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He didn’t know what to say to that, and LaQuandra saw it written all over his face. She felt the tears prick at her eyes. Goddamn him—goddamn him for being responsible for causing her all this anguish. Pain she hadn’t realized ran so deep.
“Fuck. You.”
LaQuandra stood up. She had to get out of here.
Isaiah caught the eye of Dr. Dangerfield, who gestured with her own eyes for him to go after his wife.
“LaQuandra, wait,” Isaiah called out, standing to his feet.
She turned back, her finger held up, her eyes fiery slits, her expression pained so vividly that he could feel his own heart pounding in his chest. He knew LaQuandra was fighting an explosion. She was keeping a tight rein on a temper he’d seen before.
“I’m—”
“No. Don’t say shit,” she warned, cutting him off. And then she turned away again and stalked off.
Fourteen
Surrender . . .
Letting go of the parts of yourself that no one else could see. Peeling back the petals of your soul and allowing room for vulnerability. That’s what surrendering was all about.
That was the lesson. Correction. That would be the lesson. One day.
Surrendering.
For each couple to give into their desires unapologetically (and respectfully—of course) without shame or regret. But each couple had work to do before they could ever cross that proverbial bridge.
What Dr. Dangerfield had come to learn about most of the couples she counseled and coached over the years was that they were afraid of letting go, afraid of giving into pleasure with one another. They held on to their fears, their resentments, the past, and, most importantly, their control. And it limited them in their relationships. It stifled their emotional and sexual growth. It blocked their ability to be more open-minded.
And it kept many of them stuck.
Stuck in mediocre sex. Stuck in sexless marriages. Stuck in sexual misery.
Yes. Surrender. That was the lesson. But, first, Dr. Dangerfield had to start from the bottom, then fight her way up to liberating the couples. She had to dig deep, and pull even deeper, to get some of them to feel safe enough to eventually step into their own truths.
She didn’t doubt that the couples didn’t love one another. Sadly, love wasn’t enough. Not in a society where everyone, everything, was easily replaced by the next best thing—good or not.
But the question was: how much was each partner willing to invest in (and commit to) in the process? How emotionally transparent were they willing to become for the sake of their relationships?
She looked forward to finding out. For the next several weeks, she had her work cut out for her. She would push and probe. And they would either break or bend. Fight or flee. The choice would be theirs.
And she’d be right there along the way to guide them. But, first, in order for the couples to surrender, to let go, to free their inner sexual beasts, they would need to learn to trust in not only their partners, but, also—most importantly—themselves.
Dr. Dangerfield shook her head as she thought of the couples. She definitely had her work cut out for her, especially with that loudmouthed ghetto one.
LaQuandra.
She was clearly a walking billboard for what an angry black woman looked like. Her mouth was filthy. And her disposition was shitty. But Dr. Dangerfield knew that behind her roar was a hurting woman, a damaged one. And she looked forward to peeling back LaQuandra’s very thick skin, one layer at a time. And Isaiah—mmph—with his detached self. Hood dick, that’s what he was. Probably a real good fuck, too, Dr. Dangerfield thought as she slowly kneaded her nipples.
She nearly died out there in The Garden when they’d both answered nearly every damn question wrong. What a damn mess. Clearly, neither had ever taken the time out to talk, to really get to know one another.
Her thoughts then shifted to Brenda. Brenda, Brenda, Brenda. Brenda with the big bouncy ass, she mused. Oh she was a wild one, Dr. Dangerfield realized. But she needed to learn ways to not emasculate her husband, Roselle. Whew. He was a fine one, Dr. Dangerfield thought, sliding the tip of her tongue over her top lip. Not her type, though. He didn’t wet her pussy, but he was definitely nice to look at.
And then her mind went back to Krista. Jesus. She was clearly the most sexually repressed of them all. Bless her heart. She didn’t love fellatio—giving or getting.
She couldn’t imagine life without head. She simply couldn’t wrap her mind around women not giving their men oral pleasure, especially when he eagerly tongued and laved her sex. She couldn’t fathom the thought of not having a man’s turgid shaft sliding over her tongue, or her tongue catching his precum, or her succulent lips being painted with his milk.
However, this wasn’t about her dick-sucking eps or her sexual liberation; this was about the three couples that awaited her in The Aquarium, where tonight’s festivities were being held, a tank full of pleasure, sort to speak.
