By the time I had driven I-285 from Atlanta Road to exit 7, Logan had escaped my thoughts. Somewhere on that twenty-mile journey, somewhere between what used to be Bankhead Highway and the exit at MLK, the stench of his cologne dissipated from my nostrils. His scent had faded as I moved closer to Cascade Road. His stench had been replaced by the scents of therapy.

As I put in the code and began entering the gate to the kingdom known as Audubon Estates, on the other side, I saw Jewell Stewark, leaving her empire, her chariot a convertible Jaguar, its top up.

We made eye contact as I eased through the gate, her car no longer moving, sitting there as if she was waiting for me. I slowed and stopped next to her, looked at her, unafraid. I had too much anger-the residual aggression from my trip to Birmingham-to be afraid of anyone. My top was down, my windows down, her view of me unobstructed. Her windows remained up, her beautiful face visible through her lightly tinted glass. The gate on her side was open, poised for her to leave, but The Jewell of the South didn't leave, she remained paused, continued evaluating, but nothing was said.

The woman with roots in Portland Parish regarded me with a disrespect that took me back to Logan. Just like that, unwanted memories returned. Anger magnified. Negativity moved across my skin and consumed me. The glare she gave me was heavily reciprocated, given unabashedly, without fear.

This was dej vu.

There was no escaping Ogden Circle. No escaping days gone by.

When I'd endured enough of her territorial glare, when I found her no longer entertaining, I drove deeper into her kingdom, penetrated her world at my own pace, went deeper, left her sitting and glaring. She stayed there as if she was damning my existence in her rearview mirror.

I vanished around the curve. Expected her to reappear when I made it to Karl's driveway.

I paused at the bottom of Karl's driveway. Waited for the Jaguar to come this way.

Hands gripping my steering wheel, I waited for Mark's wife to come to me.

She didn't reappear.

Jewell Stewark was aware of me. As I was aware of her.

Karl greeted me with kisses, deep kisses that stirred me and aroused him.

He was dressed in running shorts and a stay-dry tank top.

He said, "How was your day?"

"Long."

"Mine too."

"Just saw Mark's wife."

"Where was that hater?"

"She was leaving, heading out on Cascade."

He shrugged, kissed me again.

I left what was unsaid as being unsaid; I let the unknown remain unknown.

My day had been stressful enough.

He asked, "You bring the photos?"

"Sure did."

I had brought a photo album. Anguilla Summer Festival. Carnival. Casals Festival in Puerto Rico. St. Lucia Jazz Festival. Jamaica Ocho Rios Jazz Festival. Grenada Drum Festival.

He asked, "Who is this?"

"My mother."

"You serious?"

"That's Mom."

I had photos of her biking and ice climbing in the foothills and glaciers of Bolivia's mountainous landscape. She'd been on Bolivia's "Death Road," the world's most dangerous road, an unforgiving road with an eight-hundred-foot drop off the side of the mountain. She'd gone shark diving in Gansbaai, had gone bungee jumping at the Verzasca Dam. She'd traveled to Reykjavik, Iceland, so she could explore the underwater landscape between two tectonic plates in Iceland's crystal-clear waters, had treated herself to a three-day diving expedition. She'd done things people only dreamed of doing.

I told him, "My mother loves to push herself to the edge."

"These are amazing."

I was sharing my mother with Karl. I was sharing my family. I was sharing myself.

I was doing things that had depth, things that would keep me from feeling like a whore.

Karl appreciated the images from the islands the most of all.

We both came from third-world countries that were regarded as a rich man's paradise, heavens that the locals took for granted. The final destination for many of the African slaves, islands formerly under British rule, a place the British and Americans still flocked to during their holidays.

I had to change, put on yellow running shorts and a tank top from Peachtree Road Race.

Ten minutes later we were running down Cascade toward 285, this end a two-lane road with very little sidewalk, running single-file as traffic whizzed by, with Karl in front so conversation wasn't possible. That was good. I didn't feel talkative. I didn't feel like being alone right now but I didn't feel like talking.

We ran past homes and subdivisions on the two-lane section of the road, another road filled with churches, most of the route a mild decline, turned around after Kroger and shy of 285, the return trip being all incline. I loved a challenge. All the side streets had steep hills. We diverted and ran the hills, did a few repeats on Willis Mills, then jogged back into his community, went down to his basement, worked out in his home gym, did a million crunches and leg lifts, suicides, squats, push-ups, pull-ups, bis and tris, worked out until I could barely stand. I showered and cooked him dinner while he went over some of his work, set up appointments. After we ate, I stayed away from him, sat at the kitchen counter writing, checking e-mails, sending e-mails to Meiling, one of Trinidad's top fashion designers, doing my own thing while Karl did his.

Everything was perfect.

Karl put his home system on, tuned our world to tranquil music. It was different. The sounds of harps and flutes, spiritual music, as if we were walking through a wonderful Japanese temple.

The sound of the bathtub filling with water filled the room behind us. Candlelight surrounded us, our shadows dancing on the walls, our reflection in the mirrors as I sat on the counter, he stood in front of me, began kissing me over and over, sucking my lips, sucking my earlobes, touching my breasts.

I almost said I didn't feel like having sex to night, wasn't in the mood for what Karl had to offer, even though I loved what Karl did to me. I wanted a different flavor to night. I wanted a deeper experience. But I wondered what it would be like if there were three of us.

Not us and his brother. Kiki Sunshine. I wondered what this would be like with me and Kiki Sunshine taking control of him, owning his plea sure, pleasing him the way my identical sins had pleased me at the W, with touches and strokes, oral gratification, everything erotic, orgasms with no penetration.

I asked, "You heard from Kiki Sunshine?"

"Talked to her today."

"Really?"

"Have to get her those proofs."

"Are you going back to Greensboro?"

"Not sure. Might FedEx them. Depends."

I didn't ask him what it depended on.

He kissed me again, stopped so he could turn the water off before the tub was too full. He held my hand as I eased inside the water, heat rising into chilly air. He climbed into the tub. His erection was splendid, sticking up out of the water, the head thick and smooth. He smiled at erect nipples.

He said, "Your body is so nice."

"Thanks."

The bathtub was impressive, large enough to launch a ship, large enough for all of my lovers.

He put his finger on my sex, kissed me, suckled my breasts, then eased down, went underwater, put his tongue on my yoni, licked me, ate me, then came back up with water dripping from his face. He took a deep breath and went back underwater, licking and sucking on me until I couldn't take it anymore. He came back up smiling, wiped water from his face.

I moved through the water, went to him, took his hardness in my hand, then praised it by licking the tip, kissing the tip, tasting him and teasing him while I looked in his eyes.

He gave me moans.

He said, "Wish I had my camera."

I moved wet hair from my face. "Get your camera before I come to my senses."

While he climbed out of the tub, water raining from his skin, from his muscles, from his taut backside, from his engorged lingam, I saw my reflection, saw that I had forgotten to take my earrings off, pulled my hair back and saw the reflection of diamonds, saw how they caught light, saw how they reflected in the candlelight, how that same candlelight made my damp skin look so beautiful.

The Nikon clicked, flashed.

I looked back at Karl, the image of a naked Mandingo god, still erect, his tool thick with so many veins, strong enough to hold up a towel, hard enough to fulfill my needs, watched him as he came toward me with his camera in hand, aimed at my face, my eyes glued to his erection, his Nikon, clicking away.

He said, "Just your face. Not taking anything more than your astonishing beauty."

I blushed, his flattering words an aphrodisiac, his words like opium.

The exhibitionist part of me broke free and whispered, "You can photograph my breasts too."

"You sure?"

"Let me hide my face with my hair. You can photo down to my breasts."

"Okay. Yeah. That's mad sexy. Tilt your head."

"Wait."

He paused.

I said, "I think I want to see my whole body. Want to see how I look."

"You sure?"

I left the tub, grabbed a towel, walked into the bedroom with him in tow. I sat on the leather bench at the end of his bed. I turned my face away from the camera, let him photograph my body, my legs always closed, my yoni always hidden. I posed, used the bench and created sensual positions.

I did a split on his bench, my face deep into my leg.

He said, "Didn't know you were that flexible."

"Danced as a child. Mother made me take all kinds of dancing."

I took the camera from him. Had him lay down on the leather bench. I straddled him, put his strength inside me, moved up and down on what was so hard, shook my head side to side because its power and energy were overwhelming, and fought my own good feeling so I could aim the camera at his face, photographed degrees of plea sure rising in his expression. It was beautiful. Watching a man so strong look so weak. Weakness being the look of love. I handed him the camera, let him photograph my face and breasts, wanted him to capture me with weakness etched in my face.

As I rode him, as I struggled with myself, the Nikon clicked and clicked and clicked.

He photographed me a dozen more times before moving away from me, left me longing to be filled, and took my hand, led me back to the bathtub.

The spiritual music was so erotic, in tune with my tingling body.

Karl was so excited.

I gave him the warmth of my mouth while I pulled my hair back, took a deep breath, went underwater, holding my breath and suckling him until my lungs were starting to burn.

I came up for air, wiped water from my face, laughed at his amazed expression.

"Shit, Nia. What the hell you trying to do to me?"

I stood up, water dripping, turned around so Karl could see my backside, then I bent over, spread my yoni lips apart, eased my finger in and out of heat, let Karl witness that act of self-pleasuring.

I asked, "You like?"

"Mind if I get my camera again?"

"Not for this."

"Can't see your face."

"No camera. Photograph this moment with your mind."

Water splashed as he began pleasing himself.

The echo of flutes and harps made everything feel so exotic. I moved back to him, sat on his legs, his erection standing tall against my backside, rubbing against the bottom of my spine.

I leaned back into him, whispered in his ear, "I want you back inside me now."

I reached for a towel, used that as a cushion for his head. A sponge was on the edge of the tub. I dipped the sponge in the water, let the sponge expand, then squeezed the water into his hair, let it drain all over his face. His face was wet, reminded me of when I met him at Stone Mountain, when he was running, sweating, looking like a Mandingo warrior in search of his Nubian princess, so damn sexy.

"Damn, Nia."

I smiled, wiped his face with a towel.

This was wonderful. This was plea sure.

Karl was looking vulnerable, so much weakness in his eyes.