Burning Desire Read online

  “Baby, just continue to be you. They gon’ have to get over it,” Stacy would tell me. And she’d massage my neck and shoulders and put me to sleep after a long day. Next thing I know, she’s out the door, rushing off to beat Auntie’s curfew. Not until the morning would I wake up to realize she’d done even more cleaning in my apartment, making things more or ga nized and convenient to find. She eventually situated all my bills and other paperwork. At one point, my place looked like a custodian’s shop; but now, after Stacy came into the picture and put her “woman’s touch” down, it was a comfortable home again. I felt like I could breathe and that my life was back in order. The only thing I could never figure out is why there was always change on the floor. I mean, pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, lying on the floor like it rains loose change every day. And although I never really gave it too much thought at the time, it was but another of those red flags that I should’ve paid attention to.

  Besides that, I had to admit my place had changed for the better. With a laugh, I could recall times in the past when I had to ask myself if I’d ever see my apartment again. But nowadays, I’m asking God, Cupid, (or the universe as a whole) how I was blessed with such a wonderful woman. It wasn’t as if we went out every night, but we managed to squeeze a few dates in here and there. We did the movies, dinner at Mobay on 125th, and even though I was beat from a long day of work, we actually made time to revisit Harlem Lanes one Friday night. On a number of occasions we just stayed in while I made fried rice, salmon, or barbecued chicken. My menu wasn’t a tremendous one, but the few dishes I could make (in my opinion) had five-star written all over them. It was two months into our relationship and I never gave it a second thought that the church might be having another of their outings such as the one that Stacy and I met at. So, of course, as coincidence would call it, Pastor Bishop ran into us at the desk where you get your shoes.

  “Well, if it isn’t my man young Danté.”

  “Hey, Preach. How’s it goin’?

  “I should ask you that,” he replied.

  I looked at Stacy, considered what hell there’d be to pay if word got out too soon, and pulled Pastor Bishop aside.

  “A h h, Preach?”

  He didn’t answer, just raised his chin, in a sense bracing himself for what ever I was about to say.

  “If anyone can keep something confidential, I know you can.”

  He nodded his head, still without saying a word.

  “Yes, Mrs. Singletary’s niece and I are seeing each other. She’s making me incredibly happy, and no her aunt doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know, and shouldn’t know until we’re ready to tell her.”

  I could tell by his knowing eyes that Pastor Bishop could read between the lines.

  “I get the point, young Danté. I only have one question— well, maybe two. How old is she?”

  I made a face to express my surprise that Preach would insinuate the obvious. Then I said, “Preach, really. If there’s one thing I’m not it’s a predator. Stacy is twenty-one. Seen her ID.”

  “Okay. Well, you know I had to ask. She does look young.”

  “And your other question?” I said, on the very border of being short with him.

  “Uhh, I was thinking I might see you at ser vice this Sunday, yes?”

  He had me cornered. No way out of it.

  “Yes, Preach. I’ll be there.” If he hadn’t seen us in the bowling alley, caught with our pants down, I might’ve passed on a church appearance as I had on so many occasions in the past. But I had no choice now.

  “Everything okay? He’s not one of those neighborhood gossips, is he?” Stacy asked.

  “Naw. But now that I think about it, I don’t wanna hafta put out more fires to night.”

  Stacy didn’t quite understand what I was talking about, and then she did, once she heard my request with the attendant.

  “You have a lane on the first floor? I hate being around all those church ladies, always up in somebody’s business, if you know what I mean.”

  The attendant smiled and made the necessary arrangements so that I and my boo could bowl without having to look over our shoulders to wonder what church lady would see us and how long it might take for word to get back to Auntie. Meanwhile, the night was incredible and erotic all at once. I taught Stacy to bowl, handling the bowling ball with her, walking her through the posture, the form, and the stroke.

  “Come to think of it, bowling is pretty much like sex: if your posture’s not right, it doesn’t matter how good you hold the ball.”

  “Is that so? Well, I think I hold your balls pretty good, don’t you?”

  “The bowling ball, Stacy.”

  “Oh, right. Of course.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I went on, trying to be serious: “And if you don’t hold the ball right, it doesn’t matter how good your stroke is— one thing is just important as the next.”

  “Well, if you ask me, you got the strokin’ part down just right.”

  “You so silly, Stacy. Uhh, I think you’re up next?”

  Stacy threw a couple of gutter balls, but I wondered if that wasn’t on purpose, just to get more of my handson attention. Then, for the next hour, I went on showing her how, until her bowling was close to harmonious with mine, like some neatly choreographed dance. And in all of that handson teaching, I don’t think there’s a body part of hers that went untouched on bowling night. And it wasn’t like I embarrassed her or anything because the way the bowling alley is dark, lit only by neon and specialty lighting, more or less sets the stage for the fun we had.

  Later, we made love with desperation and purpose. But something happened in bed that night, and it freaked me out. As a general rule, Stacy was to be home by 11:00 p.m., unless there was a special event going on, at which point Stacy’s auntie would have to be fully familiar with the hows and whys. To me it was all silly, but if anyone saw how much of a panic Stacy would be in, they’d do like I do.

  Anything you say, boo.

  However, the window of time that Stacy had to work with often had her hopping up and out of bed so that she’d meet that damn curfew.

  On that Friday night, not only did she sleep past her aunt’s extended deadline, but instead of merely hopping up out of bed, she woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Loud, wailing cries that shook me hard like an earth tremor. Seconds later, this woman was marching through the apartment in a desperate search for something. I wondered if I had missed something here and maybe someone broke into my place and Stacy had some insight on the matter. Then, before I could catch up with her, she was already headed back to the bedroom. Only, now she had a wooden baseball bat with her. Where the hell did that come from?

  Aside from that, I felt the urgency here and wanted to hold and console Stacy. But there was just no negotiating with a naked woman who was curled up in a fetal position hugging a baseball bat! I can honestly say that I have never been through anything more frightening than to (at one moment) experience total peace, and then (a moment later) to be thrown into total shock, with deafening ears, dizziness, with my body suddenly going through “the shakes.” But, the bit with the baseball bat took things to some whole other dimension.

  The next day, Stacy didn’t even have a reason for the sudden outburst; her thing was: it just happened. And my thing was: that shit was crazy.

  I DIDN’T speak to any professionals or even close friends about Stacy’s outburst, thinking that it was just a strange occurrence. And during the next couple of weeks the relationship between us was as normal as could be. I even went to great efforts to find extra time for a movie and dinner in the city, and we even spent an afternoon reading at a Barnes & Noble store way out in White Plains. It was my every intention to have her forget about things and the possible embarrassment that might come along with it. I didn’t speak on it until I felt it was okay. The furthest I took it was to one day say, “If you need to talk to me about anything, you know my ears and arms are open.” And I left it at that.

  Bu
t the manic attacks didn’t end there.

  Ms. Garcia is one of my clients who works at a record label and, as usual, she invited me to a party. This time, the event featured Keyshia Cole and Donnell Jones. The last go-round, before Stacy came into the picture, Ms. Garcia and I went together to a four-hour all-expenses-paid cruise and concert featuring Toni Braxton. And believe me, the tension of those first-date jitters were in the air. First of all, Ms. Garcia was attractive, she was accustomed to getting her way, and although she’s older and I’m still considered a young whippersnapper, the two of us were single. So I had every reason to believe that she was after me. But I had to stay on the straight and narrow, as Pop would say. And you best believe that Pop was up waiting for me that night, too. Although I’m not sure if he wanted to hear the nitty-gritty or if he was just checkin’ to make sure I kept with the rules of the game. In the end, it was tough, ‘cause Ms. Garcia’s a sexy mama jama. But I kept my discipline. And I don’t know what the difference was between Ms. Garcia and Ms. Thomas, except for the passage of time and all the strife in my life. Add to that Ms. Thomas’s kind of laying it all out on a platter for me— I mean, how else am I supposed to act with a naked woman just lying there begging for it, challenging me, and (more or less) offering to ease my pain? I’d say I did exactly what was expected of me. But other than the Soul Train experience I had with Ms. Thomas more or less helping me through my depression, I had not broken “the code.” And I think Ms. Garcia respected me for that and so grew our professional relationship.

  When I asked her about these latest tickets and if she minded my taking someone else to the Keyshia Cole/Donnell Jones event, she said, Not at all. In fact, they’re not tickets at all. It’s a guest-list issue. I have two more spots if you need them.

  “No, just two is fine,” I told her. And she told me to bring my ID to show it to whoever was handling the VIP list at the club.

  STACY

  I got to the point in my life where I didn’t care what people thought of my past. My thing is, I had to do what I had to do to survive. Period. And if you gonna judge me, then you need to judge you first. Nobody was there to help me when I had it hard. Nobody was there when my uncle—

  I don’t even wanna go there. I’m just try’na move forward with my life. I’m just try’na make somethin’ of my life; the first in my family to do so. Okay, yeah, I’m a little twisted in the head. A little tick-tick-boom at times. But what woman isn’t? And as far as this whole if you need to talk to me about anything conversation, I fail to understand what Danté’s talkin’ about. I’m sayin’ what does he need me to talk about other than I’m that bitch that rocks his world. What more does he need but a real ride or die bitch who can do all the domestic stuff and still be his super-woman. That’s right: a lady in the streets, and a slut in the bedroom— that’s me all day. And as long as he does right by me, I’m gonna be that chick that sucks his dick to the very last drop.

  UP UNTIL now, I hadn’t been to any big celebrity events in New York. Plenty of ‘em go down in ATL: the Velvet Room. Verve. e.s.s.o. But most of what we got is celebs from the dirty, all of ‘em doin’ much of the same, somehow keepin’ it crunk in hip-hop or clothes, or porn, or all of the above. It gets boring for a chick like me after a while. But on any given night you could come down to my ‘hood and see the new chicks all lined up at the club, on account of some glossy, colorful handouts with sexual overtones that were handed out in the weeks before. And of course there were always some pop u lar names printed as “special invited guests,” or commercial attachments that are supposed to catch the eyes and, I guess, seduce potential club-goers. It got to a point where a girl didn’t know what flyers to believe and which ones to throw away. And if I’m lucky enough to get to a real party, guaranteed to be jam-packed with ballers, I’m more than likely to see police everywhere, all of ‘em starin’ at me in my skimpy dresses. And of course the best of us are wearin’ as little as possible, no matter how cold the weather is, just so we can catch ourselves a baller. And the ballers know what it is, ‘cuz they come to the clubs, spend thousands of dollars on bottles and VIP treatment, and they show out and show off their jewels and rings and medallions for the very same reasons.

  But this New York scene was different, at least the one Danté was takin’ me to. First off the sidewalk was wall-to-wall people when we got there, with the whole red-carpet treatment out in front and someone to check our names on a guest list. I gotta say that I was feelin’ special already— not the showpiece hangin’ on a man’s arm and him hittin’ off a club promoter with a few bills for the favor. There was no impressive exhibition of police around, and no cocky thugs broadcasting what they had on their necks and wrists.

  So, I immediately told myself wow when they flipped through so many pages of names and pointed out Danté’s name. I had never done this before (the red-carpet bit) and I was already feeling out of place. But when the hostess signaled the club security to let us in through the velvet ropes, the rush was awesome from that instant.

  Inside, the music was already intoxicating, and it went well with all the photographers snapping away at (I guess) celebrities walking across the red carpet. I say that because Danté and I were among those to cross through, and I know I’m not no celebrity. Not yet, anyways. There was a huge white banner that served as a backdrop to all the action, complete with a number of sponsors branded all over it. Most of the people we saw had on after-work attire, dresses and a drink in hand, so to fit in we just needed to hit the bar.

  “Hey, Danté, no pictures with the paparazzi?”

  “Nah. I’m not really into the whole picture bit,” he told me.

  “Aw, come on, baby? Can I feel special for just this once?”

  I noticed him inhaling and was about to change my mind, but before I did he agreed. And ever briefly we stepped into the spotlights that were focused on the red carpet while photographers took their shots at us. Oh my God, this felt so incredible! I felt like Beyoncé or Halle for a minute there. I had to get copies of these pictures, and found myself pulled in the direction of the photographers to exchange information. Danté eventually tugged at me and in a snap we were finally at the bar.

  “You got Georgia Peach?” I asked the bartender.

  “No, ma’am, it’s Rémy night. Only Rémy is being served from now until.”

  “Until when?” I asked for my own information.

  “Ahh, until we run out,” said the bartender. Next thing I know, my lover and I are toasting with Rémy Red in hand.

  “ To this incredible new relationship,” said Danté.

  And we locked wrists as we sipped at our drinks. I could’ve floated away on the thick cloud of passion between us. It was like a dream.

  “Aww, you guys are too cute,” someone said in an effeminate voice to our right. When I looked around, a guy who stood about a foot shorter than Danté had already spun away.

  “Hey, I know that guy from somewhere,” Danté said. But he just as soon shrugged it off as we made our way deeper into the club. Thumping music, laughter, and dancing. DJ Enuf on the ones and twos. “Now this is a party!” I said, more into the swing of things. In the meantime, the two of us seemed to be following a train of folks that snaked through the crowd until we were practically snug in the thickness of people, the official and superficial fun being had, and the decor of Keyshia and Donnell posters taped and clipped all over the place. We negotiated a spot up in the VIP area (or so it seemed), where a second-floor railing seemed to be vacant and also would offer a greater view of the stage once the show began.

  Danté whispered to me, “I think we should post up here because it’s a mob scene up near the stage and we can see everything from right here. Trust me.”

  I nodded, but I felt my eyes sparkling at the lively crowd of partiers in our midst, but more so into Danté’s eyes. Yo u are really suckin’ me in, man. Really.

  Eventually, the same guy from the bar—aww, you guys are too cute— joined the group and I got a much
better look at him.

  “Hey, you know what? Now I know where I’ve seen him! That’s the guy from the movie Con Air! Remember the flaming fag?”

  “Oh, Danté,” I scolded.

  “Well, what do you expect me to call him? What’s the po litically correct way to describe him? That’s the role he played, right? And look at him; that’s him all day long.”

  I just wagged my head. But I also couldn’t keep from looking in the direction of the actor. And I wondered if I wasn’t being too obviously attracted to what was going on within this group. It didn’t take long for me to trade smiles and then to work my way over to them. I befriended the actor, drank with them, and took pictures with them. I was so caught up I nearly forgot I had a date! And when I gazed over at Danté he gave me this look: go ahead, girl. Do your thing! And I was like, okay. And I shot a smile his way. But why in those pearly eyes of his did I see a question mark? I know he wasn’t hatin’ on my social skills? And by the way, is there somethin’ wrong with me being a fanatic for a minute? I mean, after all, it was Danté who warned me earlier, There will be celebrities there. So was he saying that just to get me to come? And if he was, well then, like Master P said: It ain’t my fault!