The Heat Seekers

Janessa sucked her tongue, ready to go check out the men. “Aiight, let’s try the next street over then.”

“Cool!” Tempest made a right at the corner, still looking for a spot. “By the way, whatever happened with that blind date Cynda hooked you up with?”

“Tempest, I should slap you for even bringing that skank man up,” Janessa hissed.

“Damn, was he that bad?”

“Gurl, when I say skank, I do mean that shit literally,” Janessa turned up her nose, like something foul was trying to invade her nostrils. “He looked aiight but when we got to his place, I almost fell the fuck out.”

“How come?”

“First of all, I don’t believe the brotha had a habit of bathing on a regular basis. Now you know that’s pathetic, because a bar of soap is about the cheapest damn thing you can buy in the store.”

“Eww, damn,” Tempest chuckled. “He had that au naturel thing going on, huh?”

“Au naturel and then some.” Janessa giggled. “That brotha could make a skunk haul ass in fear.”

“Dizammmm!”

“Not only that. His place was so damn filthy, you could barely see his nasty-ass carpet. He told me to get comfortable and take off my shoes, but there was no freakin’ way. Even the cockroaches were sporting slippers up in that bitch.”

Tempest fell out laughing and slapped Janessa on the knee. “You’re hilarious, gurl!”

“I’m just telling you like it is!” Janessa straightened suddenly in her seat, pointing up ahead. “There’s someone about to pull out over there.”

“Great! Let’s get this over with,” Tempest replied. “Let’s go in here and find you a man, so I can take my ass home and go to sleep.”

“I have a feeling this is going to be your lucky night, Tempest!”

“Hmph. I seriously doubt all that, but you never know!”

CHAPTER 3

let the games begin

janessa and Tempest walked into the club. It was jam-packed. True to form, within a couple of minutes Janessa headed straight to the dance floor, while Tempest aimed for the bar. It wasn’t that she was an alcoholic or anything, far from it; she only drank an average of four or five times a year. She just wanted to bum-rush a stool so she would have somewhere to sit for the remainder of the night—she had absolutely no intention of dancing. Go out there, shake her ass and get all funktified for what? To pick up a man? She didn’t even think so!

Tempest hopped on a stool at the end of the bar nearest to the dance floor as soon as some brotha in a purple suit jumped up to grab a passing hoochie by the elbow and ask her to dance. The girl in the skintight black dress glanced his way, laughed and said, “Hell naw, you must be kidding! Asking me to dance with that bama suit on!”

Tempest felt sorry for him—being called a bama is enough to hurt any brotha—but she laughed at his B

arney-looking ass anyway. When he swung around to retrieve his seat, she turned away and ordered a gin and tonic with a twist of lime. Hmph, that’s what he gets! Coming up in here trying to get some ass! Move your feet, lose your seat!

Once she got her drink, which was seriously weak, she positioned herself so she had an eagle’s-eye view of the entire room and started checking out the brothas. Just like she figured, they all had issues, and it was tooooooo damn obvious.

First, she spotted a no-cash, no-ass brotha. Yes, she had developed names for all them bad boys. He had on a fly suit, but his face was messed da hell up. He had zits—no, make that craters—in his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. Not from drugs or alcohol—just one of those brothas who couldn’t benefit from eye drops if his life depended on it. She knew for a fact that a brotha like that either had to pay for pussy or jack off to an issue of Black Tail or Hustler, depending on whether or not he was suffering from jungle fever. Judging from his stance, he’d obviously studied pimpology, so she took him to be a switch hitter. He would probably fuck anything.

Then, she spotted a momma’s boy, and not the kind you are probably thinking of. A momma’s boy is a man who has only been inside of one pussy in his entire life; his momma’s. In other words, a man who hasn’t had puddy since puddy had he. He appeared to be about twenty-five and was quivering in a dimly lit corner like he was afraid to approach a sistah. He was one of the brothas who comes to clubs to admire women from afar so he can go home and experience a wet dream about them later. Tempest figured he was probably cruising around D.C. in a 1972 Pinto with hydraulics, red stuffed dice hanging from the rearview mirror, and a kit.

Of course, the club scene wouldn’t have been complete without a Mr. I Know I’m All That. There were plenty of those fools there that night—Tempest spotted at least a dozen in a matter of seconds, profiling throughout the club. Men who think they are the salt of the earth, the cream of the crop, the bomb-diggity but are scrounging to put some ends together to buy a drink for themselves, much less anyone else. Tempest’s Mr. I Know I’m All That category had various subdivisions. There were the JEEP brothas—Just Enough Education to Pass, the kind who make about twenty typos when they try to write a sistah a love letter. There were the I-had brothas, who always brag about the flashy cars and other material things they used to have that somehow evaporated into thin air. Then, there were the I-was-the-shit-back-in-high-school brothas, who still dwell on the fact they were sports stars back in 1978 but never went pro because of an injury, which really meant they were cut when it came to college ball. Let’s not forget the loan-me-a-dollar brothas who attempt to hit sistahs up for cash promising to pay them back when they get their check from Mickey D’s or, even worse, a generic burger joint. At least if a man works at Mickey D’s, he can bring you a decent junk meal home every now and then.

Last but definitely not least, there were what Tempest affectionately called the questionable brothas representing. Ever since she caught her prize pussy eater Trent deep-throating a dick, she recognized a little feminity in quite a few brothas. She always had her homie-sexual radar in full effect. She might have left home without her American Express card, but she never left the radar at home. She tried to avoid them at all costs because to each his own, but no man was sticking his dick in her coochie after it had been in the dark hole of a 250-pound brotha nicknamed Precious who wore a pink tutu and size 16EEE ballet slippers to bed.

Tempest took small sips of her drink, wishing she were anyplace else, even home alone, as much as she dreaded the scenario. She zoomed in on Janessa, who was having a helluva time dancing with some handsome brotha off “Loungin’” by LL Cool J—cute, but not Tempest’s type. She would always rate men, even if one of her gurls was talking to them, and especially when they were knocking boots; she liked to gauge whether her gurls were wasting their time or not. Just a habit of hers, albeit a bad one.

Tempest firmly believed she could tell whether a man was a good lover at first sight, and she pegged the one Janessa was dancing with to be mediocre at best. He probably thought he was the second coming of Valentino. Ironically, she found out later, she was right—her intuition had never steered her wrong. All of her previous men had been good lovers, some of them damn good. It was just that they all had other nasty, raunchy, trifling shit going on in their lives.

She contemplated making a mad dash for the bathroom to tinkle, but debated about leaving her jacket on the stool to save her spot. She had picked it up at Ross for Less for $9.99, so if it sprouted wings and flew away it was all good. However, she knew good and damn well her seat would be gone when she returned, anyway. Contrary to popular belief, she thought to herself, chivalry is definitely dead.