It was the best weekend I’d had in a long time. Blissful and sensual, yet wild and raunchy at the same time. My only regret was that Maverick wouldn’t get an opportunity to witness the cum-stained sheets. I’d changed them twice over the course of the weekend because sleeping on crisp, clean sheets was an absolute must for me.
Michelangelo and I fucked all over the apartment, and I felt vindicated in the knowledge that our naked asses had not only desecrated my marital bed, but had also christened the kitchen counter, the dining room table, the sunken bathtub, the shower, and the balcony.
Unabashed lust came at a cost, however. My cooch had been fucked raw and felt like it required bedrest for a week.
Monday morning rolled around, and both Michelangelo’s and my presence were required at the studio. He slipped out of bed at four in the morning. I could hear him tiptoeing around, trying not to wake me as he got dressed. He was so considerate, I couldn’t help comparing him to Maverick, who never let me sleep in peace whenever he got up first. Maverick would shake me awake and ask me if I’d picked up his black Givenchy suit from the dry cleaner, or he’d rouse me from sleep, using my cooch as a cum bucket during rushed, pre-dawn sex that didn’t remotely resemble lovemaking.
My sweet Michelangelo was the complete opposite of my selfish husband, and I appreciated his thoughtfulness.
During the ride to work, I checked my messages and wasn’t surprised that Maverick still hadn’t gotten in touch with me. And for once, I didn’t care. Having good side dick cured me of all my jealousy and insecurities over Brazilians and Russian bitches. Never again would I lose a wink of sleep over Maverick’s whorishness.
At the studio, I was all smiles and my squad noticed the difference in me.
“Girl, you don’t need any bronzer this morning; you have your own natural glow,” Clayton complimented. In the midst of him dabbing on foundation, there were two sharp raps on the door. Josh’s authoritative, signature knock. Clayton and I shared a disgusted look.
“It’s open,” Clayton called out.
Josh entered, looking frazzled and harried as usual. Raking his fingers through his hair, he said, “Would you mind excusing us, Clayton. I need to speak to Cori privately.”
“Not a problem.” Clayton sounded agreeable but his scowling expression told a different story. He put down his makeup brush, twisted his lips in annoyance, and pranced toward the door.
“What’s his problem?” Josh asked after Clayton had left.
“You know how he gets when it’s that time of the month.”
Instead of laughing at my attempt at a joke, Josh looked at me with a serious expression. “Cori, there’s been a big change in the direction of the show.”
“What kind of change? We agreed that Becca’s going home, right?” I searched his face, but he refused to make eye contact with me.
“As you know the majority of our viewers are women and we don’t want to alienate that demographic. We decided to keep Becca around for the final two. She won’t win, of course, but feminists won’t be able to say that we’ve been discriminatory.”
“Okay, so who’s going home…Yancy?”
“Of course not. We’ve already tapped Yancy to win this thing. Southern Baptist preacher…it makes sense.”
I blinked in incomprehension. “What are you saying? You’re sending the one and only remaining African American contestant packing. Oh, hell no, Josh. Fuck that! You and your cronies better put your heads back together and make a decision on either Becca or Yancy because you’re not sending the lone black man home. He needs to be in the final two and you know it!”
“Oh, Cori. It’s so cliché to keep a black person around as a mere token.”
“A token? That man can cook circles around Becca and Yancy put together.”
“But it’s not about who can cook and who can’t. It’s about the audience’s reaction to the contestants.”
“We won’t know how the audience reacts to any of them until the show airs in the fall. I can guarantee you that our female viewers will be creaming their panties over Michelangelo.”
“True, I don’t doubt that he has sex appeal, but when we used a test audience, they reacted more favorably to Becca than Michelangelo.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s true. As dippy as Becca is, the test audience loved it when she whispered chants over her food and used weird hand gestures as if casting spells over the dishes she prepared.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is an outrage, Josh. I am the only black woman who has a prime-time cooking competition show, and it was bad enough that there were only three black contestants on my show to begin with. Now you want to get rid of the last black person who also happens to be the strongest player in the competition. Michelangelo is articulate and handsome, and he can cook. He deserves a shot at success. I can’t believe that you and those other fucked-up producers prefer to keep a drunken, hocus-pocus bitch and an asshole country preacher over someone as genuinely talented as he is.”
“You always try to make everything about race, but I promise you, Cori, in this instance, that isn’t the case. We want to keep the people that we believe will increase viewership.”
“Oh, so you’re saying that a flawlessly beautiful black man who’s in phenomenal physical shape will cause viewers to switch the channel, but a chunky, grizzly-faced, redneck preacher can keep them glued to the screen?” I got out of my seat and started pointing a finger at Josh. “You’re talking so much shit, it’s a wonder this room isn’t reeking from the stench.”
Josh flinched and turned red when I called bullshit on his racist spiel.
I got all up in his space, frowning and snarling. “After that hateful rant from Angus on Friday about blacks, Jews, and Hispanics, I’d think that you of all people would be over your racist ways, but clearly you still hate and fear the black man.”
“That’s not true.”
“Fuck if it isn’t. You’re singling Michelangelo out, racially profiling him exactly the way cops do when they encounter a young brother.”
“But some of my best friends—”
I waved him off. “Oh, kiss my ass. I’m not trying to hear that tired line of bullshit.”
My vile language caused Josh to wince. Seeing his visceral reaction inspired me to tell him off in a way that would rival Grandma Eula Mae’s profanity-laced tirades during her final days.
“First of all, you need to fuckin’ admit that you’re a goddamn bigot. If it’s too hard to tell me the truth, then you need to start being honest with your own goddamn self. Personally, I think a racially intolerant person like you does more harm than a hatemonger like Angus. At least I know where the hell I stand with a racist bastard that’s ranting and raving about his white superiority. But I can’t stand a sneaky bitch-ass like you who tiptoes around, starting a bunch of bullshit behind the scenes. If I can’t have a black man in the final two, then all of you discriminatory dickheads can kiss my black ass. In fact, talk to my lawyer because as of right the fuck now, I’m officially out of here.”
“What are you saying?”
“I quit!”
“No, Cori, please. Don’t leave. You need to cool down and think about all the gossip and the bad press the show will receive.”
“America has a right to know what’s going on here,” I retorted with a neck twist that I threw in for good measure.
“I heard every word, and you gave me a lot to think about. I agree that Michelangelo is a much better choice than either Becca or Yancy.” Josh began to inch backward toward the door. “I’m going to call another meeting with the producers and see if we can come to a different conclusion. I’m sure I can persuade them to look at the situation from your perspective. I want to thank you for your honesty, Cori. Thanks a lot.”
When he pulled the door open, Clayton, Robin, and Gina, who’d obviously been ear hustling, all toppled inside the room. Annoyed with them, Josh sucked his teeth and slammed the door behind him.
The four of us were silent as we listened to the sound of Josh’s retreating footsteps. As soon as we were certain he was out of earshot, Clayton cried out, “Power to the people!” Robin and Gina raised their balled fists.
“You read his slimy ass,” Gina remarked.
“Mm-hmm,” Robin agreed. “You went in, Cori. You cussed him out and called him every name in the book.”
Clayton nodded his head. “I agree that Michelangelo should win. He’s fine enough to host his own show or at the very least, he could be the sidekick to another celebrity chef. I’d volunteer to be his makeup man, free of charge. Ooo, I’d love to powder his nose and apply some long lush tongue licks to that tight anus.” Clayton flicked out his tongue, and it undulated in a disturbing snake-like manner.
I gave Clayton a curious look. “Do you get a gay vibe from Michelangelo?”
“Not at all, I’m sorry to say. But a man can dream.”
Relief flooded through me.
• • •
Becca forgot to add the turnip greens component to my famous, Southern crab cakes. She also substituted turmeric for curry powder, which gave the dish an unpleasant bitter taste that the judges and I found offensive. Her crab cakes were undercooked in some areas and burned to a crisp in others. Her macaroni salad was bland and tasteless. Overall, her dishes were a disaster, and it was out of the question for her to advance further.
She accepted her loss graciously and with humor. With her supposed spell casting and weird chanting, our Wiccan contestant would be quite memorable. Viewers would definitely respond to her madcap character, and I appreciated the zaniness she brought to the show. However, it was time to get serious and select a winner.
Tomorrow Yancy and Michelangelo would compete against each other. Unlike other cooking competitions, we wouldn’t be bringing back the losing contestants to help them prepare their final meal. They would be assisted by Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley, and I would be the sole judge of their dishes. Still, the whole thing was a farce since it had been predetermined that Yancy would win.
I was on my way to Josh’s office when I noticed Azaria huddled up with Michelangelo in the contestants’ break room, supposedly discussing their strategy. I wasn’t surprised that she’d angled a way to be paired with him, but what I found disturbing was her body language. She was sitting extremely close to him—so close her boobs grazed his arm. Clearly, she was trying to seduce my man!
I felt rage simmering inside me, but fought to keep it contained. Instinctively, I wanted to charge forward and scratch her eyes out, but I had to behave professionally and be mindful of keeping my side dude a secret.
Getting their attention, I cleared my throat. Azaria looked up and tossed me a fake smile. When Michelangelo gazed at me, I saw earnest eyes filled with something that was hard to define. Was it lust that I saw reflected in his eyes? Was he thinking about our long weekend together and how we’d fucked in every sex position of the Kamasutra? I wondered if like me, he was anxious to get together, again.
“Azaria and I were discussing strategy,” Michelangelo explained. “She thinks we should go with your fried catfish and grilled corn on the cob recipes, but—”
I held up a palm. “Don’t tell me. If you divulge your strategy, I may not be as unbiased as I need to be.”
“Aw, damn, I blew it!” Michelangelo grumbled.
“It’s okay,” Azaria soothed, patting his hand. “We’ll start from scratch and come up with another winning idea.”
I noticed that her hand lingered on his caressingly. I didn’t like it, but somehow I managed to keep my composure.
Sensing that I was getting upset, Michelangelo eased his hand from beneath hers.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to continue strategizing,” I said, satisfied that Michelangelo wouldn’t allow himself to be seduced by slutty Azaria.