Free Book Excerpts

Sebrina Cooper navigates single life on the other side of thirty, including an affair with a married man and accidental friendship with his wife.

Excerpt

Prologue

“I am having the most amazing sex…with your husband. Yes, your husband. As a matter of fact, I fuck him every chance I get.” I felt my eyes draw tight as I stood there, pleased with my cool delivery, satisfied at having rendered her completely speechless.

Well, I would have been pleased and satisfied if it weren’t for the truth. And the truth is that I was actually standing in the shower, rinsing the soap and Noxema® from my face, rehearsing a conversation that would probably never happen. I mean, really. Who breaks news like that, anyway?

The more I thought about it, the worse it sounded. I tried again. “I’m sorry to tell you, but he doesn’t love you.” I liked the image of her, hands on hips, with her mouth caved open, making that sound like something had lodged in the back of her throat.

I grabbed the washcloth and drifted back into my fantasy. “There’s nothing you can do about it. Hey, this is just the way it is.” Okay, that’s some bullshit, but it’s my shower and my daydream.

“What can I say? It just happened.”

Okay, that garbage wasn’t going to work. I felt like I was about to break into a rendition of “Woman to Woman” or some other 70’s I-stole-your-man song, and I wasn’t feeling the bitchy soap opera dialogue.

I wanted to convince myself that it would be best just to come right out with it, like it would ever be that simple. But an ongoing thing like this doesn’t just happen. And it doesn’t just stop.

Seven months had come and gone, and in that time, all I’d managed to do was convince myself that I was in love or something like it, with somebody else’s man. Curtis is the kind of man who you’d always have to be strong about when doing the right thing is at stake, and the day I slipped and fell back into bed with him wasn’t my day to be strong.

His look was not just hypnotic, it was downright poetic. I would practically gravitate toward him. And when he smiled, the two tiny dimples just above the corners of his mouth could make you say yes before he even asked the question. He’s always had a gift for making me forget myself.

Just then the bathroom door swung open and there was my partner in crime.

“Sebrina, who are you talking to?”

“Nobody. I was just—singing,” I told him.

He smiled. “Well, come sing for me.”

I smiled back. “In a minute.”

You could hardly call what we do singing. Though something about the way he does what he does makes me want to sing to him. Sing for him. Sing about him. Anita Baker said it best. He brings me joy. And if anybody could ever bring me joy when I’m down, it’s Curtis. Even if he is the reason I lost my way in the first place. But that’s not part of the song. Or is it?

Chapter One – Old Beginnings

I arrived in Atlanta in the fall of 1998. About a year later, Curtis and I ran into each other at my job. I’m in the Army. He’s a Marine recruiter.

Ever since I joined the Army, God has seen fit to give me my share of what we call special assignments. This job is one of those kinds of assignments. I’m the first to admit that this place is not most people’s idea of the “real Army”. I don’t sleep in the field three weeks out of the month. I don’t run five miles a day at four o’clock in the morning. More on that running thing later. I’ve never been deployed. I don’t pull guard duty at the gate and yell, “Hark, who goes there? What’s the password?” or any of that stuff.

I haven’t done “real Army” stuff since forever ago, when I was crazy enough to let one of my basic training buddies talk me into going to Air Assault School with her so that she could follow her boyfriend to Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Air Assault School—that’s rappelling out of helicopters—is when I discovered that I’m afraid of heights, but also found out that I’m a better runner than anyone who hates running ought to be. Then came the Army’s Master Fitness School, just for normal career progression. Of course, that was back when Be All You Can Be was still the Army’s motto, its best motto in my opinion, and I was on the fast track to somewhere. A few years later came MEPS duty.

The MEPS, or Military Entrance Processing Station, is that place that every high school kid contemplates going to when the job offers and college scholarships aren’t flooding the mailbox after graduation. The same place that every college student thinks about going to when they’re stressed out, flunking out, or just running out of money.

It’s where you go to take the test and the physical and would get sworn in if you don’t change your mind first. It’s that place where college grads say they’ll never, never end up because they’re educated and ambitious. They’ve got connections, friends, frat brothers and sorors, internships. And most of all, they’ve got a degree, like it’s a magic wand.

But circumstances have a way of turning situations around. It’s rude when you realize you got few, if any skills, little or no marketable experience, and you’ve also got loans to pay off. And when it comes time to make that first payment, your degree, internships, networking, and ambition all add up to pocket lint. The next thing you know, you’re in Never-Never Land, the MEPS, and that’s where I work. My particular MEPS is on Fort Gillem, just south of metro Atlanta.

Think back about that Army test that those recruiters came to our high schools and gave, that we just took so we could get out of class for three hours. Well, those people aren’t recruiters. They’re Test Administrators, or TA’s, and I’m one of them. The recruiters are just there to help out. We call them proctors. And it’s not the Army test. It’s an aptitude test that tells people how qualified they are for certain jobs. We still give it at high schools, but we also give it here at my job, usually on the computer, but sometimes with paper and pencil. But I digress. Enough of sounding like a pre-test briefing.

Anyway, I usually work at night, which is a true blessing because I hate getting up early. As much as I love this job, ten years ago you couldn’t have told me I’d end up here, in Uncle Sam’s Army. Looking to have my own adventures, get my own stuff, and yes, pay off that mortgage called a student loan. I saw just how small the world is when I ended up stationed right back at home in Georgia.

And who do you guess just happened to be recruiting for a few good men right here in ATL? Gunnery Sergeant Kirkpatrick Mortecai Curtis. Only by then, Curtis was an ex-boyfriend who was about to be married in six weeks. His fiancé, some prude-ass looking, chunky-faced military brat who’d followed him from wherever he’d found her, was having her We-Need-Our-Space- Before-the-Wedding phase. Stupid heifer.

It was the Tuesday after Columbus Day weekend, a few days before the Georgia Student Test Day, the biggest, suckiest MEPS testing day of the year. Teachers and students scurrying around between classrooms, recruiters running amok, too many books to keep up with. Curtis came blowing into the MEPS, huffing and puffing, and just expecting somebody to fall for one of those tired-ass excuses for being late for a test.

I’d gotten up at o’dark-thirty, driven way out to some school out near Athens, gotten lost on the way, finally found it, given a test, arrived back at work just in time to do QRP—that’s Quality Review Process—on records for the next day’s business— and then finished that up just in time to take up my post at the front counter to check in applicants for the night test. By closing time, at six o’clock in the evening, you could say I was a little cranky, but mostly just ready to go home.

Curtis came bolting in just after six, baby-faced applicant in tow, as I was collecting the clipboards from the counter. That’s what recruiters do when they’re late. Bolt through the door for effect. Before he could even begin his excuse, I cut him off. I’d surveyed every inch of his body in the time it took to take one breath, even noticing that he’d fixed that once-chipped tooth, but I started my ass-chewing spiel like I didn’t even know him.

“Listen here, S’arnt. The Marines don’t run nothin’ up in MEPS. Late is late.” Late or not, he was the best looking thing that I’d seen come through that door. Hell, maybe even the best looking thing walking on two legs. I felt like I could pass out, but I hardly even blinked.

He blinked a couple of times, surely caught off guard by the fact that he recognized me. Then he started his excuse. “I know I’m a little late. We had a flat.” He talked and breathed like they’d just changed four flat tires in a hurricane and barely made it there alive.

“Aw, bull—,” I looked over at the kid in mid-sentence, “—loney.” Recruiters and their stories.

He said, “Really,” with a wide-eyed, high pitched, faked sincerity. “It was the damned-est thing.” He paused and then started again in his regular voice, attempting to exert some kind of authority. “I don’t need to explain that to you. I need somebody to take care of my applicant. Is that you?” His mouth was so pretty and he was really working that gum. I glanced over at the applicant again, who as if on cue, started heaving and breathing like he was out of breath, too.

“Maybe it is. What’s that got to do with you being on time?”

No answer.

“What you need,” I said, “is to be here by 1800. Not 1815, or even 1800 and one second. The cut off for check-in is six o’clock.”

“It’s just now six o’clock,” he said. “It’s six o’clock.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said back. “‘Time for Street to rock’, and all that, and time for me to go home. And breathing all heavy like you just sprinted barefoot down 75 to get here don’t change none of that.” His eyes demanded contact, but I blinked down at my computer to reemphasize my point. “And actually, according to my terminal, you are 7 minutes and— 12 seconds late.” I batted my eyes back up at him. “Sorry.”

“I—”

“Must be new,” I said to finish his sentence. He had his jacket on over his shirt, so to add insult to injury, I asked, “What’s your name S’arnt?” I knew that Marines can be really touchy about rank, so I purposely called him S’arnt just to see how anal he would be.

“Gunnery Sergeant,” he corrected me, and he meant it.

I suppressed the smirk I felt coming on and pretended to exercise some military bearing.

“Hmph. Well, S’arnt Gunnery S’arnt, excuses are the tools of the weak and incompetent.” I turned my back on him as I opened door to the files room, just behind the counter. “Or don’t they teach you that in the Marines?”

“You’re still talking to a senior NCO,” he said to the door closing behind me. “Or don’t they teach you that in the Army?”

“Yep,” I said, as I opened the door and returned to the counter. Then I reminded him, “Teach us how to tell time too. And you’re still late.” I was on a roll. “Anyway, out of time, out of luck. It’s all the same.”

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?” The demand kind of turned me on, as if I weren’t already.

I stepped back and batted my eyes again. “Just who do you think I’m talking to, Lateness?”

His left eyebrow jumped up like he was intrigued, or maybe starting to get a little pissed off at knowing a Marine couldn’t take control of the situation from a soldier.

“Tell you what.” I relented. I already knew when they came through the door that I was going to let that kid go back to take the test. I just wanted to make them sweat a little bit, but there was really no need to keep torturing either of them. “I’ll give you a break. But this is the first and last time you get away with this, and only because you’re new. This doesn’t happen again.”

He let out an unimpressed, “Hmph.”

Uncalled as it was, I continued to give him a hard time for the hell of it as I took the Seven-Fourteen, the test request form, from the applicant. “Next time, save all your flat tire, got stuck in traffic, bad weather or whatever other kind of stories for your station commander when I send you up out of here.”

“I am the station commander.” He leaned forward on the counter, and watched me work at filling out the test form. God, I could smell him, and it was the most delicious scent of all day mixed with lingering cologne.

Then I let out an unimpressed, “Hmph.” After a few seconds, I said, “Okay S’arnt, I got it. Back up, now. You’re crowding me.” Distracting me was more like it. I tried not to lick my lips, remembering them pressed against his bare heaving chest. Plus, I needed a manicure. I continued with, “What I need you to do is either get back to the recruiter lounge…”

He just stood there, so I stopped writing.

“Or get out,” I said with a shrug, “In which case, you can take Mr.—,” I looked down at the 714, “—Madison, with you. Your choice.” I glanced at a bewildered Mr. Madison, who just wanted to take the test.

Curtis took a step back, braced with his arms crossed, like he was daring me to try to physically remove him. A chill rushed through me and knocked the pen right out of my hand.

He must have sensed it because he loosened up. “Okay, let’s start over. How are you doing today?” He smiled and put his hands on the counter. Even his hands were still beautiful, with those long, lean fingers. Clean fingernails. Flat tire my ass.

“I’m good,” I lied, tired as hell. “If I was any better I’d be screaming with my legs in the air.” Mr. Madison chuckled. I smirked. Curtis’ eyebrow jumped again, but I pretended not to notice. “And you?” I asked and started to look away before he had time to reply.

“I’m good and getting better,” he said, starting to smile.

“That right?” I pretended to be half-listening, as I picked up the pen and kept writing, but I was absolutely hinging on the sound of his breath and the smell of his cologne. I regrouped. “Stand by Gunny, while I get Mr. Madison checked in.”

“No problem,” he agreed. “How about I wait over here?” He leaned his fine ass against the door.

I smiled down at the counter, fantasizing, telling myself he still has a perfect kiss and how his lips are still so soft and smooth.

All I could think was how much I missed him. Christ help me. I wanted to jump across that counter, wrap my legs around his back, and fuck him through his clothes. Instead, I just finished processing young Mr. Madison, and sent him back to the test room, where I’m sure my fellow TA was going to be pissed at me for checking in someone fifteen minutes past the cut off time.

When we were alone, I said, “Hey,” still imagining my legs flung around his back and holding tight. “Oh my goodness, it’s good to see you.” I wanted to go in for a gentle hug, before returning behind the counter, but something stopped me.

He smiled and said, “Hey,” back to me.

“About before, Curtis. Sorry I had to be so hard on you in front of the kid. We really have to put our foot down around here. You know. You have to be like, ‘When in charge, take charge’. Especially when you get hard headed recruiters coming in here when they feel like it. And it’s been a really long day. I was just messing with you a little bit.”

“That’s cool,” he said, then added, “Where did you learn to become such a bitch?”

Bitch? “Watch your mouth, Marine.” I winced a little. “Was I that bad?” I’ll show you a bitch.

He nodded. “Somebody taught you well.”

“Yeah. These bitch-ass recruiters,” I said, a little defensively. “Marines, mostly.”

“Calling me and my brothers bitches?”

“Mmhmm. The world’s finest.” I turned away for a moment to open the files room door and click off the lights.

Whether it’s true or not, I have something of a reputation for favoring Marines. My coworkers seem to think the Marines put stars in my eyes. “Something about those blue pants,” I always say. “You know, even the ugly ones make you look twice.” If any of that is true, Curtis started all that.

“Well.” He puffed out his chest. “Everybody can’t wear these blue pants.”

“Thank God,” I answered, attempting to deflate him, but smiling inside.

“Somebody used to like them.”

“Shhhh. Somebody likes them now,” I mumbled with my back still turned.

“Say what?” Oh, God. He heard me.

I just said, “Hmph. These green ones fit fine.” His arms and chest filled out that jacket just right, and I wondered if it all felt as good as it used to.

“Mmhmm,” he said. “Filling them out a little bit too.”

Now, that wasn’t necessary. I did the best I could to keep from consciously frowning, but I was sure frowning on the inside. These damn pants never come back fitting the same once they go to the cleaners. Too baggy in the front, too tight on the hips, too high in the hem. I got self-conscious, thinking how he must have noticed my pockets bulging on the sides the slightest little bit, and as I rubbed down the sides of my pants, I finally came back with, “And they actually match the shirt. Imagine that.” Hmph. Like your ass is as narrow as it used to be.

Now, if I’d have called him a peacock with all those damn non-matching colors, he’d have had his feelings hurt. Red stripes on royal blue pants, pea green stripes on a khaki shirt, black and white Good Humor Man cap. Leave it to the Marine Corps to put such an ensemble together. I stood there expecting his righteous indignation, feeling a little righteously indignant myself.

“All I’m saying is you look good.” He sighed. “And it’s good to see you, too.” His teeth were gleaming.

“Yeah,” I sighed back, and then I was beaming. Matching or not, he still looked good to me. Leave it to the Marines to make some tacky shit like that work.

While I was closing down the counter and straightening up, we talked a little more about his recent past, my recent past, how I’d been, how he’d been, how long he’d been in Atlanta. Then he segued not-so-subtly into guess-what-I’m-finally-getting-married.

Suddenly the smile just stuck to my face. “That’s great,” I said through my teeth, not making as much eye contact as before.

That’s when he told me about his fiancé, Andra-Lyn, and her little phase. I tried not to flinch at the sound of her name. The hell she get a name like that, anyway? Her and her fucking stupid ass phase. I just nodded and smiled. I might as well have been The Joker, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I don’t know what came over me, except the little devil on my shoulder telling me that opportunity was about to come knocking. I couldn’t even remember my last good sex. I had to be working on some kind of record to have gone that long.

I mean, it wasn’t really as if he was a new man. It wasn’t like I was adding yet another name to a list that was already getting too long for me to remember the order.

“So, what time do you leave here?”

“Now,” I said, glad he asked.

“You wanna go somewhere and talk? Maybe get something to eat.”

I should have been thinking, Hell no! Don’t waste a good year of chastity and clean living on his fixing-to-be-married ass. Say no thank you. Damn him. But I said, “Okay.” I smiled like the cat who was about to eat the canary.

“Okay.” He smiled back. “What’s up? Follow me? Or do I follow you? Where do you want to go?” I guess I never noticed how much smiling and laughing people tend to do when they’re up to no good. And yes, there was a lot of smiling going on.

I must have looked like I was giving his question some serious thought, because he threw in, “Oh wait. You don’t eat as much as you used to, do you?” Then he laughed.

I laughed too because at that point all I was thinking was that the chances were better than good that I was going to have sex that night.

Then I said, “Whatever, man.” Thinking. “Anyway, how about you follow me to my apartment. I live near here. Just give me a minute to get changed.” He smiled and nodded. I walked down the hall to the female locker room and changed into my civilian clothes before the drive home.

Chapter Three – Red Light Runners

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop the way I felt when I thought about Curtis, about being with him, about us. I can think of a good three, four, ten reasons why this is a bad idea, but it’s funny how commitment and temptation work on you. He’s committed to someone else, and I keep yielding to temptation. I wish I had a good reason for not being stronger. I abhor the thought of being involved with a married man. A married military man, at that. That was supposed to be my never-never land. And both of us being military makes this thing a particularly bad thing, a court martial offense. But he was mine, first.

It’s kind of like running a stop sign. You know you’re doing something wrong, potentially dangerous. But for some reason, you do it anyway, and keep taking chances doing it. And because you didn’t get caught the last time, you’re thinking, the more you do it, the better your odds are of getting away with it again. You’re thinking, So what the hell? Nobody got hurt. Not really. I’m careful enough. Sort of. It’s harmless. Pretty much. And you continue being selfish like that, as if no one is ever going to get hurt. And always, always, eventually someone does, broad-sided or rear-ended, and never saw it coming. Right now, I’m the one in the driver’s seat. I’m in control of a situation that should have never been. And it’s just like I’m driving on through the same damn stop sign that’s more like a red light. The first 30 years of my life have been sitting on red. When was it going to finally be my turn to go, damnit? I just got tired of waiting.

It was the second week in January 2000, the first year of the new millennium, or the last year of the old millennium, depending on your perspective. However you look at it, it was the year to make some changes. Another year would not go by with me in this situation, bringing in the New Year with a bunch of folks from work, or by myself, or in church, or any of the above, man-less.

One would think it impossible, but there I was, nearly two years in the Black Man Mecca of the South, and man-less. Sans man. Man deficient. Absent man-ness. Now I know how the Ancient Mariner felt. Talk about not a drop to drink. If ever there was a draught of men anywhere, it’s here: Too old, too young, too gay, or too married.

So, I was sitting in the files room at work pulling records for QRP. As usual, there were a couple of records missing for the Marine applicants, so the obvious place to start looking was in the Marine counselor’s office. Instead of getting up walking down the hall, I called.

When I heard, “Atlanta MEPS, Gunny Curtis,” the voice jarred me a little, so I said, “Who?”

“Gunny Curtis,” he repeated himself, raising his voice and sighing. You can just about guess how I liked the nerve of that bastard huffing at me.

So I said, “Gunny Curtis, please don’t scream in my ear.”

He answered, “I wasn’t screaming, staff sergeant. You’re on the speakerphone.” Then he repeated, “Atlanta MEPS,” and sighed again.

All I could think was, I know where the hell I am! Hmph. I answered with, “Can I talk to someone in the Marine Liaison Office.” After a short pause, “Please,” forced its way out of my mouth.

“You’re talking to the Marine Liaison Office. What can I do for you?” I could hear his audience’s amusement in the background.

“You can bring a couple of records for QRP,” I told him. I spouted off the names, something like, “Jones and Roberts are on the floor tomorrow, so we need them.”

“Uh, Who? What?” he asked.

Then I sighed, “Records for Q—. How about this, Clueless? You can get me off the speakerphone and let me talk to somebody who actually works in there.”

All he managed to get out was, “Uh,” before one of the actual Marine liaison counselors picked up the receiver.

He cleared his throat and continued. “Sorry about that, staff sergeant. That’s what we get for letting recruiters answer our phone.”

“Uh, yeah.” I paused for a couple of seconds, damn near forgetting what I’d called for. Finally I said, “Hey Gunny, can you bring us a couple of records for QRP?” I gave him the names and hung up. A couple of minutes later, he dropped the records off at the front counter. Then he sort of smirked as he walked away.

I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I felt empty and cheated like I missed my chance to say something, but what did I have the right to say? I’m mad as hell that I fucked you, and even madder than hell that I can’t fuck you again? It was all I could do not to cuss somebody out for asking the simplest question or making the most ambiguous comment. I guess we all go through our days asking each other how we’re doing, and most of us don’t even care about the answer. I’m no different. Depending on the time of day, day of the week or week of the month, I could easily respond with, I’m hungry, my feet hurt, I need a new weave, and I just started my period I’m in dire need of a bikini wax and dire-er need of a man to notice. But I stick with the Just fine, thanks, adding the standard, And you? in passing, like it’s not a question.

All that particular day, saying, Just fine, thanks, when I really would rather have babbled on with, I’m tired, broke, and lonely, I spend way more money than I make, I make way less money than I’m worth, and I want a man of my own, was really a struggle.

When I got home that night, I found Curtis’ business card in my door with a note written on the back. Sorry about today. Call me, please.

I won’t deny that I ran to the phone to call him. I took a couple of breaths and then dialed. When he answered, I told him, “I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t be just dropping by over here, leaving notes on my door.”

He cleared his throat before responding. “So what you’re saying is, call first from now on?”

“You know what I’m saying. You shouldn’t be coming over here, or leaving notes on my door. Or anything. From now on.”

“Listen, could I come by in a minute?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I said.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

“You know, I’d rather you wouldn’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a no.”

I was tripping at how I was even going through the motions with this conversation. “Curtis, let’s not start this, okay?”

“Start what?”

“Look,” I said. “You know I need a lot of attention, and you—you just ain’t in that kind of position.”

“I just want to talk,” he lied.

“Come on, Curtis. Don’t play me like that. Give me a little bit of credit.”

“Okay, Baby.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

It didn’t help that he was calling me Baby, but I could listen to his voice all night. I dragged on with this bogus exchange, like I wasn’t already considering exactly what I knew he wanted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me. And to be honest, I’m really just almost at the point of not giving a damn.”

“So, tell me what it’s like,” he said, like that wasn’t enough said.

“You’ve only been married for a couple of months,” I said back. “What do you want with me?” That was a rhetorical question, and he knew it. What did he mean, so? So? “So if I see you again, I know all I’m going to want to do is fuck you.” Okay, that did not come out right.

“Wow,” he breathed a slight chuckle at my lack of subtlety.

“I mean, shit. You know what I mean.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “Really.”

I just held the phone.

Then he said, “See you in a minute, Baby,” as if my silence was the only real answer he needed. Then he hung up.

Awwww—shit! Shit, shit, shee-it! I stood there for a couple of seconds and just cussed myself. No. No. Don’t do this. I cussed all the way to the shower. I had to shave in the shower, because I hadn’t had a recent bikini wax, and I didn’t have any Nair in the house. I cussed while I shaved and bathed myself in smell-good shower gel. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror while I reminded myself how wrong this was.

I went in my bedroom and turned the covers back and lit a couple of candles on the dresser. I sat on the bed in my bathrobe and then just fell back and stared up at the ceiling fan. I thought about what color lingerie I would put on. Or maybe just a bra and panties. Damn! I wish I’d bought those edible pink panties.

Okay. No. No edible panties. “Don’t do this,” I said out loud to myself. I sat up and swung my feet for a few more seconds. Then I went and sat by the front door, for several minutes trying to unmake my made up mind.

When he knocked on the door, I was still sitting there in my bathrobe. I stood up and leaned my back against the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “It’s me.”
“I know.”

“So—what’s up? You opening the door or what?”

My stomach fluttered as I stayed braced against the door. “You know this is a bad idea,” I said.

“Since when is that reason enough not to do something?” His twisted logic made us both laugh. I took a deep breath and turned around and cracked open the door.

I was about to make another reasonable argument when he pushed the door the rest of the way open and kissed me. He came in and pushed his back against the door and held me and kissed me. Kissed me. And kissed me. I managed to get out the words, “I’m just saying I don’t want to get hurt.”

He just said something like “Mmmm,” and kissed me harder and breathed harder and held me tighter.

“I don’t, don’t um…” My mind went blank for a second.

“Don’t what, baby?” he asked. “You don’t want me?”

“Um, don’t want to hurt her,” I think I said, which was exactly true. I didn’t even know her, or care about her, honestly. But I knew what it was like to be hurt like that. Hell, I knew what it was like to be hurt by him like that. And none of that, at least at that moment, mattered one bit. What mattered is that I was feeling too good to want it to stop. Damn a red light.

He reached his hand inside my robe and whispered, “If you don’t want this, just tell me, and I’ll stop.” And he kept saying, “Tell me you want it, Baby. Tell me you want it,” all the while pushing his hand between my legs.

He picked me up off of my feet and turned me around so that my back was against the door and stayed pressed against me. And I kept saying, “Please,” and breathing like I was running from something but not getting anywhere.

And he kept kissing me all over my face, my neck and shoulders, and pulling his clothes off and saying, “Please what, Baby? Say you want it. Just say it. Say you want this dick.”

Hell yeah, I wanted it. I wanted to ride him raw, so hard that he’d feel like I would break it off. I wanted it doggy style and thrown up against a wall and to feel him sweating all over my back. I wanted to take it in the ass and beg him not to stop because he’d be hitting all the spots that couldn’t be reached any other way. I wanted his tongue shoved so far up my pussy that I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to swallow him whole and hear him scream for me and God at the same time. I wanted all that, and I wanted to not want it, but not as much as I wanted it. “I—oh God,” I heard myself about to pray for forgiveness for what I knew I was about to do. “I—can’t. Mmmm. Please.”

And every time I thought I could catch enough breath to say what I should have said, he’d kiss me in my mouth until I could hardly breathe. God, he was feeling good. He was smelling good. But mostly, he was feeling good. I could feel the ripples in his stomach pressed against me.

“Please, what, baby? Tell me,” he said, like he really thought I could.

I couldn’t tell him anything. I couldn’t even think of anything but hard dick. Hard, magnificent dick, throbbing between my parted thighs, begging to go just a little bit farther, all mine, if I dared to claim it. Mmm. My dick. Long enough. Wide enough. Just the right amount of rough. Too close to pass it up. Again. Who was I kidding?

It was like I was some pothead who was suddenly consumed with a fiend’s case of the munchies for forbidden dick. Or a crackhead who just couldn’t resist one more hit of that sweet, smooth, slick pipe that had my jaws tight and my mouth literally aching to taste it again, calling me. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

“I,” was all I managed to get out. We ended up having sex right there against the front door. He had my head spinning. I could feel my body tightening, and then loosening as he slid so easily inside me, welcoming, begging, needing every thrust and stroke and motion that he put on me. I swear, I felt the walls moving and the floor about to give way.

He was exactly what I needed, exactly what I’d been missing, and I wasn’t ready or willing to give him up again. It was right there against that door that I decided. Now, what we do is her problem, not mine.

He stayed all night, holding me close. I don’t know what he told her, and didn’t care, because it felt good to feel good, and up until now, I’d forgotten how good. That sexy, beautiful kind of good that you only get from being touched by a man you can hardly wait to touch you, and when he does, you don’t want him to ever stop.

A few hours later, I vaguely remember staggering to the door to lock it behind him, and then making my way back to the bed. The smell of him was making me hot all over again, so I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled to the shower. I went into work a few minutes early. Even went to PT. On a cold ass day in January.

Just be clear, doing PT, physical training, means running at least two miles. Not only do I hate running, I hate early mornings, which sometimes makes me wonder how the hell I’m still in the Army. People on three continents know I hate PT, so for me to have my ass up and running, things have to be going way wrong or way right. What is it about good sex that makes you feel like you want to do stuff you know that you wouldn’t ordinarily want to do?

Anyway, New Year, new attitude. I told myself that 2000 is the year to come up, not back up. And there’s no room in my life for this second hand stuff that he was trying to get me caught up in. His clock starts ticking right now.

I trudged along the track for a few more steps and then came to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? That sex the night before would make running less of a pain in the ass the next day?

The scales were definitely tipped. I was feeling way too good for my own good. My shift doesn’t start until eleven, but I got to work and was ready to rock by 10:15 or so. And that includes the time it took for me to press my skirt, using the iron and board in the vault, pin my hair up, put on my uniform and adjust my ribbons on my shirt.

I walked into my shop just like any other day except the thought of recent sex had me smiling. I’d expected that today would be a pretty uneventful day, considering the night I had last night. I was still tingling and my thighs practically burned thinking about it.

I came through the door and heard the Charlie Brown theme song playing. Residual Christmas music, I guess. I sat down to a stack of tests that came in from one of the MET—or mobile something-something—sites waiting to be coded and graded, so I dug in. A MET site is one of our remote testing locations in different parts of the state where the test administrator goes to give a paper version of the test for applicants who for whatever reason choose not to come to the MEPS to take the computerized version.

When I looked up, I saw my grown-ass coworkers dancing around, mimicking the Charlie Brown gang in that scene where they were all on the stage getting down to Schroeder playing the piano. I have the best coworkers. Silly bastards.

Chapter Sixteen – Hindsight

I must have been losing my mind. I wanted Curtis next to me.

I wanted his touch. His smell. His smile. His eyes. His tongue in my mouth. His dick in my hands. The taste of him on my lips.

God, I just killed my baby this morning, and I was actually turned on. But I wouldn’t cry again. I wouldn’t think about that baby, or this morning, or twenty minutes ago. Thinking about him should have made me sick, but it didn’t.

My God, I wanted him. He loved the way I touched him. He loved it! I missed his voice telling me how good it feels and how bad he wants me.

I missed the way he would wrap his arms around my waist, caressing that place just above my navel, right below my rib cage, and that place just below my navel right where my hair line starts to grow in. I even missed the way he gets on my nerves when he says, ‘Bout time for a wax, ain’t it, Babe?

I was thirsty for him, and the smooth, sweet, salty sweat from him brow, his neck, his chest, his thighs, his whole body. The thought of him made me lick my lips for any wetness that seeps from his pores. I wanted him in my face, to be in his face, all over his body, him all over my body, whispering screaming, breathing my name, his name dripping from my saturated lips. God! Why was I so damn horny?!

I lay there and thought about how he introduced me to oral sex and how I would hear girls talk about how guys like it better if you’re not so fuzzy down there, and how I talked myself into getting waxed so he would like it better. And I did it for him gladly, although having hair ripped from the roots from the most sensitive area on your body in four or five different directions repeatedly is some painful shit. Hell, I might as well have been losing my virginity all over again.

The first time is definitely the worst. After that, I found that it got much better. The sex, I mean. The waxing is still painful as hell, but at least you know what to expect.

As far as losing my virginity, when that time came, I was practically begging for it. Of course, I’d expected the night to play out the way I’d choreographed it in my dreams. My dreams were always something poetic and sappy that moved in slow motion, because that’s the way I expected love to be.

It was only six and a half weeks after we first met. I don’t remember where my roommates were, but I had the apartment to myself. I don’t know why my mind chose to torture me with this particular memory, but here it was.

It was a warm rainy October night, and I liked the way the room smelled like rain, that clean, breezy, wet leaves and grass smell. Candles on my dresser burned low as I waited. I lay back on the bed, propped up on my elbows with the sheet covering me. As the shower stopped running, a breeze blew through the blinds at the open window.

Steam preceded him from the bathroom, and I thought he looked like a god stepping out a cloud, the towel holding on to his waist until he reached the bed. Water clung to his eyelashes and glistened on his shoulders.

I closed my eyes as he dropped the towel from his waist and then straddled and hovered over me. “Hello, Beautiful,” he said. I loved the way he called me Beautiful, like it was my name.

The thought of him made me wet all over. I ached to have him touch me, to cover me like a wave that rushes over my body, drenching me. Sounds a little Harlequin Romance-ish, but that’s how I was feeling.

Anyway, I touched my finger to my tongue, running my nail across my teeth, imagining him. He took my hand and held it down beside me. I was boiling to the point of evaporation and scorching. When he kissed me, I caressed the back of his head with my other hand.

I said something like, “Now,” in a wispy tone of voice that I’d always wanted to use. This moment that I’d rehearsed so many times was playing out perfectly.

“Uh-Uh,” he whispered. “Not yet.” He lay his body against mine, and rubbed my hair back and kissed my eyelids and shoulders. He pulled down the sheet and kissed my breasts and rested his head on my chest.

“I—.” I felt like this was the place to say I loved him, but he interrupted.

“Shhh,” he said, as if to calm the pounding in my chest. He rolled off of me onto his back. “Come out of there.”

“Huh?” Suddenly, I was reduced to simmering. In the fantasy, I’m all covered up the whole time. He was supposed to get under the sheet with me, like on the soap operas.

“Come here,” he repeated.

I floated toward him, my naked body now straddling his.

“Sit up for me,” he said.

When I sat up, I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, but I didn’t. When he said, “You have such a beautiful body,” I was glad I didn’t cover myself. “Don’t be afraid of me, okay?”

“I’m not,” I smiled. “We’re about to do it, right?”

He smiled back at me. “Put your hands up there. Hold on if you need to.” He bit his bottom lip.

“What for?” I asked, as I reached for the headboard and held on to it like the lap bar on a roller coaster. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh.” he said as he slid beneath me. “Trust me. I promise you’ll like this.” He kissed the inside of my thigh and I shuddered. “You have such a beautiful body,” he said again as he rubbed my legs and then kissed the other thigh. Long and slow and wet, he kissed me, going up, and up and up.

Is he doing what I think he’s doing? At first I pulled away, but he held onto my waist and pulled me back. It wasn’t much of a fight. His tongue stroked me inside and out. He is doing it! But he was right. I liked it so much my whole body shook.

It was like he was inhaling me, nibbling at me, almost biting me. And the shuddering got worse, and I felt myself sweating all over him. Only it wasn’t sweat. I was just wet with excitement and didn’t know any better.

He breathed my name over and over and his name just oozed off of my lips. I wanted to grab hold of him, but I felt like if I let go of that headboard, I would have fallen right off that bed. I arched my back and briefly fought back the urge to beat against the wall and reach for things that weren’t even there. He kept pulling me back down onto his face, more and more nibbling, inhaling, sucking, kissing me all over places that would have embarrassed me if it didn’t feel so good. I bit my lip to keep from begging him to stop. I heard myself making noises, grunts and moans and unintelligible words that made no sense.

Finally, to keep from biting my lip off, I screamed.

He stopped, pried my hands from the headboard and pulled me down to him. The room was dark by now, but I could see the sweaty prints of my hands staining the wall.

“I like that,” he said. His face was wet.

“Like what?”

“The screaming,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

“Well,” I said, “I mean, I’m glad.” And I was shaking like crazy.

“Okay?” he asked.

I was a little dizzy, but I said, “It’s not over is it?”

He laughed and flipped me over to my back. “Kiss me.”

“Huh?” After that? Is he kidding?

“It’s okay,” he said, pecking me on the lips. “Trust me?”

“With my life,” I said, almost like a reflex.

“Why do you always say that?” he asked. I guess I did always say that, and I’d never really thought much about why.

“Why do you always ask me why I always say that?”

“I asked you first,” he said, smiling into my eyes.

“I asked you second.” I smiled back because I thought I could see myself in his eyes.

“So answer the question.”

“Because I do,” I answered so simply.

“Do what?”

“I do love you. And I trust you.”

I was expecting him to say, I love you too. Instead, he said, “So kiss me.”

So I kissed him and it was really wet. I kept kissing him and soon I was bubbling over with all those poetic feelings again, wet and gushy, chills running all through me, like electricity could shoot from my fingers and toes. I pushed him over on his back and pounced on top of him.

“Whoa,” he laughed. “You know once we do this, you’re gonna want it all the time,” he said prophetically.

“I want it now,” I insisted. “I promise I’m ready.” I attacked his neck, his ears, his eyes, his forehead, with nibbles and kisses. “Tell me what to do again.” I wanted to know how to make him sweat.

“It’ll be easier if I start out on top. If that’s okay with you,” he kept smiling as he wiped my hair out of my face.

So we traded places again and he slipped his left arm underneath me. I took a deep breath through my nose and closed my eyes, imagining, fantasizing, dreaming.

“Hey,” he interrupted.

My eyes popped open.

“Look at me.” Then he whispered, “I want you to keep your eyes open for this.”

He kissed me softly at first, a few times like barely kissing me. I arched my back like before and he moved his arm from under me and put his hands just above my head.

“Okay. What else?” I asked, like I was taking notes.

He smiled and kissed me again. Then he gave me a long, slow, really wet kiss. “I want you to moan for me.”

Then I fixed my eyes on his, trying to ignore the sudden quiver in my stomach. I tried to say, “Okay,” but nothing came out.

He stroked my eyebrows with his thumbs as he positioned himself between my legs.

Putting his hands under my thighs, he whispered, “Bend your knees for me a little bit, Baby.”

I bent my knees a little.

He sighed. “A little more.”

I bent them a little more.

“Okay,” he sighed again. “A lot more.” It’s at this point that I was finding that the real thing is a little clumsier than poetry and movies. I breathed in again and opened my mouth as he shoved his tongue down my throat.

“Hey,” I turned away to catch my breath. “You’re kissing me like you’re mad at me.”

He smiled. “Hardly.” Then he kissed me softer. “Is that better?”

“Mmmhmm.” Almost as sweet as the first time he kissed me. “Do you remember the first time you kissed me?” Okay. I was stalling.

“Uh huh,” he said as he readjusted my legs.

I tried to stay focused. I didn’t want to admit it, but I finally said it. “Curtis, I don’t know what to do. Where do I put my hands? Shouldn’t I be— holding something?”

“Hold whatever you want to, Beautiful.”

His ears were within immediate reach, so I held on to them, tracing them inside and out while he maneuvered on top of me, kissing my neck and trailing down to my shoulder. Then he took my hands and held them down beside me.

“Now?” I tried to concentrate on this moment. He didn’t answer me. He kept kissing me and squeezing my hands and dipped his body slowly, kind of rocking on top of me. Just when I felt pressure rubbing against me, he let go of my hands.

I was staring up at the darkness toward the ceiling, rubbing his ears and getting myself ready, and he let go. He turned and reached for the condom in his pants on the floor. I closed my eyes again like I didn’t notice.

“Hey. Eyes open,” he reminded me, as he tore open the package. Then he said, “Here. You can help me.”

“Curtis, you don’t have to use that. I mean, don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do, Babe.” Then he said, “I hope you won’t ever—I hope you’ll always protect your body.” He stopped and looked at me. “Even with me.”

Nobody would ever touch me but him. But I said, “Okay.”

“Here. Help me.” He started putting the condom on, unrolling it at the tip, and then he slid my hands down over it as it rolled on. Then he held my hands there and guided himself back to where he’d left off.

As he started to push again, he moved my hands and held them. I looked down, but I couldn’t really see what was going on. He kissed my face but I didn’t kiss him back. He pushed a little more and said, “Come here.” This time, I didn’t gravitate so easily. His arms were underneath my legs to keep my knees bent.

All I could think was, Is he doing it right? “It’s hurting me, Curtis.” I looked up at him.

He rocked back a little without pulling away. “It’s easier this way, Baby. You’re just a little tight. Now, come to me.” So I tried to push toward him. Then all at once, he just threw my legs up with his arms and pushed really hard.

I inhaled a deep breath thinking, Oh my God. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die from sex. God, please don’t let me cry. Please don’t let me cry. I was squinting trying not to close my eyes.

I was holding on to and rubbing the back of his head, and his face was tucked between the side of my neck and the pillow. My face was wet with tears and tears were running into my ears. When he came up for air, he shoved his tongue in my mouth again, and then started kissing me all over my eyes, my ears, under my chin, and all over my neck. And he kept saying, “Don’t run from me, Baby. Come to me.”

Run from him? Where could I go? All this going on, and my legs were just sort of flung up in the air, dangling.

He was kissing me so hard and sweating on me so much, I could hardly breathe, much less moan. I was trying not to scream or cry out. Though if I had screamed, when I think about it, he probably would have just stopped like he did when he went down on me. And that would have been okay, because this didn’t feel nearly as good. I tried to hold my breath until it was over, but that just made my stomach hurt. So I lay there, sucking in pieces of air, scooching away from him a little at a time.

“Here.” He pulled me down to him and pushed my legs up onto his shoulders, which apparently wasn’t working too well for him because then he moved my legs to behind his back. “Hold on this way. Cross your legs. Don’t let go.” All in one movement, he lifted me up, wrapped his legs around me, and pushed my back against the headboard. Now we’re sitting up.

In the middle of all this bumping, moving and sweating, he said, “Don’t cry, Baby. You know I love you don’t you?” All I knew is he was pounding inside me like he was digging for something on the other side. And then I noticed he was just smiling at me like he’d been watching my face the whole time.

This was not even close to the love scene I’d pictured. “I love you, too.” The words just sort of stumbled out of my mouth. Love? I felt my eyes water up and my throat got tight. I was ready to tell him to stop, but what was the point? We’re doing it now. You can’t take it back. Is he trying to split me in two? I decided not tell him how much it was hurting me, because I didn’t want to mess it up for him. Why is it taking so long?

And I was lying there, well, actually sitting there, feeling stupid. Everybody was right. You should have waited. If hindsight is ever 20/20, it’s at that moment when you realize you should have waited.

Just when it felt like he was about to go through me, he slowed down. He grunted like the wind had been knocked out of him, and his body jerked a few times and he held me really tightly with one arm and slapped the wall with his other hand. Then he peeled me off of the headboard, turned me, and landed me on my back again. Now our heads were toward the foot of the bed. My head was spinning and I could barely focus on his face. I waited 19 years for this? It’s over? On the movies, it lasts all night. On the soap operas, it lasts for a whole episode. Sometimes two.

What was that? Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? I tried to look over at the clock on my nightstand, but my eyes were blurry from sweat and tears, and I didn’t even really know what time we’d started. I wanted to jerk away from him or turn over or something, but he was still on top of me.

I was wet all over, and him dripping sweat on me didn’t help. He was still smiling as he wiped his face. He started kissing my neck, softly, the way I liked it.

I pulled his hand to my mouth and kissed his palm. Then I took each of his fingers into my mouth one at a time. I must have seen it on a movie or something. Well, wherever I got it from, he seemed to like it as much I liked doing it.

“I did that?” I referred to the beads of water on his forehead, feeling kind of triumphant.

“Yep,” he answered.

I felt him pull away and then lie back down on top of me and that was a good feeling. It was worth getting to this point. I told myself that it didn’t hurt that much.

“You can put your legs down if you want,” he said. “Are you cold?”

I was chill-bumped all over, but I said, “Just a little.” So we got untangled from each other and got under the sheet. Before I had time to lay my head on his chest, he said, “Sit up for me.”

I sat up, and he rolled out of the bed and went to the bathroom. Then he came back and lay down, and pulled me close to him. Okay, the it part wasn’t so great, but this after it stuff was a real good feeling. I lay in his arms, thinking about how good I could be at it if we did it every day. Especially that roller coaster part. He could bend my mind anytime. I fell asleep with the taste of his sweat on my lips.

That same night, I remember him nudging me awake me saying, “Ben.”

“What?”

“The other brother is Ben.” We’d tried to remember the names of all the kids in The Waltons in a conversation some time earlier. Now he remembers Ben? And he woke me up for that?

I just said, “Oh. Thanks.” And then drifted back to sleep.

Now, I tried to think and dream about stuff like that. I missed the person he used to be. Hell, I missed the person he was now. I hated sleeping alone.

I woke up pissed off about nothing and everything all at the same time. It was nothing in particular, but everything. It’s more than just a bad hair day. It’s bad hair. It’s more than just a house with no closet space, clothes that don’t fit right, chipped nails, need of a pedicure, and running out of dental floss. It’s a bad house, bad clothes, bad nails and toes, and having to floss in the first place. And the phone not ringing. At all!

The days seemed to drag on forever. And the longer I went without talking to him or seeing him, the more I felt like shit. That motherfucker. And I just killed my baby. But I won’t think about that.

Read more about The Other Side of 30 and Regina Swint HERE.

Copyright 2010 Regina Swint. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.