I'm entirely too nice. Or maybe entirely too bored.
The main reason I deal with Randall outside of work is because he's been good to me ever since my divorce. He saw me show up to the office without that ring and pounced into my business in a manner only reserved for people who lack a foundational understanding of social and professional mores.
Truth is, he was there at my nadir when I needed someone the most. Or maybe we just needed each other.
Randall's parents are rich South Side socialites -- mom's an orthopedic surgeon and pops owns an accounting firm. They live in one of those "little" McMansions in Hyde Park, on a nice tree-lined street not far from Obama's crib that seems like it's a world away from the "Chiraq" of the 11 o'clock news, but in actuality is just a few numbered streets away.
On one particularly tough Saturday evening -- my erstwhile marital date night -- Randall invited me to the mansion to drown my sorrows in suds. Problem is, now I feel inclined to visit every time he asks. And here I thought my sense of obligation to someone else was signed away with the divorce papers...
See, he pretty much knows that if I'm not at the work or the gym, I'm likely at home watching marathon reruns of "Shark Tank." And he's one of those annoyingly genial-yet-clearly-privileged white guys who has likely always had to talk his way into friendships, which means he just needs some more business of his own. And we both need more friends.
His parents are always very kind to me when I visit, and I enjoy the privileges of top-shelf liquor and well-curated meals from their personal chef. But there's really one thing -- or person, rather -- whom I look forward to whenever I visit: Mimi, the family's maid.
Mimi's an Ethiopian immigrant whose family came to the states when she was a young girl. She's in her late-20s; maybe early 30s, and might be one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the privilege of sharing a room with. Perfect dark-brown complexion, wavy jet-black hair that stops in a tuft of curls at her shoulders, and deep brown eyes that are compromised only by a perfect smile.
Usually, when I see her, she's wearing a bandana, tight jeans of varying colors and a loose-fitting button-up blouse that hangs down to her hips. But one time, just
once
, she wore a crop-top that allowed me to witness what can only be described as God's magnum opus: round thighs, a washboard stomach and the plumpest, roundest ass that I've ever seen in jeans.
Whenever I see her, I am reminded of how hard it has been (literally and figuratively) for me to get back in the game following my divorce. She also reminds me that I've been batting a perfect 0.0000 average with Ethiopian and Eritrean women since college. I've certainly come a long way since then, but considering Mimi is essentially a composite of all the best parts of those women, I'm still gun-shy when it comes to her regional ilk.
Mimi is, indeed, my masturbatory muse. My hesitance to get back in the dating pool -- even after years of unsatisfactory, obligatory, bone-dry married sex -- has left her as the sole object of my fantasies; all the pent-up frustration plays out on Mimi in the filthiest of what my brain can conjure. If meeting Randall gave me anything of lasting value, it's that.
Alas, I've never gotten more than an obligatory smile and a cordial, professional "hello" from Mimi. It's as if it's college all over again; I suppose the more things change...
*****
I just arrived to some bullshit dinner party that Randall invited me to at the mansion. All the who's who of his parents' set are hanging out, decked in their early-summer best. Doctors, lawyers and definitely a handful of politicians are on deck. I'm probably the poorest person in the room, which makes it a tad humiliating considering that I will have to engage in niceties and spend time explaining my career to a bunch of people whose names I will never, ever commit to memory.
Sure enough, Mimi is there, making sure guests are well lubed up with champagne flutes, radiating a beauty through a minimal amount of makeup that I bet not one white person in the room appreciates like I do.
She comes up to me with a tray full of champagne glasses.
"Hey there. Have a glass?" It's the most she's spoken to me ever.
"Sure, thanks! They got you working hard, eh?"
"Nah, it's not so bad. I don't mind the work. Especially with you staring at my ass from a distance."
I almost choke on the first sip I take.
"W-what? What are you talkin' about?" I smile nervously.
"Don't be coy, sir. I've seen the way you look at me. Every time you come here. You were married, right?"
"Yeah -- how did you know?"
"Yo, that boy Randall loves you. Even before you started coming around, he was going on and on to his parents about his buddy from work. Why do you think they're so nice to you?"
"Well, I like him too. But, I guess years of marriage hasn't done much for my sneak-look skills, eh?"
She stares at me for a few seconds with half a smile before leaning close to my ear, subtly enough to not attract the attention of the room but close enough to allow me to smell the nape of her neck. It makes me erect in my jeans.
"Let me see your phone."
Odd as her request is, I pull the phone out of my pocket from around my bulging hard-on and hand it to her without asking questions. I quietly watch this strange woman click around on my touchscreen for about a minute before she hands it back.
"Follow me for a second."
She places down the tray on a nearby countertop and ushers me to a closed office. I look over both shoulders, surprised at her abandonment of job propriety. She closes the door of the office, walks close to me, locks her eyes with mine and pushes her perfectly manicured light-pink fingernail into my chest.
"Look at your phone. Open the app I just downloaded."
It's an app called "We-Vibe" that I'd never heard of. She snatches the phone back from me and instructs me to watch so I understand what's going on. As she taps across the screen with one hand, she uses her other to grab my hand from my side and place it between her legs, pushing my index finger into her -- if she were unclothed, I would be touching her clit. The move startles me and makes my heart jump out of my chest.
"Yo! What..."
"Just wait for it..."
I feel a hard piece of metal, or plastic, from outside of her pants. As she swipes on the app she just downloaded on my phone, whatever my finger is on starts to vibrate. Wait...has she had a vibrator connected to her clit all this time?!? And now, my phone is programmed to control it -- she keeps swiping at my screen and I feel the device cycling through different vibrations. Pulse. Steady stream. A combination of both. I watch her eyes close and her chest rise as she takes me through the tutorial. She shoves the phone in my pocket.
