Fifty Shades of Black

Geneva

I never thought I’d lay eyes on Dr. Feel Good again, but it didn’t matter because his image was indelibly etched in my memory. The way wrinkles formed beside his eyes when he smiled at me, his perfect white teeth, and his kind brown eyes,  as sweet and intense as salted caramel. I remembered him completely, though I’d only saw him twice. The first time, the day I arrived at Columbia Presbyterian with bruises all over my back side. Well apparently, I gave him an eyeful that day. And then two days later, after they moved me from the ER and he came up to my room to say “hello”. Something about the way he tucked a few loose curls behind my ear and smiled at me made me quiver. When I think about it, I can still feel his gentle fingers on my forehead.

Wait, I’m actually not convinced this man didn’t slip some root in my IV drip.

After the day I caught a beat-down at work, which may go down as the worst day of my life, the last thing I wanted to focus on was man. Any man. I followed Caroline’s tough love and stopped answering the deluge of phone calls from Paul. It wasn’t easy. Part of me wanted him. Wants him. Always will. That’s what people don’t get. When you’re in love, sometimes you place your man’s happiness above your own. I know that without me, Paul is miserable. And who are we kidding? On some deep, gut level, every woman wants to be needed in that way.

But I found other things to fill the void. There’s a small yoga studio in Harlem that I live for. I’m up at 7 AM meditating with other sistas and even some grandmas that put me to shame in downward dog. I had started an acting workshop and I was reading everything under the sun. On this fateful day I had lowered my literary standards enough to read Fifty Shades of Grey. No offense, but if I’m going to read erotica, I’d rather read Anais Nin. But Noni had to read it for a book club and I took it from her. Curiosity always kills the cat. 

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1.5 million people in New York, the chance of running into a doctor who probably pulls 24 hour shifts at Columbia Presbyterian are slim to zilch. Dr. Feel Good, you see, I never learned his real name, maybe he told me but I was high on pain meds at the time, certainly doesn’t hang out with the same crowd as I. I don’t paint him as the bohemian type. But if there is one place to have chance encounter with anyone, anywhere, it’s Starbucks. It’s the neighborhood crack spot, attracting any and every fiend willing to grossly overpay for a fix.

Summer was over and I had a taste for a cozy white mocha frappe. I made it a venti, handed the barista my card, and slipped through the crowd of corporate zombies headed downtown to wait for my drink. While waiting for my drink, I flipped open Fifty Shades.

Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck... hard.

Jumping over the edge of one’s pain threshold, for the sake of a man’s pleasure was sounding all too familiar when the barista called my name.

I couldn’t resist licking some of the whip that oozed from the lid right off, so my mouth was literally agape, tongue compromised, when I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. I jumped and hot, frothy cream slid down my fingers scorching them in the process. I winced, and turned around, clearing my upper lip of the cream I could feel was there. Then my stomach sank. There he was. Clearly on his day off, he was dressed casually in jeans and an Izod shirt. His hair, lush, jet black and curly like Persian lamb, was slightly longer than I remembered.

For a second I stood there not knowing what to say, my fingers on fire, still dripping with cream, and me feeling so unprepared to be face to face with a man more gorgeous than I remembered. Then again, I’d never seen him while standing upright. I wanted to run. To dash in the bathroom and at least make sure there was nothing in my teeth. Damn, I chose today not to spritz my curls or floss for that matter.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just you looked familiar. I think I was your attending a couple months ago. Columbia Presbyterian?”

“Oh yes, Dr....”  I swallowed my freaky nick name just in time.

“Dick.”

“Doctor what?” I stumbled, my expression surely betraying me.

“Dr. Dick. Darius Dick.”

“Oh.” What the fuck? Did this man just tell me his name is Dr. Dick? Wait I can’t. Not right now. Not when I just finished licking whip cream off my cup and face. Not when I’m reading Fifty Shades of Grey for God’s sake.

“Here take this for ...” he said gesturing his napkin towards my now sticky fingers.

“Oh thank you.”

“I can hold your cup and your book while you do it. They always fill the cups to the brim.”

“Um thank you,” I said embarrassed that of all times, I was being spotted in public reading a book that everyone knows is about bondage and S&M.

He handed me my drink and book. “And you are Geneva?”

“Yes,” I said surprised. “You must have a really good memory.”

“I do. Most doctors do. But I also hate to forget a pretty face.”

My eyebrows raised. I was standing their looking straight dumbfounded. All sorts of patrons bumping into as I hadn’t moved an inch since I turned around.

“I hope I’m not being too forward.”

“No.” Please, keep going.

“After you,” he gestured for me to lead the way out of the throng. The flow of people into Starbucks had picked up. I headed out of the door, still in shock that Dr. Feel Good was trailing me.

It was before 8 AM and the morning air was still chill, blowing my frizzy curls askew. I could sense he was stalling and so was I. There was more.

“So how are you?”

“Healthwise, good. Definitely better off than when we met,” I smiled.

“Something else wrong?” He suddenly looked very concerned.

“No, no. Just a lot of change.”

“Which way you headed?”

“I’m going to work. That way  I said pointing in front of me.”

“Well, ummm,” he was turning a crimson shade, “I don’t usually do this but if you ever have some time I’d love to grab coffee, maybe drinks. Maybe you can tell me about that change. Or just, a little more about you.”

“Ok,” I said, a silly grin sweeping my face.

“Okay?” Somehow he’d fetched his phone.

“Okay, I’d like that.”

After we exchanged numbers he surprised me, yet again, with a warm hug, filling my senses with that familiar Christmas scent. What was it, so clean, and spicy and warm? Chestnut roasting on an open fire?  I didn’t have enough time against his chest. Before I knew it we were off on our separate ways.

I heard his voice. “Geneva!” I turned back around.

“I just wanted to say most women the same reaction, you know, to my name.” And then he flashed a Denzel smile and I was done. I grinned but I was dying on the inside. Dr. Dick? Wait until Caroline hears this.

As I walked away, feeling about ten pounds lighter, I sipped my white mocha and silently scolded myself for having done the bare minimum that morning. Yes, I’d showered, but my hair was at its wildest, no lip gloss, no perfume, nothing remarkable. Yet I felt as if he couldn’t take his eyes off of me. I wondered if he’d follow through on his offer and honestly nervous about actually having to sit across from this fine man and not fidget.  He wasn’t the type of man that dated women like me. He was far too pristine, too commercial, and too perfect. Men like him didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with swings, or too peel back layer after layer.  But perhaps I could enjoy him until he learned how flawed I was.

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As I continued to walk toward the theater my elation shifted to paranoia. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I kept looking behind me. Everything appeared normal; throngs of people walking with purpose and looking straight ahead. I tried to remember when last I took my meds. Yesterday, but it takes more than 24 hours of withdrawal to make flip out. The hair on my neck was standing on end but I continued to walk, just a quicker pace.  Two blocks later I reached a light. As I waited to cross the street, I realized I was staring straight into his dark eyes.

Shit. It was Paul.

I turn on my heels, walking in the opposite direction immediately. As my pace quickens I soon realize I have broken into a full sprint. I look behind me, he’s no longer there. For a moment I question whether or not I’ve hallucinated. I even consider that this morning is all a dream but none of those second guesses stop me from hailing the first vacant cab I see.  I duck in, slam the door, and exhale.  Safe.

I spend the work day convincing myself that the Paul I saw was a figment of my overactive imagination. I don’t know, maybe running into Dr. Feel Good, excuse me, Dr. Dick triggered it. I haven’t seen Paul since my injury. Sure, he’s tried to call dozens of times, but I’ve not physically seen him for close to two months.

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  I was exhausted by the time I returned home, climbed three flights of stairs to reach my apartment. All I  needed was to close my blinds, switch on my Itunes, and throw myself across the bed. But I couldn’t. Paul was blocking my entry into the door and this time, I could not run.

“How long have you been here?”

“This is for you.” He gets up off the floor where he’s been resting against my door for God knows how long. He hands me a Susana Baca CD, Afrodiaspora, and I realize that this is his peace offering. He’s never been a flowers and champagne kind of man.

“Thank you.”

He still blocks my entry into my house.

“Yo, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About the dude I saw you with earlier.”

“What do you want to know?”

His eyes darken and his pupils contract. He is seething at the sight of me with another man and I instantly feel guilty. What is it about Paul that does this to me? But I don’t want to fight, so I open the door and he follows me in. He makes a beeline for my bedroom though I’d been hoping we could sit on the living room couch. Neutral territory. Too bad the dogs were barking because they probably need to be walked and my roommate hadn’t yet made it home. So I follow him into my bedroom and close the door to drown out the noise.

Bad idea.

Paul pushes me against the wall and locks me into position with the sheer force of his body. He smells so manly, like irish springs and salt. And when he kisses me, he draws the breadth from my diaphragm. He’s so forceful. I can feel his teeth touch mine and bite my lips.

Finally he stops, but he doesn’t let me escape the wall. “Who is he?”

“He’s a doctor. He was my doctor, when I went to the hospital. Remember?”

He let go and immediately the room felt as if it dropped ten degrees.

“Damn Geneva, why haven’t you returned my calls? How many times can I apologize for something I didn’t even do? When are you going to let me love you again, like you need to be loved, and stop playing with me? Huh?”

I feel if I can sneak a phone call to Caroline right now, she’ll save me, because right now I can’t think straight. I am so attracted to him and it’s been two months since he’s touched me, since anyone has touched me.

“She could have killed me, or really hurt me” I murmur, “and it’s over you”.

“No, she’s crazy.”

“But was what she said true?”

“Come here,” he says sternly.

I don’t move. I can feel what is about to happen and I know that once it does, he will once again raise his flag.

“Come here,” he demands again, pointing to the spot next to him on my bed.

I begin to cry, not loudly, but scorching rivulets are pouring from my face and I can’t find my voice  It feels as if someone has me by the throat.

“Geneva,” his voice softens “please sit next to me.”

I do as I’m told.

He wraps his arm around me and nuzzles his nose into my hair. “I love you. Stop playing these games. Don’t ever do that again.” And his hands creep so tenderly to the edge of my breasts and I can feel myself growing in excitement. His kisses fall from my ears to my neck, each one a soft pillow. And I can feel his stubble against my skin, making me all the more sensitive to his touch.

He slips his hand into my shirt and undoes my bra.

Answer me.

“What do you want me to say?” I say out of breath.

He picks me up and lays me across my bed and crawls on top of me. “Tell me you’ll stop playing games with me. Say it.”

He’s busy undoing my clothes.  Pulling up my shirt. Pulling down my pants and panties with one fell swoop and before I can get my thoughts together, I can feel his bare sex against my clit and he’s hovering, teasing, knowing that my body has a mind of its own. My hips are rising in spite of myself.

“I love you too.”

“And...” He pushes two fingers deep inside of me. I moan. “I won’t play games.”

“That’s better.”

And with that, things return to normal. We stop talking. The cage door swings open and two months of freedom come to an abrupt end. I didn’t mean for this to happen. He reaches over and turns off the lamp and enters me, hard, punishing me as I scream out in agony, for every day I didn’t return his call.

-Geneva

Flat On My Ass

Geneva

My director looked the queen mother of an African village, sprawled behind her desk in a loose dress, her arms waving like mad as she attempted to whisk the sweat bullets from her brow with a palm fan. Her locks were arranged on top of her head, like a crown, and beads of sweat dampened the ebony skin on her neck, brow, lip. She was hot. I was hot. More hot from looking at her suffer in the stagnant air. The cotton of her dress gasped for hair. The AC was broke. Again.

I looked at the clock as the second hand seemed to be going counter-clockwise. The play wright can't make up his mind as to who to choose for the lead and I say at this point flip a coin. I wanted to be anywhere, an-y-where, but there at that moment, talking in circles in a small office where the temperature had to have reached 90 degrees. The window with it 's mouth open, breathing hot air on me.

In the days that followed my break down, Paul was being so nice and so attentive, I was suspicious. This was not my man. Showing up unannounced it. Grinning in my face. That shit was actually making me uncomfortable.  Distance is a part of his essence. Distance is what I loved about him and the fact that at moments, he straight dripped truth-- which in turn, makes me drip.

Like a moth to a flame-- burned by the fire. Thanks Janet.

I had nothing to confirm my suspicions, so I shrugged his niceness off and avoided it. Casting for the next play and I just started spending more time at work and more time crashing at my friends places-- playing hide and seek. Maybe giving him a taste of his own Robitussin. I wondered how long we could keep this up. Something was different in the air.

And then the shit hit the fan.

The doorbell chimed at the theater and I jumped to receive the visitor. But little did I know, I was entering Dante's inferno. She was bony, old and when she found me she looked as if she'd been walking all day. Her tiny jeans clung to her gaunt frame, her pixie cut had out grown it's straightening and pieces of crudely bleached hair clung to her forehead. She was wearing a wrinkled, t-shirt, and Reeboks.

"Are you Geneva?"

"yes"

"Bitch!"

She lunged across the doorway and shoved me to the ground with all of her might. My fall broken by the cold mosaic floors. I looked up at this woman who seemed at the moment to be possessed. Her eyes twitched, like they were performing silent incantations--perhaps she was willing my destruction. The blow sent a powerful pain from my tailbone through out my entire body. My legs were trembling. It hurt to much to sit up. I was helpless.

I though her head my spin. Her eyes might roll back. I thought she'd proceed to beat me with her bony balled up fists.She looked tired. Like she'd never had a comfortable place to rest her head. Like she had witnessed a lot of grief in life. Like she had nothing to lose.

I wanted to scream, but I the shock alone had taken the wind from me. My mouth hung open, just like the window, letting out body heat. My heart pumped. My skin burnt. We were warring on the stoop of hell and I was unsure of the spoils. Then it was clear.

"I told you to stay away from him. I told you, you bitch. You whore! Try me, try to come near me again."

I heard foot steps, four of them, in a lop sided syncopation. Alternating thuds with the quick taps of the playwrights loafers against the tile. When Mother Africa discovered me staring at the ceiling, writhing in pain she began to cuss. She used the same bamboo fan she'd been fanning herself with to swat the unwelcome visitor away. "Get out! Get the fuck out!" Her voice ascended to a shrill. She looked like she was willing to go to bat for me. I still couldn't move.

The next thing I could make was the playwright speaking to the police. He was on the phone giving the 911 operator our address.

"Be glad I don't slice that bitch whore right here. You think I'm scared of you? You think I'm fucking scared of you. Don't try me!"

"I'm not scared of you," Mother Africa towered over her. She looked as if she touched her, she'd collapse. "Get off of my damn property. We're calling the cops. I'll have you arrested. You will rot in jail!"

It was actually pretty funny.

The woman began back up but she was still yelling obscenities. Calling me a cunt, a whore, a tramp, a witch and a bitch. Spelling out my death. Announcing all the people who would participate in my demise. My back hurt so much, it took over my entire body. I was burning, my lids snapped shut.

I woke up in the ER.

The doctor trying to talk to me looked like a soap actor. He could have been Shemar Moore's brother. "Geneva? Geneva?" I thought I was answering but it turns out my lips weren't moving. I turned my head. Mother Africa was by the door shaking her head and muttering something. I turned back, and it was Dr. Feel Good. It felt like I was under water and someone was pulling me up to the surface. His voice grew louder and clearer and louder and clearer. " Geneva, can you hear me? Can you hear me talking to you? Can you respond." He put his hand on my forehead and I wanted him to keep it there.

"Yes." My mouth felt like I'd been sucking on cotton balls. I've never been thirstier in my life. I soon learned that I'd spent the past 2 hours unconscious. The shock, the heat, and the pain had ruined me.

I moaned.

“Look, you may have damaged your tail bone. You’re pretty bruised back there.”

“You’ve already seen my behind?”

“We examined you when you came in,” he smiled.

“This is awkward”

“It shouldn’t be. I’ve seen worse.”

His smile revealed a set of dimples. Dr. Feel Good smelled like Christmas. Like chestnuts, and cider and gingerbread cookies. Or maybe I was hungry. And when he leaned over me and wrapped his warm toffee hands around mine, a shock of pleasure flew through my body.

"We’re going to get some x-rays done and take it from there okay.” He stroked the loose hair from my damp brow and left the room.

Long, short, I fractured my tailbone. My back side was black and blue. I was out of the hospital after two days, and I can walk okay, it’s just painful to sit. Hence why I’m writing this in one of those donut seat cushions.

In the week that followed my fall, I cleaned house. Figuratively.

Paul came over the day after I returned from the hospital. Caroline answered the door. My mom, Caroline and Noni are taking turns making food for me. I know. I'm loved. Caroline made him wait outside the apartment and asked me if I wanted to see him. Wait, she was actually scowling. I really did want to see him. I wanted to know if all this madness was really what it seemed. There was a part of me that wanted him to tell me that trollop was just a crazy stalker who lived in his building. Someone who had it twisted. But I followed Carolines judgement. The pain was shooting through my body as a reminder of all the emotional pain he had caused me over the years. I was exhausted so I let Caroline get rid of him. I don’t know what she said. Something stank. The door slammed seconds later.

Then my phone buzzed.

"How you doing queen?"

"My back feels like death."

"Anything I can do to help."

Wait, did he figure that if he just acted normal everything would be normal. Because there ain't shit normal about me catching a beat down.

"You can make sure your girlfriends don't get my phone number and addresses."

"Look, I feel I really need to apologize, but for real though. I had no idea she was tripping like that."

"Who is she?"

My question hung in the air like an ice cycle prepared to cut either of us when it broke free.

"She's someone I used to mess with."

Whomp. I felt another hard blow to my stomach. Tears began to well up in my eyes. My face burned. Why the hell was I crying over this fool? Why?

"How long ago?"

"It's over."

"Really Paul? You're going to play games now even though you know I actually got my ass kicked over some of your shit. Really? "

"I mean, it's over. What else do you want to hear?" Now was not the time to be smug. Now was the time for him to be humble, drop down on his knees, and beg for my forgiveness. Wasn't I worth that?

"You know what, nothing."

I hung up. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't handle the truth, or the sound of his voice, or the thought that all of my suspicions were right. He played me. He played the shit out of me.

When the phone rang a second time, I turned it off. I didn't even want to see his missed calls. I fought the tears and the darkness, but not hard enough. I curled up in my bed until Caroline found me and promptly scolded me for giving that clown my grief. It was tough love that at that moment I needed. Still, I cried on her shoulder until I had no more water and we drank wine until the wee hours of night.

I woke up with crust all over my eyes and lips. I had a hang over. My back was stabbing because I'd fallen asleep without my back cushion. But I was on a mission. I tip-toed to my bedroom, fished my for phone in the darkness and cleared his number. There. It was a start. But getting rid of Paul and his demons wasn't going to be that easy.

This trollop still had my number and for a week she called me from different phones just to hang up. Talk about adding insult to injury. Literally. I thought about doing a little investigation and taking out a restraining order. That was Noni's suggestion. But really, I just wanted to stay at home, nurse my bruised behind, and watch day time television during my week of sick leave.

Right now, it hurts to sit but it feels amazing to be alive. I didn't know how good it could feel to fall out of love with someone. Looking back on it, maybe God arranged my beat down on purpose. Maybe it was the very brutal wake-up call I needed to move on. I feel excited, for what I don't know. I'm proud of myself, for not turning back and letting him smother his way back into my world. And now I feel like it's time to try something new. Travel. Give the stage another shot. I don't know. I'm going to let myself heal, in all senses of the word, and then see where the wind takes me.

-Geneva

Does Love Have an Expiration Date?

Geneva

So... Exactly why are you here?

Each time I watched Paul grab OJ from the fridge to drink from the carton or warm up some more leftovers, that question went off in my head. It wasn't tripping over his free-loading; laying around the house, eating up the food, being here when I closed my eyes at night, and at first morning blink. I wasn't tripping over that. My roomate's never around any way.

I was annoyed that Paul was suffocating me when I needed to have some privacy. I needed to sleep alone. To eat alone. To be left alone.

He finally left on Thursday. He fled into the Harlem night like swirls of dust after a good porch sweeping. Good-grief. It felt like fresh air returned to the house and I could breath again.

By the time he left, the gloom had passed. It always does, like a storm cloud that exhausted itself then cast the sky steely gray. But even in the damp quiet, I needed to figure out my life. Figure out how I'd so easily slipped into another dark episode. He wouldn't give me space to do that.

Honestly, I didn't ask for it. My ass is too polite. Instead, I let him crowd my space with his twisted energy and shards of chatter that occasionally erupted silence like the smattering of glass. Paul is the only man I know that can accomplish avoidance and suffocation in one. When he wasn't on campus, he was sitting on the living room couch, comforted by an open window, reading a book. Not talking to me, talking through this, trying to figure out if we could salvage what was left. No. There was no love happening. There was the only the turning of pages, fan blades cutting through air, and the occasional profanity shouted on the other side of the window.

Shame.

"Yo, I'm about to pick up something from the bookstore."

I had just walked home from work and I was changing into a cotton dress. Our AC was broken. If Paul wasn't there, I would have stripped naked, and curled up next to the fan. "Okay."

"You wanna come with me."

"Yea, that's cool."

We walked down into the 145th street subway platform and waited on the C. It was hot as hell. I could feel beads of sweat crowding my kitchen. He wrapped one arm around my waist and held my hand with the other. "You alright?"

"I'm good." Since when had I become so delicate? Since when had he grown so quiet. Where was the man that hosted Fight Night in undergrad, shouting at the TV screen like he was ringside. Where was the man that gave Black kids from New Haven tours of Yale? Where was he? Still it was a nice gesture and the only one I can recall from the week. Paul held my hand until we made it to the used and rare bookstore in Noni's neighborhood.

I had been feeling guilty that his being there wasn't the healing I needed. A month ago, the only thing I wanted was Paul to come around. To know where he was and to know he was thinking of me. I felt the guilt of a sinner when he finally tosses a prayer in the air it comes down unanswered. His presence wasn't my healing. Let him tell it, it was the healing, the salvation and the testimony.

I don't know why men think that their jism is the cure-all, like it can mend a broken-heart and fix a relationship. No. Cum is not super glue, it's just cum.

Every night, like clockwork, he'd come in from the shower, hit the lights. Take off his boxers. Force my legs open and pump me like with enough effort he could cum inside my mind . His body felt good to me. Better than I should admit. But something wasn't right.

This wasn't the same sex that made me fall asleep with a smile on my lips. This wasn't the sex that made me want to get up and make him breakfast, make him feel like a King at my kitchen table. I felt like he was feeding me left overs. Spoils that he'd either been sharing with someone else or had been left sitting for so long, they'd gotten stale.

I wanted his love when it was fresh. I wasn't satisfied with the day-old, caked up kisses he was feeding me. It wasn't filling it any more. I was hungry. Hungrier than I ever knew.

Somehow, I was fasting and it wasn't for my spirit.

What Paul and I have is past it's expiration date. It no longer smells the same. It no longer looks the same nor tastes the same.

But I'm not ready to throw it away.

-Geneva

Pleasure and Pain

Geneva

Pablo Picasso had his blue period. Geneva has her black periods. La vie noir. Crazy stretches of time when the world’s rotation slows and seconds inflate like beads of water. Everything is covered in soot. It feels like the sun doesn’t want to rise. Like even the sun doesn’t give a damn. It feels like slumber. It feels like sleep, sleep, sleep.

Caroline and Noni left town. I really didn’t want to go to work. Would rather have laid in the comfort of my small room, damp, unwashed skin against satin sheets, and have stirred in and out of sleep. I didn’t want to have to shower and dress and do my hair and face anyone.

Too bad I had to go anyway. I mean I basically did nothing. It was me and the director there all day. I read 15 pages of a script we are considering and clicked around on Facebook, .staring at faces I haven’t seen in person in years. She left early, around three. I waited fifteen minutes and went home too.

My roommate had made some sort of spaghetti concoction that I helped myself to. She wasn’t around and her dogs were barking. The windows were up, letting in a nice breeze, but the sound of kids cackling on the stoop below was driving me crazy. I shut the windows. I shut my bedroom door. Nodded off.

I was having this crazy dream, like I was in the theater of night by myself when some man break in. I couldn’t see his face, just a tall body, tan arms. No face. I froze, even though he was coming for me, my legs couldn’t find the strength to run. It was like my mind was ordering them to flee and my legs were paralyzed. He reached for my neck and tried to take me down. I was screaming, but I wasn’t actually making sound, like someone had yanked my voice. He started shaking me, violently- And his cell phone was ringing, loudly. It was in his pocket. It wouldn’t stop ringing, went far beyond the standard four rings. I wanted him to answer it so I could plan my escape. Give my legs a second chance. I felt like I only needed a few seconds.

The phone was ringing.

I woke up.

My cell phone was in the bottom of my purse. It stopped. One missed call. Paul.

I threw my body across the bed. He’d called twice before and I didn’t know what to do. At the point, I felt like Paul was the reason my life was fucked up. The reason I didn’t want to wake up, or go to the theater or to yoga or comb my hair for that matter. He was the dark cloud and the thunderbolt. He was the darkness.

I stared at the ceiling. My heart was racing, my breathing heavy.

I don’t know where the courage came from, but I found myself digging for the phone, as if I had something to say. I speed-dialed his number, and then hoped he didn’t answer.

“Geneva.”

“Hey, I missed your call.” I sat on my bed.

“Yeah, yeah…. I’m on campus,” he said. I heard a crowd of voices around him. He had to be outdoors. 

“Come meet me.”

“Paul, I’m taking a nap.”

“Then I’ll come over there.”

“No… I mean, what’s wrong? Why do you want to see me?” I didn’t want my space invaded. I was craving loneliness.

“I’m trying to see you. What’s good?”

I wanted to stand up to him, and treat him like he treated me. With silence. But I couldn’t. “I mean, I kind of don’t feel up to hanging out today.”

“Can I come over when I finish up here?”

Damn. “Okay, fine.”

I rolled over and half-way went back to sleep. I think I was scared I’d return to that night mare.

He came over hours later. The sun was setting behind the curtains. I still didn’t want to turn any lights on. The dogs weren’t barking any more, I realized as I went to the door. My roommate was home. She’d fed them.

“Hey beautiful! What’s going on?” He entered my world like a pin ball. Arms swinging, he was full of energy and full of life. We had swapped moods. I was low. He was elevated. Sometimes I wondered if his brain worked like mine and if our volatile mood swings was the tie that really bonded us.

“Hey.” He engulfed me with his hug, buried his nose in my hair, and kissed me.

He followed me to my room. The sun was sinking fast. It was charcoal gray pierced by the light of my computer screen.

“You straight?”

“I’m alright.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… nothing I want to talk about.”

He kicked off his shoes, and laid back. He pulled me down beside him. He turned to his side, kissed my ear lobe. His hand crept beneath my shirt. It felt natural.

“Let me know what’s on your mind.”

“I just, you know, sometimes don’t feel like myself.”

He covered my neck , cheek, and ear lobes with feather weight kisses. He paused. He was familiar with my dark periods. I think it was this side of me that turned him on. Made him feel powerful, and normal.

“What happened?”

It was the time to confront him about the woman who’d rang my phone, the old woman with an attitude. I should have told him then, that I had a gut feeling she was the same woman he’d been on the phone with that night. And then, without opening my mouth, I would tell him that I was terrified of being without him. He was my first love and his craziness was a part of my world now. But I didn’t tell him any of that. I just said,

“Nothing, going through a moment.” I couldn’t tell him my truth because I didn’t want to face his.

I let him be the hero.

I wondered if he knew about the phone call. He didn’t let on to it. Instead he acted like he was a roots doctor, with the cure to my ailment. Like his jism was the cure to my sickness.

He rolled on top of me, forced himself between my legs. I felt myself sinking into the mattress, the heat of his breath spread over my face. I felt him growing and at once, wanted to shove him off and egg him on. I didn’t want to be entered but I wanted him to be happy. He undressed me, suckled me, as if he was doing this to make me happy. As if his virility was penicillin.

He rolled off me and undressed. His sex faced me and I faced the root of my problems, the sex that enslaved me and made me crave him and the sex that always made me forgive him even when he was an ass.

He was violent. He went deeper than what was comfortable. He made the bed shake. He made me scream, partially because I was reaching an orgasm and partially because I was in pain. It was like each thrust alternated pleasure and pain and the more I cried out the harder he went. I was his cheer leader cheering him on. He pulled out to finger me, and to speed my satisfaction. I realized that he wanted to see me come. In the midst of his feeling powerful, he needed to feel the ultimate power. I did and he did shortly after.

He rolled over and fell into a deep slumber. By then it was dark. The dogs were quiet. I could hear nothing but the hum of silence. The ripe smell of sex was taking center stage. It was all over both of us. He looked so happy. I suddenly wished I could take back that orgasm, and give him back all of the pleasure and pain. I felt dirty. I felt like he knew how to control me. I felt as if he had found me in my darkness and taken advantage of me at my most vulnerable moment.

I put my panties back on and tip toed into the backroom. I shut the door and turned on the shower, the sound of the water drowning out the wail of my tears.

- Geneva

Two's A Complication, Three's A Crowd

Geneva

He called… wait actually he straight harassed me for two days, with text messages and phone calls until I finally picked up and asked, ‘What do you want negro?!”

In my head. But my hello was definitely more of a question than a exclamation.

He acted as if nothing had happened. He asked me how I was doing and how the show went. Now I know this fool is crazy.

All his eccentricities aside, when asked me to meet him somehow I ended up in BK, on the foot of his bed hearing him out.

He told me he had to make a trip home at the last minute to see his folks and he said it in a way that I felt guilty trying to ask more. So I didn't.

Instead looked him square in they and attempted to let him know what I'm feeling. And I'm not sure I knew. He was wearing black sweat pants and wife beater and he smelled like coco butter. I hate that when we're apart, I can't stand him, and when we're together, I just want to cuddle. I didn't feel like having an argument, which with Paul, is more like a melodramatic monologue recited before an audience of one.

I didn't go there. "I need-- I need to know what we're doing, because lately it doesn't feel like we're together. I don't know, I don't feel connected to you any more."

"I mean, I don't know why you feel like that. Everything is cool."

Take a deep breath. Calm. Take another deep breath. Do not curse.

"Except for it's not cool--" I said slowly. "Like when you call me, I answer. When I call you, you don't. So...."

"So you trying to say you have a problem with me not answering my phone?"

I wanted to say "No fool! I have a problem with you being a dick". But when you love someone, and you're trying to keep him, you can't say that.

" I just don't know what's going on. You seem distant. I don't hear from you for days."

"We don't have the type of relationship where we have to be together all the time. We're beyond all that."

"But at least I should hear from you!! Like what is the excuse? You're not taking classes or TA-ing right now. Why couldn't you just call... no, send me a text? Why couldn't you even send me a text message to tell me you weren't coming to the show."

I lost my patience, and Paul decided to stop acting like an apathetic ass. He became gentle.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you Geneva. I apologize, I didn't know my being there meant that much to you. But don't start doubting me, us.. I love you. I tell you all the time that your my queen. He leaned in from his chair and placed his hand on my knee. I had nothing else to say. So I just looked at him, let my crossed arms fall and he came on the bed to join me. He kissed me. Then asked if I wanted a t-shirt to sleep in for the night.

****

The next morning Paul rode the subway with me home and the way I was feeling was so problematic. This man is capable of making me feel high, but that morning, everything was a crazy blur. Something didn't add up but I couldn't even call him on it. He walked me to my building with his hands in his pockets. He was deep into what ever music was playing. We hugged. He kissed my cheek and our evening of reckoning was over.

I was relaxing with my door closed since my roommate insists in allowing her wild ass dogs run free in the area also known as a living room. As I was going through my daily blogroll, my phone rang. I was hoping it was Paul needing to get something off his chest.

It wasn't. It was a 917 number I didn't recognize.

"Hello?"

"May I ask who I am speaking to?" It was a woman's voice, like an older womans voice and she sounded like she had an attitude.

"May I ask who I'm speaking to?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

"Yes, I'm still here. This is Paul's woman and I would appreciate it if you would stop calling him."

Wait what? "Excuse me? Who is this?" It had to be a practical joke, but she sounded like she was too old and too stale to be playing phone games.

"Don't worry about who I am, just don't keep calling my man. You understand that?"

"How'd you even get this number? Why are you calling me?"

"Because this number is all over his fucking caller ID."

I hung up. She called back. I didn't pick up. Who was this crazy woman and why did she have access to his phone. Actually, why does she think she's seeing him?

My first instinct was to call Paul, but he wouldn't have answered. Instead, I took a shower, shoved my hair back with a scarf, and caught the subway into financial district. I was going to need for Caroline to take a two hour lunch break.

-Geneva