One Magic Moment, page 26
We talked. We laughed. We drank. We danced and swayed to rhythm and blues and popular hip-hop tunes. When the music turned to some sexy reggae, we got even closer. I could feel his rock-hard chest against my heaving bosom. And trust me, when I say it was heaving. I wanted him so much, I thought I was going to explode. When the time came for the night to end, I didn’t want it to be over. So when he asked me what I wanted to do next, I invited him back to my place.
Once there, it didn’t take long for him to back me up against the kitchen counter and lay a kiss on me, the likes of which I’d never experienced. Before I knew what was happening, Conrad was picking me up and placing my curvy behind on the countertop and we were going at it. He pulled my silk shirt out of my pants so he could rip it open and lower his head to my breasts. He licked and teased my nipples through my lacy bra and I moaned aloud.
Like Tarzan, he carried me from the kitchen upstairs to my bedroom and we had sex like rabbits. I didn’t care that he might think I was easy. I just wanted him, hot and sweaty in my bed. What I got was rock-my-world-sex that made my toes curl and brought me to a mind-blowing orgasm that had me screaming out his name over and over and over again.
The next morning, Conrad didn’t quickly flee my bed. He’d lingered and we’d cuddled. He hadn’t minded sleeping in the wet spot, either. Then after making love again slowly and tenderly for the second time that morning, we went out to breakfast. At the restaurant, he’d stared longingly into my eyes as we sat eating pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. He didn’t care that I had a voracious appetite. He’d playfully pinched my nose and told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And in the throes of a great night of sex, I believed him. Later, we came back to my place and spent the entire day together in bed, making dinner and watching TV. It was wonderful.
So what went wrong, you ask? Any man that can make you come like that must’ve been worth keeping around, right? That’s what I thought. So I did everything in my power to show Conrad I was a woman he could settle down with. I got my hair done weekly by my girlfriend Chanel and it was no weave. It was the real deal. It wasn’t long by any means and reached my chin. But it was all mine and Conrad liked that. I kept myself fit by hitting the gym four to five times a week and kept my nails and toes perfectly manicured. I was a freak in the bedroom and his mama in the kitchen. I cooked gourmet meals, washed his clothes, cleaned his apartment and served myself up to him whenever and wherever.
And when I say wherever—I mean it. We had sex in the bathroom of one of the finest restaurants in Atlanta and almost got caught, but do you think that was enough to get me a ring? No! In fact, I think the more I did, the less committed he seemed.
Conrad and I had broken up and gotten back together more times than I can remember. But when he finally broke down and suggested we move in together, I thought, okay, I’m finally getting somewhere. Like a fool, I put all my shit in storage and moved into his place. I took it as a sign that we were on the marriage track. But now, I realize he was only being practical because I was always at his apartment. The M word never came across his lips.
Why couldn’t he see what I wanted, which is for us to be a happy, successful, married couple living in the burbs? With Conrad and my good looks, we were sure to make beautiful babies with nice hair. We’d have a wonderful life together, but Conrad just couldn’t or wouldn’t commit. He’d always say it wasn’t the right time career-wise for him or that it wasn’t the right time financially. And then like all men when those excuses started to wear thin, he resorted to the old standby—I’ve been hurt before so we need to take things slow.
Why did I put myself through such torture? Well, first off I hadn’t had a serious relationship in years. I’d spent the better part of my twenties moving up the career ladder. So when I met Conrad and saw he was marriage material, I did everything in my power to keep him. Plus, he was the one man who hit the spot every time and made me see stars.
I keep telling myself that cutting him loose will be easy, that somehow, someway I can exorcise him from my heart. But then he lays it on so thick about how much he needs me and how he can’t bear to be away from me. And you know what? I fall for it each and every time and so I continue on the road to nowhere.
“Baby, I’m sorry I’m going to be late, but I will be home soon,” Conrad says, when he calls me late one night after our four-year anniversary had come and gone.
It was well after nine and the dinner I’d made was now cold. “Conrad, you could have called. I made your favorite—fried chicken and macaroni and cheese.”
“I’m sorry, time got away from me. Just keep it on the stove and I’ll heat it up later, much later. Be ready for me when I get home because I’m dying for you, baby.”
He knows exactly what to say. I hesitate for a second before I say, “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you when you get home, honey.” What I should be doing is packing up all his shit and putting it in a box to the left like a Beyoncé song. He’s a good-for-nothing louse, who wouldn’t know commitment if it hit him in the face. But instead, I do what I always do. It’s a ritual I’ve become accustomed to. I shampoo and condition my hair, so it’s soft and luxurious, just how he likes it. Then I get ready for my man using Carol’s Daughter almond cookie sea salt scrub and lathering my brown skin with lotion. And the pièce de résistance —I don his favorite revealing black teddy. Afterwards, I spray his favorite perfume in a few intimate places, light several fragrant candles, turn on some slow jams for ambience and wait for Conrad to arrive. And when he finally does, I forget everything I’d planned to say because he looks too darn fine in a Joseph Abboud suit.
“You’re looking good enough to eat,” he says, perusing my sexy lingerie. He loves it when I play into his fantasies. He especially loved the teacher and naughty schoolboy routine.
“Thank you,” I respond and help him dispose of his blazer and start unknotting his tie. “How was your day?”
“It was good. Slow down, baby,” he replies when I quickly un-loop his belt and unzip his pants. “We have all night.” He pushes my hand away and plops down on the couch.
“All right.” I stop and hand him a glass of his favorite Riesling before sliding up next to him. I pick up where I left off and start nibbling on his ear.
“This is nice, baby.” He pats me on my behind and takes a sip. “You really know how to serve it up.”
“That’s right.”
According to Skye, if I didn’t serve it up when and how he liked it, like all men, Conrad would find someone else who would. Why? Because all men are ruled by their head and not the one above their shoulders, Skye said.
Eventually, Conrad picks me up and carries me to our bedroom where he gently places me on the bed. He slowly removes the teddy from my warm and waiting body and proceeds to screw me senseless.
Afterwards, even though I’ve had two deliciously satisfying orgasms, I feel pathetic and weak because I was settling for less than what I truly wanted.
No, no, no. I decide not to beat myself up about it. I needed to turn the tide. So, I cuddle next to Conrad and press my C-cup-size breasts against his chest and bring up the “M” word.
“You certainly know how to kill a mood.” Conrad throws back the covers and jumps up from the bed. He didn’t care that he was naked. I guess that’s what I love about Conrad, his swagger and confidence.
“What did I say?” I feign ignorance even though I know why he is upset.
“You know what you said,” Conrad insists on his way to the bathroom.
I watch as he goes about brushing his teeth as if I didn’t just bring up a very important topic. As much as I enjoy the view of his tight rear-end, I wasn’t ready for the night to end. “Baby, come back to bed. It’s late.”
Conrad spits out the toothpaste foam in his mouth and turns to face me. “I told you we’d discuss marriage when I was ready, but you just keep pushing it.”
Why did everything always have to be Conrad’s way or no way? “Conrad, aren’t you ready to settle down with me?” I ask, resting my face on my forearms. “Or are you waiting to see if something better comes along first?”
“Of course not,” he says, shrugging as if the idea was ludicrous when I knew for a fact that it wasn’t. He places his toothbrush in the holder and walks toward me.
“Conrad, do you love me?” Why did I have to sound so desperate?
“Of course I do, baby.” Conrad smiles as he bends down to brush his lips across mine.
Instantly, I soften.
“But you know I’ve been hurt before, and I just don’t want to rush into anything.”
“I understand that. I do,” I say. I knew he’d been through a bad breakup. His old girlfriend cheated on him with his best friend. But why should I be punished for her mistakes? “But it’s been five years and I’m tired of this merry-go-round. I thought things were going to be different this time,” I ask.
“Haven’t they been?” Conrad responds.
He probably thought that because we’d moved in together and he’d wined and dined me and sent me the occasional bouquet or bought me the odd trinket or two that it was enough. “Well yes, but…” I say.
“But what?” Conrad asks as he looked me in my eye.
Why did he always put it back on me like I was the problem in the relationship when he was the one who didn’t want to commit?
“But sometimes love isn’t enough,” I answer as honestly I can. “I need more. I need to know that you’re ready to share a life with me. You know, have a family.”
“Is all this marriage talk because you’ll be thirty-five soon? You still have time to have a baby.”
I jump up from the bed. “Damn it, Conrad. This is not about my biological clock.”
“Then, I don’t get it. What’s the rush?” he says. “Baby, we’re young. We have our whole lives ahead of us. Let’s enjoy each other while we can. There will be plenty of time for marriage and children later.”
I stare back at him and realize that once again he’s put the matter to rest as if what I want is irrelevant, and it made me wonder, would he ever be ready?
Work is my solace. That’s my MO. When things between Conrad and me aren’t going the way I envision, I drown myself at work.
I’ve been a financial advisor at my firm for years—seven to be exact. I know the stock market inside and out and I’ve made our clients millions. In turn, I have been rewarded with a six-figure salary plus bonus. I’ve made more than enough money that I don’t need to live with Conrad. But I let him believe he’s the breadwinner and makes more money than I. While we’ve been together, I’ve banked my salary in a lucrative portfolio and let him pay for everything. Men need to feel needed or so I’ve been told.
Getting the corner office wasn’t easy. There aren’t many African Americans in the financial sector, let alone women. I still feel like I have to always look over my shoulder. I know there are some white colleagues waiting for me to fail. So along with that knowledge comes the pressure of always having to stay on top of my game. I know when to tell my clients to buy and, God forbid, when to tell them to sell before the market crashes.
One of those pressure-cooker moments comes up the day after Conrad blew me up. My client, a wealthy Arab with oil connections, has invested in a startup company that was projected to make millions, but now is faltering. I’d warned him that the market was unstable and the company’s prospectus was shaky at best, but he was determined to buy. Now he’s looking at losses in the millions and needed someone to blame—me. And so I sit with my legs crossed, listening to the managing partner berate me for not steering the client away from disaster.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Layla,” Bryce says. “You’re off your game. You should’ve known better.”
“I did know better,” I respond tartly. “I advised as much. But Abdullah was determined to invest heavily in the initial public offering against my better judgment.”
Abdullah El Hassan was a relatively new client who I sensed had a problem with women in positions of authority. How could a woman, let alone a black woman, know anything about the market? That was a man’s job.
“Well, you should have done better.”
“I promise I’ll do so next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
My eyebrows knit into a frown. “Why not?”
“He’s asked to work with another advisor.”
“What?” Furious, I stand up and fold my arms across my chest. “You can’t let him do that. I’m one of the best advisors at this firm.”
“I know that, but your client has lost faith in your abilities.”
“That’s bull and you know it. It’s because I’m a woman. He wants a male advisor, doesn’t he?”
Bryce shrugs his shoulders.
“I knew it. You’re giving in. You should be fighting for me, telling him that I’m the best person to advise him. But instead, you’re just giving in. How typical!” I storm out of his office and down the hall.
My assistant tries to say something, but I wave him off. I walk into my office and slam the door shut. The sexism is blatant. Bryce isn’t even trying to disguise it and now someone else is going to get my account? It’s ludicrous! I had to change the tide, but how?
Later that evening, I meet up with Conrad and his boss and wife for dinner where I play the dutiful girlfriend, doting on Conrad’s every word. He’s desperate for a big promotion so I pretty much agree with everything he says. The problem was he kissed so much ass during dinner that I nearly got sick. He was so busy trying to be what they wanted him to be that he lost sight of who he was. Of course, I would never tell him that. If I called him an Uncle Tom, it would be the end of our relationship.
When his boss asks if we want dessert, I want to say “No it has been a long day.” But Conrad gives me those puppy dog eyes and I can’t resist. “Sure, dessert and coffee sounds great,” I lie. What I really want is a hot shower and my bed.
Dessert lasts another hour as Conrad discusses a new engineering project and I stifle a yawn. When the evening finally ends and we walk back to the car, Conrad asks, “That went great, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I wait next to the passenger side for Conrad to open my car door. Instead, he clicks the keyless entry button and walks toward the driver’s side. It burns me because when we first got together, he used to do things like open my car door, but that has since stopped. Holding hands? Forget about it.
“What’s wrong with you?” Conrad asks, once he plops his butt down in the driver’s seat after I open my own door and slide inside.
“Chill, okay? It’s been a long day,” I say.
“I’m sorry, but your performance was rather lackluster tonight. You know I told you my boss likes cheery, vibrant people surrounding him,” Conrad says and looked me up and down. “And what’s with the suit? Didn’t you have something in your closet at work you could’ve changed into?”
I turn and glare at him. He takes the hint, starts the engine and pulls off. I can’t believe his nerve. He hadn’t even asked me how my day was. He just immediately started in on me. “No, I didn’t have anything else to change into, Conrad. Perhaps if you had given me more than a half-hour’s notice, it could have been arranged.” I turn and look out the window.
“Listen, I’m sorry.” Conrad pats my knee with one hand while keeping the other on the wheel. “It’s just you know how important this promotion is to me.”
“Yes, I do,” I reply. “But the world doesn’t revolve around you, Conrad. I work too.”
“Did something happen today at work?”
Now he finally asks? I think. “I had a shitty day. My boss took away one of my clients.”
Conrad shrugs. “It happens. You just have to work harder, Layla. Because you’re a black woman, you’ll have to work harder than any man in your firm.”
I roll my eyes upward. Instead of getting support from Conrad, like most boyfriends, I receive criticism. It’s the perfect ending to a horrible day. “Thanks a lot.”
“Why do I do it, Dr. Hunter?” I ask my therapist. I’ve been seeing her weekly for six months as I tried to figure out my twisted relationship with Conrad and what my next step should be. “Why do I stay?”
“I don’t know, Layla,” she answers honestly. “Why do you think you devalue yourself so much? Is it because your father left you at such a young age and you’ve developed a relationship with him? Is that why you continue to stay with a man who is not giving you what you want, what you need?”
That’s what I liked about Dr. Hunter. She gives it to me straight whether I liked it or not. She’s a middle-aged black woman with salt-and-pepper hair and impeccable taste in clothes. And based on her questions, she’s tired of hearing my old, lovesick, sob story. “Despite all my complaining,” I say, “Conrad is a good man. He’s everything I’m looking for in a mate. He’s attractive, intelligent and financially stable.”
“Yet he refuses to commit to you. And you continue to go along with it,” Dr. Hunter responds. “We’ve talked about this before. You have to take control of your life and let Conrad know exactly what it is that you need and then accept nothing less.”
