Maneater (13 page)

L
iving my life like it's golden.

Thanks to Punany Paradise, my pussy was walking on sunshine. Cruising on orgasms. I could come anytime, anywhere, without touching myself. My mind, my masterpiece. My body, my temple. My life, my life.

Today was my last day at Punany Paradise. My time here wasn't indefinite. I had to go back home. Get my things out of Maverick's house. Clear my conscience. Bring closure to whatever it was we had.

“Thank you, Mama,” I said aloud, knowing she'd help reveal my troubling truth. Like an addict, I had to rehabilitate myself, get Maverick 100 percent out of my system. Come clean. Become sober.

Ten days remained on my reservation at the resort. I'd be back. Soon. No refund requested. I wished Zena had come to Punany Paradise with me. We'd still be friends. I missed her so much. When I got back to the island, I was going to explore my relationship—if that was what I could call it—with Jagger. See if he was worth pursuing or if his advances were a façade.

Staring out the patio window, toward the ocean, I slid open the door, stepped onto the sand, and did jumping jacks while watching the sunrise. Blinded by the rays, I ran in place, fast. Arms pumping. Titties jiggling. Thighs burning. Mind racing faster than my thrusting fists. Back and forth. Forth, then back.

Invigorated, I returned inside and sat naked at the computer. I saw Maverick's demand that I return in three days, and I saw Zena's messages about Maverick and Danté. Outraged, I screamed, “Maverick, go straight to hell. Detour, motherfucker, detour. Do not pass by this good pussy. Don't think about blowing a kiss at my bootylicious ass.”

He wasn't better than me in business. More than half of the ideas he'd implemented were mine. Mine! He truly couldn't outmatch my boardroom or bedroom skills. I was taking over Maverick Maxamillion Incorporated. I'd show him my freshly waxed pussy, cuddled between two lean, cellulite-free thighs, and introduce him to the bitch in me. Omarosa didn't have shit on Seven. I had the handle on the bitch switch.

My nails fiercely clicking against the keys, I typed: I wasn't seeking your sorry-ass approval. I DON'T need your permission to be a woman. The same as you don't need my permission to be homosexual, be bisexual, gay, or whatever you consider yourself. I enjoyed fucking twenty-six guys in one month at your expense.

Do whatever you'd like with my pics. Don't forget I've got pics of you, too. I'll be by tomorrow to get my things…Don't touch my shit!

Wait until I get to Chicago
. It was his turn to be pissed off and pissed on, and not a little. A whole fucking lot.
I will drown that motherfucker in his own misery.

“If I say shit, Maverick had better drop his drawers, squat, and give me a full load,” I yelled.

I glanced at the time, 7:11 a.m. Six hours before my departure to the airport. No bags or baggage to pack or check. I headed to the Jacuzzi; I turned on the cold water only.

I lay on the living-room floor, interlocked my fingers behind my head. Closing my eyes, I felt tears escape the corners, streaming toward my ears. I really missed my best friend. I owed her an apology. Replying to her messages was insufficient. She deserved what I was going to give her, a face-to-face apology. A hug. A kiss. A thank-you for her being more of a friend to me than I'd been to her.

Mama used to say, “Friends don't let men come or cum between them. If you have a healthy relationship with a girlfriend, keep it that way. Men envy the relationships women are able to sustain. The closeness. The sharing. The caring. The heartfelt love. Seven, baby, like diabetes, an insecure man will deliberately kill everything and everyone in his veins. Keep your girlfriends close, because when a man does not have your back, a true girlfriend will look out for you, no matter what. Just make sure you look out for her, too, when she needs you.”

Getting up, I grinned, turned off the water. Happy I was sharing my last moments with Jagger. Sad I'd be in transit to O'Hare before sunset. Jagger wasn't accompanying me back to Chicago. I wanted Maverick to believe I had someone better than him. Actually, I did. But my heart wasn't 100 percent convinced about Jagger.

I heard a tap at my patio window.

Sliding open the door for Jagger, I smiled, tugged at his white linen drawstring pants.

“What's up with all the clothes?” I asked, wanting to invite him into my personal space, my heart.

Jagger's finger traced my hairline, my jaw, my chin. Lightly touching the center of my forehead, he ran his fingers between my eyebrows, swiped each one, continued down my nose, outlined my lips. Then he cupped my face, taking my entire mouth into his. Jagger's tongue penetrated my lips, sucked my tongue into his wet mouth.

I couldn't breathe. I didn't care. I could stay here forever. Love, the pentacle of life. His love overwhelmed me. Moved me to tears that wouldn't stop flowing.

He whispered, “Seven, I love you.”

More tears. Strangling words trapped in my throat. A lump of compassion compelled me to hold him. Tight. Tight as I could so he could feel what I couldn't speak. Love. Not lust.

“I…I…” I exhaled.

“Tell me,” he said. “I need to hear you say it. Look in my eyes and say it, baby.”

Batting tears on my breasts, his chest, I cried, “I love you, Jagger,” not wanting to disappoint him. I loved so many things about Jagger, but I wasn't in love with him.

Rip!

He tore his linen pants off his body and his hard, beautiful dick sprang forth. The head greeted my clit. He tossed the cloth to the floor. Made his way to the bath area, dipped his hand in the water in the Jacuzzi. Upon returning to me, fingertips wet, cold, he pulled me to the floor, on top of him. Jagger held me close. Kissed my face, my cheeks, my forehead, my chin.

“Seven, don't go. You have ten more days. Give me each day. I'm afraid I may never see you again,” he said.

My legs around his waist. His pubic hairs under my ass. He searched my eyes for confirmation that I'd stay.

Softly, I said, “Why don't you take a week off? Come with me.”

“What?” He smiled, gripped my shoulders, leaning me backward. Searched my eyes for confirmation.

Uncertain, I looked away. What was I saying? I could ruin Jagger's feelings for me if I dragged him into my unpredictable forecast. Windy. Gloomy. Overcast. Thunderstorm watch. I had no idea what to expect when I arrived in Chicago.

“That was my heart speaking. Going with me isn't a good idea. I'll come back. I need to go home alone for right now.”

“No, no, I want to go with you. I want to protect you. Keep you safe.” His grip tightened…loosened. His steady gaze locked with mine. “Stand up,” he said.

One arm braced my back, and the other was under my knees. Jagger carried me to the Jacuzzi.

“Oh, no, you don't,” I said, laughing. Scrambling out of his arms. “That water is cold!” I yelled.

Too late. I'd planned on gradually adding in hot water to warm the water before I, before we, got in. I couldn't drown in the Jacuzzi. Still didn't want to get tossed in the water. Jagger got in the Jacuzzi, extended his hand.

“You don't have to control everything, Seven. Sometimes it's good to let go,” he said. “Seven, please. Let me come with you. It doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together.”

I blurted, “How do I know you're not trying to get American citizenship?”

Shit!
The water
was
cold. I shivered. Hugged myself.

“You don't know. And you don't know me very well,” he said. “If that was all I wanted, I could've been an American ten times over. Many American women have proposed to me. America is the freest country in the world. At the same time, the people are enslaved. Like you. Americans thrive on revenge, determined to drag one another down before they let go. You cannot let go of a man that you know is bad for you. You must like drama.”

I laughed. He didn't.

Emphatically, I said, “Fine. Come with me. But don't blame me if you don't like what happens. Don't depend on me to take care of you financially, either. And do not expect me to be with you all the time.”

“I don't have a visa,” he said.

My eyes narrowed. Why was this man putting me through this?

“I need time to get one. Serenity can expedite the process. Wait for me,” he begged.

I didn't want to wait another hour, minute, second. Another day might make me stay several days, ten days, or forever. Perhaps that was his plan.

He held my hips in his palms, guiding my pussy over the jets. Not too close, yet a perfect distance for the streams to tease my clit. His lips grazed my shoulder; he kissed my ear.

Lord Jesus, what are you trying to tell me?

Then his dick floated into my chilled pussy.

I closed my eyes. More tears. More aches. More love pains found their way to my throat. Holding on to the edge, I felt his hands cover mine. His tongue danced on the back of my neck, slowly making its way to my opposite ear.

“I love you, Seven. Why won't you let me love you in every way possible? Beyond your imagination.”

“I will. I promise. But I can't give you all of me…Ah, that feels good. Let's not talk right now,” I pleaded, thrusting onto his dick. I squeezed my pussy as tight as I could, clamping his dick inside.

Jagger pulled out, picked me up, carried me to the bed, laid my dripping body atop the white comforter, spread my legs, then softly kissed my clit. Again and again, his lips gently touched mine.

Salty streams flowed into my mouth, my ears.

“I want to satisfy you so good that when my lips are not on your sweet pussy, I want you to cum thinking about me,” he said, resuming his clit-a-thon.

Jagger climbed atop me missionary style. His dick was wedged against my shaft. He kissed me. I kissed him, held him close.

“I could stay here forever,” I whispered.

“Don't tease me, baby. You're not staying. But if you say it's okay, I will be in Chicago as soon as I can,” he said.

Men. Vulnerable. Warm. Loving. Caring. Until they got what they wanted from me. What did Jagger want? What did Maverick want? I wasn't sure, but I was determined to find out.

“I would love to say, ‘Let me know when you're arriving. I'll pick you up from the airport. You can stay at Zena's house. I'll give you all my contact information,' but I can't.” Tired of talking, I added, “Baby, make love to me like you'll never see me again.”

No sooner had I spoken those words than for the first time, a man cried in my arms.

I
'd read in Barack Obama's
The Audacity of Hope
, “Someone once said that every man is trying to either live up to his father's expectations or make up for his father's mistakes.” That man was me.

I rolled over in an empty bed. First time I'd slept alone in years. The house was empty. No Seven. No Danté. As insane as Danté was, breaking out the foyer windows, screaming at me from downstairs, he was more sane than me.

Love made people do the incomprehensible. My lying to Seven, lying to Danté, lying to myself. Time for me to think sensibly. My life wasn't mine. Headed in a tunnel loaded with dynamite. I felt it. The ache in my bones.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Hadn't planned on missing Danté. Never believed Seven would lose the weight. I got out of bed, went into the living room, sat on my sofa, staring out the window. The way I felt right now, I'd shoot myself in the head.

I jumped to my feet. “Fuck!” I had to devise a plan to regain control.

Sitting back on the sofa, I stared at the cell phone in my hand. Needed to call off the hit on Danté. Couldn't. Something compelled me to call Seven instead.

“Hello,” she answered cheerfully.

“Where are you?” I asked softly.

“Where are
you?
” she asked.

I overheard an announcement in the background. “Last call. All passengers for San Francisco must board for an immediate departure.”

I said, “I'm at home. Waiting for you, baby.”

“Good. I'll be there shortly. Thirty minutes tops. To get my car. I'll hire movers to get the rest of my things tomorrow or the next day,” she said.

“I miss you so damn much,” I said, forcing back tears. “I'll be here waiting for you. We need to talk.”

“Gotta go. My driver is here. Bye.” She hung up.

I hung up. Went to my bedroom. It was messed up. Clothes scattered. Comforter on the floor. Picking up my suit and tie, I tossed them in the laundry. I sat on the toilet. Shit. Then showered and shaved. I put on a splash of cologne. Sweatpants, black wife-beater. Straightened up my bedroom. Changed the sheets. Put her favorite red satin sheets on the bed.

Pacing in my library, I stared out the window, eyes following every town car that went by. Thirty. Forty. Fifty minutes. One hour. Two.

I called her phone. No answer. Redialed the speed dial. No fucking answer.

I went to the garage, got in my car, and sped off down Lake Shore Drive. Took a left on the Magnificent Mile. Drove to the end. Kept going. Found myself parked in front of my mother's house.

I got out of the car.
Slam.
Closed the door, almost shattering the driver's side window. I didn't care. Today I was prepared to kick my father's ass or die trying. Didn't know which was worse, not living up to a father's expectations or having a father with no expectations of me.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Relentlessly, I jammed my finger against the button. Fed up with his bullshit. Balled my fist, prepared to knock his ass the fuck out the second he opened the door; step over his body; tell my mother how much I missed her, loved her, needed her in my life; then carry her out of his house in my arms, for good.

My mom quietly opened the door, then walked away.

No plan B. Uneasy, I entered, looking around for him.

She sat in the old familiar rocking chair, swaying back and forth. Knitting.

“Ma,” I said, standing in front of the coffee table. Wasn't going to let my old man sneak up on me.

No answer from my mom.

“Where's your husband?” I asked her.

That was appropriate. Always her husband, never my father.

Knitting needles clicking, softly she said, “Your father is in the hospital, fighting for his life. I'm home fighting for mine. Don't know what I'd do without him,” not looking up at me for one second.

He treated my mother like shit on the bottom of his shoes, and she was fighting for her life when she should've been praying for his death. She'd let him control her all my life, most of hers. How could I free my mother? I knew what I had to do.

I sat at my mother's feet, placed my head on her knees. “I'll take care of you, Mom. I promise. You can move into my new house with me.”

The needles stopped clicking for a moment. She looked at me. Looked down at her lap, started knitting again.

“What's wrong with him?” I asked, not giving a damn, wishing he'd die.

“Can't say. He told them not to release any information. Didn't want me to worry. I think his cancer is flaring up again.” Her eyes remained fixed on the yarn, which was unraveling from the spool.

“Can't say or won't? You're his wife. You have a right to know. You must know, Ma. You shouldn't have to guess what's wrong with him.”

“Why don't you go see?” she said. “Then come back. Let me know if he's going to die in that place or come home. I'd appreciate that.” Her eyes closed, then opened. Why wouldn't she look at me? I was sitting at her feet. How could she not see me?

My mother had no idea what she was asking. “For you, Ma, I'll do anything,” I said. I stood. Kissed my mother on her cheek, then headed to the hospital. The same hospital on the South Side where I was born.

 

Bypassing the busy nurses at the desk, I swiftly strolled down the hall, scanning the patients' names on the doors. When I got to his room, I refused to knock. I entered.

Stood over him. His body, skeletal. Flesh clung to bones. Tubes flowed. One tube connected to the needle in the back of his hand. The other, clamped inside his nose, lay on his sunken chest. Oxygen tank beside his bed.

“Why?” I asked, waking him up.

Slowly, his eyes, almost the size of golf balls, opened at the command of my voice. He didn't scramble. Lay there. No response.

“Wish I had my gun right now. I wouldn't shoot you. I'd beat you with the handle until your fucked-up head caved in. Wouldn't be here if my mother hadn't asked me to check on you.”

Feeble, he reached toward the call button.

Bam!

I knocked his hand away. “If you know what's good for you, you'll listen. I asked you a question. I demand an answer.”

Gasping, he fumbled to adjust the tube in his nose; his arm trembled. He mumbled, “Had to protect you, son.”

“Me? Don't give me that bullshit! Protect me?” I grunted, one inch from his face. “Your sorry ass didn't give a fuck about me, and I want to know why. Are you my real father?” I asked, wanting to push the needle deep into the back of his hand. But I couldn't.

Whimpering, tears streamed down his face. Nodding, he whispered, “Son, I'm gay. I haven't had sex with your mother in over twenty years. I lied to her. Told her I had prostate cancer. Didn't want to infect her.” Closing his eyes, he said, “I'm ashamed of how I treated you. I wanted to protect you. Better for me to disown you than to have you find out about my secret life and disown me.”

That fucked me up.
Infected? Gay?
“Please tell me you're lying.”

He pressed the button connected to his IV, administering what I assumed was a painkiller. He held his finger there.

I snatched his finger away.

His head wavered. “Don't touch me, son…I…I…I have full-blown AIDS. Didn't want your mother or you to know.” His mouth opened wide. “I want to die. I'm ready. Don't want to live this way. I deserve to die,” he pleaded, closing his eyes.

How would I have felt knowing? How would my life have been different?

He'd fucked up every day of my entire life. The first day he called me son, he mentioned AIDS. How could he do that to me?

“Take the pillow. Cover my face,” he pleaded. “I'm useless. Don't want your mother to have to take care of me. Tired of suffering.”

Ain't this some shit.
He was tired of suffering?

Before I got here, I thought I could kill him. Now that I knew we were more alike than different, I couldn't hurt him. I sat beside his bed. I had so many questions. Didn't know where to begin. “When did you first know you were gay?” I asked him.

His voice was weak. He struggled to say, “For certain, when I was sixteen.”

“Did you love my mother?”

“Still do love her,” he said, closing his eyes. “Best thing that ever happened to me was your mother.”

My mother, not me.

“I need you to look at me,” I said, giving him a moment to reopen his eyes. “Why did you want to kill me?”

He shook his head. Closed his eyes. Opened them. I stared, waiting for his response, praying he'd help me to understand why I was so angry.

“Misdirected anger. Don't be like me, son. Accept the fact that you're gay. You deserve to live your life with whomever you'd like. Don't marry that girl. Marry the man you love. Don't ruin her life like I ruined your mother's by hiding my sexuality. And whatever you do, don't birth innocent kids into your confusion.”

So now he had a fucking conscience? Probably found the Lord since he'd been hospitalized.

I fluffed the pillow behind his head, then walked out.

Stopping at a pay phone, I dialed his number, filled with dread.

“You make up your mind yet?” he answered.

“Yeah. It's a go. On my wedding day. At exactly twelve noon,” I told him. “One small change of plan. Don't kill him. Kill me,” I said.

“Can't do that. You're confused. I'm canceling the contract,” he said, then hung up.

I was relieved. I didn't want to die at my wedding. Leave Seven with haunting memories. I desperately wanted to be loved for who I was, a gay man.

Couldn't face my mother. She'd get the call about my father soon enough. I went home, found Danté sitting in his limo in front of my building. Foyer windows still boarded up from his outbreak.

I parked in the garage. Met him outside. “Come up. We need to talk.”

Quietly, Danté followed me onto the elevator. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun. Whatever he had planned, I was not resisting.

“Found this in Seven's laptop bag,” he said, handing the gun to me.

Unlocking my front door, I said, “You don't have to lie on Seven. She'd never touch my gun. If you want to shoot me, go ahead.”

Danté placed the gun on the table in the foyer.

Angry all over again, I held open the door, told him to leave. He passed me, went upstairs.

I followed him to the fridge. He grabbed two beers, sat on the sofa, bit his bottom lip, turned on the television. If he stayed, he'd get what he deserved. At the moment, I hated everyone, including myself.

Danté slid his hand inside his sweatpants, pulled out his dick, held it in one hand, his beer in the other. My dick hardened instantly.

I took his beer; poured it over his head, his chest, his dick; dropped to my knees; then wrapped my mouth around him. Tears streamed down my face, blending into the beer. Danté remained silent.

Holding his hand, I stood, led him to my bedroom. Undressed him.

Quietly, he undressed me.

“Ride me rough,” I insisted, submitting to him.

Danté pushed me face forward against the wall. Grabbed his dick.

“Maverick, you asleep? Oh, damn. I didn't mean to interrupt,” Seven said, standing in the doorway.

Glancing over my shoulder, I said, “Could my life possibly get worse?”

Seven replied, “Maverick, I already know. You need to stop lying to yourself. Carry on. I just came for my car. I'll be back to get my things tomorrow.”