Read Friends and Lovers for Free Online

awkward moment when I said, “Damnshame when a thirteen-year-old is having sex more often than you are.”
    Faith said, “Speak for yourself.”
    “I was.”
    That made me try to remember the last time I’d experienced the scent of a man’s body next to mine, had hardness inside me, heard a man ring out my name in a tune of ecstasy, me feeling so good I wanted to cry and moan moan moan. I know I could capture a penis in a heartbeat. They’re everywhere. And you don’t have to really know the owner to borrow it for a few. All I’d have to do was wink and they’d offer. But that’s not what I’m about.
    I was between lovers, wasn’t dating much, so that meant nothing was getting between me. So I didn’t have to deal with emotional pain and guilt, or pleasure and satisfaction. I didn’t know if that was a curse or a blessing. Not that it mattered; it was just that whether or not you were in a relationship, had a steady supplier or maintenance man or whatever, the midnight urges kept on coming. No pun intended. Sometimes they came all day long. Instead of lying on my back with an old lover, I tried to get on my knees and pray the wanting away, but that didn’t work. So over the last seventeen months, I had been getting extremely horny and having dreams about faceless men in unknown places doing some pretty kinky things to my aching body.
    slap SLAP slap
    The noise brought my wandering mind back to the here and now.
    slap SLAP slap thud
    That flesh-meeting-flesh sound was loud. Was getting louder.
    slap SLAP slap
    Muffled yells. Whimpers carried down the hall.
    I about-faced without a word and sprinted back toward the examination room we had just left. Faith dropped what she was holding and did the same.
    When we shoved the door open, Mrs. Stockwell was wide-eyed, breathing like she was in labor, foaming atthe mouth, body stiff, arms straight up in the air, holding a King James version of the Bible like it was a hatchet. She was about to guillotine her whimpering child with the Word.
    Ericka was on her back sprawled out on the floor, kicking her feet, one arm shielding her face, trying to get away.
    Faith’s big frame bumped me out of the way, made me stumble into the doorjamb. She grabbed Mrs. Stockwell. Threw her own body in the way. As I stumbled, I used my body to shield Ericka. Faith must have caught Mrs. Stockwell’s arm on its way down because the Bible flew across the room and hit me in my eye, struck me at a blunt angle, right below my left eyebrow. I was more shocked than hurt.
    I pulled Ericka to the side. She held onto me tight. She touched me where I was struck by the Bible and asked, “Are you all right, Miss Mitchell?”
    “What?”
    She looked at my face and said, “Your eye okay? If you put some ice on, it won’t swell too much. Nobody’ll notice.”
    I was shocked by her words. By her knowledge.
    Mrs. Stockwell was in the far corner by then, over by the blood pressure cuff. Bottom lip thrust out three feet, cheeks puffed out like a blowfish. She was straightening her hair, redoing makeup. Bible tucked under her arm. All the while she was calling her daughter
tramp whore Jezebel slut bitch
and quoting Bible verses about
fornication
in between vulgarity.
    Faith snapped,
“Mrs. Stockwell.”
    Before Faith could say another word, a man the color of a ripe banana was in the doorway. He was a little taller than Ericka, but very wide—not fat, just wide. Receding wavy hair, with a full beard. He had on dark pants and his blue tie was loosened. Like he was overworked and up to his neck in strife.
    Faith said, “Mr. Stockwell, we have a situation.”
    He hesitated, then said, “She is pregnant, then?”
    Mrs. Stockwell snapped, “Without a doubt.”
    I interjected, “Mrs. Stockwell assaulted Ericka.”
    He said, “And?”
    Mrs. Stockwell waved her Bible and rambled, “And
if
I choose to discipline
my
child, I can do what I damn well want. Ericka is
my
child, came from me—”
    Mr. Stockwell