Today I was dressed chic and Hollywood, sporting sunglasses with huge lenses, wearing white pinstriped slacks with a wide cuff, yellow charmeuse top that had short balloon sleeves. Sling-backs with a nice heel, and a large Gucci handbag that was black and white with red trimming-a bag to die for.

My appearance hid my true angst. My palms sweated. My heartbeat was fast. Veins rose in my neck. I trembled. I shifted from foot to foot. Moved my bag from hand to hand.

Dealing with Logan had created nightmares.

Last night I dreamed I had come home from running the Silver Comet Trail and saw a trail of milky white substance on the concrete stairs leading to the flowers that were waiting at my front door. That same milky substance was on the doorknob. I had opened the door and Logan was inside my home, naked, sitting in a chair facing the front door, masturbating, gallons of come at his feet. He was coming nonstop, his thick, milky come oozing across the carpet and hardwood floors. His come was oozing toward me, covering my feet, each seed alive, moaning my name.

He looked at me with red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes. "See how much I love you?"

I tried to move, but I was trapped, his come thicker than honey, gluing me where I stood.

I woke up screaming, a cold sweat dampening my neck, hair, and pillow.

This morning I had gone to my front porch to get my morning paper. I smelled his unwanted gifts before I opened the door. Another arrangement of flowers. Each arrangement more expensive than the last. I had called the initial flower company who delivered the sweet-smelling annoyances, told them to not deliver any more to my address, only to have Logan contact another flower company, this one black-owned and out on Cascade Road near the HBCUs. It was getting ridiculous. I picked up my morning paper, left the flowers sitting there. For the last two weeks an arrangement had arrived every day. And every day I would go to my mailbox and find that he'd mailed a card with a different message. I miss you. Your my heart. I will always love you.

Despite his grammatical flaws, he was per sis tent, if nothing else.

His persistence had forced me to agree to this meeting.

I whispered something I had heard on television, Glenn Close on the show Damages, "Taking power from a man was always a dangerous thing. Someone always pays."

It was over ninety degrees before nine in the morning. Now it was noon, the temperature at least ten degrees hotter, the humidity strong enough to rival the dankness of Trinidad and Barbados.

It was the kind of heat that caused delirium, the heat that created madness.

This was the season of madness.

I thought about what I had read in the newspapers and seen online, how Prophetess Bynum and her estranged husband, Bishop Weeks, their late-night meeting didn't end well at the Renaissance Hotel in downtown Atlanta, not for her, and not being able to work out their differences had left her beaten and bruised at four in the morning. When emotions ran high, even Christians stopped being Christians.

Maybe this was what she felt like. Nervous. Afraid. But still had to do this face-to-face.

Logan could lose it. He was a strong man. I could die a brutal death.

I had picked this location not only because it was busy and I loved the food, but there was a police substation only a few feet away, only a couple of businesses over, right near the ATM.

As I waited, a text came in on my phone.

It was Kiki Sunshine. She'd been on my mind, knew I was avoiding her.

Still thinking about me you and the boys. But I'm really thinking about you. They have suicidal dick. But you have suicidal clit. ? I still see you in my mind, when I opened my door and you were there. I was so scared. After all that mess I had been talking in the park, I was so scared. Damn I was scared.

Her long text message made me smile a bit, filled my five senses. My cellular hummed again, another long text message from Kiki Sunshine.

You tasted so damn good. And your skin, it was so soft. And your body was so nice.

My yoni had marvelous flashbacks.

If you want to hook up, let me know and I'll drive over to ATL. No pressure. Just putting it out there. We can hang and not go there, but I will be thinking about eating your pussy the whole time.

Greensboro had been two weeks ago, but felt like yesterday.

Kiki Sunshine. Kiki Motherfucking Sunshine. We didn't have anything in common, but I understood her struggle. I understood her feelings. Her wanting one thing and needing something else. I understood being torn. I understood needing to feel good.

The way she had savored my yoni was remarkable. She had taken my cherry in her own way. I was her resurrection of Yasamin Kincade. She could become my Pandora's box. Just thinking about it made me wet. Thinking about it too much would make my yoni a waterfall. We'd have to keep away from each other, lest I start appreciating rainbows a bit too much.

Logan was coming. It was too late for me to change my mind.

I saw him as he passed the window and came inside the door. Logan had on a sandy brown suit and a coral shirt, no tie. He was a good-looking man, no doubt about that. Seeing him dressed in a suit reminded me how stunning he was, pure eye candy. In Memphis, whenever we entered a venue on a date, the way people responded to him, you'd think King or Kennedy had walked into the room. Being with him was the equivalent of walking the red carpet in Hollywood, cameras flashing from all directions.

But being handsome only counted for so much.

He smiled at me, his smile civil and uncertain, pretentious, the same as mine. Our public faces on display. The ghost of jealousy had left his eyes with a virescent tint.

He said, "You look nice."

"Thank you."

He apologized for that night when I had to call the police.

With a nod I accepted his apology.

I didn't stand too close to Logan, waited to be escorted to our booth.

Logan said, "Sorry I was a few minutes late. Was hard getting out of Memphis."

"I only have about an hour."

"So much for the pleasantries."

"Didn't drive one hundred and fifty miles in this heat for pleasantries."

"Well, could you at least be pleasant?"

I nodded. "For an hour."

Logan was here but my every thought was on Greensboro. That had been life-changing.

With a gentle smile, he asked, "This booth okay?"

"It's fine."

Logan asked, "You okay?"

"Just...tired. Was up late working. Driving on I-20 in this heat, it's draining."

"I promise, I will not keep you long. I just hated the way things ended last time. I got a little out of control. And I just want to...want us to not end it that way. I've been praying on this."

I didn't look at him, just bounced my leg and read my menu.

And thought about those de cadent hours spent in Greensboro.

Logan was staring at me, his expression very profound, the expression of a deep thinker.

I asked, "You okay over there?"

Without warning he told me his grandmother had died.

That moved my thoughts out of Greensboro, sensitivity rose, gave my aggravation a reprieve.

In a kind voice I asked, "You okay?"

"I'm okay."

"What happened? I mean when? Recently?"

He told me she had died, there had been a funeral, and she had been buried. His nana had been with them at church, went to dinner with them at Red Lobster, went home, said she was tired and wanted to take a short nap before her favorite television show came on, closed her eyes, died without notice.

Not knowing how to respond, death making this awkward, I said, "At least she didn't suffer."

Logan quieted, looked a little emotional. In that moment I became emotional.

I wanted to reach out to take his hand, but I didn't.

I said, "I'm sorry. So sorry. Let me extend my deepest condolences."

"Thanks. I'll pass that on to my family. They still ask about you." Logan rubbed his face, rubbed his eyes, let out a sigh and said, "I'm going to run to the men's room. Back in a second."

"You okay?"

"I'm cool." His thick voice fractured with emotion. "Need to wash my hands."

He left, his steps quick and expressive, as if he wanted to sneak away and cry for his nana.

I didn't want to be here. Would rather be with my identical sins. And if I couldn't have them together, I wanted them one at a time. But I had to take care of this. Had to remain focused. If I was getting paid to make love I'd work overtime. But sex was a hobby; hobbies didn't pay the bills.

If sex became an obstacle to handling my responsibilities, sex would become a burden.

Logan returned, his steps strong, once again the personification of the alpha male. But for some reason I saw him as the omega male. Not alpha. Not beta. Omega.

As soon as he sat down I eased out of the booth, told him I needed to wash my hands. I wanted to get away from him, regretted wasting gas on this trip already. I walked away, my thoughts tagging along, feeling Logan's eyes on my ass with my every step.

Inside the toilet I closed the door, went inside a stall, stood there, breathing.

My cellular vibrated. It was a text message from Mark. This morning all of my lovers were desiring me, their need for me growling like a beast.

Mark wanted to know if I could meet him down at Howell Mill and 75 for indoor rock climbing. I sent him a message, told him I'd be tied up today. He sent me another text, asked me to send him a kiss. I did. I sent Mark another text, a smiley face. Didn't want to overdo it. But I couldn't help it.

I typed: Send me a picture. Something sexy.

Despite my amorous smile, I was feeling overwhelmed.

I'd become a woman trying to please two men. A woman with two lovers trying to give the right amount of attention to each. I'd become Anais, only my relationship with my lovers was not hidden; no secret marriages, no financial need clouding the true purpose of our relationships. We were known to each other, yet remained clandestine to the rest of the world, our universe our own private playground.

Mark and I had spent some time over the last two weeks as well. We'd met for lunch at Doc Green's near Cumberland Center. Had had Mexican food on Cobb Parkway. Had gone to the movies. Had gone indoor rock climbing. It wasn't always about sex. Each encounter gave inner joy, a different type of happiness, but nevertheless we were creatures of the flesh, our libidos set fire whenever we touched, whenever we sent text messages I was left stirring in my seat, left wet, left wanting. Mark had stopped by my townhome four times. We enjoyed literature, poetry, and laughter. But the language of literature bonded us. His knowledge impressed me, surprised me. Just me and Mark, in my bed, naked, eating lunch, talking about books. He'd never read D.H. Lawrence. So we picked a book, finally started our NBC. Naked Book Club. At every meeting we were to dress according to club rules. He was crazy about me. Did things to my mind. Mental arousal created its own warmth, the warmth of adoration, the herald of love, the need to touch. The discussion of classic literature evolved to soft kisses, to him moving the plates away and getting on top of me, kissing me more and more, kissing me until I reached for him, until I moved his energy against my wetness, put him inside me, owned him as he moved in and out of me slowly, not rushing our orgasms, defying commandments and seeking plea sure. Once I continued reading as he entered me, pretended I could focus on the book in my hand. He moved in and out of me as I struggled, as I moaned, as I read to him pages from Lady Chatterley's Lover.

Mark craved me like no other man had ever craved me. The married lover would always crave the yoni because he couldn't have it all the time, because he had to go home to his married yoni.

We always wanted what we couldn't have.

The time of a married man was never unlimited, the way his cellular rang told me that.

I was the fruit he stole, the juices he tasted in the middle of the day.

But Jewell was the last kiss he received at night, the first face he saw in the morning. Hers was the yoni he penetrated after he had left me, maybe hers was the yoni he swam in before he came to experience me.

Mark was daytime. A secret hidden in the hours covered by the sun.

We laughed and talked, had sensual moments, but in the end he went to Jewell.

In the end he left me alone. When the sun set he was gone, leaving me hollow.

Karl was late-night. Karl filled that hollow space Mark left behind.

I'd met Karl in Buckhead, had traveled to Sambuca for dinner and jazz, his hand under the table, his finger rubbing my clit in a swank, dimly lit environment as I tried to keep a straight face, as I died a thousand little deaths. Mark was love and Karl was pure, unadulterated sex. There was nothing else to Karl. He made me come all over his finger, then stirred his drink with that same finger. Made me reach orgasm in a room filled with well-dressed people who were drinking and listening to jazz. With one finger. That night I learned it was impossible for me to come with my eyes open. As I came I'd been forced to steeple my hands and bow my head like I was praying, not caring who saw what looked like an emotional trembling inspired by my commitment to the creator of us all, yet if any ear was close, if the jazz had stopped abruptly, the room would have heard the sweetest vulgarities being sung by me.

I'd met both of them at the W for drinks, then watched them engage in rock-paper-scissors again, the loser paying for the room, both of them kissing and touching me like they did the first time.

I'd held their carnal offerings, each becoming hardened fire in my soft hands. I created indistinguishable moans. So many veins existed in each. I masturbated them as they touched me. My moans rose. When four hands and two tongues on my heated flesh became too much to bear, I held on to that part of them, took deep breaths, and tried to feel how identical they were. They were similar, but not identical. The reticulate pattern of the veins in their lingams felt unique, one had more girth, the other more length, making me imagine it would be easy to tell the brothers apart, as easy as identifying a tree by its sturdy branches, as easy as distinguishing a plant by its leaves.

The dueling sides of the Gemini that ruled me were being fulfilled in their own ways.

After I washed my hands, I stared at myself in the mirror.

I told myself that I wasn't in love with Mark. Or Karl. I was not in love with two men.

I felt that unfairness. The unfairness of sex. The way a woman was opened up physically and emotionally, I felt the wonderful sting of penetration, felt what that beautiful violence did to the mind.

I headed back to the table. As soon as I sat down with Logan my cellular vibrated again.

I looked at my phone, opened the photo he sent. A picture of Mark's perfect lingam filled my screen. My mouth fell open, a gasp escaping my surprised expression on shortened breath. I shifted, stared at what had filled my every orifice, what I had tasted, what I had held, what, at this moment, I began to crave. I was thirsty. I was disturbed. I was a mess.

Logan said, "Nia?"

I jumped out of a fantasy, looked at Logan.

He asked, "Any way I can get your attention long enough to order?"

"I already know what I want."