Читать книгу Visible Lives: - Terrance Dean - Страница 10

I hop into a yellow cab in front of Eric’s building.

“I need to get uptown to One-hundred Thirty-ninth Street and Adam Clayton Powell!” I bark at the cab driver. “And make it fast.” I slam the door as Eric is speaking to me. He is relentless.

Begging for forgiveness.

“Chase, I’m sorry about this. I’ll call you later.”

I can’t believe this big-ass football player is in the middle of the street pleading with me.

The cab squeals off and I sink into the seat. The driver is dodging and weaving through traffic.

I am flustered.

My head is starting to ache.

My stomach is flipping with bile that needs to be released.

I rest my head against the window.

I am dog-tired of men. As much as I want to believe in love and finding the right man, I never seem to be lucky in getting either.

Before I started dating Eric I had my fair share of men. Terrell was a man I met while I was in Stew Leonard’s grocery store in Yonkers. We kept giving one another the eye before he brushed up against me.

I knew this game.

I was a willing participant.

You see me.

I see you.

You make a move.

I do too.

We were in the produce aisle and he asked if I could help him pick out a ripe watermelon. “I’ve been trying for twenty minutes to get the right one,” he said. His muscular arms were protruding through his T-shirt.

Horny, I obliged.

Ten minutes into our “selecting” watermelons, Terrell was rapping his game.

“Listen, I just moved to New York from Atlanta.” His southern twang danced in my ears. “It would be great to have some company for dinner tonight.”

I thought about it for a second. His pick-up line wasn’t original, but he was. “Sure, I can make it.”

I was smitten.

The Georgia Peach was looking to mingle with a BIG New York Apple.

After Terrell made a wonderful dinner of sautéed chicken with pasta and asparagus, he topped it off with a strip tease show for dessert. I love a man who can move his body, especially in bed.

After a few in-home dates I asked Terrell why we never went out for an official date. “I like to entertain at home,” Terrell responded. “I’m not much of a social person.” True indeed, he wasn’t. After enough pestering, Terrell relented and we went to the movies. While we were watching the upcoming previews a couple in front of us was engaged in a conversation. “I hope these motherfuckers don’t talk during the movie,” Terrell said, agitated. I jerked my head toward Terrell in shock. “They heard me.” He stood and balled his fists. His large knuckles were darker than his light brown skin and looked like they had met many faces in a fight. “They better shut the fuck up. I’m trying to enjoy the movie.” I sunk in my seat and put my head down. Lord, just let me make it through this night. This is over, I said in a prayer to myself.

Then of course there was Carlton.

A flashy dresser.

Drove a black Lexus.

And lived on the top floor in Lenox Terrace Towers on One-hundred Thirty-fifth Street. He was a practicing attorney and loved to look good. All he talked about was his new Armani suits.

Ferragamo shoes.

Silk handmade ties.

And extravagant trips he took around the world.

I thought Carlton would be different. He was educated.

Well-traveled.

Cultured.

And, he took care of himself.

Carlton was perfect for me.

On our first date we went to Houston’s Restaurant.

The entire evening he showered me with compliments. “Damn, you are sexy. You are a catch. I want to be your man. I want to take care of you.”

When the bill arrived for the meal Carlton patted his pockets. He searched frantically in his pants and suit jacket. “I think I left my wallet at home,” he said.

No problem.

I picked up the ninety-seven-dollar dinner tab. But then it became a trend. Every time we went out Carlton seemed to have misplaced his wallet, or didn’t have his credit cards on him. After the fourth outing I left him sitting at the dinner table. I excused myself. “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the restroom.” I made a beeline straight for the exit and never saw Carlton again.

Yet, here I am again in a situation with a man who presented himself to be wonderful. But, like my best friend Ashley always says, “Just because it look good, don’t make it so.”

As I sit in the backseat of the cab I make a vow that this is it. I am not going to be anyone’s fool anymore. No more lies.

Games.

Or, bullshit.

I am going to take care of me. It is high time I become first in somebody’s life. I look out the window into the sunny blue sky. I point my index finger upward and mumble, “I am finally going to look out for number one—me.”

My cell phone rings. I reluctantly pull it out. I hope this is not Eric calling to beg some more. I am not in the mood. I glance at the screen. It’s Ashley. “Hello.”

“Chase, are you okay?” Ashley asks.

“I really can’t believe this. I am in the cab on my way home.”

“So what happened?”

“Ashley, I really don’t want to go over it again.”

“I keep telling you, you got that Good-Looking-Gay-Man-Successful-Disease. You’re attractive, wealthy, and with a wardrobe to die for, but just like us women, you keep picking the wrong guys.”

“Dante was a good man,” I whine in the phone defending myself. I don’t want to believe what Ashley is saying about me. “And so was Braxton.”

“Dante was a functioning weed head and Braxton had a little dick,” Ashley says. We both laugh.

“I guess you’re right,” I say. “Ashley, he had the smallest dick I’d ever seen.”

“There you go,” Ashley says. “You got to laugh at yourself.”

“I am tired of meeting broke-down men who are living paycheck-to-paycheck, baby daddys, married men, and wannabe rap stars,” I sigh as the taxi whips past other cars.

“I keep trying to tell you I know the perfect thing for you,” Ashley says.

“Please, don’t tell me about dating some young boy. You and I are both thirty-eight years old. I can’t date any man under thirty. I am too old for that. And so are you.”

“Chase, I’m telling you,” Ashley sang in the phone, “you get a young man between twenty-one and twenty-five and they will be loyal to you. All you got to do is get them some new sneakers, some jeans, and pay their cell phone bill. They will not put you through all this drama and they know how to put it down.”

I envy Ashley’s sexual inhibitions. She isn’t afraid to explore her womanly needs and desires. It’s nothing for her to pick up a young boy and turn him out. At times I want to live life on the edge, and of course seek out my own sexual pleasures. I don’t want to continue to live vicariously through Ashley. It is time for me to open my mind to new experiences.

“You realize you are paying for sex. That’s not something I am into,” I say as the cab zips up Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. “Besides, it seems desp…” I catch myself.

“It’s all right,” Ashley laughs. “At least I know what I’m getting and I’m being satisfied at the same time. It’s my money, my life, and my pussy. I can’t sit around hoping and waiting for Mr. Right to show up. I tell you, Chase, if I meet another brother who after four or five humps tells me he’s done, I’ll scream.” I laugh out loud because I am quite familiar with Ashley’s sentiments. Men are eager to brag to me how they are ample lovers and can go the distance. With the anticipation and hopes of being satisfied, I am often met with disappointment.

“I tell you what,” Ashley says, “turn around and go back to Eric’s apartment. Call up little-dick Braxton, or better yet, invite drug-addicted Dante over to your place and then you tell me if you won’t at least consider a younger man.”

There is a cold silence on the phone. Ashley has summed up my dating life. For the first time in a long time I am at a loss for words. “Do it for you,” Ashley pleads. “You deserve to have love, and a good life.”