SAMSON PART 1
What a day. Well, what a night. I went to the mountain tops. I swam along the shore. I danced with the original Aborigines. I sang with the South Africans. I climbed Mount Everest. I stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I looked out of the Sears tower. I performed on stage with Stevie Wonder. I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge. I MADE (yes with my own two hands, feet, eyes, ears, heart) LOVE. I did everything last night without doing much at all. And this was all because he was my mountain. He was my shore. He danced my dance. He sang my song. He was the Eiffel Tower, Sears Tower, and the Golden Gate Bridge. He was LOVE.
OK, enough of the imagery. His name was Samson. And he lived up to the name in every way imaginable.
Strong, valiant, wise, determined, intelligent, whore. He could never be just mine, he told me so. But that didn’t mean that I didn’t try.
I met him at an art exhibit that my college friend, Yvonne St. Laurent was showcasing. Yvonne was what you call a free spirit. She had no qualms about who she was or her overt sexuality, even as an undergrad. I remember her wearing a t-shirt to our Human Sexuality class that said, “So What, Just Fuck”. Ten years later, she was exactly the same.
After majoring in Art and Design in college, she got a job as a buyer for the Royal Academy of Arts, one of the biggest art galleries in London. We were extremely close in undergrad, but when she left the States we grew apart. Yet, we always remained good friends. She recently moved back toNew York to open up her own studio. And the night of the grand opening of “YSL” was the night I met Samson.
I remember that day like yesterday. At work, it seemed as if the day was going so slow. I know that’s usually how it is on a Friday, but goodness. Time lived up to its definition today. At five thirty, I added the finishing touches to my article on “50 Hot Fall Items for under $50.00” and walked out into the unusually warm New York City air for October.
Weather like this brings back nostalgia for me. It brings me back to my childhood in my small town outside of St. Louis, Missouri. Every autumn when the green plentiful leaves would turn bright red, orange, yellow, and brown, the town would have a Fall Festival downtown. The whole city would shut down that Saturday and every local business would set up a booth in pumpkin carving, face painting, bobbing for apples, three legged races, egg tosses, you name it. I recall as a little girl having so much fun and coming home so exhausted, full, and fulfilled. Those were the days.
Yvonne’s showing was at 6:30, so I decided to go straight there from work. Dateless, I took aLincoln Town car to catch her art exhibit being presented on the lower East Side. In the ride I remember looking at what I had on. I was rocking a pair of gold Jimmy Choo sandals, a pair of stonewashed Seven for all Mankind skinny jeans, and a Gucci cream blouse under a fitted tan DKNY blazer. My best friend, Cyndi, bought me my vintage gold monogram Miroir Louis Vuitton bag for Christmas and it was my first time wearing it. I looked pretty darn good, but I used a couple minutes of my car ride to touch up my makeup.
Once I pulled up to her spot, I was amazed. From the cars lined up outside, I could tell the place was packed. Upon walking in I realized that Yvonne sure did know some fine men. Tall, short, light, dark, Black, White, Latino, and Asian, whatever, they all belonged in a magazine that I could masturbate to. But one stood out from the crowd. Damn. I mean double damn. He was immortal and his charisma had me drawn in like a moth to a flame. No Janet Jackson. I made a mental note that he was my prey once I finished making my rounds.
Yvonne’s pieces were entitled, “A Woman Scorned.” Each piece was named after an astrological zodiac sign and a past lover that she had. Each piece was different-some oil paintings, others statues-but all had one thing in common. Yvonne was smiling as she was standing over her dead lovers’ bodies.
For instance, a colorful oil painting named “Gemini: Donnie and Dannielle- the Threesomes Revenge”. It contained bright oranges, yellows, reds, and sadly black. The story goes that Yvonne was dating a boy and girl twin without the other one knowing. When the twins found out, they confronted Yvonne and eventually both left her alone. She was hurt by the abrupt end of not just one but two relationships. So instead of taking it out on each of them, she made this painting for her revenge. The painting shows an image of her standing naked over a very naked, very bloody, very dead man and woman. In Yvonne’s hand was a fork. She poked her victims to death, causing bloody geysers all over their bodies. I don’t know how she made the images so lifelike. If I didn’t know better, I would actually think that Yvonne was a mass murderer.
To the right of the painting was a statue entitled, “Cancer: Craig’s Secret”. It was a stone representation of one of the sexiest male bodies I have ever seen. His back was turned towards me, so I slowly walked around it admiring the artwork. The details of his muscles were so lifelike. I mean, his butt looked so good that I had to reach out and touch it. Coming around to the front, I noticed that the man’s expression was one of sheer terror. He was looking toward his crotch and I couldn’t make out what the problem was. Then, I squinted and moved closer. On his pubic hairs were tiny creatures that seemed to eating him alive. Crabs. They were literally causing the man to bleed down the front of his firm thighs into a pool of blood at his feet. Damn.
I was so caught up in all the pieces that I almost forgot about Mr. Heavenly from across the room. But, I saw him again. He. Was. Mesmerizing. Have you ever seen an image so exquisite that even when you try to look away, you cannot? I continued to watch him from a distance, as he carefully analyzed each of Yvonne’s pieces with great detail. I walked up next to him while he was checking out a painting as if it was only the painting that had my attention.
“Deep, huh?” I spoke meekly to the chocolate lion.
“Excuse me?” he said. He turned towards me and I suddenly was mesmerized. Six feet, 190 pounds, cocoa complexion, and the deepest eyes of any old soul. Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes and it always looks as if they are crying for the world’s miseries? Well, that’s what Samson’s eyes looked like to me. He had a low Cesar hair cut, and had bone structure similar to...well, I hate to admit this. Although I can’t stand Nick Cannon and his corny self, the man had the facial bone structure of a Greek God. Yummy. He had a relaxed, yet professional appeal. From his threads, I could tell the man had class. He was rocking Gucci from his head to his feet. He had on a striped blue and white Gucci blazer, with a crisp white shirt underneath. They were set off perfectly with his relaxed fit jeans and his navy Gucci moccasins. He was not too flashy in his jewelry, just a single solitaire diamond stud in his ear. His skin is so clear and perfect. Looks like he moisturizes, too. I bet he bathes in fresh milk squeezed right from the udder. He has to in order to have skin that smooth.
In the midst of my daydream, I hear a throat clearing.
“Miss, did you say something?”
So much for me being smooth. Recover, Sasha, recover. I flashed a smile and tried to get back on track. “I said her works have a lot of depth.”
“Yes, why yes, they do”, he said. “One wonders what made her want to kill each of her lovers. I mean, at least one of them could’ve been alright.” And then, he bellowed. It was the loudest, most obnoxious laugh but it was contagious. With a laugh so free and flowing, you had to join in as soon as you heard it. People in the gallery began to look at us like we were crazy but we didn’t care. I simply was just enjoying a great moment with a perfect stranger. When we simmered down, he extended his hand.
“Samson. George Samson.”
I knew his name would be some type of biblical reference just from his looks alone. I was thinking that he would be a Noah or Moses. But Samson took the cake. I laughed out loud before I could catch myself.
“Something funny, miss?”
“No, sweetie”, I coyly said as I gently caressed his hand. “I was just wondering, is your weakness women as well?”
“More than you’d like to know”, he said with a wink.
Most women would take this as a red flag that this man has no intentions of a serious relationship, but for some reason he intrigued me. I thought, as most women do, that I could be his Delilah of sorts. But I wouldn’t use his weakness against him, I would make him stronger and together we could conquer the world. Isn’t it a shame that a fine man will have you thinking about a future? And I had only known him for five minutes. Damn. Yet, in the back of my mind I knew that I would soon be in this man’s bed.
We exchanged numbers and went out for dinner about a week later. I quickly learned not only was Samson fine, but he knew how to cater towards a woman’s every need and want. It’s so easy to fall in love with him. He had the widest smile. When he kissed me, every single time I closed my eyes and floated into the clouds. There was so much passion in his kiss. He held my face with both hands. He moaned every time he touched my lips. SAMSON.
He would call you on Friday afternoon to tell you to cancel your weekend plans because he wanted to go to Paris just to shop. And I am not talking Paris, Tennessee either. I’m talking France, baby! Samson also had the best lovemaking techniques I had ever been introduced to. He would call me in the middle of the day just to say that he has been thinking about kissing every inch of my body. And when he finally saw me, believe me, he had an All-you-can-eat Buffet ticket.
He would look deep into my eyes with each thrust and ask in a growl/whisper “Baby, are you going to come with me?” And my body would always rightly respond, “Hell, yes” as I climbed his mountains and swam his shores. He could make me climax just from him licking my cleavage line. If sex were a weapon, this man would be licensed to kill. For real.
Through our encounters, I learned that Samson was an international investment banker with his own private firm. He had no children and had no intentions of ever having any. He was 42 and didn’t plan on getting married until he was 50. So, in other words, Samson did his thing with no commitments and no ties. And the moment you got too attached, he simply moved on. It was simple for him, but for me it would became a real problem.
So as all fairy tales end, reality sets in and you have the chance to view things in plain black and white, not rose. I slowly learned that these methods I once considered sweet and endearing were merely control tactics. Though you were never the only woman, he would make sure that he was the only man. That’s why he would call abruptly and make you change your schedule so any other man in your life would get tired of being put on the back burner. He looked into your eyes to make sure that he was the dominant one, and me (like every other woman) was his prey.
There were perks to dating Samson. First class trips, lavish gifts, everything this man did oozed expensive. But if my net worth was $500 million, I guess I would, too. But there was a dark side to being one of Samson’s many women. Sometimes, he would disappear for weeks. No matter how many times you called, texted, or emailed him, he would never respond until he felt it truly necessary. And when he did talk to you, don’t you DARE ask him about his whereabouts or he would disappear again. I learned that lesson the hard way.
He had at least five of us at a time, sometimes more if he was feeling lonely. It seemed as if we all were on a schedule with us rotating weekends. Even though he never talked about the other women, I couldn’t help but feel inadequate, often thinking that I alone wasn’t good enough for him.
I know he had a thing for Asian chicks. One summer, it was 10 am in the morning and I was doing my normal Saturday routine, which includes some house work and just being plain lazy. In the middle of eating my Banana Nut Cheerios, Samson calls me.
“Baby, don’t you want to come with me?”
I love it when he plays this game. He only says this phrase on two different occasions. When he wants me to take a trip and when are playing horizontal tag. Immediately, I smile.
“Yes, any way you want me too, Daddy”, I respond.
“Get packed, babe. I’m scooping you at noon. It’s a surprise.” Click.
That’s all I needed to hear. I swiftly packed 15 pieces that could me mixed and mingled into 7 outfits. I also made sure I packed a new sheer see-through baby doll dress I just bought from La Perla.
By eleven forty five, I was ready. I attempted to clean up my crib in the meantime, but I really couldn’t concentrate because my mind was already focused on the weekend. Samson and I had already been to London, Paris, Las Vegas, Puerto Vallarta, and Madrid. I wonder where it would be this time. As soon as I begin to fantasize, my phone rings.
Only one word is uttered when I answer my phone.
“Downstairs.” Click. He was always so frank.
I bolt out the door of my two bedroom apartment. He is waiting for me, looking so sexy in his Black on Black Range Rover Sport. It’s been almost two weeks since I have seen this man and I can’t hide my enthusiasm.
“Daddy!” I scream once I close my car door. I reach out my arms to give him a hug. “I missed you.”
We embrace and he grabs me by my chin to plant a huge kiss on my lips.
“Glad you were on time, for once.” He chuckles. He knows I have a habit of running late, but I also know that he would always wait.
“I rush packed, because I did not want to miss the opportunity of being with you.” I flash all 32 of my teeth, and give the cutest innocent look.
This made him crack a smile as he released the brake and heads for the airport. “Yeah, yeah. Check under your seat.”
It’s a clue to where we are going to go, I know it! The last time we played this game there was a gift box with a beret in it. That’s how I knew we were going to Paris. I rush to pull out the parcel from under my seat. It is a small box wrapped with brown paper. There is no writing on the box. I put my ear to it, and I don’t hear ticking so I know it’s not a watch or a bomb. I rattle the package and it seems to rumble a lot, so I know it’s not a ring. Dang it.
Samson glances over, amused by my guessing game.
“Would you just open it already?”
“No, I want to savor this moment as long as I can.”
“Ok,” he laughs.
I make a small tear in the package’s wrapping and notice that the box is made of black velvet. Once I get the box out, slowly of course, I open the lid. Inside is a tiny porcelain doll. I gasp at his beauty, and the smile on Samson’s face shows that he is just as pleased. The doll is a young geisha girl in an elegant kimono.
“Japan! Japan! We’re going to Japan”, I began to chant in a singsong voice as I do the old school dance “The Cabbage Patch”.
“Yes, baby. We are going to Tokyo. I have to get a few contracts signed first thing in the morning. And I didn’t want to go alone. Plus, I know you like to have… fun.”
“You know I do baby, fun for you.”
“Is it all for me, Sasha?”
“Yes, Daddy, all for you.”
We arrive at the airport and take the back entrance to where his private jet was waiting. Walter, his personal pilot was waiting at the entrance of the plane letting down the stairs.
“Miss, how do you do?” says Walter as he politely bows his head. I notice he calls me Miss even though I’ve seen him quite a few times. I guess he can’t keep up with Samson’s women and Miss is the safe route.
“I’m beautiful, Walter. And call me Sasha.”
“Ok, Sasha. And I didn’t ask you how you looked I asked you how you were doing”, he says with a wink.
Samson interjects,”Hey Walt, she’s mine. Get your own!” We all enjoy a laugh and board the plane to get going on a long flight. It normally takes about 14 hours on a commercial flight to get to Tokyo, but with Samson’s superman jet it only takes us eight. On the way there, I catch up on lots of work so that I can conveniently call out on Monday. We enjoy the many snacks on the fully stocked jet and also renew our membership to the mile high club. Twice. After a bumpy landing, we land inTokyo.
TO BE CONTINUED....