Getting Lucky. Kayla Perrin
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night led to sex, but I’m rethinking that. I like Mark, and I want to get to know him better before going to bed with him.
“How about you call me, and we’ll plan another date,” I suggest.
“You know, I heard some things,” Mark says in a lower voice. He gives me a pointed look, his eyes sparkling beneath the street lamp.
I begin to get an odd feeling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t have to play the good girl with me.
I heard about some of the stuff you and Adam were into. I liked it. I love a girl who can get her freak on.”
His words are like cold water being thrown in my face. Is this why he wanted to see me? He wanted to go out with me because he’s heard about my sordid sexual past with Adam?
“Exactly what things are you talking about?”
Mark chuckles softly. “You don’t have to be shy where I’m concerned,” he tells me. “I love it. I love it dirty.” And then he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “What was it like the first time you tasted another pussy?”
I push myself out of his arms so violently that he actually stumbles from the force of it. I stare at him, mortified. I cannot believe what he has just said to me.
Is he for real?
“Claudia? What is it?” he says, and has the nerve to look surprised.
“You’re a pig,” I tell him. “I’m not—I’m not the kind of girl you think I am. I didn’t do those things.” Not that I owe him any explanation. In fact, he’s the one who owes me one.
“Tell me that’s not why you asked me out,” I forge on. But I already know the answer. He’s not the first guy to be curious about the fact that I did some racy things, something Adam clearly spread to the world in an attempt to humiliate me. Unless the source was someone else—someone who happened to see me at the swingers club when I went there with that jerk of an ex-fiancé.
Mark stares at me, saying nothing, which in itself is all the answer I need. He’s not simply curious—he was hoping to get lucky.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
I turn at the question, surprised to see an older African-American gentleman standing there. Mid-fifties, I would guess. He has a look of concern on his face as his stare volleys between Mark and me.
“I—I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I begin to back toward my car door. “Thank you.” I quickly press the button on my remote key to unlock my BMW, thankful that the stranger is keeping watch to make sure I’m fine.
And then I am scrambling into my car and driving away from the restaurant in haste. If only I could put the incident out of my mind as quickly as I am putting distance between me and Mark.
I make my decision, right then and there, to swear off sex. I’m a woman with needs, but I do not want to engage in another sexual relationship just for the sake of physical enjoyment. I did that in Vegas—and I don’t have any regrets about it—but I do regret where I let myself go with Adam, just to please the man I thought I was going to marry.
And I especially hate that the stigma of it has clearly followed me to this day. It’s as good a reason as any to abstain from sex.
Yeah, celibacy is looking really good right now.
Not for religious reasons, though I certainly understand the moral reasons for waiting until you’re married to lose your virginity, and perhaps things are much simpler when people do. The religious argument suddenly makes sense to me. There’s no doubt in my mind that sex outside of marriage has complicated the heck out of my generation.
But because of what I did with Adam, how I let him convince me to do things sexually that I never wanted to do … this is why I no longer want to jump right into bed with anyone.
And there’s something else, something I can never confess to either Lishelle or Annelise. Something I am more ashamed of than the sexual acts I was convinced to try.
I had an abortion.
At the time, being involved with Adam but not engaged, I knew how it would look to have a child out of wedlock. And so did he. But if he had given me any encouragement, I would have kept the baby. Instead, he drove me to the clinic where I had the procedure done. Problem solved.
Only it’s something that’s haunted me from time to time over the past couple of years. And now that Annelise is pregnant …
Well, now I’m feeling even worse about the decision.
I know I have to forgive myself, that I can’t turn back the clock, and most of all, I’m truly happy that I never married Adam. So logically, I know I’m better off without his baby.
Emotionally … That’s a different story.
Will I ever be a mother?
Will I ever be a wife?
Perhaps it’s just a phase I’m going through, one that I’ll get over once Annelise has the baby. I’m going to be the best aunt ever. There’s no doubt about that.
I drive with a heavy foot—until I realize that if I don’t want a speeding citation, I’d better slow down.
So I do. I have to get over the disastrous evening with Mark, put it past me and forget the blow to my ego.
When I was dating Adam we lived in Buckhead, but now I’m back at my parents’ place in Sandtown. Sandtown is an affluent area southwest of the city, where a lot of the African-American elite reside. It’s where I grew up, and I love the area—but every time I head back there, a part of me feels like a failure.
I’m supposed to be married and living in Duluth.
Irritation washes over me as I drive south on Peachtree Road. I’m annoyed with myself. Perhaps it’s the date with Mark—which has served to emphasize how my reputation has been tainted—that has me thinking of supposed-to-be. Because honestly, I haven’t been pining over our breakup. I’m elated that I didn’t take a doomed walk down the aisle with him.
It’s just … It’s just that I wish I weren’t single.
My gaze wanders to the right. And suddenly I see something that gets my attention. Two people standing on the sidewalk, arms flailing. My first guess is that one of them might be drunk. But as I get closer, I realize that the two people—a man and a woman—are having some sort of dispute.
The female looks young, while the man she’s with is definitely older. Her father?
I drive on, but find myself looking in my rearview mirror. Within seconds, I am making a U-turn. What if that man isn’t a father, but someone else? I know that I can’t leave this young woman who might be in danger.
In the restaurant parking lot, a stranger had intervened to make sure that I was okay. How can I not do the same?
I drive slowly as I double back, eyeing the girl and the guy. When I see the girl pulling her arm violently from the man’s grip, it is clear to me that yes, she’s in trouble.
My tires squeal as I make the quick U-turn to put me back onto the side of the road where they are. The sound causes both the man and woman to jerk their heads in my direction. No sooner do I brake to a stop at the curb, I am out of the car, charging forward without thinking. It doesn’t occur to me that what I am doing could be potentially unsafe.
“Hey,” I say, forceful. The guy—way too old to be with this girl, who’s only got to be in her early twenties—stares at me with an annoyed expression. My gaze goes from him to the girl, who is definitely cowering. My gut tells me that this isn’t a father dealing with an out-of-control daughter, but something else.
“Are you okay?” I ask the girl.
“Mind