Jamise L. Dames

Intercourse: n. 1 communication or dealings between people. 2 the act of having sex. –origin Latin intercursus. –Oxford English Dictionary, tenth edition

The making of

CHRISTA

“You love me?” Anthony asked. Through the phone line the Chicago winds whipped audibly in the background of the hotel suite’s nineteenth-floor balcony.

Christa blushed, resting back on her elbows atop the bed, rocking her knees from side to side. “Yeah,” she cooed into the phone. Her singsong pitch revealed the little girl Anthony still brought out in her after ten years.

“Yeah, what? If you can’t say it you must not mean it.” His raspy baritone wrapped around her, made the truth vibrate inside.

“I love you. More than you know and more than I can explain,” she admitted, closing her eyes. Confessing her love for him had always felt like a prayer. Sacred and heartfelt. Anointing.

“Enough to…”

She sat upright, scooted to the edge of the bed and gripped the corner of the mattress. Her body stiffened and she tried to quiet her heartbeat. She wanted to hear him ask what she’d been praying for him to, loud and clear. Of course, she loved him enough to give him forever. Now she could relax on giving him the baby he’d been begging her for. She’d vowed she wouldn’t be a carbon copy of her mother; she needed to be married before pregnant. And she wanted both with him. So of course she would marry him. Would jump the broom with him three times without ever divorcing. “’Enough to’ what?”

Anthony laughed. “Enough to… Can you meet me here tomorrow so we can finish this? Can’t wait until this game’s over. Wish it was tomorrow night. I want to see you now. I want to bend you over on this nineteenth floor balcony,” he sighed and grunted in disappointment. “But waiting one more day won’t kill us, right?”

Christa smiled, big and wide. Yes, she could wait. She’d waited a decade, so twenty-four more hours wouldn’t hurt, she reasoned. Then her emotions snatched away her patience. Anthony had had such urgency in his voice when he’d said he wanted to see her now. He was emotionally constipated and had never voiced anything like that, and she hated to make him wait.  Across the room, the lingerie store’s pretty bags with ribbon handles summoned other thoughts. She’d picked up a few just-because items yesterday—Black Label intimates—all in Anthony’s favorite colors. Yes, she could hold out until tomorrow, she hadn’t lied about that. Or so she’d thought. A devilish smile swept across her face as she grabbed her laptop and booked a seat on the first thing smoking to Chicago. Today. First class.

There were only two things Christa hated about Chicago, she remembered as she excused her way through the throng of travelers at Midway airport. One was the oh-hell-no-I’m-never-going-outside-again freezing winter weather. The other was what she was up against now: the overflowing airport that she always chastened herself for flying into. I should’ve flown into O’Hare, she thought, retrieving her bag from baggage claim.

The sweltering July heat attacked her makeup as she exited the electronic doors. A beautiful uniformed man was upon her seconds after her shoes connected with the gum-marked concrete. The men. Now that was one of the things she loved about Chicago. Even the skycaps were a sight, her eyes climbed one as he reached for her bag. Craning her neck, she read his nametag. Sedric.

“Where ya off to at eleven at night, pretty lady? If I had a woman like you, you wouldn’t be traveling by yourself. Too many wolves, know what I mean?” Sedric flashed a smile that Christa was sure made him a lot of money, and though she’d bet cash his greeting wasn’t reserved strictly for her and had been used on many women, he’d made her feel like it was.

Fifteen dollars later, both she and Sed were grinning. He’d gotten his gratuity, and Christa was off to get hers from Anthony.

The hotel hallway was unusually dim, or so Christa believed. She couldn’t be sure because she hadn’t graced this one before. But with a pro-baseball player for a boyfriend, she’d sunk her heels into her share of elegant corridors. Checking her watch, she timed the team. The game had been over for hours. The game they’d won, Christa mused. Winning meant that no matter how tired Anthony was, he’d give it to her good. Maybe even pop the question.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she practiced in a whisper, “Of course, baby. Nothing would please me more than becoming your wife.”

Halting in her tracks, Christa realized she didn’t know in which room Anthony was staying, only that he was on the nineteenth floor. And no way would the front desk give out the information. Her mind clicked and whirred until she came up with a plan. Whipping out her cell, she called Anthony.

“Hey, baby,” Anthony answered.

“Congratulations. I heard on the radio that you guys won. I didn’t get a chance to watch it. What was the score?” Christa asked, smiling. She knew her man and what it would take to make him rattle without pausing. Anything about baseball would make Anthony flow at the mouth for minutes, sometimes hours, with no pauses for breath.

“Um-hmm,” she interjected, here and there, where she thought it was needed, and proceeded down the hall, listening at each door for his voice.

“It was a great game, baby. Hate that you missed it,” Anthony said.

Christa knocked on the door she was sure he was behind, and was pleased it was only five doors down from the elevator.

“Damn. Hold on a sec, Baby. Someone’s at the door. Matter ‘fact, let me call you right back. Cap said he might drop by.”

Christa moved to the side of the door, away from the peephole, and held her hand to her mouth to block her giggle. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Anthony’s face. She heard him mumble something unintelligible.

The door swung open.

“Surprise, baby!” Christa yelled, springing in front of the opened door. Then her chin hit the floor. She froze.

A towel-clad woman stood on the other side, her eyes two Frisbees. Her hair everywhere. Sex was written all over her face in sweaty streaks of makeup.

“Who is…” Anthony appeared behind the just-one-item-away-from-being-naked woman and his voice halted. “…Oh, shit!”

Christa saw that he wore the same get-up as the woman, then snapped out of her daze. She pushed her way inside the room. Kicked the door closed behind her. Shoved what’s-her-name out of her way. And slapped Anthony so hard her bicep vibrated. “Oh, shit is right. Nasty bastard.”

Anthony grabbed the side of his face, and his towel fell to the floor. “I didn’t know…”

Christa’s hand connected with his cheek again.

“Ask me now,” she hissed, pushing him. “Ask me what you were gonna ask me tomorrow!” she seethed.

The woman started picking up her clothes.

“Don’t move, bitch!” Christa said icily, turning a deadly glare on the woman, then turned back to Anthony.

“Don’t talk to her like that, Christa,” he stammered, then caught himself. “How did you get here?”

“Wrong question! And what the hell do you mean by telling me how to talk to her. You’re taking up for your whore?” Christa socked him, tried to blacken his eye but had trouble reaching it, and accidentally busted his lip.

Anthony reached for her shoulders, and Christa looked down at his naked body. His penis looked as if it’d been dipped in flour. Dry cum.

“You just finished fucking her,” Christa stated coolly, her tone conflicting with the fire in her eyes.

“Can you just listen, please? She’s—”

“She’s what? I don’t give a damn about her. Let’s talk about earlier when you wanted to know how much I love you. Well, I loved you enough to stay with you ten years. Enough to stand by your side and cheer you on before you made the majors. Before anyone knew your name. And now everyone knows who you are. Everyone except me.”

Anthony opened his mouth to speak.

Christa held up her hand. “Shut the hell up, Anthony! You had ten years to say what you had to say. Now I’m talking.” She raked her eyes up and down him. “You were gonna ask me to marry you. Well, here is my answer,” she turned her back to him and patted her behind. “Marry this thought. You could kiss my ass for the rest of your life and I still wouldn’t become your wife.”

“I know…”

Walking toward the door, Christa spotted a robin’s-egg-blue bag sitting atop the nightstand and an opened, rectangular velvet box lying next to it. Tiffany. A gift for his whore. Christa’s glare went to the naked woman. A diamond bracelet bejeweled her wrist. Ten carats at least. A trinket Anthony hadn’t even gifted her with. The girl’s eyes bulged as Christa stomped her way over to her, snatching her by the arm.

“Him,” she nodded toward a gaping Anthony, “you can have. But this…” she unclamped, slid off and held up the bracelet, wiggling it in the woman’s face. “…I earned. I didn’t fuck and suck him for ten years for nothing.” She pocketed it.

Anthony moved toward them, snatching Christa’s hand off the woman. “Don’t touch her, Christa!”

Rearing back her head and fist, Christa glared at him. “And what are you gonna do if I do put my hands on her? Who is she to you that you’re protecting her from me? We’ve been together for ten years and you’re gonna stand tall to protect a groupie?”

His grimace caved, and his tone cracked. “I was trying to ask you to please listen to me a second ago. She’s not a groupie, she getting ready to be the mother of my child…and I’m going to marry her.”

Christa’s head wobbled. I couldn’t have heard right. “What? Did you just say—”

“I said I’m going to marry her. She gave me something you wouldn’t so she’s getting something you wanted.”

She didn’t know how her foot connected with his genitals or her nails raked across his face or her fist punched him in the throat, but she saw it all play out as if she were watching a movie. The groupie screamed, Anthony doubled over, and Christa walked out leaving her good-girl ways behind. She shook her head as she sped toward the elevator bank. No, she wouldn’t become Anthony’s wife. Or any man’s, for that matter, she promised herself. Wives and significant others get played on. “I’d rather be the one the men play with.”