Love on the Dotted Line : A Novel

Labeled by the press and his many fans as "The People's Playwright," David E. Talbert has written, directed, and produced eleven blockbuster stage plays that have broken box-office attendance records from New York to Los Angeles. His critically acclaimed stage plays include: Mr. Right Now; His Woman, His Wife; He Say, She Say ... But What Does God Say?; The Fabric of a Man; and Love Makes Things Happen. He is the author of Baggage Claim, and lives in Los Angeles with his wife, actress Lyn Talbert.

One 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 goo