The Cheating Curve (3 page)

Lang looked at Dante like he’d lost his damn mind. But before she could snatch her arm away and curse him the fuck out, she’d melted. Her fleeting anger was no match for that intense stare of his. She had a weakness for dark-skinned men, but unblemished ebony skin with long eyelashes that’d give M.A.C falsies a run for their money, and unruly naturally curly hair, were the equivalent of kryptonite.

Shit,
Lang thought.

“Look, ma, I was wrong for what I said back there,” he said, still holding on to her arm. “But I saw a spark in your eyes, and for real, I still see it. I’m not gonna front. I even feel it right now.”

“I—I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lang stuttered.

He smiled. He knew he had her. Mrs. Composed-in-Designer-Clothes-from-her-Head-to her-Toes was indeed feeling him back. “Look, it’s not really my style to approach women in coffee shops,” he said, finally releasing her arm. “I don’t usually approach women, period. I’ve never had to. And if I had seen that ring before I’d looked into your eyes and seen what I saw—no offense, ma, but I never woulda stepped to you either. But it’s too late for all that now.”

“Too late? What is it you think you saw?” Lang asked curiously.

“Oh, I
know
what I saw,” Dante responded firmly.

Just then Lang’s cell phone had rung. It was her assistant, Merrick. It was production week at
Urban Celebrity,
and they needed her to sign off on some layouts so the files could be sent to the printer that evening.

“I’m right downstairs. I’ll be right up,” she’d said and hung up her phone.

“Lemme see that,” Dante said, taking her Motorola right out of her hands. Dante punched in his number and dialed himself from her phone. When he saw her number show up on his caller ID, he asked for her name and then stored it in his phone.

“Lang,” he repeated. “I like that. Well, Lang, I know you gotta get back to work. So I’ll give you a call later this evening.” He’d turned to walk back in the direction of Starbucks.

“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

“Yeah, but you have my number, and I got yours.”

L
angston and Aminah leisurely nursed steamy cups of mediocre coffee not too long after finishing off their second helpings from the brunch bar. The striking duo looked like an
Essence
summer fashion spread shot on a sidewalk café. Aminah’s fuchsia jersey knit halter top and matching skirt couldn’t compete with her curves. She had the kind of measurements that commanded a bodacious “Daaamn!” from men and women alike. Though her weight fluctuated with the seasons and the state of her marriage, she was genetically blessed; her waist was usually proportioned twelve inches smaller than her ample D-cup bust and shapely hips, allowing her to maintain an hourglass figure whether she wore a size six or a size ten. This summer she was a healthy 38-26-38. While Fame modestly took credit for making her ass a “hi-C,” it was her hundred-squats-per-day regimen that deserved the props for her lifted C-shape booty.

Aminah routinely wore her shiny black hair, slicked back with Aveda’s sweet-smelling hair gloss, in a long, sleek ponytail, à la Sade. She missed wearing her thick, long hair natural, but Fame insisted she keep it bone straight. “It’s a good look,” he’d say. “It complements my image. I don’t want anyone mistaking you for some chew-stick, incense-burning bag lady. You’re the wife of a successful, self-made millionaire, not the wife of some wannabe poet in the struggle. Look like it.”

Langston stood modelesque at five-ten with perky 36Cs, a small waist, nice ass, and long legs that rivaled Naomi Campbell’s. Combine all those assets with high cheekbones, pouty lips, and a copper reddish brown complexion, and it was no wonder that most people assumed she actually was some kind of a model. Lang would have considered the modeling profession, but she had absolutely no desire to deal with all the potential rejection and negative energy. She preferred to be complimented, not criticized. And beauty by American standards, though admittedly broader than, say, in her mother’s day, was still too reflective of the European aesthetic for Lang’s politics.

Lang thought the fashion and beauty industries were still too subjective and, yes, still racist. She’d counted on one hand the number of black models on the catwalk of last season’s fashion shows. And magazine covers? Damn near nonexistent if you weren’t an A-list celebrity. And while she currently rocked an auburn curly weave by choice and convenience, she had no intention of ever chemically altering the natural texture of her healthy, coarse dark brown hair that fell well past her shoulder blades when blown straight.

“So what’s this young boy’s name?” Aminah asked more out of annoyance than curiosity as she stirred raw sugar into her coffee.

“Dante,” Lang said, relieved to finally share it with her best friend.

“And you haven’t had sex with him yet?”

“Not exactly.”

Aminah looked at Lang quizzically.

“Hold up,” Lang said, putting up her hands in protest. “I’m not saying we haven’t done things, but we haven’t had actual intercourse yet.”

“Done things like what? You mean oral sex?”

“Well, yeah, we’ve given each other head,” Lang admitted. “But it’s not just physical with him, Aminah. It’s more mental. He’s gotten inside my mind sexually. He’s invaded a space Sean has no idea even exists.” Lang looked visibly starry-eyed as she spoke of her lover. She was definitely smitten, and there was no hiding that.

“Let me get this straight. After three months of seeing pretty boy, you’re having only mind sex and head with him?” Aminah asked skeptically.

“No, that’s not just it, Minah. Damn.”

“Well, do you want to have physical sex with him?” Aminah asked, genuinely confused.

“Of course, of course, what kind of question is that? You’re not getting this, are you?”

“Well, not exactly, Lang, and forgive me, but I’m not sure I can.”

Lang sighed. “Okay, remember back in high school when we snuck in to see
9 ½ Weeks,
and you thought it was twisted, while I was completely enthralled?”

“Um, yeah, you said you wanted to be turned out like Kim Basinger. How could I ever forget that?”

“Well, I’m still waiting to be turned out, Minah.”

“You’ve got issues, Lang,” Aminah said, raising her left eyebrow and taking a sip of her coffee.

Lang rolled her eyes. “What about when we rented that movie
Secretary
two years ago?”

“That weird movie with that Olive Oyl–looking actress who let her boss spank her, put a saddle on her back, and stick a carrot in her mouth?”

“Yes, Aminah, that one,” Lang replied, a bit annoyed that she’d reduced one of her favorite films to a horse-and-carriage flick.

“I never got that movie,” Aminah said, dismissively flicking her right hand.

“I know, but I did. I actually kinda envied Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character,” Lang said, smiling mischievously.

“Who?”

“‘Olive Oyl.’”

“Oh.” Aminah laughed.

“Anyway, her character finally met someone who intuitively tapped into her secret desires without her having to say a word or even explain herself,” Lang said enviously. “Desires that most people viewed as strange and abnormal—and she wasn’t letting
that
man get away from her. She bagged him by whatever means necessary.”

“That’s ’cause they are strange, Lang,” Aminah said, throwing up her hands. “You know, you look so normal, so together. It’s mind-boggling.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “What? You want Sean to make you crawl on all fours while he throws money at you and orders you to pick it up like some kind of hooker?”

“I can’t front—that’d be kinda sexy,” Lang said, smiling.

“You’re one demented sister.”

“See, that’s the thing. Why can’t I be both a together sister and sexually um, um…” Lang snapped her fingers, searching for just the right word, “…unbound?”

“You absolutely can, but if you want me to attend your pity party because your husband would rather, oh, I don’t know, massage your feet after a long day at work than beat your ass with a belt—sorry, but I won’t be RSVPing to that affair,” Aminah said, shaking her head in disbelief.

Lang finished off her disappointing cup of coffee, slouched down in her seat, and pouted.

“I’m sorry, Lang. I’m trying to follow you, I really am. But after all I’ve been through with Fame, I just don’t get it, and I’m not sure I really want to,” Aminah admitted.

“Well, then, let’s not do this,” Lang said, folding her arms and casually glancing over at the boys playing basketball across the street.

Aminah also looked over at the basketball game and, once again, she found herself hating the actions of someone she loved. It was all so conflicting for her. She gestured for the waitress to bring the check. “Lang, I’m really trying to be your friend here, but you know where I’m coming from,” she said, reaching out for Lang’s hands and making her unfold her arms.

“I know, Minah,” Lang said. “I mean, why do you think I’ve kept him from you for so long? If Dante hadn’t shown up at Pretty Inside, we wouldn’t even be talking about this right now. I’m not gonna lie. I know it’s selfish. I do. But for some reason it doesn’t feel so wrong. It feels perfect for right now.”

“Lang, are you catching feelings for this kid?” Aminah asked. “I thought it was just physical—I mean, mental—I mean, sexual.” Aminah got flustered.

“It’s all those things,” Lang admitted. “But, no, there are no feelings involved. I mean, I can’t say there’s an emotional attachment.”

Aminah nodded her head, trying to make sense of what her best friend was saying. She signed the receipt and suggested they walk and talk. Lang grabbed Aminah’s hand as they exited the restaurant and swung it like she had when they were little girls in elementary school.

“Aminah, just you trying to understand what it is I’m doing here means the world to me,” Lang admitted. “If I were you, I don’t think I could stomach listening to a girlfriend justify having an affair. It’s all fun and games for me, but you’ve been on the painful side of it. This is the first time I’ve ever felt so uncomfortable discussing something with you.”

As Langston spoke, tears welled up in Aminah’s eyes. “The other side does hurt, Lang,” Aminah said, fighting back the tears.

“I know, baby,” Lang said, stopping in front of Aminah’s car and hugging her best friend tightly. “Let’s stop, huh? I mean, really, what’s the point in me sharing this with you?”

“You’re my best friend. That’s the point,” Aminah said, pulling from her embrace. “And it’s not a game, Lang. It’s lives, real lives you’re messing with here. And I can’t just silently watch you ruin your marriage. It’s not worth it, Lang. I promise you it’s not worth it.”

“But I can’t walk away from this, Minah,” Lang said, stepping back from Aminah and shaking her head. “Not now anyway. Not yet.” Lang gently wiped Aminah’s face with her hands and kissed her on the forehead.

“You know, at first I thought I wanted to know everything about this affair,” Aminah admitted. “No, no, I’m lying. At first I thought I was gonna be sick when you finally confessed. But then I thought, as crazy as it sounds, I thought maybe, just maybe hearing you explain why you’d cheat on Sean would help me understand Fame’s rationale for cheating on me. But now…” Aminah shook her head, pacing next to her car. “Now I know I was right. It
is
as crazy as it sounds. Listening to you and this bullshit about not being able to get your freak on with your husband is ludicrous. I’m sorry, Lang, but I just don’t get how you could feel even remotely justified entertaining the idea of having sex with a man other than your husband. You have a good man at home.”

“Yeah, but you saw him, Minah. The brother is fine,” Lang said defiantly.

“Yes, but so is Sean,” Aminah countered.

“I know, but it’s something about him,” Lang said, unsure of how she could explain that “something” to her girlfriend when she hadn’t quite nailed it herself. “Minah, he picked up on something within seconds of meeting me that my husband doesn’t have a clue about in the six years I’ve known him.”

“What? That you’re a freak?” Aminah asked, folding her arms.

Lang detested that word, and Aminah knew it. She’d always thought
freak
held such negative connotations. It denoted something being wrong with you, like you were some kind of a circus spectacle. No, she preferred
sexually liberated.

“I am
not
a freak, Minah,” Lang said, hitting the
T
in
not
so hard that a tiny speckle of spit flew from the little space between her two front teeth.

“I mean, call it what you want, Lang, but I still don’t understand why you can’t just tell your husband what gets you off.”

“What if he’s repulsed by it, Minah?” Lang asked sincerely. “And you know how men’s egos are. Sean likes to be either in charge or super-romantic, and I like that, too, some of the time. But, Minah, there’s a whole range of sexual expression inside me that doesn’t fall into either one of those categories. If I even touch myself while I’m riding him, he’s quick to move my hand and do it himself, and that’s not always what I want. Sometimes I wanna get myself off with him inside me, and, sure, I may be thinking of something or someone else at the time, but lemme enjoy the experience inside my head.”

“You don’t think you can share your sexual desires and fantasies with
Sean?
” Aminah asked, still not convinced. “Come on, Lang, you have to come up with something better than that.”

“I’m not so sure if Sean would even be my husband if he knew what got me off.”

There. She’d said it. Lang knew many a man who’d said they wanted a lady in the streets and a freak in the bed, but in reality she believed there were still certain things, certain acts most men did not want to do with the woman they vowed to honor and cherish.

“Come again, Lang?”

“Listen, Aminah, I think a lot of men practice sexual restraint to some degree with their wives. On the other hand, the sexual possibilities with so-called ‘hos’ or women they’d never ever consider
wifing
stretch as far as their imaginations will allow them.”

“Yeah, but, Lang, we’re not talking about most men and hos. We’re talking about you and Sean.”

“Yeah, and Sean wouldn’t want to do anything remotely, I dunno, violent or what other people might perceive as degrading or even humiliating with his respectable wife.”

“And that makes him a bad husband?”

“No, not at all, but it leaves me an unsatisfied wife,” Lang admitted.

“Unsatisfied? I’ve never heard you complain about Sean’s performance in bed till now. And, honestly, I don’t think you would’ve married Sean if he was a bad lay.”

“I never said he was bad. He’s actually quite good, but I’ve got a strong appetite for something more than that. Like, I’d love to have a ménage à trois with Sean and—”

“Another woman?” Aminah asked incredulously. “Really? You actually wanna see another woman doing your husband?”

“Well, that’s not where I was going. But if you hadn’t cut me off, I was gonna say with Sean, me, and another man.”

“Ugh, Lang, that’s disgusting. Fuck outta here with that one. Sean’s not goin’ for that.”

“Exactly. And therein lies the problem. We both know plenty of men whose fantasy involves two women. But how many husbands do you know who could even stomach, let alone go through with, the mere idea of a ménage involving themselves, their wives, and another man? And you want me to tell Sean what gets me off? I don’t think so, honey. He’d leave me before I could put in my formal request. Hmph. Your boy, Sean, was actually taken aback the first time I gave him head,” Lang continued. “I mean, at first he told me it was the best he’d ever had. Then a few minutes later he’s asking me how I learned to do it so well and how many men before him had experienced what he just had.”

“I just don’t get it, Lang. Is it possible to love someone, I mean, really love someone, and still cheat on her—I mean, him?” Aminah questioned.

Langston didn’t answer right away. She ran the back of her hand across the side of her best friend’s face. She knew what Aminah was getting at. “Well, Aminah. You know I’m going to say yes, of course. Just because I love my husband doesn’t mean I don’t find other men desirable.”