Total Eclipse of the Heart Read online

  Carleigh and I met at the Essence Music Festival in New Orleans. She was there with her best friends Jordan and Sharon, and I was there with my ex-girlfriend. I know, I know. It makes me out to seem doggish, but I really am not. Fran and I were on our way downhill long before then. In fact, that trip was our last-ditch effort to make love out of nothing at all. We simply were not compatible, and it showed daily. Too many people stay, waiting for the other person to break it off. A lot of men start searching for their next woman so they won’t have a dry spell once the shit does hit the fan. I’ll admit that I was somewhere in limbo between those two things when I boarded that flight to Louisiana.

  Fran got down there and started flirting with men every chance that she got. I found her cuddled up in a corner with a man in the hotel lounge the very night we arrived. She claimed that they had known each other for years, but the lie was obvious. I could tell by the expression on his face that he had no clue what the fuck she was talking about. He was trolling for sex and thought he had got lucky. If I hadn’t come down to see what was taking Fran so long—she was supposed to be getting one drink “to knock the edge off” and then coming back up—she would probably have ventured back to his room and got her freak on.

  I had suspected Fran of cheating for a while. The clues were there. Late nights at the office. Girlfriends with constant weekend emergencies. Her mother always needing a ride to a doctor’s appointment or the grocery store. Returning home looking guilty, every single time. Even though I suspected that she was disrespecting me, I still did the right thing.

  When I met Carleigh outside the Superdome on our last night, the magnetism was instant. She bumped into me while Fran was in the long-ass line for the ladies’ room. She had on a Washington Redskins T-shirt, so I asked where she was from. I was pleasantly surprised when we realized that we were homies. People from the Washington, D.C., area say that they are from D.C. even if they live an hour out in the suburbs. Carleigh was from Largo, and I was currently living in Silver Spring.

  We exchanged business cards for purely innocent reasons. She was a Realtor and I was looking to purchase a new home. It was all legitimate, I swear. Fran didn’t see it that way. When she returned from the ladies’ room, she looked like she wanted to wring Carleigh’s neck. I introduced them, but Fran wouldn’t even shake Carleigh’s hand. Damn shame how some women act so catty.

  To make an extremely long-ass story short, when we returned home, I informed Fran that it was time for her to hit the road and make other living arrangements. She threatened to sue me or to keep it simple and sever my dick. That didn’t make me stay with her. For the life of me, I don’t understand the latest trend of people suing one another when they break up. If you are not married, what the hell should someone owe you? You both took a chance and the situation didn’t work out. Why should someone have to pay you to move your ass on? I have noticed the trait even more with men than women. Brothers demanding that a woman help pay their bills if they get kicked out of the woman’s home. First off, they should be the main provider and not be living off her in the first place. Second, if it is time to move the fuck on, just do it. Fran couldn’t grasp that reality.

  The situation was unhealthy for both of us and needed to end sooner as opposed to later. Fran accused me of fucking Carleigh in New Orleans. That was absurd, I informed her. I met Carleigh the last night of our trip, and Fran and I left the concert together, went to a late dinner, then hit the sack. There was zero space and even less opportunity for me to fuck anybody but her. Fran was determined to make that hypothesis work for her. She suggested that I may have drugged her, then snuck out of the room. That did it, because any woman who thought that I was that hard up or insane over getting pussy was a complete nut. I helped Fran pack and dropped her off at her sister’s condo in Rockville, then told her to misplace my number.

  Carleigh and I hooked up the following Saturday—not for sex but to check out offered properties. I will confess that I was checking out her body more than the houses, but it all worked itself out. I was the perfect gentleman the entire three months that she helped me to locate the idyllic home. It was even more crucial that I find a new house by then. I was trying to get absolute closure from my dealings with Fran, and we had shacked up together for over a year. While her name was never on the deed, her memory was still there, and I believed in starting anew.

  Fran thought that she would be moving with me when I found my new spot. That was another reason for the timing of our breakup. I didn’t want to give her the delusion that we would be setting up another home as a couple. For a minute, she had become a stalker, parking down the street and setting up overnight surveillance to see what I was doing. Yeah, I had to get the hell out of there.

  After I moved into my four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom, all-brick home in Wheaton, I decided to sever the business association with Carleigh and ask her out on an official date. We had been out to eat numerous times, but never as a prelude to the possibilities. I didn’t want her to feel any pressure to hook up with me based on making a real estate commission. Too many men make women feel uncomfortable with the “what I can do for you” bullshit.

  We dated for about six months and realized that we were true soul mates. Carleigh made me feel comfortable, and women don’t realize how important something so simple can mean to a man. I could be myself around her, and she would often express the same to me. I asked her father for her hand in marriage, and four years later, it was still all good. She was the yin to my yang, and we seemed to complement each other in every way.

  The fireworks that night were unremarkable. In our backyard, we could view those set off from a large, nearby park. Granted, we could have headed down to the National Mall in D.C. or to the Baltimore Harbor, but we were too full and preferred to chill out.

  Carleigh curled up beside me on a blanket on our back lawn. Some of our neighbors were shooting off little rockets and running around with sparklers. I remember doing that shit as a child. My boys and I thought we were pyrotechnic experts until Chris got burned on the arm. The next year, and every year after that, we didn’t touch anything hazardous. Instead, we watched other little knuckleheads get hurt and laughed at them.

  After the fireworks show was over, I went into the house to put my digital camera away in my home office. Jordan came in right behind me and shut the door. I hadn’t even seen the snake get up off the lawn, rather less slither behind me with her fangs exposed.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting my camera away. That should be obvious.” I knew where this was headed, so I asked, “Where’s Carleigh?”

  “In her skin.” She laughed, teasing her hair with her index finger like she had invented an original line instead of repeating a tired-ass one. “Why don’t you put the camera away and take something else out?”

  Yup, it was definitely headed there.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not fooling around with you. I don’t want you. I love Carleigh, and I have no intention of cheating. You need to get some of that built-up wax out your damn ears.”

  “Speaking of wax, I got a Brazilian the other day.”

  “I’m thrilled. Now, can you please step off?!” I waved her away like a wasp since that’s what she reminded me of. The female wasps can paralyze their prey with their sting. She was not about to reel me in. “You need to find a man someplace other than in this house.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a broken record.”

  “And you’re beginning to act like a broken woman.” I plopped down in my leather desk chair. “Jordan, you’re an eye-catching woman. There are tons of single guys in the D.C. area. You need to stop harping on this shit with me. It’s nonsense and it’s not happening. Not today, not tomorrow, and not even when cars start flying.”

  She came closer and sat on top of my desk, lowering her tube top so I could see her breasts. “Do you like what you see?”

  “No, I don
’t.” I sighed. “Every woman has a pair of tits; I’m not overwhelmed.”

  “What if I show you my pussy?”

  “Every woman has one of those, too. If you don’t stop harassing me every time you come over here, I will tell Carleigh.”

  “No, you won’t.” She pulled her top back up. “If you were going to tell, you would’ve done it already.”

  “The only reason that I haven’t said anything is because Carleigh will be harmed. She cares for you and thinks you’re her friend and—”

  “I am her friend. We go way back.”

  I have no clue why I continued the conversation, but the nature of a woman has always amazed me.

  “Since you go way back, why would you try to fuck me? I mean, what if I did it? Then what? You would be content to share me with her, or is your intention to take me away from her?”

  “Why don’t you give me a serious dick-down and find out?”

  That did it. “I don’t have time for this.” I got up from my chair and headed for the door. She tried to grab my wrist. “You really need to find a different ambition in life. You and I will never happen.”

  “Never say never,” Jordan whispered as I opened the door and left.

  When I got back into the yard, everyone was up dancing to “Milkshake” by Kelis.

  “Damn, did you all catch a second wind blowing through here or something?” I asked, pushing up on Carleigh, who was doing a poor rendition of the chicken-noodle-soup dance.

  “Dance with me, baby,” Carleigh said, pulling me to her and giving me one of those wet, sloppy kisses that I so adored.

  Carleigh was drunk, and even though I didn’t drink, when she got toasted, it meant that she would be ready to fuck me until I was damn near comatose once everyone else left.

  I glanced over at Steve, who was now grinding up against Jordan. She looked bored to tears. I hadn’t even noticed her slither back outside.

  “Steve, didn’t you say you have an early day tomorrow?”

  Steve smirked at me; he knew what was up. “No, I can hang out all night, if you all want to. I have a spare suit in my car.”

  I wanted to smack him. “Well, we’re not partying all night.”

  I was about to walk over and cut off the iPod when Casper’s “Cha Cha Slide” came on next. That was all she wrote; they all started clapping, hopping, and stomping, doing the popular line dance.

  I have to admit that something about women doing a line dance is sensual, whether it’s a country-music one, the electric slide, the booty call, or anything else. Seeing all those hips moving at the same time can make a man’s dick hard; imagining those same hips propped up on his lap and working over his dick. It is amazing how so many women can shake their asses on a dance floor but freeze in place if you ask them to get on top during sex. I gave in to the moment, sat down on a deck chair, and watched them to see how low they could go.

  Everyone finally left around 2:00 a.m. Carleigh was drunk as she walked Jordan to her car. Jordan had implied that I should be a gentleman and see her out, but I smirked and walked in the opposite direction instead. By the time Jordan and Carleigh finished running their mouths in the driveway, I had taken a hot shower and climbed into bed. Carleigh came in the room and collapsed beside me on the bed. By that point, I was exhausted and prepared to fall asleep without sex, but she made her move within seconds.

  “Damon, I’m horny,” she whispered, flinging the comforter off me and reaching into my pajama bottoms to caress my dick. “I need some of that good good.”

  Carleigh always referred to our sex as “that good good,” implying that it was so hot that she had to double up on the compliments.

  “You can have all the good good you want,” I said, reaching over and pulling up her top, exposing her breasts. “Why don’t you go take a shower first?”

  “I’m too drained to take a shower. I want you to put me to sleep with that dick.”

  After being outside all day, I was appalled that Carleigh would climb onto clean sheets with a dirty body. I was even more appalled at the thought of making love that way. The only place funk belongs is in the bass line of a Parliament song. I was about to insist that Carleigh bathe first, but before I could go there, she was already devouring my dick with her mouth.

  She definitely got a rise out of me so I put her to sleep in that good good way. I refused to eat her pussy without her bathing, but I did slide my dick in and out of her until she moaned, her toes curled, and her eyes rolled up into the back of her head. Even though I was tired, it still took me damn near an hour to climax. I have never been able to cum quick, which could be a blessing and a curse. Women love that I am not a two-minute man, but sometimes a man wants to be able to bust a nut and fall asleep. That has never been the case with me. Carleigh got what she wanted and then dozed off. I lay beside her, glanced out the window, and thought about Jordan. Not in a sexual manner—never that—but I wondered that if Jordan was capable of fucking Carleigh’s husband, what else was she capable of? I really needed to tell my wife that her friend was not a friend at all, but, ultimately, it would have devastated Carleigh. No matter what, I couldn’t be the one to take the light out of her eyes. I loved her way too much for that.

  Brooke

  July 4, 2007

  Springfield, Virginia

  BROOKE, you look great in that dress!” Mrs. Sterling, holding true to form, was passing out insincere compliments. “Where did you get it?”

  “I got it from a designer sale at T.J.Maxx,” I replied, intentionally irritating her by mentioning a discount store. “You can get some great deals there, if you look hard enough.”

  She gasped like I’d shot somebody. “Thank goodness Nicholas and I don’t have to worry about prices. I could never be seen in such a bargain-basement establishment.”

  “For most of the working class, designer clothing costs are too extravagant, so we have to do the best we can.”

  “The operative words are working class. That is a category that I have never fit in.”

  Mrs. Sterling always made it a point to jog the memory of anyone who would listen that she and her husband were affluent. Standing there on the ten-acre estate made it obvious enough. They lived by the shore and Mr. Sterling’s yacht was docked so all the guests could eyeball it.

  “How many people are you expecting today?” I asked, trying to change the subject before she started talking bank-account balances.

  “Oh, about fifty or sixty. It’s a small gathering.”

  “In my entire life, my parents never had fifty people over to our house.”

  “That’s because your parents reside in a shack compared to this house, dear.”

  That was a nice stab. I had to give it to her. The gloves came off.

  “My parents may not reside in the lap of luxury, but they’re extremely happy and don’t hide their dirty little secrets behind stock portfolios and security bonds.”

  She grimaced at me and I smirked.

  Nice one, Brooke, I thought as I walked away from her to find Patrick. I could feel her eyes throwing daggers at my back.

  Mrs. Sterling hated my guts. I was not of the “social material” that she felt was worthy of her son. The first time he brought me to their home for dinner, she wanted to know my “lineage.” I quickly informed her that my father was a plumber and my mother was a schoolteacher, that I was born and raised in Washington, D.C., and that I had an older brother in the navy. She wanted to know if I was “world-traveled.” I told her that the only time that I’d been out of the metropolitan area was on a field trip to New York City when I was a senior in high school.

  She looked like someone had shoved a full enema bottle up her crusty old ass and squeezed. Mr. Sterling was kinder to me. For several months afterward I actually thought that he approved of me and Patrick. Then Patrick got angry one night and burst that bubble, informing me that his father “thought I was a fine piece of ass but not wife material.” Patrick said that his father suggested that he shou
ld fuck me for no more than six months, then find a high-class socialite to show off on his arm.

  Even though Patrick agreed with them—that became painfully obvious—he still kept me around. When I was evicted from my studio apartment in Adams Morgan, he insisted that I move into his Capitol Hill penthouse. I was reluctant but caught up in feelings at that time, so I agreed. My parents were cramped up in their three-bedroom with doodads and miscellaneous crap they had collected during their nearly thirty years of marriage. Moving back with them seemed like taking a step backward in my life. My reality check was discovering that I’d taken five steps back by being with Patrick.

  Patrick was a prominent attorney and was even voted one of the hottest bachelors in the area by Washingtonian magazine. I thought he was the moon, the sun, and the stars when we met at the restaurant where I was waiting tables. Patrick had what we women call swagger, and he was articulate and convincing. He charmed my pants—and my drawers—right off of me, even though he had been on a date when we met.

  He slipped me his cell number when she excused herself to the ladies’ room to powder her nose. I actually overheard her say that shit: “I’ll be right back. I’m excusing myself to go powder my nose.” That was some uppity nonsense right there. Women go to the ladies’ room to piss and shit, hopefully wash their hands, and possibly take a quick glance in the mirror. The only nose powdering done is when they snort blow.

  I called Patrick the next morning. He picked me up in a black Bentley, took me to his place, and fucked me like I’d never been fucked before. I didn’t realize that my body could be so flexible. The man could write a manual on sex positions. Over time, he convinced me to do some things sexually, swallowing his semen and engaging in anal sex, that I would never have fathomed before then. He had only insisted that I do anal a few times, unsuccessfully trying to convince me that I would develop a love for it. A couple of my friends swore by it, claiming that anal sex gave them more intense orgasms than vaginal sex. I refused to cosign on any of it. My ass started hurting at the mere thought of it.