Femme Noir (2 page)

“Jack off on your own time, asshole,” I shouted, kicking the door shut.

“What?” Suddenly, for that one word, Michelle’s voice was clear and full in my ear, her breath hot with panic.

“Nothing. What kind of trouble are you in?” I scratched myself lazily at various points on my body where the Karen sweat had not yet dried. Little secret pockets of wet sex energy that itched when finally exposed to air as they evaporated. I now regretted having answered the phone. I flicked more matches.

Crackling, hissing, beeps. “—trying to tell you. Where were you? I’ve been trying to call you for hours. The phone has been ringing forever!”

“Out,” I answered curtly. Except for tonight,
this call,
I always wanted to speak to whatever girl was calling at the moment she called.

“Please, please help. I need you! Please come to Tulsa to help me straighten everything out!”

“You’re breaking up. I can’t understand much of this. You want me to
come there?
”

“Help me, Nora! I’m coming over right now!”

“No you ain’t, cracker! You stay right where you are.” I admired my pile of burnt matches.

“
Oh, God, they’re after me!
I’m headed to your place so you can—” The line went dead. I stood in shocked silence with only the growl of the dial tone to underscore my sudden quick fright. If there had been an after-sex glow, it was certainly gone now. Leave it to Michelle to ruin a good thing, even two thousand miles away.

Abruptly, I felt naked. I jerked on my shorts and made sure all my doors and windows were locked. From the freezer, I removed a pack of Carltons some femme had left on an overnight that I kept around only for emergencies. I had undying loyalty for Marlboros and loved them when I could get them. In my endless attempts at quitting, I never bought cigarettes. It was a matter of principle. But these Carltons looked like cigarettes, were shaped like cigarettes, lit up and burned smoke like cigarettes, and they were here in my hand, available, and willing to surrender themselves to my mouth. Just like I was accustomed to in all things, and I loved that most of all.

How short and how long ago it seemed that I kicked Michelle out. Only three months before. It hadn’t taken me long to get back in business. I remembered our last fight. Michelle might have been a lazy student-of-all-trades while we were together, but she possessed coiled strength in her limbs. It had gotten very physical. Michelle hadn’t wanted to leave. She resisted and threw things, breaking a lot of stuff. Michelle accused me of cheating, which I had done. I skewered Michelle on her stealing, which she had done to a compulsively embarrassing degree. Michelle seemed utterly destroyed, crying in great sobbing whoops, hiccupping and coughing, and finally throwing up. It was the worst breakup in my experience. It went on and on, the longest weekend in history. When it was finally over, Michelle stood on the sidewalk in full fury, her arms full of things she had taken from our house, hers or not, and in the interest of brevity, I let her go with all of it. Michelle screamed that I would be sorry, that I would pay. Then, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you forever.” I just nodded wearily from the porch, wishing to see Michelle drive away. When at last she had, I cleaned up the house, packed the few remaining items, and moved into my current apartment with triple locks. Then I had opened my precious little black book that had been in storage for too long.

I heard from mutual acquaintances that Michelle had moved immediately to Oklahoma—How had she chosen there? I wondered incredulously—and that Michelle had found a girlfriend right away and they moved in together. Also, these friends told me breathlessly, Michelle was probably having a hot and heavy affair with someone else who was in a committed relationship. “Busy girl,” I said dryly. And that was it.

I debated what, if anything, to do about this unsettling call from Michelle. She
better
not be coming over here. I tried call return but it didn’t work. I tried to call the Tulsa number Michelle had given me weeks ago, but now it was disconnected with no new number. In a strange desperation I couldn’t explain, I even called the Oakland phone number Michelle had told me was her parents’. But it turned out to be a Chinese restaurant’s answering machine. I felt a foreboding and didn’t know what else to do. Call the police? I could see them now, smirking and calling me “ma’am” sarcastically. “Oh, you say you got a weird phone call from your ex from whom you’ve had a messy break? Oh, yeah, we’ll get right on that,
ma’am.
File a report? You want us to file a report? Why sure, we’ll file a report for you. Here it is, if you’ll just sign here.” I imagined a cop holding nothing in his hands but pretending to hand me a piece of paper. And those were the male police. The women were even harsher.

So I sat by the window until dawn, watching the street, flicking matches to life with my hard, yellow thumbnail and smoking the sissy, pissant little cigarettes. Even the smoke was thin and weak, not deep and full of the flavor and nuance and subtle language that I craved. It was a tightass anorexic cigarette, just like the girl who left them. But my nicotine brain was grateful just the same. I tried not to sleep, but fell into an uneasy catnap in the chair by the window.

The phone didn’t ring again.

Chapter Two

A couple of hours later, I was awakened by the telephone. My back ached from my angle in the chair and cigarette butts were scattered on the floor. I stood and walked to the phone. My bones popped, complaining of no bed and too little sleep. I checked the time: six a.m.

“Hello?” I hefted the weight of the receiver.

“Hello, lover, how about breakfast?” It was Cherisse. Ah, Cherisse of the yielding body and big booty. I smiled and closed my eyes, feeling the small aches Karen had given me.

“Sure thing, be right over.” I hung up and found some jeans that I slipped into without underwear. I tried calling all of Michelle’s phone numbers again. No answer at any of them. I again debated calling the police and again rejected it. In the light of day on my way to meet Cherisse, the danger of Michelle’s call seemed even more ridiculous. Then, as I sat heavily on my chair by the window pulling on boots, I realized I might be getting too old for this constant poon chasing. I glanced around my apartment: dead plants in one window (one woman’s idea to liven up my place), dirty plates stacked in the kitchen, unmade bed, cigarette butts everywhere, lipstick-smeared glasses on every surface as if I had just had a cocktail party.

“Mama, have mercy.” I shook my head ruefully. I needed to get myself in hand, take responsibility for my mess, and get my life in order. But all I cared about right now was basketball and women. This was no place to bring a woman, my conscience scolded me. Women liked lace curtains and flowers and scented candles and fresh sheets and clean kitchens and spotless bathrooms and plenty of toilet paper and bubble bath and secret hordes of cookies and chocolate. My place was simple and Spartan and dirty. I had a Corgi model Batmobile, from an ex who called me Batman, parked on an antique desk, my basketball trophies and some miscellaneous sports equipment such as golf clubs, tennis rackets, racquetball rackets and goggles, softball and glove, Frisbee, soccer ball, skis—my only belongings left from the breakup—and an ironing board, a bed and a chair that I bought a month ago, and my only indulgence, a state-of-the-art sound system with hundreds of CDs. Nothing else.

I felt aroused at the thought of Cherisse. At the thought of making my apartment suitable for some soft, lush woman.

“Or maybe letting that woman come in and fix me up,” I murmured, amused.

I got off on the authoritative ring my boots made on the wood floor as I walked about, gathering keys, wallet, Day Runner, dental dams and gloves and lube, and fresh underwear. Maybe Cherisse would give me time to shower.

Four hours later, in the bright kitchen, Cherisse served me breakfast. As I crunched toast, I asked, “What do I know about Oklahoma?”

“More than I do, honey,” Cherisse replied, pouring coffee. Something about the way she held the pot in her hand made me newly appreciate her delicate brown wrists, her rich, meaty thighs, and her tasty rump undulating under her satin nightgown. I ran my hand up Cherisse’s leg, resting for a moment in her kinky pubic hair.

“Uh-uh, Nora, you got to quit all that now. You wore me out.” Cherisse sat heavily and sipped coffee.

I grinned. “You’re sweet.” I was appreciative of the breakfast. Of the generosity of all the wonderful women I knew. “You really are.”

“I know,” Cherisse said, grinning back. “Sounds to me like she wants you back.” She frowned over her cup, her brows knitting together. “And you can’t do that.”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cherisse, disbelieving, helped herself to eggs.

I ate silently, wondering what had happened to Michelle. My helplessness to know, to
force
answers, infuriated me.

To me, Oklahoma was a wasteland past the end of the world. There was obviously no phone service, and if it hadn’t been for footage from the Oklahoma City bombing that showed the capital city to be similar looking to other towns, I would’ve thought Oklahoma was dirt roads, Native Americans in teepees, and fat white men driving Cadillac convertibles with long bulls’ horns mounted on the hoods.

I surmised Oklahoma to be backward, redneck, religious, ultraconservative, dry, dusty, hot, and ugly.

“Do black people even live there?” I asked.

Cherisse nodded as she chewed. “Don’t be ignorant. Sure they do. There’s Langston University, and remember Greenwood? The black Wall Street that was destroyed in the twenties?”

“The race riot,” I whispered fiercely in recognition. “Right, I do remember something about that. I thought that was in Kansas or Nebraska. What happened, some poor brother got accused of rape? And then the whole town went up in flames?”

“That rape thing was only the last straw,” Cherisse said. “I’ve read up on it a little. Racism had been simmering nationwide for years. It didn’t just happen in Oklahoma. A race riot happened in nearly every state. Tulsa’s was the worst.”

“Whatever,” I said dismissively. My eyes were burning and I made up my mind to go meet this Tulsa.

Chapter Three

When I returned home, I found the door open and my apartment destroyed. My stereo was demolished and most of my CDs were snapped in two. My dishes were broken and my clothes were strewn everywhere. Oddly, my basketball trophies and sports equipment were untouched. Nothing was missing. Why wouldn’t thieves take everything instead of smashing it? That stereo was worth a mint. When I finally looked up and noticed the walls, I gasped. Spray-painted around the room was the message:
Where were you? Fuck you, asshole!
in a lurid red. Michelle had come by after all.

I felt like I had been kicked in the gut just when I was regaining some of my footing and recovering from that nightmare relationship. I collapsed on my bed and struggled to keep myself together.

“Damn that bitch. Goddamn that nasty white bitch for getting me mixed up in this. I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.” I breathed deeply until I went from weak to strong. As my anger became manageable, I heard a knock on my still-open door.

“Yeah?” I called from the bed.

“It’s me.” Tonya cautiously entered, stepping over debris.

“Oh, Tonya, honey chile!” Glad for a sane, sympathetic face, I launched myself into Tonya’s arms. We had known each other a few wild times in the past months.

“What’s happened, Nora? You piss off some other butch? Or some other coach?” Tonya stroked my back.

“An ex” was all I said.

“An ex did this? What in the hell did you do to her? Wait a minute. Was it that crazy white piece of shit you were sprung on for three years?”

I shrugged. “What did I do to her? You know, the usual.” Then I picked up the phone.

Tonya put a hand on top of mine. “Whatever you do, don’t call the LAPD!”

Surprised, I laughed hard. “Listen, I’ve got to go away for a while, but I want you to know where I’ve gone so if something funny happens…”

“Sure, sure.” Tonya nodded, smiling reassuringly. “I’ve got your back, N. You want me to call some brothers to take care of this cootchie for you?”

I smiled tiredly and caressed Tonya’s face. “No, thanks, I’m gonna see what I can do myself.”

“Hmph. Famous last words.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Where are you going and when?”

“Tulsa. In a couple of days.”

“All this is about Tulsa? I would’ve thought Chicago or at least Detroit. Tulsa? Isn’t that the middle of nowhere? Cowtown, USA.”

“T, don’t be a dumbass, you know it’s in Oklahoma.”

“Same thing, N. And you are not that cute,” Tonya retorted. “Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” she asked as she surveyed the wreckage.

“Just what I was thinking.” At least my infernal craving for smoke and drink had subsided. For now. “Will you wait while I pack a little?”

“Of course.” Tonya sat on the bed, crossing her molasses-colored legs in a breathtaking way.

I packed hastily, hardly caring what I took, not knowing where I was going or what I would find.

“Can I make some calls from your place? To let the college know and to make flight arrangements?” I sighed, relieved that it was summer and the basketball season was over and I didn’t start training my team for a few weeks. Tonya nodded. Women were so lovely and accommodating. I never understood why men didn’t get how gentle, enormously generous, and caretaking all women were if you respected the simple checks and balances. It may seem old-fashioned, but there were a few rules that I observed like a religion: open all the doors regardless of her protests, hold her hand, buy flowers and perfume, send romantic cards, always call the next day, notice all hair and dress, carry packages and sacks, kill the bugs, take out the trash, buy her tampons and chocolates, hold her when she cries, touch her face, listen without advising, compliment her house, change the empty toilet paper roll, give nonsexual massages, go shopping with her, light candles before sex, and above all, most important nonnegotiable, keep her happy in bed. A woman who is happy in bed is not going to be unhappy anywhere else. She’s compliant, agreeable, and cooperative. I had gotten with femmes other butches had warned me against who had committed the ambiguous crime of being uppity bitches. I laughed in the faces of my friends who warned me. All those women needed was me. Me all night, sometimes all day, sometimes all week. I never left until my preliminary work was done. I left them cooing and sighing on mussed sheets, blinking drowsily. You just had to determine what each one needed and overwhelm her with it. With some it was hours of kissing, some it was role-playing games, others it was hard and fast penetration, sometimes it was S/M, others it was fisting, others it was vibrators, others it was nonstop cunnilingus, some it was spanking, still others it was rimming till dawn, and I wore all of them out with orgasms. Just one thing never worked all the time (except plenty of cuddling). You had to have
all
the tools on the belt to walk with me. And in return? Oh, God, if men would understand this, the female floodgates would open for those lousy, privileged selfish pricks. In return, women will do it all, given half a chance and kept happy in bed. Women will gladly do everything for the modest exchange of some quality attention. The better you give, the better you get. No woman was a bitch after a night with me. That is, no one but Michelle McKerr.