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LaQuandra peeled her gaze from the erotic statue and shook her head. “No. Not in so many words. But his actions . . .” She paused, taking a deep breath. She didn’t want to get into this, her feelings, today, didn’t want to think about them, but this messy bitch was trying to drudge shit up, and now she felt herself on the verge of tears.
She needed a drink.
“What do you think is the cause of him pulling away from you, emotionally?” Dr. Dangerfield asked cautiously. “Do you think he’s no longer in love with you?”
LaQuandra scoffed. “Do I look like I have a crystal ball? How should I know? I’m not the relationship expert. Shouldn’t you be asking him that? I mean, damn, you’re the one making over six-figures, I’m sure, to ask stupid-ass questions. So go ask him, because I’m tired of asking, and I’m tired of begging. The shit’s exhausting.”
LaQuandra felt her chest tighten. She hadn’t wanted to consider that to be the case, but the writing was scrawled out all over the walls. And she couldn’t deny it—Isaiah wasn’t in love with her. Had he ever been?
Dr. Dangerfield ignored LaQuandra’s outburst. She knew that her pain ran much deeper than the lack of intimacy in her marriage.
“I want you to tell me how your husband’s emotional and sexual neglect makes you feel.”
LaQuandra huffed. Hadn’t she gone through this already with her in her session with Isaiah some weeks ago? Hadn’t she been clear enough, how Isaiah not making love to her made her feel?
Worthless.
Ugly.
Rejected.
Unlovable.
Unwanted.
Abandoned.
Should she go on?
Isaiah not touching her, shutting her out emotionally and physically, made her feel alone. And it took her right back to that dark, ugly place she’d spent her entire life trying to forget.
Home.
Where she’d never felt wanted.
“I imagine you miss your husband. And now that he’s robbed you of his touch, of his love, that takes you to a very dark place. And I’m sure that is frightening. And very lonely.”
Shockingly, LaQuandra choked back a sob. Dr. Dangerfield had summed it all up in one big, ugly-ass nutshell. She disliked this meddling bitch. Yet the power of Dr. Dangerfield’s words seemed to thicken the air around her. For the love of God, she missed him so much. Missed the way he used to look at her. The way they used to fit so good together.
Or maybe she’d simply imagined it all. Maybe they’d always been misfits, a hodgepodge of bullshit and emotional baggage. Maybe they’d been everything she imagined them to be because it was simply what she had wanted to believe, what she needed to believe.
Who else would ever love an ugly black bitch, with kinky hair, like her?
She was ugly. Baldheaded. Bucktoothed. Had no ass. She was all tits and big lips.
Her mother had made it her life work to remind her of those flaws. Hurtful words used to admonish her, to hate herself, to despise the color of her own beautiful dark skin.
Growing up, she had to compete with the prettier girls, the lighter-skinned girls, for the attention of boys. She had to fuck them (one, two, sometimes three at a time) to get them to look at her.
Eventually, after a countless number of sex partners—she’d stopped counting after seventy (she’d kept a diary up until she graduated college)—she’d mastered how to mask her pain with meaningless moaning and emotionless orgasms.
Consequently, her mother upgraded her from “ugly, black, baldheaded bitch” to “little black slutty bitch” and then it was “the ugly-bitch with the good pussy” from the boys, who’d pulled their hard dicks out every chance they’d gotten.
Fucking had nothing to do with her libido. It had everything to do with her self-esteem. If her mother belittled her, she fucked. If she had a bad day at school, she sucked dick. If a prettier, more popular girl made a snide comment about her, she fucked. Maybe even the prissy bitch’s boyfriend. If she got an A on a progress report or a test, she sucked dick and fucked.
Fucking, fucking, fucking . . .
It was the only time LaQuandra had felt wanted. Momentarily, she’d felt special. Yes, sadly, only when she was lying flat on her back, or down on her knees between a boy’s legs, or taking it from the back. So what if they usually had to be smoked out or drunk. They’d still wanted her.
