Blind Ambitions Read online

  If it weren’t for the new job she was going to have with Randall and Steve, there would be nothing at all. She found it funny that, of all the men she’d been with, the one with whom she’d had the shortest fling was still around in her life as a friend and had turned out to be the one to make a difference. All those others had been for naught. It had just been sex.

  Gratuitous, pointless, means-to-no-ends sex.

  Bettina felt like she was going to throw up.

  “Don’t think you’re getting away with this,” Devin hissed. “I’ll ruin your name in this town. That won’t take much anyway. You’re lucky I had anything to do with you in the first place.”

  “Get out,” she replied, not looking his way. “The cops are probably already outside. If I were you, I’d go away peacefully. I can make a call to your wife that will screw you over worse than anything you could ever do to me.”

  Devin stood above her, filled with venom and rage.

  She refused to look up at him.

  “You’re a fucking bitch!” he screamed.

  Bettina said nothing.

  Needing to do something, but unsure of what, Devin spat at her.

  It landed on her cheek, a big thick glob of morning phlegm that began a slow descent down her face. Bettina quietly wiped it away.

  Somewhat satisfied, he grabbed his briefcase from beside the bed and marched off angrily. Bettina sat perfectly still, listening as he made his way through the hall and across the living room. She heard him unlock the front door and open it. There was a pause, then he slammed it closed.

  Relieved, Bettina heaved a cathartic sigh. She ran out into the living room and locked the front door, carefully securing the top bolt.

  There were no cops coming. She had only pretended to call them so that Devin would leave.

  She ran back into the bedroom and sat down on the side of the bed. A million emotions were racing through her. A million emotions were washing away. She checked the ceiling.

  There it was, its wings broader than ever.

  “Thank you,” she sobbed, falling onto her knees. Her voice was choked with tears. “God, thank you, thank you, thank you for setting me free!”

  Still on her knees, she leaned her face into her palms and let herself have a good cry. Her body shook uncontrollably as she let it purge of all she’d done in the past five years, and the years before that. When she finished, she knew.

  “No more,” she said out loud. “No more married men. No more men with girlfriends. No more casual sex. Dear God, as you are my witness, know that I am going to wait. From this day forward, until I meet the one You send me, these legs are closed for business.”

  She nodded with conviction as she spoke the affirmation, then looked up at the ceiling.

  “I just pray You help me know him when he comes.”

  She smiled, feeling a certainty, a power within, that assured her she would.

  “Thank you.”

  As she said the words, she felt clean inside, something she hadn’t felt in years, despite how innocent and wholesome she appeared.

  As if to make everything concrete, she rushed over to her nightstand, snatching open the drawer. It was like a novelty store inside. An assortment of flavored creams, colored jellies, motion lotions, fluorescent condoms, a six-pack of Rough Riders, and a pair of candy panties all stared up at her. Bettina reached in with both arms and tried to gather everything up. Then she had a better thought.

  She opened her arms, letting the items fall back into the drawer, then raced to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and grabbed a trash bag. She raced back to the bedroom, dropped to her knees at the nightstand, and began dumping the contents of the drawer, two at a time, into the plastic bag.

  She got up and walked over to her dresser, dragging the bag along with her. She opened the second drawer on the far left. Inside were an array of toys, varying in shape, size, and specialty. She grabbed the small black vibrator—the one she used when the man of the moment wanted to see her pleasure herself—and threw it into the bag. The shiny silver handcuffs she’d bought at a funky bohemian shop on Melrose followed. Bettina shook her head, realizing how big a role she’d played in her own undoing.

  There was a cat-o’-nine-tails and four red satin scarves that had been used time and time again to tie her up, tie her down.

  Into the bag they went.

  She pulled out the long-handled black back massager. Her personal private favorite. She didn’t use it with anyone other than herself, and she wasn’t using it on her back, that was for damn sure. That back massager was most effective at getting the job done.

  Bettina felt a hollow pang, followed by a split second of hesitation, as she removed it from the drawer. It was like throwing away a close friend.

  “You gotta go,” she announced aloud. “There will be no more sex of any kind. Not even with myself.”

  That would be hardest, she knew. She had been pleasuring herself, half the time without even realizing it, since she was twelve. She’d felt the first explosion, accidentally, during a pop quiz in history class. She was squirming nervously in her seat, unsure of any of the answers because she hadn’t done the week’s reading assignment. The friction created a heat and caused a bundle of energy to build beneath her that made her squirm even harder. When the nervousness heightened into a pleasurable fear as the teacher collected the tests—hers blank except for her name and the date—she felt the starburst. It radiated throughout her body, making her rush abruptly from the class, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Bettina had never felt anything like it. After she felt it, she knew she wanted to feel it again and again.

  She threw the black back massager into the bag.

  Three other vibrators followed, along with a set of ben-wa balls and a studded black choker and leather leash. As the items flew into the bag, she realized what Devin had meant when he’d called her a freak.

  After the drawer was emptied, she closed it and moved to the next column of drawers, starting with the one at the top. That drawer, and the two below it, were filled with lingerie favorites from Victoria’s Secret, Frederick’s of Hollywood, and mail order items from Adam and Eve.

  She loved her lingerie, but now, she knew, she loathed what they represented. With no second thoughts, she threw everything away.

  I’ll just have to buy all new stuff, she decided.

  She would have to go shopping immediately, on a break from work, if possible. With everything thrown away, she would have to go naked underneath her clothes until she could get to the store.

  She closed the dresser drawers, sat on the floor, and examined the overstuffed bag. A trash bag for a trashy life.

  She got up, went into the living room, and unlocked the front door. She peered out. No sign of Devin. Hopefully, he was long gone. It was still quite early. None of her neighbors were milling about.

  Bettina tiptoed down the hall with the bag. She opened the door to the trash chute and tossed it in.

  She ran back into the safety of her condo and bolted the door.

  Now, all she needed to do was take a shower.

  She needed to wash away Devin and the night. She needed to wash away all the others that had been before.

  Bettina walked into the bathroom, oblivious to the cold beige tile beneath her feet. She stepped inside the glass-encased shower and turned it on. Jets of scalding hot water sprayed her from four different directions. She gritted her teeth and let it burn, the ruthless water stripping away the outer surface of skin and making way for the new. She reached for the frilly thing that hung from a hook in front of her and squeezed a glob of cucumber melon shower gel onto it.

  As Bettina lathered her body, the entire surface flushing red from the heat, she imagined years of madness, absence of conscience, and reckless living sliding away. The glass walls of the shower were thick with steam.

  Bettina put away the frilly thing, squeezed a handful of Nexxus Pep’R’Mint herbal shampoo into her palm, and worked it into her hair. The
pores of her scalp opened up, sending a tingling chill through her that partially countered the burning heat of the water. She reached for the Neutrogena bar and thoroughly scrubbed her face. Twice. She wanted to make sure all traces of Devin’s spit were gone.

  Quickly, bravely, she stuck her whole head into the steaming hot streams of water, the foam cascading from her hair, gently blending with the suds on her face and her body. She let it all rinse away as the hot water beat painfully against her. She endured it. As penance, she figured, it was the least she could do.

  Bettina turned off the faucet and opened the door. She stepped out into the thick, steamy air, grabbing the plush tan towel hanging from a hook just outside the shower. She briskly worked the towel through her hair and over her face, then rubbed her body until there wasn’t a drop of water to be found. Every inch of her skin felt alive.

  She wrapped the towel around her body, secured it, and walked over to the sink. The mirror above it was covered with steam. She reached out with her right palm and wiped a spot clear.

  Bettina saw a flushed red face staring back at her. Blood, inspired by the scalding water of the shower, was pulsating furiously beneath her light brown skin. She leaned closer, examining herself. Her hair was a tangle of black ringlets sticking to her head. Her nose, delicately upturned, was crimson. Her lips were so rosy, they looked as if they’d been punched or pinched.

  Who needs Retin-A, she thought, when a hot shower and a change of heart will do?

  She leaned back, turned on the faucet, grabbed her toothbrush, wet it, squeezed a line of toothpaste onto it, and vigorously brushed her teeth.

  She spit into the sink, rinsed her mouth several times, and turned off the water.

  “Ahhhh!” she breathed, exhaling a fresh gust of minty air. “Now I’m clean!”

  She leaned in again towards her reflection and flashed herself a toothy smile.

  “Hi. My name is Bettina. I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”

  The face in the mirror grinned broadly in return.

  “A pleasure,” she said, beaming. “I think I’m going to enjoy getting to know you, my friend.”

  Bettina pulled the loosening towel tighter around her body. She walked back into the bedroom.

  “I’m gonna burn these bedcovers and sell this bed,” she announced.

  She thought about it. She loved that bed. What she could do, she decided, was buy another just like it. As long as it wasn’t this tainted one, what difference did it make?

  She smiled, happy, relieved … free.

  Bettina walked across the room and looked up, searching the corner for her angel. Even though daylight was sifting into the room, she found it harder now to see.

  She walked closer to the corner where it had been.

  All she saw was the white of the ceiling.

  Every single trace of the angel was gone.

  THEM BELLY FULL

  Good morning.”

  Desi had just put her teapot on the stove when the phone rang.

  “Hey. Look … what does it mean when you dream about choking?”

  “Who do I look like,” Desi asked, “Dionne Warwick?”

  She opened the cabinet and took out an oversized yellow cup. She closed the cabinet, took a peppermint teabag from a glass jar on the counter, dropped the teabag in the cup, then opened one of the drawers in the counter and pulled out a spoon.

  “Come on, Dez, you’re from the South,” Sharon whined. “You should know about stuff like that. Southerners are big on numbers and interpretations.”

  “You’re right. Hold on a second, let me go get my dream book,” Desi said, closing the utensil drawer.

  “Okay,” Sharon replied, relieved.

  Desi laughed, sitting down at the small table in her kitchen. She placed the cup and spoon on the table in front of her.

  “Fool, I’m joking! I ain’t got no dream book! I can’t believe you even thought I did!”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “Please. Besides, you’re the one who’s West Indian. Y’all invented all that hoodoo voodoo business to begin with.”

  “Voodoo is from Haiti. I come from Jamaica.”

  “Via the Bronx.”

  “Kiss my Bronx ass,” Sharon replied. “I just need a simple answer. You gotta be able to tell me something. I dreamt last night that I got hit by a truck and swallowed a whole sandwich.”

  “What color was the truck?” Desi asked.

  “Are you still playing with me?”

  “No, it’s just a simple question. What color was the truck?”

  “Red,” Sharon answered reluctantly.

  Desi pondered a moment.

  “Was it one of those minicab pickups or a tractor-trailer?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Sharon sputtered. “If I thought you were going to make fun of me, I would have never called you in the first place.”

  “Sharon,” Desi insisted, “I’m not making fun of you. I just figured that if we talked it out, we could get to the root of what the dream was about.”

  Sharon considered her words. Maybe Desi had a point.

  “Alright. It was a red Expedition.”

  “Wow. Did it hurt you?”

  “I told you,” Sharon exclaimed, “it made me swallow a sandwich whole!”

  “Alright, alright,” Desi said, “calm down.” She leaned forward on the table, resting her head in her hands. “Now let’s think about this. What kind of sandwich was it?”

  Sharon paused, trying to remember.

  “Uhhh … I think it was perch.”

  Desi’s breath caught.

  “What’s wrong?” Sharon asked, bewildered. “Why’d you gasp like that?”

  “Sharon … you dreamt about fish?”

  “Yeah. And? So?”

  “And you swallowed it whole?”

  “Yeah, damn!” Sharon replied, frustrated. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Well,” Desi said, “you don’t have to be from the South to know that when you dream about fish it means somebody’s pregnant.”

  “Somebody like who?” Sharon snapped.

  “Honey, it ain’t me. I’m having my visit right now, as we speak.”

  “Spare me already.”

  Desi absently scratched the nape of her neck, thinking.

  “Listen … did you hit the truck, or did the truck hit you?”

  “I hit brakes,” Sharon said, “and the truck hit me from behind.”

  “So you stopped it,” Desi declared. “And it was red. That truck was your period, and it was stopped when you swallowed that fish sandwich whole!”

  “Actually, the truck hit me first, then I swallowed the sandwich. But what difference does it make? I’m not pregnant.”

  “Are you sure?” Desi asked.

  “Positive,” Sharon responded.

  “When was the last time you had your period?”

  “Forget it, Dez. This conversation has gotten foolish. I gotta go.”

  “Sharon,” Desi persisted, “you have been sleeping a lot lately.”

  “That’s ’cause I’ve got so much free time on my hands!” Sharon screamed.

  Desi grew quiet, allowing Sharon time to calm down. She silently counted to fifteen before she spoke again.

  “Are you done yelling?”

  “Sorry,” Sharon said. “I had a rough sleep. And, to top it off, I woke up this morning and saw that the answering machine had chewed up the tape. That’s probably why it didn’t pick up when you called last night. I threw the whole thing in the garbage. I’m gonna get voice mail.”

  “Finally,” Desi replied. “Welcome to the new millennium.”

  “Yeah … well.”

  Sharon let out a heavy sigh. Desi listened with concern. Something was definitely up.

  “Sharon?”

  “What?”

  “When was the last time you saw your period?”

  Sharon breathed heavily again.

  “Sharon,” Desi admonished, “talk to
me. I’m your friend.”

  “It’s been a minute. But I’m under a lot of stress. I’ve got a bunch of things on my mind.”

  “Have you been having unprotected sex with Glen?”

  “Dez, you’re not my mother.”

  “I’m not trying to be,” Desi replied. “Have you?”

  Sharon hesitated.

  “A couple times,” she confessed.

  “Just a couple?”

  “Alright, alright, maybe five or six. Ten, at the most.”

  “Sharon!” Desi exclaimed.

  “What?” Sharon screamed back. “Stop yelling at me! I don’t need a lecture right now!”

  “Has Glen taken an AIDS test?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you lying to me?” Desi asked. “Don’t lie to me. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”

  “I’m not lying,” Sharon stated. “I told you, stop acting like my mother.”

  “I’m acting like a friend. What you’re doing is very risky.”

  “Yeah, yeah … I know.”

  They were both silent again. There was a loud hissing noise coming from Desi’s side of the phone.

  “What’s that?” Sharon asked.

  “My teapot.”

  “Oh.”

  Desi got up, turned off the stove, slipped on an oven mitt, and picked up the teapot by the handle. She poured the hot water over her bag of peppermint tea. She held the phone to her ear with her left hand.

  “I can’t be pregnant,” Sharon whispered. “I can’t. You don’t understand how this would ruin everything for me.”

  Desi listened, letting her talk.

  “Glen would definitely be pissed. He doesn’t want kids now.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Desi asked, placing the teapot back on the stove. She took off the mitt, sat down at the table again, opened the sugar bowl and took out two cubes. She dropped them into her tea.

  “No, but he doesn’t have to. I just know he doesn’t. Dammit, Dez, he’s twenty-six. He’s in the thick of his career.”

  “So are you. Don’t act like this is all your fault. Glen knew what the risk was when he stuck his naked dick in you.”