Read Online Best Black Women's Erotica by Blanche Richardson - Free Book Online

both my jobs on time and ready to hustle. But on that particular morning, as I hugged my pillow to my chest and stared up into my bedroom ceiling, I knew there was just no way I could play receptionist all day, only to turn around and play waitress all night. So I called in sick. In my own gentle way, I told Boss Man Number One that he would have to make his own damn coffee for a change and answer his own damn phone calls. I told Boss Man Number Two that I had the flu. Did he really want to risk me passing out in the restaurant? Throwing up on somebody’s food?
    I didn’t feel I was lying to either of them. I was sick. Sick of working so hard for so little. Sick of watching my days roll into each other without a single surprise, sick of feeling like my life had turned into nothing more than two simple phrases: How can I direct your call and May I take your order.

    I didn’t do much on my day off. Slept in past noon. Watched a few talk shows. I drove out to La Jolla for the hell of it and walked along the beach. You would’ve thought I had all the time in the world if you saw me. Just a woman staring out at the ocean. Just a woman taking a leisurely midday stroll. After my walk, I decided to browse through a few of the upscale boutiques that line the main boulevard, the kind where saleswomen with frozen blonde hair and ridged blue eyes follow your every move like you can’t help but steal something. You are black, after all. But they were right to watch me, actually. I’m certainly no shoplifter, but I was tempted to take something. A silk bra. A gold bracelet. Some sort of souvenir from the world I’d always dreamed of living in.
    Instead of shoplifting, I chose to use up a saleswoman’s time by trying on expensive outfits I could never afford. One after another. A blouse made of silk organza. A pale blue satin skirt. A black cocktail dress with pearl inlays. Everything I put on made me feel like I was more than a waitress-slash-receptionist. More than a college dropout with a hundred and forty dollars in her checking account. More than a woman who hadn’t had a single date in the past seven months. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to pretend that I lived in La Jolla and could afford something nice.
    After the shops closed, I drove back to San Diego and caught a movie. After the movie I decided to treat myself to a drink. I figured why not celebrate my last few hours of illness? The closest bar was next to an out-of-business Laundromat and a ninety-nine-cent-Chinese-food restaurant. The neon sign over the bar flashed ANCERS. The L flicking on and off as though it were trying to stay alive.
    The inside of the place was pretty much like you’d expect. Old barstools lined the bar. Cracked red vinyl booths sat along the opposite wall. There was a pool table and a dance floor big enough for two couples with a small disco
ball overhead. A jukebox sat in one corner and next to the jukebox, an old white man with stringy gray hair wobbled from foot to foot. You couldn’t tell if he was dancing or about to pass out. The few other people in the place didn’t look much better. Ten or so old people staring into their glasses and nodding their heads to the country musiccoming from the jukebox. If I’d had any sense I would’ve kept walking, but I told myself that if I was tired of doing the same thing day-in and day-out, I needed to try new things. Why not hang out with a bunch of broken-down white folks and listen to country music? Yee ha!
    I was taking a sip from my Long Island iced tea when a woman who looked to be in her sixties came over.
    â€œHey, are you a Sagittarius?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA Virgo?”
    â€œNo.”
    The woman took a sip of her drink, thinking for a moment. She had long lavender nails and matching lavender eye shadow that reached from the inside of her nose to the far end of her eyebrows. She wore a gold leotard that dipped in the front so