When my girlfriend called saying, "Cynthia girl, I have found the perfect man for you," it sounded too good to be true. A perfect man for me would have to be one who isn’t threatened by my job status and independence. Most men are uncomfortable with what I have and can do without them. It isn’t a matter of emasculation, simply my independence.

At a dinner party my girlfriend introduced me to Miles Pruitt. He is a fine man to look at and even better to listen to. His six foot, dark chocolate frame bellowed a tuneful boom of a voice. It captured the attention of all the women as he spoke. And I was just as attentive. Miles is an art dealer, about to open a gallery of strictly African American art. I was impressed with his ambition. Miles didn’t appear to be just another brother who was settling for whatever hand life dealt him. Our intr oduction was short and sweet.

He extended his manicured hand, which was warm to the touch. The heat from his hand began to travel through mine, up my arm and through the rest of me. I swear it traveled to parts of me that hadn’t been touched by the warm hands of a man in a long time.

Now don’t get me wrong; It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been with a man that I would fall for the first one that would come along, saying the right words, but Miles had it going on and I was going with it. From that night, Miles and I had lunch a few times, going Dutch at first. This was an agreement so there wouldn’t be any obligation. I appreciated the gesture. We discussed our careers. Miles used to work for an art dealer but decided to be his own boss and open his own art gallery.

From lunches, we moved on to dinners. On our first dinner date, Miles showed up at the restaurant with a white rose.

When our food arrived I nodded my head as usual to say grace, then I silently added a special thanks to God for bringing Miles into my life. After about a month, the frequency of our seeing or talking to each other slowed. Miles became increasingly busy with the opening of his gallery nearing. I understood. After about two and a half weeks of no call from Miles, I called him.

There was dead air silence. Should I offer or should I wait for him to ask? Either way, what would my answer be?

I withdrew the money. The promissory note was signed and notarized at Miles insistence. Three weeks later over dinner, Miles handed me a personal invitation to the grand opening of Art Noir. We lifted glasses of wine in a toast to the gallery and our friendship. That night, Miles picked me up at home instead of us meeting at the restaurant as usual. When he dropped me off, he walked me to the door.

It was a long night trying to sleep. I couldn’t be satisfied with just a friendship with this man, I wanted more and I was sensing so did he. I went with Miles out of town to make the purchases of artwork. It was an overnight trip, so we spent the night in a hotel. We slept in separate rooms. The only act of intimacy was our holding hands as we walked to our rooms. He was a perfect gentleman.

The week of the grand opening I received a call from the renowned black artist Carl Massy. Massy and I met at a showing in Chicago and we became phone pals. He was going to be in town and wanted to have dinner. I asked him if he would escort me to the opening as a favor. He said yes. I then called Miles and made sure he had some Massy prints, then I told him I had a surprise for him. He tried hard to find out what it was, but I held firm.

Intentionally, Massy and I arrived fashionably late to the gallery. Miles was busily running about shaking hands and greeting people. There was a large crowd, which I’m sure Miles didn’t mind. When he spotted me at the entrance registering in the guest book, I noted the look of puzzlement at who my escort was.

Miles and Carl spoke and Carl agreed to say a few words to the gathering and sign a few of his pieces. While Carl was at the podium, Miles stood next to me. I felt his eyes on me so I turned to meet them.

Miles grabbed me fully in a hug and kissed me on the cheek again, missing his mark a second time in my opinion. It was a long night of drinking champagne and eating chilled shrimp. The opening was a success. Plenty of art was sold. Carl sold five of his pieces for $1100 each? He had to leave early because of an early flight he had to catch in the morning. I told Carl I would get home and I thanked him for what he did. Around one o’clock the last guest was gone. Miles was flying high with the nigh t’s success and I was happy for him.

Once again we stood at the threshold of my townhouse doorway. Miles leaned in for another kiss goodnight, this time I helped his aim and turned so our lips met. I opened my mouth and invited him in. He accepted. He grabbed a hold of me and pulled me to him and I went without an ounce of struggle. Miles broke off the kiss.

Miles was in the bathroom while I undressed and prepared the bed. I lit candles to illuminate the room. I wasn’t comfortable being seen by the naked light of a bulb. I put on a gown I thought was flattering to my full figure and climbed in bed. I took that time to close my eyes to ask God’s forgiveness for the fornication I was about to commit. It was a long prayer, so long that I didn’t hear Miles come into the room. He stood at the doorway looking at me. He looked beautiful and black. In the sha dows he blended. I could barely see him move on me. He climbed in the bed covering me like a blanket and he warmed me. That night, a friend loved me totally.

The time following that momentous night became odd and tense for us. We didn’t know what to talk about over dinner anymore. I refused to bring up that night and what it meant. It had to come from him. The Art Noir gallery was doing so well that Miles had paid back over half of the money he had borrowed in half the time. Our lunches took more of a business tone. With the success of the gallery, Miles even hired an assistant name Tanisha to help run it.

Tanisha was petite and pretty. She looked to be about five foot seven and one hundred and twenty pounds of slender white chocolate. Any woman would feel threatened by her. She was young, single and could buy off the rack. Miles spoke of her emphatically, of the potential he saw in her abilities. "All she need is some grooming," he would say. Visitors to the showroom increased after he hired her, especially from potential male buyers. Miles began canceling lunch with me, saying he couldn’t get away or he brought Tanisha to our occasional lunches. He said he wanted Tanisha to benefit from our conversations about art, to help her learn the business

It would be too easy for me to show my jealousy. Instead I didn’t show any outward objections.

I allowed some days to pass before I gave Miles a late night call, but he seemed reluctant to talk right then. He did invite me to his house, saying we had something to discuss. I thought, this was it, we are going to come to terms about our friendship/relationship. Anxious, I arrived early at his house in the afternoon the next day. When I pulled into his driveway, Tanisha’s car was there. My heart felt as if it was trying to climb out of my throat, while rapidly beating. It took three rings of th e doorbell before Miles answered. A look of guilt flashed across his face. There was no immediate sign of Tanisha.

We walked into the living room where I sat on the couch. Tanisha came walking down the stairs. She was caring and smelling a white rose, though I was seeing red. Quickly, I remembered that there was a bathroom in Miles’ house on the first floor, ruling out that that is where she was coming from. She politely smiled and spoke. I responded in kind and said it was nice to see her again. I lied. From the side of a chair, she picked up an overnight bag.

His uneasiness was showing. Miles followed Tanisha to the door, then returned to the living room after a few minutes. He stood in the middle of the floor. I could tell he didn’t know what to say. So once again I helped him out.

If Miles said anymore after that, I didn’t hear a word of it. I could see his mouth moving, his hands gesturing, but I was deaf and numb. I rose from the couch and walked right passed him. My hearing returned to hear my car door slam shut.

Being Miles Pruitt has been the ideal life. I have had the good fortune to be successful in business endeavors and I’m a decent looking guy. My parents were able to pay for me to have the best education their money could buy from private schools to an Ivy League college. As for my personal life, I have been more than fortunate.

Being able to get a woman has never been a challenge for me. That may sound vain. It isn’t. It’s the truth. The catch is, every offer of companionship isn’t always worth the effort or trouble it could bring. Most of the women I come up against aren’t a challenge for me because they’re too eager and willing to please me, just to be with me. Also, they have little to offer me that I don’t already have or can get for myself.

Something to offer was the difference I had hoped Cynthia would bring. A mutual acquaintance had filled me in on Cynthia’s life. Though she was a successful woman in her own right, she didn’t have a man. Maybe, just maybe she was in search of the same thing I was. We had plenty in common. She is a top curator for a nationally recognized city art museum. I am a dealer in art and at the time we met, I was on the verge of opening my own gallery.

From our initial meeting we began having lunches. It was a slow ride, yet a sure one. I insisted that we paid for our own meals to keep the relationship platonic and non-committal. For the first time in my life I was looking for friendship with a woman first. My decision had nothing to do with Cynthia being a full-figured woman. In fact, I found her voluptuousness, rather attracting. She wore clothing to complement her figure. I sensed her physique to be solid and shapely in muscle as oppose to fa t.

At our first dinner I decided to show my genuine intent by presenting Cynthia with a white rose. As I hoped she would, Cynthia asked what my intentions were. Any other woman would have accepted the flower and the terms however I set them and without query. There was one other immediate gesture that impressed me about Cynthia. She was so confident and assured of herself that she had no problem in bowing her head to say grace before eating. I had never been with a woman who was spiritual minded. Maybe that was what I was missing in my life and in the women to make me whole.

I ran into some financial problems when it came to acquiring some art for the gallery opening. My bank account was close to being empty and they (the bank) wouldn’t extend my credit. My parents were out of the country. I purposely didn’t call Cynthia because I didn’t want to look like a failure. It was too soon in our relationship for me to go to her for help. I sat in my house calling so called friends for money. Either they didn’t have it or they had it tied up in CDs or some excuse like that. I was too close to opening to turn back. Cynthia called me. At first I was reluctant to tell her of my woes.

She only needed to ask in a most concerned tone, then I told her what I needed. I needed five thousand dollars. This was not a sum of money that I expected from someone I just met. It may have been my pride, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. With only a moment’s hesitation Cynthia offered me the money. I had no choice but to accept, with a promise to pay her back as soon as I could. I insisted on signing a promissory note. We went to the bank and made the transaction.

That night we had dinner and I picked Cynthia up at her apartment. I don’t know if it was what she had just done for me or if it was the way she had combed her hair back, that made her seem more appealing to me. Never before had I been with a woman who was in the position to do for me as Cynthia had. In my experience, it was normally me who was asked for money. When I took Cynthia home, I escorted her to the door. She looked so lovely. I wanted to say so much.

Having been in the situation countless times before, I knew that night I could have seized the moment and gone to bed with Cynthia. It wasn’t the time. We were friends, now business partners. Lovers would have been too much too soon. I took charge of my hormones and directed my kiss away from her lips and placed it on her cheek. I felt her exhale maybe a sigh of disappointment. Little did she know that I breathed it in.

That next week Cynthia accompanied me out of town to acquire the artwork I needed to complete the gallery. She used her influence to get me a tremendous deal for the pieces I purchased. More and more I was impressed with what Cynthia had to offer. Again that feeling of appeal consumed me as we walked hand in hand to our separate hotel rooms. I didn’t want to trade our friendship for sex.

The grand opening was a complete success. My gallery the Art Noir was filled with guests. But the most important attendee was a surprise guest. Cynthia had called me and told me she had a surprise for me. At the same time she nonchalantly inquired about some prints. Little did I know that she would arrive at the opening with Carl Massy, one of the most recognized black artist alive. That night I wasn’t going to deny the obvious. Cynthia and I were meant to be; as a complete package we would have co mpanionship and partnership.

Later that evening, actually early the following morning at her home, I knew I wanted to consummate a deal. On Cynthia’s porch, we began kissing. Rather than being aggressive, I asked Cynthia if she thought we should go further. She consented. No night of lovemaking meant as much to me or placed me under so much pressure to perform well. I mentioned that Cynthia was a spiritual minded person. As she was known to do, Cynthia said grace before eating each meal. She could have either been thanking Go d for providing her with the meal or for the blessing of the nourishment to her body. When I walked out of the bathroom from washing, Cynthia was in bed in the midst of a prayer. I didn’t know if the prayer was for my being there or for how good I was to be to her body.

The sex was as good as any I had ever had, better than most. But the act alone would change the complexion of our relationship. I knew when I looked into her grimacing face, hopefully filled with pleasure, that I was committing myself to this woman. Yet, I had not developed any feelings of love for her. Until this point it was more about being friends then business partners. We had not shared one intimate moment or expression of passion for the another. As much admiration as I had for Cynthia, it w as not yet love.

For the next couple of weeks I immersed myself in the business of running the gallery. Infrequently, Cynthia and I would meet for lunch when I could get away. It was now obligatory for us to be together. I didn’t feel the ease in our conversations as they once had. We knew that we had performed the most intimate act two people could share, but we didn’t know each other’s mind on the same level.

The gallery was very busy, being right after the grand opening. It had been so busy that I hired an assistant to help me. Her name was Tanisha Johnson. She was exquisitely beautiful; slim in the waist and pretty in the face. Without question, runway models caliber. She was young, funny and she exude sensuality. Immediately I was attracted to her. I knew hiring Tanisha was the worst thing I could do. Mixing business with pleasure rarely works. Against my better judgement I did it anyway.

It was difficult to concentrate on work with Tanisha in the gallery. She wore borderline provocative outfits. I found myself doing things which I knew weren’t right. Whenever we were standing close, I would do what ever I could to touch her. Sometimes I would go so far as to put my hand on her slim line waist. She never pulled away or showed any objection.

I was like a high school teen when it came to my feelings toward Tanisha, all hormones and very little thinking. I was jealous of the men who would come in the gallery to browse. They made their little moves on her right in front of me. Invitations to lunch were the most used approach. Some of the men showed interests in prints that were only available by order. That way they had an excuse to come back or to leave their pager numbers with Tanisha to call them when their order came in. Yeah right.

To compete, I found myself buying lunches and bringing it to the gallery. I spent one hundred and sixty dollars on an ink pen just to impress Tanisha. I knew I was out of control and I didn’t know what to do about it. To make up for Tanisha’s limited knowledge of art; I invited her to lunch with Cynthia and I. It didn’t take a psychic to know that that wasn’t the best of ideas. What I saw in Tanisha was the potential to be the epitome of brains and beauty, given the right tutelage. She had the abil ity to learn and I was willing to be the teacher to groom her in every aspect I could.

Then came the phone call that would force my hand in to making a decision over body and mind. A friend called me with passes to a private showing in Chicago of an African art exhibit. Cynthia came to mind first, within milliseconds followed the idea of Tanisha on my arm at the showing. I rushed out of my office to tell Tanisha of the news, realizing I hadn’t made up my mind as to who would go with me.

Tanisha contended she might be an embarrassment if she went, because she wasn’t as knowledgeable about art as either Cynthia or I. I found her admission touching. Then she suggested going to the museum to study some pieces with Cynthia. Again, I found her initiative to be admirable. I suggested that we make it a threesome. Talk about having your cake and eating it too. This would be gluttony.

Tanisha asked if she could come to the house to see some of my private collection of art. It was my chance at personally teaching her. I said yes and offered to cook dinner. Tanisha accepted. When she arrived, everything was hot and on the stove. I cooked my specialty of baked lamb chops over white rice and mixed steamed vegetables. In the refrigerator were two bottles of wine. We managed to finish both bottles. During the course of the meal, I presented Tanisha with a white rose for the start of our friendship.

The hour had gotten late. A surprisingly late phone call came from Cynthia. I had forgotten about her. Tanisha and I were in my study when the call came. I felt like a married man cheating on his wife, caught with the mistress in the house, while the wife called from out of town. I didn’t have much to say, but I asked Cynthia if she could come by the next day to talk. I wanted to ask her face to face about Tanisha coming to the museum and to tell her about the trip.

Tanisha asked me about the call and I snapped at her, hurting her feelings. It was the guilt that caused me to respond the way I did. I went to console her and to apologize. I put my arms around her and pulled her to me. I kissed her, first lightly, then more passionately. It was passion that was leading me with Tanisha in tow to the bedroom. There, we spent the night lovemaking being attentive, responsive and submissive to each other’s whim. At one high point of excitement, I even called out Tani sha’s name. That had never happened with any woman.

I had not intended to have an overnight guest. The next morning we had an eye opening hot sex session in the shower. Normally, I’m up and dressed early. Tanisha kept presenting herself to me, which delayed me putting on any clothes.

The sounding of the doorbell reminded me once again of Cynthia. I ran downstairs and finally got to the door by the third ring. I asked Cynthia in and we walked into the front room. I was hoping Tanisha would stay upstairs, but she didn’t. She came down the stairs with the rose I gave her. The women exchanged greetings. Tanisha then took her overnight bag and left. I hadn’t given it a thought until that moment that she came with the bag. That meant she had intentions of staying. I walked Tanisha to the door, pausing a moment before returning to the waiting Cynthia.

As soon as I walked in the room, Cynthia began.

It was like she wasn’t hearing me. Cynthia simply stood up and walked out of the house. I was pleading with her to listen to me and to give me a chance to explain. She walked out of my house and my life.

I could immediately tell that Miles liked me. Not to sound conceited, but I’m somewhat of an attractive woman. I’m sure most women feel that way about themselves, but with me, I’m told that constantly. Being pretty and small, with a nice shape can be more of a curse than a blessing sometimes. This would soon be the case with Miles. Every chance he could Miles would touch me somewhere, mostly on my waist when we would be working closely. His hands hold a lot of heat and I could feel it through my clo thes. It felt good.

Sells in the gallery were good. Quite a few men would come in to browse. Lots of them were men I met who tried to hit on me and asked where I worked. I told them, and they would show up to look around. Later, they would ask me out to lunch. My answer depended on what they bought. For those who did buy, I accepted their invitation. For those who didn’t, oh well. Miles noticed the increase in traffic and sells. He also noted that mostly men came in to buy. I could sense he was a bit jealous, but I had no problem when the women would ignore me and go to him for help. The difference was men would openly flirt with me, leaving business cards with their pager numbers on them.

Men have a tendency to want to promise me the world. I can’t count how many times men sung that song "If This World Was Mine" to me. This was nothing that I would ask for of course. If I mentioned I liked a piece of jewelry or saw an outfit I liked, the man would buy it. And no, I wouldn’t have to give something in return, unless I wanted to. Miles was the same as the other men. He would buy me lunch all the time. He bought me this expensive Mont Blanc ink pen. I found out it cost over one hundred dollars. He said it would look impressive if I used it when I hand wrote receipts.

Now with all this attention Miles was giving me, I thought it would be just a matter of time that he would try to hit on me sexually. But he didn’t. Miles kept saying I had potential and that he was going to be my teacher. I didn’t care about art. Working at Art Noir was a job. My perk was working for a good-looking man, who drove a nice car, who might see me as a potential wife. With Miles I couldn’t tell.

There was this woman named Cynthia that he always talked about. They were friends from what I could tell nothing more than that. But Miles spoke highly and often about her knowledge and connections in the art field. She lent him money to buy some art for the gallery, so she was obviously doing well. I felt a little threatened during one of his "Cynthia praise hours" when he once mentioned that a man could go far with a woman like that behind him. So I thought maybe I should meet this Cynthia. So I made the suggestion.

Seeing Cynthia didn’t ease much of the threatening feeling. She was quite attractive in her own right. If it weren’t for her size, I would consider her a challenge. But I still did to some degree. After all, she knew Miles before me and she was his friend. She had a lot more to offer him than I did. Cynthia spoke very high class and proper. It wasn’t to talk over my head or anything, I think it was just her style. I was willing to take lessons.

Miles seemed to enjoy the relation between Cynthia and me. If she felt the least bit threatened by me, she was good at hiding it. After a couple of lunches, I had enough of playing schoolgirl. I’m not that scandalous to learn everything from a woman then take her man, if that would be the case. My mind was made up, Miles was going to be mine.

Miles came rushing out of his office one day excited about a phone call. It was about attending an exclusive showing of African art in Chicago. He said he didn’t want to go alone. I could see the question on his face as if he was making a choice between Cynthia and me. I had to act fast.

The plan worked too well. I had to do something to make Miles want to take one of us. I remembered Miles mentioning his personal collection of art in his home. That would be my invite and step one of my plans.

That evening I went to Miles house. He promised to make me dinner. His house was big, three bedrooms and two and a half bathroom two-story home. I brought my overnight bag just in case it got too late for me to go home. Dinner was delicious. Miles cooked lamb chops with rice and steamed vegetables. Of course we had wine, at least two bottles. At dinner he presented me with a white rose. He said it symbolized friendship and that this was the start of ours. That touched me. No man claimed a frien dship with me before wanting to go to bed with me. As planned, the hour did grow late by the time Miles got around to showing me his art collection in his study. The night was going beautifully, until it happened. The phone rang and it was Cynthia. Miles didn’t say much, but I heard him say he wanted to talk to her. Then he stood staring at the phone after hanging it up.

Miles walked over to me and put his arms around my waist, placing his warm hands at the base of my back. I let my head hang, forcing him to ask me to look up hopefully to kiss him. He brought one hand beneath my chin, raised my head and kissed me. From there we climbed the stairs to his bedroom where I gave him the loving that would surely make him forget about any other woman he had ever been with. In return, Miles was attentive and sensitive and just as passionate in his love making to me.

The next day, Cynthia came over. I think she was early in her arrival. I personally didn’t want to be there when she came, but it did establish my position. I spoke to her and she replied. I felt no need to explain anything; this was Miles situation to handle. I picked up my overnight bag and said my good-byes.