Naughty Or Nice Part 1

NAUGHTY OR NICE.

by Eric Jerome d.i.c.key.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Learned that in physics, the day I was actually paying attention.

LIVVY, TOMMIE, AND FRANKIE.

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Livvy.

The tears came as soon as I hit ENTER.

Regret became the platinum ring around my throat.

Head in my hands, eyes closed, I remembered when Momma used to stress over men. Couldn't remember all the uncles we had until she found the man who loved her unconditionally.

When I was much younger, I asked Momma what was marriage all about.

She said, "The end."

Then I asked what that meant. She smiled and gave no answer.

"Does that mean it's about children, getting a big house, stuff like that?"

"Children ain't guaranteed. A house ain't home. In the big picture, it's about the end."

"I'm confused. You gonna tell me what that means?"

"Momma can't do all of your thinking for you, Livvy. You'll figure that out on your own. All you need to know is this, when all is said and done, it's about the end."

"That's okay. I'll ask Frankie."

"If Miss Know It All had a clue, she wouldn't keep getting herself in situations. Momma say don't do it, Frankie does it anyway, and you're following right behind her. You might as well ask Tommie. h.e.l.l, Tommie is the only one who listens and might ever figure it out."

"Tommie's like . . . She's not old enough to know nothing about nothing."

"You still arguing instead of listening."

"I am listening."

She said, "Grown folks are often blind to what a child sees."

"You sound like that old man on Kung Fu."

My thoughts moved away from Momma, back to my husband. For a while I closed my eyes and wished I could go back in time to the day before I met him, change everything.

I was twenty-two. That year I'd gone solo to this Halloween party in Ladera Heights, the biggest house at the end of the block with a huge backyard overlooking La Cienega Boulevard. An adults-only party thrown by this mogul in the music industry who did it up big time. Either dim lighting or tea lights were everywhere. African art, both sculptures and paintings. Stuffed cats and jack-o'-lanterns lining the walkways. Spooky and s.e.xy all at once.

And inside, on both levels, it was pretty dark. Dry ice machines created smoke. Lots of exotic foods and plenty of booze, enough alcohol to make everyone want to sign up for rehab by sunrise. Costumes ranged from the absurd to the near childish, fantasies and fetishes represented in full force: schoolgirl uniforms, bondage clothes, and adult versions of superhero costumes.

I had on my devil costume: leather bustier and leather pants. Every man I walked by would tell me that he had been bad and wanted to visit my hot spot.

As soon as I made it to the room that was the official dance floor for the party, I saw a sister in a big Afro, miniskirt, and thigh-high boots on the dance floor doing her thing.

That was Frankie. My other big and tall sister.

I made my way through the crowd and asked her, "You supposed to be Angela Davis?"

"I'm Foxy Brown."

"You look like Angela Davis."

"Whatever."

"Some of these sisters are kinda s.k.a.n.ky."

"They have prizes for best costumes."

"Is naked a costume?"

"It is tonight. The most naked girl with the best body always wins."

"d.a.m.n. So this the kinda place you hang out at."

"Stop c.o.c.k-blocking and dance with somebody."

I started dancing with someone dressed like a pimp: pink polyester suit with a red s.h.i.+rt, matching hat, white patent leather stack-heel shoes with goldfish in the heels, the whole nine.

I told him, "Nice costume."

"What costume?"

"Oh s.h.i.+t. Never mind."

Me and Frankie were side by side, rocking the room McBroom style.

Frankie told me that it was the kind of party where schoolteachers wore masks and makeup, had three shots and let the wh.o.r.e in them run free. Blackula was playing on television screens in almost every room. Music was loud, b.u.mping hard, lots of nasty dancing, and with all the masks and costumes, you didn't know who you were dancing with. It was like Mardi Gras.

Then I saw Dracula, his foreign eyes watching me. Golden skin, wavy hair slicked back.

Dracula adjusted his mask, followed me. The living dead followed the fallen angel.

Drink in hand, I left Frankie on the floor and strolled outside, admired the property and moved beyond the waterfalls in the backyard. A circular bar with bartenders in costumes was in the far corner. People were grabbing drinks and vanis.h.i.+ng out into that private part of the yard, only their laughs and sensual sounds letting you know what spots were already taken.

The golden-skinned Dracula in the midnight mask stayed on my footsteps.

I stumbled over a woman. She had on a cat's mask, a black see-through cat suit, her hair funky and Afrocentric. Cat Woman with dark skin. She was on her knees, pleasing Batman.

He jerked. "Ouch."

I shrieked. "Oh, d.a.m.n . . . oh, d.a.m.n . . . I am so so so sorry."

Cat Woman laughed and I saw her braces. She went back to handling her business.

I was so embarra.s.sed, had never seen anything like that, and I broke away from my wide-eyed stare and hurried back to the rest of the party, pretty much ran into Dracula. He had his mask pulled back, showing his chiseled face. His hair was wavy, combed back.

I told him, "You might not want to go over there."

"Pretty wild, huh?"

"Think I almost made Batman get circ.u.mcised by Cat Woman."

Again, I walked away. When I was at the back door, I looked back. He had an accent that sounded provocative. He'd only said a few words, but they were hot, sensual.

He was so different from what I was used to. Very erotic.

I smiled, held the door open. Dracula pulled his cape away and followed.

He asked, "What's your name?"

"Beelzebub. Where you from?"

"Transylvania."

We played that game and laughed our way to the pool room. A lady dressed like a witch was on the pool table with her legs wrapped around a s.h.i.+rtless man in army fatigues. G.I. Joe was tonguing and grinding the h.e.l.l out of the Wicked Witch of the West in front of a room filled with French maids, Spider-man, Darth Vader, and Wonder Woman.

That wasn't my kind of party, but I loved it all the same.

Dracula followed me wherever I went. He brought me drinks, food, spoiled me.

He said, "I want to know all about you."

"Not much to know."

He asked me what I did for a living. I told him that I had just started working as an educator for Dermalogica, a skincare company. He told me that he was a vascular surgeon at UCLA.

"What's a vascular surgeon?"

"I operate on the cardiovascular system. Routine operations."

"Like what?"

"Arterial blood vessel bypa.s.s surgery, repair of abdominal aortic aneurysms, insertion of synthetic grafts for dialysis access."

"With all those ten-dollar words, bet you did good on your SAT."

Again he asked me my name. I told him I was Olivia, but people called me Livvy.

His name was Antonio, but everyone called him Tony.

Anonymity was gone and we were no longer strangers.

I told him I was from Inglewood by way of good old South Central.

He was born in Quito, Ecuador, raised in Hermosa Beach since he was a teenager.

I said, "That explains the accent."

"You have the accent."

We danced a little while, and for a few songs he taught me how to salsa.

Then we walked around the side of the house. A basketball and a hoop were there.

I picked up the ball, dribbled, wanted to drive in for a layup, but shot from where I was.

Swoosh.

He said, "Easy shot with n.o.body guarding you."

I groaned. "If I didn't have on heels and leather . . ."

I was slimmer, quicker back then, an insecure woman who used arrogance as her s.h.i.+eld.

He didn't back away. "Sounds like shorty is a s.h.i.+t talker."

"Shorty? You're barely taller than I am."

"Tall enough to . . . d.a.m.n you're quick."

"s.h.i.+t, think I just broke my heel."

I didn't. I took my pumps off anyway, put them to the side, walked the driveway barefoot and picked up the ball, dribbled, did a few crossovers, went to the free-throw line, got my shoulders square to the basket, c.o.c.ked my right wrist, left hand on the side of the ball and right hand behind, right foot in front of left, feet shoulder-wide, focused on the whole basket.