Page 23 of Yearn
She stood over five foot ten, brown skin that photographed like velvet, long locs she pulled into a high ponytail when shewanted to make an entrance and let cascade when she wanted to make a point.
She always wore these silver cuffs, bold lipstick, and cat-eye liner like war paint.
People thought she told the dirtiest jokes because she loved shock. I knew she did it because she loved honesty.
But, under all that glitter and boldness lived a woman who feared disappearing as the years rolled forward.
She was trying to solve that fear with a new business that made women louder. Last year, she opened Afrodite’s, a sex-positive studio with a honeyed glow and a strict policy of no shame.
She hosted blow job workshops with proper technique and laughter, cunnilingus classes with anatomy diagrams and applause, “Wine & Wand” nights where women made custom toys, “Lube & Learn” sessions that doubled as science and group therapy.
Her mission was simple: teach pleasure, speak truth, and refuse invisibility. The studio sat a few blocks from the downtown venue where she planned to throw her fiftieth party next winter: “50 Shades of Ro,” a party that would not ask permission to be decadent.
I bet when I tell Ro what happens she tells me to go down to the basement and suck Dominic off.
Chuckling, I smiled and thought about my other bestie.
Cadence balanced Rochelle the way water balanced fire.
She stood a quiet five foot five with light skin the color of fresh cream, freckles dusted across her nose, natural red curls that tried to escape every tidy bun she insisted on, pouty full lips that made even a prudish whisper look like an erotic promise, and a big bust she desperately tried to hide under wrap dresses and soft cardigans.
She worked as a school librarian. She carried a planner with tabs for each child and a pen for each kind of emergency. Sherepresented the faithful good mother who never forgot a bake sale and never missed a meeting.
But Rochelle and I knew that beneath all that duty sat a wildfire she had not let herself touch in years.
Last year, her divorce had come and gone. Her children stood tall—one in their junior year of high school, one about to graduate.
Last night Cadence called me and said that she woke up this year and realized she had been living in survival mode so long she had to learn how to live again.
Hmmm. Cadence will say. . .don’t do it. That’s your tenant. He’s young. Be smart.
The three of us met two years ago in a book club that should have been perfect. It drew women from every part of the city and promised community.
However, we soon learned that promises fracture when people do not want to seeyou.
Every time Ro, Cadence, or I suggested a Black romance or a romance featuring a Black heroine, excuses circled the table. “Maybe next month.”
“We don’t want to alienate the others.”
“There aren’t many romances with Black women in them.”
They always said that bullshit as if our love stories required a waiting room. But our stories didn’t need permission slips. Every time they told us to wait, it felt like standing in line for a table they had no intention of seating us at.
Meanwhile, they licked their fingers on my cast-iron fried chicken, moaned over Rochelle’s collards slow-simmered with smoked turkey, begged Cadence for another scoop of her peach cobbler slick with brown sugar syrup.
They wanted our dishes but not our heroines, our presence but not our happily-ever-after’s.
That was the knife in the gut.
And that pissed me the fuck off. Because if you can swallow my cornbread and gravy, if you can scrape the mac and cheese from the bottom of the pan, but choke on the sight of a Black heroine getting her happy ending? Then you don’t deserve my food, my presence, or my voice.
Even crazier, when Ro suggested a title with heat, their fans came out and pearls got clutched. For them, two kisses and fade-to-black counted as spicy.
Fuck that.
We wanted diverse bodies, sweat, heavy breathing, and wet messes.
After one too many lukewarm discussions over vanilla latte romances, I let Cadence and Rochelle know that I would not be returning, but that I was so happy to meet them. Cadence looked like she was about to freaking cry.
