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  “Get a younger man. It will be good for you. Give it a try.”

  But, I refuse to date.

  Have sex.

  Be with another human.

  Physically.

  Emotionally.

  Mentally.

  I need a break.

  Rather, I am forced to take a break because I am thirty-eight years old. In gay years that is ancient. I am too old to be in the club, bopping around trying to keep up with the latest dances, and Hip Hop sounds. I’m still trying to memorize the lyrics of Lil’ Kim, Foxy Brown, Jay-Z, and Biggie.

  I won’t even dare consider online dating. All the guys seem to have too many stipulations listed on their profiles:

  No fats.

  No fems.

  Everyone is a thug, or on the down-low looking for the same.

  And the words in blaring bold caps in a forty-eight point font stating: NO GUYS OVER THIRTY.

  Men in my age range are outsiders.

  Kicked to the curb.

  Discarded.

  Then nearly every profile displays pictures of their abs.

  Chest.

  Dick.

  And asses with no qualms.

  Is everyone an amateur porn star?

  It feels like an audition for America’s Next Top Porn Actor.

  NOT!

  I cannot and will not participate in that. Granted, I do have a nice body, and I maintain my one-hundred-eighty-pound frame, but I am not putting it all out there for the world to gawk at.

  What do I look like, having my dick and nuts dangling on some pervert’s screen to enjoy?

  And, I simply cannot see myself getting involved with a young tender. That is not my style. It’s Ashley’s. Her world of boy toys and playing sugah momma. Not mines.

  I still think about Eric every now and then. But I am slowly, and surely, working him out of my system. Yes, I miss him.

  His smell.

  Deep baritone voice whispering in my ear.

  His big strong arms holding me.

  His stocky muscular body under mines.

  Then on top.

  I can’t even watch his football games on television.

  I refuse.

  I have a new focus.

  It’s all about work.

  All about me.

  Then summer arrives. Now it’s all about…

  Chapter Five

  “Uhm, excuse me, Ashley, he is only twenty-two years old,” I practically yell into the phone. “Besides, I am through with men. Done. Finished. Work is my new love. My new man.” I begin biting my bottom lip.

  “Chase, you think just because you’re the Vice President of Production for GBS Television that you don’t have needs?” Ashley says facetiously. “Vice presidents have sex, too.”

  “I am not thinking about him. He is just a boy,” I say, but I am lying through my teeth. I swivel in my black executive chair and stare out into the New York skyline. My corner office has the perfect view overlooking Times Square.

  “Whatever. And stop biting your bottom lip,” Ashley says.

  “What are you talking about?” I put my hand over my mouth and look around my office.

  “I know you are biting your bottom lip. You do it every time you are nervous or excited. And I know that intern is working you over.”

  “Nobody is working anything. He is too young. And the operative word is INTERN!”

  “Who cares?” Ashley snickers. “You’re both adults. What does age have to do with anything?”

  “I am a professional, and I am sixteen years his senior. How would that look? Me fraternizing with an intern in my department. I have no interest or desire in sleeping with a young man. This is ridiculous. I am not in high school, or college,” I bark.

  “All I’m saying is that you got needs and no man is meeting yours. I am sure you could use a good man to lay hands on your third leg and bless your boy coochie, amen,” Ashley laughs. “How long has it been anyway?”

  I hesitate before I answer. It’s been six months since I’ve been touched, licked, or held in some strong man’s arms. Besides, three months ago I was promoted to Vice President. I don’t have time to think about a man, especially not at a time like this. Our department is very busy with the upcoming Reality TV Awards.

  “Look, I don’t think about it and neither should you,” I respond sarcastically. “Even though you are my best friend, Ashley, I am not in your business and asking who you’re sexing.”

  “Yeah, Chase, but I am not afraid to explore and have my sexual needs met, either. I am certain yours need to be tended to,” she snaps.

  “My only need is a man who is single, with no baby-momma drama, or girlfriends lurking somewhere, and who has a good relationship with his mother, making a good living for himself, and not dependent on me. It’s really becoming difficult to find a successful black man with his own house, car, and money.”

  Ashley sucks her teeth.

  She is right. I do have needs, but I have been burned so many times I simply block out any desire to have sex. I mean, it’s normal for a thirty-eight-year-old man, right? I’m trying to remain abstinent.

  Be faithful in prayer.

  But, dear Lord, I know one thing, my hormones are racing.

  My loins are hungry.

  My body is thirsty.

  As much as I try to deny it, I need a man bad. Very bad.

  And, the new intern is working me over.

  Chapter Six

  My assistant had the daunting task of locating the summer intern for our department. I entrusted her with locating someone who would be perfect for us.

  I needed someone with a desire and interest in television production. I wanted someone who knew and understood they would be working hard and it wouldn’t be a cake walk.

  I also needed someone who was smart.

  Quick.

  A fast thinker.

  And definitely black.

  I am about helping young black brothers and sisters make it in this business. It’s a beast in the entertainment industry and there are definitely not too many of us at the top. We are few and far between. The entertainment business is ninety percent who you know and ten percent what you know.

  I made it to the top because I have three things:

  The first two are tenacity and drive.

  The third is I attended Vanderbilt University with Charles Goldstein, the son of the President of GBS Television.

  Charles Goldstein and I were roommates the first two years of college and became good friends. We are both from New York City. But, Charles is from the Upper East Side and I am from Brooklyn.

  Two very vastly different worlds.

  He is rich.

  I was not.

  However, we shared the bond of having the world’s epicenter of fashion and culture as our home.

  Charles knew I wanted to work in television and he convinced his father to give me an internship with GBS Television my junior year. By the time I graduated I was offered a full-time position as the department assistant in production events. I worked hard, but having the president of the company as a friend, well, let’s just say it has helped a hell of a lot.

  When my assistant informed me she found the perfect candidate, I let her know it was her decision to hire them.

  I had no idea it would be Quincy Thornberry.

  Quincy’s credentials are impressive.

  Well, no, that’s an understatement.

  They are stellar.

  I have never seen a young person so eager and passionate about pursuing a career in television as Quincy.

  He knows what he wants and where he wants to go. Something that’s very hard to find in young people today.

  A native New Yorker, from Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, Quincy is entering his senior year at Stanford University. He is a film and television major. He earned a full academic scholarship and is on the dean’s list with a three-point-eight grade point average.

  He plays basketball and is quite impressive
on the court. He brought in his portfolio with all his accomplishments. There were several Los Angeles Times newspaper clippings about his impressive basketball skills.

  When he strolls into my office on the first day of his internship I lose my breath.

  Literally, I gasp.

  He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. He stands six-feet-four—pure muscle. Quincy has the face sculpted to perfection like that of model/actor Boris Kodjoe. He is the deep rich chocolate color of actor Morris Chestnut, and exudes the sexiness of Blair Underwood. His voice is like that of Barry White, but with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

  “Hello, Mr. Kennedy. My name is Quincy Thornberry,” he says as he extends his massive right hand to shake mine. His voice sinks into my head. It moves and shakes everything in me when he speaks my name.

  My.

  My.

  My.

  It feels good to touch a man.

  A fine-ass black man.

  “Hello, Mr. Quincy Thornberry,” I reply. My knees buckle. My heart races as I glide from behind my desk. “Welcome to GBS Television and to production events.”

  “I am looking forward to learning a lot from you. I am very excited to be in your department. I Googled everything about you.” He smiles enthusiastically.

  He took the time to Google me. Wow, I am impressed.

  “Good, good, Quincy. There is a lot to learn and you only have a few months.” I smile. I need to remain professional. I keep reminding myself he is a college student. A young man here for the summer as an intern. There is to be no attraction.

  None whatsoever.

  No matter how fine he is.

  “I am sure my assistant Alicia has shown you around the office.” I stare into his dark brown eyes. They smile when he smiles. They are inviting and enticing.

  I am sure he has a girlfriend or three, I think. He’s definitely a player. He’s on the basketball team.

  “Yes. I have met everyone in the department. You were the last person I had to meet.”

  “Well, we are glad to have you here with us,” I say, tearing my gaze away. I feel his eyes are piercing into my soul. Or, maybe it’s my imagination.

  I begin walking toward my office door. There is a brief silence. That uncomfortable silence when two people are on a date and neither can think of anything to say. I start biting my bottom lip.

  “We still on for lunch?” He smiles, revealing his big white teeth. Damn, even his teeth are perfect. Does he have any imperfections?

  I surely don’t remember making lunch plans with an intern, especially not with Quincy. I must look confused because he quickly speaks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “The schedule that your assistant Alicia gave me says that I am to have lunch with you.” He points at the itinerary in his hands.

  “Oh, is that today?” I ask. Forgetting everything. Losing all train of thought.

  “I know you are very busy, Mr. Kennedy. If you can’t make it…” A disappointed look sweeps across his face.

  “No, no, it’s no problem at all. I just completely forgot about it,” I interject. I am, yet again, lost in his gaze. I reach over and delicately touch him on his left arm. His huge muscular bicep flexes at my touch. A shiver shoots through my spine and into my groin.

  “Cool, I can’t wait to have lunch with you. I have so many questions.” He grins with those succulent kissable thick lips.

  “Great,” I say. “I’ll meet you in the elevator bank at one-thirty.” My entire body smiles and I feel my dick becoming erect. Just give me the strength, Jesus. Just give me the strength, I silently say to myself.

  Chapter Seven

  I hate Ashley, sometimes.

  She is always right.

  Especially when it comes to sex.

  She has no problem discussing it.

  She loves it, and lives for it.

  You see, Ashley is a sassy certified diva who can just walk out of her house and meet a man with no problem. She will call me up after her sexual conquests and give me the complete rundown—where they did it, what they did, how long they did it for, and the size of his dick. I keep telling her I am going to pray for her.

  She needs Jesus.

  Ashley is good at seducing men. She is beautiful and very attractive. I always tell her that she reminds me of Kim Fields, less the dreads. But just like Kim Fields’s character, Regine, on Living Single, Ashley has a new hairstyle every time I turn around.

  One week it’s in a short bob cut.

  Three weeks later it’s bone-straight and down her back.

  Two weeks later it’s feathered like Farrah Fawcett.

  I just can’t keep up with Ashley and her coif.

  However, one consistent thing about Ashley is that she barely wears any clothing. She doesn’t need to exploit her body, but everything she puts on is provocative and tight. She leaves very little to the imagination. Her life thrives around what’s hot and popular to wear, especially from video vixens.

  That’s actually how we met.

  Six years ago she came to one of the auditions we were holding for a new television reality show with our network. She blew us away. Ashley is a standout actress. She’s been in several Broadway shows. The girl can sing, dance, and act.

  But it was her massive cleavage spilling out of her leopard silk blouse that got her through for a second audition. The director wanted to “see” more of her.

  There was no denying Ashley was perfect and had the look. She is thick in all the right places. Standing five-feet-seven-inches, Ashley weighs one-hundred-forty-five pounds and has thirty-four double D breasts, with a huge ass. It’s curvaceously round, and as we men say, “You can sit a beer can on top of it.” She has a body to kill for.

  Right before the call-backs for the project, I pulled Ashley to the side. “May I make a suggestion?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows. “It would be nice if you could cover your girls.” I pointed to the spillage from her top. “You can present yourself more demure and ladylike. You have some real talent and by far the best we have seen all day. Besides, I don’t want to see a sistah get played and then not get the job.”

  Ashley sized me up as she looked me over and smiled politely. “Look, Mr. Men’s-Warehouse-business-suit-wearing-sweetness. I thank you for your concern about my appearance, and the like, however, I am not interviewing with you. I am here to see the director and to land this job. So if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.” And like that, she turned on her red three-inch come-fuck-me stilettos and sashayed her way down the hall to meet with her fate.

  I saw her again later that day as the audition process was narrowed down to three girls. She was one of them.

  “I guess the director was impressed with your skills.” I smirked at her.

  “I blew him away.” She smiled, tracing her fingers around her mouth smoothing out her lipstick. “I literally blew him away.”

  I liked her fiery sassiness.

  She was bold.

  Snappy.

  Quick.

  Just like a gay man.

  “I like your style,” I said, handing her my business card. “I’m Chase Kennedy, the Director of Production here. I have some other projects I would love to talk with you about.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” she said, looking at the card. “I have a host of skills I am sure the network would love to see.”

  “I’m sure they would,” I laughed.

  She laughed along with me. I saw something in her, and she saw something hidden deep down inside of me.

  I was trying to conceal it.

  She unhinged me.

  “Boy, I am a fag-hag. I know my gays,” she told me after we hung out, traversing through the city, a week after she landed the gig with our network.

  Although I call Ashley a sex-fiend, I am the one who desires to be sexed like she is. It’s been six months and I haven’t been touched by a man. At least one of us was getting some good loving on the regular. I just wish it was me.

&n
bsp; Chapter Eight

  Quincy and I have lunch at my favorite Italian restaurant, Tony’s DiNapoli, on Forty-third Street between Broadway and Sixth Avenue.

  I watch Quincy’s body react to the food each time he takes a bite. His eyes close and he seems to be savoring every morsel in his mouth. I imagine his luscious lips tasting me. Exploring parts of my body and devouring me.

  “This food is really good,” he says. His words break my trance. I shift in my seat. I feel an erection coming.

  Quincy scoops up another piece of his breaded salmon. “I am definitely going to come back here.”

  I smile and say a silent prayer, Lord, please keep my mind off this beautiful man. I am weak right now. Just let me make it through this lunch.

  “I got to bring my mother here.” He smiles, taking a sip of his iced tea. “We are very close. She’s my best friend.”

  Hmm, he has a good relationship with his mother. “That would be great,” I say. “Your parents are from Brooklyn, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, Fort Greene.”

  “Oh, really. I am from that area.”

  “I didn’t know you were from Brooklyn. I thought you were from Mt. Vernon or Westchester.”

  I laugh. “No. I grew up not too far from the Fort Greene Projects on Adelphi Street.”

  Quincy’s head jerks back. “My parents grew up in that area. My mom lived on Vanderbilt Street and my dad grew up in the Fort Greene Projects. He is much older—I am sure you wouldn’t know him. He was in his early thirties and my mom was only eighteen when she got pregnant with me.”

  Oh, great. I am old enough to be his dad, I think.

  “After I was born my parents split. Well, basically because my mother’s parents pressured my dad to marry her, but he wouldn’t. So, they never married, but my dad came around a lot.” Quincy takes a sip of his iced tea. “Me and my mother moved to Bed-Stuy when I was around three or four. She went back to school and got her degree and then her master’s. She is the head of human resources for Macy’s.” Quincy smiles.

  “That is wonderful,” I say. “Your mom sounds great. Are you and your dad close?”