I’m lying awake as I stared at the ceiling asking myself, “Why am I putting up with this?” I glanced to the left of me and noticed the other side of my king-size bed hadn’t been touched. As I pulled the black satin sheets to my chin, I heavily sighed. Then I looked to the right of me at the obnoxiously bright red alarm clock that read: two fifty-three am. There was no sound among the darkness except a few lonely crickets chirping outside the window. I glanced over the right of me again, but this time I saw my husband’s pager blinking with its yellow incandescent color. “He left it again,” I thought. It was tempting to scroll through the endless telephone numbers on his pager from the hospital. I had already tried that scenario and found nothing.
Then I thought back fifteen years ago, when I was living freely as a single woman. I was a successful attorney at the Prosecutor’s Office for the city of Indianapolis. My conviction rate was ninety percent. I had aspirations of becoming the first black woman as District Attorney. Unlike some of the other women in the Prosecutor’s Office, I never tried fucking my way to top, including not screwing the Mayor. All of my accomplishments were based on hard ass work! Nothing was giving me.
Then one day, I met a young Neurosurgeon named, Dr. Anthony Robinson. I got to admit when I met him, I wasn’t impressed. Although I was successful in my career, I had this thing for roughneck brothas. There was something about them when I saw them wearing their jeans slightly hanging low just enough to show their designer draws, sporting their D’Angelo braids and driving around in their decked out rides with the bass booming enough to rattle the neighbors’ windows. My girls didn’t understand why I was attracted to roughneck men. One of them always pointed out, “You always convict ‘em, but at the same time, you wanna fuck ‘em.” Yet, I always respond, even though I was lying through my teeth, “Girl, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
For Anthony, there was something about him that I found so irresistibly charming. He was the first man I dated who didn’t believe in a woman should pay for anything, and taking me to places that didn’t include DJ Hip Hop, booty popping or McDonald’s. Dr. Robinson’s, taste was refined compared to the last brotha I’d been with. He’s a jazz and opera type of man that savors five star restaurants, red wine, New York Times and South American countries. That’s right, South America! Dr. Robinson is fluent in five different languages: Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian and Arabic. He considers South America one of his favorite countries. After all, he leaves every summer for two weeks to give his medical services to the locals outside of Rio De Janerio. All of this sounds great, but it’s only a small reason why I fell in love with him.
Dr. Anthony James Robinson has an excellent physique. He’s either jogging five miles every other morning before he makes his rounds at the hospital or pumping iron in our basement. My husband ways may be opposite to the guys I dated, but he blows them out of water with his body. At fifty years old, he makes the twenty year old fellas stop and take notes on chiseled abs, quads and deltoids. They can’t deny my husband can pass for thirty years old. Yet again, this is only another small part of why I fell in love with him.
Although it wasn’t love at first sight, though over time, I realize this man loved me for me! Then slowly but surely after a year long of dating and accepting my son who at the time was five years old as his own, I fell in love with him. All of the accolades he acquired when he fought in Desert Storm in 1991, or graduating from Medical School from John Hopkins University at the top of his class, or showering with me expensive gifts, trips or cars, all of that didn’t matter. What matter was the unconditional love he gave me and to my son during our courtship.
You might be thinking, “Why is she having second thoughts on this man after fifteen years marriage? If he isn’t cheating, what’s the problem?” The problem is our so-called storybook marriage has become a loveless marriage. A marriage where all the faults, he says, have been lying with me. From cooking to the cleaning, it’s not perfect enough for him. I wonder if he’s forgotten before we got married, he asked me to temporary leave my career to concentrate on starting a family. Like any good woman to please her man, I did. I thought, “It only takes nine months to carry a baby. It shouldn’t harm my goals as D.A.” Well, I was wrong. Fifteen years later with a thirteen and a half year old daughter, Taj, a twenty year old son at Howard University, a six bedroom mansion in Geist Reservoir, a his and her Benz, and countless boring ass dinner parties for his dignitary friends, I’m running out of patience!
It’s not that we don’t we have sex. Actually we do, but it takes Viagra to wake his friend up. Besides that, I’m at the best shape of my life. I’m forty-two years old and still wear the same size I wore in my twenties. When I go downtown for lunch with my best girlfriend, CeeCee, the young brothas still check my ass out, and I do mean checking my ass out! It seems I get noticed by everyone except my husband.
And let’s get back to the sex thing…At the beginning it was smashing, wall banging, screaming and wailing, hot sex! We made love four or five days a week. I didn’t need to fantasize about another man since my husband knew how to touch, kiss, and hit it in the right places. He was a black Energizer bunny that went beyond any titanium or plutonium substance. Anthony used to get me singing during sex. Not singing in alto, but singing in soprano like Minnie Riperton or Mariah Carey with their high notes. Funny thing about that, I can’t sing worth a shit! Now, I nickname named him Mr. Missionary Man. There’s no other position but missionary. No riding, no sidesaddle, no passion, no creativity, no life, just plain ole’ boring sex. He might be qualified for AARP, but he don’t have fuck like it!
In the meantime, I glance at the clock and its half past three a.m., and still no Dr. Robinson. I’m lying alone in a bedroom that can hold three more bedrooms. I have a whole living room with a fireplace eight feet away from my bed; several paintings on the terracotta color walls; a flat screen TV big enough like a Drive-In screen, and a wet bar. Yes, a wet bar in the bedroom and I don’t even fucking drink!
Then suddenly, I heard his car pulled up in our driveway. As I looked at the clock again, it was nearing three-thirty in the morning. I was thinking of what to say him, “Where the hell you been?”… “How late was this surgery”…Or… “What bitch you’ve been screwing?… “Yadda, Yadda, Yadda and so on…”
His footsteps coming up the stairs were as soft as though he were a thief in the night. I heard him mumbling to someone like he was on his cell phone. “Who could he be talking to this late?” I wondered. As he quickly said goodbye, he creaked the bedroom door open and slowly walked to his side of the bed.
“Nikki?” He whispered.
After the rehearsal I had in my mind to cuss him out as though I was still that girl from the 29th and Clifton in the hood, I pretended I was sleep. I was too mentally tired to fight with him. Besides, it’s a school night and I didn’t want to wake Taj. So, I lie breathing like I was in a deep sleep while he kept repeating, “Nikki? Are you awake?”
After that, he changed from his business attire and joined me in our bed. I could feel his eyes on me as I lay the opposite direction from him. I didn’t want him to know that I was still awake. Hearing him ramble about his lying ass surgery or the hospital is getting old. And I think he knows it. I finally felt him rustling the covers to turn away so he could sleep. I quietly sigh without another thought and dozed off.
Morning had arrived as the sun peeked through the overcast sky and it rained enough to saturate the landscape around our house. I barely slept for those few hours since my husband returned home after three am. Between his strident snoring and the quick downpour, my body did not want to step in the shower. It felt as though the tiredness was an extreme understatement. I wanted to stay under the warmth of my bed while my brain reminded me I had volunteer duties for Legal Aid at nine am. Yes, I still practice law, but for Pro Bono basis. Actually, I lend my expertise to the fresh out of law school grads or Paralegals twice a week. Dr. Robinson prefers me, in his words, “To donate my service to the under privileged.” To interpret his bullshit, he doesn’t want me to work full-time in a law firm or work as Assistant District Attorney, or continue to have political ambitions as D.A. Dear sweet hubby wants to me to play the role of Happy Homemaker and rub noses with fake ass country club bitches who whine of not having enough money to spend on stupid shit. My husband does like the friends I’ve known since the fourth grade, even though he thinks one is a bad example for me, Porshe or Porsha as is stated on her birth certificate. He claims she is too ghetto. Accuses her of being a gold-digger because all she dates are professional athletes and rappers. He says, “Those hip-hop thugs are her welfare check; except they pay her bills, mortgage and car payments. She never had to work hard for anything. It’s no different than being a prostitute.”
As I stood in the shower, I leaned against the white tile to catch a few seconds of sleep. The very warm water from the showerhead did waken my senses as it treaded slowly down my body. Despite the enamored watery feeling, I heard movement beyond the shower pixilated glass. It was a silhouette of man walking towards me. “Nikki?” My husband called out. The next thing I knew, he jumped his naked body in with me as though he expected an arousal of excitement. I wasn’t upset, but annoyed. The audacity of him coming home after three o’clock in the morning, and thinks because he joins me in my shower that we’re going to fuck like nothing happened? I was at my breaking point. While the shower continued to run, I angrily looked at him as I put my hands on my hips. I didn’t care I was naked or the fact that his Viagra was kicking in and his average size dick was extending before my eyes. I flat out didn’t care!
“Where were you last night?” I huffed.
Anthony was annoyed by my question. I don’t know why. After all, he crept in our bed in the wee hours of morning. The only thing I did was patiently wait for my husband to come home. And it’s not like he hasn’t done this before. I’ve complained about his late night entrances. He always quick to reply, “I had an emergency surgery…Or, I had to stay late at the hospital because they were short staffed”…Or, my favorite, “I was too tired to drive home, so I fell asleep in the car in the parking lot.” It’s usually those three excuses he replies as his answer.
My husband stood in front of me as his dick sprung like a rigid diving board. The expression on his face was like I shouldn’t have asked him of his whereabouts. Last I checked, my name is on our marriage license as Nicole Renee Robinson. So, as his wife, I have a right to ask of where he has been and who he has been with. These late night creeping-by-my-pillow at two, three or four in the morning is getting old!
“I’m going to ask you this again, where were you last night?”
“Are you serious, Nikki?”
“Hell yeah, I’m serious. You’ve been coming home at all hours of the night. I want to know who the bitch is.”
During all of this time, we were still in the rapidness of the shower; allowing the water to douse the both of us despite the fact we were in the midst of a heated exchange. Then Anthony finally said it, something I expect from the three excuses. “I had to perform an emergency surgery on a patient with a gunshot wound to head! That’s why I didn’t get home until after three.”
I sighed with disbelief; uncertain at what to think. I know my husband is brilliant at what he does. After all, his hands pay for our house, cars and utilities. Also, it’s not my paranoia of him cheating, but the loneliness I feel when he’s away from home day in and day out with his patients. He asked me to be the caretaker of our home while he works hard to takes of care me. What about my needs other than material? I don’t recall in years him uttering the words, “I love you, Nikki.” Or thanking me of my own sacrifices just to make him happy. Or ever asking me how I feel. It’s basically from him, “This is how things are, so the hell with you and your feelings.”
I start to feel bad by his patronizing stare to remind me that my accusations are baseless. Then, every time we finish an argument, he has to end it with an exclamation point by gently kissing me like he did when we dated. I thought, “I hate it when he does this!” All five-nine of him took me into his arms. I felt pleasingly trapped between his rock-hard body and the downpour from the showerhead. He leaned closer to my body as I felt his Viagra-enhanced organ pressing against my pubic bone. The uncomfortable sense overwhelmed my libido. I was feeling the burning passion that constricts my bridge to a never ending place of return. My husband hates it when I say the word, fuck, because it sounds ill-mannered. He says, instead use the words making love is poetic in its nature. He loves that Shakespearian shit; using words that people don’t use anymore.
He suddenly hoists me against the shower tiles and slithered his enhancement inside of me. I have to admit, it felt…so…damn…good! Dr. Robinson became the black Tarzan of the jungle. I became his Jane; jerking and swinging me around as if I was a strong vine. Then I said the word he hates coming from my lips, “Come on, baby! Fuck me!” While screwing me against the tiles, he quickly glanced at me with an aggravated look. It’s just something about that word he despises!
First time in a long time, I wonder if I can get my orgasm. It has been long overdue. I can feel my thighs shake, my lips quiver and a tightened clitoris. It’s ready to impact at Mount Nikki’s peak. “Fuck me, Anthony!” I screamed. I felt like I was riding the waves in the Mediterranean Sea with his hips thrusting up and down in me. “Come on, baby!” I panted. Then I went on, “But whatever you do, don’t…”
Suddenly, my husband, Dr. Robinson had incredibly falling short of my expectations. I mean way short! Before I can reach my climatic pleasure, his dick had waned back to its original wrinkly size. He was breathing hard as if he ran a mini- marathon. Better yet, a thirteen point one mile run doesn’t suffice his endurance. Maybe a five k, but nothing further.
As usual, my husband never asks how I feel before, during or after sex. He does his peek-a- boo act with my coochie by his premature ejaculation and then goes about his business. When married couples have sex, it is supposed to be a loving experience between them. I believe for me, our fifteen year road is quickly diminishing before my eyes. My husband has become virtually a stranger.
That evening, after six hours at Legal Aid, my husband surprised me by announcing we’re having a guest for dinner. It’s not anything new. Dr. Robinson has this habit of springing dinner guests at the last minute. I could plan a fine meal for a family of three and then low and behold, he invites other Doctors or big donors to our home. Thank goodness for him, I made a huge pot roast. I know my husband will barely eat what I cooked. It’s not that he don’t like my cooking, but whenever we have dinner guests from anyone that’s a part of his hospital, he’s busying having his mouth on their asses, brown-nosing every chance he can get.
Don’t get me wrong, my husband did work his butt off to get the respect by his peers, locally, nationally and internationally. And he couldn’t have written four bestselling books about his most difficult and successful surgeries if he didn’t have the expertise in his field. Yet, the question for me is, what more does he have to gain? I have seen him rise as young brain surgeon to the most prominent and prestigious Neurosurgeon in the world. What is left for him to accomplish? He’s been on countless TV news channels as a medical analyst; got paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to speak at medical conferences, and had his name among a few for Surgeon General. So, again, what more does this man need?
As I put the last of the best China on the table, a resonating sound of the doorbell echoed the house. I let it ring. Hell, it wasn’t my guest. Let my husband do the honors since he invited this person. I went on to place the golden utensils next to gold-rimmed wineglasses and wondered why my husband remained in his study which was closer to the door? “Nikki, can you get that? I’m in the middle of something!” Anthony yelled.
I thought this Negro has more nerves than a brass monkey! First, he invites a guest an hour before dinner is served, and now, he wants me to stop setting the table to answer the door? The bitch in me is ready to bark. As I walked to the foyer, I saw my husband sitting at his desk chatting on his cell phone. He was laughing as though the conversation was more interesting than his own guest.
He had his laptop open with a glass of Bourbon beside it. “What’s the matter with you?” I yelled. It was pointless. My bitchiness didn’t affect his phone call. He even didn’t bother to look beyond the blare of his Mac screen. I wanted to make it known to him how shitty I’m feeling. I clop my stiletto heels on the wooden floor to the door to grab his attention. While I grabbed the knob, I gave him a quick evil stare hoping my eyes would give him a stern message. While he remained on the phone, he quickly pointed, “Nikki, answer the door!”
My teeth were firmly on my tongue. I was ready to drop a load of curse words from my lips, starting with “Asshole!” Then door-bell rang again. When I opened it, all of my bitchiness suddenly evaporated. From a hellish last twenty-four hours, my sorrows quickly became sweet. Standing on my porch step was the finest man I’ve ever seen. He was dressed in a three-piece business suit with a black leather satchel propped on his shoulder. The brotha was clean, sharper than a damn tack! He reminded me the guys I dated before I married; only he didn’t wear the braids. He had a meticulous and precise fade that joined his neatly groomed mustache. And the man’s teeth…Yes, I look at teeth…This man’s smile was perfect. Actually, everything about this stranger was perfect!
I can tell this brotha was shocked to see me because his deep, dark and penetrating eyes widened when I opened the door. I know he wanted to take a peek at my twenty-something year old figure in this forty year old body. Wearing my tight, white spaghetti strap dress only enhanced what God gave me. He wanted to look; being a gentleman, he fought the temptation.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Jensen White. Dr. Robinson is expecting me?” He said. His voice was just as smooth as his skin. I wondered, where did this guy come? If this is what its like to look at a face of an Angel, then thank you all mighty! Besides, did he say doctor? I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but this brotha should be on the cover of “Source Magazine” instead of reading AMA Journals. Over his shoulder in my driveway was the latest model of a BMW. For Dr. White, he had some serious rims that made his sixty or seventy-thousand dollar car shine…I mean bling!
“Hi, I’m Nikki Robinson, his wife,” I said. “Won’t you come in?” From the look on his face, he seemed surprised. He probably expected to see a pitiful, frumpy and dumpy woman holding a Martini, looking ten years her senior. I hope he’s not disappointed.
When Dr. White entered the house, my husband finally pried his eyes and ears away from his laptop and phone to meet his colleague. Comparing to the two doctors, Anthony was dressed in his finest navy two piece suit, along with wire-rimmed glasses that hugged his face. Although he could pass for thirty, you tell by his mannerism that he’s fifty. The way he walked toward Dr. White to greet him it’s as though his arthritis was getting the best of him. My husband looked more like Dr. White’s father instead of a fellow colleague. I wanted badly to burst out in laughter while witnessing this moment between the Neurosurgeon version of the once head of RNC, Michael Steele and a slightly older version of Trey Songz. I wish I had my digital camera to take this picture!
Later at dinner, I sat on the end of the long eight-seat dining table while Taj sat in the middle fiddling around her vegetables as though she was a thousand of miles away. In the meantime, my husband who sat at the opposite end from me was busy discussing the
Fellowship program with Dr. White. As they were chatting away, I couldn’t help but to stare at his young colleague. I became fascinated by him. All kinds of questions ran through my mind like a hurricane like, who is he? And, where did he come from?
Finally, while the two Doctors conversation reached a plateau and I was able squeeze in my own conversation to Dr. White. As I sipped my red wine, I asked him the very question I was dying to ask since he stepped foot in the door.
“Dr. White, are you from Indianapolis?”
“I was actually born in Atlanta, but my parents moved up here when I was five years old.”
That question went well and now on to the next one. “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
He replied with a nervous giggle, “thirty.”
While Anthony was sipping on his bourbon, he gave me a stare as if he didn’t appreciate my forwardness to our guest. To me, I wasn’t being bold, just curious. Dr. White looks to be a first year college student, instead starting his Fellowship under my husband as a Neurosurgeon. Although I have the feeling where the next question will lead to, I went on to ask anyway, “I know Mrs. White has to be excited with you having this opportunity to work under one the best Neurosurgeons in the world?”
As I suspected, Anthony interrupted Dr. White before he could answer my question by asking him leave to the patio to talk further about the Fellowship. I knew it! I saw the veins bulging around the graying of his temples. My questions were actually harmless. Dr. White looked very young to have gone through about twelve years of medical school and training. As the question about his wife, why not? I know what it’s like to be married, not only to a Doctor, but a world renowned, first class Neurosurgeon. He gets requested by other colleagues around the world to perform prudent surgeries or speak at engagements or pounding away on laptop in his den writing another book. He does everything, except pay attention to his wife. If Dr. White is married, I hope he’ll appreciate a good woman who stands by his side through thick and thin and wait patiently at nights until he gets home from performing an emergency surgery because so far with my husband, the blinders are over his eyes!
Forty-minutes later, my husband escorted his colleague to the front door. As they were still discussing the Fellowship, I stood on top the stairs wearing my usual lounging attire; black Baby Phat shorts and a pink tank top with a short, pink silk robe and had my dark brown, eighteen inch weave swooped in a hair clip. I didn’t know why I wanted to be inconspicuous. Maybe I wanted to enjoy the temporary eye candy I was receiving for the evening without the presence of my husband, or maybe, just maybe, I want to know more about Dr. White than I should.
Then suddenly my husband told him he has something to give him from his den. He finally left this brotha alone! I quickly composed myself and then proceeded down the stairs with my briefcase. He reminded me of Black Hollywood from the 1970’s, when the leading men exude superfluity of confidence. It was this kind of confidence that made 007 shut the fuck up and step aside because he knew these Black men were and forever will be the shit!
“You’re leaving?” I asked as my average five-five height stood in front of his six-foot frame.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he conveyed a smile that melted my heart. Yet, there was one thing I noticed about the Doctor while he waited for my husband. He seemed nervous. He kept wandering his eyes everywhere in the foyer as if he was trying to avoid eye contact. Then he suddenly asked, “Briefcase? Are you a schoolteacher?” I was wowed, and yet amused with his coyness. Actually, his shyness, or nervousness, made me want to know him more. Then I quickly broke the ice. I knew my husband will return, so whatever I have to say, I have to say it quick!
“No, I’m a lawyer,” I answered. Still, regardless how much I tried to break the ice, the brotha couldn’t look me in the eye. What does he think I’ll do, rip his clothes off in front of my husband’s den and fuck him like a no other bitch? As much as I would love to, I have never cheated on my husband. There have been plenty of opportunities for me to let my fantasies come true with other men. Nonetheless, I still wear his ring and hold true to my vows; even if it’s a marriage by name only. Then I quickly replied, “And don’t call me, ma’am… I may be forty-two, but “ma’am” sounds like you’re talking to my mother!”
“I’m sorry ma’am…I mean Mrs. Robinson!”
“Mrs. Robinson?” I thought. I like that! I felt like the fiery, siren Anne Bancroft’s character in the movie “The Graduate,” and Dr. White was the timid, Dustin Hoffman. Only the difference with this situation is I don’t need to prop my legs open for him to glimpse my pussy. My push- up bra that snuggled my 34D’s under this pink beater is good enough. As I said earlier, his eyes were wandering everywhere, but at me. He knew he wanted to look!
Then just like that, Dr. White or Jensen looked as though an angel had quickly taken him away from the fiery pits in hell when my husband returned. “I found the papers I want you to take with you, Jensen.” I never saw a straight man so relieved to see another man. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead like rain drizzle. As he took the papers, Dr. White thanked him for the dinner. He didn’t say goodbye to me. He probably couldn’t since my husband stood there like a wall between door and myself. I couldn’t say or wave goodbye or to catch a last peek of his ass before getting into his BMW. However though, I’m sure I would see Dr. Jensen White soon. Every Fellowship recipient who has been trained under my husband was never strangers at our house. I’m confident when he comes back, his eyes will get tired of wandering endlessly at mundane shit. Sooner or later, I will catch him looking!
© 2011, Imani Wisdom