Naughtier than Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey

she did an interview on
The Tonight Show
, and due to the Baptiste Bump, as they called it, his local business took off. Franklin appeared in all of his commercials the same way Frankie was on billboards. Frankie’s ads were humble; Franklin’s were full of braggadocio. I could see now what I hadn’t seen back then, that grandiose sense of self-importance, his excessive self-admiration, his sense of power and arrogant behavior. It all came off as if he were making fun of himself, but that was the real him. Frankie’s Auto Restorations, shops from the Bay to San Diego, and he had a half dozen car washes and repair shops that worked with all major insurance companies. He was becoming a local celebrity, like car salesman Cal Worthington had done back in the eighties. All he had to do was eat a bug as a gimmick and get some adorable pet asa mascot and continue with his ’Bama shtick. I picked up the remote and turned the television off, gave my tipsy attention to Beale Streets’s pretty eyes. We played a game of Ms. Pac-Man. We were both competitive. I won, and then we rode the elevator to the top. My eyes went to the bed. He had changed the come-stained sheets, made the bed with fresh linen that had a thread count higher than my SAT score, and sprayed the room with a fresh scent. My aroma was gone, as was all evidence. It was as if I’d never been there that evening. I didn’t say anything. We climbed on his freshly made bed. I played with his kinky hair for a while; he gave me a smooth back rub. I’d been there thirty-seven minutes. That was thirty-seven minutes too long.
    I thought about Monica. Imagined her waking up without my being there.
    I said, “I need to leave before I get too comfortable.”
    â€œTell me the real reason you came back.”
    â€œYou don’t tell a woman you bought her a present and expect her to be able to sleep, do you?”
    â€œYou still have to wait.”
    â€œFive more minutes.”
    â€œTen.”
    He pulled my sweats down to my ankles, put a pillow underneath my butt, and went down on me again. I shouldn’t have let him do that, like this was his, but I did let him do that like he was mine. Why I felt the way I felt at this moment, this sensation, was an enigma, a mystery as deep as the Atlantic.
    His cellular rang, a ringtone that made his tongue stroke falter, pulled me out of heaven.
    I opened my eyes. “Tanya Obayomi is calling you. That Drake song is her ringtone. She’s not coming over, is she?”
    He pushed me back down. “I’m only sleeping with you, Tommie.”
    â€œI’m more concerned with who you’re staying awake with than whom you’re sleeping with.”
    His tongue hit a new rhythm, a strong beat, like the drumbeat to “High on the Ceiling.”
    First there were lights behind my eyes, then gradually colors returned, deep variations in and subtle gradations of light and shade, as if the world had become a chiaroscuro painted by Rembrandt.
    When I was done, as I twitched and came down from the high, he rested his face on my thighs.
    I looked around. This lifestyle, this silence, this level of tranquility, could become addictive.
    Monica would love it here. I imagined her running up the stairs from the basement to the bedroom, then riding the elevator back down and playing the pinball and video games until I yelled for her to quit.
    Five precocious children could live in this home and rarely be in the same room.
    I sat up, tugged my sweats up, but he pulled me back to the bed, made me chill out a moment.
    I asked, “You’ve been all over the world. What’s your favorite place?”
    â€œYou’re my favorite place. You’re the place I want to be. Right here.”
    â€œHow many girls have you been with?”
    â€œMany girls, but you are the first woman.”
    â€œYou’re my third adventure into premarital sex.”
    â€œDo you feel as if