The Build Up (13)

As soon as I began flipping through the TV channels, I got a text message. I knew it wasn’t my mom because she was on a bus heading to the casino in Tunica with her girlfriend, Carol. Besides, she hated texting. She was far too long-winded. Part of me hoped it was Bella, my best friend, inquiring about my day. We hadn’t spoken all day and needed to debrief. Disappointingly, it wasn’t Bella. Perhaps it was someone with potential to help me destress after work.

Korny: Hey stranger. I’m back in town.
I was wrong.

I cocked my head to the side, looking at the message as if it was hieroglyphics. Korey aka “Korny” in my contact list, was a guy that had been nothing more than one of many friends-with-benefits I’d accumulated since moving back to Atlanta. After Maurice, whose sex was so good that it clouded my judgement, I was over dating and sex that made me think I was in love. All of Maurice’s lies about loving me and wanting to be in a relationship were his way to derail and eventually torpedo my professional life to elevate his own. For that reason, I had sworn me off relationships, especially those that distracted me from my job. Sex I could do. As cold as it sounded, men were just here to service me when I wanted sex that scratched that need-an-orgasm-filled itch.

Korey wanted to be the one to scratch that itch tonight, despite not hearing from him in forever. I preferred to be the one making the sex appointments. Korey was an absolute bore. He talked endlessly about his job as an associate professor of sociology at Emory. And as much as I loved sociological issues, I didn’t want to talk about them on a date as the precursor to foreplay. I texted him back.

Hey. Kind of busy right now. Can we chat later?
Korny: Sure. Just wanted to see how you are. Maybe see if you wanted company. Celebrate your first day.
Christ. While I appreciated him remembering that it was my first day at R&R, this dude couldn’t take a hint. I tapped the phone against my chin, contemplating if sex with Korey was worth suffering through the latest rambling about prison pipelines or school push-out. I mean, not that those issues weren’t important. They just didn’t make my pussy wet.

Fuck that. I wasn’t about to suffer through foreplay that Henry Louis Gates could have written.

I texted back:

Thanks for remembering but truly, I’m kind of beat. New job stuff. New routine. Had to walk to the train station. TTYL.
I’m not even sure why I told Korey all of that. He would simply disregard my life and just start discussing his own.

Korey: That sucks. Just went to a conference in DC and I talked to Dr. Cornel West. It was amazing. I thought you’d like to hear about the talk I presented on Black male teacher retention in public schools.
Ugh. My pussy was officially the Sahara. I didn’t bother to respond.

As soon as I closed the message, I felt a twinge of regret. Korey was boring, but the sex was decent. Okay, more like reliable. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being amazing, Korey was like a 7.5. I’d probably achieve an orgasm, but not one good enough to put up with the boringness that came with it. After sex, he’d talk endlessly, and I’d usually fall asleep to the sound of his monotonous chatter. He was the human version of a sleep app.

It had been well over a month since I had some type of sexual anything, not counting solo trips around home base. But to break a month-long drought with Korey would be a waste. I’d rather watch Holmes on Homes find asbestos in the basement of a haunted house. On second thought, I’d rather watch paint dry. Come to think of it, one time while Korey and I were having sex, I looked at the walls and wondered to myself, “Hmm... I wonder how they would look in a smoky, navy color.” I ended up calling Mr. George the next day to get a navy accent wall in the bedroom.

Okay, so maybe 7.5 was pushing it. He’s really a 6. Or a strong 5.5.

As I sipped my wine and waited for my takeout, a thought ran through my mind. One month of no contact. No calls. No texts. And he hits me up for some coochie? Korey thinks I’m one of “those” fat girls: desperate and lonely.

A lot of folks think fat girls sit at home because no one wants to date us. Not true. Most of us sit home because we choose to. In my case, I was alone but not lonely. I had a phone full of the numbers of men who wanted to not only sleep with me but date me. Many accomplished, professional men from all walks of life. From construction workers to CEOs, I had my pick. This big girl wasn’t pressed to just go out for the sake of going out. No free meal was that good to entice me out of the comfort of my home just to waste my time. All fat women are not sitting home sad, depressed, stuffing our face with cookies, and waiting on Prince (or Princess) Charming. Korey, in all his arrogance, probably hit me up because he thinks an over-40-year-old, single fat Black woman is grateful for attention, any attention, from a man. Hell, from anyone. If only he knew. One phone call and my drought would be over. No, sir, I was home now, enjoying my wine, waiting on my takeout, by choice. Besides, most of the guys whose numbers were in my phone just didn’t do it for me anymore. I realized they all lacked joy. I didn’t laugh with any of them. Not like I had laughed with Porter today. He made what started out a colossally shitty first day at work alright in the end. I appreciated that. I don’t think any of the men in my current roster did that for me.

I wrapped myself in my throw blanket and settled into the comfort of my couch. I looked over at my phone and bit my lip. But it has been a month...

Ugh, no, Ari! Sex with a walking TedTalk is not worth the time.