One Safe Place (11 page)

How ironic life is. I helped drive contracts and treaties on countries to become trade partners with our great country. While the ink was still wet, I took lots of pictures with heads of state, helping foreign countries to keep oppressing their own people, while people here lost their jobs. One might wonder, why did I do it? I have to ask myself that very question at times. But I sleep fine knowing good does occur in the long run…I hope. To others, in order for them to sleep, I'm better off dead, or they want to die as a martyr in a gas chamber or at the end of a smart bomb.

Right now, I'm getting away with my man to escape from politics. PB hasn't said much, and that happens often, but he has told me we are headed down to a boat landing on Mercer Island. We will board a private ferry boat, known as the Washington Loch Ness Monster, because it is so old. It is a restored, 120-foot ferry from the 1920s. It's been converted into a yacht with state rooms and a large performance ball room. The ferry belongs to PB and Tylowe, and a youth foundation that PB and his other woman administer. I'm a spokesperson for that foundation.

The other woman—she is not his woman in the sense that I am. She's a troubled child whom he watches over. Psalms Black does not lie. I'm not sure he knows how, but he's not a liar. He says he and the other woman—Evita—don't have sexual intercourse, and I trust him.

Why should I share any part of him? I'm the former Secretary of State of the United States, and a beautiful black woman at that. Black and white and foreign millionaires want my hand in marriage, and don't even know me. Hollywood male sex symbols flirt
intensely, wanting a prize like me. CEOs invite me to their chateaus for dinner and to parties wanting to court me—so why PB?

The man holds the steering wheel, and his thumb and forefinger look like they could crush any man's collarbone to tiny pieces. But when he touches me…his hands, his hands, his hands . . .when he caresses my clit with that same thumb and he slides his middle finger inside me, it feels like every nerve ending in my body explodes in a joy that no other man has ever come close to making me feel. Dammit, I just squirted a little bit…shit.

Why PB?

Power. Men I know and meet are full of some kind of power, but not enough of what it takes to make me happy. I could have a husband, a head of state, or a senator, or CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Money makes men powerful in a sense, but it's not for me. I'm not amused or intrigued. The men I know can give me every material thing there is to have, and almost all of these men don't give a damn if I'm black. If anything, to a white man or a foreigner, I'm a prized black queen to make him even more powerful due to the perception of social consciousness.

I look over at PB who is driving us to the ferry. For the last fifteen years or more, I have ridden in expensive vehicles. Many of them were Mercedes. Now, I'm riding in a SLS AMG Gullwing coupe. I don't get to go fast in cars, passing other cars, unless I'm with PB. We pass cars quickly, but the way he drives it feels like he's not speeding. I chuckle, knowing he takes advantage of his special government security permits if he's pulled over. His license plate has a code for local police to give him clearance to come and go as he pleases. Retired Secret Service agents are always on call in a national emergency.

On the stereo, the playlist is a mix of his and mine. From Deniece
Williams to Miki Howard's “Love Under New Management,” I feel a rush, like my heart is racing. I keep my body moving happily as I'm with my lover. I'm singing background, loud and clear. PB smiles as he keeps his eyes on the road.

When he looks over at me, I'm reminded I can't go without his looking in to my eyes. My lover, my man, is the most powerful man on earth. That's how I feel about him.

When he talks, he talks with me, and not at me. PB speaks as if he has the same amount of knowledge I have, maybe more, but he shares of himself in a way that I want to know all he knows. That's a power that turns me on. At one point, when I was still in office, I could rely on his opinion concerning world affairs.

We became a team. We made world-influencing decisions, yet he knew how to keep me from feeling I was not the one leading. He has never reminded me of his help or how he led me to a decision.

For sure his body is sculpted of God's best for the human eye to see. He is physically fierce, but he can make love to me with the gentleness of baby's caress, and he can take me to the mountain top with his visceral passion. Damn, I'm damp.

PB knows what he wants and does what he wants, and most of the time, it's for someone else. He would take a bullet for me, not because it's his business, but because he loves the ground I walk on. That's how he treats me and looks at me. He's a man's man, larger than life, without any put-on of a Hollywood big-screen ego. I have the most powerful man on earth. I'm sure many women feel that way about their man, but my man fits my soul. He apologizes with sincerity, and I want to say I'm sorry back to him for no reason.

He's not bought, he's not kept. He was rich before he was rich. He has no fear of me and won't hurt me, which is the most
powerful feeling of all. Trust. That is why I have little concern about his other woman. I'm in a safe place with him. Although I want her gone!

We pull into a gated driveway and head toward the ferry. Cars are parking, and people are getting out and walking down the road. We pull into a reserve spot near the boat. Tylowe and Meeah are standing by their car waiting for us. I love them. They are the perfect couple. Do I wish I was a wife, perhaps a mother? The power game for women in my position is problematic. If you give in to your career, some feel you'd be letting down a husband, and possibly children. I had incomplete thoughts on the subject for years, and now age has made the decision for me.

The women are dressed attractively, but warmly, to keep the chill off their legs, wearing pantsuits, or dress jeans. Most of the men are wearing jeans and nice sweaters. Music is flowing from the ferry.

I've been anticipating this all day: good people, great food, music, and spoken word as we cruise Lake Washington. I can't wait to change out of this dress and into something warmer to be on the water. Later, I want to peel my off my clothes, and even my skin, for PB.

T
he ferry barely moved through the dark water of Lake Washington. Lights from houses along the shore reflected like floating glass globes. Oldies played loud. Several rolling mini-bars wheeled through the crowd while bartenders made drinks.

At a table on the upper deck overlooking everything, Tylowe and Psalms had dark beers in hand. Meeah and Gabrielle sipped Gin Mojitos: 2 oz. of Farmer's Gin, a few sprigs of fresh mint, light green spearmint, 2 Tbsp. of fresh lemon juice, 2 Tbsp. of fresh lime juice, a splash of Sprite. Mix and muddle in the mint. Add the juices and ice. Pour in the gin last.

Rufus and Chaka Khan's “Everlasting Love” played. The music reached in to the mature gathering of souls as the ferry headed past Seward Park and into the Renton Bay area. Some of Seattle's coolest, most chill folks danced and socialized in the cool air, but the party groove made it a hot night.

The people on board were a full range of friends of both Tylowe and Psalms. Some they knew from business. Some were city officials. Others were just friends, from average wage earners to the affluent nouveau riche. Most were African American, but there was also a distinct segment of whites, and people of Asian and Hispanic descent, too—a blend as diverse as Seattle itself. A few LGBT
people were also there, right at home partying with everyone on the boat while the ignorant were ashore.

The policy on the ferry for everyone was: no cell phone cameras or personal cameras allowed. Hired photographers took down everyone's email addresses, and would send them all the pictures they wanted of the evening, free of charge. Of course there was censorship of any kind of compromising pictures; Psalms and Suzy Q prided themselves on security and well thought-out plans to cover all circumstances. Their business was in demand on the West Coast as well as in some foreign countries.

From East Seattle City University, Coach Ayman Sparks with his wife, Vanessa, and Coach Sterlin Baylor with his wife, Lois Mae, joined Tylowe and Psalms' table after dancing to the Ohio Players' “Love Rollercoaster.”

The men had all known each other since their college days at the University of New Mexico. Psalms and Tylowe, originally from Seattle, had been close since grade school. Ayman and Sterlin coached the local, nationally ranked college basketball team together. Tonight, all the old classmates and their mates enjoyed one another's company. The only one missing from the group from back in the day was Elliot, who was sitting in prison.

Since Tylowe and Psalms had their plan in place, they would have to think of Elliot at some point that night, however strange it might feel.

Tylowe made an effort to distract his mind. “Sterlin, who would have thought your ass could dance?” Tylowe teased.

“You call that dancing? I thought he was in pain.” Ayman sounded as though he wasn't joking, but he was.

Lois Mae came to her husband's defense. “Leave my baby alone; he can dance just fine. I love the way he moves.”

“Lois Mae, don't talk about his moves around here. This is a PG boat ride until the poetry starts.” Everyone laughed.

“Tylowe, you got nerve. How many times is Meeah going to squeeze your butt as if she were checking a flotation device to see if it will float?” Lois Mae and Tylowe always had regular, playful banter.

Gabrielle whispered in Psalms' ear that she wanted to dance. It was rare for her to be in public relaxing with everyday people. Most of what she said or did publicly was carefully measured to protect her from being misquoted in off-the-cuff remarks. In her mind, the opportunity to dance with her man freely was almost as good as sex.

“Babe,” Psalms whispered back to Gabrielle, “I'm not shaking my ass down to the ground, except maybe later tonight when we're alone.”

She smiled as her skin heated from the thought.

Mintfurd Elongate walked by, along with Velvet. Some called Mintfurd “Big Boy” instead of his given name. He and Velvet were announcing that the spoken word and jazz show would be starting soon in the performance ballroom, and they wanted people to head inside.

Mintfurd and Psalms were college foes in wrestling. Mintfurd went on to the Olympics, and Psalms went into the service. Relocating to Seattle on an invite from Psalms, Mintfurd now used his brain and his brawn for security work. Together, he and Psalms designed and installed custom surveillance equipment.

Mintfurd wasn't an ugly, fat dude, nothing like a thuggish-looking Rick Ross. Despite his size—more than six feet six inches, and 400 hundred-plus pounds—Mintfurd had the prettiest face a man could have. At least that is what women thought and said. He had
a noticeable, alluring mole near his bottom lip and attractive, kissable lips. It wasn't that he looked obese. His facial features weren't stretched and his stomach didn't hang. Even men much taller looked small compared to him with his wide bodily girth. He was just a mountain of a man: a good-looking, handsome, and huge man. When he smiled, it looked as though he were blushing and made him look younger.

Sadly, his size kept women from thinking about any kind of relationship with him. The average-sized woman looked like a child near him. Even a woman like Lois Mae, at six feet tall and not exactly slender, still disappeared behind him.

Women whispered ignorantly about whether he had a small penis, as many believed to be true of men his size. Some thought he might not be able to get it up—another rumored problem. Then there was the visual thought of what sex would be like with a man his size. One thing women did love about him was his voice—a mink-fur soft baritone. Yet, women avoided him as partner, but befriended him as big brother. The same women who couldn't imagine themselves sleeping with him, would close their eyes, and listen to his voice to vibrate their clit.

Because his size intimidated most women, prostitutes had been his only sexual outlet. Unknown to women, Mintfurd had no problems in the bed. All the prostitutes could attest to his penis size, and his hardness being worthy of feeling. Many were amazed that his body size had remarkably little effect on how he could move smoothly, quickly, and powerfully. Psalms treated Mintfurd as a little brother, feeling in some ways sorry that the man had never felt love.

People started moving to the warmth inside with drinks in hand, leaving the tranquil Northwest fresh air. A camera couldn't do justice
to the night sights of the boat from the shore. The ladies, Gabrielle, Meeah, Velvet, Lois Mae, and Vanessa, all hung back as the guys moved inside to secure their seats.

Darcelle made it on board just in time, and approached Velvet and Lois Mae, her good friends. She was in better spirits realizing that no matter how tough her conversation had been with PB, he was going to help her out of a sticky situation.

Darcelle was introduced to Gabrielle, and the girls sipped their drinks while the men finished setting up inside for the show.

“Gabby, I know it must feel good for you to be around, quote, unquote, regular folks,” Lois Mae said. The others chimed in with nods and short vocal affirmations.

“Ladies, to be honest, it has been since before I was anywhere near politics that I could let my hair down, so to speak.”

The music coming out of the speakers almost every twenty feet sounded like a concert. Maysa Leak's jazzy voice asked, “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?”

Normally, Gabrielle spoke with confidence. But that was all a façade. Speaking abstractly with and to associates, political cronies, and Sunday morning talk shows had poisoned a lot of her heart. It was difficult for her to be totally honest in her communications. She wanted to let words flow from her soul, but it was a challenge. She had to work hard at trusting her heart to be out on her sleeve. Psalms made it easy for her in their one-on-one relationship, but with other men and women, she had to ease in to being open as she spoke.