1. Call me Lily.
I was born in a lily-white suburb of Cincinnati. My family moved around the country several times for my father's job before I graduated high school -- Helena, Richmond, Denver, Phoenix, Philadelphia -- but each time we settled into the same kind of suburban neighborhood, and I made the same kind of friends. We would make fun of the weird family down the street with the car up on cinderblocks on their front lawn. If there was a Black neighborhood anywhere nearby, we knew to stay away from there. If by some fluke a Black person came within our orbit, we knew, without needing to be told, that we shouldn't get too close to them; they were a source of danger or contamination, in some undefined way.
Where did we get these ideas? If you'd asked my father, he would have denied having a racist bone in his body. "I judge people by their merit: it doesn't matter if they're White, Black or purple with green polka dots, heh-heh." But out of the other side of his mouth, he would rant about "decent, law-abiding people" needing to protect themselves from the "criminal element, from bad neighborhoods." It was implicitly understood what skin color went with those contrasting categories. My mother never said much; my father did more than enough talking for the whole family. I don't remember other folks around me -- friends, their parents, our teachers -- using the n-word or saying explicitly racist things. That would have been in bad taste in our middle-class circles. I just didn't think about people of color much at all. I didn't have to. I moved frictionlessly as a White girl in a White suburban world. The teachers grudgingly observed Black history month, but it was understood that the other eleven months of the year were for learning more important things, normal things. White things. Unconscious racism was the very air I breathed.
I'd hoped to get into UPenn, but my grades weren't quite high enough. Daddy tried to steer me toward Penn State Brandywine. But I had been accepted at Temple, and I knew it was a better school; I put my foot down, for nearly the first time in my life. It was a shock, living and going to classes in North Philly. I had escaped from the confines of my all-White world, into something much more interesting, and sometimes unsettling. I had Black classmates, I walked past Black people on the street; and the White people around me treated this as No Big Deal. So I acted as though it was no big deal for me either. I learned new kinds of music, that my parents wouldn't have approved of. One of my college friends even dated a Black guy for a while. But I didn't have any Black friends myself. It never occurred to me to try to get to know any.
My junior year in college, I met Henry in a "math for humanities dummies" course that I needed to satisfy the distribution requirements for my Art and Design major. Henry wasn't in the course himself; he was a math geek TA-ing our section. He asked me out (which he shouldn't have done, as my TA), and we started dating. I was grateful for the attention. Up to that point, boys hadn't shown much interest in me. I have a pretty face, and nice light-brown hair, so I've been told; but my body is short and dumpy, a build I inherited from my mother, with a behind that's way too large, so I thought, and a bust that's way too heavy. Diets and exercise never helped.
I had sexually experimented a little bit in college before meeting Henry. Those boys had been pretty disappointing in bed; but as a chubby girl, I took what I could get. By comparison, sex with Henry was... nice. He could make me come, more often than not; and even when he didn't, I enjoyed the feeling of closeness with him. We got married shortly after graduation. My parents approved of Henry. He was "a good bet," with a secure career trajectory ahead of him. And there's more to marriage than just sex. That's what my mother told me -- one of the few times she expressed an opinion on anything. Henry got hired fresh out of school as an actuary for an insurance firm. I got a job as an interior decorator, with Ashley Wilton Design Consultants.
So Henry and I settled into the next chapter of our comfortable middle-class White lives, in another mostly (but not entirely) White suburb of Philadelphia. We tried to start a family, but Henry, it turned out, had an extremely low sperm count: even IVF couldn't help. In time, our sex life dwindled to once a month, then even less. Then we kind of forgot about it entirely. I didn't seem to miss it much. I didn't even feel the need to pleasure myself anymore, like I had done in high school and college. Henry put in long hours at the office, preparing reports on stuff that I didn't really understand, new techniques in risk modeling. I put on more weight.
One day I was vacuuming out the interior of Henry's car, and way under the seat I found a woman's thong. I didn't wear thong panties.
What did I feel, at this discovery? Some anger, for sure; and sadness. But mostly an overwhelming soul-tiredness, and resignation. I was only twenty-six years old, but I felt like a dried-up old lady inside. Should I confront Henry? Should I leave him, or kick him out? It all seemed like so much effort, so much unpleasant upheaval to go through. Why bother? Our marriage had become an arrangement of mutual convenience. What difference did it really make to me if he was doing... sexual things, with other women?
I asked Henry to start sleeping in the guestroom, ostensibly because of his snoring. He didn't object. Two more years went by.
2. I meet Antoine.
I mostly work from home. I've got a good eye for design, but I'm not so strong on handling clients; I have to pair up with a more sales-oriented team member for client meetings. Lately Ashley, my boss, has asked me to take on more of the supply side of the business, setting up deals with carpeting, appliance and furniture vendors, painters, cabinet installers, etc. This is easier for me: I know what kind of materials would work well with our designs; and the onus is on the vendor to keep me satisfied, not the other way around.
One day I reach out to a new firm that supplies granite and engineered quartz countertops. The receptionist tells me their sales rep, Antoine Francek, is out of the office at the moment, but he'll get back to me shortly. An hour later, my phone rings.
"Hello, may I please speak with Lily Richards?" The very male voice on the other end is deep and resonant, the kind of voice you just want to cuddle up inside of.
"Speaking. Is this Antoine?"
"It is indeed. Well, yes, thanks for reaching out to Brax-stone Countertops. We hear very good things about Wilton Design. I actually had you on my list to contact, but you beat me to the punch, Ms Richards." God, that VOICE just does something to me. It's deeply comforting, but also... dangerously sexy. My libido, that had been soundly sleeping like Rip van Winkle, suddenly wakes up and smells the coffee.
"Please, call me Lily."
"Certainly Lily, it's a pleasure. I'm sure you've already had a look at our colours and textures on the website, but I suggest coming in to our showroom so I can show you our products, up-close and personal, so to speak. Can we set up an appointment?"
"Sure, sometime this week?" I have to stop myself from squealing with excitement. I certainly want to get up-close and personal with the owner of that voice.
"How about Wednesday at 12:30? I'll take you to lunch afterwards and we can talk about your firm's immediate needs."
"That'd be lovely. See you then, Antoine."
I've got some immediate needs all right. My vagina has turned into swampland. I rush to my bedroom, tear off my panties and urgently bring myself to an intense, wet climax with my fingers, for the first time in years, with the sound of Antoine's voice playing in my memory.
The next day, I get my hair and nails done. Wednesday morning, I agonize over what to wear, finally deciding on an artsy-looking skirt, blouse and scarf ensemble. Not that I really think Antoine would ever be interested in dumpy old me, except as a client. Besides, I'm not really available; I'm a married woman. Technically. But it can't hurt to try and look my best.
"You must be Ms Richards," the elderly receptionist smiles toward me as I walk in. I nod in reply. She picks up her cell phone: "Antoine, Ms Richards is here for you."
Antoine comes out of his office to meet me. I'm standing there for a second with my mouth hanging open. It simply hadn't occurred to me that Antoine Francek might be a Black man. And what a man! More like a Black god. He's maybe six foot six, taut muscles rippling under his suit, skin like ultra-dark chocolate, probably a couple of years older than me. His perfectly shaped head is shaved, with a goatee around his full lips and strong chin: it's the handsomest male face I've ever seen, or could ever imagine. I have to fight against the impulse to bow down and worship him. My panties are drenched.
I become aware that Antoine is staring back at me, with an intense look that's hard to decipher. A hungry look. Maybe he's just looking forward to lunch.
"Excuse my awkwardness there, Lily. It's just... you remind me of someone I used to know. Can I get you some coffee? No? How about we step over here then and get started. Here are some of our granite samples..."
With an effort, I snap myself out of the estrus-fog that had settled over my brain.
Right. Get ahold of yourself Lily. Countertops. Act professional, dammit!
For the next half hour, Antoine shows me a range of samples. I note the high quality of the granite. The engineered quartz looks pretty impressive as well. Now that I've seen them in reality, I have something to go on when I refer to the online images.
"Don't think of them as just for kitchen countertops," Antoine tells me. "These materials can be used for very attractive surfaces in the dining room, the living room... even the bedroom. Shelves, wall accents, table tops, lots of possibilities."
"Yes, I can imagine that."