“I know. I’ll call ’em back later,” I said, silencing the ringer.
I doubted Alphonso ever told his wife about our five-year-old son. The day we met in Los Angeles, I’d just finished auditioning for a lead role in a movie called Married Men. I was going to play Jay’s girlfriend. That opportunity was long gone, I guessed. I hadn’t heard anything yet, about any part, but each day I held on to hope.
“You okay, chile?” Mrs. Taylor asked. “You’ll get the part, Red. Don’t worry. Worrying ain’t never done nobody any good, anyways.”
I dug in my purse for my keys, answering, “Yes, ma’am. I’m good.”
That day Alphonso was driving the bus route along Wilshire Boulevard. I’d gotten on, and he’d given me his cell phone number when I got off at my stop, promising to take me to dinner that night. I showed up at Harold & Belle’s on West Jefferson Boulevard and waited for hours. I told myself that maybe he was in one of L.A.’s traffic jams I’d heard about or had to work late. I sat at the bar, by the door, drinking Patrón Silver margaritas with salt on the rim. I speed dialed his cell every half hour, in between drinks, but after six failed attempts, I gave up and left the restaurant.
I knew I was too fine for him to pass on this ass. I was looking forward to making a friend that could help me out if I ever got in a bind. The next day he called me back, and we met up. No lunch or dinner. I had a one-night stand with him on Venice Beach on a wild, hot summer night, and my whole life changed. But not his. To this day, I regretted opening my legs in hopes of getting a sugar daddy to give me some money. I hated that I opened my legs and encouraged a man I didn’t know to penetrate me. Maybe I should’ve listened to my mother when she tried to warn me about men. Why did I wrap my legs and arms around him? Kiss him? Go down on him? When I didn’t even know him. Whateva.
Glancing at Mrs. Taylor, I said, “You don’t need a fancy suit to make you look beautiful. You’re gorgeous.” I wondered if Mr. Taylor still loved Mrs. Taylor, or if he stayed with her to honor his commitment to God or to protect his assets.
“Baby, yo’ phone,” she said, pointing this time.
I silenced it again. I had to quit giving up my number so easily, but these older men weren’t into texting, and the younger ones wanted their dicks sucked for free. Not by Velvet.
Depending on which direction you traveled, our row of town houses sat on State Street, two blocks away from Interstate 85 and walking distance from the hotel where I worked. My mother lived next door to me, on the opposite side of Mrs. Taylor’s. My mother was the main reason I couldn’t commit suicide. Burying me would kill her, and then who’d take care of my son?
“I’ma go on inside and get ready for work,” I said, unlocking my front door and throwing my shoes on the floor. Ronnie raced inside to his room, then turned on his Nintendo Wii, as I threw my purse on the sofa, headed to the refrigerator-freezer, removed the bottle of Patrón Silver, poured two shots into a glass, then went to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Mistakes happened, but why was I the only one who had to pay for our mistake for the rest of my life? I hated to think that way, but honestly, Ronnie was a mistake and a constant reminder for me not to make the same mistake twice. So when I got pregnant the second time, by a different man, one who had no intentions of marrying me or being with me, I had an abortion.
My dreams were deferred, not abandoned.
“One day,” I whispered. I sat on the toilet, massaging my toes. “Damn, my feet hurt.”
I’d believed Alphonso would pull out after we realized the condom was stuck inside of me, and when he didn’t, I’d suddenly realized I was having sex with a rapist. He’d penetrated me as deep as he could, and then he’d grunted, “Velvet, your young pussy is tight like my little princess, Tiffany Davis.” He’d thrusted deeper, then said, “Velvet, your pussy is better than Tiffany’s baby. If my stepdaughter hadn’t run away from home, I wouldn’t be here with you. Thanks, bitch.”
That motherfuckin’ trick was driving teenagers around on his bus every damn day, and his employers didn’t know he was raping women and girls?
I tossed back one shot as I started peeing. “Why me?” I cried.
I’d yelled, “Get the hell up off of me, nigga!” as I felt his pulsation pumping semen inside the walls of my vagina. He called me a bitch? Was he telling me he’d molested his stepdaughter? Shaking my head, I got sand in my eyes and my mouth. I tried to move from underneath him. I couldn’t see. My legs were over his shoulders; he had intentionally locked his arms around my thighs.
Covering my mouth, he shivered and said, “I’m almost done.”
I managed to grab a fistful of sand and throw it in his face. That was when he punched me in mine. That was the worst encounter of my life. I couldn’t move. All I could do was cry and pray. But I endured nine long months of denial and daily wishing. Each night I said, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. I pray to die before I wake, and I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Each day my prayers were unanswered. I went into labor, and one bad decision to open my legs for the wrong man changed my life forever…forever.
Finishing off the Patrón, I removed all of my clothes. A hot shower always felt good, and I took three a day to make sure my pussy stayed fresh.
The demanding chores of single parenting left little time for me to sleep. A facial, a massage, a hair appointment, a manicure, a pedicure, shopping on the weekends, flying to the All-Star weekend, the Essence Music Festival, and the BET Awards with my girls were all the things I’d done to get a man, until I got fucked over by a man. Now I struggled to keep my appearance up. All of my girlfriends had had babies before me by black men who’d moved on with their lives. I’d sworn to them, “Whatever nonsense you guys are listening to, Velvet ain’t hearing it.”
Now I had to find time to let my nail polish dry while microwaving dinner. Sew in my own tracks to save a few dollars to pay the rent, utilities, after-school care expenses, and my Sidekick bill, and to compensate my mother for graciously watching my son all the time. Not one penny of child support did he have to pay. I had no idea where to find Alphonso, nor was I about to try. I didn’t have an address, and I’d erased his cell phone number shortly after I told him I was pregnant. Determined to make it on my own and provide a decent life for my son, I’d taken on a second job, working nights.
Toweling off, I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. What good would that do?
I was tired of living dollar to dollar and struggling to take care of Ronnie. He deserved better. Hell, I deserved better, too. Mrs. Taylor was retired, and if she knew the truth about her husband, who had offered me money in exchange for letting him taste my pussy, Mrs. Taylor—married to her husband for forty years—wouldn’t have thought my suits were beautiful. Instantly, I would’ve become the whore, slut, and tramp next door. Women of all ages were ignorant like that. Always blaming other women for the affairs their husbands had.
“Damn. Can I wash my ass in peace?” I said, making my way to the living room. “If one mo’ horny motherfucker calls me when I’m already running late for my second job, I swear I’ma scream at the top of my lungs.”
Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night, I barely made it in the door before the men started calling. John always tried to beat the rest and convince me to hook up with him after I finished stripping. I tried telling John’s cheap ass that being with me was a relay race, not a marathon. Until I found the right man for Ronnie and me, all men were a financial means for me to quit stripping. Pressing the button on my Bluetooth, I didn’t bother looking at the caller ID. I went into my bedroom, opened my lingerie drawer, then placed a soft, red, furry bra with strings and a matching thong in my oversized purse before answering. “Make it quick,” I said.
“I want to know if you sucked my husband’s dick,” a female voice yelled in my ear.
“What! Who in the hell are you?”