The Last Street Novel by Omar Tyree

women for a book was well worth watching.
    As Shareef thumbed through the pages of his novel, the anticipation continued to build in the room. The crowd of women breathed deeply, swallowed hard, readjusted their stances, smiled from ear to ear, and gave the author their undivided attention.
    He found his chapter, took a sip of his lemonade, and began to read from his standing position:
    Carla looked down at the phone number she had scribbled onto the back of one of her business cards and thought about the man’s proposition. Why travel to Bermuda by herself to begin with if she was only there to window shop? She could window shop at home with friends in Houston. But what was the use in lusting for a man through a window? Either she would decide to wear his soft brown skin, aroma, and hard flexing muscles while she was there on the exotic island, or she would only have her moist dreams to remember him by when she left. Still, she could have had her wet dreams back home at Houston.
    If she was not willing to indulge herself and become physical with the man, she could have been just as easily served watching the movies of Denzel, Morris, Kodjoe, and Shemar under slippery satin sheets. For what was life if she didn’t live it? For how long would she allow herself to continue being a spectator. Every grown woman had been hurt to some degree by love and loss; it was the victorious women who were courageous enough to move on and find new love. Then again, becoming a revolving door of sexual fantasies, a human McDonald’s, where every customer was served, and cheaply, was not an option she would allow herself to entertain.
    That was Carla’s dilemma. How much would she be willing to give of herself? To whom? And at what price to her conscience? Nevertheless, she was an honest woman who craved a man’s touch, his words, his comfort, his caress, and his intimacy. Holding out would only build up her intensity and anticipation of release, and indeed, a release was needed. She was woman enough to admit it; “I need what I need.”
    Suddenly, she became antsy. Normal human lust was winning over. She felt butterflies in her stomach, quivers in her legs, and twinkles in her toes, as fresh blood rushed to her bosom, producing the perfect firmness for foreplay.
    Her desires were undeniable. Her cravings were strong. Her will was weakening? Or was it strengthening? For what was the equal balance between yes and no? Was no more courageous than yes? Or was yes more courageous, particularly while Carla held the phone number and her fate in her own hands. A no was as simple as no phone call, but a yes had to be initiated.
    Then again, she reasoned that there was room for a series of yeses and nos. For instance: she could say yes to a walk on the beach, but no to a temptatious glass of wine too late in the evening. She could say yes to dinner in a public restaurant, but no to a private nightcap. She could say yes to an afternoon swim in her bathing suit, but no to a skinny-dip after dark. Such was the proper etiquette of a tactful lady.
    Nevertheless, at the end of their courting, Carla would still have a pressing question to answer; yes or no, with only three nights left between them for seduction.
    So she took a deep breath and boldly decided to pick up her hotel phone and call the number he had given her. She would start with that first yes—a phone call—after that, she would determine how far another yes would lead them.
    When Shareef closed his novel and made eye contact with the crowd, they began to exhale and celebrate.
    “Whuuuuww! Give us more!”
    “Somebody turn on the air! It’s hot in here!”
    “I know you’re not stopping on us there!”
    Daryl started grinning from the back. Even The Spear cracked a smile. And the sister in the lavender business suit had been smiling since she walked into the store.
    Shareef laughed out loud from the front. He said, “One thing I’ve learned in this publishing industry is only to read