"Wasn't about money, if that's what you're asking."

"Was money part of it?"

"He has no idea of my true income. He thinks I live paycheck-to-paycheck."

What I needed, it was hard to articulate. This was my mother. Not my girlfriend, not a stranger on a plane. We had closeness, but she was still my mother. I'd never tell her about the W. Would never tell her how I met two handsome men that morning and allowed them to seduce and please me in what ever ways they saw fit that night. Wouldn't tell her how I craved doing that same thing again.

In a Trini accent I said, "He no ready."

"He no ready?" Her Trini accent came to life for a moment. "He couldn't satisfy you?"

"I tell him it good eh but you not ready for this Trini yet. I tell him he boring."

My mother asked, "Were you on the phone?"

"Nah woman. We face-to-face."

"Are you mad? You could've just sent him a text message."

She waved her hand, tightened her lips, and didn't push the issue after that. She knew me. Half of my DNA had come from her. The honesty part of me came from her, imported from Port of Spain.

"Listen to me, Nia. Every man is different. Just like every woman is different. Sometimes you have to train them, tell them what you want, show them how to make you happy in that way."

"I'm not a sexed teacher."

"Nia Simone, do not look at me like I'm crazy."

I wanted to ask her about what I was feeling, wanted to ask her if she ever felt this way, if this was normal, if this was a part of growing, a part of a person's evolution, this discontent and need for personal fulfillment being the wall between selflessness and settling for what the mind knew was best. But I didn't feel comfortable talking to anyone about my desires, about the making of me, not on that level. What I was feeling, even now, I didn't feel safe writing about those sensations in my diary, didn't want to journal this portion of my life for fear that the journal would be found.

I didn't want to die a sudden death and leave words behind that exposed my world.

I didn't want to be looked upon as a Sodomite who provoked the wrath of God.

Memories of the W refused to let me be.

I wanted the same experience with them again, wanted that level of satisfaction, if not more.

But that wouldn't happen.

I had to think like a man; fuck, then release. Like they were Fucker- men. Sexual fisherman, casting their bait, reeling in women for zipless fucks, engaging in orgasm and immediate release.

TWELVE.

As we left the mountains, I had the top down on my convertible.

Sirius was on classic R&B, Chante Moore singing love had taken over as we left the mountains and headed south, rode alongside the Chattahoochee and came up on what used to be a logging municipality, a city that had resurrected itself by becoming a replica of a Bavarian alpine town.

We passed by a string of horse-drawn carriages riding Main Street in Helen, Georgia. Some of the carriages were pumpkin-shaped. I looked off to the side, saw a group of women, most had on tight jeans with huge belt buckles, biker boots, and breast-tight tank tops. Harley girls until the day they died.

The sun was still high, streets packed with tourists of all nationalities, and kids and adults were floating down the Chattahoochee in pink and green tubes. A block later we eased by mom-and-pop stores that had Confederate flag swimsuits, Confederate flag biker jackets on display in their Main Street windows. I saw three more people wearing T-shirts that read "WELCOME TO AMERICA. NOW SPEAK ENGLISH." I saw the same T-shirt in the front window of every novelty shop; the locals were sending a message to the Spanish-speaking newcomers whose population had doubled over the last five years.

There were no Harlem Bars up this way, no Compounds, no W Hotels. I doubted that I would be able to find Essence magazine or any of the kind of hair care products I needed within fifty miles.

Harleys roared up and down Main Street. Bruce Springsteen was screaming he was born in the USA. Good-old-boy music poured out of Dutch-style buildings, one of the restaurants having a large windmill in its structure. It was an Alpine village complete with cobblestone alleys and old-world towers.

My mother said, "I'm putting the word out about the sci-fi book you're doing."

"Who did you talk to?"

"Few actors. Will Smith's production company. Put the buzz in Angela Bassett's ear. I'm going to shoot the word to Don Cheadle too. And I'm working on getting word to Leonardo DiCaprio's people."

"You really liked my idea?"

"I loved that idea. With points, a producer's credit, and residuals we can retire off that idea."

"We?"

"Where you go, I go."

"And where you go, I go."

We made our way back toward the other side of the world and connected with Georgia 400, rode that autobahn down to Alpharetta and stopped at J. Christopher's, a friendly place with healthy food. It was too humid to sit on the patio, so we took a booth. Mom sat facing a ten-foot-high rustic, gold sun-devouring-the-moon sculpture on a gigantic wall. Behind me, up high, was a painting of JFK on the cover of Life magazine, August 4, 1961, back when the magazine cost twenty cents.

My cellular rang once. It was a text message from one of my identical sins.

Flashbacks of four hands and two tongues made my yoni shiver and swell.

My mother asked, "Who is he?"

"Guy I just met. Met him a few days ago. After Logan was here."

"You know what you are? Sneaky. Hard-headed. Stubborn. Mysterious."

"I'm so much like you, it's scary."

She switched gears, her momma face being replaced by her serious face. "I was thinking. And this has been bothering me. I think it's time. We have to open a business in Trinidad."

"We?"

"I know we have a home there, will always have a home there, but we need to come up with some idea, nothing extravagant, and open some business, something where we are helping our people and contributing to Trinidad. Nothing where we would have to be there for the daily operations."

"And I thought I had problems with Uncle Sam."

We laughed.

She asked, "Well, what do you think? Maybe open a Rituals. Start with a coffee house."

"Sounds good to me."

We ate pancakes and planned out our evening and our tomorrow.

Later on we'd ride out 75 to the Auburn Historic District and chill out at the Harlem Bar, pig out on the ambrosial skillet-fried chicken, chew on moist cornbread, and fill up on the cheese-encrusted mac 'n' cheese while we nursed lime martinis and listened to a band throw down some neo soul. We would be there until the music died and the lights were turned out.

My mother lost the race up the mountain, so all of that would be her treat.

Tomorrow morning we planned to drag ourselves to Cumberland Mall for manicures, pedicures, and massages at Spa Sydell. No running or working out, just have a spa morning, then shop at Phipps and Lenox, make a mad dash through DSW for shoes, then hit another shoe ware house on the east side of Piedmont Park on Amsterdam Avenue, then go out for dinner, drinks, and desserts at Cafe Intermezzo.

All of that would be my treat.

After Cafe Intermezzo I'd leave midtown, hop on 85 South and take her back to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta airport. I'd kiss her good-bye and cry when I dropped her off, then would sit in the parking lot and talk to her on my cellular, wouldn't hang up until the plane was about to take off for LAX.

The family side of me would be satiated. And the dark side would be ready to take control.

That would happen after we hung out to night, after we had our mother-daughter day tomorrow.

But now as we sat in J. Christopher's and broke our fasting, butterflies lived inside my belly.

Our conversation was nothing more than white noise, my mind somewhere else. My mother was talking, eating, flipping through the pages of Creative Loafing, her cellular constantly ringing.

My mother looked at her caller ID, frowned, and clicked her phone on. "Hazel Bijou-Wilson."

She always said her first and last name when she answered the phone. Hollywood trained.

After my mother started chatting, I looked at my cellular phone.

Every sensuous word of the text message pulled at me. He gave good text-sex. Logan's text-sex was horrible. His spelling was horrible. That destroyed the flow, having to fight the urge to correct spelling and fix word usage didn't stimulate me. These messages were hot. As if I was there with him.

My mind went back to the W.

Back to a night that should have been a zipless night, filed away and forgotten.

I wasn't sure if I had a guilty conscience, or was experiencing the consciousness of guilt.

One of my identical sins had contacted me, had sent me a text message first. A simple message that had more power and created more stimulation than a six-page love letter. I glanced down at my phone, read part of the message again, read the part that made me think things I shouldn't be thinking.

Did you enjoy having your velvet yoni savored while you were being kissed?

Velvet yoni. Those words read like the sexiest shit that I had ever seen. His words created the image of a red velvet glove. Just the thought of it made me suffer the start of a provocative wetness.

I sent him a text back: Can you make that happen again?

I can make that happen.

Then make it happen. ?

I imagined four hands on my warm skin. Felt two tongues tracing my flesh.

In the back of my mind I heard a smooth baritone voice whispering, "Open your mouth."

Flashbacks created a Pavlovian response; I opened my mouth, anticipation so strong, my breathing catching my throat. Imagined pleasing Mark while Karl watched, masturbating his angst away.

My mother finished her call about ten minutes later, the closing of her phone breaking my trance.

We talked, ate, laughed, both laughs created in Trinidad, mine nurtured in the California smog.

Masturbatable thoughts created a spasm, and that tremor rolled through me as my nipples betrayed my secret desires. It took all of my energy to keep my eyes on my food as I laughed and talked with my mother, afraid to look at her for fear that she might see something that I didn't want her to see. I tried to force my memories out of this room. I swallowed pancakes and tasted mangos. Imagined mango juice dripping all over my skin. Remembered how his come was so warm and sweet. His nectar had been as sweet as syrup. Two tongues had been kind to my yoni, had savored my yoni, had licked my yoni like she had been twice as sweet.

Minutes later we were on GA 400 heading back toward Cobb County.

Mother let her seat back, closed her eyes, the top down, the warm wind blowing over us.

I received another text message from one of my Bajan lovers.

I'm naked.

Are you? Doing what?

I'm imagining kissing and touching you.

I asked myself why I didn't want to talk to my mother about what I was going through. I rationalized that it was because telling her about what I was doing, what I had done, would leave me up for judgment. In reality I would be asking for her permission. I wasn't in search of validation.

Are you touching yourself?

Yes.

What are you trying to do to me?

I want to make your clit swell.

It's swollen. Are you really hard?

I wasn't in search of validation. I loved Hazel Tamana, but I did not need my mother's permission. I turned to her, looked at her to see if she was staring at me, somehow stealing my thoughts. Mothers had those types of powers. They were walking lie detectors, superheroes without capes. Hazel Tamana was asleep before we made it to 285. She was so relaxed. She worked hard. She played harder. She was the woman I wanted to be when I grew up. I let her be. She needed the rest.

My cellular buzzed again, sexual messages stirring me as I drove, the part of my brain linked to reward and plea sure creating enough energy to light up a small town.

I want to fuck you from behind, bend you over, and go inside you a little at a time.

Damn. I'm driving. Don't make me run off the road. Text me later.

Until then...one hundred kisses and one thousand yoni licks.