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Sellout (WIP) Tammy ...Craig smothered my brain--but other men did, too. All of them--big wastes of space. So unwilling to be real men; so quick to succumb to their personal demons and hurt the ones they loved. Grip. Stanley. Craig. Crooked bastards in the daily papers and local TV news. Pure venom, poison. Trash. I knocked back a long swig. The carbonated stream burned my throat. Those men--boys, I should say--fueled every statistic destroying the black community. Not just in Houston, either. LA. New York. Miami. Chicago. Cleveland--cities infested with the same problems. And they each had a common thread: black men. Even Lawrence took part. Hey, why not add a black man under the AIDS category? Already got enough under Criminal, Drugs, Jail and Dead. Humph. So many statistics. We shall overcome, my ass, I thought. Took another sip, wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Black men are the reasons we’re not overcoming a damn thing. The iron bars against my spine took its toll, so I adjusted my back, but didn’t budge from the chair. Didn’t feel "full" just yet. Needed to destroy my brain cells a little longer. And Craig. He boiled acid in the pit of my belly--and he wasn’t even there. My cheeks became hot. A bubble stung the corner of my eye, and the tears finally fell. "Niggas," I whispered. "Damn niggas." Never used the word in that way before. Actually, I hated that word, but the word comes easy when you feel hate. I took off my father’s pendant and placed it in my purse. Hatred had nipped away at my insides, and I didn’t want my father’s picture against my heart. Daddy couldn’t do anything for me, now. The moment the pendant left my neck, I swore years would pass before another black man touched me again. Then I went out on a whim. I pulled my cell phone from my purse, dialed Sheryl’s speed number. "Sheryl? What’s up, girl? Huh? No, I’m not cryin’." I sniffled. "Hey, you still want me to move in with you?" Terrell ...you’re doing your business elsewhere, too, doctor," she said, waving a finger at me. "I truly believe one look at women like me, and you run away. Why some brothas judge a whole race of women because of one or two bad break-ups, I don’t know. ‘Black women this, black women that.’ Damn." She shook her head. "I think you’re the same way, just like your friend Dedrick. I’ve overheard comments he’s made about black women. Never heard you say anything bad, but I still think you two are just as ignorant as that old man, but worse. Why? ‘Cause you ignore your own women, as if you hate us. Women who look like you, talk like you, can identify with a black man. And I think that’s sad." She drew in a breath, eased it out. "Just ... thought I’d tell you straight up."Ouch. Directed comments without a sugar coat punched me hard. Once Sheryl stepped off the sista soapbox, back to the nails she went. My heartbeats almost peaked at tap-dance speed. Except for Luna walking up and down the aisle outside my door, silence divided us again. Didn’t know what to say, really. Shandra’s civil tone had smashed my ego in a way a bitchy attitude couldn’t. I tapped my fingers against the desk. So many words mangled in my head, but couldn’t reach my mouth. Ignorant. The same word I’d said about that old man--all because he judged me with one look at my brown flesh. But Shandra reminded me I was doing the same thing--with black women. Judging. "Well," I said, still not sure how to respond, "like I said I date who I want. Just because you don’t see me with one, doesn’t mean I hate black women. Shouldn’t be your concern, anyway. If you have a problem with that, well..." "Problem with disrespecting sistas?" she chimed in. "Yes, I do, so ... I guess I’m giving my two-week notice." Double ouch. I rocked the chair back and forth. Tingles singed my chest from the inside. The best optometric technician and personal assistant in San Diego had dropped the bomb on a brotha. A small part of me didn’t understand why, yet a large chunk did. Nodding, I twisted my lips. Words still didn’t come right away. "Okay," I said, "if that’s how you feel." Shandra stood from the door, her hand wrapped around the knob. Had a look that begged for me to rescue her from the decision she’d made. I didn’t know how, though. "Yeah. Well, um..."--she pulled the door open--"you got anything else for me?" I stood up, grabbed my lab coat from the back of my chair, my head turned away from her. "No." "Okay." She paused for a second, then said, "I’m going back to the front desk." Shandra walked out, closed the door, and to my relief, yanked away some discomfort--but somehow left a stain of guilt. After donning my coat, the leather chair again became my throne for a man now in need of deep soul-searching. I rocked back and forth, my gape planted on the wall. My session with Shandra had maimed the will to face the world outside my door. Peace lay inside my office, but things didn’t feel so rosy inside me. With both hands folded under my chin, I voiced a harsh reality: I was no different than that old man. One look at a sista and defense mechanisms blocked advances my hungry eyes yearned to pursue. Didn’t matter what she looked like, what she said, how she carried herself. A black woman? Hell no. Too much drama, whole lotta work. In over half a year, BWA fended off sistas the way agents dodged bullets in the movie The Matrix. Why? ‘Cause BWA--aka Black Woman Alarm, my misguided conscience--had programmed black women as head-snappin’, gold-diggin’, drama-needin’, loud-mouth bitches. And Vanillas were the cure for that "disease." Damn. Maybe a part of me did hate sistas. Why else had I put America’s Apple Pie of Beauty--white women--on such a pedestal? Penelope ...So when Jamal’s strong hands split my legs, fear didn’t stop me. He held the key to a new sensation I didn’t think I would ever attain. I had lost so much sweat while dancing--and for a second I prayed I didn’t emit an unpleasant odor down there--but then Jamal buried his head between my thighs and circled his tongue around my labia folds, tasting natural honeydew that had seeped hours ago. Jolts ripped through my chest, my legs, my ankles. Gawd. And when jolts clobbered my feet, I curled my toes so hard I thought I would snap ‘em. And Jamal had no reservation. None what so whatever. "Damn, you sexy as hell, girl." He ran his tongue along my center. "Taste good, too." I smiled. At least I tried. Hard to smile with a twisted face. So many pleasant surprises in one night. I didn’t think black men went down south. And when Jamal entered me, unsheathed and uninhibited, my warped mind blurred guilt. I performed unsafe acts I know I shouldn’t have but … but deep, hard strokes tapped a primal core--and I didn’t care about anything else. Cries erupted from the pit of my stomach I didn’t know lived within me. My nails raked skin off his thick back. A one-night stand in its rawest state--and I didn’t want any of it to end. The harder he pumped--the deeper he plunged--the more I transformed into something … I dunno … animal. A creature of the night. Within minutes, my body rode an endless tremor, and I thought I would throw up afterward. And before our night ended, three more body spasms ransacked every inch of me. Jamal had broken me in. I hated that the Navy transferred him to another state. Not fair. A black man had made so alive, so free … in just one night. And I wanted more. But if I couldn’t have Jamal, I knew of another man with the same potential. The following Monday, I would see my new coworker Dedrick with brand new eyes. Wow. I had straddled the line that night, and then crossed over—-but had no idea when I’d return. And before Jamal and I drifted off in each other’s arms, I prayed I could keep my dirty secret from my father and brother. But I feared one thing: Once Jamal left out of my life and Dedrick entered it, I knew my new hunger for a black man would expose me one day. (End of excerpt) |
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