I parked my luggage in the middle of the living room and started dialing. Now come on Caroline, you know better than this. But at this point, I didn’t. No shame. Dealing with Mr. Smart Ass’ attempted coup de tat had done a number on me. I needed to unwind, in the purest sense. Not with a bottle of wine. Not with Sade. With a man’s body.
His voice mail picked up. “Hi. You’ve reached Lance. Leave a message.” I wanted to obey that deep, sexy recorded voice on the other end of the phone, but I clicked off, stressed, too stressed to sound enticing.
I was on edge. Needed to do something productive to shake it. I started hanging my suits in the closet, put a load of laundry on and turned to CNN.
I heard my phone rattling on my night stand and I ran to answer it.
“Hello.” Could barely breath.
“You finally home.” His bajan cadence seemed more pronounced now that he was in the states. Funny.
“I am. Just got in today– I was calling to see if you were busy.”
“I was wondering the same thing on your end,” he shot back.
“What do you mean?”
“Last few times I reached out to you you didn’t return my calls.”
He wasn’t serious.
“Are you being serious?”
Apparently in my not responding to his every call I had broken an unspoken rule. Woops.
“Well then Lance,” I swallowed pride, “I’m sorry. I had a rough time in Paris. You know I wasn’t there on leisure. It was business.”
“No need to explain. How are you now? How was your flight?” Clearly he caught himself, tripping.
“I’m doing well now, happy to be home. Happy to be talking to you,” I told him, letting my voice dip one sexy octave. I could play his game.
But he called time-out. “Wait can you hold on a minute?”
Lance wasn’t home alone. He was going back and forth with an adolescent boy. I know because the other voice still had the shrill of puberty.
“I’m sorry. Nelson’s having trouble with the wireless in here. We’ve been trying to get it to work all day. Do you mind holding on for one more minute.”
I was so un-prepared that I hesistated with my answer. “Ummm… do you need to call me back?” Really, I was the one who needed a moment. Hell, I needed a Snickers bar.
“Yes, that would be best. Hang by your phone, okay sweet heart?”
I agreed. My limp body promptly slid down the wall. All the sexual energy just oozed right on out of me. I crouched down on the living room floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and shit, I blanked out. Had one of those moments where the only thing on your mind is what’s right in front of you. In my case, the living room windows. The sunlight was beaming on my skin, feeling good. But it was deceptive sun light. It was chilly outside. Autumn had arrived early in the City.
It was the season of change.
A month ago we lived an ocean away. A month ago we were nothing to each other than a memory, albeit it a pleasurable. And in one fall swoop, in the amount if time it took to have one Parisian adventure, my perfect fling had acquired feelings and a kid.
Better put, this fling was having an erection. Within two weeks time it had become bigger, deeper, far more complex than I was prepared to handle. I could feel my vaginal muscles tightening up at the thought.
The anchor was talking about health care. I’m so tired of this debate. I swear, if Obama cured cancer Republicans would object.
I stood, changed out of my bra and beige suit pants that I was crazy for sitting on the floor in.
When the phone buzzed a second time, I collapsed on my bed and answered it.
“Hey sorry about that. Where were we?”
“Oh it’s okay. I think we were trying to sync our schedules.” I still wanted to see him. I still had my own selfish needs.
“You were saying Paris stressed you out, right?” He was putting it on me with his voice. He must have been out of his son’s earshot.
“It did.” I closed my eyes, focused in on our conversation. Wanted his words to wrap me like a cashmere throw.
“So what can I do to make you feel better?”
“You can start by making your way over here.” Note, I suggested my place as I would for now on. God forbid his son walk in on us. That would be a lesson in sex he’d never forget.
“And then what? What do you want me to do to you after I arrive?” Lance was killing me softly. Knowing that every word sent shivers up my spine. Made me cross my legs and cringe. Damn. Every word an invitation to sex. “Hello Caroline.” “How are you, Caroline?” “Lay down and spread your legs, Caroline.”
I told him, in great detail, what I wanted to him to do to me, where, and how. I didn’t want to make love. I didn’t want to waste time gazing into his eyes. I wanted to fuck. I wanted him to pump me until sweat dripped of his chin and chest. I wanted him to turn me over and take me from the side. I wanted to get on top and go buck wild. I wanted to close my eyes and see the colors of the rainbow. I wanted to fuck the stress of Paris away and fuck until we cleared the air of all this emotion mess. I wanted to fuck the relationship raw. I wanted to fuck until it was just fucking sex.
He came over an hour after our phone call and the first thing on the agenda was a shower. And we laughed hysterically. He was poking me in all the places that he remebered I was ticklish. Do you know how good it feels to laugh out loud, in the shower? And then when he mounted my damp body, he didn’t go hard. He went slow and deep. Kissed every part of me, prolonged his own orgasm until he watched me shudder. It was good. So good. Too good. Suicide dick. So good, I didn’t want to repeat it. We fell into an easy sleep, interrupted abruptly by the sound of his pockets rattling. It was after 11. He was leaving.
“You heading home?” I asked, looking up at him. I was groggy. My body limp.
“Yeah baby, you know I got to to get back”. I was fixated on the sexy region where his groin met his belt buckle. He was fastening his pants. Still hadn’t pulled his shirt on. I wanted to mount him all over again. But I couldn’t. I had to respect that this man had grown-up responsibilities.
“So Nelson? That’s his name.”
“Yehp. Uhhh his grandmother named him after Nelson Mandela. He’s a handful, ” he laughed as he sat on the foot of my bed. He stroked my legs through the covers.
“I bet. But you can handle it, dad!” I smiled.
“That’s big daddy to you!” he laughed. Then he got quiet. ” You going to keep in touch with me?” Something about the way he looked at me when he said it, like he pleading. I detected something fragile in his tone. Something he’d never forgive me for breaking.
Suddenly we’d gone from a playful tryst, to a tryst that was not to be played with. I felt nauseous.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. It felt like a lie. I wanted him, but I didn’t want his emotions. I didn’t want to carry his baggage. Hell, I have my own. I didn’t want to worry about hurting this grown man’s feelings every time I had to cancel on him because I was working or late, or because I had other plans, or hell, because I just didn’t feel like it.
He kissed me, passionately. It felt like a thank you. Like he was saying, thank you for accepting me, all of me, back in to your life. Wait. Let’s be real. Thank you for not destroying my ego.
I miss the London days, when it was care-free. When we made love to no end because at the end of it all, I was going back home. I had an ocean and youth on my side then.
I don’t get why I have such a hard time staying out of relationships. Seriously. Can a woman have sex with a man she likes, maybe loves, and enjoys spending time with, without the commitment? Men do this all the time. A man can screw a woman for years, and amid all the screwing, she not realize she’s being screwed. We live in a sex with no strings attached society. Women take dicks over commitment every day. Too bad for double standards.
I had a hard time going back to sleep. Even a nymphomaniac like me enjoys waking up in a man’s arms.
Ayesha is a writer, dancer, and the founder of WomenLovePower.com, a tech-enabled brand that provides resources on charm, seduction, sacred sexuality, and feminine warfare. A self-confessed afromantic, Ayesha's first love is romantic fiction and poetry. When away from her keyboard, she enjoys New Jack Swing throwbacks, 90's sitcoms, running, sleep, and Cabernet.
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