Total Eclipse of the Heart

  Carleigh went on and on. I’d rushed home to share the news with her—the site was up and running and several men had signed up the first day. I thought we’d pop the cork from a bottle of champagne and rejoice. Instead, she’d crushed me. Then she wanted some dick.

  That was a year ago and I’d fallen for the okeydoke. Ten minutes after she called me a Neanderthal, she was sucking me off and had me eating her pussy. But times had changed, and as I sat there watching Law & Order, I wondered if our marriage could last. I loved Carleigh and I believed she loved me, but was love worth compromising my dreams?

  Sometimes I felt like a trophy husband, a prize for her friends and associates to salivate over. I had ideas, and goals, and while I made a low six-figure income as human resources manager for a Fortune 500 corporation, I wanted to assemble my own empire. Dealing with disgruntled employees and their complaints day in and day out had given me the crystal clear insight that most people are not passionate about their profession. It was all about a paycheck and a comfort level, without taking any serious risks. I was a risk-taker and knew that I could accomplish something better.

  I ended up falling asleep on the sofa that night—on purpose—and was startled awake at 6:00 a.m. by Carleigh slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen. I could envision her, hair all over her head, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe since the thong and bra didn’t work, waiting for me to storm in and confront her. Instead, I grinned, turned over to face the back of the sofa, and went back to sleep until I had to get up an hour later.

  Brooke

  July 15, 2007

  I’M determined to get this weight off,” I told Destiny as I tried to short-circuit the treadmill that I was jogging on.

  “Well, my diet starts tomorrow.” She was standing beside me, eating a Snickers bar.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, eating candy in a gym.”

  “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not calling me for four damn months,” Destiny came back at me. “Then you have the audacity to tell me to meet you here, instead of someplace where I can chow down on something deep-fried in trans fat. You know good and damn well the only workout my ass ever gets is in somebody’s bedroom.”

  I laughed. “You still seeing Harold exclusively?”

  “I’m still exclusive with him, but I doubt it works both ways. That’s the way love goes.”

  I slowed down my pace and adjusted the settings on the treadmill. “Why would you accept that? When did Sharing Dick 101 become a prerequisite for dating?”

  “That’s cold, Brooke.”

  “It’s the truth. Harold’s been cheating on you from day one and you think it’s copacetic.”

  Destiny glared at me. “Hold up, Miss High-and-Mighty. Didn’t you meet Patrick when he was in the middle of a date and fuck him the very next night? Odds are that he tapped that chick’s ass the night before he tapped yours, and you know it.”

  I got off the treadmill altogether. “That was different. He was seeing her before me and—”

  Destiny smacked her lips. “An entire day before you? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.”

  “My point is that, to my knowledge at least, Patrick didn’t see her again after we hooked up. I don’t even know her name, never did, so she must not have been too significant.”

  Destiny and I stared at each other, then burst out laughing. “Why is it that when women get together, trifling-ass men always dominate the conversation?” I asked.

  “Because we rely too much on men to define us,” Destiny replied with a shrug. “A woman without a man is like a light socket without a bulb. We need someone to turn us on.”

  “And off.” I giggled. “You sure have a way with words.” I eyed this fine man walking into the workout area in black shorts and a wifebeater. “Speaking of being turned on, look at that.”

  Destiny looked at him, all six foot five of him, and sighed. “See now, if I had a man like that in my boudoir, I’d beam to work every day, hopefully with a limp and a sore back.”

  “We shouldn’t diminish a man’s value to his looks. We get mad when they do that same shit to us.”

  “True, but he does look like he has some high-quality ding-a-ling in those shorts. Besides, it never hurts to look.”

  I watched him begin working out with the free weights. His arms seemed strong enough to lift a bus. “I’ve never seen him around here before.”

  Destiny play-slapped me on the arm. “When was the last time your fat ass came here to work out?”

  “Point taken.” I checked myself out in the large mirror on the wall. I had on loose sweats because I didn’t want people seeing my “real physique” until I dropped some of the weight. “At least I’m trying. You need to work out with me. I’m going to try to come at least twice a week, for starters, and move my way up.”

  Destiny directed her eyes to Mr. Fine. “You should see if he needs a sweat partner.”

  “Girl, I can see his wedding band from here. Besides, I have a wonderful man at home.”

  “Patrick is handsome; I will give his ass that. I’m still not feeling him.”

  “Why not?”

  Destiny’s mood turned solemn. “Look, Brooke, it doesn’t take a paleontologist to figure out that we hardly hang out anymore since you’ve been with him. I damn near fainted when you called this morning.”

  “We’ve been spending a lot of quality time together. Between my shitty work hours and the amount of time Patrick has to spend inside courtrooms and preparing his cases, we have to do what we can do.”

  “I’m not knocking all that, but you’re here with me now. It’s not like the dude is riding shotgun up your ass twenty-four/seven. I could meet you at the diner and chat during your breaks. I could—”

  “Breaks? My boss can’t even spell that word, rather less practice it.”

  “See, excuses, excuses. We all have hectic lives in today’s society, but we make time for what we truly want to make accommodations for. I miss taking in a movie from time to time, hanging out at a club, or at least talking on the damn phone. You don’t even have time to engage in a conversation?” Destiny stood there, tapping her foot, anticipating another bullshit excuse to fly out of my mouth.

  “Okay, you got me. How about this? From now on, we’re going to make it a point to talk at least once a day, even if it’s for five minutes. I promise.”

  “Empty promises.”

  I felt it sting deep down in my heart. Had I just made an empty promise to her when I was always accusing Patrick of doing the same?

  “You’ll see,” I said. “We’re going to be as close as we used to be; closer even.”

  Destiny glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run … but I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Right?”

  “Come hell or high water.”

  Destiny glanced at the sexy man in the wifebeater. “Or come big, juicy dicks and low-hanging, fruity balls.”

  We both laughed, traded quick kisses on our cheeks, and then she left. I endured the treadmill for another thirty minutes, determined to meet my goal. I watched Mr. Fine as I picked up my pace and lost myself in an incredible sexual fantasy involving him, me, and a bottle of whipped cream, as my iPod carried me through to the finish line.

  Damon

  July 19, 2007

  WHAT a difference a week makes. Carleigh had gone from snarling at me the week before to dropping by my office with a picnic basket full of wine, fruit, and chicken-Caesar wraps—one of my favorites.

  “Did we have lunch plans?” I asked as she barged in my office door, wearing a tight, floral sundress and high-heeled sandals.

  “No, honey, but I missed you.” She set the basket down, came around my desk, leaned over, and planted a fat, juicy kiss on my lips. “I don’t have another showing until seven, so I might miss dinner. I didn’t want to wait that long to see you.”

  “Well, that’s very considerate of you.” I watched her go back and close the door, alerting my secretary, Jane, not to disturb us. I glanced at the crystal clo
ck on my desk. “I have a departmental meeting in an hour.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get.” She started pulling the items out of the basket and setting them up on my desk. “We really need to spend more quality time together.”

  “I come home every night. I’m in here at nine, out at five, and home by six.”

  Carleigh giggled. “I know your schedule, sweetie. I could set my watch by you. But since this real estate market has gone from roses to thorns, I’m busting my ass to make sales.”

  I shook my head. The mortgage crisis had more houses in foreclosure than anyone had ever imagined. There had been a boom in the market for years, with developers throwing up million-dollar homes right and left in the metropolitan area. Mortgage companies and banks were shelling out low-interest, adjustable-rate mortgages like pediatricians handed out lollipops and smiley-face stickers. People were able to move in, sometimes by putting up less than five grand, and bought into the illusion that the world was their oyster.

  When the two-, three-, or four-year ARMs matured and their monthly payments jumped from $2,000 to $6,000, reality hit. Some people were training their kids to eat tuna fish and crackers for dinner. Others simply said, “Fuck it all,” and moved in with relatives or rented, abandoning their high debts. Refinancing at lower rates was damned near impossible due to the backlash. New regulations and criteria were added, and even those with credit ratings of 700 or higher were being scrutinized and required to provide more substantial proof of eligibility before even having a prayer for approval.

  Carleigh was feeling the crunch and had been taking a lot of her frustrations out on me. I meant every single word of my vows and I was going to stick by her, for better or for worse, even if she became a stay-at-home wife. To be honest, that was one of the reasons I’d hoped she would grow excited about my website. We could’ve been partners and grown closer through the process. Instead, I’d sit in my home office, updating the site, while Carleigh burned up phone lines with her friends with nonsense and gossip. Or they’d commandeer the house, make a bunch of noise, and hire buff dudes to come over and pamper them with pedicures and massages. I didn’t take issue with it; Carleigh was all about me when it came to meeting her sexual needs. I was her “boy toy” and she relished it. Even when I withheld the dick because I was mad at her about something, she wasn’t about to stray. She would’ve never risked leaving me for highly unlikely greener pastures. Everyone knows—or at least should know—that the other side of grass is dirt.

  So many people fall victim to the game—lured away from the person who has loved them unconditionally, supported them through the terrible times, celebrated with them through the good times, for a mere pipe dream. I didn’t believe thelastgoodmen.com was contributing to the degradation of females—at least not really. I was simply capitalizing on an exploding trend that was going to flourish, with or without me. In a way, I felt that I was improving the odds for women seeking men on the internet. On those other sites, they could wind up with anything, which was true of life itself. There were no guarantees that the best men could be found in church, and definitely not by hanging out in clubs. There were no guarantees with my site either. That had become clear lately, and I was glad that Carleigh expressed no interest in it. I would never have heard the end of it.

  “So, how are things with the site?” Carleigh asked, as if she were reading my mind.

  I cleared my throat between bites of my wrap. “Everything’s going great. Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to show some interest. After all, I realize it’s a significant part of your life.”

  She was definitely reading my mind!

  “Well, it’s appreciated.”

  She took a sip of wine and waited for me to say more. Finally, she threw a grape at me. “So?”

  I played dumb. “So?”

  “How many profiles are up now?”

  “Thirteen hundred; give or take a few.”

  “Wow, you’ll be catching up to MySpace and eHarmony any day now.” The sarcasm dripped from her words and she had this devilish grin on her face.

  “Carleigh, I thought you came here to have a pleasant lunch.”

  “I did. I was merely asking about the site. I’m not allowed to do that?”

  “You’re obviously trying to belittle me and I don’t appreciate it.” I tossed my wrap down and stood up. “In fact, if you came to give me a verbal beatdown, we can do this shit at home.”

  Carleigh laughed. “You’re too damn sensitive, Damon. Sit down and finish your food.”

  I took a seat but refused to eat. “I’m full, but thanks for bringing lunch over. It was a pleasant surprise.”

  Carleigh smirked and shook her head. “Mama was right.”

  I sat there patiently, waiting for her to elaborate. After a full minute of watching her eat in her prissy sort of way—where she was so determined to keep her mouth sealed while she was chewing that it was almost comical—I lost my composure.

  “What was your mother right about?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Carleigh, you know I hate it when you do that. Start to say something and then refuse to finish. I’m not a psychic and never professed to be.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at my clock. Fifteen more minutes of hell before the meeting.

  “What the fuck did your mother say?” I asked irately.

  Carleigh’s mother never fully approved of our marriage. She expected Carleigh to marry a millionaire—a pro baller or cosmetic surgeon who made a mint from injecting youth-seeking women full of Botox. By anyone’s standards, I made a good living, and I owned my own home—one that Carleigh had banked the commission from. Still, I failed to meet Carleigh’s mother’s expectations for her one and only darling child, her princess. Ninety percent of me didn’t give a rat’s ass what her mother had said, but the remaining 10 percent wanted to see how creative the old battle-ax could get.

  Carleigh was gawking at me after I cursed at her. Her mouth was open and I could see half-chewed food. I couldn’t help but comment.

  “Wow, I can’t believe you’re chewing with your mouth open!”

  Carleigh clamped her mouth shut quickly and swallowed. “It wasn’t anything about you, in particular. Mama simply warned me about men period.”

  “And what would your mother know about men?”

  “That does it!” Carleigh stood up and gathered her purse. “You can clean this shit up and bring the basket home. I’m out of here!”

  I watched her leave and thought, A week didn’t make a damn difference after all.

  Every time I thought Carleigh and I were working toward a more civil union, drama ensued. I pictured her huffing and puffing on the elevator down to the garage, cursing me underneath her breath. She didn’t like my saying anything about her mother, who hadn’t been able to snag a man in more than two decades, and it was not for lack of trying. Carleigh’s mother flung herself at every man over fifty that she could find—eligible bachelor or not. She never had any takers. No amount of liquor, senility, or desperation would reduce a man to what she yearned for: a puppet.

  I cleaned up the lunch items and headed to my meeting. It was hard to concentrate during the two or so hours that it lasted. Never would I have imagined entering into such an unhealthy relationship—rather less a marriage. I felt like Carleigh and I had taken enough time to become acclimated to each other before we took the plunge. We were friends first and didn’t become intimate until much later. In my mind, we had followed all the rules, but yet, we didn’t seem much better off than two people who met at a club, went home and fucked and sucked the same night, and headed to a chapel in Vegas the next week.

  I had a coworker, Kim, who had married twice and twice divorced. The first time, she married someone she’d known since she was ten. After the marriage, he totally changed up on her, and it almost ruined her emotionally. He was extremely abusive. Then she turned around and married a man s
he’d only known for a few months, after he had swept her off her feet. Within two years, she was filing for divorce again, after discovering him cheating. He was one of those fools who thought sweating other pussy on the internet was cool, until it cost him his marriage. Kim was childless and planned to stay that way. She said that there was no way she would bring children into the world to watch their father—or fathers—disrespect her.

  Unfortunately, Kim’s opinion of men was becoming the norm in society. While tons of women were still desiring to be loved and looking for dick in all the wrong places, many others had resorted to gaining their pleasure from sex toys—or other women—because they were sick of being mistreated by men and feared catching a deadly disease.

  I felt like I’d mistreated Carleigh earlier by taking a stab at her mother, but we were really mistreating each other by making mountains out of molehills, intentionally pressing the wrong buttons, ones guaranteed to spark an argument or cause emotional withdrawal.

  I was not going to abandon my marriage. I loved her. We would make it. For better or for worse; till death do us part.

  Brooke

  July 21, 2007

  SO far, I’d kept my promise to Destiny. Come hell or high water, we’d talked every single day since that day at the gym. I had, however, faltered on my workout regimen. Patrick found one reason or another to nitpick about something I was not doing, or not doing right, around our home. When I was not working, I was trying to keep him content. I’d started fucking him whenever he wanted, and I would suck him dry on demand. I even tried anal again and endured the pain to please him.

  I washed clothes, dishes, and even his ass when he would beckon me into the shower for hot sex amid the steam. I thought that we were making progress. Then his mother showed up at our door.

  When the bell rang, I assumed it was the doorman delivering a package that a messenger had dropped off. Instead, I found the queen of all bitches.

  “Good morning, dear,” she said, brushing past me in a bunch of silk scarves and almost knocking me down with her $2,000 handbag.