A Bona Fide Gold Digger Page 2

  “What could I do?”

  Sweetie gawked at Milan. “Please tell me that you at least grabbed that wench by the collar and smacked your coffee out of her hand.”

  “Get serious, Sweetie. You know I wouldn’t disgrace myself like that.”

  “Hmph! If that heifer had come at me like that, her ass woulda been wearing that damn espresso.”

  “Cappuccino,” Milan corrected.

  “Whatever! Did you whip that ass?” Sweetie repeated.

  Milan sincerely loved her sister, but Sweetie had to be the most hopelessly ignorant and thoroughly ghettoized person she knew. The two sisters were like night and day. They had nothing in common.

  Sweetie had no ambition. She was out of shape and her wardrobe was a fashion disaster. How her sister could walk around in a pair of low rider jeans with a roll of flab hanging over the waistline was beyond Milan. Sweetie was satisfied being a sloppy-looking, stay-at-home wife and mother. She and her husband, Quantez, had two bad-behind boys spaced only ten months apart, and judging by the way her sister loved to brag about her sex life, it wouldn’t be long before baby number three was conceived.

  In Milan’s opinion, the only thing Sweetie had going for herself was her pretty face. She didn’t need a drop of makeup, not even lipstick. Her glamour routine was simple: moisturizer and lip gloss. Milan had to work hard to be glamorous and couldn’t help thinking that God had given the wrong sister the natural beauty.

  Breaking off her thoughts of envy, Milan said, “Sweetie, I just lost the best job I’ve ever had and all you can think about is whether or not I retaliated with physical force. I need to focus on finding another job. A good job that pays as much or even more than I earned at Pure Paradise.” Milan fell silent briefly, and then looked at her sister intently. “Sweetie. There’s a possibility that the board might spread malicious rumors about my education.”

  “Rumors?”

  “You know what I mean. After all the energy I put into my career, I could end up blackballed. The board could inhibit my earning power; they could prevent me from ever working again.”

  “Oh, please, how can a few people stop you from ever working again?”

  “Those few people have a lot of power. They’re well respected in the spa industry. But besides that, I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mom. I need you to help me come up with a story.” Milan shook her head mournfully. “She’s going to be absolutely distraught when she finds out I lost my prestigious position.”

  Sweetie nodded in sad agreement. “Yeah, she’s gonna miss all those freebies. Did you grip up some gift bags for us before you split?” she teased, making light of Milan’s situation.

  “I don’t give Mom just the free gift bags. Ever since I’ve had the job, I’ve showered both you and Mom and your kids with expensive gifts.”

  “And we appreciate it, but Mom gets a big kick out of getting all that free stuff,” Sweetie explained, giggling as she spoke.

  Not seeing any humor in being unemployed and possibly having her future earning power opposed, Milan grabbed her briefcase and stood. Stepping over several Fisher Price toys she recognized as part of the plethora of Christmas gifts she’d purchased for her nephews, Milan announced, “I’m leaving! How can you be so insensitive? I can’t think of any reason why you’d think it appropriate to poke fun at a time like this.” Pointing a French-manicured finger around Sweetie’s disorderly living room, Milan confronted her sister. “What’s the problem, Sweetie? Are you jealous because I didn’t screw up my life the way you screwed up yours? Two kids back-to-back, living in low-income housing—”

  “Excuse me!” Sweetie said, interrupting Milan. “My life is not screwed up. I have a hard-working husband who loves me enough to pay all the bills, including the day care bill for our two kids so I can have some free time for myself.”

  “Your husband earns—what? Thirty…thirty-one thousand a year?” Milan tsked at the absurdity of such a meager salary. “You sound like a fool bragging about the pittance Quantez is bringing in. You should be out looking for a job so you can help make ends meet around here.” She looked around her sister’s house with her nose turned up. “And you shouldn’t be bragging about sending your children to that subsidized, ghetto day care center while you’re sitting on your butt, not even making an attempt to elevate yourself or your family.”

  “My husband does not want me to work. And anyway, Miss High and Mighty, what the hell do you have?” Sweetie asked, her face scrunched up in hostility. “I’ll tell you what you have—a bunch of nothing, that’s what! Nice clothes and an overpriced apartment and that’s it. But you know what your problem really is?”

  “No, but I’m sure you think you’re in a position to tell me.”

  “You need some dick,” Sweetie said in a deadly calm voice. “How long have you been humping that fifteen-hundred-dollar penis?” Sweetie asked and then gave a burst of loud, malicious laughter. “Girl, I remember when you called me to brag about the price you paid for a damn vibrator.” Sweetie’s shoulders shook from laughter. “Anytime a woman brags about the amount of money she spent on some battery-operated dick, you know her life is fucked up. My life, however, is just fine. Let me remind you, I have a fine-ass husband and two gorgeous kids who looove me.”

  Milan inhaled sharply.

  Sweetie’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “With all your important this and expensive that, how come you don’t have a man? How come you’re sitting up in my crib, crying on my shoulder? Oops! I forgot. Unlike me, you don’t have a man to hold you tight. There’s nobody at your crib to take your troubles to. You wanna know why? Because there’s not a man on the planet who would find you loveable enough to even listen to your bullshit.”

  Milan realized her sister’s words were designed to cut deeply, but she honestly did not feel any pain. No, there wasn’t a special man in her life—her choice. With her all-encompassing career goals, there was little time left to emotionally invest in a man. Yet, her sex life was completely gratifying. But how could she expect someone as closed minded and unsophisticated as Sweetie to understand her hedonistic lifestyle?

  “It’s not like I can’t get a man; but honestly, emotional attachment is the last thing on my mind. And marriage?” she said with a scornful snort. “You know my career comes first. I don’t have time for a relationship with a man or anyone else for that matter. As you well know, I don’t even have time for girlfriends.”

  Sweetie folded her arms. “Well, that’s a damn shame, ’cause now you don’t have nothin’. No job, no man, and not one even one girlfriend. Umph!” Sweetie screwed up her face and shook her head.

  Ow! Now, Milan winced. Damn shame that she didn’t have a single friend, male or female. But at what point during her rise to the top was she supposed to take the time to cultivate friendships? In her current predicament, she could use some meaningful advice from a cultured and educated best friend. Instead, she had to listen to Sweetie pontificate about life lessons—how Milan should take this setback as a lesson in knowing one’s place in life. Sweetie droned on and on as if it were the perfect time for Milan to embrace an existence similar to hers, with a poorly paid husband and a couple of snot-nosed brats hanging on to her skirt tail. No thanks!

  Milan shook her head. She should have thought twice before she spoke disparagingly of Sweetie’s husband. Sweetie became a monster over the slightest criticism of Quantez. Now on a roll, Sweetie viciously continued to cut Milan to shreds.

  “You were married to that damn job and now you ain’t even got that. I hate to tell you this, Milan, but every time you said the words executive director—which was about a thousand times in every conversation—me and Mommy wanted to throw up. I’m sorry those people kicked you out the way they did but at least now I don’t have to hear about Pure Paradise every day of my life. Without your job and snooty job title, you ain’t shit. So, whose life is really screwed?”

  Being informed of her worthless status was jolting and the only thing she c
ould think to say was, “You and Mommy talk about me behind my back?”

  “Every day!” Sweetie said with a vindictive grin.

  “How could Mommy talk disapprovingly of my carefully planned lifestyle when you and Quantez live like this?” Milan looked around the cramped and untidy quarters with an expression of revulsion.

  Offended, Sweetie sucked her teeth. “We got a roof over our heads and food—” Sweetie closed her mouth abruptly. “I don’t have to explain my life to you. You said you were leaving, so get the hell out.” She walked to the door, twisted the knob and yanked the door open.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Milan moved toward the door with her nose turned up. When one last insult formed in her mind, she turned around suddenly. “By the way, since you have so much free time, how come your place smells like pissy diapers?”

  “Get out!” Sweetie shouted at her sister and held the door wide open.

  Milan huffily obliged. Sweetie slammed the door behind her.

  Being thrown out of the upscale Pure Paradise was extremely humiliating, but being ejected from Sweetie’s little shack of a home was degrading as hell. Her own sister’s rejection seemed to foreshadow the coming of terrible times, as if this was an ominous warning that dire circumstances loomed close by.

  chapter three

  “How could you talk about me behind my back with Sweetie?” Milan complained to her mother.

  “Honey, we say the same things to your face,” Milan’s mother, Bernice Walden, said in an irritatingly pleasant tone.

  “But you never say a word against Sweetie. No matter what I accomplish, I’m still the black sheep and Sweetie’s still your favorite child.”

  “That’s not true. My favorite is the child who needs me most. And right now, you need me more than Sweetie does, so I guess that makes you my favorite.”

  “Sure, Mom,” Milan said sarcastically. “So, what did Sweetie tell you?”

  “She told me what happened at work.”

  Milan let out a sound of surprise. Despite their little tiff, she was surprised that Sweetie would betray her trust and disclose her shameful predicament. She hated that her mother was now aware of her degrading dismissal from Pure Paradise.

  “I hate to admit it, but you act more like your father every day,” her mother said disapprovingly, as if any traits her sperm donor father had passed down were Milan’s fault. It didn’t matter that she was speaking of a person Milan had never met, a man who, according to her mother, hustled everything from stolen property to drugs and women. A man whose name was considered worse than mud in the Walden household.

  The untimely death of Earl Walden, Bernice’s husband and Sweetie’s father, led to Bernice’s involvement with Milan’s unsavory sperm donor. Earl Walden was a handsome man and a loving husband, according to Bernice. He was killed in a car accident just a month after their marriage. Seven months later, Sweetie’s birth was a bittersweet celebration, but a celebration nevertheless.

  Milan, however, made her unwelcome appearance a year later. Her grief-stricken mother, masking the pain of losing a husband, had engaged in a brief period of loose living. She claimed she’d fallen into the hands of Milan’s no-good, silver-tongued father while under duress.

  Besides the physical similarities (she’d seen a faded photo of him and thought he was nothing to brag about) Milan felt she had nothing in common with the man. Thank God she’d discovered that expertly applied cosmetics, a good rapport with a top-notch hair stylist, and designer clothing could disguise bad genes.

  “What could I possibly have in common with that man?” Milan inquired pleadingly. Her father, a man known simply as Slick—no real first or last name—was considered scum by the family. Having a father who was scum was a great deal to overcome and Milan felt she’d done a fine job. Again, she inquired, “How am I like him?”

  “For one thing, you’re always looking for shortcuts. I told you not to accept that job at that hotel spa—what was it called?”

  “The Velvet Touch,” Milan said wearily.

  “Yeah, that place. You let those people build up your ego. They had you thinking you didn’t need to finish school.”

  “I didn’t!” she yelled.

  “But all you needed was a few more semesters to get your college degree.”

  Milan sighed loudly. The conversation with her mother was aggravating and exhausting, but she managed to tone down her irritation and speak in a calm voice. “I was more than qualified for that position, Mom. I proved myself. Obviously, I can run a day spa without a stupid degree.”

  “But not having that piece of paper is going to keep coming back to haunt you,” her mother said with a rush of irritation. “Sweetie told me that you had those board members at Pure Paradise thinking you had a college degree and a master’s degree. Why’d you go and tell a big ol’ lie like that?”

  Milan silently cursed her jealous-hearted, big-mouthed sister.

  “After all this time,” Bernice Walden continued, “you could have gone back and finished a couple of semesters. Why do you always feel the need to hustle people?”

  “Hustle? Mom, you’re confusing me with that man you had indiscriminate sex with. Don’t try to put me, the executive director of an upscale day salon, in the same boat with a small-time con man.”

  “Ex-executive director,” Bernice reminded her daughter, “of a glorified beauty parlor,” she added. “That place sure had some fancy names for the same mess you can get at Hilda’s Hair Palace over on Twenty-Third Street.” Bernice let out a loud guffaw. When she finished laughing, she said, “Seriously, Milan. You need to go back to school.”

  “If I need to go back to school, your other daughter needs to start using birth control before she brings another innocent child into a life of sub-standard housing. You also need to tell her to start working out and lose some weight because she looks a sloppy mess.”

  “Milan, your sister has a beautiful face and her husband loves her just the way she is.”

  “Hmph! After she drops a couple more babies and blows up to the size of a house, we’ll see how much he still loves her,” Milan said with a snort.

  “I hope that’s not wishful thinking on your part, Milan. I wish you weren’t so jealous of Sweetie.”

  “Jealous!” Milan repeated, her voice shrill. “Of what? She lives in a hovel and her husband flips burgers at a fast-food restaurant!”

  “He’s the manager, Milan,” Bernice Walden reminded her.

  “So what! A grown man should have higher aspirations than…” Remembering that her mother staunchly supported anything and anyone involved with Sweetie, Milan sighed wearily. She’d been trying her entire life, but she’d never been able to please her mother. For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why her mother refused to take her seriously.

  It seemed her mother viewed her as being haughty and pretentious. And to not get her mother’s respect or approval, hurt. It hurt badly. “Look, never mind, Mom.” Milan’s voice caught, her eyes welled with emotion. “I’ll talk to you later.” She pressed the off button, terminating the conversation before she broke down and cried.

  Years of resentment prevented her from having a healthy relationship with her mother. Her mother and her sister were two peas in a pod; they’d been teaming up against Milan for as long as she could remember. No matter what she did, no matter how many gifts she bestowed upon her mother, she still wasn’t good enough. She just couldn’t win and she was through trying to earn her mother’s approval. To hell with her mother, she thought, as the back of her hand reflexively smeared tears across her cheek. And to hell with my freakin’ loser deadbeat dad, whoever the hell he was.

  Self-pity quickly turned to self-preservation. She was in a terrible predicament, but Milan was a survivor. Refusing to accept defeat, Milan resolved to call some of her old connections. She’d schmooze it up with some of the people who were in a position to help her and in no time, she’d have a new job paying three times the salary she earned at P
ure Paradise. And she’d be damned if she’d ever give her ungrateful mother and sister another freebie for as long as she lived!

  The anxiety she felt after arguing with both her mother and her sister on the same day felt similar to the high stress level she experienced at the end of a particularly hectic workday. She needed a quick remedy. She needed a shot of freaky sex. As she did during terribly tense times in the past, Milan picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment at Tryst, an upscale, private sex club where pleasure seekers like herself indulged their primal urges. Tryst was a place where Milan could go and have her darkest desires satisfied, anonymously. Membership at Tryst was ridiculously expensive—more than her rent and her car payment, but her next payment wasn’t due for another week, so she decided to take advantage of her current up-to-date status.

  chapter four

  It had taken over a year for Milan to get accepted into the exclusive sex club, which she’d stumbled across on the internet. The club preferred couples membership. Single females were eligible to apply only once a year during open enrollment. Single males, however, were not permitted to join the club nor were single males permitted to enter the premises as a guest. Married men, Milan presumed, did not appreciate the competition.

  Because of the rigid rule, Milan’s prearranged sexual encounters were always with a couple. More often than not, the wife played the role of lesbo slut, commanded by her husband to tongue Milan’s pussy until it was warm and slushy enough for him to slip his dick in with ease. Every so often, an occasional wife would select limited involvement and opt to watch, voyeur-like, through the glory hole—a circular opening in a wall that separated adjoining rooms.

  Wives who liked to watch didn’t bother Milan. Her only concern was getting hers. Getting, not giving, were the terms she’d agreed upon when she joined Tryst. She paid exorbitant monthly dues to be matched only with people willing to accept her conditions: she would not give a blowjob, or cunnilingus, or even lift a finger to give pleasure to another. Whenever she engaged in an erotic interlude at Tryst, the connection was made for the sole purpose of releasing stress—not to exhaust herself with the arduous task of sexual reciprocity.