Before We Were Wicked, page 9
When we took a break, when Jimi Lee had gone to get water, I yawned, dragged myself to the landline, and called Jake Ellis. San Bernardino had more issues to be resolved. We had a job up near the Ashram in Calabasas. Needed to talk to a man about a debt. I told Jake Ellis I was balls deep and he told me he could go and handle it alone.
I went back to Jimi Lee. We turned the page in her book, did that like we were students in a classroom, read the instructions while I was inside her, went back to Kama Sutra lessons, page after page, position after position.
Breathing heavily, I wiped sweat from her face, kissed her, asked, “Having fun?”
Panting, eyes closed, Jimi Lee sucked my tongue. “Fuck. I love this. Love the way you make me feel.”
After we showered, I put clean sheets on the floor, then had her get down on the carpet. I broke out the lotions and oils and straddled her back, started at her shoulders, rubbed her down, gave her a head-to-toe massage.
She asked, “Do you treat all of your lovers like this?”
“Only the special ones.”
“The Afro-Mexican?”
She said that and I paused, waded through memories. “Yeah. I gave her a few massages.”
“If she’s not missing this, then I know she’s missing your Soul Stealer.”
“I’ll bet your ex is missing you.”
“But I’m not missing him. These things, I’d never do with him. This movie, I’d never watch with him.”
“Has he called?”
“Yes. Over and over. He’s angry.”
“Tell him to come see me.”
“He wants to know if you were really my boyfriend.”
“And you said?”
“I told him that the way he walked away, obviously I was not his girlfriend.”
“Obviously not.”
“He didn’t even try and defend me. He just walked away like property had been transferred.”
“He’s an intellectual. His brain told him that was the safest thing to do.”
“Whatever.”
“Where were we?”
She motioned at the movie. “That. Do that to me. He’s so passionate.”
“She’s on fire.”
“I want to feel what she feels. I want to be on fire like that.”
Jimi Lee admired the French girl who had gone to bed with a man she didn’t know. The girl in the film was with a man from a different culture, a man her culture looked down upon, no matter how much money he had. That was the part of the film I noticed. The eroticism was what Jimi Lee saw. Was all she saw. Like it was to the girl in the film, sex was new to Jimi Lee. Only the girl in the film had been a virgin. Jimi Lee felt tight enough to be the same.
I know my downstairs neighbors heard us. But they didn’t bang on the ceiling or come knock on my door.
The provocative movie ended and we were still in motion, now in slow motion, on the other side of orgasm, barely awake, still touching. I rubbed Jimi Lee, massaged her until she fell asleep. Her breathing was deep.
I rested next to her. Worried. She was lying to her parents to be with me. Lying over and over.
I was putting new sex in front of my new money. In the land of capitalism, no matter how fine the woman was, in the long run, that was never a good thing. I was twenty-one. Sex and women were all a man wanted.
I looked over at the dresser. Six condoms looked back at me, wondering who was up at bat next.
CHAPTER 9
AFTER WE HAD a disco nap, I woke up with Jimi Lee grinning and playing with my face. She had nap and sex breath. So did I. She touched my eyelashes and brows, smiled, touched my nose, put soft kisses on my lips.
She whispered, “I’m so hungry right now.”
We ran through the shower again, brushed teeth, put on lotion, dressed in baggy jeans and Ts that represented our respective universities, became collegiate, and I drove her ten minutes away to a spot in Inglewood.
Relaxing in the passenger seat, she whispered, “Stop rubbing between my thighs.”
“You don’t like it?”
“You’re. Making. Me. Wet.”
“When I rub you right there?”
“Stop pressing your finger in me like that before I go mad.”
I took my hand back. She took deep breaths, fanned herself.
She asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I was tired and excited. I wanted to be seen with her. Show her off. We had laughed all the way.
When I pulled into the small parking lot, Jimi Lee tensed up, froze when she saw I had stopped in a strip mall featuring Fresh Ethiopian Restaurant. It was next to Beach Side Ethiopian and Mexican Café and several other East African businesses. Jimi Lee reacted here the same way she had when I had pulled into the lot at the 7-Eleven in Diamond Bar, only more intense. Ethiopians were all over; some went to the van on the passenger side of where I was parked. They saw Jimi Lee’s striking features. Her telling features. Jimi Lee shook, pretended she was busy in her purse, didn’t acknowledge them. The East Africans paused, said something in Amharic, but Jimi Lee didn’t respond. They assumed she was American, then moved on. Ethiopians were going to the many shops, patronizing their own.
When the van was gone, Jimi Lee asked, “Why in the world did you bring me here?”
“You don’t like Ethiopian food?”
She snapped in Amharic as she pointed. “Menna Mini Market. Menna. There is a woman named Menna.”
“Is there a problem bringing you here?”
“Yes, there is a problem. A big problem. Menna is my mother’s name.”
“This is your mother?”
“No. They share the same name. This is a sign.”
“Sign of what?”
“Since I have lied and told my mother I’m in Malibu at Lila’s parents’ home, it is not a good sign.”
“Why are you freaking out?”
“This is a reminder that I am not supposed to be here and this is a warning.”
“We still need to eat.” I took a breath. “We can get burgers at the joint next to the restaurant. It’s black owned. Place doesn’t look like much, but they make the best turkey burgers in Los Angeles.”
“What is that place rated by the board of health?”
“The sign in the window said they were given an A.”
“I only eat at places with an A rating.”
“So, burger or no?”
She sucked her teeth, did that and irritated me. “Mind if I wait in the car?”
“Why can’t you get out?”
“These people.”
“What people?”
“Pants sagging. Gold chains. Girls look like strippers. People out here look like slaves.”
“Whoa. Slaves? You just jumped the shark.”
“What would you call a person who dresses like they are still in prison?”
“There were never any slaves. No woman or man is born a slave. Our people were enslaved because the devil looked in the mirror and thought he saw an angel. And the Bible he carried told him what he did was the will of God. The will of his god.”
“That was then, Farrakhan. This is now. Two hundred years later. What’s the excuse?”
“Black man wasn’t freed two hundred years ago. We walked out of slavery into Negro Codes, Jim Crow, and every evil law they could think of. We’re still begging for equality.”
“I get the point. No need to become Malcolm X. I understand your history. I know about the nationalism, patriotism, and white supremacy they hide behind false Christianity. I know firsthand how they resent minority groups. I know how it is being seen as black and a woman, then to be seen as African and a woman. And don’t think that people aren’t racist toward me. It’s worse for Africans. Yes, I said worse. I’ve been bullied since I was born. By white people, Mexicans, Africans, and by black Americans. Ignorant people don’t care what kind of black or brown or what part of Africa I am from. It’s all the same to them. We didn’t have to be in the boat to be on the boat.”
She lectured me on being black, female, and African in America.
I told her, “Let’s not talk about this. Let’s just have a good time.”
“If people had conversations like this up front, then they would never have sex.”
“Jesus Christ. Pop a fucking Valium.”
“Don’t disrespect me. I am a woman, a black woman, an African woman, I get too much disrespect. I speak and either I am not heard or my every word is challenged by some guy.”
“I apologize. If I did, it wasn’t intentional.”
“Pop a fucking Valium? Really? I’m not some South Central hoodrat.”
“How many times will I need to apologize?”
She rolled her eyes, away from me. “You’re different than you were last night.”
“Sun came out.”
“You’re more fun in the dark.”
“You’re more fun when you’re drunk and rocking a miniskirt that barely covers your ass.”
I was about to tell her that last night I thought she was sugar and spice, that I’d had nothing sweeter, but now, the morning after, I’m realizing that even salt looks like sugar.
I said, “Tell me what you want.”
“You’re angry.”
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Truce?”
“What?”
“Let’s call a truce.”
She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Then held my face, gave me a quick taste of tongue, and it hit me like it was a shot of Jack. That burst of anger, then rescinding, seeing my change in mood, then calling a truce to control that, in two seconds she let me know she could be passive-aggressive. She needed to control the moment.
She whispered, “Truce?”
“You can’t pull that bratty act and just yell you want a truce.”
“Apology blow job? Will that make it better?”
“Will it? Don’t know. Never had one.”
“I’ve never done one.”
“That’s supposed to do what, exactly?”
“Bet you’re the kind of nasty boy who would prefer soixante-neuf, right?”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“That was French. Simultaneous oral sex, like doing the sixty-nine.”
“So technical.”
“I am a nerd. I am analytical. I like to be precise. And things I don’t know how to do, I like to read about so I know what to expect. I have never done sixty-nine. Let’s see how that works for us. You can get on top, put that here. I put this there. And we do this in slow motion while Luther Vandross sings in the background. Can you handle that?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re mad.”
“Tell me if you want a burger from here, or should I roll over to Simply Wholesome and get healthier food? But let me warn you, some of your cousins will be there too. And at Starbucks. At the grocery store. Everywhere.”
She took a second. “What do you do for a living?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a swank apartment. You drive a nice car. You dress nicely. You own a lot of books. Own a lot of music. You have a computer. Not a lot of people have computers in their homes. You have a DVD player. You have a CD player. Two VCRs. A very big television in both the living room and the bedroom. Your furniture is new and too nice to be in an apartment. Your bed is new. Skateboards, snowboards, skates, and Rollerblades.”
“You took inventory.”
“By my calculations, you must have a lot of debt.”
“By yours, but not by mine.”
“Your money goes toward bad investments.”
“You’ve evaluated me.”
When I said that, my beeper went off. It was San Bernardino trying to reach me.
She hesitated. “Are you a drug dealer?”
I verified the number to call, then faced Jimi Lee, laughed. “I’m not a drug dealer.”
“What type of work do you do?”
“I work for a small security firm.”
“And you go to UCLA? You sure about that, or are you just trying to impress me with a lie?”
“I go to UCLA. I’m off for the summer. I usually take a couple of classes in the summer, but I guess like you, this is my break. I get a gap summer and you get a gap year. And, damn, drug dealer? Really? Drug dealer?”
She hesitated again. “Do you know any drug dealers?”
“Why would I know drug dealers?”
“Look, don’t judge me, but I . . . time to time . . . not often . . . I partake of the sticky green.”
“You’re a pothead?”
“Recreational user. Not often. Told you. You don’t know me.”
“Ethiopians smoke weed.”
“Blame Lila. She got me started. All of my bad habits came from her.”
We laughed, but it wasn’t a hard, true laugh. It was a revealing laugh.
“I get migraines. Helps the migraine. And now I have a headache. And it is your fault.”
“Want an apology pussy licking?”
She laughed. “I won’t turn it down.”
I said, “I’ll see if anyone on the block is holding.”
“Holding?”
“Holding means selling drugs.”
“One more thing.” She hummed. “I want wine. Riesling if you can find a bottle. I love Riesling.”
“You’re not old enough to drink.”
“My age wasn’t a problem last night.”
“You look all of sixteen today.”
“That wasn’t a problem two hours ago.”
“You’re eighteen, pretending to be twenty-one, and you claim you’ve barely broken the seal on that coochie, but you work that ass like it’s a ’64 Chevy lowrider with sixteen switches. Up, down, back, forth, round and round.”
“You are twenty-one and make love, do freaky things like that is what you really do for a living.”
“Is that what you think? I’m a drug-dealing gigolo?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“And for your information, I don’t sixty-nine. I ninety-six. My shit is advanced.”
She laughed. “Get the burgers.”
“You sure?”
“A double-meat hamburger, two slices of cheese, extra mayo. Get weed and wine if you can.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe we can pass by the so-called Black Beverly Hills on the way back. You said it was close by. We can do that, then eat at your well-appointed bachelor pad and fall asleep watching The Lover.”
“The Lover was something else.”
“It’s a deep movie. Has levels. But the passion. In so many ways, like I told you before, she reminds me of me.”
“How so? You’re not a poor French teenage girl in Saigon in the 1920s.”
“Her family. Her life. Her angst. Her restlessness. I know I feel the way she feels on the inside.”
“The lover she chose?”
“I know how she feels for him, for that stranger. That craving, that awakening. It makes me feel normal.”
“And I am the Chinese man.”
“He has the apartment. And she has a place she can go to and feel as if she is in control of her life.”
I leaned toward her.
“You are rubbing between my thighs. You’re massaging that thing that men want.”
“Like it when I touch you like this?”
“You’re. Making. Me. Wet. Again.”
“Good.”
“If I had a dress on.”
“Wish you did.”
“You’re really good with that hand, those fingers, and you’re good in bed.”
“Trying to be like you.”
“I am a freshman when it comes to sex. You’re a grad student.”
“Like it when I rub you right there?”
“Stop before I go mad.”
I took my hand back. She took deep breaths, fanned herself.
With that, I eased out of the car. Jimi Lee let her seat back so she couldn’t be seen.
* * *
—
I HIT PHAT and Juicy, put in our order, then wiped down the nasty receiver, dropped in some coins, and used the pay phone to call San Bernardino. Jimi Lee watched me. She also watched the Ethiopian workers and customers coming and going from the restaurants and the other businesses. Jimi Lee was comfortable with me in bed, but not in public. Most men were looking for a woman like that, something that had an expiration date and would never be more than a booty call. I hadn’t known Jimi Lee twenty-four hours. I knew it was the last day I’d see her. This wasn’t going to be a summer thing. I had access to women in LA, women who were geographically desirable, and didn’t need to drive an hour to get a hookup. I was sure boys and men in Diamond Bar were hot on her. I told myself to feed the East African, slap that humble ass one more time, and send her home to her strict momma and heavy-handed poppa.
She lived with her parents. She had to have permission to leave home, had to lie about her whereabouts. I was a grown man. She got an allowance and I had worked since I was barely a teenager.
I didn’t have a curfew.
I could have taken her to Beverly Hills to eat, but I hated spending my greenbacks in places that didn’t care about my black skin, places where they might spit in my food or do something twice as disgusting to get their rocks off. I had come here to patronize people who looked like me. People who looked like her. My money went to Africa and a black business. Anger rose. Jimi Lee was right. I did want the Ethiopians to see me with her. I wanted to show her off. I wanted to be seen as part of the tribe, as part of the global struggle. Like them or not, understand their tongue or not, we were all from the same baobab tree. But Jimi Lee showed me that looking like me didn’t mean thinking like me. I wished I had ended it in Diamond Bar at sunrise. Then she would have remained perfect in my mind. While I talked to San Bernardino, I looked back out toward my car, saw Jimi Lee hiding from the world.
