Loves Labor, Maybe Not Lost

Loves Labor, Maybe not Lost



Prologue

          Much of my early life was a roller coaster ride of ups and downs. I lived life in a haphazard way, a happy go lucky approach that was in direct conflict with the kind of upbringing I'd had as a child. Well into my late 20s I was still directionless, going from job to job feeling unhappy with myself most of the time. My personal life mirrored my professional (if you can call it that). I spent years in the music world subculture eventually transitioning from the realm of rock Heavy Metal to the hip-hop dance club social milieu. Serial monogamy was the order of the day. I moved from relationship to relationship. I was without money, a job or any prospects for the future most of the time but there always seemed to be a woman around willing to put up with my shit -- at least temporarily. There must have been something about that fast and lose nothing to lose attitude I had, that women found irresistible. I was always amazed when a woman wanted me. Maybe it's because I spent much of my early life as a painfully shy introvert. It wasn't until I discovered the world of dancing that I really became confident with the opposite sex. But my life was empty. The need to find meaning and purpose in my existence was always lying in wait just below the surface. Basically I was like Dr. Gonzo, "...one of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live and too rare to die" (H. S. T.).

          I'm a longtime speed freak that goes back to my father putting me on his lap to steer his VW Beetle when I was five. I have a record of maybe a hundred speeding tickets under my belt with speeds in excess of 170 mph. The other night on 595, the blue lights appeared in my rearview once again. Coming back from class in Davie, I'd left my wallet at home, and had been fearing just such a scenario all night.
"Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side. This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop heart. Make the bastard chase you -- he will follow. But he won't know what to make of your blinker signal that says you're about to turn right. This is to let him know that you're pulling over for a proper place to talk. It'll take him a moment to realize that he's about to make 180 degree turn at speed. But you will be ready for it. Brace for the G's with a fast heel toe" (H. S. T.).

          Of course I pulled over almost immediately and received my three tickets and no lectures thankfully, but I just love those lines of Hunter Thompson’s from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and they are analogous of my attempts at evading not that state trooper but my life. I would describe this scene from the book as running for effect. I've spent a lot of time doing things for effect. What that means exactly I don't know. Fortunately someone came into my life seven years ago and reminded me what my life is supposed to be. This isn't that story. The world's not ready for that one yet. This story is for effect.




                    The Story

          It's Christmas Day 2001, I'm depressed, I'm alone, and I'm not liking it. The rest of the year I can usually cope, but something about Christmastime makes everything worse. Strange that Christmas would affect me so because I'm Jewish. But I've spent most of my life ignoring the fact that half my family isn't Jewish. I don't know what they are but they're not Jews and they do acknowledge Christmas, albeit in the most secular sense, maybe that's it.
Anyway, I'm sitting around feeling sorry for myself and the phone rings.
"Hello," I say expecting to hear a family member or friend.
"Hello… Aaron?" chimes back a soft voice with a charming English accent.
"Yes, who's this," I say, curious and surprised.
"This is Teresa, I left you a message on the Quest line," she says.
(Quest is a half-ass telephone mailbox dating service -- I can't tell you how distasteful that is to admit).
"Oh yes, I left you my number just a few minutes ago. That was quick. I didn't expect to hear from you on Christmas Day," I say, a little flustered.
After taking on the phone for a while I noticed we had some immediate chemistry. But I also noticed a rather erratic side to her that I commented on. Alarm bells started going off when Teresa told me she "used to be manic depressive" but that she didn't need medication anymore and that she was a private dancer (a nude dancer who comes to your house, otherwise known as Ho’s). Of course, under normal circumstances I might have shied away from continuing our conversation, but as I said, I was in the grip of depression and I found her English accent and nonchalant intelligence rather charming. She had a direct way of speaking that cut rapier-like through the bullshit. I was intrigued and maybe a little frightened, but like my daughter, I kind of like things that frighten me. Plus I hadn't touched a woman in almost seven years.

          Our conversation was a kind of roller coaster ride, not unlike what you might expect from your average manic-depressive. She was up one minute then down the next, depending largely on my input. But I pressed on and eventually convinced her to meet me, going so far as to give her my address. But when I suggested (ever so politely mind you) that maybe she was exhibiting signs of manic depressive behavior, and that she might want to reconsider meds, Teresa immediately did an about-face and told me that she wasn't going to meet me ever and that's how we left it. Regardless of the myriad red flags that popped up in our conversation I couldn't help feeling I'd missed an opportunity. After that, my depression deepened. Teresa's cutting words seemed to expose something ever present beneath the veneer of my existence. A longing for something lost. The effect of this interaction would set into motion a series of unanticipated events.

          Two hours later I hear a knock. I drag myself out of bed and headed for the front door. I glance through the peephole then press my head hard against the door and look again. Even with the fisheye distortion there's no mistaking that this is the most exquisite knockout of a babe to ever grace my apartment stoop.

          "Oh shit," I say to myself as I opened the door.
There she stands; feet planted wide apart, hands on her hips, projecting serious attitude. Wearing nothing but a revealingly thin light blue dress that complements her ebony skin; she flaunts a body that would easily put the hottest Black porn star to shame. Her face has the ethereal spritelike loveliness of some storybook pixie concealing a world of mischief. I'm literally mesmerized. I don't say anything for several seconds as I drink her in. A delicate nose and full lips accentuate big dark almond shaped eyes that are sizing me up with obvious skepticism.
Completely unprepared I answered the door in nothing but my rattiest around the house shorts with my hair sticking out in all directions.
"Teresa?" I ask already knowing the answer, but I have to say something.
"Okay, you've seen me, I'm leaving," she says with a smile, starting to turn and walk away.
She just came by to let me know how bad I'd blown it.
"Whoa whoa, wait a minute, you just got here," I said starting after her.
She just walked on, occasionally giving me a decadently enticing smile over her shoulder. But when I stopped following she noticed and stopped also. Standing on the sidewalk with her back to me, she hiked up her dress over one cheek (high enough where I was pretty sure she had on no panties) and gave her rear a little smack saying, "Kiss it boy, maybe I'll stay," with that adorable English accent.
"Oh, hell no," I said back standing defiantly now with my arms crossed, but secretly I would have loved to have planted one there.
Her retort was to arch her back, rise up on the balls of her feet and bend over giving me a shot that did away with any doubt I might have had about her wearing any underwear.
"Son of a Fuckin bitch," I said to myself, "comeback here you," I yelled after her as she took off again.
With some gentle coaxing I managed to get her inside. My apartment was such a mess that the only place to sit, conveniently, was the bed. Teresa wasn't shy -- obviously -- and made a point of showing me her pierced nipples. As we reclined I was distracted by her lack of panties, which was painfully obvious now from the reflection of my dresser mirror. The signals where inviting. And it wasn't long before I was exploring her with my hands. But when I ran my fingers along her most private of areas and drew back obvious signs of arousal, she balked though somewhat halfheartedly. She seemed to be enjoying herself a little too much and realized that things might go farther than she intended; She wouldn't want me to think she was easy.

          I did my best to talk her out of leaving as she bolted out the front door but I couldn't stop her. Being outside seemed to put her at ease and I could tell she felt more in control of the situation. But the sexual energy between us continued to rise. Soon we were playing touchy feely in full view of my neighbors and passersby. Teresa started flashing me, and the world, with a series of the most excruciatingly sexual poses imaginable.

          By now I was lost in some primitive male mating frenzy as we danced around Teresa's car. I chased her and she pretended to be terrified (see aboriginal mating rituals) only stopping to flash the odd passing car with a shot of her magnificent rear end or something even more dramatic. Eventually I caught her and the beautifully theatrical wide-eyed looks of feigned shock and indignation she was flashing my way were driving me bananas. Bending her over the hood of a car I started doing things that I think are punishable by up to five years in prison in a couple of places in the George Bush state (Texas).

          My male neighbors, most of whom had never spoken to me before, were abandoning their wives, girlfriends and significant others inside their homes to come out and say hello. All of a sudden I was their best friend, instantly transformed from anonymous tenant to neighborhood pimp daddy.

          There was a kind of childlike freedom to the whole thing with Teresa and I. It was more like play than sex. Not that sex and play can't go together, but it was play, something I hadn't really done in years. I'd forgotten how good it was to just play with a girl.

          When a black SUV nearly creamed a parked Toyota after Teresa, with gymnastic poise, bent over and shot the driver a glimpse of Xanadu, I realized this might get out of hand. And when the vehicle started backing up, I began having visions of trouble with the police or even worse the homeowners association. But the white haired old gentleman driving the Cadillac Escalade just rolled down his window to grin and wave at Teresa who beamed back a drop-dead smile. How often do you see that in South Florida, someone stopping to smile and wave at the cause of a near traffic accident?

          Suddenly the idea of having a woman like her on my arm and in my life had an overpowering appeal. Hell, on looks alone she had me completely suckered from the first moment I saw her. And there is something exotic about an extremely attractive Black woman with that kind of sweet West Middlands English accent. I can't quite put my finger on it; maybe it's just the novelty or maybe I've gotten sucked into that Anglophile crap thats so popular in American now. But at that point all my higher brain functions were on pause anyway. The only thing out of place or that didn't fit with Teresa were the gold caps in a mouth filled with otherwise perfect teeth. The accent didn't go with that kind of hood rat persona.

          This little episode did away with my depression more completely and succinctly than any drug legal or illegal ever could. Manic-depressive Shmanic-depressive, whatever her problem I was willing to overlook it.

          Looking back wistfully at this scene now I can't help thinking about Virginia Woolf's Room of One's Own and the validation men seek in women. The absolute necessity of women providing this, or as she put it, "...how is he to go on giving judgment, civilizing natives, making laws, writing books...unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is." That looking glass vision, which is of such supreme importance to charge the vitality and stimulate the nervous system (paraphrasing her). "Take it away and man may die."
Yes, you were right Virginia. I was dying, and just those few hours of validation revitalize me and my image of myself as "male." But what she neglected to mention was the validation men provide for women. True, Teresa could be described as the archetypal patriarchal construct of a woman, but she's not waiting around for men to come to their senses, she's out there getting hers and providing me with mine in the bargain. Teresa wasn't doing me or any of the men watching her some altruistic favor. She was seeking her own validation albeit within the bounds of what some might describes as her own skewed patriarchal mindset. But the reality is that none of these realizations could ever hope to compete with Teresa's ass (For those of you who like to be specific, the power her hedonistic primal sexual self-image has to reaffirm my own. An image, I might add, horribly shrunken by a society designed to undercut my belief in myself and make me insecure about my desirability as a sexual being and worth as a human being).
Yes Virginia there is a Santa Claus and His name is external validation. Maybe if you'd been out getting some instead of writing letters to Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson complaining about how men were screwing women over, you wouldn't have thrown yourself in that Lake. Personal I'm thankful Teresa came along when she did, otherwise I might have wound up floating next to you Virginia. But let's move on, shall we?

          In between the time Teresa and I spoke and the time she showed up at my door something happened. Actually I made something happen. Laying there feeling more dejected than ever, I rolled over and pulled the White pages from underneath my bed.

          Operating on some basic motor level (Duke Raul) I flipped through till I reached the name I was seeking. Not at all a common name, once there were only two listings in Fort Lauderdale, now there's only one. I dial the number feeling something akin to hope and despair in some kind of milkshake mix. As it begins to ring I begin to shake.
"Hello," says an older women's voice with a distinctive Creole accent.
"Hello, Mrs. Remilien?" I say back, my voice cracking a little.
"Yes..." she says, then silence.
I don't really have any idea what to say. I'm not really sure why I made this call. But I can't stop now.
"Hi, My name is Aaron and I used to be a friend of your daughter Suzie. But I've lost touch with her and I was just wondering... I was just wondering... I was just wondering how she is," I say, far too fast and then trail off to almost a whisper at the end.
"Oh, she's fine. I'll probably talked to her tonight. She lives in New York now. She works for a newspaper there. What was your name again " she replies cordially.
"Wow, that's great. My name is Aaron," I say back.
More silence.
What the hell am I doing? My mind is racing trying to think of something to say, something that would explain this call, something that isn't a lie.
"How do you know Suzie," she asks with an inquiring tone.
She knows something is up. With my halting manner of speech anyone would be suspicious.
"Well, we were friends years ago. I knew her right after she moved out on her own," I say already starting to volunteer too much information then rambled on for some time about what I don't remember. When I finally stop taking I got nailed.
"Are you her boyfriend?" she asks hesitantly and all to perceptively.
Like a bug on a windshield I'm squashed flat by that question. But I'm not surprised that she doesn't know I'm not Suzie's boyfriend because her present tense question wasn't a mistake. Suzie was always a freak about privacy. When I knew her she was, for the most part, cut off from her family. I'm a little surprised that this still may be the case.
In the five minutes we've spent talking on the phone, Mrs. Remilien's seen right through me. What did I expect, it's probably in the genes.
"Well yes... yes I was her boyfriend once (something I'm sure Suzie would deny) but that was many years ago," I say with some relief at being exposed for the underhanded bastard I am.
At the end of this uncomfortable conversation I ask for Suzie's number but Miss Remilien wouldn't give it out without her permission. Something I was already sure of before I asked, but I had to ask anyway.
"Well it was nice speaking with you Miss Remilien, Merry Christmas and please tell Suzie I said Merry Christmas," and that's how the conversation ended.

          After Teresa left I was feeling pretty damn good, better than I had in some time. I guess I must have made an impression on her as well because she called me a couple of hours later and we talked for a while. It was my night off work and I had already asked her if she wanted to go out somewhere. But she turned me down as she had all my requests, so I wasn’t too discouraged. Eventually she invited me over to her apartment in Lauderhill. Needless to say (don't you hate when people say needless to say and then say it anyway) I was pretty excited.
In the space of an afternoon, Christmas Day afternoon mind you, my prospects for getting laid went from zero to somewhere in the 90th percentile. Guys get that special feeling when they're going to get laid, like kids who know they're getting the present they want for Christmas. It's an extraordinary kind of excitement especially when it's the first time with a woman. It's that reassuring feeling of belonging, knowing that there's a special warm place where you fit in. In this respect maybe men and women really are different although I don't prescribe to that men are from Uranus women are from Pluto pop psychology crap. A man (heterosexual man -- politically correct qualifier) is really only fulfilling his purpose as a sexual being when he is inserted inside the female, everything else in life is just a form of masturbation. That's the real reason why we're so hot to get some all the time. Words of wisdom from the sage - take note girls.


          I started getting ready early, because there was no way I was going to be late for this. As I was splashing on some Paco Rabon I hadn't touched in five years and checking my nose hairs, I found myself thinking about that phone call to Suzie's mother. Why had I done that? I'd been thinking about doing it off-and-on for years but I'd never had the courage or been depressed enough. Well, I'm sure nothing will come of it, no reason to get my panties in a bunch (Eminem).

          It's raining and that means I'm going to have to take the car. I much prefer to ride the bike (motorcycle) because I like myself much better on the bike. It's more like an extension of me. But what do I care I'm going to get laid -- hopefully. I've seen that look in enough women's eyes to know when I'm in there. One last check, do I have everything? Keys, wallet, glasses, cash, yes. Shit I forgot something, condoms.

          I had recently bought three boxes of Trojan Magnums. A coupon cutter, I came across a 4 dollar off coupon in the Eckard Drug coupon book of the Sunday paper. Let's see -- no sex in seven years. I must have been feeling optimistic that day. I remember it was 8:00 in the morning and there was only one other person in the store, a not unattractive Black woman about my age. She noticed my Magnums and immediately sparked a conversation. Hummm, I said. I must have been feeling optimistic about my size that day as well.
Anyway, as I'm starting back for the bathroom closet where the condom boxes are neatly stacked, the phone rings.
"Yellow," I say, as I laid the four condoms I had down on the bed next to me.
"Hello, may I speak to Aaron Brown," says a voice from the past.
"Yes... this is me," I say, as I dropped through floor and plummet towards the center of earth.
"Hi, this is Suzie," she says, just like I'd heard her say a hundred times before, as if it were yesterday.
"Hi," is all I can say as I sit down on the bed, my heart starting to pound, adrenaline flooding my body like a frenzied heroine junkie -- the old reaction.
Silence.
Continued silence.
The silence continues.
Finally I managed to cogitate and form words.
"Wow, Wow I can't believe I'm talking to you, it's great to hear your voice," I say.
"I'm surprised, I thought you must hate me after... after what happened," she says.
"I could never hate you Suzie... that's not possible," I say.
Trying to recall exactly what was said in the initial part of our conversation would be like trying to remember your first words after emerging from anesthesia. I had to really concentrate just to be able to continue the conversation because I was in such a daze. After dispensing with the usual pleasantries of a conversation with someone you haven't talked to in three-quarters of a decade, we started talking about the past. I began to apologize for what had happened but she stopped me with her own apology, taking some of the responsibility for the events which led to my arrest. But that whole conversation was just in the way of me listening to her voice. A voice with no particular enthralling qualities, a voice so homogenized with that South Florida anti-accent that no one talking to her on the phone without having met Suzie would ever suspect she was Black or Haitian. But "I love to hear her speak; yet well I know, that music hath a far more pleasing sound,"(W.S.). Astonished (I use that word not loosely), absolute astonishment. I spent years praying (I'm not much for praying) to hear that voice. Literally 1000 nights at work begging, imploring, bargaining with, demanding that God bring her back to me, but mostly praying.
"Please God, please bring my Suzie back, I can't face life without her, please God please bring my Suzie back," 10,000 times or maybe 10 million times if you include thoughts.

          Since the moment I first saw her, no day has passed without thinking of her. I won't bore you with some pitiful attempt at explaining love or my love. It isn't possible anyway. No language yet devised by man nor any that I could imagine save music could ever truly do justice to something that is beyond all definition or compass or understanding. And that's as it should be. I'll just toss in Shakespeare's 116th Sonnet because it was Suzie's favorite and my favorite before we ever met.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments, love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

          After finding out that she had moved to New York in 2001 and was working as a copy editor for Newsday and living on Long Island I started asking real questions.
"So, are you involved with someone – married?" I say, dreading the answer.
"No I haven't been for some time," she says.
The next question I ask is far too personal for someone I haven't talked to in years but it's the most important one.
"Are you able to have relationships... I mean emotional involvements now," I say, not making much sense but she knows exactly what I'm talking about.
"Well, I still really don't get emotionally involved. I've had a handful of experiences since you, but... but it really hasn't changed," she says with complete openness.
The answer is one I'm ambivalent about. I was Suzie's first. I had hoped that things might have changed over the years. I had hoped that she had finally conquered the demons which haunted her and found someone to care for her and love her the way I did/do. But there was a part of me that was happy that she hadn't found someone.
By now we'd been talking for maybe half an hour and I had almost forgotten about my date. Still in actual physical shock from this phone call I finally got the nerve to ask for her phone number in New York. I was terrified she would say no. I'd already clumsily and far too early in the conversation asked if we could be friends and there was a long pause before she said,
"Well, we'll see about that."
But she didn't hesitate to give me her phone number and even offered her e-mail address. I wrote it down in about six places and put one in my wallet before I hung up the phone.

          As I drove my mind was filled with Suzie. I thought about calling Teresa and canceling the date, but I don't do things like that because I hate it when someone does it to me. Truth to tell, my heart was still stuck somewhere in Long Island in the back pocket of Suzie jeans where I had put it years ago. But I plucked of my courage and prepared myself for an evening with that 5 ft. 1, 103 pound bundle of British dynamite. When I find the complex where she lives, at once the gold teeth make sense. This is the hood. Not the old black neighborhoods just west of the tracks in most Florida cities. This is the new hood, a part of Lauderhill that used to be populated by lower to middle-class whites but has now shifted to lower income African-Americans and Blacks from the Caribbean.

          Teresa is actually wearing less than when she came to my house. In other words she's naked except for panties and a rather sheer robe which she's left open in the front. She's the same knockout I met earlier that day but somehow things have changed. The idea of nailing her doesn't seem to hold the same appeal for some inexplicable reason. I tried to get her to go somewhere but she didn't seem interested in leaving the house and just laid on her bed that's positioned almost directly in the center of the room with no furniture surrounding it except for a big recliner, which I sat in. Finally I'm able to persuade her to go out and get something to eat at a nearby Chinese food restaurant.

          Sitting in the restaurant, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with her hair pulled tight over her head in a top knot she looks like she's 16. Suddenly I'm feeling all of my thirty-five years and a little out of place with this 24-year-old. I'm also feeling guilt, I'm not exactly sure why but it's palpable and growing. But the conversation is good just as it had been on the phone. Without all the distracting sexual innuendo I can actually get to know her a bit. And not surprisingly (I have excellent taste in women) she's bright, articulate and perceptive, a little too perceptive unfortunately for me because I think she's already realized that something’s up. I'm doing my best to stay in the moment and give her my full attention but I keep drifting. The restaurant had a moat filled with Koi swimming underneath a little wooden bridge. I stopped to watch the large white and orange fish with black spots swimming together as Teresa and I were leaving and all at once I felt very alone.

          Back at her apartment, in bed, most of our clothes off, I'm kissing her and she's sitting on my lap doing gyrations that can only be described as professional. We're not even having sex yet but I can already tell that she's probably better at this than anyone I've ever been with, but I've never been with a professional before. Things have changed since that afternoon. She's not swinging back and forth anymore. Her disposition is sweet and caring. I can tell she really likes me and I'm feeling even more guilty. But I wonder if Teresa is able to delineate between what she does for a living and what she's doing with me. I can imagine being in her position and the lines beginning to blur. We're getting close now. The passion is building but just as I'm about to hit it, it all goes horribly wrong.
I'm slipping out of my body and beginning to see things from a distance. Like some voyeuristic third party I'm watching us and I don't like what I see. It's something that's never happened before, and it's not a good feeling. Teresa is ready and so am I -- physically anyway. But I hesitate and he who hesitates is lost. Her eyes, which were nearly closed, are open now and looking at me.
"What's wrong," she says, still ready.
"Nothing, nothing," I say beginning to kiss her neck and shoulder.
But it's just getting worse and I'm starting to panic.
"Jesus...bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing. Intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out!" (H. T.).
I grabbed Teresa and push her down on the bed spreading her legs apart.
"No no," she says, but I know she doesn't mean it because her hands are on my butt pulling me towards her as she raises her legs even higher to give me total access.
She's breathing hard now and the time is right.
I dig my hand in my pants pocket laying on the bed next us to retrieve a condom but they're not there. I realized that I've left them lying on the bed at home.
"Shit I left my condoms at home," I say.
Magically Teresa produced a red one from where I don't know. Now, I hate condoms. I don't know about other guys but for me it's extremely difficult to enjoy sex wearing a condom. It's simple -- no matter how thin they are, I can't feel anything except rubber. And they always feel too tight, hence the Magnums. In a sense, it defeats the whole point of intercourse. For in actual fact you're not inside the woman. Your inside a rubber bag inside the woman. Of course, in this day and age it only makes sense to use condoms because everyone realizes the potentially fatal consequences if you don't. That said, I must admit that I have had unprotected sex with every partner I've ever had. Only women who are halfheartedly about their desire for sex with you will give you the ultimatum. No condom -- no sex. Now this is coming from someone who hasn't had sex since the mid-90s. But back then, even girlfriends I had who were nurses and should know better, gave it up without a condom. All it ever took was a little strategically placed whining and if that didn't work a simple comparison of my performance with one and without one did the trick. But that is the human condition, we pretend to be creatures of logic but in fact we are ruled by our passions. But let's get back to the action.

          Suddenly I hear myself jabbering about not wanting to use a condom and running on about how I want to be inside her. This is true. But I had already resolved myself to using a condom with Teresa. I mean, come on, she's a professional. So whether I consciously made this connection or not -- probably passive aggression at its height -- I started pressuring her in the sweetest most manipulative way to let me have my way. I knew she would never allow this because she's a professional and I can tell from her fastidious cleanliness about her body that she's already completely paranoid about contracting some disease. Who wouldn't be in her position? At least that's what the unconscious part of me that was trying to get myself out of this must have been thinking. This is after all, the hottest chick I've ever had a chance to sleep with in my life. There's no way I turned her down, at least not consciously. If I had, it would have been tantamount to abdication of my membership in heterosexual maledom.

          But I'm wrong. Because before I know it she's pulling me towards her saying all right go-ahead. Apparently women are just as weak (a feebly inadequate description of the clash between knowledge and passion) as we are. But something in my subconscious is moving faster than my primal desire for her and in the next instant I've pulled some obscure fact I've read about hiccups being one of the early symptoms of HIV infection out of the air and start rattling it off to her. Teresa had been hiccuping since we left the restaurant -- probably some bad Moo Shoo. Finally I've gone too far and she pulls out of the throes of her desire and looks up at me.
"What the Fuck did you just say," she snapped.
And then without batting an eye, I repeated it. For a moment she bought it. For a moment my unconscious thought it had weaseled its/my way of this dilemma and convinced her I was a complete moron. But in the next moment the whole unconscious construct went down the drain. Beaten by a Ho.
"What the hell are you talking about," she says swinging her leg over my shoulder and off the bed finally putting an end to any hope of consummating the relationship.
"Where are you," she says.
"I'm... I'm sorry I...," I say.
In a second she understands.
"You're hung up on someone else aren't you," she says, with a knowing expression on her face.
Exposed. (The perceptive powers of women are like something out of comic book superhero lore).
"I don't have time for this shit," she says, and in an instant she's out of bed and in the bathroom. Leaving me to ponder what the hell had just happened. When she comes out it's like I don't exist. She totally ignores me going about her routine preparations for bed. She's turned to stone. I hang around for little while after I get dressed trying to talk to her but it's useless. Walking down the long hallway of her apartment was one of the low points of my decade. Everything about myself was in question. My manhood, my identity, my morality, everything. I was a failure. I went home, climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head and wondered what I always wonder at these times. Is this really my life?
The next evening after sleeping for 10 or 12 hours I woke up feeling not too bad. My first thoughts were of Suzie. I wanted to call her. But I knew I should wait. That afternoon I got a call from Teresa. She went into a tirade about how screwed up I was and how I had wasted her valuable time. She even offered to pay for her meal. I was a little surprised that she held that old-fashioned ethic about a man paying for a woman's dinner and what that entitles him to. It was a noble gesture for someone in her line of work. I knew I had hurt her pride. I have no doubt that nothing like that has ever happened to her before. She finished by telling me not to call her anymore. I felt bad again after that.

          I resisted calling Suzie for one whole day. But the next morning when I got home from work I dialed the Long Island number.
"Hello," said a sleepy voice on the other end.
"Hello, Suzie, hi it's Aaron " I said.
"Oh hello, how are you?" She said.
"I'm fine. You sound like your sleeping, did I wake you?" I said.
"Yes, but that's okay," she said.
"I thought you'd be up already," I said.
"No, I work till midnight so I usually don't get to sleep till around 4 in the morning," she said.
Wow! We have almost the same schedule I thought.
My first conversations with "the Suzie" were guarded on my part. But very soon it was just like it used to be. That connection was still there. We started spending hours on the phone talking. I told her about the two years I'd spent going to court every two months after getting arrested for violating the restraining order she had placed upon me -- apparently she never did come to court. I told her that after the O.J. thing, which occurred just before this all happened, they change the law to make such orders permanent. Immediately she offered to assist me with whenever I needed to have it lifted. I know what you're thinking -- what must he have done to provoke such a response. I would refer you back to the sonnets of Shakespeare, a large portion of which worn against the dangers of man loving woman. I will attest, it is perilous.
I remember that day well. Another knock at my door, but this was a Broward Sheriff's officer with a court order for protection, which is what it said on the cover sheet. I remember flipping through and feeling sick as I read the words Suzie wrote. Things like harassment and stalking were there. I remember going to the library that same day to do research for a class, the library where Suzie worked. I remember asking the officer specifically if I could still go to the public library since she worked there. I remember getting on the elevator as I was leaving and being stopped by Sergeant now Captain Mentha Manning who ask me my name. I remember being cuffed and going to the lockup downtown. I remember sitting in my arraignment hoping Suzie would show up and straight all this out. I remember calling my mother from jail and telling her what happened. I remember how concerned and disappointed she was with me, as were all the women in my family, all of whom are feminists by the way. I remember trying to find a lawyer to represent me -- "kill all the lawyers." All of this was hard. I've done plenty of things in my life that I deserved to be arrested for. But this, this was hard. But harder still was Suzie's refusal to speak to me. A five-minute conversation might have prevented the whole thing.
So many things happened that year 1995 to 1996. But the important thing is that I met someone, someone very special who needed me, needed me in the worst way. I'd never had anybody really need me. And I was there for her even when she didn't need me anymore, because by then I needed her in the worst way. Yes, I know I'm rambling. But you have to understand that Suzie was and is the only woman I've ever loved. Before her, love was just something I read about in books or thought I had experienced with other women. I had no idea what love really was. It is the most powerful most dangerous most uncontrollable and most important thing in life. And if you find it, you'll do just about anything to hold onto it.
Second chances are beautiful things. If you ever get a second chance don't fuck it up because they are rare and wonderful and they don't come along every day.
"You know Aaron... I was just using you," she says to me on the phone. Her honesty was always one of her most impressive qualities. Not the external kind that's so superficial, but that rare kind, honesty within yourself.
"Well don't feel bad because all the women I've known in my life used me. You're the only one who ever admitted it," I say.

          Each night between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve the conversations went deeper and became more honest and revealing. I could always ask Suzie anything and she would really think about the question before answering. I remember when we first met I couldn't believe God made people like this. I thought I knew all there was to know about people and I was cynical in the extreme. Much like John Paul Sartre I am a great believer in humanity, but I don't think too much of people. Well, maybe just one person.
The morning before New Year's Eve an impulsive idea hit me just as I was leaving work and writing a letter to Suzie that I intended to e-mail when I got home. Instead I called her and crossed my fingers -- actually I was praying again (sickening what a true believer I was becoming).
"Hey Suez, it's me," I say when she picks up the phone.
"Hi," she says with that happy excited tone.
"I was just wondering... I was wondering if you could do me a favor. It's no big deal. Could you please... pretty please... hop on the next plane to Fort Lauderdale and fly down here and spend New Year's Eve with me," I say the last part quickly then wait in suspense. I started feeling like I was going to pee in my pants waiting for the answer which didn't come immediately.
"Well, you know Aaron," (it's always good when she starts a sentence like that) "you know Aaron I was thinking about doing just that actually," she says.
Oh, fucking joy, I'm thinking or something like that, as I stand up on the bed and begin to bounce up and down.
"But, you know," (shit, the proverbial but) and I stop bouncing, "I'm coming to Florida in January to see my friends and family so I was planning on seeing you then," she says.
"Oh, really," I say, she hadn't mentioned that at all.
But I'm far too excited at the possibility of seeing her immediately, although I know it's really hard to get a last-minute flight on New Year's Eve. I had already checked the flights before I call her and the only ones I could find were very expensive. I tried to let her off the hook easily.
"Well, you could come anyway, right," I say hopefully.
"Yes, I could," she says, and then there's a long silence.
Finally she gave me her decision.
"I sorry, I just don't think I can do it Aaron, but I'll see you in a couple of weeks," she says, and I drop face first onto my bed -- deflated. But I could tell from the sound of her voice that she wanted to come.
"I understand, it was just an impulse I didn't really expect you to come. If I wasn't working I'd come to New York," I say putting up a good front.

          After hanging up I console myself with the knowledge that Suzie will be here on the 17th and I've got that to look forward to, but I'm still disappointed. After all, she's the one. I've always known that, maybe even before I met her.

          I tried to go to sleep but the residual excitement kept me in that half-asleep half-awake state that's so unsatisfying. Around 2:00 PM in the afternoon as I drifted in and out of consciousness, the phone rang. Usually I keep the phone turned off during the day so people don't bother me while I'm sleeping. But I'd forgotten to switch off the ringer.
"Hello," I say, the pillow still over my head.
"Hello," comes a voice crackling and breaking up -- obviously a cell phone. But I know that voice.
"Hello, this is Suzie," she says, a little clearer now.
"Hi, how are you doing, what's up," I say, trying not to let my mind jump to conclusions.
"Do you still want me to come," she asks.
"Absolutely, absolutely," I say before she even finishes the sentence.
"Where are you?" I ask wondering what's going on.
"I'm sitting on the runway. I'm waiting to take off," she says, and I sit up in bed wide-awake.
"Holy crap, are you crazy," I say, my heart starting to pound holes in my chest.
"I'm on Delta flight 903 due in Fort Lauderdale at 9:00 PM. Can you pick me up from the airport? I can take a cab," she adds never wanting to impose on anyone.
"No you won't, I'll be there to pick you up don't worry you've got a ride," I say my whole body beginning vibrate in tune with the universe. Suzie's coming.

          After bounding around my apartment like some rabid jackrabbit for about 20 minutes I finally calmed down and realized that I was totally unprepared for any kind of guest let alone the most important guest of all. I had no clean sheets, the kitchen was a joke, the bathroom was a total mess, and I had no food in the house. Oh my God, what am I gonna to do first, I thought to myself. I quickly formulated a plan and attacked the bathroom because she's definitely going to have to use the bathroom. After four hours of cleaning, the bathroom was looking good, the kitchen was passable but I still needed to go to the laundry mat and wash the sheets and the bedspread. Somehow I managed to get it all done by 8:00 PM and was even able to pick up some Thai take-out for our dinner.
Driving to the airport a calm came over me; my excitement transforming into a confidence and surety of myself I hadn't felt since last I saw Suzie. It's the feeling of peace that comes over you when you know what you're doing is right, that unusual sense of attainment you get when you know you're winning at life. As I pass the apartment where Suzie use to live, the memory of going to visit her there begins playing in my head.

          In total darkness I stood in front of the door to the one room efficiency and knocked. Shifting from foot to foot my heart was pumping adrenaline, my brain deluged in endorphins.
A voice penetrates the door "Who is it?”
"It’s me"; I answer, crossing my legs to avoid an accident. The prospect of seeing Suzie always regressed me to childhood excitement. Only moments pass but it seemed like ages before the door opens. Light streams out momentarily blinding me before she appears. Smiling a greeting before any words, she transforming me, washing away the nervous energy that had threatened to overwhelm me. For a few seconds we stand there just looking.
"Good evening" she says in her perfectly formal way.
"Hi…" I say drawing it out as if it were a sentence.
I pause again to take in her visage.
"You look great", I say, and she rolls her big eyes, always skeptical of compliments.
"Would you like to come in,” she says, as if we had just met.
Inside we sit on the couch, the only comfortable piece of furniture in the tiny box of a room.
"So Suez, you wanna come over and spend the night," I say, after dispensing with the casual niceties.
For a moment she contemplates my proposal.
"I really have a lot of homework to get done," she says, looking at the floor and pulling methodically on a loose thread in the couch.
"I really want to make love to you," I counter boldly, watching her face for a reaction. She smiles slightly, but says nothing.
Playfully I add, "Bring your books, you can do to things at once can't you?" kidding her about her multitasking prowess.
"Smiling broadly now she looks at me wide-eyed and says seriously, “No Aaron. I don't think I can do those two things at once".
Scrunching over until our bodies are pressed together side-by-side I brush her cheek lightly with the back of my hand, lean close and whisper "Please Suzie, I want you."
Shyly she looks away and begins straightening a pile of laundry sitting next to her, then puts her hand on mine and says softly, "all right."
Little has changed for me in the seven years since last I saw her.
As I'm driving into the airport parking garage I start thanking God. I continue to give thanks as I ride the escalator down to the ground level to pick up the courtesy trolley. I must admit, before this I was pretty much of an agnostic. But nothing this good could happen to me without divine intervention. I'm the only passenger and the driver, an older black lady, looks at me and says, "My, you look happy."
"I'm going to pick up my woman," I say, smiling and swelling up with pride.
"That's what I figured," she says back smiling as if my happiness is contagious.

          Just as I'm walking through the automatic double doors I see Suzie's Lithesome form coming down the stairs and our eyes meet. There's no mistaking that Africanesque face. Large wide set almond eyes, even behind glasses they shine like big black pearls. Shining just for me. That prognathic mouth with those gorgeous brown lips spreads in an endlessly wide smile revealing perfect ivory rows. Like the sun, that smile is to me, warming every part of me. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Thank you God.