Disappearing Acts Read Online Free PDF

wanted to play house. Or The Dating Game. Or Guess Where I’m Coming From? or Show Me How Much You Love Me Then I’ll Show You. And then there’re the ones who got scared when they realized I wasn’t playing. “You’re too intense,” one said. “Too serious,” said another one. “You take them lyrics you write to heart, don’t you, Miss Z?” I told them that this wasn’t high school or college, but the grown-up edition of life. They were still more comfortable not having a care in the world, so I let ’em run and hide, especially the ones that needed professional help. So now I’m taking off the blindfolds and doing the bidding myself. After a while, even a fool would get tired of bringing home the TV and finding out it only gets two or three channels.
    None of this is to say I’m perfect. I just know what I’ve got to offer—and it’s worth millions. Hell, I’m a strong, smart, sexy, good-hearted black woman, and one day I want to make some man so happy he’ll think he hit the lottery. I don’t care what anybody says—love
is
a two-way street. So yes, I want my heart oiled. I don’t want to participate in any more of these transient romances—I’m interested in longevity. Let’s face it: Some men take more interest in their pets than they do in their women. And even though I wish loving a man could be as easy for me as it was for Cinderella, I know it’s not that simple. But it can be. And it should be. All you need is two people who are willing to expend the energy so that their hearts don’t rust.
    Which is one reason why I envy Claudette. She is so normal. She’s a lawyer, married, has a daughter, and she’s happy. She loves her husband. Her husband loves her. They are buying their house. They have lawn furniture. They ski in the winter and spend weeks in the
Caribbean. He brushes her hair at night. She rubs his feet. And after seven years of marriage, they still unplug their phone.
    On the other hand, Portia, who Claudette can’t stand but I love, has an entirely different set of standards. “He’s gotta have hair on his chest and no skinny legs. And he’s gotta have some money. I don’t care what color he is, but ain’t no getting around no empty bank account.”
    “Money isn’t everything,” I said.
    “Since when?”
    Portia thinks her pussy is gold. She’s not all that educated—she got as far as court reporting school—but I don’t care. I refuse to discriminate when it comes to my friends. I’m more interested in the quality of their character than I am with credentials. Besides, I know plenty of folks with degrees that are stupid. They lack the one essential thing you need to get by in this world: common sense.
    I can’t lie: Sometimes I fall into that category myself. Because I still don’t know what it is about deep-black skin and long legs that turns me on, but some things aren’t worth analyzing. It’s taken me years to realize what I like and what I don’t like. For instance, short men simply do not appeal to me, at least none have so far. And men who could stand a few trips to the dentist will never kiss me. Men who are afraid of deodorant knock me out. Men who roll over, stick it in, and think they’ve done something miraculous make me want to slap ’em instead of shudder. I can’t stand vulgar men. Dumb men. Lazy men. Men who think the word respect means expect. Men who are so pretty they spend more time in the mirror than I do. Men whose brains can be measured by the size of their dicks. Selfish men. Men who don’t vote. Who think all the news that’s fit to print is on the sports page. Liars. Men who think that the world owes them something. Men who care
more about the cushion between my legs than they do about the rest of me. Men who don’t stand for anything in particular. Who think passion is synonymous only with fucking. And men who don’t take chances—who are too afraid to stick their damn necks out for fear that they’re going to drown.
    So