Contributing Writer

James W. Lewis

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(Excerpts of Terrell and SINFIDELITY )

Terrell

I couldn’t take the headaches anymore. Didn’t need them, either.

Why subject myself to mental mayhem?

A brotha didn’t want to catch a case, so I made drastic changes.
And I thought a boycott of black women would remedy my problem.
A damn shame, I know. I’d joined thousands of brothas who had thrown up their hands and given up.

I used to wonder why every time I flicked on the TV a high-profile brotha with deep pockets courted a blonde. Thought maybe it was a trophy thing: blondes were the apple pies of so-called American beauty.

As one of a few black optometrists about to open a practice in San Diego, California, I stood destined to have deep pockets, too. And as a 35-year-old single man with no kids, hordes of women seeking services beyond eye check ups.

Back in the day, we used to call brothas with white women “sellouts.” How could Jungle Fever infect a black man when first-rate chocolate, mocha, caramel, and butter-scotched colored women flooded the market? I couldn’t see it.

But after my boy Dedrick “crossed over,” I realized it wasn’t about looks; it was about maintaining a level mind. Sistas in my archives had tested my level mind--including my current one, Lanesha.

So I let her--and any future prospects darker than my penny-brown skin--go. Mary J Blige said it best: No more drama. Especially for Terrell Deron Michaels. I’d suffered enough from women dragging baggage into my world.

And they were all sistas.

That’s the way it had to be for me, but let me tell you about the day I crossed over:

Lanesha and I had made plans for an “us” night one Saturday. I wore a cream-colored short-sleeved shirt and Khaki pants, showing off my toned, 6’0”, 190-lb running-back frame. Yeah, a brotha hit the gym on the regular.

Of course, Lanesha damn near spent half my paycheck on a nice perm. A halter-top and skirt with a slit on the slide blessed her guitar-shaped figure. When she walked, cuts in her thighs and calf muscles flexed. Always loved her toned legs wrapped around my lower back.

After dinner at Great Khans Mongolian Festival in Horton Plaza, we hit UA theaters, hoping for a gang of action and laughs. Bad Boys 2 delivered the goods--at least for me. Lanesha seemed to have a good time, but once we left, it’s like somebody hit her mute button. Can’t tell you how many times she would blind-side me with silent treatment. Obviously, something I did made her that way.

Moonlight, summer breeze, stars scattered like diamonds in the sky … a perfect Friday night for passion. But my code of conduct--somehow, somewhere--sabotaged romance.

I tried to hold her hand as we walked to my Explorer, converse with her, continue the good time I thought we had, ya know. No go. Folded arms and a hard frown revealed a woman on the verge.

But why? I had no idea. Attitude reared its hideous head for the umpteenth time.
Here we go, I thought. What did I do now?
I tried to hold the door for her. “I got it!” she snapped. She slid her leg in, slammed the door, went back to arm-folding.

I stood for a second, shook my head. Once I sat in the driver’s seat, I bobbed to a mix CD I’d made and pretended everything was kosher.

Can’t do that, though. Stay quiet, and you risk stirring up an emotional earthquake because your girl will think you don’t care; try to talk, you risk saying something stupid that might unload a flurry of what I call “bitch bombs.” Ya can’t win.
Considering my odds where better with the latter, I tried to soothe the tension with conversation.

I turned down the music. “Baby, you ok?”
Her cast-iron gaze fixed on the windshield. She smacked her tongue and said, “I’m fine.”
“You sure? ‘Cause you don’t look--”

“I said I’m fine!”

Damn. At-ti-tude. Sistas should own the copyright on it.
But, hey, at least I tried. That should’ve accounted for something, right?
Wrong.

The rapper Ludacris sounded better than Lanesha’s jagged tone, so I whispered, “forget this” and pumped his song “Stand up.”

I guess no booty for me tonight, I thought. I might just drop her butt off and head home.
We arrived at her apartment complex ten minutes later. Summoning my last attempt at chivalry, I stepped out to open the door for her.

And that’s when my hope for peace suffered a beatdown. Selfish ass saw me walking around the front toward her, but Ms. Attitude still stepped out on her own. Not only that, she slammed the door and marched away from me!

“Pissed” is a few levels below what I felt.
I don’t give a damn who you are. Don’t go slamming my “baby’s” door. I still didn’t know Lanesha’s issues, either.

I placed a hand on the hood. “Woman, what the hell is wrong with you?”

No reply. Lanesha disappeared inside the complex. I heard her heels pounding the steps.

The B-word jammed between my tongue and lips. I’d never called Lanesha that word before, but she came damn close to a ricochet of B-words.

I convinced myself not to run after her because I knew that’s what she wanted, but instead of pulling the driver door, I sighed and mimicked Lanehsa’s ascent up the stairs.
I caught her when she opened her door, her cinnamon cheeks moist from tears. A speck of sanity must’ve crept in her system because she didn’t slam the door this time. I walked in.

Lanesha turned on a lamp. I stood in the small entrance area where vinyl meets carpet. She plopped on the leather sofa. Still no open communication.

Did I need to buy a vowel up in here?

A blank TV screen seized Lanesha’s demonic stare. She sat with arms folded and legs crossed, red-coated nails tapping her biceps. Her leg bobbed, feet inches from the glass table.

I sighed. “All right, Lanesha. What did I do now?”
“You got some nerve.” She wiped her cheek. “You think I didn’t see you?”

I frowned. “See me what?”
“You know what.”

I do? I thought. Oh, boy. Time for twenty-one questions. I played the game for a minute or two.

A carved wooden mask of an African queen drew my attention toward the wall. Her heinous held no answers for me, so I turned to the mahogany desk and Dell computer next to the lamp. Nope, no answers there. African violets didn’t hip me to any secrets, either.

I calculated new formulas on my mental chalkboard. The answer lay somewhere between dinner and the movie.

Ok, I said in my head, I opened all doors for her … bought her popcorn … drink … um … let’s see … is it that time of the month, again? No, she got off two weeks ago. What the--

Lanesha’s heel banged the table, bumrushing my thoughts. “How come you don’t know what I’m pissed about?”

“What kinda question is that? How come you just can’t tell me?”
She shook her head. Her lips moved and words came out, but I couldn’t understand a damn thing.

I leaned against the wall, folded my arms. “Stop mumbling, please. What’s the problem?”
“You my problem! I saw you staring at that white bitch!”

Aw hell.

I threw my head back, banging the wall. My startled reaction wasn’t from her accusation--but from knowing I’d been caught.

The bitch storm cometh.

Lanesha depised two things: catching me gawking at women--and black men dating white women, especially blondes. Well, she had caught me peeling the clothes off a peach-skinned, longhaired blonde with my eyes. That’s double trouble.

Blame it on hormones. Or, that ass. A swollen ass. This girl had crazy back, almost as if a hornet the size of a dog had stung her butt cheeks a dozen times. An oxymoron for a Caucasian female, but it worked.

I saw her while buying popcorn and drinks; Lanesha was in the bathroom. I grabbed the carton tray and turned--and the blonde walked by with another female.

Dayum, I thought. About 26-years-old, when a woman’s luscious figure is in its prime. My gaze glued to her aqua-colored eyes, traveled down--and everything else around me faded. Booty so thick I could set my tray on it. Shape of a heart turned upside down. So hypnotic.

When I walked off, my head still leaned ninety degrees her way. I broke my trance because I almost bumped into an elderly lady. I excused myself, and saw Lanesha angling around a group of teenagers. Thought she didn’t see me, but obviously she did.
I didn’t even fight it. Why lie?

“Aw’ight, Lanesha,” I said, palms showing. “Yeah, I was looking at her. I didn’t know you saw me. You know I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.”

She smacked her tongue. “Don’t lie! You know you wanted that girl! Shoot, you dreamin’ ‘bout ‘em, too!”

“What?”

“Stop acting stupid! I’m talkin’ ‘bout what happened this morning. Who was the ho you were dreaming about?”

You would’ve thought somebody farted the way my face warped. “What the … oh, hell naw! You can’t be mad about that! You’re not serious, are you?”

Lanesha wiggled her head in a way that seemed patented for black women. “Does it look like I’m serious?”

I lowered my eyes. Somehow, I held back chuckles that threatened to burst. Unbelievable. How could she be mad about a wet dream?

I inched my eyes up, saw Lanesha lean forward to place her elbows on her knees.

“Well, who was she?” she said.

“I don’t know! Baby, it was a dream.”

“You don’t know?” Damn, if looks could kill.

“No! I don’t!”

She slammed her back against the sofa, crossed her legs again, and resumed leg-bobbing and arm-folding. “How could you not know?”

Again with the questions. I took in a deep breath and exhaled. Apparently, this was no joking matter, so I chilled and purged the smirks from my face.

“Baby,” I said, trying to stay calm, “it was a dream. Do you understand? I had a dream about a white woman I’ve never seen before, that’s all.”

I moved toward the sofa with slow footsteps, as if showing extreme caution to a wild animal. With Lanesha’s pouty lips and flared nostrils, my approach seemed appropriate.
She smacked her tongue. Sounded like a bubble gum pop.

“No,” she said, “it wasn’t just a dream. I tried not to let it bother me, but with this crap you pulled tonight … shhhh.” The tears kept coming.

“Baby, I--”

“That mess was all over my sheets, too!” she cried, cutting me off. “You probably lying about the dream. Probably jackin’ off while I was asleep, thinkin’ ‘bout some white girl.”

I slammed my hands on the sofa’s armrest. “It-was-a-wet-dream! That’s the truth!” I lowered my voice. “Baby, men have them all the time. It’s no different than when you had that dream and you woke up crying.”

“But I wasn’t sleepin’ with nobody! It was a nightmare!”

I threw my hands up and slapped them on my hips. Damn, she had a jacked up comeback for everything I said. We went from arguing about a woman at the theater that night--to a wet dream I had earlier in the morning. Why I gave her the details of the dream, I don’t know.

For a moment I couldn’t respond. The stupidity of it all seized my tongue. Finally, I said, “Lanesha, are you telling me you’re jealous about a white girl in my dreams?”

“Oh, so, now she’s the girl of your dreams, huh? I knew it! You just like all these other brothas tryin’ to get with them white bitches! I catch you staring at them all the time!”

“Hold up, hold up!” I cried, fanning my hands near my face. I stepped away from the sofa and stood in front of the TV. The table separated us, which, I believe, was a good thing.

I hauled in a swoosh of air, then said, “Stop turning my words around, please! And stop accusing me of stuff! Look, if I knew you were going to act like this, I wouldn’t have told you about it. Baby, it’s not a big deal!”

“It is a big deal!” she snapped back. “You had a reason for that dream!”

“I … you … uggh!” I curled my fingers. This time, I heard bones pop. My cue to shut up.

Damn that woman, but I maintained control. I didn’t raise my hand, didn’t shout back. But, you’d better believe, for a second--one split second--I wanted to whip the back of my hand across her lips.

Instead, my hands covered my face. Lanesha had shot her jealous rage through the freakin’ stratosphere, but I didn’t want to come undone.

“Damn, look at us,” I said, resting my hand on the TV stand, “I thought we’d have a nice night at the movies and come home to some all-night lovin’.” I shook my head. “But here we are arguing. And what about? Not about a real-life girl in a theater--but some fake girl in a dream. Man, you acting stupid.”

Why did I say that?

“Oh, so now I’m stupid?”

“I didn’t say you were stupid! I said--”

“I know what you said!” she yelled. “Just admit it! You’re a black eye doctor. The higher an educated nigga gets, the lighter the women get until they become white. You’re no different!”

Boy, boy, boy. Thought I could fend off the verbal jabs, but she had stepped up to another level--and I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What the … where the hell is this coming from?” I said. “What, you’d rather me get with a sis”--I swatted my hand in front of me--“you know what, forget it. You need help.”

I unleashed the hounds of hell when I said that.

Lanesha shot back, flailing her arms and screaming, but I no longer acknowledged her tirade. I made a decision right there: a decision I should have made eons ago.

My sudden “awakening” made my smirk return. I now looked at her with different eyes. Man. Homegirl had issues. Never really knew how deep until now.

For a moment, I wondered if her head dancing would rip the skin around her neck. So ridiculous. Didn’t need to blow a gasket over a nutcase. It was official: Lanesha was a straight up fatal-attraction psycho--and she had reached her expiration date.

Time to put an end to eight months of nonsense.

“--And you know you want one!” she blabbered on. “If you want a white ho, go ‘head! You dreaming about them! I can … Terrell! You ignoring me?”

I blinked. “Huh? Oh, I was--”

Lanesha rose from the sofa, her eyes of Damian laser beaming my way. Can you believe the second-coming-of-the-Exorcist pushed me? Hard, too--like her blunt force could’ve stabbed cracked ribs into my lungs.

I stumbled back, nearly bumping into the TV. Again, I somehow restrained the monstrous urge to retaliate.

Lanesha stomped toward the bedroom. “Get out!” she yelled. Another door slam cut through the air.

Like I said--psycho.

I now stood alone, staring at the wall that shielded her bedroom. Waves of relief warmed me from the inside. Lanesha had ordered me to get out. And that’s what I did--for good.
Images of our torrid past rushed me. Pretty funny, actually. During those eight months, I’d break up with her, go back, break up, go back. Hard to let go sometimes--despite the heartache and stress.

I now knew the common denominator. I finally got the message:

Black women. A demon to a black man’s sanity.

Not for this black man, though. Not anymore.

This time, I didn’t debate a damn thing. I stepped out, skipped down the stairs and strolled to my ride. Eight wasted months.

Okay I’ll admit, some days were good, but I guess the more we argued over pithily stuff, the more her jealousy reached asteroid levels. On peaceful occasions, she’d revealed two of the guys she’d dated before me dogged her out.

Come to think of it, she said they dissed her for white women, too.

As I started the engine, I glanced at a picture of Lanesha and me dangling from my rear-view. I vowed that was the last time I would see Lanesha’s face. I ripped the mini-pic off, crumbled it up, and pushed it in my cup holder.

Time to abandon the dark side and ease over to the lighter side.

Lanesha is right about one thing, I thought. I pulled away from the curb. Vanilla lovin’, here I come.

Excerpt from James W. Lewis

What would you do if you had a layover in Las Vegas ... on a Friday night ... with too much time on your hands?

Oh yeah, and a wedding ring on your finger?

Would you find a place to stay and chill?

Or find a nightclub to play the field?

Remember: your spouse won't know.
Maybe you would narrate your one night in Vegas like this...
Can’t believe this. I’m stuck here.

For six weeks, I’d been in Norfolk, Virginia. I couldn’t wait to leave for San Diego to see my wife and seven-year-old son again. Finally left Norfolk this afternoon. Damn plane ride from Norfolk International took five hours, but now I’m at McCarran Airport ‘bout to change flights--until they announced my homeward bound 747 has engine problems. No new flights until tomorrow morning, so the airline will give me a voucher for meals and a cheap-ass motel.

I check my watch. Damn, it’s only 6:17p.m. My new flight’s not until 9:45a.m. That’s damn near sixteen hours to kill.

No wonder I can’t stop smiling.

A layover. In Las Vegas. On a Friday night.

I pull off my wedding ring and stuff it in my pants pockets.

In Norfolk, I led a four-man team to test a new logistics information database that documents maintenance time for naval aircraft upkeep. Norfolk was aw’ight, but I worked more than played.

Hadn’t been on a trip in a while, so it was nice to break monotony, get a little perdiem money, ya know. I went to a few clubs, hit the gym everyday. In my Comfort Inn hotel room, I watched TV shows that I usually miss at home. It was cool.

I’d been away for a long time, and straight up--it was time to get back to my family. Right now, I should be on the plane chillin’ with a King magazine.

But, ya know what? Things happen you can’t help. We’ve all had car problems; planes have them, too. My plane just happened to break down in America’s adult playground.
And that’s where I am for the night. Las Vegas. By myself. With no one to watch me.
No more work. It’s time to play.

I get my voucher and luggage, then stroll through the airport. Beeps, dings, and other animated jingles sound off around me. I forgot the airport has slot machines.

I pass several hotel gift shops. Thought about buying a Luxor shot glass for the wife and a little sumn’ from Circus Circus for my son--but I figure since I’ll be out and about, I can probably get that stuff cheaper somewhere else.

Hmmm … that’s a thought: Which hotel should I spend most of my time? MGM Grand? New York, New York? Luxor? Shoot, don’t matter. They all have slot machines and card tables to get my gamble on.

But, of course, I wanna see my share of T & A. And it’s May, too? Shoot, that means short skirts and tube tops. Heard the clubs were off the chain, too. I think it’s time to find out.

In the airport lobby, I call Karen, my wifey. When I tell her the bad news, the happy tone in her voice brakes into a long sigh. Doesn’t help matter when I tell her I’m in Vegas. I can see Karen rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

She says, “don’t be tryin’ to pick up no girls, now. I don’t wanna have to drive up there.”

Knowing her, she probably would make the four-hour trip. She doesn’t mention anything about me losing money while gambling--just warns me to avoid females. So jealous.
“Baby, c’mon!” I say. “I’m probably gonna walk around a lil’ bit and try to win a jackpot. You know I can’t have fun without you here, anyway.”

“Um-hum. Whatever. I don’t mind you having fun--as long as you stay away from those nasty girls! And don’t be goin’ to no club, either!”

I chuckle. “Baby, chill! I’m tired, anyway. I won’t be out long!”

And we go back and forth. Karen’s spit-spats eat my ear for ‘bout two minutes until I ask about Jarvis, my son. She says he’s knocked out on the sofa, so I tell her not to wake him.

After a little sweet-talk to calm her nerves, I tell her I have to find a hotel. Finally, we say our “I love you’s” and “good-bye’s”, then hang up. Time for brothaman to hit the town!

I got money to win, women to see, and a club to hit tonight!

I call a hotel that’s near Las Vegas Blvd--aka, the Strip. Days Inn has vacancy, so I reserve a room and jet.

Outside, a small group of travelers waiting for cabs stand ahead of me. The sun has sunk from the sky to give way to the moon, but dry desert air still heats my skin. I stand for a few minutes before an airport guy waves a cab for me. I hand my bag to the driver, hop in, and we roll.

We take Tropicana Avenue and then creep down the Strip, the heart of Vegas. I see the hotel New York, New York for the first time. Damn, it’s a perfect replica of the Manhattan skyline! A high-speed rollercoaster passes through the hotel and near the Statue of Liberty. Man, I’m lovin’ this.

We pass MGM Grand, the Monte Carlo, Aladdin, Paris … damn. It’s like an assembly line of glitz, glamour, and excess. Video billboards flash names and faces of famous entertainers in bright, rainbow colors. Classical music grabs my attention, and I turn to see the choreographed patterns of Bellagio’s water symphony. Off-da-chain! I’d never seen it before, except in the movie “Ocean’s Eleven.”

A billboard with large, silver stars covering a blonde’s breasts catches my upward gaze--an advertisement for a “gentlemen’s” club, aka strip joint. Naughty vibes sail the hot blood in my veins. Damn, I can’t wait to explore this erotic candyland on my own. No wonder they call this place “Sin City.”

We turn on Flamingo Avenue and hit Koval Lane a beat later. The driver pulls up to the hotel entrance. After he hands me my bag, I give him the fare plus a five-dollar tip. Shoot, I hope a slot machine gives me a tip. A big-ass tip--like seven figures. Well … six figures will do. I’m not greedy.

I check in and get the key. My watch reads 7:10. It’s early, but I still double-time to my room, pulling my bag-on-wheels behind me. Once inside, I turn on the bath water.

After a quick shower, I keep it simple--Pelle Pelle jeans, matching short-sleeved, collared-shirt, Lugz shoes, ya know. CK cologne will damn sure entice the ladies. A silver chain around my neck is the cherry on the cake. Now I’m ready to introduce myself to the freaks of the night.

I call wifey first, though, mainly to tell her I made it to the hotel okay. She doesn’t chew my ear this time, but I still baby her with sweet talk. Gotta remind my woman I’ll be a good boy, despite my real intentions. Jarvis is in bed now, so I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I say “I love you,” hang up, check the million-dollar face in the bathroom mirror one last time--then roll out.

My wedding ring lies in the top drawer of the nightstand. I have stripped away “Hubby” and “Daddy” and donned my “Playa-Playa” suit for the night.

But damn … I don’t even know where to go. Too many places to see. Ain’t like I can do the whole town; I only have ‘bout $120 on me. And where’s a tight Hip-Hop club, anyway?

As I pass through the lobby, I see a cute, young sista at the front desk. She might know the hot spot.

She welcomes me with a smile. Nametag on her white shirt says “Janice.”

I say, “how ya doin’, Janice? Hey, can you tell me where to find a good nightclub?”
She twists her lips a little, shifts her eyes down. “Um … I hear the club inside the Luxor is nice.”

I frown. “The Luxor has a club?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “Haven’t been yet, though.”

“Whaaat?” I say, bottom lip hanging. “You don’t be up in there shakin’ your tailfeatha?”

“No, no.” Janice flashes the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “I’m not a club girl. I’m a homebody.”

“Too bad. Wouldn’t mind seeing you up in there,” I say, flaunting my pearly whites, too.
The corners of her full lips rise. She lowers her head and thin braids slip from her shoulder. A shy girl. My type.

“I might just do that,” she says, her gaze now on me. Yeah, she got a look in her eye.

She says, “Do you have a ride there? I can call a cab if you don’t.”

“Actually, I do need a ride.” I still try to blind her with my pearlys. Ladies love the smile.

“I appreciate that.”

Janice calls Yellow cab. Before my ride comes, she promises me she’ll be at the club.

Playa-Playa is a little rusty, but the mack skills can still infiltrate a woman’s brick wall. We rollin’ now. As we turn down the street that leads to the Luxor, it occurs to me that I’ve seen the Luxor’s outside before--but not the inside.

I feel like I’m visiting an ancient Egyptian pyramid from another planet. A blue, thin laser beam cuts the sky from the Luxor’s tip. Its Sphinx sits in front like a mythical creature guarding his home. The dagger-shaped obelisk stands at least four stories.

After I pay the driver, I dodge a limo and other cabs while strolling toward the entrance. My watch reads 7:56. Figure I’ll kill a few hours tryna win a Cadillac Escalade or big dollahs worth at least two commas. I stroll inside and...
“Daaaaayum!” I cry, all loud and ghetto. “This place is tight!”

I damn near crack bones in my neck looking up. Glad I don’t have vertigo cause it would kill me up in here.

I can see every hotel room floor--‘bout thirty of ‘em. Shoot, the entire structure is inclined toward the tip of the pyramid--even the elevators. Think I’d heard a friend call them “inclinators” ‘cause they rise at a 45-degree angle. Bronze and gold colors sparkle from marble floors and pharaohs cased in stone. Nice!

I’m gettin’ a room here when I come back, that’s for damn sure.

I stroll around a bit, peep out the place. The cave-like entrance to the club--called The Dungeon--is just ‘round the corner, not too far from the front desks. A cardboard sign says The Dungeon closes at dawn. Daaaayum! All clubs in San Dog shut down ‘bout two.

Cool. Playa-Playa has plenty of time to come up big tonight.

Since I know the club site now, I check out the Imax theatre and a few gift shops. Just killin’ time, really. Bells and whistles from a million slots finally lure me in. Time to win that Escalade. Or sumn’ big.

Wheel of Fortune dollar slots keep a brotha hostage. I almost hit a thousand bucks, but two-fifty ain’t bad. A waitress with legs a mile long and makeup like smeared purple crayon stops by me. Yeah. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. I order Amaretto Sours and get my sip on.

After a while, the slot begins to drain my winnings. Since I’m not greedy, I walk away with ‘bout three-“hun.”

Then I hit up a Blackjack table. Same scenario here, too: win some, lose some, get my sip on some more. Don’t wanna spend half my mortgage buyin’ drinks up in da club. As long as I’m gambling, the drinks are free.

Losing, winning--then losing again gets old. I’m still up ‘bout two-twenty, so I quit. When I check my watch, I’m surprised it’s 11:10. Time to roll.

I approach the club and see a few females standing in a short line. Aw, yeah. Freaks travel in packs and come in different flavors. T & A swell in mini-skirts, halter tops, and tight jeans. I slow my stroll, put a little “pimp” in my strut. A few heads turn my way. I hear whispers here and there. Yeah, they peepin’ me out.

Once I reach the register, cool mode almost crumbles. I mean, c’mon, twenty dollars to get in? Damn, I’ve never paid that much for a club. Better be off da chain in there.

It is.

My eyebrows shoot up. It’s huge up in here! ‘Bout the size of a high school auditorium with a mile-high ceiling. Tight as hell how they peppered a futuristic Egyptian flavor and still kept that underground look.

As I stroll, a Ludacris cut booms from speakers that can crack eardrums and cave in skulls. I turn to a center stage. Females in fluorescent pink bikinis strip-dance around poles and get freak-nasty in cages. The DJ is behind a U-shaped booth so big it looks like he can live in that mug. Laser beam lights flash across a wide circular dance floor. A few clubbers get their boogie on.

Damn, I’m lovin’ this.

It’s still kinda early. According to the female at the register, The Dungeon gets packed a little after midnight--but Playa-Playa doesn’t waste time. I step to a longhaired Hispanic female sitting on the stage, ask for a dance, and we do our thing.

For ‘bout two hours, I rotate between the bar and dance floor. DJ does the same with Rap and House music. When he plays House, I hit up the bar or stand near the floor ‘cause House ain’t my cup of Kool-Aid.

And ol’ girl was right, too. Club becomes like a Volkswagen crammed with ten people.

Even the dance floor is crowded.

I damn near step on heads tryna get ten feet. Heat from the club lights has merged with body heat--it feels like my skin is melting. My throat is raw, so I squeeze through bodies tryna get to the bar for bottled water.

Then I see her.

I freeze. The sista descends a small set of stairs with another female while holding a glass.

My head turns 45-degrees, eyes shifting down.

Definition: Thick.
Naw, not just thick, but thick-thickity-thick.

She wears a white short-sleeve crop top. Hip hugger pants are like a second layer of skin over thoroughbred thighs. Ass galore.

“Daaaaayum,” I whisper. She leans against the wall next to the stage, stirring ice with a thin straw. Her chocolate belly is as flat as a dime.

A tall white dude bumps my back and kills my booty-trance. Ya can’t stand like a statue near stairs that lead to the bar in a packed club, so I back away, but my gaze is still glued to ol’ girl. Quenching my thirst became trivial the moment she invaded my peripheral vision.

DJ kills House music and spins Beyonce’s “Baby Boy.” She bobs her head. That’s my cue to holla. I see fellas peepin’ and pointin’, but I step to her first.

I lean toward her ear. The smell of blossoms caress my nostrils.

I say, “would you like to dance?”

She turns to me, checks a brotha out. Pearly whites become her bait. She nods.
Her friend takes the glass. Ol’ girl grabs my hand and leads me to the floor. I think my head inflates double the size.

We twist through a web of booty-shakers and head-nodders. I stroll behind her and keep a short distance between us, my gaze stuck to her lower half. Heart thumps lose track of its steady rhythm ‘cause that ass … damn … makes no sense. A booty jam-packed with muscle can cloud a man’s brain and induce a euphoric stupor. Butt cheeks like pike pedals when she walks--one up, one down.

Beyonce commands some dude to fulfill her fantasy. Within seconds, Ms. Thickness has hacked into my mind, kicked Kenya Moore out my head--and established herself as my new #1 fantasy.

Maybe fantasies come true? Time will tell...

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www.jameswlewis.com