Flaming Valentine

         It’s Valentine’s Day and colder than a motherfucker outside.  Even with the salt and the plowing, I almost bust my ass coming up from the subway onto 6th Avenue.

         I got permission to leave work two hours early so I can get everything ready for tonight.  I never had a boyfriend to celebrate Valentine’s Day with so I’m geeked.  I want everything to be perfect and different than anything he’s ever done before.

         It especially has to be unique, because Louis is fine as hell.  He’s like a thugged out Shamar Moore.  He has these hazel eyes that glow in certain types of light; silky, jet black curls, and a body better than D’Angelo and Tyson Beckford put together.  He works at the front desk of Crunch Fitness in Midtown, so I believed him when he told me that he’d been with a shitload of women and that each one tried harder than the next to please him.

         I don’t know why I’m not disgusted by all the women he’s been with.  I was never into the player type before, but on the real, they’d never been all that into me either, at least not the one’s who made it obvious.  The guys I’ve messed with tried to play the nice role, but usually turned out to be dogs.

         That’s what I liked about Louis when he first stepped to me at the gym.  He kept it real.  When chicks asked him questions or said “hi” to him in front of me at his job, he didn’t act shady or try to ignore me.  Usually, he even introduced me to them.  At first it bothered me that he didn’t tell them I was his girl, though; but I understood when he explained to me that it would look unprofessional for him to have his girlfriend hanging with him at work.

         For some reason, it makes me feel special to be with a guy so many other girls want.  I love the dirty looks I get from jealous assed bitches when I’m out with Louis.  I know any one of those broads would jump at the chance to have my man.  So I have to make sure I’m giving him a Valentine’s Day he’ll never forget.

         I got the idea, when after watching some cheesy soft porn on Showtime, we had some of the best sex I’ve ever had.  I remember him saying something about how he liked the woman’s outfit.  That gave me an idea.  I want to surprise him with a freaky but still romantic night.  Even though he always tells me he doesn’t like surprises, I know I can change his mind if tonight goes the right way.          
              I find the place that my roommate told me about on 6th Avenue and Bleeker Street.  I was looking for a sexy outfit to wear tonight and this place has all kinds of wild and kinky stuff.  In the window they have mannequins with nurse’s outfits with thigh-highs and stilettos, sexy devil outfits, and other get-ups for whatever fantasy you can think of.

              As soon as I walk in, a girl with like twenty piercings in her head comes over to me with a brace-toothed smile.

              “What’s up?  Need help with something?”

              “I need a French maid’s outfit,” I say as matter-of-factly as possible.

              “Will you be wearing it or is it a gift?” she asks while sizing me up.

              “Both.”

              “Nice,” she says, giving me a wink and metal grin.  “So whad’ya have in mind: sexy or slutty?”

              I think about the movie we saw and the sex we had after.  “Definitely slutty.”

              “Good, ‘cause that’s what we got.  Follow me.”

              She takes me to the back of the store, past all different types of people: the fat and the thin, the black and the white, and the Goth kids and the Wall Streeters.  On a big round rack, filled with lots of different costumes, she pulls out a black and white satin and lace French maid’s outfit.  She holds it up to me.

              “These run a little small, so a medium should fit.  It comes with a little hat and panties, too.”

              “That’ll work.”  It looks like a white ruffled apron with a black satin skirt attached to it.  “Am I allowed to try it on?”

              “Sure, but it’s like trying on a bathing suit; keep your panties on, yes?”  She takes the outfit to a fitting room with a curtain for a door and puts it on a hook inside.  “If you need anything, I’m Zoe,” she says, showing me her name tattooed across her left knuckle.

              “Thanks.”

              The uniform fits okay, but my titties keep falling out the sides.  The top part of the apron is shaped like a heart, with each side covering a boob.  The skirt is short enough that the ruffles on the back of the panties show when I bent over.  I guess that’s the idea.  The “hat” is a ruffly head band with an elastic strap to hold it on.

              Looking in the mirror, I feel like I was ready to be in a porno myself, until I look down at my cashmere knee socks.  I’ll have to find shoes and stockings to go with it.  I find Zoe and she helps me pick out a pair of black fishnet thigh-highs with the seam going down the back and these crazy high black patent leather mary janes.  They even have the platform so they look like the shoes strippers wear.  She also gives me a feather duster to complete the look.

              While waiting in line, I even scoop up a tube of “anal-ease” in case the night goes really right.

              A gay kid in his late teens is behind the register.  I put everything up on the counter.

              “Damn girl, Happy Valentine’s Day!”

              “I’ll try.”

              “All this shit, you better,” he says, scanning the last thing and pressing “total”.  $197.00.

              I flinch when I pass him my almost maxed out VISA card.  “At this price, I better.”

              “Amen, mama,” he says, giving me a high-five and passing me a thick black plastic bag.

              Next, I go to the liquor store and pick up some Hennessey, Louis’ favorite, and Gray Goose and cranberry juice for me.  I guess everyone is on the same mission because the line went halfway down the aisle.  I try to play out in my mind how tonight would go down while I wait.

              Since Louis doesn’t get off work ‘til 8 o’clock, I have plenty of time to set up.  He rides his bike uptown from the gym, so he’s usually home by 8:20 or so.  If I get there at six, that will give me enough time to take a shower, eat, then get dressed and do my hair and makeup.  He always has dinner at work, so I figure we’ll just have dessert.  After the liquor store, I’m going to stop at the store and pick up strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce.

              My plan is that when he comes home (I’ll hear him carrying his bike up the stairs), I’ll be bent over in my little outfit, dusting.  I’ll hide one of his watches in it and let it drop when I stand up.  Before he can say anything, I’ll say something like:

              “Oh my goodness, Mr. Daniels, you caught me stealing your watch!”  Then I’ll bend forward so he can look down the front of the outfit and use the stupid bimbo porno voice and say: “Please don’t call the police on me sir.  I’ll do anything,” then I’ll pull out the “anal-ease”, “and I do mean anything, if you don’t call the police on me.”

              And after that it’ll be on.

              I even buy some scented massage oil and bubble bath for after we’re done, or before round two.  I’d like to see another bitch top that one.  And for anyone who thinks they just might, I also did a painting for him.

              I adapted it from a picture that my roommate took in Central Park of us on a rock, with me sitting behind him with my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his shoulders.  I’ve never been good at painting people’s features, but I’ve been told that my style of blurring and shading them actually shows the emotion even better sometimes.

              Giving him the painting was the only part of the night that I’m really nervous about.  I never painted anything for anyone like him before.  I mean, I’ve done pieces for my moms and for friends, but I wasn’t worried about what they thought. 

              Louis already has one of my paintings hanging in his living room, but I didn’t paint it “for” him.  He saw it hanging in my living room and said he loved it, so I gave it to him for his birthday back in October.  But I wasn’t nervous then because I already knew he liked it.  It was of a kid playing basketball, with a sort of psychedelic nighttime backdrop in bright shades of purple and blue.  He said it reminded him of one of the few happy times in his childhood.

              But this is different.  I don’t know what he’ll think.  What if he thinks it’s corny?  What if he thinks it doesn’t look like us and he thinks it’s wack?  We haven’t even been together a year yet, maybe it’s too soon.  Maybe I shouldn’t even play myself by giving it to him.

              I try to calm my nerves by thinking about how off the hook tonight is going to be.  I listen to my slow jams playlist on my iPod while I ride the subway back uptown.  I can feel my heart pounding in my chest through my goose down jacket as I crunch through the ice on the sidewalk on Riverside Drive.  I swear I can feel sweat under my arms even though it’s cold as hell.  It doesn’t make sense for me to be nervous, I’m pretty sure I have planned everything perfectly.  But I’m still worried that the night won’t go right.

              I wrap my fingers around the keys on the barbell keychain at the bottom of my jacket pocket.  I was supposed to give them back two months ago.  He only gave them to me so I could go to the store for him and do his laundry when he had pneumonia.  He already asked for them back twice, but I kept telling him I’d give them to him when I find them.

              I walk into the building behind an elderly couple.  The wife keeps looking back at me as I follow them up the stairs.  I can tell she’s relieved when I keep going up and they stop on the second floor.  On the third floor I go down to the end of the hall to his apartment. 

              Louis is one of those neat freaks that makes everyone take off their shoes when they come in his apartment.  He even has a special mat next to the door so people don’t get water or mud on his precious parquet floors.  I always line my boots up perfectly parallel to his black Nike cross trainers (that everyone that worked at the gym wore) on the mat, just like he likes.

              When I open the door, as usual, I take off my boots.  When I go to put them down, there’s another pair of the same black Nikes next to his, but in a much smaller size, and in my spot.  Neither one of them are supposed to be there.

              I can see just clearly enough through the tears forming in my eyes to see an open bottle of Hennessey on the counter.  I have to use every muscle in my body to swallow the vomit that’s trying to come up, but I’m not able to stop a little bit from dribbling out my nose.  My stomach starts to bubble and I think I might shit myself.

              That motherfucker!  That nasty, rat-bastard, mother-fucking son of a bitch!

              I can’t stand up and I can barely breathe.  I fall back against the wall.  I remember the canvas I’d wrapped and slung on my back when it hits the wall instead of me.  I feel like such a fool.  How stupid can I be?  I cover my mouth to silence the sobs that I can’t stop from coming out.  In this moment of silence, I hear moaning coming from the bedroom.  I put down my boots and followed the sound.  I pull the canvas off my back so it won’t bump up against the wall.  The door was open a couple of inches, so I peek in.  The head of his bed is against the wall opposite the door, so I have a good view of the mop of red hair bouncing up and down on my man’s dick.

              I don’t know what to do.  I feel so embarrassed and humiliated, I don’t want them to know I’m here, but I also want to kick both their asses.  Thank God I don’t have a gun, because I would be a couple of bullets away from twenty-five to life.  I want to trash the place, but he’d probably call the police on me, especially if I smash his beloved plasma TV.

              “Okay Cecily,” I whisper, “be the bigger bitch.  Just walk out that door and be the bigger bitch.  Don’t let these motherfuckers make you act a fool.”
I almost made it to the front door when the painting in my hand starts to get heavy.  I feel like it’s clowning me as I carry it.  I can’t decide if I should leave it so that he knows I was here or if I should just take it home and not give him the satisfaction of having something else of mine, besides my heart in his toilet.

              I pretty much decide I would just leave with what was left of my dignity when I see the bottle on the counter.  The same size bottle I bought his ass.  I begin thinking about how much it cost, then how much the outfit cost, then how much time I spent on the painting.  I hate that painting.  I hate that sexy glow on his face that was probably laughing at what a fool I am.  Looking at the bottle, I know how to make it all better.

              I unwrap the painting and put it on the floor.  I pour what was left of the Hennessey on the back of the canvas.  I find a book of matches on the counter and light it.  The flames slowly spread and I pick it up before the whole thing burns.  Walking it down the hall I can still hear them moaning and the head board hitting the wall.

              The wood frame is starting to smoke when I kick open the bedroom door.  He’s fucking her doggie style.  Before he can even pull out, I throw the flaming painting at them.  He smacks it down to the floor so it doesn’t hit her.  She dives off the opposite side of the bed.

              “Bitch, have you lost your fucking mind?” He barks as he jumps off the bed to put out the fire with a pillow.

              I notice he isn’t wearing a condom.

              I guess the answer to his question would be “yes” at that moment, but I just stare at him instead.  I’ve never seen a naked man put out a fire before.

              “Don’t act like I’m the only one here who’s fucked up.  If you hadn’t lied about losing my keys and gave ‘em back to me when I asked for ‘em, this shit wouldn’t be happening right now.”

              He has some nerve trying to flip this shit on me.

              “You want your keys?” I ask, pulling them out of my pocket.  “Take ‘em,” I scream, throwing them at his head, but hit him on the side of the neck instead.

              He starts towards me, but he stops when I pick up a baseball bat leaning against the wall by the door.

              “Don’t worry bitch,” he laughs, still naked, “you’re not worth me putting my hands on.”

              “Whatever.”

              “I was just coming closer so I could tell you something.”

              “You can tell me from there,” I say, pointing to the edge of the bed with the heavy wooden bat.

              “I was going to tell you that you did me a favor by setting that piece of shit on fire.  You saved me the trouble of doing it myself.”

              I want to take the bat and smash his skull in until I knock that evil grin off his luscious lips.

              “Then why’d you say you loved my work?  Why’d you even bother hanging up the other piece I gave you?”  I can’t hold back my tears any longer.

              “I only said I liked it ‘cause I wanted to fuck you.  I figured it was worth lying about that ugly shit to tap that ass a little sooner.”

              I have to force my feet to move, but it feels like fifteen minutes go by before they obey.  I take off down the hall before Louis can see the snot mixing with my tears.  I am almost to the door when I hear him call after me.

              “And you know what’s even worse?  You fuck worse that you paint!”

              At that moment, my mind stops and my emotions take over.  I see my hands around the handle of the bat.  I see my arms swing the bat behind my head.  I see the bat leave my hands.  Then the last thing I remember before I jump in a passing taxi outside was the bat crashing into the plasma TV in the living room.