Authors: Curtis Bennett
Later in their relationship, she discovered that Silky was having a secret and torrid affair with a woman known around town as Miss Renee
'Hot Stuff'
Vasquez, a local hospital receptionist, who thought she was all that, and more. And for the most part, she was. At twenty-three years of age, the mother of one was a former Miss Puerto Rico beauty contest winner, and current part time swimsuit and lingerie model.
A divorcee, Renee fit the role of boy toy quite well. She had those dark seductive Latin eyes, a warm tropical smile, and a voluptuous body to die for. She was also cunning and manipulative. She was known to keep at least three sugar daddies, at any given time, on her manipulative lease, and quite satisfied too. The woman never lacked for material possessions. Word around town…Silky was her favorite sugar daddy…her main man. Not only did he keep her well dressed in the best clothes money could buy, he kept her, ankles to ears, in expensive jewelry, and her purse lined with crisp Ben Franklin’s. For Yvette, it was becoming a profound and recurring event in her life, falling for men who were incurable womanizers and users.
Understandably, she had grown weary of men who were not as in love, or as committed, or as trustworthy, as she was in a relationship. Tired of the changes Black men constantly took her through, she considered crossing over, and for a short while, dated a white musician.
He was an alto sax player named Sylvester Maxwell Rogers, the III. He was a man who loved his music… both contemporary and traditional jazz. And he was crazy about Yvette. The two met at a local nightclub, a nightclub he was performing at one autumn night with his five-piece band and the two hit it off from the word go. On a weekly basis, they enjoyed the cultural scene, which included concerts, poetry readings, museums and local art shows. They also did the romantic scene
:
quiet walks along the wide half-crescent shaped bay under starry skies, candlelight dinners, and riding horse drawn carriages under moonlit skies. And, of course, they hit the party scene, hopping from one club to another. The two had lots of excitement and fun. They even talked about the future, their future.
When they found time to make love they made lots of it.
Max was a caring and attentive lover, she remembered. He made her respond emotionally and sexually in ways her Black lovers could only imagine. No man before or since ever made her shudder on the heated battlefield of lustful and unadulterated sexual indulgence as he had. No man had ever made her cry out in pure ecstasy as he had. Not once! This man did and repeatedly. Though well hung, what she liked best about him was that he could talk her into having an orgasm. Sweet talk. Dirty talk. Domineering talk. He was well versed in all.
“What’s my goddamned name?” he’d ask her, as he’d sink himself deeper and deeper inside her burning orifice. Once she said his name, if she could, he’d say, “Now baby, tell me how sweet is my game?” Then she’d reply, as though it was scripted, “Sweeter than any black cherry you could ever hope to find and taste.” Then he’d say, “Damn right! Now tell me the rules of my game?” Again, she would reply, “Lick it, stick it, then deep dick it.”
Not missing a beat, he’d add, “Damn right. That’s how I handle my business.”
Usually this response would come about as she reached her climax or he reached his. The man lived for the moment he could pin her between his mattress and himself and his oversized bedroom ego. And over and over, she’d find herself lost in his world of passionate and domineering lovemaking. “Yeah, baby. Now, tell me again. What’s my goddamned name?” he’d say to her in an authoritative tone. And again, she’d attempt to utter his name, but was usually too far-gone to complete it.
Then one day Sweet Daddy
Max
, as he preferred to be called, arrived at her apartment to tell her he was going on tour to Japan, the Philippines, and Australia. Both dreaded the upcoming separation. In the end, they were happy to have left the other with enough fond memories to last a lifetime. It was a good thing, too, since neither would ever lay eyes on the other again.
With better things to do than to sit around feeling depressed over old relationships, Yvette gazed down at her watch and realized she needed to ready herself for Antwan’s arrival. She would continue her introspective analysis of her men folk some other time.
After a refreshing glass of spring water, she returned to her bedroom and retrieved her evening attire. She found the dress easy enough, at the front of her closet. Lifting it gently off the hanger she draped it against her front and walked around like a French model, with a slight provocative swing of the hips. Then she thought,
Perhaps I’ll play screen legend Dorothy Dandridge's Carmen Jones tonight – sexy, bold and quite sassy
.
Slipping into the short dress she zipped it up with difficulty. Damn, how age seemed to bring added weight, she mused. Just the same, she made a mental note to order another box of weight lost formula. There was no way she was going out in this tight fitting dress. Not tonight. Besides, she did not want Antwan hanging around any longer than he had to after their date. There was just something about attractive women in tight fitting clothing and men’s arousal level.
With less than an hour to get ready, Yvette returned the outfit to her cedar closet and pondered her next choice. She eyed it quickly, decided this was the one, and put it on.
Standing before the full-length mirror, which hung on her bathroom door, she inspected her eveningwear from head to toe. Wearing a newly purchased silver lace slip dress, without the benefit of a slip, which, for as long as she could remember, she had never acquired a penchant for wearing, she adored herself, especially her legs. Yvette was a woman in tune with her sensuality. She knew she had been endowed with a shapely pair of legs and thought there was no shame in flaunting them, even teasingly. She felt that if rock icon Tina Turner, who was in her fifties, could sport her curvaceous legs uninhibitedly in public, so could she while in her thirties.
Earlier that day, she had styled her long brown, slightly auburn frosted hair, in a French bun. But after a second and third appraisal, she decided that the hairstyle just did not go with the dress, so it was back to square one, for the third time. It was not easy being a woman, she mused. Few men ever appreciate what a woman goes through to look her best for them and herself. What it takes them two hours to put on, most men duly admire and compliment to no end, though given the opportunity would proceed to rip off in less than six seconds. So, what do men know? What do they care? Anyway, there she stood, once again in front of her closet, wearing nothing more than black designer stockings and a black bra and thinking that she’d have to start from scratch.
Shuffling through other recently acquired purchases, she finally settled on teaming a powder keg blue satin embroidered bustier with a pair of narrow velvet Capri pants that produced an independently strong-yet-feminine statement. The shoes she selected were light blue open toe pumps with bow. Crystalline teardrop earrings hung elegantly from her perfectly sculptured ears. She looked as stunning as any European princess with crown jewels.
Dressed and ready for her
Mr. Wonderful
to show, Yvette lightly perfumed herself. She had begun to privately refer to Antwan as
Mr. Wonderful
because their outings together never rose above this level of enjoyment. Not that she wasn’t appreciative of him, or didn’t enjoy his company. She just wanted to have more than just a wonderful time once in a while. She desired something along the lines of spectacular!
Mr. Wonderful
arrived promptly, as he always did, to dutifully escort her to dinner. It was another typical outing for the two. Dinner at the Harbor Inn, which served a deliciously broiled seafood platter, a quiet stroll along the bay, and a quiet game of putt-putt. And for the umpteenth time he would tell her of his plans to open a series of tailor shops in the area, with a government backed small business loan. It was something he had wanted to do for the longest time.
“I’m telling you, Yvette, my business is going to be the bomb!” he exclaimed, trying to pass his enthusiasm onto her.
“That’s wonderful, Antwan,” she replied, her voice reflecting a mild interest. “But mine is going to be the bomb!”
Later, the two returned to the well-lit entrance of her condo where she gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and thanked him for another
wonderful
time. By ten thirty that evening she was back in the comforting surroundings of her bedroom, and her loose fitting robe, preparing for another day on the job. It was fitting that before closing her eyes her last thoughts were of Antwan and whether or not he was, in a quiet calculating way, trying to become her elusive
Mr. Right
. There were some very noticeable things about his mannerism lately that let her know that he was looking at her from a different perspective. This excited her in a way though the notion of getting seriously involved at this point in her life frightened her to no end. If only she could be certain about Antwan. If only she could be as sure
…
C
hapter 7
I
n light of her normal accounting chores at the
Café
, today provided Yvette a rare opportunity to fill in for the head chef, Renardo Rossetti, for about four hours, while he dutifully reported for jury duty selection. It was Renardo's hope that he could convince the judge he was needed more at
Café Le Soir
than serving on the judge's jury. For whatever concerns Renardo had to confront at the courthouse, she was having the time of her life fussing over recipes for the noon menu, checking pasta, sauces, desserts and bakery goods, and interacting with the hired help in the kitchen. What little time was left after that she bustled around the kitchen, adjusting the flame underneath pots and stirring and tasting the products. Her gallant and privileged role as chef
in absentia
ended hours later upon the jubilant and triumphant return of Renardo, who had managed to get himself dismissed from the jury selection process. There wasn’t a trial judge around who could keep him from his restaurant, he would later brag.
Over the weekend, Yvette and Juanita met for lunch. It was a sunny, breezy and mild coastal day, a good day to reflect and have lunch with a dear friend. Best of friends, the two had met years earlier at an aerobics class. Two weeks later the two professionals, turned health fanatics, discovered that they shared a common interest in other areas, such as cookbooks, the fashion scene, and tall dark handsome men - though not necessarily in that order. After a long fun-filled weekend outing to sunny Ft Lauderdale, Florida, the two knew that they were destined to be friends for life.
Like Yvette, Juanita was from the romantic school of hard knocks. Having recently turned thirty-six, Juanita had married at the young age of nineteen to her high school sweetheart. Though she was a slightly older version of a youthful Jennifer Lopez and the perfect wife and lover, neither was enough to save her once promising interracial marriage. The expectation and pressure was too much for her husband to bear, especially for an ex-girlfriend of his who made it a point to remind him constantly of his African heritage and loyalties. Against such odds, it was no surprise the marriage lasted only four years. The only good that seemed to come from their union were two sons, one who was doing a stint in the US Army now, and the other, an aspiring auto mechanic. They were boys any parent would be proud to have.
Free of child rearing, Juanita was into her sixth year of employment at the state bureau of licensing. She was independent, anything but conservative, and believed in paying her own way. She dated occasionally but had not been in a serious relationship since her marriage. It was her hope to fall in love again, but this time with Mr. Right. Just like her best friend wanted to do, aside from all that talk about keeping men at a safe distance.
While awaiting the arrival of the main course, on the French-styled outdoor patio of the restaurant known as the
Café
, the two women talked.
"I just don't understand why Nola lets Gus dominate her life the way he does," Juanita commented after taking a sip of punch, a light breeze blowing across her face and through her hair. “She was such a tough cookie when we were growing up. Hell, we used to scrap every other week. Usually over dolls. And later with men. Now my sister is such a softy, a pushover with them.”
"I don't understand it either," Yvette replied, shifting a lock of hair to the side of her face. "I was in a similar relationship once, but I'll be the first to tell you, it lasted just under two months and he was out the damn door. Since I know you want to know all of the details, Eugene was his name. We met one night at a club and had a blast. A week later, I invited him over for dinner. Girl, the man looked good, damn good, and the vibes between us felt promising. He was even into the habit of bringing me flowers. He was a walking dream. And was so hot and so charming."
"What happened then?"
"Simply put, this same charming man turned out to be a complete asshole. On our second outing he nearly raped my ass. Somehow I was able to convince him that I was on my cycle, and was experiencing a very bad case of cramps. To my discredit, I brushed the incident off as being a misunderstanding, you know, crossed signals, of sorts. Boy was I wrong! Days later I made the mistake of giving the little demon some and it apparently went straight to his damn head. You know how some men are. Child, you’d have thought I had given him title and deed to it."
"Believe me, I know the type."
"After I thought about it, I realized I probably should have kicked his ass to the curb the first time he acted a fool. But I was hoping that we could make things work out. At the time, I was lonely and frankly, I enjoyed his company. I was also hot and bothered and needed some and on a regular basis, at the time. You know how it can be?”