Her Wiki page is paltry, a bare-bones rundown of an eleven year acting career–mere vital statics.
Born July 12, 1969 in Brooklyn, New York.
Years active: 1991 – 2002
There are brief notes on her acting credits, fewer notes on her early life, and not much else under the heading Personal life. References link to five web pages (one no longer active), but none of the sites offer new insight. One comes close–a Clutch Magazine article from 2009–in that it tried to unearth the reasons behind her tailspin from fame, but the article dovetailed into a larger–and worthwhile–discussion on mental illness. Also, Essence interviewed her in 2009; if youâ€™re looking for answers, the profile will leave you wanting.
I feared her tits. In dreams, they remained ensnared behind a bra or a thin white tee-shirt, nipples unfurled and hardened, but secretive still. Could I handle them? Would the sight of her tits trigger an instant orgasm, premature though–I imagined–satisfying all the same? And if I came, would she insist that I angle the spray toward her tits? Up here, beautiful boy.
These things confounded me, short-circuited my teenage brain, so I focused on that which I mastered, a realm where I swelled with confidence. The kiss–each of our kisses was the first kiss: butterflies hatched within the stomach; exploratory hands; the stare-down seconds before the lean-in like Yep, weâ€™re about to do what we came here to do; virginal and anticipatory; addictive; the source of all infidelity, more so than tits and ass and dick.
Itâ€™s the first kiss we long for when we stray or dream; relationships and marriages could thrive, survive and enthrall all parties if we could freeze-frame the first kiss, loop it and lop off the days and years and subsequent kisses ever-after. The first kiss predates facts; the first kiss is splendid fiction.
I first saw her in Devil In A Blue Dress when her character fucked Denzelâ€™s character or–I should say–when Denzelâ€™s character kept hitting her characterâ€™s spot. I noticed her lips, then her tits, but years later I doubled back to the movie and was drawn to her eyes. Big and brown, vibrant and wide, seductive, troublesome: her eyes could pierce the veil of a faithful manâ€™s vows, make him question things, give him pause.
Something in the way she stared into the camera. Not a porno stare: screwed face with a mouth shaped into an Oh God. No, her eyes were genuinely disconcerting. Slow blinks followed by a smile–another slow blink–and a heavy, heaving sigh: her eyes called out for help, but cleaved away the reasons and tucked them into her heart.
Same deal for Love Jones, Eveâ€™s Bayou and the few Ally McBeal episodes I could stomach. No matter the movie or show, photo op or magazine spread, her eyes said help me and I had no idea why. Then, suddenly, she disappeared from public view.
Rumors abound in regards to her problems: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, drug addiction–all three, perhaps. Admittedly, I refuse to prowl the Internet and news clippings for shards of the truth, for facts. I just remember the beautiful black woman who was, by all accounts, a mediocre actress. Was she pigeonholed? Not exactly.
It was happening, however; I could see her becoming the go-to black sassy girlfriend sidekick to pale, thinner heroines. Maybe it no longer matters. Something happened ten years ago, more or less, which derailed her career. More importantly, something derailed her. Those eyes. I wonder if they saw it coming, if they could find the words to name and describe it. I wonder.
Thereâ€™s this notion that crazy women are the best in bed. Iâ€™m in agreement with Dave Chappelle: the crazy label is dismissive and a tad myopic. In my head, I often call a few women in my past crazy; of course, their insanities–so to speak–always led back to man: an abusive husband, an unloving father, a cousin with roaming hands.
Craziness or eccentricity or odd proclivities rarely occur in a vacuum; few people lose their minds without provocation and I keep going back to her eyes. I want to know. I wonder if sheâ€™d tell me, if–after fucking my brains out in bed–sheâ€™d sigh and linger, trill her fingers up my back or chest, and share the facts–tell me why her eyes are tea-colored pleas–say This is my story; please stay and listen; please–donâ€™t leave me.
I wonder because my imagination matured over the years. In dreams, I linger to let her linger, to open a portal for her should she choose to enter; I wait for her to converse. That is my flaw, I think. I want to know; I want to play with fire. Knowledge burns through seemingly fortified walls and hiding places; people are revealed amid revelations and sometimes, a conversation is akin to the first kiss.
Secrets shared while fingers spread open souls to probe, and hit, the spot. I am a mere admirer from afar, still a teenager in some ways–always–but I wonder if she has someone by her side, listening, waiting nervously, giving him or herself to the enigmatic goddess of lust, offering themselves to receive her splendid fiction.