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  The anticipation of making love for hours on end was overwhelming. I had waited so long for the moment to arrive and had envisioned it thousands of times—no, make that millions of times—in my mind. I was expecting us to explore every inch of one another with our hands and tongues, make love in every position known to man, and pass out from pure exhaustion.

  What happened instead was a complete catastrophe. First, Jason got nervous because we didn’t have a condom. “Zoe, what about protection?”

  “It’ll be okay. Just pull out real quick when you feel like you’re about to cum.” I was tracing the curvature of his chest with my tongue, knowing my womanhood would finally be endorsed at any moment.

  “Ummm, I don’t know about this, Zoe. Maybe we should wait until we have some protection.” He was trying to push me off him, but at the same time not putting up much resistance to my advances.

  “Jason, do you want me to beg you? Is that it?”

  “No! Hell no!” I started moving my hand up and down the shaft of his thick, long dick and rubbing the precum escaping from the head around with my thumb. “I’ll make sure I pull out in time.”

  He stuck it in, and it hurt like all hell when my hymen broke. Two minutes and about thirty pumps later, he pulled it out, and I wanted to scream. I lay there, thinking to myself, “Is this all I get?”

  Jason told me he loved me, and I reciprocated. Then we just laid there, in dead silence, with his head on my left breast. A whole hour passed, and neither of us mentioned the prom, or anything else for that matter. I was depressed and Jason was . . . I have no idea what Jason was. I got up and searched through my purse for a cigarette. Smoking was a habit I’d picked up when my daddy died as a method for relieving stress. I was damn sure stressed after my first sexual experience—stressed, disappointed, humiliated, and depressed.

  Before he drifted off to sleep, he expressed his concern. “Geesh, Zoe, I hope I didn’t get you pregnant.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jason. No way am I pregnant! Never that!”

  chapter

  eight

  What can I say? Never say never!

  Whoever said you can’t get pregnant by having sex just one time lied like all hell, ’cause my ass sure got knocked the hell up. Ain’t that a bitch?

  In one sense, it really didn’t matter all that much since Jason and I were planning to get married in a few months anyway. On the other hand, all the plans Jason and I had precisely worked out for the future went out the freakin’ window. Everything, except the marriage itself, had to be reconsidered.

  I just knew my mother was going to hit the roof when she found out, but much to my surprise, she informed us that she knew it was gonna happen all along. Jason’s parents had pretty much the same reaction. I guess none of them were astonished because they all assumed we had been sexing each other for years and had just been lucky I didn’t get knocked up sooner. Our friends all took it in stride as well. From the looks of it, everybody in the world except Jason and I was predicting my impregnation.

  Instead of having an elaborate wedding, we opted for a small ceremony in my mother’s backyard the weekend after our graduation from Central High School. I was three months and not showing yet. Brina was my maid of honor, and Cordell was Jason’s best man. That was the last time I saw the two of them together, because they broke up while Jason and I were on our honeymoon. To this day, neither one of them will discuss what happened.

  It was a quaint, romantic, and intimate ceremony attended by our families and close friends. Our parents chipped in together and sent us on a week-long trip to the Bahamas as a combination wedding and graduation gift.

  Our honeymoon turned out to be a culmination of fun-filled days and sexually repressed nights. After prom night, Jason and I never had sex again until after the wedding. To be honest, as much as I craved to be close to him in every way, I wasn’t looking forward to another sexual disappointment. On my honeymoon, that’s exactly what I got—a series of sexual disappointments, in fact. It is such a strange feeling to love someone more than you love your next breath and yet be appalled when they touch you. Don’t get me wrong: Jason never turned me off. He just never turned me on either. Not the way I needed to be turned on.

  While they say a mind is a terrible thing to waste, they neglect to mention that a body is a terrible thing to waste also. Especially when it’s a body like Jason’s. My husband’s past gorgeous and way past fine. In fact, I can’t even think of a word that would do him justice. He’s a far cry from the little knucklehead I got in a fistfight with the day we met. To make matters worse, he has a scrumptious dick. He just doesn’t know how to use it.

  I had been working after school part-time at a fast food joint, and Jason worked with the county recreation department. We both had plans to attend college, and one of us did—Jason. I chose to pursue full-time employment as an administrative assistant and worked for a dentist’s office all the way through my pregnancy.

  Jason had a full basketball scholarship to State, and we stuck with that plan. His major was architecture, of course. The times he was out of town at away games were dismal, but Brina and my mother tried their best to keep me in good spirits. As horrible as our sex life was, the little bit of satisfaction I was garnishing from being close to Jason was unavailable when he was away.

  In fact, the further I got into my pregnancy, the more sexually repressed I became, and desperation set in. Simple masturbation was no longer good enough, so I began to play with toys. You name it, and I had it hidden away in a box on a closet shelf where Jason couldn’t find it— everything from a dildo to a vibrator to Ben Wa balls. My fascination with sex was quickly turning into an obsession.

  “Jason!”

  “Yes, Boo?” He was holding my hand, caressing it gently and using his other hand to dab the sweat away from my forehead with a moistened towel.

  “Jason!”

  “Yes, Zoe?”

  “I fucking hate you!” I pushed his hands away from me and tried to get up off the hospital bed so I could kick his ass, but the next contraction set in and kicked my ass from the inside out instead.

  “Zoe, just calm down and do the breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class!” He came toward me with all the pampering nonsense again and started taking short, quick breaths, as if a demonstration was going to make the pain go away.

  “Jason, I hate you and I hate the fucking doctor and I hate all the fucking nurses!” I paused just long enough to clench my teeth and push. The pain was excruciating, ten million times worse than I ever imagined it would be. I leaned up a little off the pillow, looking like a whale trying to do a sit-up, so I could look my doctor in the eye while he sat between my legs messing with my coochiecoo. “Dr. Henry, I fucking hate you!”

  They all laughed at me, even Jason. The nerve of the bitches! Everyone, including my mother, had warned me about labor. They warned me it is the closest to death a woman could ever come. If they weren’t speaking the Gospel, then there isn’t a dog in the entire state of Georgia.

  The Lamaze teacher had cautioned all the fathers that their wives or girlfriends might be a bit angry at them during labor. Poor Jason had to feel my wrath, because I was past angry. I was ready to kill his ass for putting something so big in me, I was going to have to rip my ass open to push it out.

  The Lamaze teacher also told the women to bring a stuffed animal or some other comforting item in the delivery room to soothe their thoughts during labor. Jason bought me a huge, stuffed brown teddy and named him Casanova Brown.

  Jason retrieved it from a chair in the corner and brought it over to me. “Look, baby, Casanova wants to keep you company.”

  He started moving the bear around, like it was dancing the jig. Trying to focus on the damn thing made me nauseous. I grabbed the stupid-ass bear from Jason and threw it so hard, it hit a nurse in the head who was walking into the room. Then I slapped Jason upside his fucking head.

  The rest of the delivery went about like that. I repet
itively cussed everyone out and didn’t care what they thought about it. It’s amazing that even the shyest woman doesn’t care how many people are staring at her pussy like a bull’s-eye on a target during labor. At least a dozen people were in and out the delivery room, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  Seven hours and fifty-six stitches later, unto us a son was born—Peter Jason Reynard, given the first name of my father, just like Jason and I had always planned. Once I heard all the stats—6 lb. 11 oz., 21 inches long, 10 fingers, 10 toes, and healthy—I was satisfied and passed out.

  I woke up in the recovery room with Jason rubbing my tummy, probably glad as hell my shape was back ’cause making love to a blue whale, even for only two minutes at a time, must’ve been kind of frustrating.

  “I love you, Jason!” I caressed the side of his face, the same side I had slapped the shit out of during labor, with my right hand. “I’m so sorry I said I hated you and even more sorry I hit you!”

  He started laughing. “I know you love me, Boo, and this is forever.”

  “Always has been! Always will be!” We kissed for a few moments, and then he climbed beside me on the bed, since we could both fit on that bad boy, and fell asleep in my arms. The nurse woke us up a while later so she could check my vitals.

  After the birth of our son, several landmark events took place in our lives, some very good and some very bad, but together, we always came out on top.

  The first emotional upset came about when Jason’s mother found out she had breast cancer. His father retired from his state government job, using the early-out option, and they moved to North Carolina, where they’re both originally from.

  Then, my mother turned around and married Aubrey. I was devastated but had no choice except to live with it. I didn’t have a clue things between them were that serious and was totally shocked when she showed up at my apartment sporting a ring.

  No sooner had I recovered from that quandary when my Boo got hurt in a game and tore the ligaments of his knee to shreds. Instead of having one baby to take care of, I had two, one little and one big. Both of them as cute as they could be. I used to take pictures of Jason and Peter while they were sleeping, the baby lying comfortably on his daddy’s chest, their heartbeats as if synchronized. Watching the two of them on the bed together gave me the idea of starting Shades.

  Shades is my corporation. It started out on a wing and a prayer but grossed me over half a million dollars last year. Watching my son fast asleep on his father gave me the idea to make my own calendar celebrating the role of the African-American father. So many African-American women are raising their children alone, it’s a blessing to see a man living up to his responsibility.

  I borrowed some money from my new stepfather, who has a small contracting company, found some people willing to pose for a small stipend, and made a calendar for the following year. The cover had a photo of Jason and Peter with bare chests and sporting Atlanta Braves baseball caps. Using the computer Jason’s parents bought him for his college studies, I began to advertise them on the Internet, and the most miraculous thing happened. They sold like hotcakes.

  I didn’t make a fortune the first year, but I made enough for us to get by between the calendar and my job at the dentist’s office. Jason was able to keep his scholarship, even though his career as a ballplayer was over, and the high school we attended, Central, hired him as their head basketball coach. It worked out very well because he could attend college in the morning and coach once school let out in the afternoon.

  The second year I put out three calendars: one with African-American fathers and children, one with African-American families, and an African-American swimsuit calendar featuring some coeds from the university. Business really picked up then. I started my business at a time when calendars that portrayed beautiful African-American women were few and far between. It was like selling bottles of ice-cold spring water to people stranded in 110-degree desert heat.

  To make a long story short, every year Peter grew, so did our bank account. We moved out of our apartment and rented a three-bedroom house so I could use one room as a home office. The following year Jason graduated summa cum laude and got a great job with the top architectural design firm in the city.

  When Peter was five, Jason kept the promise he made on our prom night and built my dream house. It’s a 4,500-square-foot, five-bedroom, four-bath cul-de-sac in a new development and it has over two dozen skylights in it so I can see all the stars.

  We were still decorating when I got pregnant again. When Dr. Henry said the word twins , I wanted to faint but had to maintain my composure long enough to hold Jason up when he practically passed the hell out. The shock wore off, and the excitement took over. We turned one of the guest bedrooms into a nursery and began shopping for two of everything.

  Of course, when I went into labor, I was ready to kick everyone’s ass again. This time Jason was prepared for battle and wore a baseball umpire’s mask, more as a joke than for protection. I must admit the mask was mad funny and helped keep my mind off the horrific pain. He also brought in reinforcements the second time around, begging my mother to stay in the delivery room and be his tag-team partner.

  Somehow, I managed to push Kyle Michael and Kayla Michelle out, instantly making our family unit expand from three to five. After a brief recuperation period, I got back to business and decided to market more than just calendars on the Net. I became an African-American arts dealer, marketing all types of artwork from up and coming artists who had the vision but lacked the sales ability.

  Now my art is sold not only on the Net but in department stores nationwide. Jason is quickly becoming one of the most sought-after architects in this city and recently made a 5 percent commission on a $2.1 million office complex. Financially, we couldn’t possibly be doing any better, considering we thought all our hopes and dreams were destroyed because of failing to use a condom the first night we made love.

  chapter

  nine

  I glanced at my watch, noticed it was almost 8 P.M. and started to panic all over again. “Marcella, it’s getting really late. Jason’s going to be worried sick.”

  She glanced at the small crystal clock on her desk. “You’re right, Zoe. It is a bit late. We’ve talked a good three hours.”

  “Yes, I can’t wait to see the bill,” I chuckled. “ Whatever it is, it’s well worth it.”

  I gathered my purse, coat, and gloves and extended my hand to shake hers. “Thanks so much for seeing me, and I’ll call your secretary to set up an appointment sometime next week.”

  “You’re very welcome, and make sure you do that.” We shook hands, and I started toward the door. “We didn’t get a chance to discuss the foundation of your addiction. Or did we?”

  “Not at all. You have yet to hear the truly sickening part. I wanted to make sure you understood my love for Jason, how much he means to me and why he’s my entire life.” I lowered my eyes and started fidgeting with my gloves, trying to put them on, but I got the shakes. “Now I have to go home and make up yet another lie to tell my husband. Lie on top of lie on top of lie. That’s all I seem to do these days.”

  “I realize you have to go, but can I ask one question before you leave?”

  “Sure!”

  “What exactly do you lie to your husband about?” Her eyes widened, and she seemed to be waiting to exhale until I answered. I guess the whole thing did seem a bit strange, considering I hadn’t actually told her what made me an official sex addict.

  “Well, did I touch upon the fact Jason’s not a very passionate or experimental lover?” I asked rhetorically.

  “Yes, I did get that impression. Can’t you just try to work on it? It’s obvious to me that you love your husband very much.”

  “I love Jason more than my next breath.”

  She grinned at me, trying to make me feel at ease. “Zoe, just because your husband can’t make you see fireworks in bed and you feel your sex life is lacking something doesn’t constit
ute sexual addiction.”

  I opened the door to her office, took a few steps into the waiting room, and turned to face her. For the first time, I was going to be honest with someone about what I had done. For the first time, I was going to divulge my deepest and darkest secret, one some people knew bits and pieces of, but no one understood the true spectrum of the way I did. If there were even the slightest chance Dr. Marcella Spencer could help me, I had to go for it no matter what the consequences. The alternative was to continue on the destructive path I was on, heading straight to hell in a handbasket. The words were barely audible because I whispered them. “Does having three lovers other than my husband constitute sexual addiction?”

  The grin on her face quickly faded and was replaced by a look of astonishment. She was flustered. It took her a moment to gather her bearings while I struggled to hold back tears. We never broke our stare. “Yes, I would definitely say that makes you a sexual addict!”

  “I figured as much.” I diverted my eyes to the door of the waiting room, ready to get the hell out of there before I broke down for real. “Look, I really have to go. Jason’s going to be climbing the walls if I don’t get home soon.”

  She leaned on the door of her inner office, crossing her hands in front of her. “I understand, Zoe. We’ll pick up from here next week.”

  “Kewl!” With that, I was gone. I tried to walk away nonchalantly, as if I had just told someone about the agenda for the next PTA meeting. Once I got on the elevator and pushed the button for the parking garage, I totally lost it and began wailing like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. As the elevator descended, I kicked and hit the walls, wiping tears away with the sleeves of my suit and wishing like all hell the whole thing was a nightmare I would wake up from any minute. I knew better. It was all too real, and it was nobody’s fault but my own.