Can't Get Enough of Your Love (7 page)

“You know I want to stay in shape for you, Juan Carlos,” I had said. “You like me to be athletic in bed, right?”

“In bed, yes.” He smiled.

“So I'm just trying to stay in shape for you.” And Karl. And Roger.

“But you will grow out of this.”

“I am not a child, Juan Carlos.”

“You will grow out of this,” he repeated.

Nope. “Look, I want to go dancing with you, but only in Greensboro, okay?”

“But why do we have to drive all the way to North Carolina to go dancing?”

It took a lot of convincing—and several condoms—
but Juan Carlos gave in after lots of horizontal dancing.

On Friday, I prepared for our night of dancing. I picked out an electric blue, backless, one-piece short set. The neckline plunged, revealing the top of what cleavage I had, and my long sexy legs smoldered out of my shorts. I modeled in front of the mirror and said, “Girl, I see a whole lot of you leaking out all over.”

Juan Carlos didn't like what he saw at all. “You are wearing that?”

“What's wrong with it?”

“It is too revealing. I want you to change.”

I rolled my eyes and neck. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” I can be decisive, too.

He said nothing for two straight hours, until we got to a club in Greensboro, where I discovered that Juan Carlos could not dance a lick. Not a lick. He was too stiff, he didn't know what to do with his hands, and he couldn't keep up with the hip-hop beat. Meanwhile, I jiggled, undulating smoothly in rhythm to the music. A couple of black guys with a whole lot more rhythm than Juan Carlos bounced and shook their way between us, and for a moment, Juan Carlos disappeared.

And I didn't give a shit.

Four songs later, I looked around, located Juan Carlos at a table, and walked over. “Did I wear you out already?”

“No. I disappeared, and you did not notice.”

I sat across from him. “This place is jamming! Do you mind if I dance some more?”

“Yes, I mind if my girlfriend dances with other men.”

He was one-third right, anyway. Each one of my men thinks he's my boyfriend, which means, I guess,
that I'm not duplicitous, but “tri-plicitous,” and it definitely makes me trip sometimes.

I took his hand. “Come out and dance, then, Juan Carlos. You asked me out to go dancing, so do some dancing with me.”

He tried to pull his hand away from mine. “I cannot compete.”

He had that right. I dropped his hand. “Well, if you hear a slow song, come on out.”

That club didn't play a single slow song that night, most likely to keep people sweaty and drinking their overpriced drinks. Juan Carlos had bought us Cokes, and the ice cubes in my glass had all melted by the time I came over for a rest.

“You're not having fun, are you?” I asked.

“I am having the time of my life sipping a flat Coke in a smoky room while black men make moves on my girlfriend.”

Two of my dance partners came over to our table. Both of them were tall, black, and sharply dressed. “Yo, girl, you comin' back out?” the one with the gold earring asked.

I looked at Juan Carlos and raised my eyebrows. “Can I?”

“No. It is not all right.”

“What you askin' him for?” Golden Earring asked, putting his butt in Juan Carlos's face.

I looked at Golden Earring with eyes that said “I'd remove that booty from his face if I were you.”

I focused on my hands. I started to speak and stopped. I looked at Juan Carlos quickly, then back down at my hands. “I'm tired, fellas.”

“What's your number?” the other one asked. “We'll hook up sometime.”

Juan Carlos stood. “My girlfriend is tired.”

Golden Earring turned and frowned at Juan Carlos. “Yeah, right.” He leaned in toward me. “So how about that number?”

Juan Carlos grabbed me by the wrist. “Come on, Lana. It is time to go.”

I looked at them and stood. “I have to go,” I said, and I squeezed by them, my eyes on the floor all the way to the exit.

Juan Carlos didn't speak to me all the way back to Jenny's dollhouse, another silent two-hour ride, and when I asked if he wanted to fool around when we got there, he said, “You must be too tired from all that dancing.”

“I'm not tired, Juan Carlos.”

“Well, I am. What was that about back there, Lana?”

“What was what about?”

“Those two guys. You did not say I was your boyfriend.”

I shook my head. “We shouldn't have gone.”

“Because you think I cannot dance?”

I stared holes in his head. “We just shouldn't have gone. And anyway, why'd you take me dancing if you can't dance?”

“I can dance. Just not like them.”

Not like anyone I've ever seen, actually. “So they were good dancers, Juan Carlos. You know I'd never hook up with them.” Unless they moved to Roanoke, but Roanoke has no good dance clubs. Hmm. Maybe I should start one. I'll call it “The Spot,” and then people will say, “See you at The Spot.” Golden Earring can come, and then maybe he can hit my G-spot at The Spot—

“Maybe you moved far away to get far away from me.”

I hated having a fantasy interrupted. So, though he was right—sort of—I stood silently in front of him for a few moments. It was almost as if we were on a blind date, and though he was one of my friends with benefits, I didn't recognize him at all.

“Look, I moved out here to get away from Roanoke, to get a little solitude.” To have my men come to me, to keep y'all separated, to keep this good thing going good. I touched his hand. “I didn't move here to get away from you. I moved here so that we could have more time together alone.”

He pulled his hand away from my hand. “Then why did you flirt with the black boys?”

Because they were
fo-ine!
“I wasn't flirting. I was dancing. There's a difference.” Though from the way I dance, I'm more than just flirting. Teacher's aides who play professional women's football don't get out much, you know.

“We are not going dancing ever again,” he said.

“Okay, we won't go dancing ever again.”

“That is right.”

He started to undress, and at that moment, I didn't want to do
anything
with him. “Juan Carlos?”

“What?”

“Put your clothes back on.”

“What?”

“I want you to leave now.”

“What?”

“I do not want to be with you tonight.”

“What?”

I grabbed his shirt and threw it at him. “I don't stutter, Juan Carlos. Go home.”

“Why?”

And then it all poured out. “Because you never say ‘Thank you, Lana,' when I cook for you. You never say ‘I'm sorry, Lana,' like tonight, when you made me feel bad for wearing what I wore, giving me the silent treatment for a total of four hours, and then making a scene at the club.”

“I did not—”

“And you never say ‘I was wrong, Lana,'” I interrupted, “especially when you know you are, like tonight. You are the most ungrateful, most demanding, and most controlling person I have ever known.”

Next to my mama, of course, but that's her job.

“I say ‘thank you' and ‘I am sorry,'” he said.

“Not out loud to me, you don't. Sex is your ‘thank you.' Saying nothing is your ‘I'm sorry.' I'm tired of it. You weren't put on this earth to criticize me.” Only Mama was. “And I won't have anyone in my life hammering away at me.”

“I do not hammer away at you.”

“You do.”

“You are making no sense.”

“Okay, I'll spell it out for you.
I ain't havin' it no more
. Not in this house. Not in
my
house.”

“You are only renting it, and it is only a cottage.”

I counted to three. “I'm not having any of your attitude anymore, man.”

“Not having what anymore?”

“Your attitude.”

“What attitude?”

I sighed. “You act as if you own me, and you don't. No one owns me.”

He blinked. “Are you breaking up with me?”

I wasn't breaking up with him. I just wanted him gone so I could get some me-time. “Just go home, Juan Carlos.”

“I am not going home. This is just an argument, and tomorrow you will think differently.” He slipped out of his pants and pulled back the covers on the bed.

This was not going well. I decided to resort to “The List,” a list of things a man is not supposed to say to a woman … only I have to flip it around some. “Juan Carlos, if you were a woman, you would always be on your period.”

He gasped.

“If you were a woman, Juan Carlos, you would have a terminal case of PMS.”

He jumped out of the bed.

“If you were a woman, you would be a bitch, Juan Carlos. The dictionary must have your picture next to the word ‘bitch.'”

His jaw dropped.

“No one tells me what to do in my own house, Juan Carlos. You're … not … my … daddy!”

I have never seen Juan Carlos move so fast. He dressed, said “You … you” a couple times, eventually called
me
a “bitch” and a “bunta,” and tore out of the house. I watched dirt flying up from behind his mama's rusty old Bonneville and sighed when the taillights finally disappeared.

Later, alone again with a glass of iced tea, standing at the edge of the pond, I hummed some old Bessie Smith blues as the tiny waves of the pond lapped at my feet.

The next day, Juan Carlos returned with a dozen long-stem roses and some outstanding takeout from El
Rodeo. He also apologized to me all night long for his bad attitude.

I likes me some drama.

Juan Carlos is good for that.

And he dances horizontally just fo-ine.

I
have never almost “lost” Karl like that, mainly because Karl is so hard to find sometimes. But when I do find him, I usually have to take a day off from work and life in general afterward. We, um, we tear it up.

I've been with Karl the longest, about eight months. I was between men when I first met him while jogging through Washington Park on a hot August day. Our first few conversations intrigued me mainly for what he
could
have said but
didn't
say, and for what I
could
have said but
didn't
say.

To stay in shape for the upcoming tryouts for the Roanoke Revenge, I used to park over at the Addison Middle School track and run a loop from there through a neighborhood down to a creek and up the hill to the Washington Park pool and the field beyond, where I did some wind sprints. Thus, Karl saw me for the first time at my absolute worst that hot, humid August day. I was sweaty. I was stank. I was shiny. I was funky.

He was sitting on the hood of his Blazer wearing a
white wife beater, long black baggy jean shorts, and tan Timberland boots. He had a little bling going on, but mostly he was tattooed and muscled from the neck down and he was fo-ine.

And I looked like shit—except for my running shoes—in some old green mesh shorts, an oversized gray long-sleeved shirt, and a black Nike visor, but that's how I usually work out. Why do so many women try to look cute when they can't possibly look cute, all sweaty and stank, when they work out? Why ruin a “she-she” hundred-dollar jogging outfit with sweat when any old pair of sweats will do?

Okay, okay. I didn't match that day. My “she-she” running shorts and top were already dirty, and my “outfit” (such as it was) was the best I could find. Besides, I didn't expect to meet anyone, right?

As I neared him that day, he called out, “What you running for, girl?”

I played the shy girl, pointing at myself.

He smiled. “Yeah, I'm talking to you.”

I could barely catch my breath. That hill was a killer, and so was his smile. “Hey,” I said. I
didn't
say, “Is this your ride?” or “Do I know you?” or “What's your name?” I just said, “Hey.”

“Why are you running on such a hot day?”

“To keep in shape.”

He
didn't
say, “Girl, you got a nice one.” He simply asked, “What for?”

Which was a compliment, right? He was saying without saying that I already looked to be in good shape. “I'm getting in shape for football.” I
didn't
say, “I'm getting in shape for you and me getting it on later.”

His face didn't change, and he didn't hesitate. “You play?”

“I'm going to. For the Roanoke Revenge.”

He nodded. “I heard about them. You any good?”

I
could
have said, “I'm best when I'm being bad” or “Wanna find out?” All I said was, “Yeah.”

He had such a young face for someone my age, but it turns out he was twenty-two and fresh out of college at Hampton. “Maybe I'll have to come and see you play.”

I
could
have said, “We can play all night long, player,” or I
could
have asked him to play with me back at his place, but I could only say, “All right.”

I kept on to that field beyond the pool and ran ten wind sprints. Then I half-jogged past the pool and passed him again.

He slid down from the hood. “You thirsty?”

I nodded.

He pulled some bottled water from a cooler inside his Blazer and threw it to me. I took a sip and poured some on my head.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I'm Karl,” he said.

“Lana,” I said. “But some folks call me ‘Peanut.'”

He smiled. He just … smiled. He
didn't
ask if I had a boyfriend, and he
didn't
rape me with his eyes, instead focusing on my eyes and not my thighs. “You run here all the time?”

“When I can,” I said, “about every other day.”