Here's an excerpt from my debut novel, Chante's Song:
The sounds of Chante Moore’s single “Chante’s Got A Man” filled the bathroom. Vanilla-scented candles lined the tub, and their aroma filtered the air. The bathroom was usually bright by day with all the sunlight that beamed through the floor to ceiling window, but tonight the space was a reflection of the deep midnight-blue sky. I was truly feeling this song. My champagne glass swayed side to side to the melody of the music, while the back scrubber served as a microphone.
“Chante’s got a man at home.” Those words kept ringing in my ears. You’d have thought I was in concert by the way I sang those lyrics.
The moonlight served as my spotlight. I rose as my audience clapped, winked my eye at the reflection of this beautiful sister in the mirror and then began to really blow. The words of Chante Moore floated out of my mouth like I was the songbird herself. Lord knows someone should give me a record deal. I laughed. I couldn’t sing worth a lick, then again half of the singers out today couldn’t sing either.
As the music faded, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my sunken tub. I added more hot water to maintain the same level of suds and the atmosphere. I pretended the bubbles surrounding me were the arms of Morris Chestnut. His sole purpose for being there was to please me of course. His body was the water and I was submerged in it. His chocolate covered fingertips stroked the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine while he planted kisses all over my breasts. He massaged my thighs and didn’t stop until the tingling sensation reached my toes. I felt my thighs part. I gasped as he entered me.
Who in the hell was I fooling? I opened my eyes and reminded myself to cut this masturbation shit out.
Chante Moore and I did not have jack shit in common. Yeah, both of our names were Chante. And yeah, we were both beautiful, successful, black women. Might I add that I was more beautiful than she. However, she was Chante Moore and I was Chante Chambers. She had a man, and I didn’t. I believe that since “Chante’s Got A Man” came out she’s had two men. I haven’t had a half of one.
Let us evaluate my list of lovers. It began with Jason McGee. If you could see Jason, you would drop your panties, or slide those babies over to the side. He was gorgeous with a long tongue and large sex tool. Imagine the perfect shade of brown, nowhere near light, and not too far from being burned. He was that middle setting on the toaster oven when you want your bread just right. I could lick him from his goatee, up to his sideburns, across his wavy haired head, and then back down again. Just thinking about his fine ass made me moist. Picture this: 255 pounds of solid chocolate in the form of a football player, or a heavyweight boxer with the height of a basketball player. Sorry, but I cannot resist a handsome man with a muscular body, a lovable smile, a freaky inner self, and an exploring tongue. I forgot to mention dimples. Jason had two dimples that loved to call me. Jason was sexy as hell! If he knocked on my door right now and smiled that I-want-to-lick-you-all-night smile, I would gladly spread ‘em.
Jason and I met in college and dated briefly. Back then our dates consisted of dinner, studying, and screwing, and not always in that order. Occasionally, we made it out to concerts and things of that nature. That was fine with me. After graduation he went his way, and I went mine. Three years later, guess who I bumped into at an industry event? No one other than Mr. Sexy himself. We quickly became reacquainted. Let’s just say some things never change. Somehow between talking business in a conference room at The W Hotel and reminiscing about old times, I ended up upstairs butt naked getting my freak on. Next thing I knew, I was leaving my job as head writer for Sunset, a soap opera, to go work for him at Jason World Productions. That was many years ago.
The four years that out relationship lasted were hell. I loved Jason with all my heart. I still did. The sex was magnificent. He was good at wining and dining a sistah. The only thing he couldn’t master was keeping his dick to himself. How long could a woman play blind to her man’s unfaithfulness? I must admit the shopping sprees and trips here and there kept me blinded for a minute. I was wifey. I had a diamond bigger than that rock Koby gave Vanessa to cover up his little indiscretion, on my ring finger to prove it.
Jason had me sprung. While I was planning our wedding, writing screenplays, and producing damn near everything that crossed my desk, that dog was humping every female that opened her legs. The reason for his infidelities I never knew. Jason could have had me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even an afternoon snack. And he did. Wherever and however he wanted it, I was down. I guess that wasn’t good enough. When it came down to Jason, all I saw was stupid! A dumb ass was what I was. I could have continued to sit back, play dumb to Jason’s unfaithfulness, spend his money and twirl my rock around my finger. However, when I walk into my man’s office, and see him laid back in his chair with some wanna-be-me bitch on her knees sucking his dick, it was time for me to open my eyes. That was it. I tried to do the mature thing. And I did.
“Fuck you Jason!” I screamed, walking out of his office.
Right after I walked out, I walked back in and threw my Gucci pump at the both of them. I felt relieved when it hit its intended target, the nasty-ass assistant I’d just hired. I looked like a damn fool as I limped down the hallway in one three-inch high heel. And so that’s how Jason and Chante’s Love song ended.
It had been a year and a half since he last tasted my love. He calls every so often just to see how I am doing, and asks if I’d like to hang out with him, which is code for, ‘do you want to have sex.’ He even asks if I need anything. Of course my response is always I am fine, I don’t want to have sex with you, but there is this Dolce and Gabana this, a Prada that or a Marc Jacob something or other that had been calling me. Whatever Chante wants, Jason buys. He feels guilty and thinks that I am still bitter about the break up. To be honest, I was over that a year ago. But as long as he didn’t know that he would be eating out of my hand.
He loves me. I know he does. I love him too. However, that is a feeling that I prefer to keep to myself. I had hope for us, yet I knew Jason was not ready for me. There would never be another episode of Jason and me. Frankly, he fucked up. I could not hang onto the arm of a man who the whole world knew cheated on me repeatedly. In my book, image was everything.
Presently, our relationship is weird. Jason is my boss so it is strange. Occasionally we flirt. Mostly we, or at least I, try to keep it professional.
After Jason, I was like Toni Braxton singing, “Another Sad Love Song,” until I met the New Jersey Jackals’ star quarter back, Curtis Thompson. Curtis was handsome. Built just the way I liked them. That Curtis could eat the hell out of an ass, and fuck the shit out of your pussy. Lord knew his magic stick had me throbbing long after he was finished sharing his love. I had to rub myself for relief after he put it down. Our dates consisted of parties and publicity events. Each and every time I wanted to be alone with him, he made up some excuse as to why he couldn’t. At clubs I was ignored. But afterwards, it was my thick thighs he wanted to squeeze between. And just like a dummy, each and every time, I would let him. I had no problem with being his trophy woman in the daylight for publicity purposes and also the thighs he squeezed between at night, but I wanted a relationship. Curtis couldn’t provide that.
After three months of dealing with Curtis, and a month of being single, I fell for Shawn Eckford. I wasn’t used to not getting my way, which was exactly what happened with Curtis. Shawn reminded me of Jason. He did anything in his power to please me. His sex was nothing to write home about, but I figured the basketball star was young. I’d just have to teach him a thing or two. And that I did. Our sex life improved and so did Shawn’s appearance and popularity. As the relationship progressed, and his confidence increased, Shawn’s interests and priorities changed. Our quality time became less and less. Playstation received more attention than I did. He began to let his hair grow. The one tattoo on his left arm was joined by some sort of design or phrase covering eighty-five percent of his body. Then came the bling bling. Lastly, the young boy from Tampa, Florida, traded me in for a bunch of niggas. Chante Chambers is second to no one! It was time for this approaching thirty-year-old woman to let the boy be a boy and find a man.
Then there was Derrick the photographer, who I allowed to take some nude pictures of me. Big f-ing mistake. The relationship was fine. I got the attention attention I craved. A few months into the relationship, I get a phone call from whom other than Derrick’s wife. I was a lot of things, but home wrecker ain’t one of them. Immediately, I broke it off. That’s when the drama began. Derrick didn’t take rejection too well. My pictures started showing up any and everywhere. My mother received naked pictures of her daughter in the mail. And I had to explain to my brother why his little sister was butt naked in Vixen Magazine. My brother knew I looked good. But I could understand why he did not enjoy his friends getting a good look at his sister’s ass. Somehow, Jason managed to get a blown up black and white picture of me lying on my back with a sheet covering my essentials. It still hung in his home. I finally got the negatives and a formal apology on a billboard after my brother kicked Derrick’s ass. I also got the last laugh after suing the crap out of him and the magazine for displaying my pictures without my permission. Ever since then I had a rule about dating photographers and taking butt naked pictures for anyone: never again would I drop my drawers for a camera. Nope, it wasn’t going to happen.
Recently, Todd, a well-known rapper and I kicked it very briefly. Todd was into the lime-light; I was the total opposite. To be the center of attention was a must for him. I preferred to be the center of his attention. He treated me like I was a trophy or something, like my only purpose was for him to show me off. I had been there before with Curtis and didn’t care to go there again. We never spent time together just the two of us, and he never tried to put the moves on me, which I found odd. All men try something with me. I am not conceited. Yet, one must give credit where credit is due and this sistah was gorgeous! If Todd had an appearance to make it was my fine ass on his arm. All night long, Todd referred to me as his fine-ass lady friend. I began to think, “Fine Ass” was my nickname or something.
A few months ago, Todd had invited me to accompany him to some award show in LA and I agreed. I never past up a free trip, or a reason to shop, just like Todd never past up an opportunity to have a beautiful woman on his arm. I wanted to be more than eye candy.
Todd shouted across the pressroom, “Yo, Chante bring your fine ass over here and get in this picture.” Now how ghetto was that?
What really did it for me was when I laid across a king sized bed at the Beverly Hills Hilton, wearing a soft pink nightie that covered nothing. My coochie was begging for the year long drought to end. Todd told me he was too tired to perform. Son of a bitch! I was tempted to ask him if he was gay. It was time to end the relationship, especially one that did not include sexual benefits.
Since Todd couldn’t please me I looked into pleasing myself. I went to toy parties and hosted a few. I met a few lovers there. That’s where I met the Everlasting Rabbit. I had seen it on a Sex in the City episode. The loving was good. Too good to be honest. That’s where I stood now. My boyfriend was a vibrator, although right now we were not in agreement. I didn’t agree with buying expensive batteries.
Energizers could get costly. Consequently, once my bunny quit going, I placed him back in the drawer.
Lately, it has been Chante, Chante and more of Chante. The last man’s name I called was Jason’s and that was over a year ago. One can see that I was horny as hell. I was sick and tired of being lonely. Chante is in search of something. I didn’t know if it was sex or a steady relationship. Damn! Right about now I’d settle for a casual acquaintance. A companion. Someone I could call up and say, “Let’s go to dinner,” or “Hey, let’s go see a movie,” or “Let’s get on a plane and go,” or “Do you want to come over and fuck me all day long?” What man would turn that down? None.
I couldn’t even convince myself. I did want more than sex. I wanted sex with real emotions behind it, and not that sigh of relief after he busted a nut. I had been there, done that and owned the damn t-shirt. Hell, I was the president of the getting screwed club. I wanted to come home to a man. I wanted a man to send me flowers just because. I wanted to know that there was a man out there who really loved me. I wanted my man to be my friend, to be patient with me, understand me, respect me and love me unconditionally. My man would kiss me, caress me, and send me off into ecstasy while whispering “I love you” into my ear. This mystery man would hold me, and work with me until I reached my big O. This guy would make love to every inch of my body, and wash my feet, like Jason did to Lyric in that movie. Every now and then it would be okay for him to grab the back of my hair and fuck the shit out of me. I saw nothing wrong with that, just not all the time.
It took a special man to make love to you. I hadn’t met him yet. I guess that was the reason why I had been celibate for the past year. I thought I had met that special man, but I guess the girl I caught between Jason’s legs thought the same damn thing. I knew what I wanted and it wasn’t just sex.
I WANT A MAN! A RELATIONSHIP! I want to love and be loved. I would like to come home to a person instead of an empty condo that I paid too much money for. At night, I would actually like to go to sleep lying next to a man, as opposed to lying next to an empty spot. I wanted to be held. I hated watching TV by myself, or dragging my best friend Kayla, or my friends Tia, Yolanda or Mecca to places I’d rather take a man. Most of all, I was tired of playing with myself.
As a beautiful black woman, my measurements were what many women would kill for or better yet pay for. I pampered myself on the regular. My hair hangs past my shoulders, and it’s all mine. I get manicures and pedicures as part of my weekly maintenance. At least once a month, I frequent the spa. I have no children and a great paying job. Let me reword that I have a damn good career. I am capable of getting a date. I dated stockbrokers, lawyers, accountants, producers, writers, athletes and doctors. You named them and I had came close to fucking’em. Yet, once the night came to an end, I was alone. Why was that?
At first I thought it was me. Maybe I came across as a bitch or something? However, after evaluating the dates I realized that since I was not putting out they just weren’t interested. I had a guy actually tell me that, after he asked me if he could screw me in one of the positions I had posed for in Vixen magazine. When I go out and meet guys, the first thing out of their mouths was always something stupid. I couldn’t walk down the street without some jackass asking “Weren’t you in Vixen?” My reply was always, “No. I produced the movie Sapphire.” Then they looked at me dumbfounded, so I asked “Do you watch TV? Ever seen Best Friends? I created that. The movie Pride, I produced that. Have you ever heard of Jason World Productions?” It’s like everything I just said went in one ear and out the other, because the dumbfounded look remained and the next comment was, “Would you get naked for my camera?”
At that point I am not even beat for the conversation. They all want to screw the bubbling brown bombshell that was bent over half naked in the magazine. It’s like they expect me to be the dumb blond, or in this black girl’s case, the dumb brunette. I guess they expect me to say, “Where your camera at Daddy?” and begin taking my clothes off. Sorry, but Chante was not going to play dumb for a date! That was not going to happen!