One week it’s in a short bob cut.
Three weeks later it’s bone-straight and down her back.
Two weeks later it’s feathered like Farrah Fawcett.
I just can’t keep up with Ashley and her coif.
However, one consistent thing about Ashley is that she barely wears any clothing. She doesn’t need to exploit her body, but everything she puts on is provocative and tight. She leaves very little to the imagination. Her life thrives around what’s hot and popular to wear, especially from video vixens.
That’s actually how we met.
Six years ago she came to one of the auditions we were holding for a new television reality show with our network. She blew us away. Ashley is a standout actress. She’s been in several Broadway shows. The girl can sing, dance, and act.
But it was her massive cleavage spilling out of her leopard silk blouse that got her through for a second audition. The director wanted to “see” more of her.
There was no denying Ashley was perfect and had the look. She is thick in all the right places. Standing five-feet-seven-inches, Ashley weighs one-hundred-forty-five pounds and has thirty-four double D breasts, with a huge ass. It’s curvaceously round, and as we men say, “You can sit a beer can on top of it.” She has a body to kill for.
Right before the call-backs for the project, I pulled Ashley to the side. “May I make a suggestion?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows. “It would be nice if you could cover your girls.” I pointed to the spillage from her top. “You can present yourself more demure and ladylike. You have some real talent and by far the best we have seen all day. Besides, I don’t want to see a sistah get played and then not get the job.”
Ashley sized me up as she looked me over and smiled politely. “Look, Mr. Men’s-Warehouse-business-suit-wearing-sweetness. I thank you for your concern about my appearance, and the like, however, I am not interviewing with you. I am here to see the director and to land this job. So if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.” And like that, she turned on her red three-inch come-fuck-me stilettos and sashayed her way down the hall to meet with her fate.
I saw her again later that day as the audition process was narrowed down to three girls. She was one of them.
“I guess the director was impressed with your skills.” I smirked at her.
“I blew him away.” She smiled, tracing her fingers around her mouth smoothing out her lipstick. “I literally blew him away.”
I liked her fiery sassiness.
She was bold.
Snappy.
Quick.
Just like a gay man.
“I like your style,” I said, handing her my business card. “I’m Chase Kennedy, the Director of Production here. I have some other projects I would love to talk with you about.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” she said, looking at the card. “I have a host of skills I am sure the network would love to see.”
“I’m sure they would,” I laughed.
She laughed along with me. I saw something in her, and she saw something hidden deep down inside of me.
I was trying to conceal it.
She unhinged me.
“Boy, I am a fag-hag. I know my gays,” she told me after we hung out, traversing through the city, a week after she landed the gig with our network.
Although I call Ashley a sex-fiend, I am the one who desires to be sexed like she is. It’s been six months and I haven’t been touched by a man. At least one of us was getting some good loving on the regular. I just wish it was me.
Chapter Eight
Quincy and I have lunch at my favorite Italian restaurant, Tony’s DiNapoli, on Forty-third Street between Broadway and Sixth Avenue.
I watch Quincy’s body react to the food each time he takes a bite. His eyes close and he seems to be savoring every morsel in his mouth. I imagine his luscious lips tasting me. Exploring parts of my body and devouring me.
“This food is really good,” he says. His words break my trance. I shift in my seat. I feel an erection coming.
Quincy scoops up another piece of his breaded salmon. “I am definitely going to come back here.”
I smile and say a silent prayer, Lord, please keep my mind off this beautiful man. I am weak right now. Just let me make it through this lunch.
“I got to bring my mother here.” He smiles, taking a sip of his iced tea. “We are very close. She’s my best friend.”
Hmm, he has a good relationship with his mother. “That would be great,” I say. “Your parents are from Brooklyn, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, Fort Greene.”
“Oh, really. I am from that area.”
“I didn’t know you were from Brooklyn. I thought you were from Mt. Vernon or Westchester.”
I laugh. “No. I grew up not too far from the Fort Greene Projects on Adelphi Street.”
Quincy’s head jerks back. “My parents grew up in that area. My mom lived on Vanderbilt Street and my dad grew up in the Fort Greene Projects. He is much older—I am sure you wouldn’t know him. He was in his early thirties and my mom was only eighteen when she got pregnant with me.”
Oh, great. I am old enough to be his dad, I think.
“After I was born my parents split. Well, basically because my mother’s parents pressured my dad to marry her, but he wouldn’t. So, they never married, but my dad came around a lot.” Quincy takes a sip of his iced tea. “Me and my mother moved to Bed-Stuy when I was around three or four. She went back to school and got her degree and then her master’s. She is the head of human resources for Macy’s.” Quincy smiles.
“That is wonderful,” I say. “Your mom sounds great. Are you and your dad close?”
Quincy lets out a heavy sigh. “Not as close as I would like. When I became a teenager my dad stopped coming around. I rarely saw him. I don’t know what happened. My mother doesn’t say much, and when I do talk with him he’s always busy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. Not sure if I should hug him or change the subject.
“It’s all good, though. I mean, he’s come out to California to see me play before. He played ball at the University of North Carolina and then went overseas for a few years. When he returned he went out for the major leagues, but never got picked up. He moved around a lot and finally got a job as a sanitation worker. I don’t think that was his dream. I wish we were closer. I love him, but only because he is my father.” Quincy picks up his fork and stabs a piece of salmon.
I shift in my seat nervously. I don’t want to make him appear uncomfortable or uneasy, so I change the subject.
“How is it living in California?” I say.
“I love it. The weather. The beaches. It is beautiful. It’s a complete contrast from Brooklyn and the New York winters.”
“Yeah, I know,” I laugh.
I glance around the restaurant trying not to appear nervous and suspicious. Sitting across from Quincy, a beautiful specimen of a man, I feel guilty. I don’t know why. I am not doing anything and it is only an innocent lunch meeting with my department’s intern.
But Quincy’s presence makes me uncomfortable.