn’t know the difference between the wishbone and the option formation. I mean, you learn that shit as a kid in Pop Warner football.

I was in my kitchen sipping some coffee when Bart walked in with just his jeans on. I looked down, not wanting to look at his face or that fabulous fat ass of his. I had broken not only one of my mofo’s rules to live by, but a second
one when I allowed him to spend the night. Yeah, he was sexy as fuck (as dudes go) and knew how to please, but after I had gotten off twice, I was ready to say, “Would you like a glass of water before you leave?” When I looked out the window and saw a fast driving snow, I guess I felt sorry for old dude, knowing it would be days before a black man got a taxi on a night like that. But I can’t figure out what made me begin a conversation that make it sound like I was concerned about his life. I even quit doing that shit with females a long time ago. What got into me? I can’t drink anymore on work nights. I’m gonna have to leave those concoctions of cognac and Alizé called Thug Passions alone.

“So did I get the job?” Bart asked as he walked over toward my kitchen counter.

“Yeah, you got the job,” I responded, even though I didn’t know what he was talking about. I supposed he meant head jimmie sucker for the next three months or so.

“I enjoyed talking with you last night. I mean, great-looking and smart, too. I hit the jackpot,” Bart said.

“You think so?” I mumbled under my breath.

“When I woke up this morning and I was looking at you, I thought for a moment I knew you from somewhere,” Bart said.

“I used to do television. Maybe you saw me there.”

“Maybe. Besides, it’s not a good memory, so I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

“If I was a bad memory, you would have remembered,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“So when can I see you again? I mean, like a real date,” Bart quizzed.

“Bart, I should tell you something: I don’t date dudes. I might hit it with a hardhead every now and then, but I don’t date,” I said firmly.

“Cool, then when can we ‘hit it’ again?”

“Leave me your number and I’ll get back with you,” I said. Bart walked over toward my phone, where I kept a notepad and a pen, and wrote something down. He took a piece of paper and pen and handed it to me, asking, “Can I have your phone number?”

“I’ll give you a call. You see, my shit is on the down low. I’m dating a female pretty seriously,” I lied.

“I don’t date bisexual men,” Bart said.

“Then we’re on the same page,” I said.

“But sometimes I make exceptions when they look like you,” he said.

“Hey, let’s just take it slow and see if we gel. But you’ll have your chances,” I said as I walked toward the bedroom. I went to my closet and pulled out a dress shirt and began to put it on. I figured if old dude saw me getting ready for work he would finish dressing himself and hit the road.

Bart walked into the bedroom and watched me dress for a moment. Then he said softly, “I have my own place, and you can come see me anytime.” This was beginning to feel too deep for me, so I decided to lighten things up.

“Dude, Bart, I only give the fellows three coupons. You’ve really used up two, but I am willing to count last night as one.” I laughed.

“Coupons? I don’t understand.”

“Three times to ride the jimmie, and then I move on.”

“Is there any way I can earn some bonus coupons?” He grinned.

“What do you mean?”

“If I want to see you more than three times? I think you had a good time last night. That was just the beginning. It gets better,” Bart said.

“I don’t think so. Every time I break my own rules, trouble follows. So for now I think we better just say you got two coupons remaining. Besides, I mean, a good-looking brotha like yourself can have your pick of the dudes and bitches,” I said.

“Don’t you remember what I told you last night? I don’t date women,” Bart said.

“Never?”

“Never. So what about the job? If you think I’m so good-looking, why don’t you make sure I get the modeling job?” Bart said.

“I’ll talk with some people,” I said.

“Judging by the size of your office, it looks like you got the juice,” Bart said.

“I got the juice.” I started to make it clear that I wasn’t promising him the modeling gig. Damn, if I hired everybody I fucked, we’d be out of business.

“So I got the job,” Bart said confidently.

“If you say so. It’s a good thing to think positive.”

“Make sure you tell your marketing director Sherrie that. I could really use the work,” Bart said.

“I’ll do that. Hey, I got to get ready to rock and roll,” I said.

“I’ll get dressed, but before I leave, do you mind if I use your phone to check my messages? I might be missing some calls from someone who knows my sex and love get better day by day.” Bart laughed.

“Hey, I feel you. Knock yourself out.”

I
was glad to be home in New York, and Windsor had prepared my favorite dish: deviled eggs with a touch of caviar. As I walked into the kitchen, I noticed that she’d also fried some chicken and made cabbage laced with bacon strips, and chicken-flavored Rice-A-Roni. She’d even whipped up some skillet corn bread.

“Come on and have a seat, and let me fix you a plate,” Windsor said.

“Windsor, you’re not going to get me fat. I just bought a slammin’ black silk charmeuse dress, and I have to be able to fit into it tonight! I’m going to a benefit at Carnegie Hall that Wyclef Jean is giving for his foundation. I heard a lot of divas will be there—Mary J., Macy Gray and Destiny’s Child. So I got to look my best,” I said as I walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water.

“Hmm,” Windsor said as she drained the chicken oil into a can.

“So, Windsor, what are you going to do tonight?”

“Grade some papers and write in my journal,” Windsor
replied, and then noticed that I was looking at her closely and asked me, “What are you thinking?”

“I just can’t believe you’re getting married and having a baby,” I said in a soft whisper.

“All I know right now is that I’m having this baby,” Windsor said as she placed our food on the table. While we were eating, Windsor told me how Wardell was suddenly having cold feet since he found out she was pregnant and that their conversations were short and strained. He had even asked Windsor to consider an abortion, which she refused to do.