DaMonte Ridley caughtme along the side of the house, in a less populated area of his oversized backyard. I hated that for me. He was a big burly dude, which was concerning enough, . . . but then there was the fact that he was always so persistent.
Generally, I was pretty good at handling big, scary men. My job as a player liaison, for one of the most successful sports management companies in the world, put me in constant contact with professional athletes. And it was no secret that they tended to be oversized, strong as hell, and overly confident to boot. There was also the fact that women too often fell at their feet.
I didn’t operate that way, which I felt sometimes made my job more difficult. Sometimes players thought I was just “playinghard to get,” and if they just pushed harder, they could wear me down. It really took some of them a minute to realize that I honestly didn’t want them. DaMonte was one of those men. There was never a time we were going to run into each other that he wouldn’t shoot his shot.
“What’s up, DaMonte?” I asked as I tried to scoot past him.
I wasn’t worried about DaMonte touching me or assaulting me. He had too much to lose to take that kind of risk. I just wanted him to move around. I wasn’t interested, and I never would be.
For one thing, while I believed in seeing a person’s heart, their personality, and their spirit, . . . your face couldn’t be one only a mother would love. DaMonte wasn’t attractive to me. Actually, no shade, but I found him not just ugly, but quite ugly. His wife was pretty, but he was ugly. And if he had any sense of self-awareness, he had to know that she was only with him for what he could do for her.
And that was reason number two as to why I would never give him the time of day. He was married. Not only was he married, he was married to a white woman. The important part wasn’t necessarily that she was white. The important part was that he chose a white woman to stroll down the aisle in front of his friends, family, and the presence of the Lord, but he wanted to creep with black women under the cover of the night. He wanted his white wife to be the “face” of his love story—but he wanted to sneak, dip, dodge, check into hotels, and cheat with black women.
“Why you always gotta look so mean, but be so damn fine? And smell so damn good?”
I stared at him silently.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” I questioned.
“Like something smells like shit?”
Oh damn, I thought to myself.Got to get better at not letting what I’m thinking show on my face.That “blank stare” thing keeps eluding me.
“I’m thinking that I’m sure Sylvie smells good, too.” Sylvie was his wife.
“Ain’t nobody talking about her.”
“But you should be, because she’s your wife, . . . and she loves you.”
“And I love how you smell.” He grinned his ugly grin.
“And I love when you take the hint, and take your married ass on, DaMonte.”
“Keep fucking with me, and I’mma tell True how you’re out here talking to clients.”
Ayana Truesdale was the founder and COO ofEngineered Excellence Sports Management Group. In other words, she was the top dog, . . . my boss.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that a creep like DaMonte would threaten my livelihood because I didn’t want to flirt with him. Ugly men and short men were dudes that had the biggest chips on their shoulders, in my experience.
I eyed him with a frown. “And if you keep messing with me, I’m going to tell True exactly why I treat you the way I do. You’ll be out of representation from her management company before I’ll be out of a job. True doesn’t stand still for sexual harassment.”
It was his turn to be shocked. “Ay, ain’t nobody sexually harassing you, Skyy. Don’t be saying that shit too loud, I?—”
“Don’t be doing that shit too loud. Don’t start none, won’t be none. Now, I’m gonna walk away. Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Ridley.”
“You too, Miss House.” He grumbled.
I didn’t care that his little feelings got stepped on, or that his understanding got messed up. Hopefully, he would finally learn the lesson.
I continued to move through the Juneteenth party. DaMonte threw the party every year, even before it became popular to do so, because he was from Texas. Every black person knew that it was a holiday down there, way before the rest of the country caught on. I appreciated the opportunity to acknowledge such an important part of African American history. However, I also found it cringe-worthy watching his wife at the event. I wasn’t sure if it was her guilt or what, but every year, she ran around her own backyard trying to be everything to everybody.
I retook my seat on a cushioned bench right next to my best friend and former college roommate, Kelcie Woodson.
“Ugh, I wish Sylvie would sit down somewhere.” Kelcie whispered in my ear. “It’s so uncomfortable watching her stooping and bowing to everyone.”
“I know. If she starts saying ‘yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am,’ I’m leaving. I already had to threaten to report her ugly husband to True.”
