The Next Best Thing Read online

  Nelson searched my mouth with his tongue, and this time the kiss was longer, and much more intense.

  He unhooked my bra and voraciously sucked on my breasts, gently pulling at my erect nipples with his lips, and teasing them with his tongue.

  I placed long, feathery licks from Nelson’s shoulder blades up to his earlobes as he hoisted me on top of the pool table, slid my panties off, and dived head first between my thighs, devouring me the way a starving man would a five-course meal.

  “My God, you smell like heaven!” he said, squeezing my ass and deeply inhaling the scent of my Bond No. 9 perfume, which seemed to be driving him to the brink of insanity.

  We were both so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even take time out to unbuckle my stilettos.

  After what seemed like an eternity of having my honey pot licked, nibbled, and sucked, my body began to tremble almost violently.

  Nelson sensed that I was about to climax and whispered, “Tori, look at me.”

  What? Why the hell is he talking?

  “Look at me Tori,” he insisted again, staring into my eyes. “Keep your eyes on me.”

  As I did, he went to work on my pulsating clitoris with even more focus and persistence.

  The pleasure was so intense, I must have writhed over every inch of that pool table, and as Nelson requested, we were making direct eye contact when I reached my climax.

  But that was only the beginning.

  I came. Then again, and again, and again. Four times altogether and even then I had to beg him to stop.

  Now I understood. Direct eye contact makes an orgasm so much more intense. I have heard about tantric sex, but never thought I would actually find a black man who knows the fundamentals of it.

  I was trying to catch my breath, and thinking what could possibly top that, when Nelson scooped me into his arms and carried me to his bedroom where he took control of my body like an expert.

  We went from the bed, to the floor, back to the pool table, and back to the bed again. All the while, he was skillfully positioning my body in poses so erotic that they rivaled the Kama Sutra.

  Whew! I have never experienced anything like it.

  Roland’s lovemaking technique was limited to predictable in-’n-out, in-’n-out thrusts. But Nelson swirled his hips, and put his back into it with the intention of hitting all the right spots.

  And he certainly did just that.

  The only negative was that there were so many pictures of Kara all over the place, that it felt like she was a voyeur of our sexual escapade, with her eyes following our every move.

  Despite Kara’s “presence,” Nelson and I got it on until the wee hours of the morning, and when it seemed like it was finally all over, we just looked at each other and laughed, both of us giddy with satisfaction.

  “Damn!” I said. “If I had known you had it like that, I would have been creeping across the hall a long time ago.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He smiled, trying to catch his breath, then rolled over on top of me again.

  The count on the orgasms was something like Tori 4, Nelson 3. Just as Nelson was about to tie me, he screamed out “Kara!” and then climaxed.

  I pushed Nelson off me with so much force, he almost fell backwards off the bed. “What did you just say?” I asked, already knowing what I had heard.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not deaf! You do realize that you just called me ‘Kara’ don’t you?”

  Nelson leaned his back against the headboard, and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Look,” he said. “I apologize if I hurt your feelings, but it just…it just slipped out, alright? Jeez, I told you I was celibate.”

  “Oh, stop it with the celibate thing, okay? Let’s just do away with that,” I said, fighting the urge to pop him upside his head.

  “Well it has a lot to do with what just happened here. I mean, the last person I made love to was Kara, and that was over two years ago. So—”

  “So! How much of that was about you sincerely desiring me, and how much of it was about you fantasizing that you were having sex with your dead wife?” I asked.

  “It’s fucked up, but what do you expect when you sleep with someone you barely even know? What do you want me to say, I love you?” Nelson asked.

  “Oh, now you got jokes!” I said. “No, I don’t need for you to say you love me, but what I would have appreciated was for you to at least remember who it was that you were screwing.”

  Nelson scratched his head the way men do whenever they have been caught in the wrong. “Listen,” he said, with compassion. “I just wanted to have dinner with you, but obviously, you had something else in mind.”

  “Whoa, hold up! Don’t flatter yourself, homeboy. You rubbed your hard-on across my ass, so obviously you had something in mind, too,” I said. “Come on, now. It’s not like I just slipped and fell on your penis. And an erect penis at that!”

  “It was the heat of the moment, and I went with it,” he said. “But if you had been listening to a word I said tonight, it would be clear to you that I am still very much in love with my wife.”

  “Your deceased wife,” I reminded him.

  “Kara is still in my heart,” Nelson said quietly. “Just as much now, as she was when she was alive.”

  Ah, damn!

  I winced and rubbed my eyes as shame and humiliation washed over me. I wished there was a way that I could kick my own ass. To this man, I might as well have been a blowup doll.

  “Well,” I said, “don’t let me be the one to come between you and your wife.”

  Nelson didn’t say a word or even try to stop me as I slid out of his bed and gathered my things, which were scattered all over the place.

  At a quarter to four this morning, I cautiously stuck my head out of Nelson’s door, and looked both ways to make sure that the coast was clear. When I was certain that none of the neighbors would see me, I scurried my slutty ass back across the hall to my condo.

  Just trust yourself, then you will know how to live.—Goethe

  FRIDAY

  I can’t believe I played myself like that!

  I get a few drinks in me, start carrying on like a co-ed gone wild, and end up violating my own DSWYE rule.

  Nelson had been the perfect gentleman all night long, and I had to go and ruin the evening by behaving like the perfect slut.

  I mean, I know that there is a sexual revolution going on where women are dating and having sex the way men do, with no emotions or strings attached. But sober and in the light of day, I am horrified that I allowed my body to rule over decency, morals, and good common sense.

  Now you can see why I didn’t share this information with Nadia. She’s a good friend of mine, but shit, she doesn’t need to know all my business.

  And now, Nelson can add me to that list of trifling women he kept talking about so badly last night.

  11

  I was home alone on yet another Saturday night, when Nadia started bamming on my door like a damned fool. “Tori!” she shouted. “Open up!”

  I did not budge.

  Lackawanna Blues was on, and I was comfortable on the couch with a bag of Doritos, a king-sized Snickers bar, and a glass of white wine.

  Besides, I was mourning the loss of my scruples, and I damn sure wasn’t in the mood for company.

  I sat real still and muted the volume on the TV, hoping that Nadia would eventually go away and leave me in peace.

  “Tori! Girl, I saw your truck down in the parking garage, so I know you’re home!”

  I reluctantly unlocked the door, and the Cablinasian bomb-shell came bursting in, in all her hoochie-fied glory. Tonight’s outfit consisted of a red, low-cut micro-minidress, and heels that were so high, they put her at around six-foot-two.

  “What took so long to answer the door?” Nadia asked, doing a double take upon noticing my pink, Hello Kitty pajamas, brown Chip & Pepper moccasins, and raggedy ponytail. “Girl, you look a boiling hot ass mess!”


  “And you look like you’re on your way to the Skank Olympics.”

  “You’re hating!” Nadia said, with a smile.

  I swear, Nadia is the only person I know whose confidence and self-esteem levels are so high that she truly believes she farts gold dust and shits rose petals.

  “Hating? Please. I’m always one to congratulate when congratulations are due,” I said. “By the way, those bad-boys are fierce!” Being the shoe fanatic that I am, I was practically salivating over the silver metallic Giuseppe Zanottis that Nadia was sporting.

  “Girl, you know GZ does not play,” she said, kicking out her leg and arching her foot. “Suckers cost almost five hundred bucks, but I couldn’t pass them up.”

  “Well, I’m not mad at you,” I assured her. “They’re definitely worth the investment.”

  “So,” Nadia said, wiping Dorito crumbs from around my mouth. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “It’s movie night,” I said, flopping back down on the couch. “I’m chilling.”

  “Oh, hell no! I would not be a true friend if I let you go out like this,” Nadia said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Sitting around here moping, and looking like psych-ward Sally because you don’t have a man.”

  “Chile, cut the drama,” I said. “It is not that deep.”

  “Well why else would you be all cooped up in the house on a Saturday night…?” Nadia snapped her fingers as a thought occurred to her. “You’re sitting up here whinin’ and pinin’ over that tired ass Negro you almost married, aren’t you?”

  “Please! Why can’t I spend an evening alone without you assuming I have the breakup blues?” I asked.

  “Because truthfully, I think you do.” Nadia tossed the Dorito bag onto the coffee table and sat on the couch beside me. “Look at you, Tori, this is not you! You’re normally vibrant, fun loving, outgoing, and well put together,” she said, flipping my ponytail with disgust.

  “Unlike you, most of us are not all done up twenty-four seven, like we’re waiting for our close-up,” I said, taking a sip of Chardonnay.

  “Well, that’s something to look into,” she said coolly. “And if it’s not Roland you’re yearning for, I sure as hell hope it’s not Nelson.”

  I choked on my wine. The coughing got so bad, Nadia had to pat me on the back to help clear my windpipe.

  “What does Nelson have to do with anything?” I croaked, still struggling to recover.

  “Well, you know I’m not one to gossip, but just so you know, word around the building is that there’s been some on-the-low creeping going on between you two.”

  “Lies and vicious rumors!” I said. “And where in the hell do you get this stuff, anyway?”

  Nadia singsonged, “I’ll never tell!”

  Heifer.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, hoping she couldn’t tell I was lying, “because there is no truth to it, anyway.”

  “Good!” she said. “Because I also heard that old boy has been slinging the pipe to the tramp down in 1B, too!”

  Nadia laughed, but all I could muster was a weak smile.

  Nelson is sleeping with Ursula?

  That son of a bitch played me like a violin with that celibate shit!

  So much for his declaration that he’s “One of the good ones.” No, motherfucker, you are one of the sneaky ones. The lonely, bereaved widower act was all just a part of his game, and my gullible ass fell right into the trap.

  Nadia and I went back and forth for about fifteen minutes before she finally took no for an answer, and left to go partying without me.

  Afterwards, I was no longer in the mood for movie watching, so I grabbed my bathing suit and a couple of towels and went downstairs to meditate in the sauna.

  I walked into the booth and was surprised to see Ms. 1B herself, sitting up in there like she owned the place. Ursula’s head and torso were wrapped in yellow, fluffy towels, and she had a pair of Japanese spa slippers on her feet.

  “Hello,” I said, making sure to sound friendly, yet nonchalant.

  Ursula said, “Hi…” without an ounce of energy or enthusiasm.

  I wrapped a towel around my head and took a seat on the bench directly across from her.

  I was tempted to strike up a conversation in order to find out more about Ursula—for instance, has Nelson cooked for her, gotten her drunk, and then screwed her on his pool table, too? But since her body language was screaming Don’t talk to me! I didn’t bother.

  Unlike Nadia, I did not automatically dislike Ursula on first sight. Other than her being sometimey, I have never had anything specific against her. But now, in light of her stank ass attitude, I have to honestly say that I can’t stand the bitch.

  Ursula and I ignored each other for almost ten minutes, until Mitchell from 4C came in wearing only a pair of skintight Speedos.

  “There you are…” he said to Ursula, and moved in for a smooch.

  Ursula ducked away from Mitchell’s kiss and nodded in my direction to let him know they were not alone.

  “Hey, Tori,” he stammered, surprised to see me. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me,” I smiled, with innuendo in my voice.

  Like I said, Mitchell has slept with just about everything with a pulse in our building, but this must be a new low, even for him.

  I wonder if Nelson knows about this?

  After a few awkward minutes of Mitchell and Ursula sneaking looks at me and whispering to each other, I made a mental note to bring Lysol and sanitizer the next time I come down to the sauna, then left those two freaks alone to do what they had obviously come to do.

  How stank. Ursula really does get around like a bitch in heat, and the thought that we both have slept with Nelson makes my skin crawl.

  A vision of Nelson freaking Ursula the same way he did me kept replaying in my head, and I couldn’t get to sleep. It was nearly one in the morning, but I got up and took a long, hot, shower, then made myself a cup of hot chamomile tea. That did the trick.

  A few minutes after I managed to drift off to sleep, I heard Nadia’s special knock on my front door, which is her beating on the damn thing as if she were the Gestapo.

  “Go away!” I moaned miserably, refusing to give up the sweet spot in my therapeutic mattress. I put a pillow over my head to drown out the knocking, which only got louder and more persistent with each passing minute. Finally, I got up and stomped to the front door with murder in my eyes, thinking whatever Nadia wanted, it damn sure better be an emergency.

  “What is it?” I hissed, as I snatched the door open.

  “I need to borrow a set of clean bed sheets.” Nadia said, as if it were the same as asking for a cup of sugar.

  “Sheets? What for?” I asked, noting that she looked very Zsa Zsa Gabor in a peach floor-length negligee, matching robe, and those high-heeled mules with the marabou puffs.

  “I was giving T. C. a deep-tissue massage, he fell asleep and the next thing I know my mattress and sheets were soaking wet!”

  “You mean wet, as in pissy?” I asked, incredulous.

  Nadia nodded. “It’s the steroids,” she said in a whisper. “They got him all fucked up, and this ain’t the first time he’s pissed on my expensive designer sheets, either.”

  “And you expect me to give you mine so he can piss them, too?” I asked, shaking my head, trying to clear it. I had to be dreaming that a six-foot, muscle-bound football player had actually peed in the bed, and now I was being asked to loan my 800-thread-count Pratesi linens, knowing those suckers ain’t hardly cheap.

  “He’s not gonna do it again,” Nadia assured me. “It only happens once every other night.”

  See, this is what happens when you get too friendly with the neighbors.

  “Look, I don’t know what the hell you have going on up at your place, but some things need to be left behind closed doors.” I said.

  “So, I can’t borrow a set of your bed sheets, or not?” Nadia asked, indignantly.
r />   “Hell no!” I exploded. “That shit is just nasty, Nadia, and I don’t want any part of it. Now, you and Mr. Steroid are just going to have to work it out amongst yourselves. Now, good night.”

  Despite Nadia’s protests, I firmly closed the door in her face, and stumbled back to bed.

  12

  Labor Day is always a big deal at my parents’ house. Daddy gets started two days before by marinating everything that needs to be marinated, and that includes many pounds’ worth of chicken, ribs, steaks, tri-tips, turkey, and pork tenderloin.

  So many people show up every year that we might as well consider Labor Day our official family reunion.

  The weather was forecasted to be hot and muggy for the day, so I put on a tan, lightweight sundress, and a pair of tan and gold Coach sandals.

  I drove across the bridge to Kansas City, Kansas, where my parents still reside in the same three-story house Junior and I grew up in. Besides the deck they had built a few years ago, nothing else about the house has changed.

  Visiting my parents is like walking into a time warp.

  They have the exact same plastic-covered furniture and faux-wood paneling Daddy put up himself back in the ’70s, and other relatives get a kick out of teasing me about my senior prom and high school graduation pictures, which my mother still has displayed on the fireplace mantle.

  I pulled up in front of the house, and the thick cloud of smoke rising up from the backyard was an indication that Daddy had a good fire going in his heavy-duty six-rack smoker.

  I got out of my Navigator and grabbed the two trays of crab-stuffed deviled eggs that Mama asked me to bring. I walked around to the backyard and found Daddy manning his station at the grill, with a pair of long tongs in one hand, and a can of Colt 45 in the other.

  “What’cha know good, old man?” I asked playfully.

  Daddy looked up and his eyes lit up when he saw me. “There’s my favorite daughter!” he said.

  “I’m your only daughter,” I said.