Can't Get Enough of Your Love (10 page)

“Hello, little girl. You look so hot,” Roger said
.

“Thank you. What do you use those bolts in your neck for, Mister?”

“Would you like to find out, little girl?”

“I don't know. You're awfully big. Oh, here's a flower for you.”

“I like flowers.”

I giggled. “Would you like to deflower me?”

“Let's throw some rocks first.”

I giggled. “So you can get your rocks off?”

“Of course.”

The monster throws a few rocks, then throws the little girl into the pond
.

“You made me all wet,” I said
.

“Can I come in for a little dip?” Roger said. “You can hold on to me using my bolts …”

And I never used to like black-and-white films.

Yeah, Roger's a little kinky, but deep down
I'm
a little kinky. We tried to do it like normal people once. I got in on my side of the bed in a T-shirt and shorts. He got in on his side of the bed in his boxers. We kissed and traded hands for a bit, he got on top missionary style, and he went to work.

We ended up laughing too much for him to stay inside me.

That's when we went to Kmart to get a couple helium balloons so we could have “chipmunk sex.”

It … was … a … gas!

Overall, Roger is really nice. I know “nice” is not necessarily a “nice” thing to say about a man, but he is truly nice to me. He
likes
to spoon. He
likes
to give massages. He
likes
to hold my hand before, during, and after. He
likes
to hold my face with those big ol' hands of his, and it always gives me chills.

Of course, I didn't tell him about Karl or Juan Carlos. Why ruin heaven with reality? Instead, when we talk, we talk mainly about … me.

“You really play football?” he asked while massaging my booty that first night on the floor.

“Knead it harder,” I panted.

“I can't need it any more than I do,” he said, adding a kiss to my left cheek.

“No, I mean, knead my booty like bread dough.”

“Oh.”

He's so good I could rent him out, but I'll never do that, though I bet I could retire pretty young if I did. He's that good. You haven't lived until you've had an hour-long booty rub with some baby oil.

“Yeah, I really play football.”

“What's your position?”

“Tight end.”

He squeezed harder. “Tell me about it.”

We talk while he works on me for hours, and what
don't
we talk about? We talk sports, we talk politics, we talk family, we talk music, we talk jobs, we talk food, we talk movies, and then we talk dreams.

“I want to open up a dance club here in Roanoke and call it ‘The Spot,'” I told him that reckless night I waved at a stranger from his window.

“Yeah?”

“I'll have to have someplace with lots of parking and lots of space inside.”

“Like the Big Lots building over on Peters Creek.”

I hadn't thought of that. The store had been out of business for a while. “Yeah. I wonder what a place like that rents for.”

“It wouldn't take but one phone call.” He smiled. “What kind of a dance club would it be?”

I was about to say “a club for black folks,” but instead I said, “Well, first I'd need some big burly men for security.”

“Or off-duty cops.”

He always has good ideas. “That could work. And I'd need a DJ who only played my club.”

“Don't most DJs like to travel to where the money is?”

I sighed. “Yeah. Hmm. Well, I'd only be open, say, Thursday through Saturday, so I'd only need him for three nights a week.”

“What would you do Sunday through Wednesday?”

“I don't know. Sleep probably.”

“With anyone in particular?”

I didn't answer that question directly. “Oh, I'll probably be a pretty popular girl if I bring a dance club to Roanoke that doesn't have cameras in the girls' bathrooms”—an earlier club in Roanoke failed because of this—”and fights in the parking lot.”

“Popular, huh? So … I might be part of your harem, huh?”

You already are
, I thought at the time. “What night of the week do you want?”

“I'm flexible. Only the nights that end in Y.”

That wasn't going to happen.

He chewed on my ear. “Would you serve food?”

“Nope.”

“Would you serve alcohol?”

Kids just out of high school are forever complaining that there's nothing to do in Roanoke, and as a result, many of them go away to school or the service and never come back. “I don't think I would. I want to get the eighteen-and-older crowd.”

“And all their disposable income.”

“Yeah.”

“It sounds as if you're building a permanent rave to me.”

“Not a rave.” That is definitely a white thing. “Just a place to dance all night long.”

“How will you make money?”

“I don't know. I'll charge a cover, overcharge for
soft drinks, and maybe even have lock-ins. For the ladies, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Then I'd get some male exotic dancers in, and all the old ladies in the valley would show up to watch the banana hammocks flip, flop, and fly. I'd have an ambulance on standby, just in case.”

“But of course.” He started nibbling on one of my pepperoni. “Would you ever have lock-ins for the guys?”

“Guys can be such pigs,” I said.

“Yeah.” He squeezed my girls and started moving down … down …. “We have our moments, though.”

Yeah, Roger can talk, and most of our dates have mirrored our first night together. I've been worried that we'd run out of things to talk about in between kinky sweat sessions, but we haven't. While Karl and Juan Carlos talk mostly to my body, Roger talks mostly to my mind. All three are lusty, don't get me wrong, but Roger is caring. Roger is … loving.

And that scares the shit out of me.

Love just can't be a part of this “love square,” or whatever it is I have going. If this thing is to last, the only L-word I can stomach is “lust.”

And what have I learned from my three lusty men? I've learned that sometimes knowing exactly what's going to happen in bed is comforting. The expected always makes me feel safe and secure. I know what to expect from Karl and Juan Carlos—hard, fast, and continuous loving where they are in control of me for the most part. And when the expected becomes boring, I call on Roger and his unexpected thrills and my chance to
take
chances. I have learned that I like the unknown, I like a little mystery, I like to lose control, and I like the sheer rush of being especially naughty.

These three have taught me that I have a vivid imagination, and that no matter how we do it, it
always
comes out good.

I guess that makes me good at being bad. At least I'm good at something.

I
zzie brings me a basket full of what she considers “sexy” lotions for a housewarming gift the third Sunday I've lived at the cottage. She also brings me a bucket of fried chicken.

The chicken is a better gift, though it definitely hasn't been cooked nearly enough. Chicken should be crispy, not limp, and it should make a sound when you eat it. The lotions, though, are just plain nasty. I can't stand the scent of wheat orange marmalade, kiwi eggplant, and cherry avocado. Who comes up with these messed-up mixtures? I put lotion on to keep my skin soft, not to feed my skin food combinations that would never hit my lips. I have a feeling I'll be using this basket—unwrapped—as Mama's gift on Mother's Day.

Izzie is, in most ways, my opposite. She is a classic dark beauty with a perfect smile, slender nose, impeccable hair, cute dimples, and short, thin legs. She's a dark Dorothy Dandridge, physically blessed but also repressed as hell. Men hit on her all the time, and she just brushes them off. She's prettier than I am, smarter
than I am, more educated than I will ever be, and more cultured than I'll ever dream to be. Yet, she and I are friends and have been since I started working at Patrick Henry, where she's a guidance counselor. I can't explain our friendship.

It just … is.

I suspect most friendships are like this.

They just …
are
.

I first met Izzie in the faculty lounge of McQuilkin Hall. She was on her lunch break, microwaving a vile Healthy Choice meal she really doesn't have to eat. She asked me and my bologna, mayo, and cheese sandwich, corn chips, and Pepsi to join her, and we started talking. Eventually, we stopped talking and started ranting about Patrick Henry High School, but only when we were alone in that little room. Whenever any white folks came in, we kept our fire on hold, playing our little “happy Negro” roles. There aren't many people of color working at PH, where forty percent of the student body is a minority. If I ever quit, they'd lose at least a full five percent of their African-American workforce. We fuss about the lack of black people, the new black superintendent who isn't from Roanoke (we have some decent “home-grown” folks, but we rarely hire them), the new building going up on our campus, the bell schedule, the students, white folks, Roanoke—you name it. But as soon as someone white comes in, we chat about the weather, church, shoes, food, and weight loss, usually in that order. They're safe topics for a faculty lounge, and they even allow the white folks to join in on our conversations if they want to.

“It's so strange seeing you out here,” she says, picking daintily at a drumstick while I tear into a wing. She
wears a dark blue skirt, matching blouse, hose, and reasonably high heels.

“It is kind of strange, but I like it. How was church?”

“Good. You should come with me sometime.”

I misquote some poetry to her: “I keep the Sabbath staying at home.”

She rolls her eyes and dabs at her lips with a napkin. “But you need Jesus, Lana.”

“I don't need another man in my life right now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. Jesus should be the only man you'll ever need.”

I roll my eyes.

“This is quite a love shack you have here, Lana,” she says with a smile. “Does each of your men get his own room?”

“No.”

“You must wash your sheets often, then.”

Oh yeah. I'll have to do that. I didn't have this problem before. Maybe I'll get two more sets of sheets.

“You are planning to wash the sheets, aren't you, Lana?”

“Of course,” I say, nodding.

“You should get some satin sheets. I hear they're the sexiest.”

Right. As if I can afford them.

“Are there lots of … critters out here?”

Izzie has trouble with the “wildlife” at PH, bees and yellow jackets mostly. “Just a few bullfrogs, a bunch of bats, some mice. Oh, and a ground squirrel that lives in the attic.”

She smiles. “At least you have a man to ‘go check' when you hear a noise.”

“Yes.” Though because our lovemaking can get loud,
I don't hear the squirrel much anymore. Maybe it's listening? How perverted!

“Which one of your three gentlemen is most likely to go check without giving you any attitude?” Izzie asks.

Izzie likes asking questions like these. Her other favorite is to play “what if?” with me. “All three would go check eventually,” I say, “but … Karl would check the fastest.”

“Karl is the mighty hunter, huh?”

“Something like that.” The fact is, Karl has the smallest bladder on Earth and has to pee every ten minutes.

“So, have they all spent the night here since you moved in?”

“No. None of them ever spends the night, and none of them will ever spend the night. I don't go for that.”

She blinks. “There's not much you
don't
go for, Lana.”

Sometimes I think Izzie judges me, and other times I can't tell. She seems to admire what I'm trying to do one moment and acts like my mama the next.

“But they've all been here with you, um, in bed since you moved in, right?” she asks.

“All but Karl.”

“He's still AWOL?”

“No, he's in New York.” I think.

“Same thing. What if, say, you're with one of your men and another man happens to show up unannounced?”

I shudder. “I hope that never happens, and it's less likely to happen since I moved out here.”

“Well, what if it
did
happen? Would you sneak one out the back or …”

“I don't have a back
door.” Why don't I have a back door? Mama's little house has a front door, two side doors, and a back door. I wonder if it's legal for a house not to have a back door. I have a front door and a side door, both within thirty feet of each other.

“Okay, would you sneak one out a window, or would you invite the other one to
join
the two of you for some interesting fun?”

I don't answer that one, instead growling, clearing the table, and washing my hands. When I lived in Roanoke, I thought the only way all three might actually meet one day was if Karl's Blazer broke down at Fairview Cemetery while he was there selling his Coach bags (for whatever reason) during a funeral Roger was presiding over, and Berglund Auto World sent Juan Carlos to fix it. Stuff like that happens only in bad dreams, worse sitcoms, and the worst movies.

Though I do have this one recurring nightmare, and I will never tell Izzie about it. I'm getting busy with one of them in some generic bed in a hotel. At least I think it's a hotel because there's a Gideons Bible on the nightstand and a really awful watercolor of some ducks hanging above the bed. Anyway, I'm getting busy when either there's a knock on the door or the phone rings. As soon as I hear the knock or the phone, the man in the bed disappears, but there's always a wet spot for some reason. When I get to the door or pick up the phone, there's no one there. For the rest of that dream, I wander the halls of some spooky hotel completely naked looking for my men, only no one at the front desk has seen them … and no one notices I'm naked.