The African American answer to Sex and the City---a collection of hip, sexy, funny novellas about successful black women in their twenties, on the dating scene, making all the wrong moves . . .
A fine ambitious sister on the rise to stardom, junior correspondent to NBC News, Farah's, has life on a string. And she's looking for a quick hook-up. But this sister's about to learn what happens when you take the fast track to love . . .Alaya fled the projects, determined not to be anybody's baby-mama, got her degree, and opened her own accounting firm. Everything is perfect. All she needs now is that perfect someone. Only holding out for "Mr. Right" may mean missing out on love altogether . . .Kenya, an almost-thirty successful investment strategist is plotting some strategies of her own to alleviate her "Can't Find a Husband" blues. So when her hot Latin neighbor's dog kicks sand in her face while she's meditating on the beach, she realizes that it not quite the first move she had in mind, but it seems to be fate. That is until an old flame comes strolling back into her life and she has to make a choice...Alexis is fabulously fine and fresh out of a stifling relationship with the "right man." She's got a wild side (to put it mildly) she's been dying to release. Enter Mike, a strong brother with rough edges and enough daring to indulge fantasies Alexis didn't even know she had...Waceera's travels all over the world have taught her one thing: there is no such thing as one good man. The world is her buffet and variety is the spice that keeps life yummy. The last thing on this sister's mind is settling down.
The African American answer to Sex and the City---a collection of hip, sexy, funny novellas about successful black women in their twenties, on the dating scene, making all the wrong moves . . .
A fine ambitious sister on the rise to stardom, junior correspondent to NBC News, Farah's, has life on a string. And she's looking for a quick hook-up. But this sister's about to learn what happens when you take the fast track to love . . .Alaya fled the projects, determined not to be anybody's baby-mama, got her degree, and opened her own accounting firm. Everything is perfect. All she needs now is that perfect someone. Only holding out for "Mr. Right" may mean missing out on love altogether . . .Kenya, an almost-thirty successful investment strategist is plotting some strategies of her own to alleviate her "Can't Find a Husband" blues. So when her hot Latin neighbor's dog kicks sand in her face while she's meditating on the beach, she realizes that it not quite the first move she had in mind, but it seems to be fate. That is until an old flame comes strolling back into her life and she has to make a choice...Alexis is fabulously fine and fresh out of a stifling relationship with the "right man." She's got a wild side (to put it mildly) she's been dying to release. Enter Mike, a strong brother with rough edges and enough daring to indulge fantasies Alexis didn't even know she had...Waceera's travels all over the world have taught her one thing: there is no such thing as one good man. The world is her buffet and variety is the spice that keeps life yummy. The last thing on this sister's mind is settling down.
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Overview
The African American answer to Sex and the City---a collection of hip, sexy, funny novellas about successful black women in their twenties, on the dating scene, making all the wrong moves . . .
A fine ambitious sister on the rise to stardom, junior correspondent to NBC News, Farah's, has life on a string. And she's looking for a quick hook-up. But this sister's about to learn what happens when you take the fast track to love . . .Alaya fled the projects, determined not to be anybody's baby-mama, got her degree, and opened her own accounting firm. Everything is perfect. All she needs now is that perfect someone. Only holding out for "Mr. Right" may mean missing out on love altogether . . .Kenya, an almost-thirty successful investment strategist is plotting some strategies of her own to alleviate her "Can't Find a Husband" blues. So when her hot Latin neighbor's dog kicks sand in her face while she's meditating on the beach, she realizes that it not quite the first move she had in mind, but it seems to be fate. That is until an old flame comes strolling back into her life and she has to make a choice...Alexis is fabulously fine and fresh out of a stifling relationship with the "right man." She's got a wild side (to put it mildly) she's been dying to release. Enter Mike, a strong brother with rough edges and enough daring to indulge fantasies Alexis didn't even know she had...Waceera's travels all over the world have taught her one thing: there is no such thing as one good man. The world is her buffet and variety is the spice that keeps life yummy. The last thing on this sister's mind is settling down.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429908139 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Press |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 241 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Maryann Reid graduated from Fordham University. She has written for Black Enterprise, NV magazine and her novella "Single Black Female " appeared on USAToday.com. Sex and the Single Sister is her first book. She currently resides in Brooklyn, New York.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
THONGS, LAPTOPS, AND TOSSED SALADS
I'm attractive and slender, wrapped in cinnamon brownskin, with long, "good" hair and an attitude to match theassets. I graduated from the top educational institutions in thecountry I'm bright—a B. A. and M. A. degree in political sciencefrom Columbia University and I'm a junior correspondent at NBCNews. I have plans to buy a few brownstones in Brooklyn andbasically kick some ass when it comes to making money!
Working at one of the nation's largest TV networks has itsperks: free admission to costly events, meeting influential people,invites to all the right parties in the city, and mingling with politicians,officials, and the entertainment world. Like all jobs, it doeshave its flip side. I'm one of two black people hired as correspondents,which makes it rather lonely I've been here since collegeand started as an intern. Though I'm a freelancer, I'm satisfiedwith that. The freelancer's life is always full of adventure: Whatwill the next story be? Where is the next check coming from? Asa freelancer you carve your own path, and with the right contactsyou can basically live as good as a full-time worker—or better.
I've always been a writer, though. Before I could even write, Iwas thinking. I had an imagination that would put Disney Worldto shame! When I was five, a class assignment was to picture whatlives would we live as adults. Considering that as young kids wecould barely write a complete, coherent sentence, we had to "express"our thoughts and feelings. Whileeveryone else wanted tobe some cartoon hero, I wanted to be a princess who lived in acastle on Mars, had servants, and conquered the universe. As I gotolder, I put my imagination into structured stories. In high schoolI was the assistant editor of the school newspaper, The Times Observer.As a sophomore, I uncovered a story where a senior wasfound out to be bribing a male teacher for an "A" before graduation.The senior, who was very popular, was expelled and theteacher suspended. Students loitered the hallways with newspapersclaiming I had made the incident up as a way to get attentionfor my stories. I lost several friends and some officials refused tobe used as sources for any of my future stories. But I got past that.
In college the stories were a bit more on the sexier side ofthings. The name of the college newspaper was Ebony Voices. Youguessed it! It was the black student publication and I was editorof the relationships section, where I would get all the dirt on whowas doing who and report it. A few relationships and egos werebroken. Such as the boyfriend who was seeing another girl wholived right next door to his girlfriend in the same dorm. He wouldsneak out of his girlfriend's room and hide in the stairwell. Whenthe coast was clear, he would knock on the other girl's door andbe quickly let in. The "other girl" called in the story in hopes offinally breaking up his relationship. We promised to withhold hername, but we gave his name and the girlfriend's name. This wasthe biggest thing on campus since the boyfriend was the top pointguard in his NCAA division. His girlfriend ended up dumping himand becoming friends with the "other girl." I guess in college peopledon't take certain things as seriously as we do in the real world.
Another incident involved a freshman having an affair with thedean of students. His name and full title were withheld, but thefreshman gave detailed accounts of their times together, includingthe worn-down church shoes he would wear on every date. Sincethat article, all eyes were on administrators with church shoes!Instead of me being labeled a troublemaker, in college, I gainedeven more friends through my stories. Somehow everyone thoughtif they became friends with me, I wouldn't hang their ass out todry. But if you put your business out in the street, someone isbound to sweep it up.
It was in college when I decided the school newspaper wasjust not enough. My professor introduced me to Lena, editor atthe Daily News, who was a former student at Columbia. I was anintern there for a while but convinced them to let me write a storyby the end of summer. It wasn't exactly Pulitzer-prize work but asmall story on the fight to take back a community park. Finally,Lena let me do a piece on relationships between students andprofessors. The article included homosexual affairs, too. It didraise some eyebrows, but that time I blamed Lena. Anytime someoneasked me why I included some private details, I would justshake my head and say, "My editor made me do it." The articlewas a hit and got me lots of local attention. I continued writingfor the newspapers, as well as Black Enterprise magazine. I waslucky. This isn't usually the case with many young writers—blackor white.
Landing the job at NBC was a godsend. Going from print toTV can make your head spin! Television is supersonic comparedto print, where a lead time can be several months. When I toldan editor I worked for about my television goals after graduation,she gave me the number of a "good friend" at NBC. The next weekI was interviewing with Myra, and two weeks later I was travelingbetween New York and D.C. covering congressional/governmentissues and interviewing the bigwig policy makers and breakers.Anyone who's been to D.C. knows that the government can bevery male dominated. Everywhere I went, there was a man I hadto speak to, meet, or shake hands with. Most of them weregrumpy, conservative old men, but many were young, aggressive,attractive, and on the road to success.
I don't have many capital affairs to share except one where Iwas covering a local party convention. On my way back from thevending machine after a long night of transcribing an interview, Iwalked past the half-opened door of an up-and-coming senatorand his friends being entertained by several "ladies" in his hotelroom. As soon as I made it down the hall to my room, the doorslammed shut. Just earlier that evening the same senator had beencampaigning with a doting wife and family standing at his side.There are always rumors of indiscretion in D.C., but I was moreinterested in making my own scandal than reporting others. Well,not a real scandal, but a private one.
When in town, meeting men in D.C. is not a problem. A lotof reporters stay in the same hotel for a few days when coveringa story about a convention, meeting, or conference. At the end ofthe day when the interviews have finished, note taking has ceased,and keyboards have rested—it's time to head to the bar. The sceneis like any other one, but this time the suits are lined with fatpockets. The same handsome reporter who ignored me in thehotel lobby is now trying to whisper sweet nothings in my ear;the bar's patrons being policy makers who indirectly or directlyhave an effect on the laws and administration of this countrydoesn't make a bit of difference. It's just like when I'm in NewYork—once a bar always a bar.
THOUGHT IT MAY SOUND like I'm doing pretty well, my Grandma Jesse alwaysasks, "So when you gonna settle down and find you somebodynice?" My answer is, "I'm only twenty-four!" All I get is oneof those, "These young people today ..." looks. No matter howmuch I accomplish in my professional life, my personal life alwaysgets the most scrutiny.
Working in TV news is constant work, unusual hours, and theschedule is unpredictable. One week you are working on the 5 P.M.show, and the next day you are doing the 4 A.M. show. All I wantedto do when I got home was sleep! Sadly, the men I'd be datingwould think I was playing hard to get or cat-and-mouse gameswhen really I just didn't have the energy. Some of them I reallyliked, but eventually they would disappear after a few weeks. Iguess they have too many choices out there. But that was thenand this is now. The career girl approach has landed me by myselftoo many nights. When the opportunity presents itself for me tohave a good time, I'm there.
Still, there is the other issue of adjusting to what men wanttoday. Men say they want a good woman, someone with goals,who takes care of herself. But when they see the hoochie mamawith her breasts pouring out her shirt, their attention diverts tothat and they completely lose interest in me. Or how about whenI cook and try to get domestic, like I think some men appreciate,they want to be with the glamour queens and divas who thinkPine-Sol is a new tanning lotion!
I'm a good woman who doesn't curse and has morals, but thatdoesn't excite the men I meet anymore. Playing by the rules sometimeslands me with the kit but not the caboodle.
IT'S THE BEGINNING OF my few days of vacation from work! No interviews,producers, or deadlines to meet. It's a Sunday night and Idon't try to leave the house on Sundays, more less go to a club.But my girl, Lola, is really excited about going to Club Lotts onSpring Street. We heard it was off the hook on Sunday nights; andwhen we rolled past there Memorial Day weekend, we saw allkinds of people stepping out in everything from Jimmy Choos toBakers, and from Range Rovers to Kias.
It was about thirty minutes before I had to meet Lola at theBergen Street train station, and I just couldn't get myself lookingright. I had on some tight, stretch, black pants; a strappy blacktank top, and sandals. Since I was feeling really modest (beingSunday and all), I threw on a brown, long-sleeve sweater. And Ieven had on my work sandals. Flats! I swore when I first saw theplace I would be in my tight Betsey Johnson dress, Dolce & Gabannaheels, skin glowing, and hair flowing. I was not out to meetanyone tonight but just to chill with my girl before she left forBaltimore on a business trip.
Once we got inside, it was like a scene from those well-knownrap videos. Victorian couches, chandeliers, and mirrors adornedthe room, and a long, wooden bar ran the length of the roomupstairs. Everybody was posing, laid across a couch or sittingcross-legged on purple and red velvet sofas. With drinks in theirhands, every once in a while someone would take a peek orglimpse at the sister or brother coming in. There were guys reachingover the bar buying girls drinks and scribbling numbers onyellow napkins.
It was a definite scene to be studied. Lola and I just sat on acouch and people watched for a while, listening to the sounds ofDe Angelo, R Kelly, and Mary J. Blige. When the DJ finally madeit to the rap collection, people put their drinks down to get theirdance on. Lola and I walked to the bathroom to touchup our hairand makeup, just in time to catch the end of Q-Tip's "VivrantThing."
Somehow we got caught up on the dance floor with the crowd.We could barely get halfway across the room! Lola and I justlooked at each other and started dancing. After a few minutes, Ilost Lola. There were more girls than guys on the floor, but at thispoint, the music was too good to be standing around. When Juvenile's"Back That Thang Up" came on ... everybody went crazy.Suddenly everybody got a big ass they want to back up!
I managed to dance on the perimeter of the floor—so it canlook like I'm dancing and standing (just in case anyone wantedto ask me, I could look available). Out of nowhere, I hear someonenext to me yell, "OW, OW!" I turn around to see who had theaudacity to complain about someone stepping on their shoes,which happens a thousand times in a crowded club.
"Excuse me, miss, but I just bought these Gators! How yougonna do a brother like that and keep dancing?" He isn't the leastbit serious. I notice the cutest smile across his lips, and he issupposed to be in pain.
I turn around and ignore him. About ten minutes pass, I'mabout all backed up and feeling a bit tired. As I make my waythrough the crowd bumping shoulder after shoulder and being hitwith drops of sweat from wanna-be Saul Train dancers, I walk tothe bar for a drink. As I am waiting to get the bartender's attention,lo and behold, it's Gator man again.
He takes my sweaty hand, looks up, and begins counting one-by-onesomething invisible in the air. "I'm counting the angels upabove because one of them has to be missing," he says, without ablink.
As I come out of the spell he put on me, I say, "That's a newone. So if I'm an angel, who are you? The devil?"
No answer. But Marcus' wit and bronze skin has me interested.For a moment, he just stares at me with those gorgeous, contrasting,light brown eyes, like I'm a plate of buffalo wings and apitcher of cold lemonade with lemon bits.
He leans his six-foot-three, 230-pound, solid frame against thebar, as I press against him to make room for others trying tosqueeze in. I looked around for Lola and saw that she had madeherself right at home with a glass of red Alizé, laughing with someguy with dreads down his back. Her Type.
"Tell me what do angels do to keep busy?" he asks with a cute,boyish smirk.
"Protect the good from evil," I say; as I turn around with myback against the bar. I felt his hot breath against my neck and hisIssey Miyake cologne whispering my name as he slowly straightenedup and got the bartender to come our way.
He bought me a Tangerine Cosmopolitan and himself a Henneseyand Alizé. As I lick the corner of my lips to savor theCosmo, I say, "I work at NBC during the day, but at night I'mfighting with the new laptop I bought. Are you into computers,by the way?"
"I'm especially into the HARD drive. The more bites and RAMS,the better," he says, with a sexy bedroom tone. I couldn't help butfall victim to his lines. His green Gators, Rolex watch, tailoredpants, Caesar-cut hair, and hard, muscular body finally crackedopen my defenses. And he knew it was working.
Lola finally walked over with the guy in the dreads. Marcusintroduced the guy as his friend, Steve. It is a coincidence becauseSteve and Marcus look like total opposites. Marcus orders anotherround of drinks and pays for everyone's. We hurriedly sip the lastof our drinks and head out to the dance floor as Sisqo's "Thong"starts playing.
Marcus wastes no time in trying to get to know my body better.Thighs like what, what what ... As we dance, his hands are casuallyslipping and touching my breasts, which are bouncing against hischest. Usually, I would dance at least an arm's length away froma guy, if there's enough room, but tonight was different. Marcusfeels my thighs when I turn my back to him and move my bodyagainst his already firm dick. It was a hot, summer night, and mymood was loosening up. Unfortunately, Lola had to catch a flightin the morning.
When the song ended, Marcus pulled me over to a corner aswe both tried to catch our breath. He wiped his wet forehead withthe back of his hand and licked his thick lips. "Girl, you wereshaking your body out there like you ain't got no mama!" Helaughed. "When can I see you again?"
After I finish laughing like crazy at his country-ass remark, Isay, "Just call me." I signal to Lola to give me a second. I take outa pen and I write my number on a napkin. I thought he wouldgive me his, but he gives me his E-mail address. He tells me hejust bought a computer, too, and warns to see if his E-mail works.I didn't give it a second thought. Usually I like giving guys mynumber first instead of me calling them. I leave him, standing withSteve near the steps to the basement lounge. I turned back towave bye, but he was gone.
TWO DAYS AND COUNTING ... my little vacation is dwindling. I have to crameverything I need to do in these last two days, including lunchwith dear old mom. We meet for brunch at the Blue Note whereChaka Khan is doing her thing as only a woman named Chakacan. In between Chaka's soulful sounds being interrupted by applause,my mom and I share tidbits of information of the latesthappenings.
"Did you hear that Nadeera's mother got her that job in themayor's office as the press secretary's assistant?" my mom asks,with one eye on Chaka and the other on me.
"Nadeera? That girl barely finished college! I thought she wasstill working as a bank teller!" I say, totally surprised because Nadeerahated politics and only used newspapers for cleaning herwindows!
"Evelyn called up some big guy there who gave the press secretarya glowing recommendation. Now I hear that Nadeera don'tlike the place," she says, looking through her purse for a mirror."I have a feeling them people don't like her! Who can blamethem," she huffs.
My mom never liked Nadeera after she swore Nadeera stolefive hundred dollars from her wall unit last summer when she waswaiting for me to come home from a meeting. Nadeera had beenleft in the house alone, but she denies it till this day.
Shaking her head, my mom admits, "Now you know she willprobably be out of there in no time. But it's good to see a blackwoman can wield some power around this town to get her daughterin such a high-profile position." The old black couple, seatedbehind us, looked at us annoyed as we continued our conversation.
"Tell me about that politician guy you met a few days ago? Yousaid his name was Marvin?" my mom says, as she looks up fromher cappuccino.
She knew damn well I met some guy at a club, but it was herway of dropping her so-called subtle hints.
"No." I sigh. "I met a guy when I went out dancing with Lolathe other night." Chaka is leaving the stage for a break. It seemslike I missed the whole show talking to my mom.
"His name is Marcus. It's just a boy, no big deal. And beforeyou ask, yes, I am keeping my eyes open for that young, blackcongressman from Indiana," I say, rolling my eyes and using myperfectly pink-polished nails to push my hair back.
"Oh, that's right, a club. That's nice," she mumbles, lookingdown at her cup. "But that Mr. Lewis, I saw him on CNN theother day, and it still looks like he has a naked ring finger." Sheleans forward, whispering like she doesn't want to spill the news.If I didn't know my mom better, I would think she had somepolitical goals herself because she was always trying to hook meup with a politician. But what are mothers for! I've had my eyeon Mr. Lewis, I mean Remington, too. But at first glance he canlook a bit too stuffy and conservative.
Little did my mom know that I'd been through Remingtonalready We had a little fling when I was covering the recent RepublicanNational Convention. He's not that bad in bed, and hisconservative manner is only an act that he wears outside thebedroom.
At thirty-two, Remington was in the middle of his second termin Congress and was handpicked to speak at the convention. He'sprestigious, well liked, and an advocate for Christian groups andantismoking campaigns.
It was my first major political event and he gave a hair-raisingspeech to the crowd of supporters. My producer, Sharon, felt thatinterviewing some politicians and gathering information for thesenior correspondents was something a young reporter could handle.On my first day I was too overwhelmed. After his speech Iwas lucky to spot Remington surrounded by a small group ofreporters who were holding on to his every word. I watched asthe cameras flashed each time he raised his hands for emphasis. Iwas automatically drawn to him, and my insides got warm justthinking about what fucking a congressman would be like. It wasa fantasy.
At a reception in a nearby hotel, we met as he introducedhimself to the reporters in the room. When it was my turn, heheld my hand a little longer than the others. I guess being one ofthe few young sisters there caught his attention in a room full ofwhite-haired politicians. I was charmed by his stocky, six-foot-oneframe and his perfectly trimmed mustache, which teased the liningof his curvy upper lip. The gentle clasp of his hand around minetold me he was charmed, too, by my "Tina Turner" legs. The rumoris he's quietly looking for a wife. I was twenty-three and justtrying to finish my story. After the reception he invited me to anafter-hours spot in D.C., and we exchanged phony conversationabout politics, journalism, and success.
"Yeah, that would be great if that could happen!"
"You're right we need leaders we can trust."
"Politics used to be more about integrity."
After we skipped the bull and, of course, after a few glasses ofwine, we let our true colors show.
"Damn, I love the way your bottom lip just cuds," he said.
"You have such a firm butt!" I responded by grabbing it.
"What are you doing after this?" he asked, leaning into me."Let's talk in the suite. I have some CDs we can listen to."
We didn't listen to CDs but made our own music. A total exhibitionist,Remington had a foot fetish and loved role-playing—especiallybad girl, good cop. He loved my feet so much, hedipped them in all types of sauces he kept, along with chilledbottles of wine, in a small refrigerator near his bed. Strawberry,cherry, and orange sauces would trickle down my feet and toes ashe savagely licked and sucked every drop! He was a tender lover,who liked women to take control. Tying him to the bed while Istraddled his face was his special request.
Even now when we see each other, we give each other that "Ifthey only knew" look and let our eyes do the talking. It was aone-night stand, but he's my ally now and in D.C. you can neverhave enough of those.
Mom and I watch the crowd begin to talk among themselveswhile they wait for Chaka and her band to return from the break.
"Mommy, Mr. Lewis is nice, but I hear he's courting somewoman from his hometown. A family friend," I say, trying to hidethe disappointment in my voice. I didn't like Remington like thatbecause I didn't really know him. But it's not so bad to be thegirlfriend of a popular politician and that hadn't happened.
"And you know, I just want a regular man." I signal the waitressto bring another cappuccino to the table. Running my fingersthrough my curly, light brown hair (something I do when I amnervous), I say, "Politicians travel too much. I want a hard-workingman who can be there for me and not have me wondering allnight where he is."
My mom hurriedly swallows her last piece of carrot cake anddabs her mouth with a napkin. Pointing at me, she gives me that"a man is a man" speech—again.
"I done told you these men are going to do what they want to!If you keep worrying about keeping some man home and knowinghis whereabouts all the time, you are going to be alone and miserable."
She catches her breath. "A man is a man. You can't change that,just change how you respond to things."
My mom is a single woman. My dad was seeing her while hewas married to another woman. My dad, William, was a hornylittle thing and produced a few more babies while he was separatedfrom his wife. His wife never left. My mom still loves himand never utters a bad word against him. And his children outsidehis marriage adore him because we really don't see him. And sinceeverybody else likes him, especially my mom, I never thoughttwice about things. Sometimes we all get together for Fourth ofJuly picnics in my Aunt Lauryn's back yard in Queens—myself,him, his wife, and nine kids from his wife and three differentwomen, including my mom. We all accepted that "a man is a man"and there was no time to harbor hard feelings.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from SEX AND THE SINGLE SISTER by MARYANN REID. Copyright © 2001 by Maryann Reid. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Reading Group Guide
>Take this quiz with friends, and find out more about them—and yourself.
Discussion Questions
1. If you had $10 to take your date out what would you do? (If you said give it to him and let him figure it out, try again.)
2. Does he write your dates down in his palm pilot? (Bad sign, he could be scheduling you in among his other conquests.)
3. What would you NOT do for your man in bed?
4. If you were alone at home with two men you were definitely interested in and they were both flirting with you, what would you do?
5. Would you steal your friend's man if you felt he was "the one" for you? Or how about sneaking a one night stand to see what he's like?
6. If your man asked you to invite another woman into your bed with him, would you do it? BE HONEST!
7. What happened when you faked that orgasm? What was he doing wrong?
8. Is it okay for your man to have female friends? Why or why not?
9. How would you know if you met your ideal man?
10. What morals or views are you willing to compromise when you FINALLY get a man?