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“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.
Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”
—James Baldwin
LIBERTINE—a person who has sex with no morals.
Life is often amusing. Right when you honestly start to believe that you have everything figured out and under control, you get this curveball thrown at you that you can’t quite maneuver your emotional well-being into the position to catch. Right when you’ve convinced yourself that you are “that chick” and that your life is the total package, you find yourself once again falling off the proverbial “track of life.”
It was apropos that I happened to be vibing with “Bedroom Eyes” off the 1992 Isley Brothers album, Tracks of Life, as I pulled up to the valet desk at the Mandarin Oriental on Peachtree Road. My curiosity had overwhelmed me when a card key to the Mandarin Suite was dropped off at my office earlier in the day. Shane, my assistant, eyed me with much suspicion as she placed the black silk envelope on my desk mere seconds after I had completed a conference call with a gallery in New York about an up-and-coming artist we were trying to co-brand with showings so everyone could get paid. Business was booming, and it was not from a lack of me busting my ass as usual.
“A courier dropped this off for you.” Shane sat the envelope, with my name and office address written in silver calligraphy on the front, on my desk and waited anxiously for me to open it. “Must be an invitation to a party.”
“Well, you know how much Jason and I love a good shindig.” I giggled and slid my freshly manicured index finger into the flap to pull it open. “I hope it’s not for next weekend. We’re planning to take the kids to Charlotte for the NCAA Tournament.”
“I heard it’s bananas there; party after party.”
“Yeah, the games are like an added attraction.”
I pulled a white card out of the envelope. Glancing inside, I spotted the hotel magnetic key. I cleared my throat and read the note in silence:
Eurydice,
Meet me in the Mandarin Suite this evening at 7 sharp. Wear that Alien perfume that I like and no panties. I plan to eat you for my dinner and then we can order some room service for you . . . unless you want to lick your dinner.
Signed,
Orpheus
A grin the size of Texas must have spread across my face, because Shane started walking about my massive oak desk to try to read over my shoulder. I snapped to my senses in time to flip the card over before she could see it.
“Hmm, something secretive, huh?” she asked.
“No, not at all. It’s just private and it’s not an invitation,” I lied. It was an offer, but not one to go network or party. It was a solicitation to fuck . . . from Orpheus.
“Shane, can you go get Mike Wegman’s portfolio? I left it in the conference room earlier.”
Shane looked dejected as she switched out of my office in her six-inch stilettos. I never understood how women navigated in heels that high. I would start toppling over in anything over three inches. Women had become so obsessed with heels that some doctors were making a killing off surgeries that professed to make it easier. The surgeries went by various names: The Cinderella Surgery, The Foot Face-Lift, The Toe Tuck, and The Stiletto Surgery. Pure foolishness, if you ask me. I had been at dinner with a few female friends over the holidays and one actually said she had “Toebesity” and was going to have her pinkie toe downsized so she could wear her designer shoe collection. Pure craziness!
• • •
For the remainder of the workday, I was anticipating meeting up with Orpheus at the hotel. I could barely concentrate on work at all. I called Momma and asked her to get the kids. She asked me if Jason would be home for dinner and I told her that he had mentioned something about having a meeting with clients. Jason was doing really well with his architectural firm. The development in Atlanta was off the charts and he had a top-notch reputation, so he was never out of projects to work on. In fact, he had taken on two new partners to help with the load.
Back to my lack of concentration. My pussy was damp. No, scratch that. My pussy was drizzling, since I was foreseeing the night to come. No panties, huh? Well, alrighty then. Mine were going to be too soaked to wear anyway.
By five o’clock, I wanted everyone to leave the office on time so I could get in some “me time” before my recital. Most women do not realize it, but there is such a thing as a “pussy recital.” That is when you show off your skillz—not basic skills—in the bedroom, out of the bedroom, or wherever else your freakiness might inspire you to get down.
