Zane's Sex Chronicles, page 5
Anyway, back to Estaban. He kept me company while I waited another twenty minutes for Rodney, who pulled a no-show and would not answer his cell. Estaban offered me a ride back to my apartment and I accepted. On the way, he asked if I was hungry, and even though I was far from famished, I started rubbing my stomach like I was. If I could have made it growl on command, it would have been a perfect acting performance.
He took me to a nice steakhouse, and what I expected to be a casual meal turned into something spectacular with porterhouse steaks, champagne, and sharing six-layer chocolate cake for dessert. Those two hours in that restaurant changed my life forever. Estaban was a recent divorcé with two practically grown children. He had married his ex-wife right out of college, and while he seemed to respect her, he thought that they had compatibility issues. I loved the fact that Estaban did not attempt to trash his exwife. So many people, on both sides of the sexes, do that in order to make themselves feel good. I remember when a friend of mine from medical school was dating this man who claimed his ex-girlfriend—the mother of his child—was spawned from the devil. He said that she was making him pay a ton of child support, which was why he could not afford to take my friend out a lot, and that she was a horrible mother. One day, when my friend was visiting his family, she started trashing the woman in front of them. His sister set her straight, drove her to the woman’s home, and my friend felt like a complete idiot. The woman was brilliant, beautiful, obviously a very loving and nurturing mother, and she had not received a dime in child support in two years. I do not know why people are so quick to believe bullshit.
Estaban actually appreciated the years that his ex had devoted to him and to developing his children he was so proud of. He harbored no ill feelings and hoped that she would one day find another man to love and cherish her. As he related all of this to me, instead of the normal “my ex is a crazy bipolar bitch,” I grew to admire him more than I did already. That night he dropped me off and left me with a handshake, but we both knew that there was an interest on both sides.
I decided that I would not pursue him. I wanted to make sure that he wanted more than a “friends with benefits” situation and that he was comfortable with our age difference. He would mention it often, the age difference. I would always reply with the same answer, that I adored the fact that he was mature and past the stage of playing games. Do not get me wrong; I am not a fool. There are still plenty of men in their seventies running game, but some do learn from their past mistakes and grow. I sensed that with Estaban.
We took our time. It took us nearly two years to make a commitment to one another. I did not want to rush because even though he seemingly had come to terms with his divorce, they were together a long time and he stood the chance of wanting to go back. Ultimately he chose me. The night he proposed was unforgettable.
• • •
We were in Paris, on vacation. I had always wanted to visit there, but that was my first time leaving the United States. Estaban booked us a suite for one week at the Hôtel Ritz Paris on Place Vendôme. It was a breathtakingly beautiful mixture of rare wood, silks, and brocades, with Carrara marble in the luxury bathroom. Estaban and I had incredible sex in that suite. I wanted to rip it out and bring it back with us. Our suite overlooked the rooftops of Paris and the Opéra Garnier. The Ritz has an average staff of three people per guest at your beck and call, so the service was impeccable. While we did dine out a lot and in L’Espadon—their main restaurant—we also took advantage of their room service and woke up each morning to homemade brioches and breakfast pastries.
We took in as many tour attractions as possible. We made love the first night there, and on day two, we went to see the Eiffel Tower and Musée Marmottan, where more than sixty-five paintings by Claude Monet are exhibited. On the third day, we went to Luxembourg Gardens and La Madeleine, a beautiful church built by Napoleon in honor of his troops. The fourth day we went to the Louvre and Notre-Dame. The fifth day we went on a bike tour that was inconceivable fun but also told me that I needed to hit the gym more. We must have biked fifty miles, but Estaban barely broke a sweat. On the sixth day, we decided to lie up in our room all day before we had to head back to the hustle and bustle of our city life in the States.
After a serious lovemaking round on our last night, I decided to take a quick shower to get ready to blow Estaban’s mind some more—both of his minds, the one above and the one below his waistline. I was lathering up with my favorite bath gel, when Estaban suddenly yanked the curtain back. For a second, I almost slipped. He had never gazed at me like that before. At first I did not recognize what I saw, but then it dawned on me. Estaban was in love with me, really, really in love. The kind of love that I had searched and hoped for my entire life.
“You scared me,” I blurted out, meaning it in more ways than one. Could I actually handle that kind of emotion?
“Why are you scared? You knew I was in the room,” he said, then chuckled.
“I know. It’s just that … You’ve never looked at me like that before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt this way before.”
Damn, I was psychic that night!
“Do you love me, Lyric?” he asked, standing there in a bathrobe while I was covered with lather.
“Yes. I love you, Estaban.”
“We’ve been together for a while now, right,” he stated.
“Two years and counting,” I said. “It’s been a great two years.”
He unfastened the robe, dropped it to the floor, and climbed in the shower with me. “I stand here before you, Lyric, in all of my naturalness, with all of my soul, to profess my undying love and affection for you.”
I felt tears gathering in my eyes. “That’s so sweet.”
“It’s sweet, but do you believe me?” Estaban asked.
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
He sighed. “I realize that a lot of men in your life have hurt you, have lied and disappointed you. I also realize that I come to the table with one failed marriage on my record, but that was truly a matter of incompatibility and growing apart. I never cheated on her or disrespected her and …”
“Estaban, you don’t need to validate what happened in your divorce to me. I accepted you as you came to me, and I wanted to be with you before that night you offered me a ride. Long before.”
“Really?” He blushed. “I never knew.”
“Well, you were married, so you weren’t supposed to know.” I rubbed my fingertips across his hairy chest. “You did not seem like the type to step out on your marriage and I’m definitely not the type to sleep with a married man. That was not our time. Now is our time.”
“Yes, it is.” He took my hand and kissed it. “That’s one of the reasons that I wanted you to see Paris. I want you to see a lot of the world and I want you to see it with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Estaban.” I pointed to my heart. “You’re in here and I can’t let that go.”
“What do you think about starting a practice together?” he asked, which threw me off-kilter from our present discussion.
I shrugged, then said, “We’ve discussed it before. I love the idea, but do you think you can handle working with me and being with me every night?”
Estaban and I were not living together but we might as well have been. Either he was over my place every night or I was at his.
“Sure, I can handle it but …”
“But what?”
“There’s only one stipulation.”
I frowned. “A stipulation?”
He reached down for the robe and pulled out a velvet box. I gasped and threw my hand over my mouth. “Oh, no!”
“I hope that’s not your answer, before I even open up this box.” Estaban flipped the lid open. “Lyric, my stipulation is that when we start a practice together, we do it as husband and wife. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes! Oh, yes! I will!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around his neck and planting kisses all over his lips and face. “I will marry you!”
Estaban placed the four-carat emerald-cut diamond with a platinum band on my hand. “Then you’re mine, forever!”
“I only hope forever is a very long time!” I said and then commenced to blowing his mind, both of them.
• • •
The sex between Estaban and me was incredible … before we tied the knot in a wedding that cost upward of twenty thousand dollars. We made love every night and practically every morning. After we started our practice, things began to change. Part of me believes it is because he views me as a competitor, which is silly. We are in this together and I am merely trying to pull my weight to make the practice successful. Naturally there are some women who feel more comfortable with a female obstetrician. Then there are those who do not want another woman anywhere near their pussies. In our case, the number of women who prefer a female doctor is slightly higher. At times, we will see each other’s patients, but most do have a preference and set their appointment accordingly. This is no different from any other practice, whether it is pediatrics, neurology, or endocrinology; everyone is entitled to choose. Personally I am elated that business is booming. Even in a big city we have to hold our own with all the other doctors around. Those other doctors are Estaban’s competitors, not me. Yet, sometimes I feel myself going on the defensive when he makes certain comments.
The other thing that changed after our marriage was his relationship with his ex. Estaban tried to remain friendly and cordial, but obviously she did not expect or want him ever to fall in love again. She took it as an insult to her womanhood and began to start a bunch of bullshit when it came to Estaban’s relationship with his children, and her financial demands doubled after he married me. She figured that if he could afford a wife, he could afford more support for their offspring. Most of that money is going toward sustaining her lifestyle and not for their kids. Some men are truly paying child support, but a lot of them are paying exwoman support. Even as a female, I can admit that.
Estaban and I fight a lot now. Not physically, because my baby would never go there. The stress of us working together, the stress of his ex and her drama, and the stress of life in general have put a strain on us. I know that he loves me, never doubted it for a second. He has become withdrawn in many ways, though. There was a time when I could wink at him and he was jumping my bones. Now I can be butt-naked and he is acting like he doesn’t even know that I exist. I did not marry Estaban to have someone to fuck. I could fuck fifty times a day and not be married to anyone. I married Estaban for companionship, and being able to make love to him is important to me. I need him. He is like my medicine.
I have discussed this with my friends, but they have their own issues. Ana Marie is trying to get Taariq to make a commitment but, at the same time, she does not want to come clean to him about her past. Maricruz is trying to get over her “dick addiction” to her ex-husband Randall, a no-good bastard who is shacking with the woman he cheated on Maricruz with but still makes booty calls over her crib.
Eboni is doing her thing, searching for love in all the wrong places but not understanding that she needs to take a breather from seeing a few men at a time so Mr. Right does not have to fight through a sea of dicks to get to her. As for Patience, she has this zero-bullshit-tolerance policy when it comes to men. That should be her middle name: Patience Zero-Bullshit James. Sometimes I feel like she will never settle down as long as she keeps dismissing men from her life the second they do something she deems uncouth. All of them view me as the lucky one. Since I am the only married one, does that necessarily make me lucky? There are a lot of people in miserable marriages, and the divorce rate is at an all-time high.
I should not even mention the word “divorce.” I would never do that to Estaban. Whatever our problems, we will work them out. I have to rekindle the flames, that’s all. All of this drama will eventually blow over. He will realize that having me as a partner—both in and out of the office—is a blessing and not a curse. He will learn to ignore that bullshit from his ex and deal with it until his kids come of age and can make their own decisions. He will stop tripping over little things that mean nothing, and we will get back to making love like we used to. I realize that over time, and because of our age difference, his dick will ultimately shut down. That’s okay. I look forward to polishing his rocking chair and even changing his diapers. I love him that much and I know that he loves me back. He loves me so much that he stopped smoking. Now that’s what you call “pussy power”!
To all the women in the world—young, middle-aged, and elderly—who still feel we were placed on this earth to service men. May Zane’s Sex Chronicles liberate your pussies, free your minds from the chains of sexual oppression, and make you realize that you are entitled to fuck your way.
Damn, Sex While You Wash Your Drawers?
I was planning to stay home that night because I was pissed the hell off about my breakup with Trevor. I had to go out, though, and it wasn’t like I was going clubbing or any shit like that. I was simply going to the coin laundry to wash some damn drawers. You know how it is when your panty supply gets down to the wire. When you are single, working twelve hours a day, and living without the convenience of a washer and dryer up in the crib, you wait till the last minute and take about five baskets of clothes to the ’mat at one time.
That is what I was doing that night—getting my wardrobe straightened out. When I got to the ’mat, there was no one there except this one sistah with the most hardheaded set of twin boys I had ever seen in my life. How she managed to fold clothes and stay calm enough not to beat some ass was beyond me.
She was piling the kids and the laundry baskets of clean clothes into her minivan when he pulled up in a Mazda RX-7. I was sitting there chillin’, reading an issue of Essence that was about fifty fucking years old I found in the torn-up and ragged collection of mags on the antique table in between the only two pleather chairs in the joint, when he got out of his ride.
My first instinct was, playa. Shit, aren’t they all? My second instinct was, foine. The bruh made my one pair of previously fresh drawers, the ones I was wearing, instantly wet. Made my juices get to flowing. Know what I mean?
He started bringing his clothes in, and he was a typical bachelor. He had his shit in plastic trash bags and had one of those miniature boxes of laundry powder he probably paid too damn much for at the convenience store down the block.
“How you doing?” He gave me a holla while I was sitting there enjoying the view, a Coke, and a smile.
“Fine, and you?”
My southern drawl seemed to be ten times more profound than usual, and that shit only happens when I am horny. Trevor used to always laugh at my ass because I would start talking like a country bumpkin every time he started hitting it from the back.
He divided his clothes like a good little Boy Scout, separating the colors and then tossing them into three different washers.
One of the four dryers my clothes were occupying went off, and I got up to retrieve a rolling cart to move the clothes from the dryer to a laundry table.
He spoke to me again. “So, what’s your name?”
I was not even trying to hear it. Foine or not, I was sick-da-hell of men and had sworn off the dick for at least three months. “I don’t have a name.”
He smirked at me. “Yeah, right!”
“You, bruh-man, are a stranger, and my momma told me never to talk to strangers.”
I couldn’t help but giggle as I said the shit, because I was sounding more like a four-year-old than a grown-ass woman.
“Hmmm, yeah! You better watch out for me. Late at night. Empty Laundromat. Full moon!” We both laughed.
“Your ass is silly!”
I got my clothes over to the table and started folding them up. I was getting kind of “shamed” when I noticed him watching me separate my bras from my panties and socks.
“Need some help?” He was looking my ass up and down like a bear eyeing a pot of honey. “I don’t have shit to do at the moment but wait for my clothes to wash.”
“Now why would I want your crusty hands all over my drawers? No telling where those things have been.”
He walked closer to me, and my pussy started throbbing. Why, I have no clue, but my pussy lips were jumping like two castanets. “You are too cute. Tell me your name.”
“Hells naw! I am not telling you my name, and you sure as hell better not tell me yours, because I could care less.”
“Really?”
He was standing so close to me by that time, I could feel his breath on my neck, and it smelled like peppermint. Fresh breath has always been a turn-on to me. That au naturel shit has to go.
“Yes, really.”
I started folding my shit faster because my black lace panties were getting soaked, and I knew pussy juice would start trickling down the inside of my legs any second if I didn’t get the foine-ass nucca the hell away from me.
I don’t know what the telling signs were, but he knew I wanted his ass. He decided to go for it, and men who are sexually aggressive make my toes curl. I hate the nuccas who look dumbfounded when you tell them to pop a tit in their mouth or suck on your pussy. Some men can’t deal with uninhibited sistahs.
He was not fronting, though, and my ass cheeks started throbbing when he brushed his dick up against me. He was about five inches taller than me, so his dick was pressing up against the small of my back. Felt damn good, too. Of course, I was not about to tell him that.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Helping you with your laundry.”
“Bullshit!”
He reached around me, with one arm on each side, and started folding up my panties. I froze. “You know, you forgot a pair?”
“Huh?” I was lost like a virgin in a whorehouse.
