Every Woman's Dream (22 page)

Chapter 35

Lola

I
WAS GLAD
J
OAN AND HER FAMILY HAD DECIDED TO KEEP
R
EED'S SUICIDE
attempt a secret. Other than myself, Bertha was the only other person who knew about it. She found out when she overheard me talking on the kitchen telephone with Joan yesterday and she promised me she wouldn't tell anybody else.

Gossip was a powerful weapon and it could cause a lot of damage to a person's life. That was why I didn't run around town yip-yapping about Reed's suicide attempt.

Despite the fact that he was driving Joan up the wall, I didn't want anything bad to happen to him. I certainly didn't want him to take his own life or ruin his career. I had no idea how things worked in the medical profession when it came to a doctor doing something as stupid as trying to commit suicide. But I knew enough about human nature to believe that if Reed's patients found out about his suicide attempt, they wouldn't want such an unstable person to be drilling on their teeth or doing anything else that involved their health and well-being. I was glad that I had decided to stay with the dentist I'd been with all my life. I was not about to have Reed snap while he had a drill or a needle in my mouth. Joan felt the same way. She told me that the only thing she'd let him stick in her mouth now was his dick. She had made an appointment with a new dentist for her next routine teeth cleaning.

“I noticed Joan don't come around as often as she used to,” Bertha commented during dinner a week after I'd had lunch with Joan. “I'll bet that husband of hers is jealous and controlling, huh? And since she is spoiled and likes to have her way, she won't take too much of his mess. She's from a family of thugs, so if he treats her bad enough, he won't have to commit suicide. Either she or one of her kinfolks will put him out of his misery.”

“Reed just got out of the hospital. I hope he doesn't do anything that'll make somebody hurt him and send him back. But you're right, he is controlling and jealous.”

“I'm not surprised. I heard from a reliable source that his daddy is like that. Reed makes her carry a beeper in her purse so he can keep up with her every time she leaves the house. Bad habits generally run in families.” Bertha stopped talking long enough to bite into a fried chicken leg. After she had swallowed, she said all in one breath, “I just hope Reed does not do a repeat performance—and succeed. I don't have one decent black frock in my closet to wear to his funeral.”

Ten minutes after I had put away the leftovers and washed the dishes, Bertha started yawning. It was only a few minutes past seven. Almost every night around eight, she would be in bed, snoring like a dragon. Sometimes she stayed up to watch a TV show with me or call up somebody to exchange gossip. An hour after I entered the living room and made myself comfortable on the couch, she waddled in and dropped down onto the love seat. She didn't want to watch
Jeopardy!
so she reached for the telephone on the end table and called Libby.

As usual, Libby was too busy to talk more than a couple of minutes to her mother. Bertha hung up and dialed another number. “Oh, Marshall can't come to the telephone right now? Well, tell him his mama called and to call me back when he can.” It was impossible not to notice the hurt look on her face. With all of the emotional pain and stress Libby and Marshall had put her through, I was surprised she had not keeled over from a stroke by now. She had aged so much in the last few years. Her hair was completely white and she didn't attempt to hide it with wigs and hair dye, the way she used to. There were dark circles around her eyes and bags underneath them. Deep wrinkles stretched from one side of her face to the other. I was also surprised that she was still trying to win her children's love after all these years. That made me sad.

“I guess I'll go on to bed,” Bertha said in a weary voice as she set the telephone back into its charger. “I had wanted to talk to the kids about us all doing something special for their upcoming birthday next month. . . .”

“We can do a real nice steak and lobster dinner with all the trimmings, including a bottle of champagne and invite them and their spouses over to celebrate,” I suggested. “I'll get everything from work so it won't cost us much and I'll do most of the cooking myself.” There was probably nothing I wanted to do less than host a birthday dinner for Libby and Marshall, but I was willing to do it because I knew how much it would lift Bertha's spirits. I hoped that I would never experience the kind of pain she had to live with every day.

Shaking her head, Bertha wobbled up from her seat. “That's real nice of you, Lola. But since we tried to do the same thing for them last year and they only stayed long enough to fix a plate to take home, maybe that's not such a good idea this time.” She gave me a tight smile. “You are such a sweet young woman. Thank you for asking. Lord knows what I would do without you. . . .”

“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that. Why don't I fix you some of that green tea you like so much?”

“Yes, please do so. That and a nice hot shower will do me a world of good. Wait about fifteen minutes before you bring the tea up, because I need to do my constitutional first. I've been blocked for two days, so I know I'll have to sit on the commode for a while. And if you don't mind, would you come up and read a few lines of Scripture to me before I go to sleep? My eyes don't focus as well as they used to at night. After you finish reading to me, we'll pray together for Reed.”

“Okay,” I mumbled. I cleared my throat to keep from groaning.

After I made the tea for Bertha and read a few pages of Scripture to her, I went to my room and turned on my computer. I deleted a penis enlargement ad and several other pieces of useless junk before I decided to turn off my computer and check my cell phone messages. Joan had left a frantic voice mail message an hour ago. She told me to return her call as soon as I heard her message, no matter how late it was.

When I didn't feel comfortable talking to Joan on her home phone, I dialed her cell phone number or sent her a text message. Last month during one of our landline conversations, Reed picked up the extension in the kitchen and eavesdropped for ten minutes. We knew he was on the line because we could hear him breathing. All he'd heard was our discussing a sale at Ross. Now when I called her, I usually tried her cell phone first. I couldn't dial that number fast enough this time.

“What's up?” I began as soon as she answered.

“I need you to cover for me tomorrow evening,” she said quickly.

“Don't tell me you've arranged another hookup already!”

“If I don't get laid soon, my poor pussy is going to explode!”

“What about Reed? I thought things had improved between you two since his . . . uh . . . accident.”

“Puh-leeze! His dick was so limp last night, I couldn't have turned him on with battery cables.”

“Hmmm. Maybe all those pills he took messed up his sex drive.”

“It was not much better before he took those pills.”

“Joan, I know he's still kind of young, but have you considered Viagra?”

“Viagra?”

“Maybe you should get some and slip it into his coffee or something.”

“No way. That's more trouble than I'm willing to go to.”

I resumed my end of the conversation with caution. “Okay, now, Joan, don't you think you should slow down with that Internet dating thing?”

“Honey, I'm just getting warmed up. One afternoon last week, I spent two hours Googling. I came across a site that even you won't be able to ignore. It's way more classy and better organized than the others I've been dealing with. And it has a lot more variety of hookups to choose from. They even have a sex therapist available that you can call up and chat with on the radio so other members can listen to the conversation. I won't bother with that. I don't think I need to talk to a sex therapist—yet. And I don't want to share my business with an audience.” Joan had not sounded this excited since her wedding day.

Even though I was still apprehensive about Internet romance, I was curious as to what this new site was. Especially if she thought it was something that even I couldn't ignore.

“What's the name of this site?” I asked.

“It's called Friends with Benefits: Discreet Encounters. They make it real easy to find a club member you like. You enter the gender, age, and ethnic preferences in the search box on the home page. You can narrow your search by plugging in other preferences like what the person is into. I was shocked when I saw how many people were into bondage, group sex, and other kinky shit.”

“What about you? Those people sound kind of scary to me.”

“I'm not interested in anything but some good old-fashioned sex and I made that clear when I did my profile. I was so intrigued, I took notes. Listen to this.” Joan paused and I heard her shuffle some paper. “Okay . . . as of today, they have four thousand four hundred and one members. Five hundred and fifty-two members updated their profiles and pictures. And since last week, fifteen people have joined in the last three days, ten canceled their membership, and, most important of all,
twenty-five
members have viewed my profile since I became an official member two days ago! They have a weekly newsletter and a schedule of events for the members who want to take their hookups to the next level. Uh, like getting together in groups. But I'm not into orgies.”

“I don't know what to say,” I said with a gulp.

“I know what to say, I think I've hit the mother lode!” Joan was swooning, not even trying to hide the excitement in her voice. The more she talked, the more excited she sounded.

Her behavior was making me feel excited, but I was not about to tell her. “What's so great about this particular site? Aren't they all basically the same?”

“This one is
only
for people who want to have a casual encounter, nothing more. I did a lot of research and I found out that most of the members are either married or in committed relationships. And they are almost all professionals.”

“So? What's so great about upscale booty calls? Sex is sex.”

“Well, all men are not created equal when it comes to sex, if you know what I mean. The club members on this site get to the point real fast. The men I've communicated with so far are willing to pay to have a good time with an amazing woman like me.” Joan laughed. Even though I was in my room, where she couldn't see me, I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

I could not believe what I was hearing! Joan and I had done a lot of stupid things over the years, but she had gone too far this time. “Woman, have you lost your mind? Do you know what you're getting into?”

“What?” she asked dumbly.

“When a man pays a woman to have sex, it's called prostitution!”

Chapter 36

Lola

“‘P
ROSTITUTION
,'
MY ASS
! Q
UIT PUTTING WORDS INTO MY
mouth!” Joan scolded. “There is no money involved!”

“You just told me the men
pay
to have a good time with you. A good time that involves sex.”

“Let me lay it all out for you, because I don't think you're getting the picture. The men reserve a hotel room, they pay for a nice dinner, and sometimes you might get a nice little gift or something. It's no different than when I—or even you, for that matter—go out with a man. When that dude took you up to Reno for your birthday last year and spent a ton of money on you, and you screwed his brains out, were you prostituting yourself then?”

Just thinking about the two days I'd spent in Reno with a shoe salesman named Ricky Oliver sent a chill up my spine. He was only thirty-five, but for the hell of it, he'd started taking Viagra and had almost worn me out that weekend. We'd spent more time wallowing around in bed than in the casinos. When I'd complained about all the time we spent having sex, he reminded me how much money he was spending on me.

A few hours before we checked out of the lavish hotel suite in the Peppermill Resort, a hotel clerk delivered a receipt for our expenses while Ricky was in the shower. I was stunned when I saw that the two nights, all of our meals, our train tickets to and from Reno, and six hundred dollars in free slot play had all been comped! Ricky had not spent a
dime
of his money on me. I was furious. He had a temper, so I didn't want to confront him during the train ride home. But I had decided that I would never see him again.

When we got back to the Amtrak station in San Jose, where he had parked his car, he told me I had to pay for the parking and buy him enough gas to get back to his apartment in Oakland. When I refused and told him I'd seen the hotel receipt, he cussed me out and literally shoved me out of his car. I had to take a cab home. I never told Joan everything about that fiasco because she would have teased me for weeks.

“No, I—I wasn't prostituting myself when I spent that weekend in Reno with Ricky!” I sputtered, with my face burning. “All right. You've made your point. So, what you're telling me is that this new thing you're involved in is just sex with people you don't have feelings for?”

“And please pay more attention to what I'm saying and stop getting the wrong idea. I'm not looking for a soul mate!” Joan yelled. “And for the record, the
initiator
is responsible for the hotel.”

“I'm sorry, but you've lost me,” I said.

“Say you're a female club member traveling to an out-of-town location for business or other reasons. You see the profile of a man,
or of another woman,
in your destination that you want to hook up with. You contact that member. If he or she is interested, it's your responsibility to book a hotel. If dinner is included, and a show or some other activity, the dude would probably pay for that—and maybe even the hotel! You know how upscale men like to show off.”

“If a woman pays for sex, it's still prostitution. What's your point?”

I could tell from the sharp sigh Joan huffed out that I was annoying the hell out of her. “Are you still not listening to me? This is all about sex—that's my point. Look, ‘Miss Queen of the Friends with Benefits Club,' do you want me to remind you about all the times you got busy with a man you didn't have feelings for, just for a little fun? And unlike a few of my other dates on those other sites, who were really looking for love—which is the reason I searched until I found this one—
none
of the folks on this new one are looking for love.”

“You can dress it up all you want, but I thought that meeting somebody to develop a relationship with was the whole point of these dating sites. Every time I turn on the TV, that eHarmony commercial comes on and the members are talking about how they just got married, blah, blah, blah. Even that ChristianMingle site, and that other one that's just for senior citizens. And I don't care what you say, the bottom line is
everybody
is looking for their soul mate—”

“Lola, I'm going to e-mail you the link to this amazing Web site. Unless you become a member, you'll only be able to see the home page and a few sample members' profiles, and some of the reviews that members post about their encounters with other members. You can't log in and connect with a member until you create an account. Just check it out. I know you must be horny as hell by now, so we don't have any time to lose. You haven't been with a man in over a month. I feel sorry for you.”

“You don't have to feel sorry for me,” I shot back. “I know lots of men. I could call up any one of them if I just wanted to have some quick sex.”

“Sure you do. Busboys, chauffeurs, cooks, thugs. Most of the men on this site are doctors, lawyers, and businessmen. The dude I'm meeting tomorrow at the Hilton is a Harvard-educated medical technician at a New York clinic. He's here for a conference. He's happily married and not looking for anything more than a couple of hours—”

“How do you know he's telling the truth about what he says he is? He could be a cross-eyed cabdriver with a clubfoot, for all you know.”

Joan let out a long groan and muttered a few cusswords under her breath. Her exasperation didn't faze me. She was the one who had brought up this subject. She started talking again, speaking in a slow, controlled manner as if I had suddenly turned into an idiot. And maybe I had.... “Unlike the sites I used to fool around with that would let the boogeyman and his brother be a member, this one does a thorough background check before they let you join. That's another reason you don't have time to lose. The background check, at least in my case, took four days to be completed. It keeps the crazies out.”

“I see. What kind of background check would this glorified booty call club do on a person like you? You're just a housewife.”

“Even a housewife can have a closet full of skeletons. But since you asked, they check to make sure a potential member doesn't have a criminal history and is not in the fugitive database. They even check to see if you have any outstanding warrants. This outfit is more thorough than the government.”

“That's pretty thorough. But tell me this, why would some hotshot medical technician from the East Coast be interested in a housewife?”

“Because I'm what a lot of men are looking for! Wait until you see my profile. I've already received almost a
dozen
requests for dates. I'm not going to let this get out of hand like we did with those lonely hearts club old men. The main thing is, I will never ask one of these men for money or tell them a bunch of lies about how poor I am so they'd send money the way those old men did. I can't say it enough, all I want is some good company and some good sex. This club has so many members, with tons of new ones joining all the time, I can milk this cow for years! And if I'm going to be stuck with Reed, for God knows how long, I need a long-term backup plan.”

“You've got a point there, I guess.”

“I advise you to take a long, hard look at yourself, Lola. If you don't get the spirit, you're going to get left behind.”

“I've been left behind before!” I cracked. “And I turned out all right. Another thing I want to know is, what would your family say if they knew what you were up to?”

“I'm glad you brought that up. I have the most broad-minded relatives in the world, but I think they'd draw the line about me being in a sex club. Some of them are probably doing shit way worse, and I don't want to know if they are. What I don't know about them can't hurt me, and what they don't know about me can't hurt them. The bottom line is, everybody is into something.”

“Not me.”

“Well, you should be. Maybe you wouldn't be so uptight. Let's get back on the subject. The deal is, Jeremy, that's the guy I'm meeting tomorrow, he said that as soon as he saw the picture I posted of myself, he got an instant hard-on. I had on that red bikini I bought for the vacation in Mexico that Reed canceled on me at the last minute last year. And, like I said before, and I'll say it
again,
this is all about sex. Nothing more. Besides, this dude is white. He said he's always fantasized about sleeping with a black woman.”

“Hmmm. Well, what if you hook up with some dude that can't screw worth a damn? Then what? What if this Jeremy's got . . . a . . . teeny . . . weenie.”

“Honey, I think that's one problem I won't have to worry about. This white boy has had eight hookups so far this year. Each one gave him a five-out-of-five-stars review and comments that would make a porn star horny.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“Try to imagine a cross between George Clooney and Brad Pitt. He's also on Facebook, so I'll send you his full name and you can check out his picture there. Maybe you can party with him on his next trip to California. One thing about the men in this club is they have the kind of money that if they want to send you a ticket to meet them somewhere, they can do it. I read one woman's review about a guy—a CEO for a software company—and she said that's what he did for their hookup. She lives in Baltimore. He lives in L.A. and had to go to Tokyo, Japan, for a bunch of meetings. He paid for her to meet him there.”

“Can't those horny people find other horny people closer to home?”

“Didn't we have a similar discussion about those old men we used to write to?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“When you have money, you can do whatever you want and it doesn't have to be logical, or make sense. I'm sure that the average billionaire is not concerned about finding a woman in his own backyard when he gets horny. A woman who would travel a few thousand miles to be with him would be so grateful to get a free trip, she'd go out of her way to show him a good time.”

“The more you tell me, the more this deal
still
sounds like prostitution. This new site you've joined is
selling
sex, point-blank.”

“Lola, the new site I joined is
networking
sex, so I wish you would stay off the subject of prostitution. I know there's a thin line between somebody handing me a few bucks just for sex and somebody inviting me for a rendezvous just for sex. Both may sound like prostitution to you because somebody is paying for a room, and dinner, and whatnot. But they are not handing me money for having sex. They are spending money so we can have a nice place to fuck.” Joan moaned for a few seconds. “This conversation is giving me a headache!”

“You're the one who brought it up,” I reminded.

“All right,” she said with a heavy sigh. “The thing is, if you want to get technical, every woman who goes on a date with a man—even her husband—and accepts dinner, gifts, or anything else, is a prostitute.”

“Joan, I know what you're saying. I'm just . . . Well, I just don't want you to get into something you can't get out of.”

“Honey, don't worry about me. Worry about yourself and all the money you spend on batteries for that vibrator you hide under your mattress. . . .”

I ignored Joan's last comment. I didn't want to know when she had snooped around in my bedroom and found my sex toy. That would have been more uncomfortable to discuss than the sex site. I cleared my throat and said in a mocking tone of voice, “For your information, I just might call up Vincent Lopshire this weekend. You remember the bartender I met last summer?”

“Please!” Joan croaked. “How could I forget
him
? While you're in his flabby arms, I'll be humping—”

“Woman, shut up!” I laughed. “If you're trying to make me jealous, you've done that. Call me at work tomorrow and tell me what I'm supposed to say in case Reed calls me while you going at it with your George Clooney/Brad Pitt honey.”