Caroline
It began as a long day at work. The team had to meet a deadline, and hell, that meant it all fell on me. Now it’s 10 PM at night and I’m finally leaving. My feet are killing me from walking around in my Jimmy Choos all day. When did I become to good to switch into some comfy flats? I’m hungry enough to eat horse. I am also in need of some TLC. And not the R&B group.
It was after hours so a company driver took me back to Harlem. Try catching a cab from downtown to Harlem after 7. You’d have better luck trying to hitch a cab ride to Jersey. On the way home I called my dirty flip-flop artist friend. Artist Friend picks up on the first ring.
“Hey! Caroline, what’s going on?”
He sounds happy to hear from me. I’ve definitely been trife and haven’t called him in like a month.
“Hey sweety. I’m doing well. What’s with you?”
“Just watching a movie.”
He sounded out of breath. “Cool… you want to come over?
I could be conversational and get into the details of the movie he was watching and his most recent showing, but this wasn’t that type of phone call.
“Ummm... sure. Yeah. When?”
He sounded unsure of himself, but maybe it was just his tone. “Tonight. Now. I’m on my way home from work."
Beat. “Okay. I’ll call when I’m on my way.”
The phone snapped shut. Holding it tight in my hand, I grinned victoriously. I was so ready for a night of unbridled passion. On my back, on my side, against the wall… exploring various positions of the kama sutra all the while enjoying the scratchy sensation of fake locks against my skin. This car ride was taking forever and I felt as if the Indian driver knew what was up. I saw him peer at me from the rear view mirror. I have no shame.
When I got home, first thing I did was kick of my pumps. Damn my dogs hurt. I entered my walk in closet and left my hosiery, suit, and underwear laying there in a pile. I figured it’d take Artist Friend a little while to make it uptown from the East Side on the subway. I took a shower. I hoped he’d take the liberty of doing the same. As the shower filled with steam and hot soapy red currant suds covered my body, I sighed, and let the stress of the day run down the drain. One thing I’ve learned about high pressure jobs, you must leave work at work. Yeah, I say that but I rarely do. I put on some lotion, lip gloss, and brushed my hair.
Artist Friend didn't expect me to look like a video girl … that’s what I loved about my Caucasian playboys. He appreciated me for the simple things most men that run in my circle take for granted. Like the fact that I have a sweet conversation game. I'm a thinking woman. And I'm built like a brick house. I love that when I'm with my ocassional play boy, I can let my hair down. I'm over playing the role of masseuse to a man's ego. I don't have a Harvard MBA for that. I didn’t have to be any Black man’s fantasy of the perfect Black woman… Halle Berry meets Vivian Banks meets Buffy the Body. I can be Caroline.
11:13. I’m now watching a Sex and the City rerun. It’s the episode where Carrie loses her Manolo Blahnik at get together and her friend decides to be trife. I mean, I feel her pain but really… at 11:13 I’m feeling the throbbing between my legs. I’m sitting on my couch in a burgundy negligee, no panties. Flexing my toes, realizing I need to stop in for a pedicure tomorrow after work. Still no call.
What the fuck?
So I text him. “Whatsup.”
I lean back in my couch, stomach churning with butterflies. I’m staring at my phone, waiting for the buzz from his return text. Ten minutes later, the phone vibrates against the glass coffee table.
“Hey. Something came up.”
Oh hell no. My mouth is agape, literally for like two minutes. I’m staring at the text with my mouth wide open. I get desperate. In a move, I’d never pull with a man for whom my feelings surpassed my vagina, I call him. Not once. But twice. I realize as I listen to his voicemail that it wasn’t something that came up, but someone.
I should call this post stood up and sexually frustrated. Shoot. I poured a glass of Merlot and called it a night. I had a vibrator in my night stand to do what artist former-friend won’t .
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