Again he asked, “You okay?”
“Let’s have another glass of wine, then maybe we can go to heaven.”
He raised a brow, pulled out a charge card, waved down the waitress.
Kissing started in the limo. Riding through the marina, the privacy glass up, my shoes off, champagne in the back.
I said, “You don’t just want my stuff, do you?”
“I want you, Dee Dee.”
“If that’s the case, don’t pump me up. I already want to share myself with you. And it amazes me whenever I think about us going there again.”
He opened the champagne, dipped my toes in the glass. The chilled brew excited my warm skin. He sucked all the liquid off, had me in a corner, muscles twitching. He touched my hair, rubbed my back, kissed my neck.
“Claudio, there were times I thought about you, and it felt like a part of me was missing. Hard to explain what I’m feeling now.”
“Don’t try. I just want to know if everything can be okay between us.”
“I want to know that too.”
We talked the whole time, all of our words barely above a whisper, about what, I don’t remember. From the look on Claudio’s face, all the smiles and laughs, it must’ve been a pretty interesting conversation.
He asked, “You want me to stop and get some bubble bath stuff?”
“Not this time.”
“Honey?”
“Ain’t I sweet enough for you?”
“Let me see.”
He raised my dress, did it slowly, waiting to see if I was going to stop him. His tongue snaked from my toes up into my subway; my temples shook. We had stopped at a red light, and three people were right outside the tinted windows. He wiggled that soft flesh over the edges of my goodness. As he went inside, my eyes were on the strangers, watching them laugh and talk. That tongue found my spot, my back curved, moan-gasmed so fast I know the driver heard my long and winding love cry.
I put my hand deep in Claudio’s pants, stirred up his protein.
By the time we made it to the hotel, it was too late to turn back.
Claudio stripped me naked, used lotion to massage my legs, my feet, licked all of my toes over and over, my eyes on the stars, staring at the heaven hovering over Stocker and Degnan.
It was a cool night. I pulled the sheets back, nice and slow, checked to make sure they were clean. He took off his shirt. I slid out of my bra. Unzip. Unsnap. My heart was beating strong. I smelled him. I know he could smell me, the envy of every rose in town.
Then we were in the rented bed, covers pulled back, bare skin under moonlight.
Kissing my neck. My breast. Standing tall for me. My legs easing open. Thick fingers roaming in my condensation. Kissing my nipples. Biting my nipples. Licking me from my navel down. What I thought would never happen again was actually happening. His body on mine. In mine.
“Claudio,” my words were slurred a little, “slow down, baby.”
“Shhh, quiet . . . right there . . . yes . . . coming . . . yes . . .”
The first time was always fast. Hard, fast, and good enough to make my insides shiver, body convulsing. He grew. Not as long as Vince, a little wider. Became intense, but not as intense as Vince could get. Better in some ways. Everybody’s love was so different. Vince’s love was like jazz with slow-burning candles; Claudio’s loving was hip-hop all the way. Harsh breathing on my face. His pre-come wail in my ear. I turned my head. He was there, losing control, feeding me his liquid energy, beyond the orgasmic point of no return, groaning out a burst of pleasure loud enough to shatter my eardrums.
He caught his breath. “You feel how much I love you?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Did you?”
I kissed him. Wanted to cry. “Get the condom before it comes off.”
My head was on Claudio’s chest, his hands running through my braids. My mind was down at Stocker and Degnan. That part of my life was officially over. It was always a matter of when. Inviting Claudio inside of me was the ultimate when.
Twenty minutes after that, Claudio’s mouth was on my breast, hungry for some more of me. I leaned to the nightstand, grabbed a condom, handed it to him. This time would be longer, more for me than it was for him. If I could relax my mind and stay focused, I’d be able to have back-to-back multiple moan-gasms. He lay on his back, and I sat on his magical flute with my back to his face, my eyes closed, listening to the pornographic music he made, my breathing curt, heart pounding with the feeling of power. I leaned back as far as I could, one of my knees up, my hand holding me steady. A moan-gasm rippled through me like fierce electricity.
I leaned forward, watched him disappearing and reappearing.
“Oh, damn, Dee Dee, baby, oh baby, damn.”
After he came, he lay on top of me, his body getting heavy, breathing slowing. I rubbed his bald head. My eyes stayed on the ceiling. Hardly a breath came from my face. My thoughts on the other side of town.
“Claudio?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you’re not falling asleep on me.”
“Damn, I’m sorry. You wore me out. And this three-hour time change, ain’t used to that yet.”
He rolled over, pulled me close to his body. A body that was so relaxed. A second later I had to lean away from his asthmatic snores. I scooted to the other side of the bed and balled up in a fetal position, held myself, rocking and thinking. Wired like I’d had two cups of cappuccino. I lay back down, my left arm dangling off the bed, the white sheets draped over my lower back, covering part of my left leg and half of my cool butt, my foot bouncing.
I glanced at the digital clock. Thirty-five minutes. That was how long we’d been here. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened. But it had. I was resting in the middle of the evidence. And the condom had left a chafed feeling, the one thing I hated about using protection.
I peeped at the clock for the umpteenth time. Was anxious, kind of scared, very nervous. Heavy snoring was still behind me. He stirred a little when I moved. I eased to the other side of the bed, peeped and made sure he was knocked out, then gingerly picked up the phone. Dialed. No answer before the machine clicked on.
I hung up. Butterflies in my stomach went wild.
“Who you calling?”
I jumped, the inside of my head tingled. “Thought you were ’sleep.”
“Who you calling?”
“Stop acting jealous. I was checking my messages.”
“Why you gotta check your messages this time of night?”
“I was supposed to hook up with Gerri at a club called Duets after I did dinner with you. Never called to cancel.”
He patted the bed next to him. I moved to that spot.
I said, “Claudio, this changes everything in my life.”
He asked, “For the good?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“You really want me to come back home with you?”
“Yeah.”
The red light on the phone started blinking. Claudio had a message. The phone never rang and he had a message. Unless they called while I was on the line.
I got up. Claudio’s voice followed me: “You leaving?”
I smiled back at him. “Bathroom. You know how my bladder is.”
“You staying?”
“I don’t know. Have a lot of work to do in the morning.”
“We could have breakfast at sunrise.”
“Can’t. Need to be dressed for an open house.”
I went to potty. I thought Claudio would be pissed off when I came back into the room, but he had that look in his eyes.
He sat up. “Dee Dee?”
“Yeah?”
“If you can’t stay, do me a favor.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s do it again.”
“We’ve never done it three times in the same night.”
“See what you do to me?”
I said, “And?”
“I don’t want but two people in this bed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Unless you’re the Green Lantern, take that ring off your left hand.”
I did. It was hard to do, took a while to do, but I did.
This time felt different. I couldn’t relax, maybe because he kept changing positions so much. Behind me, beside me, at one point his leg flew by my face and he turned me into a pretzel. Thought he was trying to damage my insides, with all the pushing. He was going so fast, hitting me so hard, asking if the dick was good. It was getting crazy. A headboard-banging, hair-pulling workout session that had me trying to keep up with his pace. The condoms had me so chafed I wanted to scream. I used my inner muscles to squeeze, tried to make him come as soon as I could, started making all kinds of noises like his dick was the best I’d ever had.
And when he was done and had fallen into a deep sleep, I showered, then put on my clothes. I stood in the window for a while.
Sore. I was so damn sore.
I kissed Claudio on his forehead. Kissed him and grabbed my keys. Part of me wanted to stay in this room and wait to see what that good old sunrise would bring, but this other part of me told me I had to go.
26
Vince
Light was losing its battle with darkness when Rosa Lee left home and headed up Sixty-third Street. I was parked a few duplexes back. I cranked up the six-cylinder rental I was in, made a quick U-turn, then followed her Ford Explorer through the residential area. She turned right at La Cienega, went the opposite direction of the gym.
This had to be how Womack felt the night he did this for me. A hole was being drilled in his heart. I’d have to be witness to his torment.
This morning at the rental car company, I’d made a deal with Womack. He wanted this favor. And for his favor I had made my price known. An extreme price, one that made him almost call the whole thing off, but in the end, he wanted this so badly that he bowed down to my demand, never mentioned that he made no demands of me way back when.
Twenty minutes passed as I trailed Rosa Lee into Hollywood. Passed by acting studios and dance clubs on Highland, cruised by stores specializing in religious supplies and beeper activations. She ended up on Santa Monica Boulevard, driving toward the theater district. This street has more drama houses than 7-Eleven has Twinkies. A good place to creep and meet somebody.
Rosa Lee changed lanes without signaling, sped up, and made it through a red light at Las Palmas. I didn’t change lanes fast enough and I was left trapped at the red light, craning my neck. Her brake lights came on under the bright lights near a Honda dealership. Then she whipped a quick left and vanished into the residential area.
That light cost me a good minute.
I took off like a horse at Santa Anita racetrack, zoomed down to the Honda place, had to wait for traffic to thin so I could bust a left at Hudson. All the while I was staring that way, toward a stream of single-story houses. Rosa Lee could be anywhere. I didn’t see any fading taillights.
Paranoia set in. I wasn’t sure this was the side street where she had turned. She could’ve turned back at Seward. I was about to floor the accelerator and race to the end of the block, but then I spotted her coming out of the fenced pay-parking lot on the corner. Head down while she stuffed her wallet and keys in her black backpack-style purse.
A Ford Excursion was coming up the narrow street. Not enough room to get by. The SUV tooted its horn. Rosa Lee raised her head. We made eye contact.
Damn.
The SUV went by. I let my window down. My friend’s wife sent me an empty wave. I nodded, checked out what she had on: Capri pants, black mules, a denim shirt with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on the pocket. Her hair fresh, jutting out in that wavy Afro, bouncing with every step.
She held a yellow legal pad to her chest and said, “When you follow people, let a car or two get in between.”
I slapped the steering wheel. “Shit.”
She smiled. “Well, since you’re here, you’ll have to park in the lot and pay three-fifty because the streets look like they’re full, unless you want to drive around the block a few times and see if you can get lucky. I’m going to Lucy Florence.”
“Who’s Lucy Florence?”
“Lucy is not a who, knucklehead. It’s the coffee house on the corner that’s connected to the Hudson Theater.”
“What’s going on here tonight?”
“Poetry. Find a table and I’ll meet you.”
“What’s the rush?”
“My bladder’s killing me. Gotta go do number one real bad.”
She hurried across the street and vanished inside the opening between the theater and the coffee house.
The entire drive, I hadn’t been hiding. I’d stayed behind her in plain sight because I wanted her to see me. I just didn’t know what to do when she saw me.
It took me a minute to park and hurry through the side door. No sign of Rosa Lee.
The crowd was laid-back, almost everybody in up-to-date, oversize and baggy fashions. Incense mixed with the aroma of cakes and pies, did a ballet with the scent of caffeine. A saxophone player made his horn sing a tale of bewitchment. Congos added that ethnic twist. A dread-head sister was playing the hell out of a magical flute, making the soft music in the background sound funky.
A couple finished their cappuccino and left. I bumped around people and claimed their small round table, copped a squat next to a nice mellow crowd of brothers, sisters, and a couple of kissy-kissy white folks. Coffee-sipping Mexicans were in the house too.
Minutes went by. I ran my hand over my beard, then tapped my fingers on the table.
Rosa Lee came into the room, but she didn’t come from the direction of the bathroom. She appeared in the doorway that faced Santa Monica Boulevard. She waved, went right by me, bumped around the people at the circular counter, got in line. She came back with two cups of tea.
Rosa Lee asked me, “Chamomile or Darjeeling?”
“Chamomile.”
She set one cup in front of me, the other at her side of the table, then went back to the counter. She came back with two slices of cake.