Sweeter Than Honey (11 page)

“I
f I get fired, your fuckin’ ass had best not be here when I get back!” were Lace’s last words before slamming the door, and all I said was, “I love you, baby,” which probably irritated her even more. But what Lace couldn’t see was those words came from my heart, not my mouth.

I’m a man. A black man. A grown man. But what does being grown, black, and male mean in America? Oh, say, can you see? I have no factual documented history on this dirt or a desire to patronize a society that ostracizes me based on the color of my skin.

My jaded mind-set and countless issues were embedded in the DNA passed to me from my ancestors who were castrated and hanged for fun during slavery at picnics—which were literary pick-a-nigga-and-hang-his-ass gatherings—where white folks ate, drank, and were merry while the fat white dude in a red suit with a white beard called Ol’ St. Nick, who fucked whomever he damn well pleased, including children, was someone I was taught to believe in because he brought me…toys?

Excuse me if I forget to laugh or hate the fact that my brother can pass for white while the devil robs my breath at night. I can’t move. Can’t yell. Although I’m alive I’m trapped in a hellhole, black hole, on hold.

My heart was so heavy, loving Lace helped balance my energy. But why couldn’t my black woman understand I needed her to uplift me? To help me. For her to see me as more than what the white man denounced me to be.

Sitting in the living room, I flipped through over six hundred cable channels on Lace’s flat screen and couldn’t find one show that wasn’t on a black station and had more than two black men with starring roles.

Yet a black man is expected to sing sweet land of liberty when the only thing he’s free to do is die or be killed by a trigger-happy cop who plants a gun on the black man, then tells the sergeant it was self-defense while he vacations on administrative leave awaiting his reprieve.

Yes, I’m angry. Yes, I’m hostile. Yes, I’m a product of my environment, but all anyone ever sees when they look at me is a burly black man, which usually accompanies their predetermination of my being a monkey with a tail out on bail.

The white man sees a threat. The black man, like my boy Valentino, sees a debt due unto him. The white woman sees a big banana-sized dick that tastes ten times better than the white chocolate she has at home. And the black woman sees a quick hitch or overnight fix to repair her single parenthood into a family unit, not caring whether or not we are united. That’s how I slipped up and married Tyra’s ass.

But Lace was right. I needed to get out of the house or else I was gonna drive myself crazy with all this time to do nothing but think about rhetoric that most folks cared less about.

“What’s wrong with me? Acting like a child.” If Lace had mentioned buying me a pussy pocket, I would’ve exploded in her face the minute she walked through the door.

Powering off the television, I thought of Lace buying expensive stuff to come all over, then spending ridiculous money to have me take it to the dry cleaner’s, how illogical and a waste of our money it all was. I could’ve used that change toward starting my business.

Lifting the leopard throw from the floor, I felt a hard object scraping my palm. Massaging the soft hairs, I discovered a piece of plastic attached.

“So this is what scratched Lace’s pussy. I knew it wasn’t me, I knew it. I can’t wait until she gets home so I can shove this in her face and prove her know-it-all behind wrong.”

Sounded all good but I knew I’d back down the minute Lace would raise her voice, then threaten to kick me out.

Rolling the vacuum cleaner back and forth, I did what I’d often do when Lace wasn’t around, talked to myself. “Forget that idiot Valentino. I’m no fool. Sure Lace and I had problems in our relationship, but what couple doesn’t? I’m a lucky man to have a woman who loves and financially supports me. A woman most men, married or single, would gladly screw if they could. Valentino wasn’t slick. He probably wanted my woman too. I love Lace, but the thought of her giving my pussy to another man…is deeper than any woman could comprehend. Ou wee! I will beat the crap out of the dude if I catch him, but I could never slap my bread and butter. Lace knew I’d take care of her if I could afford to.”

Wrapping the black cord around my fist, I yanked it from the socket.

“Where was she? She came in here last night acting like things were normal…was I hearing right? Did Valentino say two hundred
and
fifty g’s? Maybe I shouldn’t trip. Lace was a good woman…two hundred and fifty g’s? Friend or no friend, a pimp like Valentino didn’t give away money for free. Either he was bullshitin’ or I…fuck that, where was Lace last night? That woman made me go against my own principles.”

Tossing the cord to the floor, I abandoned the Kirby upright vacuum in the middle of the living room and marched into the bedroom. A black man separated from his biological mother at birth wanted to be, needed to be, but never felt completely loved by any woman. I had abandonment issues and suffered from separation anxiety. Didn’t Lace see how desperately I tried to give her all of me? What I couldn’t figure out was why she wouldn’t or couldn’t do the same. I bet it had something to do with that Don dude. Or the man she was giving my pussy to.

Shaking my head, I felt my shoulders tense as anger seeped into my protruding veins, stiffening my body. I had to change my thoughts before my brain pressed fast-forward. I was heated enough to ram my fist into the wall, rip out a baseboard, and crack it over Lace’s head.

“Okay. All right. Relax, man. I’m good,” I tried convincing myself, rubbing the back of my neck.

Why was it that whenever I found someone who cared about me, that was the woman I dated? Lace became my woman simply because she wanted me as her man. The same way Tyra had become my wife. I guess subconsciously as a black man I was accustomed to being hunted, conquered, and defeated, then placed on an auction block while my genitals, teeth, and strong muscular physique passed from the slave master to the black woman waiting for either to deem me valuable enough to take home.

When I was growing up, Valentino’s mom, Mama Ruby Lee James, was a second mother to me. Everything she’d taught Valentino, I’d learned simply to gain her acceptance. Whenever she said, “Valentino, why can’t you make straight As like Benito? Or get one of them scholarships like Benito? Or stay out of trouble like Benito?” I tried harder. The only thing I couldn’t do well was handle rejection, which came in subtle and overt forms.

My parents gladly gave me hand-me-downs while Grant got the best of everything. After we graduated from Valley High, Grant went to Oxford and I went to USC, which some called the University of Second Chances, but they had the number-one football team in the nation and that’s what I strived to become, number-one, until I retired. Now all of my fans are someone else’s fans and everyone has forgotten about me.

Maybe I’ve caught that depression syndrome I saw on that commercial every day where people didn’t want to do anything. Since I’d met Lace, that person was me. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my drive to be the best. Guess I was tired of always trying to please my fans, my parents, now my woman cleaning up her place like I’m the housewife. If Valentino honestly gave me the money he’d promised, I’d kick Lace down a grand or two, then leave, move to a small town, and do what I’d never done before. Find the real Benito Bannister trapped under this not-so-tough layer of thick skin.

I’d never told anyone this before but how could a masculine quarterback, a man amongst men, say “It’s important to me that people like me” without sounding soft? Without seeming insecure? To this day I disliked swearing, not because I thought it was wrong, but because Mama James didn’t allow cussing in her presence. Some things made me wanna say, “Fuck! Nigga! Bitch, kiss my black ass!” All that shit, but I’d seen how misdirected hostility made my angry black former teammates relentlessly beat their women, then end up in some anger management class designed by a white man.

Speed-dialing Lace’s cell number, I ripped the lid off her white wicker hamper, tossed it to the floor, then removed the red lace thong she had on last night. Closely inspecting the crotch, I didn’t see any come stains, soiled streaks, crust, or anything out of the norm, so I sniffed them. A light sweet scent hit my nose. Smelled fresh and clean as always. Lace was a classy woman. She wouldn’t cheat on me. Not the way I held it down in the bedroom and licked her pussy dry.

Within five seconds I hung up and redialed her number. I’d repair the hamper later. “I’m giving her one more chance.”

Hmm, Valentino must’ve mistaken my baby for one of his prostitutes. Back in my not so long ago days, I’d fuck a fine prostitute all night long but I’d never fall in love with a whore who screwed men for a living. Marrying a prostitute was one step below dating a stripper because I’d never be caught dead at the altar waiting for either one of them to walk down the aisle, then slide their tongue down my throat. Mama James wouldn’t approve of me kissing a woman who sucked dicks like honey-filled Blow Pops.

My lips shrank to the shape of a quarter. “Fuck, I mean, darn.” This time my call went straight to voice mail. Two hundred and fifty g’s, huh? With the thought of that much money in my pockets, I relaxed a little. Lace could retire, stay home where I could keep an eye on her, and she could have my son, sons, who’d keep her busy twenty-four-seven while I hit the streets. “I wonder how my daughter is doing.” My ex-wife, Tyra, could go to hell! Lace sent her two hundred dollars a week and she still complained that that wasn’t enough.

“It’s called child…support! Not pay for everything.”

Whateva. A black man was damned, no matter what. If he didn’t pay child support he went to jail. If a black man paid child support, his baby’s mama raised hell, whining, “This ain’t enough. What am I supposed to do with this, wipe my ass?”

Nothing a black man did for a black woman was ever enough. Best if the brotha left her, moved on, and got himself a white woman who was easily satisfied and eager to please him in and out of bed.

Lace was right. I’d never admit it but a white woman couldn’t make me face my fears. I was a bit insecure ’cause my baby earned more than me, but I didn’t give a fuck how much she made, I was the man of this house and if she fucked another man I’ma have to lay hands on her and prove to her once and for all who the man is.

Clamping my hands over my temples, I fell to my knees and yelled, “Fuck!” desperately needing to know who she gave my pussy to!

As I was imagining what Valentino would say if he saw me now, his voice resounded in my ear, “Nigga, get your punk ass up!”

Hopping toward the door on one foot, I shuffled on my black Jordan tennis shoes, tied the strings in my black sweatpants into a knot, grabbed the keys to my Jaguar off Lace’s nightstand of pure ivory with eighteen-karat gold handles, then hurried into the garage.

Scared shitless wondering what the hell my boy Valentino was up to, I sped out of the driveway from zero to forty. The back end of my car fishtailed, skidding into the circular curb across the cul-de-sac. Gray clouds engulfed the rear window as the car slammed against the opposite curb. Turning the steering wheel in both directions, I regained control only to plunge the accelerator till I hit ninety miles an hour along Ann Road, racing through every red light. I damn near crashed into Valentino’s twenty-inch-high black wrought-iron gate until the sensor lights blinded me.

“Slow down, man. Chill out,” I told myself. “You don’t know what your boy is up to.”

I parked in the driveway, then sat staring at my dick. Shit always happens to me when I least expect it. I didn’t mean to rape that girl. One minute she wanted to have sex; then she said stop. The next minute she was sucking my dick; then she stopped and just sat there like a zombie. The next thing I knew she was riding my dick like a jockey. She came. I came. Her pussy was wet. My dick was limp and happy as hell. She got up like nothing had happened, so I thought everything was copacetic until she asked for five hundred dollars. I laughed in her face so long she got dressed, then yanked the knob so hard she damn near took the hotel door with her. Next thing I knew some dude dressed in an LVPD uniform banged on room 5021 so furiously I was afraid to open up. When I did all I heard was, “Benito Bannister, you’re under arrest.”

Maybe I was wrong about white women making black men feel secure.

“Wait up, Officer,” I protested, “I’m innocent.”

With everything that happened that night with that girl, I just knew something would appear in the
Las Vegas Sun
or the national news like
MVP BENITO BANNISTER ARRESTED FOR RAPE
. Not a word was printed or spoken. But those handcuffs damn near cut off my circulation and my wrists. The man who knew the right people on the force and got me out of that hideous situation was Valentino. My boy never hesitated. He had my back to the point that I didn’t have to explain anything to anybody, not even my stepmother. Grateful, I was in and out of central lockup before they did a body or a booty check, ’cause I’d pushed a lump of shit into my pants at the thought of a man’s finger going up my ass.

I owed Valentino big time.

I abandoned Lace’s black-on-black Jaguar in the driveway—oh yeah, if some illegal shit went down, this was not my ride. I stood outside for fifteen minutes contemplating if I should follow through with Valentino’s demand. I had my share of wrongdoings, but nothing that would land me back behind bars. Rape was one thing but murder? That was against every law.

Walking up to the front door, I glided my finger toward the doorbell. Shockingly, Valentino opened the door before I pressed the button.

“Man, get your ass in here quick,” Valentino said, locking the door behind me. Looking over his shoulder, he whispered, “Follow me.”

Glancing around, I didn’t see anything unusual. The joint was so quiet I heard myself breathing. Everything inside the mansion looked cool until—

“You gotta get this shit cleaned up in an hour before your bitch gets back to her spot and figures out something’s wrong. We have to make sure every alibi is proper. I need you and that dead ho out of here before midnight.”