Night after night, Dr. “Love” urges listeners of his popular radio show, The Sin Club, to ‘sin’ – that is, to break the rules holding them back and go after what they want…what they need…what they truly desire…
“Hi, Shawn. I’m the woman who was wearing the short red dress, standing on the corner—”
Cringing at the words she’d just blurted, Sharice jabbed the pound key on the cell phone keypad to delete the voicemail message she’d just recorded. As the digital voice walked her through the instructions to rerecord her message, she stared out the windshield of her Lexus, idly noticing the after-eleven crowd in line in front of the new nightclub, Tantrum. Defying the chilly October air, the women wore their spaghetti-strap tops and tightest skirts, while standing proud in their three-inch strappy sandals.
She tried again.
“Hi, Shawn . . . This is Sharice. I met you outside of Tantrum last Friday. I was talking to my friend when you shouted your number out the window . . .”
My God. Are the pickings for a night of sex so slim that I have to resort to this? Just hang up.
“. . . and . . .”
“. . . well . . .”
Hang the fuck up.
But, damn, that man had been on her mind all week. It was once again Friday evening, and she somehow found herself cruising down the street in front of the club where they’d met. Her favorite song played on the radio—Kid Ink, crooning about how he was going to push her panties to the side—and got her all hot and horny.
The same song had been playing softly from the depths of Shawn’s Lex that night, too. Surely, that must be a sign. Just as the fact that his gleaming red car, identical to hers, was a sign. A sign that, unlike her last boyfriend, Darrell, and his 1990 Honda Civic, Shawn might actually treat her to dinner, instead of always crying broke. And Shawn’s voice, as he’d practically begged her to call him, had sounded like liquid sex. That had been another sign.
The voice was a definite positive for a night of hot sex. For, if his technique was sad, she could just ask him to talk—and that sweet, slow, sexy tone would make up for any lack of finesse.
Sharice paused, about to delete her message again, when the song faded out on the radio and Tommy “Dr. Love” Jones came on.
“Now, that’s a sinful song, isn’t it?” He laughed. “It’s definitely telling you to go out and sin, though not necessarily the way I’m advocating. I’m urging you, KPSX listeners, to go out and go for what you want, sin.
Your happiness is just a sin away . . .”
Dr. Love was right. It was about time she “sinned.” That is, do something she’d never done before. She turned her attention back to the phone.
“. . . Call me at 510-555-1201,” she finished.
Sharice clicked her phone off and tossed it onto the passenger seat, surprised to feel herself shaking from surplus adrenaline. How ridiculous that something as simple as calling a guy would spark the fight-or-flight response. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous, since she never called men first, period. She always waited for them to call her. Hell, she was no fool—she lived by the book He’s Just Not That Into You, which was co-authored by Greg Behrendt.
Hence, she was committing a double sin—she was calling a guy first and she was calling a guy she hadn’t even really met. And the only reason she’d broken her rule this time was because, well, it was kind of hard for a guy who didn’t have her name or number to call her back.
So now what?
The line outside the club had grown another twelve feet since she’d arrived. Sharice did not do lines. Craning her neck forward, she looked to see if John was at the door. Yep. There he was, his bald, peanut-shaped head glistening in the soft light. He’d let her slide to the front of the line. There’d be no waiting tonight.
Sharice sighed. So what if she got in the club? Somewhere in between the time that she’d pulled out of her garage and pulled into this parking spot, Tantrum had lost its appeal. The effort it would take to make meaningless small talk with a dozen or more men, in hopes of meeting one she wanted to take home for the night seemed like too much effort. Kind of like finding her contact lens in the Pacific Ocean.
She’d been feeling like that a lot lately, which was why she’d been celibate for months. Six months, to be exact.
A group of loud-talking sistahs—whose long hair did a better job of covering their asses than their skirts did—sauntered past the car. Did they really think they looked good?
Stop being so bitchy.
She should just go home. Her attitude was not male-magnet material.
But she didn’t want to go home. Friday night was a prime party night, for crying out loud. And it was time for her to get her game back on track.
Sharice pressed the pad of her finger against the screen, turning up the radio. The deep voice of Dr. Love filled the car.
“. . . Good luck, man . . .You’re on, Jessie. What’s your sin?“
Sharice rolled her eyes.
“Well, a couple of months ago, I did a striptease for my boyfriend. It was something I’d always wanted to do, but had never done before . . .”
Dr. Love made a sound of approval.
Sharice snorted. “That ain’t nothing. I’ve done a hundred stripteases.”
“. . . only it wasn’t my boyfriend who saw it. It was my neighbor.”
“Damn. I haven’t done that,” said Sharice.
Dr. Love laughed.
Jessie laughed. “. . . needless to say, the boyfriend’s out and my neighbor is in.”
“He’s ‘in’? Literally or figuratively?” asked Dr. Love.
Jessie and Dr. Love shared a chuckle.
Sharice joined in.
“Let’s just say he’s the new man in my life. Our relationship is wonderful. He—”
Sharice snorted. “I was feeling you until you ruined things with a ‘relationship.’” She pressed the screen again, cutting Jessie off in mid-sentence; Sharice shook her head. A person had a better chance of winning the lottery than ending up in a relationship that worked. What was up with most women who were desperate for the big R? Sharice had tried that, twice, believing that she’d found the one each time. Instead, she’d discovered Malcolm had been living on the down low, sleeping with men behind her back. And Darrell had been sleeping with anything in a skirt, including whichever of her so-called friends he could get into bed—Sharice’s bed.
Nope. She was through with that. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. Well, she was not going to be anyone’s fool anymore. So now she just looked for a brotha for a good time.
But, for some reason, the “good times” were feeling fewer and farther in between. And Sharice’s attitude was getting more and more frustrated. Not to mention her libido. She shrugged, throwing off her depressing thoughts.
Well, she might as well go inside the club. As she reached for her keys, her cell phone rang.
She glanced at the display on her cell. It was Shawn.