Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

After returning the phone to its cradle, I sit a few moments to think about what she’d said. Maybe she is right. Maybe his penis has some kind of voodoo power. How else can I explain this shit?

I’ve had plenty of men. Cute, rich, and famous.

Hell, I’ve had good dick before—sex so good, I was curled up in the fetal position, sucking my damn thumb afterward! But this is different. I don’t know how, exactly, but Hamilton has a way of using his eyes to look through me. I’m back to being Daddy’s little girl. Back to a time when a smile from Daddy’s eyes could make everything better.

I’ve convinced myself that if only Hamilton could rid himself of all those other women, we would be happy. Somewhere deep inside him, I believe he loves me. And frighteningly enough, I sound just as dumb as my mother, praying that the lying, cheating man will one day change his ways. But wasn’t it Daddy who said a leopard never changes his spots? Ever?

• • •

This morning after he left, I opened all the windows and threw the sheets off my bed. It’s a feeble attempt to rid myself of him. Stupid, I know, but this is my ritual when he leaves. Somehow, I feel doing this will erase him from my life.

I vacuum the carpet and scrub down every inch of my bathroom. I am hurt, and try hard as I may, I can’t get the vision of “Tish” with her arm wrapped around my man out of my mind. I’m not sure if it hurts more to see him with her, or that despite all of my efforts, nothing I do can stop this man from sharing what I love so much with someone else. She looked into his eyes just like I once did. The thought makes me vomit.

After I change the sheets and dust every corner of my bedroom, I still feel his presence. I jump into the shower and try in vain to remove the memory of his touch from my body.

I soap up the breasts he’s caressed a million times. My nipples stand alert, seeking the warmth from his lips and tongue again. I let the bubbles run down my abdomen between my legs. I close my eyes and visions of him moving slowly in and out of me invade my thoughts. I allow the water to wash over me as my hands travel to the places he’s discovered.

My obsession with Hamilton is like a disease that has infected my entire life. I’m consumed with images of his smile that reflect in his eyes. Memories of his butterfly kisses that set my soul ablaze. Thoughts of him fluidly filling me, stroke by stroke, until I burst into a million tiny unrecognizable pieces of myself.

• • •

It’s Sunday morning and the sun is peeking through his blinds, tapping me on my shoulder. I hear the sounds of pots rattling in the kitchen and the familiar smell of bacon and eggs waft into his bedroom. This is what I love so much about him. It is also what makes this so difficult for me. For every time he’s come home late, smelling of someone else’s Rapture perfume, for every time he’s silenced his cell phone in the middle of the night, I can recall a time when he’s offered me a crisp, white calla lily as a thoughtful gesture, or has just been the solid kind of man I need.

Lying in his king-sized bed, lost within the sheets and goose-down blanket, I feel him surrounding me on all sides. I have to steel myself against him. I reach into my purse and pull out that folded piece of paper. Today’s affirmation reads: You determine your own destiny … with or without him. Love is just a casualty of war.

I close my eyes and feel myself sinking into his domain. When we make love, he likes when I call him “King.” I can’t help but wonder how many others have fallen under his reign.

Quickly, I wash those doubts out of my mind and pull his oversized T-shirt over my body. He walks in with a tray full of breakfast and plants a cheerful kiss on my forehead. He plops down on the bed, grinning like a kid. I think for a moment that he doesn’t even realize we’re at war. But then I blink and, for a second, I see the devil rise again in his eyes.

He hands me the newspaper and switches on the TV to ESPN. This is how we spend Sunday mornings; me reading about tragedy around the world and him watching sports.

Life is simple that way for him. Sports—you win or lose. Work—it pays the bills. Love—here today, gone tomorrow. Life—you live and then you die.

For me, life is filled with layers and various nuances that must be taken into account. Maybe under all that deceit lies the heart of a good man … maybe.

“So, baby, did you think any more about this living arrangement?” He takes a long sip of OJ.

“Are you planning to move your things into my condo?”

“Baby, I already told you that you live much farther from my job, and it would make more sense for you to rent out your place since my rent is much cheaper here.”

“Hamilton, do you hear how crazy that sounds? Renting out my condo that I own to pay rent somewhere else?”

Carefully, he places his hand on my thigh. I feel my resolve weaken at his simple touch. He leans over and places a light kiss on my forehead. Then he slides those damn soft lips back and shows me the whites of his teeth. His smile is his secret weapon.

“Baby, don’t worry about it. We’ll make it work.” He turns back to ESPN. I’m not even sure what just happened here. I’m hot at first because I’m mad about what he asked me but, then again, I feel the familiar heat rise between my legs and realize I’m really hot. I have to wait for Sports Center to end before he’ll put out this damn fire.

As I turn my attention back to the newspaper, I start to pick apart what could have gone awry during his childhood to make him this way. He says he grew up like everyone else. Says Georgia in the sixties was like most any other place in the U.S. But that’s odd to me. Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi were the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement. History was in the making. How could he have missed it? For him, back then, life was about cartoons, football, and endless summers. Simple.

Just like when he says he loves me. It’s simple. There was no process, no rationale behind his feelings for me. It is what it is. Nothing more. Nothing less.

As much I love Hamilton, every inch of me hates him. I sit and watch him some nights, asleep without a care in the world. I study him, looking for any flaw to break this ridiculous spell.

I hate the fact that when he touches me, every cell in my being is awakened. When he’s inside me, I hear the melody of our hearts beating together. Our souls connecting. I love him, but not for the reasons you think I do. I love him simply because I hate him.

My father once told me that hate and love are one and the same emotion. An odd notion at first, but when you think about it, to hate someone you have to spend time and energy wondering if they are suffering. You’re connected. Still invested in the relationship. So the more intensely I hate him, the more intense my love for him grows. Love is a casualty of war …

Daddy said the opposite of love is indifference. You’re able to walk away and not look back. You go on through life unaffected by their trials or triumphs. When you’re indifferent, it’s like they never existed. Hamilton has become my existence. I hate him. I love him.