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Okay, I see the party is about to begin…up in hurrr…up in hurrrr! I thought with a smile. Again, like I said earlier, “Brenda knows how to throw a party!”
I was so caught up looking at the stripper, I started to sway to the beat of his rhythm. I found myself wondering, What in the world have I gotten myself
into coming to Brenda’s wild party? I had to question my judgment, because a whole lot of years and a month of Sundays had passed since I was out on the party scene like this without James. What kind of good trouble could I get myself into this weekend? At that moment, I understood why it was not good for married couples to be out clubbing and partying like this without their spouses, like James often did. That type of atmosphere was a setting for lust and guilty pleasures – not just lust but wanton lust. I could feel myself warping into a brazen sexy diva with each passing minute. Before I could pull myself from the forbidden thought of wanting to burst into the cage with that stripper and devour him whole, I submitted to the hypnotic trance of his fluid movements. I felt good!
“Martini on the rocks, please,” I told the bartender once I finally worked my way over to the bar, looking and feeling like a million bucks. I felt like I needed a cigarette, and I didn’t even smoke! I had forgotten all about going to speak to Gloria Dennis. Gloria who? That stripper had me on another planet.
When I looked around the room, I felt a twinge of awkwardness due to the masks covering the upper portion of most of the guests’ faces, making it hard to identify anyone who may have looked familiar. If Brenda were to walk right past me she wouldn’t have known who I was and vice versa. Come to think of it, if, by chance, Maverick was at the party, he wouldn’t have recognized me either.
That string of thoughts put a slight damper on my spirit, as I had held out a glimmer of hope that Maverick and I would have more time to at least talk before we parted ways this weekend. With my long lost love heavy on my mind, I slowly glided toward the bar. Placing my black rhinestone clutch purse on the counter, I asked for a cotton candy martini on the rocks. After about an hour and three martinis later, I had cased the party and was really feeling the vibe. I was starting to completely unwind. Moving on from the bar and into an empty booth next to the dance floor, I discovered the perfect spot for a good view of all of the male strippers in the various cages throughout the room.
As I reached down to pick up my glass and take another swig of my drink, I could feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, as if there was a draft coming through the room. But this chill wasn’t like the kind you get from a scary movie. This chill was like the chill of excitement after your first orgasm. I could sense him even before he spoke.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing sitting here alone?” His lips gently grazed my earlobe as he leaned down and spoke the words like butter melting in a skillet. His familiar baritone caused my lips to turn up into the biggest pleasantly surprised smile. As soon as I felt his body heat slide into the seat against me, I was in our zone. To say I was on fire would have been an understatement. In an attempt to diffuse my internal fire, I took that huge gulp of my drink that I was about to take before he walked over. Like déjà vu, the masked gentleman who had slid into the booth beside me intertwined his fingers with mine and warmed me to the core.
His mask was black with red stripes and though his identity was meant to be somewhat of a mystery, the familiar muscular physique that he so beautifully possessed was prominent through his midnight black suit.
“Mav…” I couldn’t even get the rest of his name out. I was stuck on stupid, seeing him for a second time in two days. I simply allowed our hands to stay intertwined and my mind and body to respond to his touch – sweaty palms, dreamy eyes, and aching in my soul to kiss, hug, and touch him all over. Instead of acting out my naughty thoughts or even acknowledging the amusing fact that we were sitting hand in hand staring deeply into each other’s eyes, I simply said, “So, I see red is still your favorite color, Mav.”
Yes, I took the punk way out and simply commented on the accenting color of his mask and cufflinks. He’d become quite fly in the way that he dressed, like a refined and distinguished gentleman, which was undeniably a turn on. Every second that he sat next to me staring through his mask, it was evident that the alcohol was working against my battle to maintain my composure.
“Red is our color, remember?” He said, removing his hand from mine long enough to tug at the red mask covering my eyes.
I decided to keep the mood light. “Yes, I remember our red knit sweaters we would wear in the winter, the red sweat suits, and the red shorts we had that matched. We were so corny.”
“I don’t think we were corny. I think we were just in sync with each other, Marisol.” A deep-set genuineness showed up in his voice again. Oh, he knew how to get next to the very fibers of my being, calling me Marisol, which was my middle name that only he used.
As my middle name rolled off of his tongue, I turned away from him, pretending to be engrossed in the beat from R. Kelly’s Feelin’ On Your Booty blasting through the speakers. The song choice made me smile and reminisce about when Maverick and I were younger and our complicated history together. It was a light and fun selection, but I knew that song could get things started on a whole ‘nother level. R-Kelly was gifted as he wanted to be, even with all of his perversions, and back in the day Maverick and I used to get down to every last one of his songs. As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, without speaking a word, Maverick stood, took me by the hand, and guided me to the dance floor. I followed without hesitation. The pulsating lyrics vibrated through the speakers and facilitated our movement as we swayed to the beat.
This is my song. For real, no doubt. Said the DJ is making me feel thugged out. As I walk you to the dance floor, we begin to dance slow. Put your arms around me. I’m feeling on your…
“Boo-oo-ootie!” Maverick haphazardly sang along, mocking R. Kelly as he got slick and maneuvered his hands down a little lower than they should’ve been. His body glided up against mine so close that I didn’t even care how silly he sounded singing. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the nape of his neck. I was going, going… almost gone to that place I had not been in years – amor. A place romantically and passionately every woman should go with a man at least once in a lifetime. Starving for that feeling once again, I was overwhelmed in the moment. Once Maverick stopped singing and squeezed me tightly in his arms, I made a move that my rational mind couldn’t comprehend. Raw desire trumping rational thinking, I laid everything on the line and asked him to my room.. I needed to feel like a girl who was wanted and desired at least one more time in my life. My husband had stolen the sexy vixen from inside me, and my eyes were pleading with Maverick to make her return. “Maverick, will you spend the night with me tonight?”
He looked down into my eyes, placed a soft kiss on my lips as if I were his, and said, “I plan to,” as if it was as simple as that. With that said, I melted into his arms with no thought about my life back at home waiting for me. I was there in that room with Maverick, and that was all that mattered. I had slipped back to my college days and was about to make love to the man that I loved. We continued our dance knowing that legally what we planned to do was wrong – dead wrong – but where was the law when James beat me? I was where I was supposed to be according to the law of attraction. The man who had always owned my heart would have the opportunity to caress it once more. My marriage to James was simply a covenant on paper. My spiritual bond with Maverick transcended any sheet of paper issued by any judge, and the best part was that it seemingly had never died.
***
At approximately midnight, Maverick and I left the masquerade party headed to his house. As we drove through the streets of Miami, traffic was slow, and the midnight air was calming. Fortunately, Maverick didn’t live far from the hotel. His home was a well-established beachfront condo nestled around South Beach. We had danced so much that my soles were aching feverishly, and I was ready to get out of my one-inch red pumps.
“Nice place,” I said, as Maverick opened the door, and his quaint abode welcomed me with open arms. With a brown leather sectional centering the great room that had a log cabin feel, I was thoroughly impressed with all of the beautiful knick knacks in the room. He had really turned his place into a home.
“I t
ry,” he shrugged and offered me a seat on the sofa.
“Wow! What is this, a James Brown clock? You have a full-sized James Brown grandfather clock!”
He chuckled at my surprise, and we chit chatted about the life-sized James Brown shaped clock and a few other sentimental pieces he had decorated his living room with before I told him I’d like to slip into something more comfortable.
“James, it is good to see that you are doing well for yourself.”
“That makes both of us, Marisol.”
“Is there anyway,” I pointed down to my dress, and added, “that I could take a quick shower and slip into something more comfortable? This outfit is not as comfortable as it looks.”
“Sure, babe. First room on the left. I’ll bring you a t-shirt and a pair of my boxers too, if you like?” He asked with a sneaky smile.
I nodded and said, “That will be fine. Thanks.”
