How Stella Got Her Groove Back (12 page)

As I stand in front of my closet trying to choose the most flattering dress I realize that I am not twenty-one years old that the clothes in my closet reflect this and when I look in the full-length mirror it is obvious that I am not even close to looking twenty-one years old that I haven’t been twenty-one years old in twenty-one years and suddenly I’m wondering again why this young man really wants to sleep with me. I mean what is the attraction? What is his real motive? I know! He’s probably heard the rumor going around America that single women over thirty and black women in particular will fuck anything, since many of them are on that slow track. They used to count how many weeks had gone by since they’d been laid but now it’s gotten up to how many years has it been and they’re all freaking out because they’re super-lonely and in their quest to find Mr. Perfect for years and years have yet to come to the realization that he does not exist. We who have labeled ourselves Ms. Fucking Perfect Personified have not caught on yet that our perfection is merely a figment of our very own distorted imagination and I should know because I’m in that forty-and-over club for Emotional Subversives in Denial About Everything.

What I do know deep down although I keep it secretly secret is that I am terrified at the thought of losing myself again wholeheartedly to any man because it is so scary peeling off that protective sealant that’s been guarding my heart and letting somebody go inside and walk around lie down look around and see all those red flags especially when right next to your heart is your soul and then inside that is the rest of your personality puzzle pieces and they’re full of flaws and in your grown-up years you have just finally started to recognize them for what they are one by one. You’re trying to resolve some of these issues but you’re only up to say number four and the list is too long to get into here but the mere thought of being emotionally naked again is frightening because you remember how fucked up it got the last two or three times out there. Since the world is now aware that women like us are trying to beat the clock, some of us have built this invisible fence around our hearts like those that people use to keep their dogs inside the yard—if they go past that invisible wired line they get shocked until eventually they get tired of getting electrocuted and so they sit there and watch cars and other dogs go by and sort of just stay put. This is pretty much where I am: putting, and lots of my girlfriends are too because this is the big easy that I hope Winston hasn’t heard about but then again I’m sure if they get BET down here they must get Oprah too.

The only thing I’m hoping is that if he is on this kind of sympathy mission, he realizes women like me are not really desperate. Getting laid is hardly a problem—almost any man’ll take some free pussy—but getting laid by somebody you want to get laid by is an entirely different issue. When we finally meet somebody we do want to lie down with we aren’t feeling desperate—what we’re feeling is vulnerable, nervous and scared. Big difference. Big big difference. But once again, Stella, you are like getting far too deep here for somebody who is planning to have a little sexual encounter with a boy for one single evening so like could you spare me your philosophical sociological rantings on the status of women and black women in particular in America, okay, and let’s just get us some nuggies and hope it’s good and get on with this vacation? Can we do that?

Okay, so this mental masturbating kills a whole hour. I decide that reading is a good time-passer so I pick up a book without looking at the title and begin to read the words one at a time instead of in groups like I learned to do years ago in that Evelyn Wood speed-reading class that never quite worked for me except the grouping stuff. It is not working now. I lay the book down and decide that the best thing for me to do is rest since I’ll be expending and I hope consuming a great deal of energy tonight.

I call the operator and ask for a wake-up call at five just in case I doze off and I get under the covers and everything and start thinking about oh my God what if people see us what are they going to think and say? Shit. Oh so what, Stella! This is America. No it isn’t America. Okay. This is the nineties and oh go to sleep girl and then I turn my attention to those waves that are still at it outside my window and I push my face deeper and deeper into the soft white pillow and close my eyes for a few minutes and when the phone rings I am startled. The operator claims it’s five o’clock and when I look at my watch it is.

May as well put the video camera on fast forward because that’s how quickly I jump out of bed take a shower shave my underarms and legs douche pumice-stone my heels elbows knees brush my teeth pluck a few hairs from my eyebrows put some Visine in my eyes pull my cool braids to the other side of my head and rub my Calyx lotion everywhere on my body that’s brown. I do that minimum makeup routine again because to be honest I can’t stand all that mess on my face and the other reason is because I always want a man even a young one to know that what he sees is what he gets.

I stand in front of the closet again since I never did decide on what to wear and realize I have quite a few Marilyn Monroe–type dresses and that I am not a reincarnation of Marilyn thank the Lord and yet I also don’t want to repeat myself and plus I don’t want to look like I can’t wait to get out of this dress but I also don’t want to look like I’m a chaperone at my son’s prom either not that I brought anything like that so I choose a soft yellow linen shift that has a low neckline in front and back and comes right above my knees but it fits snugly and makes me look like I have a real figure even though I really don’t well what I have is narrow hips and a firm set of curvy glutes aka a big ass which runs in my family and I’ll tell the truth I don’t want to lose it ever. I put on my twenty-two-dollar strapless bra I finally found in Macy’s that fits my own personal breasts without smashing crushing them down or upping them two sizes and it actually gives me that ever-so-light touch of cleavage I’m seeking but only if you look from the side.

I slip on my mustard sling-back pumps some gold hoop earrings and when I look in the mirror I think I’ve got it going on, to be honest. I just hope he thinks so too. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s come to his senses and is hiding in his room and I go out there all dolled up and don’t see him and I’ll feel stupid? This is the reason why I often hate men. They’re all alike. You can’t depend on them for shit. They’re weak. I do not for the life of me understand why God even gave them balls when most of the time they act like they don’t have any. I can see that this weak-acting shit starts at a young age, doesn’t it? Well, I am making a mental note right now to teach Quincy how to grow up and flex his balls as much as possible, to jump into the fire to take risks and even if you’re scared do the shit anyway. I don’t want him to act like a little pussy like this Winston like his daddy like so many of these fellows running around in the world who don’t deserve to be called men. What some of them most of them a lot of them really need is a month or two at a dude ranch run by women. We’re the ones who can show these simpletons how to be men because we raised them and for some reason perhaps they are all suffering from ADD because they have apparently forgotten most of the necessary valuable constructive stuff we taught them as young boys which is why most of them are in dire need of a refresher course today.

I pick up my little clutch and walk to the dining room with a serious attitude because I am preparing myself for disappointment and if I happen to run into him and he’s like say with some young hoochie I will just give him my vampire look like I’ll get your ass later when you least expect it for setting me up like this and what exactly did you think you could do for me anyway? You probably have never even had any
real
pussy, have you, Winston? Probably never even spent the night out except at a sleepover, huh?

There he is. Sitting on the bench outside the dining room. And he’s alone. He stands up when he sees me and heads my way and wow does he look more handsome this evening or what and ohmyGod he’s wearing that Escape again and I am so glad I didn’t wear panties which is becoming a habit for me down here but maybe I should’ve this time because where will this stuff go that’s trickling down my leg oh shoot but thank God I have my little wipes in my purse so right after he says “Hi” and smiles I say, “Hi, Winston, can you excuse me for a second, I need to go to the ladies’ room,” and he says, “Are you okay?” and as I amble away like they do in the movies I say, “I’m fine, just had a little accident but it’s nothing really,” because I surely don’t want him to think I’m on my period because he’s so young and everything and he probably no way would want to do it the very first time if I’m on my period even though I know men who will go down on you when you’re bleeding which I think is disgusting and I can’t even bear to watch them when they do it and don’t come up here acting like you want to kiss me now no way go brush and floss and Listerine and then come back and let me smell your breath first and we’ll consider another kiss then but not until then.

I am ashamed of myself for getting so worked up so fast and I feel kind of slutty but I also kind of like this feeling and I’m thinking I wish I could call Delilah to tell her what I’m up to—she would probably just say, “Go for it, girl!” Don’t want to call Vanessa because she’ll probably make me feel even sillier than I already do and Angela would probably scold me and tell me I’ll be struck by lightning for even thinking about doing something like this so I clean up my act and come out of the stall and blot my lips and say, “To hell with both of you,” and since nobody’s really looking I actually giggle as I head back out where Winston is still standing in the very same spot.

His hair is jet black shiny and brushed back on top and I can see his scalp on the sides where it’s cut very close and he has a gold hoop in his left ear and he’s wearing a real button-down-the-front shirt that’s not at all tropical-looking but looks as if it could’ve come from like the men’s department of a major department store and not where the hip-hoppers shop either and I can’t tell if it’s purple or brown in this light but it has some kind of speckles on it that look like the solar system or galaxies and I’m so glad he has on bluejeans because I love the way he looks in them like he doesn’t care that they don’t exactly fit but they certainly look good on him and God his legs just go on and on and he is wearing these black suede bucks and I like his style his taste the decisions he’s made and damn is he beautiful but what’s weird is that he doesn’t carry himself like he’s all that handsome; he stands moves as if he’s just sure of himself as if he knows who he is but he just doesn’t know his own power yet. I am so glad.

“Is everything okay?” he asks with real concern in his eyes.

“Fine,” I say.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Not really. Are you?”

He smiles blushes and shakes his head from side to side. Hey. He’s got dimples! When did he get those?

“We should eat though don’t you think?” I say.

“We can at least try,” he says and then we both start laughing almost uncontrollably and I think we both know why we’re laughing.

“Winston?”

“Yes,” he says and there he goes looking at me again but this time it’s like real laser-like desire is emanating from his eyes and boy is it penetrating this little area in my chest that feels just like my heart and I wish he would like stop this.

“Did you just have to wear that cologne?”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I do. That’s the problem. It’s making me feel dizzy.”

“Did I put too much on?” he asks.

“No, I don’t mean it that way.”

And he looks at me again as if he doesn’t get it.

“Never mind,” I say.

“You feel like eating some pasta?” he asks and I kind of crack up because he says it like “pesta.”

“Sure,” I say and we walk through the dining room, where Norris and Abby and all the rest of the social directors and all the honeymooners and the folks from the van and the ones I lie out on the beach with including old man Nate all wave to us as we walk by. I should not be doing this out in the open, I think.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Winston asks.

“Am I?”

“Yes, you sort of sped up for some reason. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say and sit down at an outdoor table.

“Tell me what it is,” he says, leaning forward, and when I look into his eyes I can’t remember what I was going to say but then I remember: “Winston, are you sure you want to do this because if you want to back out if you want to change your mind it’s okay you won’t hurt my feelings because I’m a big girl a grown-up really and I’m used to disappointment so if you’re having second thoughts we can just eat dinner and maybe dance a little bit and say good night and be done with it no hard feelings.”

His eyes are wide and he looks like he can’t believe what I just said. “Could you repeat that word for word, please?” And he leans back against his chair and waits.

I am embarrassed no end. “You know what I meant.”

“Stella?”

I cannot look at him.

“Stella?”

“What?” I say but I’m still not looking at him. I am feeling like I’m in fucking high school when in fact I could be the damn principal.

“I haven’t changed my mind. I have been unable to think clearly this entire day because you have taken up all the space in my head. I am not afraid, Stella. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of what is happening. I am not afraid of what might happen. And I will be honest with you. I haven’t been this excited about a woman in . . . well, never.”

I can hardly swallow even though I have nothing in my mouth to swallow because my mouth is past dry. “I’m really flattered, Winston.”

“I’m not saying it to flatter you. It’s the truth.”

“I’m still flattered. And I’ll tell you,” I say and sigh, because I hear myself say, “Winston, even though I think this is kind of ridiculous I want you to know how much I like you too and—”

“What’s ridiculous?”

I’m trying not to let my eyes roll up in my head. “Do you want me to say it again?”