Page 3 of Serenity

The lacy fabric collapsed from my face, taking with it my only source of concealment. The audience wasn’t completely dark. A hue of purple was cast throughout our seating space, allowing enough light for people to maneuver through the area. It mattered not. Far too absorbed in what was happening and how it was happening on stage, I hardly heard Brian ask me if I was okay or if I was ready to leave.

Hell no, I wasn’t okay, but I damn sure wasn’t ready to leave.

At this point, the woman had risen and changed positions, taking merciless backshots. Hardly paying attention to her, I watched him, taking note of his bent knees. Or the way he stood on his toes. Or the way he stirred her insides with the swirl of his hips. Or the way he bit his lips.

Shamefully, I wanted the man. As much as the wind pushing in and out of my chest, I wanted him. It was repulsive. The need. The lust. The pulse humming between my thighs. The expansion of my pupils despite the lowering of my lidded eyes. His presence was sensational, and I imagined he felt the same.

I could have been imagining it, but as the bed rotated to a stop, the man on stage seemed to be looking directly at me. The disconcerting fusion of our gazes caused me to shift in my seat. Twice, I blinked, dismissing the thought, though I stared right back. There were at least fifty souls in the audience. He could have been looking at anybody.

Biting into his lower lip, he plunged into the woman again and again. Unexplainable and unshakeable, magnetism loomed for him, and his eyes never seemed to leave mine.

Then he spoke something to the woman or someone. His expression changed, shifting quickly into a frown. His strokes were angry. His eyes were on me. The woman got louder as he continued to plow her, and as swiftly as it all occurred, he pulled out. I watched and waited for a cum shot that never came—from him. The woman, however, erupted like Niagara. Tighter, my legs squeezed, and his gaze lingered in the crowd on me with a frown.

What the fuck was going on?

“Reni!” Brian whisper-shouted.

“Huh?” Breaking free of the spell I’d been under, I looked at Brian. He was standing.

“We have to leave.”

What? Why? What happened? So many questions swirled in my head as I rose to my feet and followed Brian as he shuffled through an unforgiving audience. We were interrupting the show.

As we neared the exit, I chanced one last look at the fine nigga on stage to find his eyes staring directly at me. My suspicions landed accurately. It wasn’t a coincidence. He’d been eyeing me in the audience the entire time.

Fighting to regain an evasive composure, we exited the auditorium.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, trying to steady the untamable marathon in my chest.

Palming his head, Brian cut his eyes in my direction. A look of disappointment threaded with annoyance. “Hell naw. They kickin us out.”

“Seriously?” Discontent and disbelief tap danced at the forefront of my mind. “What did we do?”

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, huh? They weren’t kicking me out. They were kicking you out.”

Months passed since my embarrassing experience at Genevieve. To date, I hadn’t discovered the reason I was so swiftly dismissed from the theater where the “performance” was held. The masked man on stage was never forgotten. I held in my thoughts the memory of him on that stage. Frequently, he haunted my self-pleasuring sessions.

Still, obsessing over the fine-ass mystery man wouldn’t get me any closer to the love or companionship I’d begun to crave. I had to keep pressing forward, away from my vulgar fantasies. Sanguine about my future love life, I re-entered the dating pool.

FIRST WORST DATES

I didn’t know it was a cesspool.

Craig

The fun guy. Craig knew how to have a good time. Never too serious about life or anything for that matter, a joke dwelled in his uncanny thoughts, and laughter reigned in his heart. Refreshing, he was in comparison to all the frogs masquerading as perfect princes.

Our first encounter took place at Vivid, the gallery I owned. For hours, he entertained my ears with jokes ranging from the disparity in the lack of representation of Black art in galleries to the rising costs of healthcare. Craig knew how to transform anything into ridicule.

Our first date was casual. A day date that was supposed to include brunch and a walk through Anderson Mills Park. During our walk, I found myself grinning at Craig, admiring his appearance, and hanging onto his every word. Every joke.

So far, so good.

Our chemistry fizzled when he dug into his nose and tugged on a hair in his nostril.

The cringe I crunged.

“What—what are you doing?”