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Xpress Yourself Publishing, February 15, 2008
ISBN-10: 0-9799757-5-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-9799757-5-2
5.063 x 7.813 inches
Trade Paperback
$12.95

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LINDA R. HERMAN is the author of Consequences: When Love Is Blind, Consequences, Cost of Our Affairs, co-author of Somebody Prayed For Me and co-founder of Authors Support Authors. While raising two teens and a two year old as well as holding down a full time job as an emergency 911 dispatcher, she makes the time to read and write. She resides in South Georgia with her husband and their three kids.

 Linda is a strong advocate for the prevention of HIV/AIDS and abuse of any kind. Her novel Consequences is a tear-jerker that raises the awareness of HIV/AIDS to all who read it. In fact, Xpress Yourself Publishing has received emails from readers who were tested after reading Consequences.

Chapter 1

 With the receiver plastered to my ear, I can’t believe what Andre is saying to me.  It’s our seventeenth wedding anniversary and he’s calling to tell me he has a late meeting with a client.  We won’t be able to go out and celebrate.  I have to call and cancel our dinner reservations.

Disappointment rises from deep within, lodging in my throat. “Are you sure you can’t reschedule?” I pout, not wanting to cancel our reservations at the Chez La Vous, a popular upscale French restaurant, which means I had to schedule reservations six months in advance, and here he is telling me that he can’t make it. I had planned for us to enjoy a nice dinner followed by a late night drive, and then an intense night of lovemaking.

“It’s the only night he is free, Sade.  I’m really sorry, baby.  We’ll have to celebrate another night.”  He apologizes, yet again.

So angry, and unable to muster a sound above a whisper, I say, “Okay,” before he tells me again that he’s sorry and that he loves me. Damn it, I don’t want to hear his apologies. I want to hear him tell me we are going to spend our anniversary together, like we’re supposed to do.

Placing the phone in its cradle, I solemnly head upstairs to take off my evening gown.  I don’t need it just to sit at home and watch TVLand.  George and Weezie won’t care what I’m wearing.

“Why tonight?”  I ask rhetorically as I drag myself upstairs to the bedroom.  I don’t want to celebrate our anniversary some other time.  I want to celebrate it tonight.  We were married on June 15th, not the 16th or 14th.  I know how important his clients are to him but who wouldn’t understand a man being with his wife on their anniversary?

Slipping out of black three-inch heels, I unzip the gown and watch as it billows down around my feet. Lazily, I pick it up and hang it in the closet, and sigh heavily.  Staring at the dress, once again, disappointment knots in my stomach. I really wanted to show off my new dress.  It’s black and black is beautiful.  It falls just below my knees and I look great in it.  I’m thirty-five years old and I look great at five-six and one hundred and forty-five pounds.  I don’t have the pouch that some mothers can’t get rid of after having babies.  I do several crunches a day to maintain my flat tummy.  My breasts are full and my hips and butt are curvy.

Only wearing a red, silk thong and a matching bra, I admire my body in the full-length mirror.  “Andre, how can you pass up on this?  I was going to put it down tonight,” I say as I give myself a pat on my full, firm bottom. “I know what I can do!”  I yell to myself excitedly.

Taking off the bra and thong, I pull out a long, black trench coat, from the closet, and slip into it. I step back into the black three-inch heels.  If Andre can’t come to me, I’ll go to him. I’ll make sure this anniversary is memorable.

Wearing nothing but a trench coat and high heels, I slide behind the wheel of my silver Lexus and drive to Andre’s office.  When he sees me in this trench coat, in the middle of June, I’m sure he’ll get the hint and end his meeting ASAP!  I’ve brought along a bottle of white wine, strawberries and whip cream.  In all the years of our marriage, we’ve never made love in his office and I’m looking forward to this first.

When I pull into the parking lot, Andre’s black Porsche is the only car I see.  I guess his client hasn’t made his first big vehicle purchase yet.  Andre represents players in both the NBA and NFL.  A lot of them get fancy sports cars and big houses before the ink dries on their newly negotiated contracts.  I guess this one was very new and hadn’t gotten around to that just yet.

I take the elevator to the fifth floor, to Andre’s office.  His secretary’s desk is empty.  I’m not surprised.  Tarilyn normally does not have to work late when Andre has after hour’s meetings with clients.  She normally has all the paperwork prepared prior to five o’clock.  Andre often brags about how great of an assistant she is and has been for the past few years.  We both like her a lot.

I leave the basket with the wine and strawberries at her desk.  Approaching Andre’s office, I see that the door is closed. Now, why would the door be closed if the office is empty?  In front of the door, and just before I knock, I hear noises that cause me to stop, with my hand in mid-air. 

 “Is that all you got?  Come with it!” I hear an unfamiliar male’s voice say.

 “Can you handle it?  How about that?” I hear Andre tease. 

Both sound out of breath, panting like a couple of dogs in heat.  This can’t be what it sounds like.

As rage builds within me, I don’t knock on the door or even reach for the door handle. Before I know it, I raise my leg as high as I can and kick the door wide open! I immediately gasp and cover my mouth, as the door bounces off the wall and slowly winds down to a partial closing.  The scene before me is horrific.  My husband has a young man bent over his desk, with their pants down around their ankles. 

My legs weaken. “Oh God!  Oh God!”  I scream to the top of my lungs.

Andre quickly withdraws from his lover and pulls his pants up.  The young man was so into their disgusting lovemaking that he doesn’t even realize I am here. 

Finally, he makes eye contact with me and exclaims, “Oh shit!”

“Sade…,” Andre says, walking toward me.

I raise my hand, stopping him in his tracks..  I don’t want him near me!  I tell the young man, “Get the hell out of here! Get out of here now before I kill your ass!”

He tries to pull his pants up while running toward me, and the door.  He falls but never stops moving, quickly scattering toward the door before rising to his feet.  As he passes me, he says, “I’m sorry, Ma’am.  I’m so sorry!”

I don’t know who he is.  I don’t even know if he plays basketball or football.  He probably has a girlfriend who, like me, doesn’t know he has a boyfriend.  He’s a pretty young boy of no more than twenty-two, with a light complexion and wavy hair.  I can’t tell for sure how tall he is since he was ass up over the desk and then running and falling down.

“I can explain,” Andre has the nerve to say. 

“What’s to explain?  I just caught you fucking another man!” I yell.

“Lower your voice!” he says in a hushed tone as if it were during business hours.

“Who’s going to hear me?” I ask, looking around.

After a few moments of silence, he says, with a heavy sigh, “I’m not gay, Sade. I was just trying something different.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I tilt my head to the side. “Not gay?” I ask in disbelief. “What else is it called when a man fucks another man, Andre?”  I’m anticipating his response.  It’s taking every ounce of restraint I have not to pick up the first thing I get my hands on and knock him in his head!

“He’s gay!” he says pointing at the empty doorway.  His lover, like Elvis, has left the building.  I don’t know how he arrived or how he left, but I do know for sure that he’s gone.  “He’s the one who gets turned out.  Nobody is going up in me,” he says patting his wide chest, like Tarzan

I can’t believe my ears. Andre is an intelligent man. He can’t be so naïve that he only defines gay as the man who plays the bottom role.  I don’t care if you’re the fucker or the fuckee, when two men have sex, or two women have sex, they are both gay!

I gather the words to a question I’m not sure I want the answer to. “Is he the first?” I tighten the belt on my trench coat. I now feel stupid for driving over here wearing nothing but damn high heels and a trench coat.  This night will be memorable but it won’t be because I was the one putting it down.

He lowers his eyes and stares blankly at the floor.  That’s when I knew I’ve been living in the dark.  He’s been living a double life and, as always, I, the wife, am the last one to know. 

I sigh deeply. “How long has this been going on?”  I’ve been so stupid!

“I was curious in high school but I didn’t start experimenting until college,” he admits without looking at me, the coward. “It’s nothing I do all the time, Sade.  Sometimes I just want something different,” he has the nerve to admit.

I throw my hands up in surrender. “It’s different,” I sarcastically say as I turn to walk away. That much I can’t argue. A gay relationship is definitely different.

“What’s with the trench coat?” he asks before I exit his office.  I stop abruptly and massage my temples. I feel a headache coming on, because I can’t stand the sight of him or the sound of his voice right now.  If I don’t get out of here, I will kill him, even if I have to do it with my bear hands.

I spin around, unloosen the belt and open the coat wide.  I let his eyes roam over my nakedness because his hands never will again.  “This is what you didn’t want,” I snarl.

“Can we talk about this?” he pleads as I close the coat and tighten the belt around my waist.

“We’re going to go and get tested for AIDS first thing tomorrow. I don’t care what kind of meetings you have. Cancel them,” I order as I walk out of the office. But, before I take another step, I turn to face him. “Don’t even think about coming home tonight unless you want me to cut your dick off and stick it up your ass.  That’s something different!”

“I’m not gay!  Don’t say anything about this, please!” he begs as the elevator doors close. 

The tears threaten to fall but I can’t give into the pain, not yet.  Whom would I want to tell this to?  I’m a beautiful woman who caught her husband fucking another man.  What does that say about me?  Is this my fault?  Was I not woman enough for him?

When I get off the elevator, I notice the fuckee in the lobby, sitting in a chair, looking pitiful.  He jumps up to run toward the door when he hears the click-clack of my heels.

“No need to fear. If that ten-inch dick didn’t hurt you, neither can I.” I pull my keys out of my pocket. “You may as well go back up there and finish up. He’s not coming home with me.”

“I’m sorry about everything, Ma’am. I really am,” he says with a thick Latino accent.  I’m guessing he’s a mix of black and Puerto Rican.

I’m not mad at this young man.  He’s not the man I married seventeen years ago.  He didn’t father my kids. I didn’t lie beside him every night never suspecting that he was gay.  No, I’m not mad at him at all. Actually, I pity him because he is one more black man who is too afraid to accept and admit to his sexuality. He is one more black man who will marry and father kids but will always have that taste for something different.  Every now and then, he will go out and be a fucker or a fuckee but never admit that he’s gay.

“Good night,” I say to him, as the look in my eyes express the sadness in my heart.  I’m sad for both of us.

I leave, not caring if he returns to Andre’s office or not.  I don’t care what they do to each other.  I just hate what Andre has done to our marriage.  How do I explain this to our children, family and friends?  Everyone thinks that we are so in love; I thought it too.  I really was in love.  We have lived this fairytale marriage for all these years and now it’s come to a nasty, unhappy ending.

I love him but I can’t stay married to him.  I can’t pretend that I didn’t see what I saw.  Through amber-colored eyes, I saw my husband having sex with another man.  I would be a fool to put myself at risk and stay with him.  It was shame on him when I didn’t know.  Now that I know, it would be shame on me.

In my mind, the disgusting scene plays over and over, ugly images of my husband loving another man. “God, please let the results be negative,” I silently pray as I pull into my driveway.

It’s hard enough to know my marriage is over but the worse case scenario would be receiving positive results.  It’s a death sentence and there’s no undoing it. How dare he determine my fate? Who does he think he is, God?

When I make my way upstairs, I fall on my bed and allow my tears to fall, crying myself to sleep as darkness blankets the room.  This is not how I planned this evening.