Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David E. Talbert is a five-time NAACP Award-winning playwright, filmmaker, and bestselling author. David made his film directorial debut with Sony Pictures’ First Sunday, which opened as the #1 comedy in America. David’s hit plays and novels include Love on the Dotted Line, What My Husband Doesn’t Know, The Fabric of a Man, and Love in the Nick of Tyme. David lives in Los Angeles with his wife Lyn, and newborn son, Elias. Visit his website at DavidETalbert.com.

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Love on the Dotted Line

Touchstone

Sex to Marcus was like eating a plate of ribs on the Fourth of July weekend. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty or his face messy. As a matter of fact, he preferred it that way. He was a sop-up-the-gravy-with-a-biscuit kind of man. An eat-two-helpings-and-come-back-for-two-more kind of man. A damn-a-towel, I'm-a-wipe-my-mouth-with-the-back-of-my-hand kind of man. This morning I was his barbecue. And the only thing missing would be that one slice of white Wonder bread and a tall glass of red Kool-Aid.

Buzzzzzzzzzzz!

I changed my position under the warm duvet, like routine, trying to catch a peek of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, which through my tired eyes resembled a ribbon floating in the sky. The view from Marcus's third-story loft apartment in Penn's Landing was the next best thing to waking up to him each morning. The sun reflecting on the Delaware River through his large bay window and his Persian-style interior could almost make you forget you were in the heart of downtown Philadelphia.

In an almost unconscious state Marcus's elongated fingers tapped the alarm's snooze button and under the covers he went. He started at my ankles, licking them ever so gently. Slowly working his way up my calf, over my kneecap, and along the inside of my thighs, where an uncontrollable moan seeped from my lips...aaaaaaah.

Marcus was the kind of man that could keep you in the bed all the livelong day. Damn your job, your career, or whatever your life goals were. After a few nights with Marcus, your only aspiration was waking up next to his ass. Hearing the sound of the covers rustling, watching the imprint of his bald head slowly going lower and lower and...aaaaaaah. Another moan eased through my tightly clutched bottom lip. He was there again. Handling his business again. At the same bat place, same bat time, hitting that same bat spot again.

Buzzzzzzzz!

Again Marcus tapped the alarm as the swooshing sound of the sheets silhouetted his sculpted frame. He was in full stride now. He was good, getting to better, getting to best. He was a man of ambition, always seeking higher heights and deeper depths and...aaaaaah.

The alarm rang again. And then again and again until one long, drawn-out sigh signaled that I had ascended to heaven, whispered to the angels, and touched the hand of God.

Buzzzzzzzz!

Marcus and I met at a fund-raiser dinner for former city councilman-turned-Philadelphia mayor Clarence Amos. Marcus was there representing his investment firm, Strauss & Landing Capital Management, one of Philly's best, and presented a $50,000 check toward a scholarship fund. To me any man waving a check for $50,000 was worth some further investigation. I managed to negotiate an introduction from a mutual friend. After just a few minutes of conversation his charm overpowered his check. Marcus and I spent the better part of the evening huddled in a corner talking about everything from parties to politics. We were almost instantly inseparable. Except for his work-related nighttime social engagements and my seemingly round-the-clock trials and arbitration, we were almost never apart.

"So, my Mona Lisa, is there any better way to start your day?" he asked with a kiss. I love when he calls me that. Mona Lisa is a li'l nickname he gave me the first morning I woke up next to him. He said waking up to my smile the next morning was picture perfect. He refused to call me Mo like everyone else. He's too original for that. And besides, it was more than a nickname he had given; it was a symbol of security. A sign of sincerity.

"Not that I can think of," I whispered, returning a kiss from his still-moistened lips.

Marcus's six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch frame and my five-foot-six-and-three-quarters body fit together as perfectly as a pair of lambskin gloves. My head lay comfortably in the small of his chest in that good space between his right pec and shoulder bone. Most men give good sex, but Marcus gave good love.

Buzzzz!

Marcus leapt from the bed and glided his chocolate, chiseled, naked body to the shower for his routine ten minutes of morning exhilaration.

Still tingling with sensation, I caught a glimpse of my own cocoa brown body peeking halfway out of the covers in his cheval mirror. My freshly permed shoulder-length flip was in disarray. But I quickly adapted to that morning look, seeing that Marcus and his rhythmic stroke was the reasoning behind it. Even my haven't-been-to-the-gym-in-a-minute slight pudge didn't bother me as much as it used to. I knew he liked a shapely woman. From my thick legs to my voluptuous breasts, my overall size eight physique was to his delight. And he indulgently substantiated that over and over again.

From the corner of my eye I noticed the luscious bouquet of pink and white roses in a crystal bud vase sitting next to the clock. I sat up and reached over to read the attached note:

With the wisdom of a woman twice your age, and the body of a woman half your age, for you any age is a damn good age. I planned dinner for two tonight at our favorite restaurant.

Love,

Marcus

(The man whose bed you're sleeping in.)

It was just like Marcus to remember even when I thought he'd forgotten. Especially since this is the first birthday since we've been together. But that's what made him perfect. Perfect in the sense that he was present. He was attentive. Aware. Without me ever having to say what was wrong, he just listened. Even after a long day's work, he took the time to listen. Even when I was going off about this case or that case, he just sat there and listened. And that mattered. A lot. For me, it just didn't get any better than that.

We were the perfect couple -- he's now an investment banker at one of the largest private banks in the city. Responsible for close to a quarter of a billion dollars' worth of investment portfolios, stocks, bonds, and mutual funds. I'm not supposed to know the names of his clients, but he can barely keep a secret. At least, not one from me. His life was an open book. No hidden agendas. No double lives or split personalities. What you saw was what you got. And even if Marcus had some type of covert scheme lurking, it wouldn't be long before I'd uncover it. It's not often something or someone gets past my radar. Like most women, I have the innate ability to recognize and eradicate dirt from a mile away. Which is a good thing, considering my profession. I'm a contracts lawyer at Benson, Bartolli & Rush, one of the leading law firms in Philadelphia, and I spend all day every day dotting Is, crossing Ts, finding and filling the loopholes.

So we were both pretty anal all day, so in each other we looked forward to impromptu moments of romance. And if nothing else, an unconscionable supply of trashy, tribal sex.

Vroooooooooom.

From inside my purse, I could hear my cell phone vibrating out of control. I slid out of Marcus's massive four-poster bed and quickly tiptoed over to the dresser, trying to make as little contact as I could with the freezing hardwood floor. I smiled while answering, already sure of who was lingering on the other end.

"Guess where I was thirty-four years ago?"

I knew it. It was my mother. Every year on my birthday, she called me the exact...