Korny: Sure. Just wanted to see how you are. Maybe see if you wanted company. Celebrate your first day.
Christ. While I appreciated him remembering that it was my first day at R&R, this dude couldn’t take a hint. I tapped the phone against my chin, contemplating if sex with Korey was worth suffering through the latest rambling about prison pipelines or school push-out. I mean, not that those issues weren’t important. They just didn’t make my pussy wet.
Fuck that. I wasn’t about to suffer through foreplay that Henry Louis Gates could have written.
I texted back:
Thanks for remembering but truly, I’m kind of beat. New job stuff. New routine. Had to walk to the train station. TTYL.
I’m not even sure why I told Korey all of that. He would simply disregard my life and just start discussing his own.
Korey: That sucks. Just went to a conference in DC and I talked to Dr. Cornel West. It was amazing. I thought you’d like to hear about the talk I presented on Black male teacher retention in public schools.
Ugh. My pussy was officially the Sahara. I didn’t bother to respond.
As soon as I closed the message, I felt a twinge of regret. Korey was boring, but the sex was decent. Okay, more like reliable. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being amazing, Korey was like a 7.5. I’d probably achieve an orgasm, but not one good enough to put up with the boringness that came with it. After sex, he’d talk endlessly, and I’d usually fall asleep to the sound of his monotonous chatter. He was the human version of a sleep app.
It had been well over a month since I had some type of sexual anything, not counting solo trips around home base. But to break a month-long drought with Korey would be a waste. I’d rather watch Holmes on Homes find asbestos in the basement of a haunted house. On second thought, I’d rather watch paint dry. Come to think of it, one time while Korey and I were having sex, I looked at the walls and wondered to myself, “Hmm... I wonder how they would look in a smoky, navy color.” I ended up calling Mr. George the next day to get a navy accent wall in the bedroom.
Okay, so maybe 7.5 was pushing it. He’s really a 6. Or a strong 5.5.
As I sipped my wine and waited for my takeout, a thought ran through my mind. One month of no contact. No calls. No texts. And he hits me up for some coochie? Korey thinks I’m one of “those” fat girls: desperate and lonely.
A lot of folks think fat girls sit at home because no one wants to date us. Not true. Most of us sit home because we choose to. In my case, I was alone but not lonely. I had a phone full of the numbers of men who wanted to not only sleep with me but date me. Many accomplished, professional men from all walks of life. From construction workers to CEOs, I had my pick. This big girl wasn’t pressed to just go out for the sake of going out. No free meal was that good to entice me out of the comfort of my home just to waste my time. All fat women are not sitting home sad, depressed, stuffing our face with cookies, and waiting on Prince (or Princess) Charming. Korey, in all his arrogance, probably hit me up because he thinks an over-40-year-old, single fat Black woman is grateful for attention, any attention, from a man. Hell, from anyone. If only he knew. One phone call and my drought would be over. No, sir, I was home now, enjoying my wine, waiting on my takeout, by choice. Besides, most of the guys whose numbers were in my phone just didn’t do it for me anymore. I realized they all lacked joy. I didn’t laugh with any of them. Not like I had laughed with Porter today. He made what started out a colossally shitty first day at work alright in the end. I appreciated that. I don’t think any of the men in my current roster did that for me.
I wrapped myself in my throw blanket and settled into the comfort of my couch. I looked over at my phone and bit my lip. But it has been a month...
Ugh, no, Ari! Sex with a walking TedTalk is not worth the time.
I turned the TV to the home improvement network just as Bob Vila was fixing the porch of an eighteenth-century New England colonial. He was bent over in his overalls looking at an original wood-burning stove, explaining the gorgeousness of the patina of the copper.
Now this was sexy.
Chapter Six
Porter
In the weeks leading up to our first major presentation to the partners, Ari and I had been busting our ass. I didn’t think I’d like working with someone, but I really did. It was nice to just pop over to her office to run an idea by her or talk over ideas at lunch. Lunch was my favorite part. In these weeks, we’d tried everything from tacos al pastor at Krog Market to slap-your-mama, finger-licking ribs at Sweet Auburn Barbeque. Besides being smart and talented, Ari was easy to talk to and funny as hell. I hadn’t laughed that hard with anyone in the office in forever.
Ari and I worked late into the evenings, tweaking, and going over renderings for our end-of-the-week meeting with the partners and senior staff. We ordered takeout and debated the merits of one idea over another. In the end, her ideas were always better. These late nights, long lunches, and laughter was making it really difficult for me not to break my rule. I really wanted to ask her out on a real date.
When our workday was over, the temptation to ask her to happy hour or something was overwhelming. I just wanted to spend more time with her. Despite me feeling like our meeting was kismet, or fate, or something divine, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything to jeopardize things. We had a stadium to build. I had a partnership to secure. I didn’t date coworkers, I had to stick to that rule. Most of all, I wasn’t trying to be another Greer by getting in her pants and running her off. (Even if those pants were on some thick, sexy thighs.) We worked great together. Why risk it?
Yet, Ari was all I could think about when I got home after work. I memorized the cadence of her laughter and played it on a mental loop. The thought of her delicate perfume drove me crazy. I would stand close to her so I could torture myself with her smell. I’d practice which way to position myself to feel the heat radiating from her body. Each time she leaned over the desk or reached for a pencil, I’d feel regret that her hand never grazed mine. It was a vicious cycle that repeated day after day. The good Catholic boy in me felt so guilty. Lusting like this wasn’t healthy. What was I doing? And why did I just not give a fuck?