One Night (10 page)

I led him down narrow, urban side streets, shortcuts known to taxi drivers, cops, and criminals who specialized in carjacking, navigating us through a hundred and one gang zones. I am a fast driver, L.A.-style, and I rolled though stop signs and red lights, barely touching my brakes, and he kept up with my wicked pace. When I looked in my rearview, I saw his silhouette driving in the ultimate comfort, could tell he was yapping on his cell the entire ride. He had called the distraught wife. His hand was moving like he was arguing. Twenty-five miles later we arrived at Century Boulevard. He hung up his phone and took the lead from there. For the next two miles I followed his dented luxury ride, until we arrived at a five-star hotel near LAX. He went to the best hotel on the strip. I didn't hang out on that level. That was intimidating. Made me question what kind of sex he was expecting. I was curious about him, wanted to salve my loneliness for a few minutes, then resume my life. We valet parked. Before I got out of my car, I moved the ring I had worn when I was married to Natalie Rose's father to my left hand. Felt wrong doing that. Orange County waited for me. Again, I looked at him, at the debonair man in the suit of all suits, at his shoes. I wasn't in clothes on the level of his, but I wanted the hotel staff to regard me with respect. I grabbed my bag, hoping he wouldn't say anything about me carrying so much, but I wanted it to look like I was arriving as a guest, not as rented coochie. He carried my bag in his left hand. He brought nothing with him—a man with no luggage, with no baggage, just an eclectic woman with her pink-and-green oversize bag of a generic brand, and a bottle of red wine from South America. The condoms were anxious, dancing in his pocket.

The lobby of the magnificent edifice that catered to the vices of its clientele was marble and glass. It smelled like hopes and dreams and silent immigrants who worked for barely enough to get by, and was filled with simple creatures avoiding complex lives. Dozens of hip professionals were at the bar having a bodacious Christmas party. Music jammed, Billy Idol singing “Jingle Bell Rock.” Top-shelf alcohol flowed like a river. It was the kind of party that started after work and went on until last call. Drunken women in very sheer catch-a-cold-or-catch-a-man dresses were acting like they were on spring break in Cancún. Inebriated men in dark suits were having the time of their lives, making passes and grabbing asses and refilling glasses. I was nettled because my clothes weren't on their level and the high and lofty airs of those alcoholic assholes reminded me of all that had gone wrong in my world. Didn't matter. Soon executives would be stoned, revert to being frat boys, and the women would revert to being sorority girls, and the lot would be getting screwed inside out in executive suites. An emotional season was always the season of sex. Many affairs would happen tonight, a lot of first-time, onetime sex. Everybody wanted to let loose and feel good and make the commercialized season one worth remembering. A hip-hop group was staying at the hotel, too. That party of about thirty congregated near the bar, bottles of the latest trend in urban alcohol on their tables while they all spat out vulgarities, sullying their parents' culture, a culture that had survived the Middle Passage, and committing verbicide to the wicked beats inside their misguided heads. They glanced at me with the same regard the police officers had at Denny's. They opened their mouths and revealed teeth covered in ornate grills; a mélange of architectural styles decorated each mouth. They judged me by my company, and I judged them in the same fashion. They had brought their own pride of fair-skinned video girls and created a stripper parade featuring J. Lo, Beyoncé, Iggy Azalea, and Nicki Minaj clones. Female hustlers. The lowborn and the highly educated were docked at the same port, a mixture of classes, all feral. But a savage in a suit—or a savage in an expensive dress and heels—would never be seen as being feral because they had better grammar and were better tippers.

A drunken white frat boy was more crass than any sober hip-hop star I'd ever run across.

I gave all the disgusting men who stared one second too long a peace sign with the index finger down. I'd seen them all before. Men were with women and still lusted after the next hole to fill.

The man from Orange County and I walked like we were professional husband and eccentric wife, were treated like we were Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Wedding ring on the left hand, feeling odd, remembering those times, I stayed to the side, took in the lobby and the people while the man form Orange County booked the room. As the tipsy crowd sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” we took to the elevator. Once the doors closed, the noise ended. A dozen people were on the lift. Everyone paused to say happy holidays. Usually the custom was to not speak, to exhibit a lack of tact, to be inconsiderate and not hold the door open if someone else was running for the elevator. But this was the time of year when strangers actually spoke to one another. It was the only time of year that it was cool to say hello and not get the side eye. One amorous, giggling couple was going to their room. Only one of them wore a wedding ring. Coworkers. A fling. We rode the crowded elevator in silence. I'd just met Orange County and was inside a high-priced fornicave going to a romping shop, where many had done only God knows what before. My heart thump-thump-thumped. With each second, I was a second closer to adultery.

With each passing second I was a second closer to losing this feeling of emptiness and pain.

My ex had moved on. Married. Had a replacement child on the way. I still lived with Barbie dolls and woke every morning wishing I could go back in time and change one day. Or just not wake up at all.

Inebriated and frisky people entered and exited the elevator at the second, third, fourth, and fifth floors. When the doors closed and we were stuck in the crowd, the man from Orange County pulled me to the back of the elevator, with my butt to his groin, then turned me around to face him.

He asked, “You're still with me?”

“I'm here. Just taking it all in.”

“Strange. I could see your reflection in the door. Do you want to be here?”

“I want to be here.”

“My wife has that same empty, distant, regretful look when I'm with her.”

“I'm not your wife. And stop trying to read my body language.”

“Second thoughts?”

“Of course not. You? Second thoughts?”

“Shoulders slumped. Eyes on the ground. Heavy thoughts. What are you thinking?”

“Something the cops at Denny's said stuck in my mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing important. Let's not spoil this before we get to the room.”

“Was one of the officers someone you used to date?”

“Of course not.”

“Then do me a favor. Try to be here with me. For this hour, stay with me.”

“Okay. Sorry about that.”

“I miss you. Your mind left me, you left me alone, and I missed you.”

“I need you.”

“You're silly.”

“I'm serious. I need you.”

We held each other like we'd been lovers many times over, kissed like we were two sixteen-year-olds during a summer we would never forget. The elevator doors gently opened and some people stepped inside, some people exited. The doors closed again, and we stayed in the back corner of the elevator, eyes closed, kissing. We kissed like the art of the tongue dance was something we had invented and patented and wanted to keep to ourselves as long as we could. We stopped and saw that new people surrounded us.

I kept his mouth on mine and said, “Damn, I need that. I need those kisses all over me.”

“Love your lips and kisses and how you respond to me.”

“What else do you love?”

“The look in your eyes when you're turned on.”

“Jesus, I want to wrap my legs around you and see what you feel like inside me.”

“Under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I'm going to ask you some hard questions.”

“Oh boy. Okay.”

“What's your favorite color?”

“Pink.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“A complicated order from Starbucks, just to piss them off.”

I put my head against his chest and could hear his rapid heartbeat.

I asked, “What are you afraid of?”

“Besides you, nothing.”

“Thought you were going to ask me my favorite position or if I'm into S&M.”

“What is your favorite position?”

“As long as the wood is inside, no matter how you bend me, it's all good.”

“Like getting your hair pulled?”

“Won't be a problem.”

“See? Now you're here with me.”

“I'm here with you.”

Then the doors opened at the seventeenth floor. We stopped talking and kissing and he led me through the people who were left on the elevator with us. Kissing had made me dizzy, and they were all a blur.

Everyone told us good night and wished us a merry Christmas.

We told them the same.

We walked the carpeted hallway without talking. My palms were humid. I was aware of every step I made, of every breath I took. He had to flip the key card and turn it to figure out how it went in, and I hoped he wasn't that clumsy in bed, could imagine him flipping me over and over, looking confused, trying to figure how to put it in. I was here, I was at the door of the hotel room, but still couldn't imagine us having sex. Kissing, yes. Sex, no. He swiped the card three times. Nothing but a red light illuminated. His frustration returned. He had a short fuse. He swiped the card again. The red light taunted us. Maybe that was a negative sign. I told him to give me the key card. I swiped it once and the red light finally changed to green. That had to be a positive sign. The light was red for him, and green for me. He pushed the heavy wooden door and I walked in before him, stepped into the suite. My boots felt so heavy. I had to remind myself to breathe. I walked into darkness and silence. I walked into an abyss of quiet. I hadn't heard silence in forever. It was tranquil. I hadn't felt peace in more than a decade.

A warm room and no traffic sounds, no wail from sirens, no frustrated drivers blowing horns.

I felt like I had gone to another country, one that existed inside another dimension. I turned the lights on and my eyes ignored the art, the contemporary glass desk, and the white leather sofa. There was a thick white comforter on pure white sheets covering a beautiful king-size pillow-top, our romping shop. It was so much larger than my twin bed that it looked like a playground.

I wanted to get on that bed, jump up and down and do flips.

He opened the wine and found two glasses at the minibar, washed them out, then placed them on the dresser. He reached into his suit coat, took out the condoms, placed them next to the wine. He looked at me. I grinned. We were moments away from infidelity. While he opened the bottle, I went to the bed, pulled the covers back, and inspected the sheets. I went into the bathroom, gazed at shiny marble and silver and glass. Big shower. The dim light above made it look like paradise. Separate bathtub. I went back to the romping shop. He waited for me to finish, his tie loosened.

He had turned the television to the news. I wanted to see if there had been an update about the mother and the three kids who wouldn't experience this Christmas, but I told myself to stay focused.

He asked, “To your satisfaction?”

I nodded. “Checking to see if the attempted 7-Eleven robbery is on the news?”

He turned the television off. The room darkened when he turned the light off. Eroticism rose. We became silhouettes. I wasn't good at having sex without being attached. I wasn't Britney Spears in brown skin, dreadlocks, and tats.

We sipped a little wine, then put our glasses down. He held me. We kissed to keep the fire from going cold. I ended up on the bed, him behind me, pressing his entire body against my backside.

He was hard. That wood would go inside me, all the way to the root of that tree.

Then I was very nervous, breathing through my mouth. Not wanting to go on.

He put a trail of hot, wet kisses along my neck, sucked my ears again, playing in my dreadlocks, then gently rolled me over and eased his warm tongue into my mouth. It was sizzling. Energizing. I was wet. Susan was lubricated, as if she were sending me a signal that he was the right man for me. Susan wanted to bond, and she sent tingles up my spine, tingles I couldn't ignore. Heightened anxiety remained. I convinced myself that the doors of the church were ready to open. He was married. Tonight he desired me more than he did his wife. He desired me more than he did a successful, educated woman of a different class. In a flash, I wondered if he could be mine. Angelina Jolie stole Brad Pitt. Elizabeth Taylor took everyone's husband. Even Jerry Seinfeld stole his wife, took a woman who was on her honeymoon, made another man's wife his own. The morally challenged prospered, as did those who lacked a social understanding of ethical behavior. The world loved a bitch. The world praised bitches. Bitches were the new goddesses. In my heart, I wanted to be good, but my mind told me that the world loved a good girl gone bad. Maybe he was a good man, because no one was born bad. Bad was how the world turned us, how nature or bad nurturing made us. Or maybe he was a man who was doing bad because good men who play by the rules finish last. Maybe this unpaved road of deceit could lead to our happiness. That made me laugh. It was a small laugh, but I laughed. I would be out of here in less than two hours, all my silly thoughts in tow. An hour was all I had offered; an hour of sweet regret that would last a lifetime. Sex was all he wanted. Those were not his words; those were my feelings, my experience with men. All I thought about was love. Love was all I wanted. Yet part of me was here because the confines of love were what I didn't want. Love wasn't rewarding. It couldn't pay my rent. I had no control in my life. But here, in this bed, with him, I was a goddess. I controlled him. I would rule him until he came. Outside of my child, I'd never been loved before. I'd had sex, but I'd never been loved. I was never loved as a child, never experienced the love of both parents, had never been in a relationship where I was needed for more than my body. This yearning for love was so deep that I would trade a truth for a lie, knowing that this moment of sex with a man was just sex with a man, but the physical things were never as deep as the spiritual. We have so many needs. The soul needs what it needs. The body desires what it requires.