I’m lying awake as I stared at the ceiling asking myself, “Why am I
putting up with this?” I glanced to the left of me and noticed the other side of
my king-size bed hadn’t been touched. As I pulled the black satin sheets to my
chin, I heavily sighed. Then I looked to the right of me at the obnoxiously
bright red alarm clock that read: two fifty-three am. There was no sound among
the darkness except a few lonely crickets chirping outside the window. I
glanced over the right of me again, but this time I saw my husband’s pager
blinking with its yellow incandescent color. “He left it again,” I thought. It
was tempting to scroll through the endless telephone numbers on his pager from
the hospital. I had already tried that scenario and found nothing.
Then I thought back fifteen years
ago, when I was living freely as a single woman. I was a successful attorney at
the Prosecutor’s Office for the city of Indianapolis.
My conviction rate was ninety percent. I had aspirations of becoming the first
black woman as District Attorney. Unlike some of the other women in the
Prosecutor’s Office, I never tried fucking my way to top, including not screwing
the Mayor. All of my accomplishments were based on hard ass work! Nothing was
giving me.
Then one day, I met a young
Neurosurgeon named, Dr. Anthony Robinson. I got to admit when I met him, I
wasn’t impressed. Although I was a successful in my career, I had this thing
for roughneck brothas. There was something about them when I saw them wearing
their jeans slightly hanging low just enough to show their designer draws,
sporting their D’Angelo braids and driving around in their decked out rides
with the bass booming enough to rattle the neighbors’ windows. My girls didn’t
understand why I was attracted to men like them. One of them always pointed
out, “You always convict them, but at the same time, you wanna fuck them.” Yet,
I always respond, even though I was lying through my teeth, “Girl, you don’t
know what the hell you’re talking about!”
For Anthony, there was something
about him that I found so irresistibly charming. He was the first man I dated
who didn’t believe in a woman should pay for anything, and taking me to places
that didn’t include DJ Hip Hop, booty popping or McDonald’s. Dr. Robinson’s,
taste was refined compared to the last brotha I’d been with. He’s a jazz and
opera type of man that savors five star restaurants, red wine, New York Times
and South American countries. That’s right, South America!
Dr. Robinson is fluent in five different languages: Spanish, Portuguese,
French, Italian and Arabic. He considers South America one of his favorite
countries. After all, he leaves every summer for two weeks to give his medical
services to the locals outside of Rio De Janerio. All of this sounds great, but
it’s only a small reason why I fell in love with him.
Dr. Anthony James Robinson has an
excellent physique. He’s either jogging three miles every morning before he makes
his rounds at the hospital or pumping iron in our basement. My husband ways may
be opposite to the guys I dated, but he blows them out of water with his body.
At fifty years old, he makes the twenty year old fellas stop and take notes on
chiseled abs, quads and deltoids. They can’t deny my husband can pass for
thirty years old. Yet again, this is only another small part of why I fell in
love with him.
Although it wasn’t love at first
sight, though over time, I realize this man loved me for me! Then slowly but surely after a year long of dating and
accepting my son who at the time was five years old as his own, I fell in love
with him. All of the accolades he acquired when he fought in Desert Storm in
1991, or graduating from Medical School from John Hopkins University at the top
of his class, or showering with me expensive gifts, trips or cars, all of that
didn’t matter. What matter was the unconditional love he gave me and to my son
during our courtship.
You might be thinking, “Why is she
having second thoughts on this man after fifteen years marriage? If he isn’t
cheating, what’s the problem?” The problem is our so-called storybook marriage
has become a loveless marriage. A marriage where all the faults, he says, have
been lying with me. From cooking to the cleaning, it’s not perfect enough for
him. I wonder if he’s forgotten before we got married, he asked me to temporary
leave my career to concentrate on starting a family. Like any good woman to
please her man, I did. I thought, “It only takes nine months to carry a baby.
It shouldn’t harm my goals as D.A.” Well, I was wrong. Fifteen years later with
a thirteen and a half year old daughter, Taj, a twenty year old son at Howard
University, a six bedroom mansion in Geist Reservoir, a his and her Benz, and
countless boring ass dinner parties for his dignitary friends, I’m running out
of patience!
It’s not that we don’t we have sex. Actually
we do, but it takes Viagra to wake his friend up. Besides that, I’m at the best
shape of my life. I’m forty-two years old and still wear the same size I wore
in my twenties. When I go downtown for lunch with my best girlfriend, CeeCee,
the young brothas still check my ass out, and I do mean checking my ass out! It
seems I get noticed by everyone except my husband.
And let’s get back to the sex
thing….At the beginning it was smashing, wall banging, screaming and wailing,
hot sex! We made love four or five days a week. I didn’t need to fantasize
about another man since my husband knew how to touch, kiss, and hit it in the
right places. He was a black Energizer bunny that went beyond any titanium or
plutonium substance. Anthony used to get me singing during sex. Not singing in
alto, but singing in soprano like Minnie Riperton or Mariah Carey with their
high notes. Funny thing about that, I can’t sing worth a shit! Now, I nickname
named him Mr. Missionary Man. There’s no other position but missionary. No
riding, no sidesaddle, no passion, no creativity, no life, just plain ole’
boring sex. He might be qualified for AARP, but he don’t have fuck like it!
In the meantime, I glance at the
clock and its half past three a.m., and still no Dr. Robinson. I’m lying alone
in a bedroom that can hold three more bedrooms. I have a whole living room with
a fireplace eight feet away from my bed; several paintings on the terracotta
color walls; a flat screen TV big enough like a Drive-In screen, and a wet bar.
Yes, a wet bar in the bedroom and I don’t even fucking drink!
Then suddenly, I heard his car
pulled up in our driveway. As I looked at the clock again, it was nearing three-thirty
in the morning. I was thinking of what to say him, “Where the hell you been?”…
“How late was this surgery”…Or… “What bitch you’ve been screwing?... “Yadda,
Yadda, Yadda and so on…”
His footsteps coming up the stairs were as soft as though he were a
thief in the night. I heard him mumbling to someone like he was on his cell
phone. “Who could he be talking to this late?” I wondered. As he quickly said
goodbye, he creaked the bedroom door open and slowly walked to his side of the
bed.
“Nikki?” He whispered.
After the rehearsal I had in my mind
to cuss him out as though I was still that girl from the 29th and Clifton in the hood, I
pretended I was sleep. I was too mentally tired to fight with him. Besides,
it’s a school night and I didn’t want to wake Taj. So, I lie breathing like I
was in a deep sleep while he kept repeating, “Nikki? Are you awake?”
After that, he changed from his
business attire and joined me in our bed. I could feel his eyes on me as I lay
the opposite direction from him. I didn’t want to him to know that I was still
awake. Hearing him ramble about his lying ass surgery or the hospital is
getting old. And I think he’s knows it. I finally felt him rustling the covers
to turn away so he could sleep. I quietly sigh without another thought and went
to sleep.
Morning arrives as the sun peeked
through the overcast sky and it rained enough to saturate the landscape around
our house. I barely slept for those few hours since my husband returned home
after three am.. Between his strident snoring and the quick downpour, my body
did not want to step in the shower. It felt as though the tiredness was an
extreme understatement. I wanted to stay under the warmth of my bed while my
brain reminded me I had volunteer duties for Legal Aid at nine am. Yes, I still
practice law, but for Pro Bono basis. Actually, I lend my expertise to the
fresh out of law school grads or Paralegals twice a week. Dr. Robinson prefers
me, in his words, “To donate my service to the under privileged.” To interpret
his bullshit, he doesn’t want me to work full-time in a law firm or work as
Assistant District Attorney, or continue to have political ambitions as D.A.
Dear sweet hubby wants to me to play the role of Happy Homemaker and rub noses with fake ass country club bitches
who whine of not having enough money to spend on stupid shit. My husband does
like the friends I’ve known since the fourth grade, even though he thinks one
is a bad example for me, Porshe or Porsha as is stated on her birth certificate.
He claims she too ghetto. Accuses her of being a gold-digger because all she
dates are professional athletes and rappers. He says, “Those hip-hop thugs are
her welfare check; except they pay her bills, mortgage and car payments. She
never had to work hard for anything. It’s no different than being a
prostitute.”
As I stood in the shower, I leaned
against the white tile to catch a few seconds of sleep. The very warm water
from the showerhead did waken my senses as it treaded slowly down my body.
Despite the enamored watery feeling, I heard movement beyond the shower
pixilated glass. It was a silhouette of man walking towards me. “Nikki?” My
husband called out. The next thing I knew, he jumped his naked body in with me
as though he expected an arousal of excitement. I wasn’t upset, but annoyed.
The audacity of him coming home after three o’clock in the morning, and thinks
because he joins me in my shower that
we’re going to fuck like nothing happened? I was at my breaking point. While
the shower continued to run, I angrily looked at him as I put my hands on my
hips. I didn’t care I was naked or the fact that his Viagra was kicking in and
his average size dick was extending before my eyes. I flat out
didn't care!
“Where were you last night?” I
huffed.
Anthony was annoyed by my question.
I don’t know why. After all, he crept in our bed in the wee hours of morning.
The only thing I did was patiently wait for my husband to come home. And it’s
not like he hasn’t done this before. I’ve complained about his late night
entrances. He always quick to reply, “I had an emergency surgery…..Or, I had to
stay late at the hospital because they were short staffed”….Or, my favorite, “I
was too tired to drive home, so I fell asleep in the car in the parking lot.”
It’s usually those three excuses he replies as his answer.
My husband stood in front of me as
his dick sprung like a rigid diving board. The expression on his face was like
I shouldn’t have asked him of his whereabouts. Last I checked, my name is on
our marriage license as Nicole Renee Robinson. So, as his wife, I have a right
to ask of where he has been and who he has been with. These late night
creeping-by-my-pillow at two, three or four in the morning is getting old!
“I’m going to ask you this again,
where were you last night?”
“Are you serious, Nikki?”
“Hell yeah, I’m serious. You’ve been
coming home at all hours of the night. I want to know who the bitch is?”
During all of this time, we were
still in the rapidness of the shower; allowing the water to douse the both of
us despite the fact we were in the midst of a heated exchange. Then Anthony
finally said it, something I expect from the three excuses. “I had to perform
an emergency surgery on a patient with a gunshot wound to head! That’s why I
didn’t get home until after three.”
I sighed with disbelief; uncertain at what to think. I know my husband
is brilliant at what he does. After all, his hands pay for our house, cars and
utilities. Also, it’s not my paranoia of him cheating, but the loneliness I
feel when he’s away from home day in and day out with his patients. He asked me
to be the caretaker of our home while he works hard to takes of care me. What
about my needs other than material? I don’t recall in years him uttering the
words, “I love you, Nikki.” Or thanking me of my own sacrifices just to make
him happy. Or ever asking me how I feel. It’s basically from him, “This is how
things are, so the hell with you and your feelings.”
I start to feel bad by his
patronizing stare to remind me that my accusations are baseless. Then, every
time we finish an argument, he has to end it with an exclamation point by
gently kissing me like he did when we dated. I thought, “I hate it when he does
this!” All five-nine of him, took me into his arms. I felt pleasingly trapped
between his rock-hard body and the downpour from the showerhead. He leaned
closer to my body as I felt his Viagra-enhanced organ pressing against my pubic
bone. The uncomfortable sense overwhelmed my libido. I was feeling the burning
passion that constricts my bridge to a never ending place of return. My husband
hates it when I say the word, fuck,
because it sounds ill-mannered. He says, instead use the words making love is poetic in its nature. He
loves that Shakespearian shit; using words that people don’t use anymore.
He suddenly hoists me against the
shower tiles and slithered his enhancement inside of me. I have to admit, it
felt….so….damn….good! Dr. Robinson became the black Tarzan of the jungle. I
became his Jane; jerking and swinging me around as if I was a strong vine. Then
I said the word he hates coming from my lips, “Come on, baby! Fuck me!” While
screwing me against the tiles, he quickly glanced at me with an aggravated look.
It’s just something about that word he despises!
First time in a long time, I wonder
if I can get my orgasm. It has been long overdue. I can feel my thighs shake,
my lips quiver and a tightened clitoris. It’s ready to impact at Mount Nikki’s
peak. “Fuck me, Anthony!” I screamed. I felt like I was riding the waves in the
Mediterranean Sea with his hips thrusting up
and down in me. “Come on, baby!” I panted. Then I went on, “But what ever you
do, don’t…….”
Suddenly, my husband, Dr. Robinson
had incredibly falling short of my expectations. I mean way short! Before I can
reach my climatic pleasure, his dick had waned back to its original wrinkly
size. He was breathing hard as if he ran a mini- marathon. Better yet, a thirteen
point one mile run doesn’t suffice his endurance. Maybe a five k, but nothing
further.
As usual, my husband never asks how
I feel before, during or after sex. He does his peek-a-boo act with my coochie
by his premature ejaculation and then goes about his business. When married
couples have sex, it supposed to be a loving experience between them. I believe
for me, our fifteen year road is quickly diminishing before my eyes. My husband
has become virtually a stranger.
That evening, after six hours at
Legal Aid, my husband surprised me by announcing we’re having a guest for
dinner. It’s not anything new. Dr. Robinson has this habit of springing dinner
guests at the last minute. I could plan a fine meal for a family of three and
then low and behold, he invites other Doctors or big donors to our home. Thank
goodness for him, I made a huge pot roast. I know my husband will barely eat
what I cooked. It’s not that he don’t like my cooking, but whenever we have
dinner guests from anyone that’s apart of his hospital, he’s busying having his
mouth on their asses, brown-nosing every chance he can get.
Don’t get me wrong, my husband did
work his butt off to get the respect by his peers, locally, nationally and
internationally. And he couldn’t have written four bestselling books about his
most difficult and successful surgeries if he didn’t have the expertise in his
field. Yet, the question for me is, what more does he have to gain? I have seen
him rise as young brain surgeon to the most prominent and prestigious
Neurosurgeon in the world. What is left for him to accomplish? He’s been on
countless TV news channels as a medical analyst; got paid hundreds of thousands
of dollars to speak at medical conferences, and had his name among a few for
Surgeon General. So, again, what more does this man need?
As I put the last of the best China
on the table, a resonating sound of the doorbell echoed the house. I let it
ring. Hell, he wasn’t my guest. Let my husband do the honors since invited this
person. I went on to place the golden utensils next to gold-rimmed wineglasses
and wondered why my husband remained in his study which was closer to the door?
“Nikki, can you get that? I’m in the middle of something!” Anthony yelled.
I thought, this Negro has more nerves than a brass monkey! First, he invites a
guest an hour before dinner is served, and now, he wants me to stop setting the
table to answer the door? The bitch in me is ready to bark. As I walked to
the foyer, I saw my husband sitting at his desk chatting on his cell phone. He was
laughing as though the conversation was more interesting than his own guest. He
had his laptop open with a glass of Bourbon beside it. “What’s the matter with
you?” I yelled. It was pointless. My bitchiness didn’t affect his phone call.
He even didn’t bother to look beyond the blare of his Mac screen. I wanted to
make it known to him how shitty I’m feeling. I clop my stiletto heels on the
wooden floor to the door to grab his attention. While I grabbed the knob, I
gave him a quick evil stare hoping my eyes would give him a stern message. While he remained on the phone, he
quickly pointed, “Nikki, answer the door!”
My teeth were firmly on my tongue. I
was ready to drop a load of curse words from my lips, starting with “Asshole!”
Then door-bell rang again. When I opened it, all of my bitchiness suddenly
evaporated. From a hellish last twenty-four hours, my sorrows quickly became
sweet. Standing on my porch step was the finest man I’ve ever seen. He was
dressed in a three-piece business suit with a black leather satchel propped on
his shoulder. The brotha was clean, sharper than a damn tack! He reminded me
the guys I dated before I married; only he didn’t wear the braids. He had a
meticulous and precise fade that joined his neatly groomed mustache. And the
man’s teeth…Yes, I look at teeth…This man’s smile was perfect. Actually,
everything about this stranger was perfect!
I can tell this brotha was shocked
to see me because his deep, dark and penetrating eyes widened when I opened the
door. I know he wanted to take a peek at my twenty-something year old figure in
this forty year old body. Wearing my tight, white spaghetti strap dress only
enhanced what God gave me. He wanted to look; being a gentleman, he fought the
temptation.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Jensen White. Dr.
Robinson is expecting me?” He said. His voice was just smooth as his skin. I
wondered, where did this guy come? If
this is what is like to look at a face of an Angel, then thank you all mighty!
Besides, did he say doctor? I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but this brotha
should be on the cover of “Source Magazine” instead of reading AMA Journals. Over
his shoulder in my driveway was the latest model of a BMW. For Dr. White, he
had some serious rims that made his sixty or seventy-thousand dollar car
shine…I mean bling!
“Hi, I’m Nikki Robinson, his wife,”
I said. “Won’t you come in?” From the look on his face, he seemed surprised. He
probably expected to see a pitiful, frumpy and dumpy woman holding a Martini,
looking ten years her senior. I hope he’s not disappointed.
When Dr. White entered the house, my
husband finally pried his eyes and ears away from his laptop and phone to meet
his colleague. Comparing to the two doctors, Anthony was dressed in his finest
navy two piece suit, along with wire-rimmed glasses that hugged his face.
Although he could pass for thirty, you tell by his mannerism that he’s fifty.
The way he walked toward Dr. White to greet him it’s as though his arthritis
was getting the best of him. My husband looked more like Dr. White’s father
instead of a fellow colleague. I wanted badly to burst out in laughter while
witnessing this moment between the Neurosurgeon version of the head of RNC,
Michael Steele and a slightly older version of Trey Songz. I wish I had my
digital camera to take this picture!
Later at dinner, I sat on the end of
the long eight-seat dining table while Taj sat in the middle fiddling around
her vegetables as though she was a thousand of miles away. In the meantime, my
husband who sat at the opposite end from me, was busy discussing the Fellowship
program with Dr. White. As they were chatting away, I couldn’t help but to
stare at his young colleague. I became fascinated by him. All kinds of
questions ran through my mind like a hurricane like, who
is he? And, where did he come from?
Finally, while the two Doctors
conversation reached a plateau and I was able squeeze in my own conversation to
Dr. White. As I sipped my red wine, I asked him the very question I was dying
to ask since he stepped foot in the door.
“Dr. White, are you from Indianapolis?”
“I was actually born in Atlanta, but my parents
moved up here when I was five years old.”
That question went well and now on
to the next one. “If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?”
He replied with a nervous giggle,
“thirty.”
While Anthony was sipping on his
bourbon, he gave me stare as if he didn’t appreciate my forwardness to our
guest. To me, I wasn’t being bold, just curious. Dr. White looks to be a first
year college student, instead starting his Fellowship under my husband as a
Neurosurgeon. Although I have the feeling where the next question will lead to,
I went on to ask anyway, “I know Mrs. White has to be excited with this
opportunity to work under one the best Neurosurgeons in the world?”
As I suspected, Anthony interrupted
Dr. White before he could answer my question by asking him leave to the patio
to talk further about the Fellowship. I knew it! I saw the veins bulging around
the graying of his temples. My questions were actually harmless. Dr. White
looked very young to have gone through about twelve years of medical school and
training. As the question about his wife, why not? I know what it’s like to be
married, not only to a Doctor, but a world renowned, first class Neurosurgeon.
He gets requested by other colleagues around the world to perform prudent
surgeries or speak at engagements or pounding away on laptop in his den writing
another book. He does everything, except pay attention to his wife. If Dr.
White is married, I hope he’ll appreciate a good woman who stands by his side
through thick and thin and wait patiently at nights until he gets home from
performing an emergency surgery because so far with my husband, the blinders
are over his eyes!
Forty-minutes later, my husband
escorted his colleague to the front door. As they were still discussing the
Fellowship, I stood on top the stairs wearing my usual lounging attire; black
Baby Phat shorts and a pink tank top with a short, pink silk robe and had my
dark brown, eighteen inch weave swooped in a hair clip. I didn’t know why I
wanted to be inconspicuous. Maybe I wanted to enjoy the temporary eye candy I
was receiving for the evening without the presence of my husband, or maybe,
just maybe, I want to know more about Dr. White than I should.
Then suddenly my husband told him he
has something to give him from his den. He finally left this brotha alone! I
quickly composed myself and then proceeded down the stairs with my briefcase. He
reminded me of Black Hollywood from the 1970’s, when the leading men exude
superfluity of confidence. It’s was kind of confidence that made 007 shut the
fuck up and step aside because knew these Black men were and forever will be
the shit!
“You’re leaving?” I asked as my
average five-five height stood in front of his six-foot frame.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he conveyed
a smile that melted my heart. Yet, there was one thing I noticed about the
Doctor while he waited for my husband. He seemed nervous. He kept wandering his
eyes everywhere in the foyer as if he was trying to avoid eye contract. Then he
suddenly asked, “Briefcase? Are you a schoolteacher?” I was wowed, and yet
amused with his coyness. Actually, his shyness, or nervousness, made me want to
know him more. Then I quickly broke the ice. I knew my husband will return, so
whatever I have to say, I have to say it quick!
“No, I’m a lawyer,” I answered.
Still, regardless how much I tried to break the ice, the brotha couldn’t look
me in the eye. What does he think I’ll do, rip his clothes off in front of my
husband’s den and fuck him like a no other bitch? As much as I would love to, I
have never cheated on my husband. There have been plenty of opportunities for
me to let my fantasies come true with other men. Nonetheless, I still wear his
ring and hold true to my vows; even if it’s a marriage by name only. Then I
quickly replied, “And don’t call me, ma’am... I may be forty-two, but “ma’am”
sounds like you’re talking to my mother!”
“I’m sorry ma’am….I mean Mrs.
Robinson!”
“Mrs. Robinson?” I thought. I like
that! I felt like the fiery, siren Anne Bancroft’s character in the movie “The
Graduate,” and Dr. White was the timid, Dustin Hoffman. Only the difference
with this situation is I don’t need to prop my legs open for him to glimpse my
pussy. My push-up bra that snuggled my 34D’s under this pink beater is good
enough. As I said earlier, his eyes are wandering everywhere, but at me.
He knows he want to look!
Then just like, Dr. White or Jensen looked as though an angel had
quickly taking him away from the fiery pits in hell when my husband returned.
“I found the papers I want you to take with you, Jensen.” I never saw a straight man so relieved to see
another man. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead like rain drizzle. As he
took the papers, Dr. White thanked him for the dinner. He didn’t say goodbye to
me. He probably couldn’t since my husband stood there like a wall between door
and myself. I couldn’t say or wave goodbye or catch a last peek of his ass
before got into his BMW. However though, I’m sure I would see Dr. Jensen White
soon. Every Fellowship recipient who was trained under my husband are never
strangers at our house. I’m confident when he comes back, his eyes will get
tired of wandering endlessly at mundane shit. Sooner or later, I will catch him
looking!
©Imani Wisdom, 2011
TyLeishia L. Douglass is a native of Baltimore Maryland and a voice of hope for this generation. Douglass is an author, online radio talk host, promoter, public speaker and published author. TyLeishia is on a mission to encourage and empower others. Her imprint is embedded in the hearts of her short story readers. One of her personal favorite mottos is, "Helping to make a difference one page at a time." TyLeishia earned publishing credits from "Student Life Magazine", was featured on LA Talk Live “Perspective’s Corner” with Rhona “Rho” Bennett and credits from the soul diva songstress and life coach and member of the group EnVogue (The Real Funky Diva’s). TyLeishia's poetry and comments are also featured onaskrho.com. The Baltimore Times featured Douglass online as Indie Soul Entrepreneur of the Week which speaks of her writings and blogs as self-help tools which she shares worldwide. TyLeishia is poised to offer solace and confidence to motivate others in their personal struggles through the poignant story of the main character of her novel, "Jewels Declaring New Miracles." New books are underway and additional short stories by TyLeishia are available on Amazon.com, Kobo, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble’s. Douglass continue her education and aims to achieve and earn her AA Degree in Mass Production and Communications in hopes that her online blog radio talk show, “JOTU & GEMS” will take flight in a future worldwide televised broadcast which serves as a platform that supports all arts in and around communities.
