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Michael, her high school sweetheart, right
out of college. That was almost fifteen years ago. And Trudy was proud to say
Michael was the only man she had ever been with and the only man she had ever
desired. And Trudy knew—everybody knew—Michael was equally devoted to Trudy.
    Now Yvette Holder was significantly different. She was more
a Frankie kind of girl. She was a dark mystic beauty whose sexual thirst was
rarely quenched. She often accompanied Frankie on her sexcursions to House of
John in the Dominican Republic.
    The three of them were all actresses. Thankfully they were
all different types, which meant they were rarely up for the same roles. That
alone made for a strong bond and a competition-free friendship.
    Lunch with her girls was just what Frankie needed. Michael
coming home to Trudy was worth celebrating. But it would also be a good time to
get some sound sisterly advice. What to do about a love struck hottie trying to
put a ring on your finger and a hoop through your nose?

Chapter Six
     
    Weekday lunch hour at The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard on the
eastern rim of Beverly Hills was always a to-see-and-be-seen event. Celebrity
and celebrity gazers alike dined on the likes of wild Maine lobster mac and
cheese, grass-fed beef burgers served with Brie and French-fried calamari.
Paparazzi snooped and snapped pictures from across the street.
    Frankie, Trudy and Yvette, two tables from Nicole Kidman
lunching with an obvious Hollywood suit, were already on their second glasses
of celebratory champagne when the waiter brought their entrees.
    “Three weeks,” Trudy giggled, attacking her baby back ribs.
“Three more weeks before he’s home and I don’t know if I can stand the wait.”
    “What? You haven’t seen your man in almost two years, girl,”
Yvette said, munching on her swordfish tacos. “Three more weeks is not going to
hurt you one bit.”
    “Yeah, but you know how it is. When he left, I knew he was
going to be gone for a while. But now that he’s coming home on a specific date,
it’s got me crazy with anticipation.”
    “Well I for one don’t know how you do it, Trudy,” said
Frankie, twirling Tagliarini on her fork. “I personally couldn’t do without sex
for two years.”
    “I got my toys, girl.”
    “Not the same thing.”
    “Speaking of toys, Frankie, how’s that boy toy of yours?”
    “Girl girl girl girl girl…” Frankie sighed melodramatically.
    “What?” Yvette leaned in anxiously.
    “He wants to get married.”
    “What?!”
    “Oh Frankie,” Trudy beamed. “Congratulations!”
    “Now hold on, Miss Thing. I’m not hardly about to get
married again.”
    “Heard that,” Yvette co-signed. “Be kinda hard making your
Dominican booty call with a husband in tow.”
    “Not only that, I think I kind of screwed up last night.”
    “Uh-oh. What did you do?” Trudy frowned curiously.
    “Last night…”
    “Yeah?”
    “While he was fucking me…”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I called him Edgar.”
    “No!” Trudy squealed in an astonished whisper, while Yvette
laughed.
    “Yes.”
    “Who’s Edgar?” Trudy asked in a sudden state of confusion.
    “Her Dominican booty call.”
    “Oh. Not the one you were married to.”
    “No, Miss Trudy. I was married to Étienne, remember?
Étienne’s gay. I only married him so my brother Jesse could get him over here
to America and marry him himself. Edgar is Étienne’s ex.”
    “So then Edgar’s gay.”
    “No he’s not.”
    “But he’s your brother’s husband’s ex, right?”
    “Right, but he’s bi.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Don’t be no Terry McMillan.”
    “Girl, you got more sexual drama going on in your life than
a Pedro Almodóvar film festival,” Yvette cracked.
    “So back to Jazz. Why in the world would you call him
Edgar?”
    “Because, Trudy, the sex was so good it made her think of
Edgar, right Frankie?”
    “Well not exactly. I mean the sex was good. It’s always good
with Jazz. And sex is