Sexaholics (27 page)

“No, you are not gonna turn this one around on me. My
fiancé’s cell vibrated and I picked it up and read it. I’ll
gladly trade that with you as far as who has to deal with what.”

Valencia scrolled through her phone and began yelling, “You know what?
We did. We fucked. All three of us fucked and it was damn good.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She stared at him with a look like she could beat his
ass like he stole something.

“Oh, I see. Just because.” Now he yelled. He also stood.
“Why the fuck did you have a threesome with your best friend and her man
when you have a man? A fiancé. We agreed that if anything, it would only be
women. Damn, Valencia. I agreed to you getting with Miki at times, but not
fucking her and her man while I sit here waiting on you as usual. What the hell
is that? I thought you could show me you were ready for marriage. But I guess I
was wrong. I guess you can’t turn a ho into a housewife after all.”
He flashed a scowl.

She did not even blink. “Maybe not.”

“Just tell me fucking why.”

“It’s complicated.” She sat on the bed, still looking at
her phone.

He walked to her. “I guess it is. So complicated that you can’t
even explain cheating on me when we’re supposed to be married early next
year.”

She put one hand up. Her eyes were flat. “Greg. Please.”

“Please what? Are we gonna have to go back to bringing people into our
bed like we’d been doing since college, just so I can have you in my life?
Will it ever be you and me? I was even willing to do the ‘you, me, and
she’ sometimes. Damn, Valencia. What the fuck?”

Her voice lowered a notch and grew soft. She spoke without looking at him.
“I don’t sleep with men alone. You know that.” She played with
the long, curly ringlet that hung over the right side of her face.

He got louder. “And you have the nerve to think that matters? Like that
makes a difference. Like I should be happy you don’t let dick inside of
you unless there’s another person in the room. Valencia, you’re not
supposed to sleep with men period, other than me. I don’t give a fuck how
it was before.”

She looked up at him and cut her eyes. “Greg, don’t you go and
get all saintly on me. Your ass was so fucking into men I thought you were a
damn fag. You sucked dick with me in the room and I didn’t go flippin the
fuck out. We were freaking. That’s what we did.”

He stepped even closer. “Right, that’s what we did. Past tense.
And as far as the man, it was one time and it lasted three seconds and you were
the one who begged me to put my mouth on it. But that’s not what we do
now. I stuck to my end of the deal to stop the sex-crazed, swinging, risky
lifestyle we had together for years. I wanted us to get on the straight and
narrow and be husband and wife and raise a family. You broke your end of the
deal. You will never be straight or narrow.”

She stood up, six inches from him, towering over him. A sneer darkened her
oval face. “And you can just pass judgment on me when your ass sits here
logging on to porn websites, chatting with folks while you jerk off your dick
like it’s a damn squeeze toy, up all night ’cause you can’t
get enough of a cheap thrill.” She pointed to the computer and then to his
dick. “You choke your little shit so damn much you barely even have skin
tough enough to fuck me. Shit, who’d wanna fuck when they’ve cum six
times already in one day? You stopped fucking me cold turkey and you expect me,
a woman who’s trying so hard to fight her cravings for sex that I just
joined a sex rehab group, to go cold turkey just like that?” She headed to
her bag and began taking off her pajamas. “You’ve been so busy
masturbating and getting on me for being with Miki, that you won’t even
try to deal with your own sex addiction. You cut back in your own way and I
don’t sweat you, and so now, I’m trying to do it in my own
way.”

“Your way won’t work. It is not acceptable. Besides, when I
wanted to be with you, you didn’t make time. Like the other night. But I
let that slide. Not anymore.”

“Then just fuck it.” She went into the bathroom and her voice
screamed from the other side of the door. “You are not my damn father.
Take this damn ring and stick it up your faggot ass.” She threw it into
the bedroom where he stood. “But, I’m sure you’d like that.
And I hope you’re not logging on to Down-Low Blowjobs while you’re
molesting that poor keyboard. Fucking freak.” She exited the bathroom
fully dressed, took her bag and purse, and stormed out of the bedroom door.

He yelled behind her. “Fuck you. Go run to your woman, Miki.
You’re fucking in love with that bitch and can’t even admit it. I
can’t compete with that shit. I won’t compete with that shit. Maybe
I can compete with her man, but not with a pussy.”

“You will never compete with him. Your beat-up dick is just as short as
you are. You haven’t grown an inch since I’ve known you.”

Her loud footsteps headed toward the front door and he ran the many square
feet to catch up with her. “Get the fuck out. But gimme my damn key back
first.”

Her hand was on the quartz doorknob that led to the garage. “With
pleasure.” She made a quarter turn in his direction. Her face was pissed
off. “And I’m the reason you have that good-paying job of yours. I
got you that job by fucking that recruiter years ago because you wanted me to,
after your dreams of an NFL career crumbled. You’ve been with UPS since
you graduated from college because of me. You owe me some money, Gregory. This
is not the last of me. And you know what? Maybe I just wasn’t good enough
for you anymore. Maybe you need a square girl who probably wouldn’t want
your weird ass anyway, money or not. But you’re far from square and
neither is your family. So don’t go calling this kettle black when your
pot is black, too.” She jammed her hand into the purse and ripped the
single gold key out of her wallet, pitching it at his chest. She exited abruptly
and slammed the door so hard the house shook like an L.A. earthquake had hit the
scene. “Fuck you, shawty,” she yelled while inside the garage.

Valencia jumped into her truck and pressed the remote that rested on the
visor, rolled down the window, and tossed the tiny clicker out along the lawn as
she yanked the car into reverse. The song on the radio that blasted extra loud
was “How You Gonna Act Like That” by Tyrese.

She twisted the dial to Off, heaved the car into Drive, and sped down his
street and away from the man she’d labeled as her now ex, wealthy,
no-pussy-eating, judgmental, jack-off of a fiancé.

Once again without a family, Valencia was abandoned.

Once again she was not good enough to keep.

Once again, because of her past, she was unable to have all that goes along
with the good life.

And to top it all off, she was still addicted.

Brandi

W
hy in the hell is it so
cloudy out tonight? What’s going on? And wow, when are they gonna fix this
damn bumpy-ass road? Seems it got worse just since last week. And it even seems
like the road got narrower. I mean, was this a single-lane highway before?
What’s with all these cars? And what in the world is that loud-ass noise?
That ringing in my ears that keeps shouting louder than the hip-hop station
that’s on full blast. Who is that talking bout, “I’m da
biggest boss dat ya seen thus far?” I hate rap music. And who in the hell
is singing along with the lyrics like they’re on BET Jams? But I suppose a
better question would be, what in the heck is up with that siren? That
glaring-ass, loud-ass siren.

Brandi quickly pressed the Down Volume arrow on the steering wheel with her
left thumb, while looking straight ahead.

“Miss Williams. Miss Williams.”

“Who the hell are you?” she asked out loud, while still looking
at the road ahead, which was playing dirty little tricks on her mind.

“Miss Williams. Stop. Don’t you see the police cars behind us?
They’re flashing their lights with their sirens blaring. I’ve been
telling you to stop and pull over.” The voice was male, yet with an
almost-grown pitch.

“Who are you?” she asked again, looking over to her right. His
face was familiar.

It was a face that was puberty-ridden and acne-filled, coated with fright.
The male turned back and then forward, over and over and over again in a deep
panic. “Stop and pull this mug over,” he said again, as he pulled
her right hand away from his now-deflated dick and buckled his pants, pulling
down his blue and red
Iron Man
T-shirt.

She shook her head to make room for the eruption of emotions, and kept
shaking out her brain as the fast-moving roadside scenery began to blur.
Slamming on the brakes, she hit what seemed like a curb, and the
Iron
Man
T-shirt-wearing male grabbed the wheel and yanked her fiery red Camaro
into an oak tree as their heads jerked backward and then forward.

Swoosh.
Their faces slammed into the ballooning air bags. Their skin
was engulfed by the force. The car skidded and came to an abrupt stop.

A megaphone voice sounded from outside. “Get out of the car with your
hands up where we can see them. Now.”

The Camaro would be no more.

Brandi did as she was told.

And thirteen-year-old Keyshaun, laced with Brandi’s X-rated
fingerprints, did as he was told, as well.

When she arrived at the sheriff’s station that handled the East
Compton area where she was arrested, Brandi was locked in a large, bright
holding cell alone, awaiting arraignment the next morning on five felony counts,
two of sexual assault on a minor, one of endangering the welfare of a minor, and
two counts of statutory rape. That had been the first time she was with someone
twice. Ever.

She sat on a wooden bench. Agony filled her face. Her weighted shoulders hung
low.

“You’re allowed to make one phone call.”

She replied as though in a daze, massaging her sweaty palm with her thumb.
“I’ll call my mother.”

“What’s her number?”

“I don’t know. It’s in my cell phone.”

“I’ll be right back,” the female deputy said, looking like
she wanted to bitch-slap Brandi personally.

Late in the afternoon, two days after pleading not guilty during an initial
hearing, where she was represented by an attorney who was a friend of her
mother, Brandi sat in a plain-looking room at the Lynwood Regional Justice
Center. It was an all female, midlevel county facility. And she was in the
library.

She read through a few books on a shelf. Some of the books were by Ray
Bradbury, Walter Dean Myers, and Walter Mosley, her favorites. Brandi took a
seat on a steel chair and sat back, wearing her official orange jumpsuit.

“Gimme that,” demanded a woman wearing unkempt cornrows and built
like Queen Latifah.

“What?” Brandi asked, looking shocked and worried. She stood up
immediately.

“That book. That belongs to me.”

“No. That was on the shelf here.” Brandi shifted the book from
one hand to another. It was a copy of
Fallen Angel.

“Oh but you’re wrong, oh tender fresh meat. I own that shelf.
It’s got my name on it. See. My name is Library. And this is my friend,
Cafeteria.” She pointed to her buddy on the left. “My Latino lovely
here is named Shower.” She pointed to her buddy on the right. “And
anywhere you go, one of my other friends will be there to greet you.”

Brandi simply extended her unsteady hand, offering the book as she was
told.

The grim-faced, oversized black woman threw it against the wall. “Hey,
we hear you raped a child. Is that true?”

“No.” Brandi’s one word sounded like a question.

“Oh, don’t tell me. You pled not guilty, right?”

“I did.”

“Yeah, we all did. The thing is, we don’t believe you. And just
in case you don’t get what the fucked-up justice system should have coming
to you, I have an idea. This game right now is judge and jury. And you are about
to do your time for fucking a little boy, bitch.”

“I didn’t.”

The woman skidded her head toward Brandi. “You did. We know you did. We
know you’re a pervert. We know who you are. We heard all about you. You
got off on this child. He’s a child. He may have acted like he liked you,
but he’s a child.”

“I didn’t. I’m telling you. I gave him a ride home and I
was drunk.” Brandi leaned away, bracing herself for the
tongue-lashing.

The woman leaned forward. “Then how did you end up with his sperm
inside of you? How did you two end up at a motel together the day before? See,
they try to change the paperwork around here with codes so that we don’t
know the real deal with certain inmates’ charges. But we have our ways. I
think another question is, how did a thirteen-year-old end up drunk in your car
with the tequila you bought him? Let me guess. Patrón, was it?”

Brandi’s face was red. “It wasn’t like that. I’m
telling you.”