My husband and I live in Atlanta Georgia, just one of the thousands of young black professional couples who’ve migrated to ‘Hotlanta’ in recent years. I’m program director for a local talk radio station. My husband, Tyrell, is an accountant. We own a beautiful three bedroom colonial style home, just outside of Atlanta, where we live with our two children Carl and Camille.
I’m a gorgeous woman and I know it. My face or more specifically my luscious full pouty lips paid my way through college. I was a lip model for a cosmetics company until I graduated. At 34 years old, I still think that I’ve got it. I’m 5’ 9½’ tall. I’m very leggy and I weigh a voluptuous 150lb. I have the classic black woman’s body, 38DDD- 24- 40. My husband still drools over my tiny waist and my big round ass. I have the kind of ass that young Black men call a ba-dunka-dunk. In other words, this thick sista puts J-Lo to shame. I get my fair share of attention from men. In fact, I get much more than my fair share. That’s what got me into this situation.
It was about 7: 30 PM and I was working late as usual. The rest of the staff had long since departed. The only people left in the office were Jim Berman and me. Jim is what’s loosely called on air talent. Jim hosts a rather vulgar sports talk in show. Personally, I’d just as soon fire him on principle, but he’s very popular within the White male 18-34 demographic. The man is a crude boorish sexist clod. He’s everything that I wouldn’t want in a man. Thank God that my loving husband, Tyrell, is the polar opposite of that jerk.
I could hear the show over the P.A. Jim was being his obnoxious self as usual, but something wasn’t right. None of the current advertisers’ spots were running. In fact there hadn’t been a commercial break in about 20 minutes. What’s going on in the both, I thought.
I ran down the stairs, as fast as the 3 inch heals of my Chloë gold and burgundy pumps would allow. Trying to run in heels made my fat brown bubble butt wiggle like Jell-O under the clingy silk-wool blend of my form-fitting Narciso Rodriguez skirt. I jogged down the long corridor to the broadcast both. The On Air light was flashing red, but looking through the window, it was clear that Jim wasn’t in the booth. He had put in a tape of an old show and left in the middle both in the middle of his shift. ‘Where is that jerk’ I whispered to myself. ‘This is the last straw. This time he’s out of here!’.
I searched up and down the halls for about 5 minutes, before I heard some noise coming from The Station Manager’s office. I tried the door and it opened without resistance revealing Mr. Williams’ well appointed office suite. ‘Now that’s odd’, I thought. I was sure that Mr. Williams wasn’t in his office at that time of night.
The outer office was empty, and apparently hadn’t been disturbed. There was a steady whooshing sound coming from the private bath room in the back of the office. Suddenly it stopped with a squeak of faucets being turned. Then I new that bastard Jim was trespassing in Mr. Williams’ office. Certainly he hadn’t come all the way down here just to use the boss’s’ toilet. I crept surreptitiously over to the door and pulled it, it too offered no resistance. The bathroom was full of steam, which made it difficult to see exactly what or who was in there. As it cleared I saw Jim standing there in front of Mr. Williams’ vanity with an idiotic shocked look on his face. He had just gotten out of the shower, and was soaking wet. He was wearing a small white towel around his waist and nothing else.