Sitting in my easy chair next to the man snoozing, the same man who had spent 25 minutes the night before tenderly taking me over the edge numerous times, I smiled, thinking of where I had once been in comparison to where I was now. How at one time being afraid of a long-term commitment meant I would hook up with some guy three or four times a year. That all ended the day I met a most unlikely man in a most unlikely setting. What made it so unlikely is that I was a black professional woman who had only dated black men. Nickle size snowflakes have begun to fall as I watch the snowstorm make its way across the lake toward our house. In another hour the brunt of the storm would hit, making a change from soft and gentle to a full on storm. It made me think back to how my life made a paradigm shift at a bar almost twenty years ago. Following are my thoughts.


I scanned the room from the bar stool only to be sorely disappointed. It was eight o’clock on a Friday night, I thought there would be more people. I’m not well acquainted with bars and nightclubs but I was surprised there weren’t more guys trying to hit on me. I’m a 39-year-old lady of color, my body is still solid, my facial features are soft and inviting. From my point of view I considered myself well dressed, mercy me, I even went all out and wore the sexy silk panties I’d ordered from Paris a year ago. That, along with my transparent lace bra and lace topped stay ups, made me feel as though I should be inviting.

My hair of soft ringlets flows just beneath my shoulders, I have just the right amount of cleavage showing, and the mid-thigh pleated skirt enhances my long legs. A look I’m anything but comfy in, being in the medical profession my everyday work attire is far more subdued. I’m used to scrubs and smocks and comfortable footwear, not the three-inch heels I happened to be sporting at the moment. I work as an audiologist at a regional hospital in an area that is not heavily populated, the size of our city is less than ten thousand.

My career was my boyfriend in the beginning, it absorbed every waking moment of my day, it wasn’t until three or four years ago that I realized life was slipping away. I wasn’t looking for a mister right to sweep me off my feet and have a dozen kids. No, I was looking for a physical encounter with a man of my choosing, nothing long term, nothing meaningful, simply a fun time in the sack for a weekend. The internet has made that a simple task, and I say task because I vet every guy I intend to meet. They have to be a professional of some sort, college educated, they must be clean, as in disease free, handsome, gainfully employed and share the same philosophy that I do, a weekend of fun and nothing more. So far, they have all been black men.

I’ve been in Albuquerque for a conference, now called symposiums, for four days, I have two nights before I fly home Sunday. The conference met all my expectations, it was interesting and provided me with answers to questions I hadn’t yet asked. There was but one final detail before returning home, I was determined to get laid by someone worthy of my body.

As stated before, I remain celibate for the most part, I can go months without sex, but when the urge arises, I go far from home. It’s typically a flight to New Orleans, or Atlanta, or maybe Dallas if I’m feeling real adventurous. I take the time to vet my potential lover online and then by phone, the rules are simple, we both prove we are disease free, they wear a condom, I don’t do rough or anal, it’s a one or two night stand at the most. There will be no ‘falling in love’, we are both professionals walking into an encounter with our eyes wide open.

To be honest I usually liked the two or three time a year weekend getaway. I was a different person during these excursions, not in a slutty way, more in a way that let me relax enough to say what I wanted and do what I wanted instead of what was expected where I lived and worked. The guy I was expecting to meet for the upcoming weekend had texted two hours earlier to say he was a no-show, at least he texted and didn’t just leave me hanging. I thought, ‘too bad for you buddy’, I am one horny girl and somehow, some way, I’m going to find someone I could trust to fill my needs. I’m tall enough at five foot ten that I was able to scan the room without standing. Where are the guys, I was asking myself, I mean the cute ones with some substance to their being? Someone I wouldn’t be ashamed to walk out with arm in arm.

To my left the seat is empty, in the seat next to that is a tall black guy who thinks he’s hot and is not. His tacky three-hundred-dollar suit is my first clue, my second clue is he keeps wanting to buy me drinks. It was strike three when the idiot made a circle with his left thumb and forefinger, then moved his right index finger in and out with a shit eating grin on his face. I extended my left hand in a closed fashion and slowly raised my middle finger. He was one of those guys who I’m sure lives by the creed, “If you can’t dazzle them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bullshit.” It was easy to see he was all bullshit.

Then there’s Buford beer gut to my far right. He’s an older white guy with a shitty comb over and worn-out suit. Obviously a frequent flyer for whatever crappy company trying to sell something, anything, in hopes of receiving a commission check at the end of the month. He’s been perving me for a good fifteen minutes, undressing me with his eyes as though I was going to drop to my knees and suck his withered, shriveled cock.

It wasn’t long before mister ‘Hey baby, why you here alone?’ sat on the stool to my right. Another black guy, average height, an obvious gym rat, shaved head, halfway stylish clothes, a toothy grin and the manners of a cave man. He no more than sat down when I felt his hand on my knee. I politely removed it, he immediately put it back. As I was again moving said unwanted advancements from my body the dolt got close to my face.

“I know you’re looking for some hard black cock to ride. The hunt is over sugar, I’m your man. I got all you can handle baby.”

What is it about guys who think if they talk dirty or act like a serial rapist that a woman will somehow acquiesce to their stupid behavior? What has happened to guys taking their time and being tender? Hmm, I think it was destroyed by Tinder, but I digress.

Moving his hand I held on to it as I spoke. “Listen asshole, I’m not looking for a hard black cock as you so crudely put it. You’re just another guy who thinks five inches is ten. Go sell that shit to one of those white girls in the corner booth. Move your fuckin hand or I start screaming.”

He parted in the fashion I envisioned he might, with a look of disdain he spoke loud enough for others to hear, “Fuck you bitch.”

Flipping a guy off and using the word fuck in any form or fashion was something I only did away from home. Being down and dirty felt good under the right circumstances, it had carried over into the bedroom a few times in the past. Most of the guys I’d encountered couldn’t handle dirty talk during sex. It either put their ego into an overstimulated state thinking they were some kind of super stud, or it made them feel like they were losing control of the situation. The few who took it in stride and added to the role play made it fun and exciting.

Thinking about him telling me to fuck off and deciding not to I thought to myself, “Well wasn’t that sweet?” He had broadcast his IQ and probably his sperm count to the entire room. I was about ready to pull up stakes and go find another watering hole when a guy sat next to me on the left. A white guy who looked to be in his early to mid-forties, looking at me he smiled and nodded, then ordered a house tap. He was a bit taller than me, probably five foot eleven or there about.

I liked the fact that he was dressed up and not down, in a short sleeve dress shirt open at the collar, it looked to be the quality of a Christian Dior or a Perry Ellis, had he worn a coat and tie he’d have been dressed for a gala affair. His slacks were of the same quality, perhaps a Greg Peters or equivalent, it was the brown leather basket weave loafers that made the biggest impression. Those were two-hundred-dollar shoes on his feet, combined with a seventy-dollar shirt and hundred plus dollar slacks, I added two and two together and got 5. He was obviously a professional and if he played his cards right, I’d have him buried as deep in my overly needy pussy as possible before the night was through. If I was lucky, several times.

Not wanting to stare I watched him in the mirror if I thought he wasn’t looking. He had a full head of hair with a tinge of grey here and there, it was obvious when he smiled that he had all his teeth. He didn’t slurp his beer and he wasn’t constantly trying to look down my blouse. I found it interesting that there was no room in the sleeves, his solid biceps filled them entirely. On the inside of his left forearm was a small tattoo that read, “Sweet Melissa, 2012”. I looked for other tatts and saw none. A brochure with a bunch of balloons on it lay open on the bar in front of him, when he looked up and at me I made my move. It was time to soar with the eagles, or crash and burn.

“Hi, my name is Rebecca, most people call me Reba.”

He extended his hand gently shaking mine, not soft like a dead fish, a firm handshake, but meant for a lady’s hand. You know, firm enough to let you know he’s a man without crushing your fingers. With my dainty brown hand in his I marveled at how much bigger his hands were than mine. When I looked up I was mesmerized by his dazzling blue eyes, it was as if they were dancing and twinkling in the light. Letting go of his hand I shifted sideways again allowing my stocking clad legs to lead the way. The swish of silk as I crossed my legs was audible and caused him to look down, after gazing long enough to know my legs were shapely, he moved his gaze to my eyes. Not my boobs, my eyes, I liked him already.

“Hi to you too. I’m Bob, most people call me, (pause and a toothy grin) Bob.”

My mind was whirling, go big or go home baby, I told myself. “Let me guess. Divorced, or unattached and married to your job.”

He laughed softly, again the twinkling eyes, they seemed to worm their way to the very core of my being. Adjusting on the stool so we were facing one another he answered.

“Point number one, widower, point number two, correct, workaholic. And you? What brought you to this particular barstool?”

He didn’t look old enough to be a widower, I felt like a shithead for asking the way I had.

“I’m sorry about your wife. Was it sudden?”

His expression displayed nothing but sadness, the twinkle in his eyes became momentarily dull, then his composure returned.

“Wrong place, wrong time. She was a pharmacist working the evening shift, a pair of gangbangers high on coke walked in demanding money. When she told them she didn’t have access to the safe the little bastards beat and then shot her. I spent the night with her in ICU and held her in my arms as life left her body the next afternoon. The two idiots got 25 to life.”

I was fighting back tears, “Is that what the tatt is for? Your wife’s death?”

“Yeah, she died in 2012, I never want to live long enough that I forget, thus, the year and her name. You didn’t answer my question. What brought you to this bar?”

I laughed softly, “Probably because it’s the most convenient. I’m here for the symposium being hosted in this hotel and thought it would be better to drink here than somewhere I had to find my way back from. I’m an audiologist, what is it you do?”

“No shit? My goodness, I never sat next to a doctor at a bar before. Forgive me, but I need to ask. What is a talented attractive woman like you doing in this yuppy watering hole? You should be out on the town at some swanky place.”

I chuckled, little did he know, then looked up, “I don’t want swanky. Occupation does not determine whether a guy is a dick or not. If he’s a dick, then it doesn’t matter what his occupation is, he’s still a dick. I don’t need what they call an upwardly mobile attitude or lifestyle. I’m a small-town girl from southern Alabama, I tend to gravitate toward the simpler things in life. By the way, my doctorate is in Audiology, though I’ve had medical training, I’m not a physician in any sense of the word. Back to you Bob, you didn’t tell me what you do.”

He knocked back the remaining inch of beer in his glass and signaled for another. Looking at my empty martini glass he raised his eyebrows.

I smiled, “Sure. Why not, the night is young.”

He began his answer with a question. “What do I do? Well I can assure you it is nowhere as impressive or demanding as your job. You help people every day, I just show up and work.”

I tapped his arm, “You’re deflecting Bob. Quit fartin around and tell me what you do.”

“Okay, okay. As I said it’s nowhere as exciting as what you do. I travel around the world building water towers. You know, the big ball or two in the sky over nearly every community, I’m one of the guys who builds them. I spend most of my days hanging from a harness or on a suspended platform welding. Depending on the size of the tower, the crew I work with is usually at the site anywhere from three to six months.”

I was completely caught off guard by his answer. I was expecting a lawyer, or something along those lines, I had never considered such a thing. You drive through a town with the name written on the side of a water tower, or a big smiley face, but you don’t stop and think about the fact that somebody had to build that thing piece by piece from the bottom up. I had been so sure he was some sort of what is commonly referred to as a professional based on his dress, little did I know. He was certainly a professional, just not in a field most people ever considered.

“You mean, like, hanging there? How tall are those things?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate, “How tall? Let me put it this way, high enough you’d never survive a fall. The height depends on the location and local terrain. Average height is around 180 feet. I’ve never seen it but there’s supposed to be one somewhere around 220 feet in New Jersey.”

I chuckled, “I couldn’t do that. An eight-footstep ladder gives me the chills. Heights and me don’t get along. Isn’t it scary?”

He smiled, “It takes some getting used to trusting what holds you up. We’re always tethered, and if we aren’t suspended on rope harness, we work off temporary platforms, to which we’re also tethered. I will admit, it’s hard on your body, I’m getting toward the end of my career doing this. Most guys are out by mid-forties, I’m determined to see 50 before I call it quits.”

I needed to know, “How old are you Bob?”

He looked at me for what seemed like a long time before answering. “I’m 47. Which will likely scare you away. Though I went to college for an engineering degree you’re way out my league Reba, as much as I’d like to know you better, that probably won’t happen. And since you’re asking, how old are you?”

“I’m 39, and why would I be scared away?” I asked.

He took a long swig, stared at the mirror a minute and responded, “It should be obvious. You’re a highly educated specialist and I’m a guy who travels around the world building water towers. You’re black, I’m white, a lot of people want to stay within their given culture, to top it off I’m sometimes gone for months at a time. Yeah, I like to dress nice when I’m not on the job, but that’s only once in a while.

Nah, might be better if we just say we had a pleasant conversation and go our own ways.”

I found myself wondering, “If you have a degree in engineering why are you working as a welder on water towers?”

He laughed, “I knew you’d ask that question. The simple answer is because I can’t sit at a desk and do nothing. Not that engineers sit around doing nothing, I simply need to be hands on, I apply my engineering skills in the field, not an office.”

Just then another guy walked behind me, putting his hand on my waist, attempting to wrangle me away from speaking with Bob. Yes, he was black and in a nice suit. It was obvious by the way the guy behaved he wanted in my pants, the more I moved his hand away the more he persisted, and the more agitated I became. I finally looked at Bob and mouthed ‘help’. Bob slid off his stool stepping between me and the horny toad.

“Listen buddy, she said she isn’t interested. You need to take no for an answer.”

What happened next was as embarrassing for me as it was disastrous for the guy. He went all ghetto, puffing his chest out, grabbing his crotch, making all kind of foolish movements with his arms. I was embarrassed for my race, why did he have to act like some sort of thug? I recall thinking, no wonder the stereotypes exist. Leaning forward close to Bob’s face he sneered.

“Ima fuck you up motha fucka.”

I thought, ‘there ya go, impress him with your inability to speak properly. You might be dressed well, but in your case buddy, clothes don’t make the man.’

As he raised his hand making a clenched fist Bob grabbed it in the palm of his hand and began to squeeze, at the same time he began bending the guy’s wrist back. As in opposite its normal rotation. The look of terror on the idiot’s face was priceless, Bob had him on one knee nearly in tears. Bending over he spoke softly.

“Apologize to the lady and then make yourself scarce.”

The guy mumbled some noncoherent shit in my direction and tried to stand, Bob continued to squeeze bringing the guy back to his knees.

“Now say it like you mean it or I break your wrist. Your choice asshole.”

With a tear running down his cheek he begged my forgiveness. I accepted his apology, Bob released the guy’s hand and as he stood Bob spoke loud enough that others could hear.

“Better get on home, I think I hear your mom calling.”

With my hand over the upper part of my chest I was laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants.

“Holy cow Bob. I thought shit was gonna hit the fan. Thank you for taking care of that without a fight.”

He grinned, “I know you aren’t supposed to refer to a black guy as a boy, but with guys like him, you have to face the truth of the saying, “boys will be boys” and let it go.”

I slid from my stool, put my hands on either side of his face and kissed him tenderly. He touched his lips with his fingers and whispered, “Thank you.”

It was time to come clean with him, “I need to be truthful with you Bob, but not here in the bar. Come sit with me in the lobby.”

As he sat next to me on the couch I took his hand. “Bob, I’m a thousand miles from home, I leave Sunday morning, I have no one waiting for me when I return and the reason I was in the bar tonight was to get laid. I only do this when I’m away, otherwise I’m basically celibate unless I go to another city for a weekend. I embrace the whole “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy and avoid relationships where I live. On top of that, my work schedule is so hectic I couldn’t sustain a relationship if I wanted to.”

His reaction blew me away, I was not ready for what he said.

“Well, then I’d better get out of the way so you can get down to business. Hey, it was fun talking with you. Maybe I’ll see you again before you leave.”

As he started to stand I grabbed his hand and yanked him back next to me.

Staring at him I asked, “Are you really that dimwitted, or is this some sort of game for you?”