The Forbidden Secrets of the Goody Box: Relationship advice that your father didn't tell you and your mother didn't know

By Valerie J Lewis Coleman

The Forbidden Secrets of the Goody Box
What your father didn't tell you and your mother didn't know

Successful. Beautiful. Intelligent. Yet a satisfying relationship eludes Debra Hampton. At thirty-five years old, she can’t figure out why her philosophy on men—and what they want from women—isn’t working. She’s trapped in a cycle of shattered relationships, until a friend refers her to a relationship guru. After some resistance, Debra finds refuge in his counsel as he helps her navigate through the storms of rejection and failed love. Once he reveals the error of her ways, will Debra master the forbidden secrets to attract her soul mate or continue to keep love at bay?
All eyes are on you as you make slow orchestrated steps toward the altar. The splendor of your tailored gown is magnified by the beaded embellishments. Your hair and makeup; perfect. The eloquently arrayed bouquet of fresh-cut flowers bombards your senses. For a brief moment, you stop, close your eyes, inhale the fragrance. The pianist seems to stroke the keys in sync with your racing heart. You open your eyes and gaze down the aisle to see the groom poised, ready to meet his bride. A full smile washes across your face, steadies your breathing. As you walk toward him, acknowledging each friend and family member with a glance, slight grin and head nod, you whisper a prayer to the Lord.

“Father, I thank You for this beautiful day. Everything is coming together as planned; even the weather is perfect. I ask Your grace upon this union that it may flourish. I have one question: When will it be my turn as bride? I’m happy for my girl, but... I’m tired of being alone, crying myself to sleep. Smiling at every man I meet, hoping; praying that he’s the one. I love my nieces and nephews, but I’m ready to be a mother. The official has shot the gun to start the foot race and I’m stuck in the blocks watching my girlfriends run ahead with husbands in tow. Why am I still single? What is it about me that keeps me on this side of matrimony?”

Limousines, receiving lines and head tables! Phooey!
Had enough of being a hostess, bridesmaid or maid of honor?

Let me be bold, blunt and to-the-point on something most men would never dare tell a woman: you have more power to have men eating out of the palm of your hand than you realize. However, when it boils down to it either you know The Forbidden SECRETS of the Goody Box or you don't. And most women don't have a clue as to how to utilize the power they already posses. If that describes you, then don't worry because it's not your fault! You've just never been taught the TRUTH about what men really CRAVE in a woman and it requires VERY LITTLE EFFORT on your part!

Now I have some good news and some bad news. First, the bad news: What I'm going to unveil in my new Why He Left You for Her Workshop will make a lot of the wrong kind of men VERY upset! The good news: They are going to be upset because I will peel back the curtain and reveal to YOU all of the SECRETS you were never given about men.

You will discover:

Three things that lead you to make terrible relationship decisions
Every man’s private marriage checklist
A simple two-letter word that makes him want to pop the question
Why he just won’t propose
Little signs that tell you he’s the one
Advice from men you’d be crazy not to take

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie J Lewis Coleman
• Release date: Aug 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9780978606664

Valerie J Lewis Coleman

Valerie J. Lewis Coleman has helped women find relational fulfillment by identifying the four types of male hunters, avoiding seventy percent of men who only want the goody box and winning the heart of Mr. Right-For-You. She explains how she overcame struggles and offers proven techniques to help you get off the crazy cycle of relational demise in her novel The Forbidden Secrets of the Goody Box! TheGoodyBoxBook.comAs a bestselling author and award-winning publisher, Valerie has helped aspiring authors from across the world navigate the challenges of self-publishing. With over ten years of experience in the book business, this expert divulges industry secrets on avoiding the top five mistakes made by new authors, pricing your book to sell and identifying dishonest publishers. Her dynamic presentation and knowledge of the business takes writers from pen to paper to published as they master self-publishing to make money! PenOfTheWriter.com | QueenVPublishing.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

For the Love of Vincent

Sunday-morning service stirred Debra Hampton’s heart. The poignant message convinced her to resolve a matter that had her torn for almost a year. She had been undecided about whether to marry her live-in boyfriend, Vincent. He didn’t share her religious beliefs and refused to go with her to church, but she knew that he was the best man for her. He laughed at her silly antics, talked with her about her ambitions and encouraged her to greatness. He made her the focal point of his life and involved her in every decision no matter how minute. But it was his touch that held her hostage, kept her toying with God’s love by giving herself to a man who was not her husband.

With her head bowed to hide the free-flowing tears, she exited the church without speaking to anyone. She sat in her Mercedes S550, took a moment to freshen her makeup, expelled a sigh of relief. She looked to Heaven through the panorama sunroof, smiled, closed her eyes, gave thanks. The decision to accept Vincent’s proposal resonated; filled her with peace as she trusted the Lord with her soul mate.

The thirty-minute drive from the inner-city church to her suburban home gave her ample time to reflect upon the life they would build together: three children, business partnership and unlimited mind-blowing sex. The rush of blood to her southern bell—the name her mother called her vagina when she was a child—gave her pause. Fortunately, she was stopped at a red light. She clicked through the Sirius Satellite stations and then opted to enjoy tunes Vincent had downloaded to her iPod a few nights prior.

As she turned into Creekwood Estates—a lavish community north of Dayton—she admired the mansion-sized homes set hundreds of feet from the street. Manicured lawns featured rows of exotic trees, shrubbery and blooming flowers. Cobblestone driveways boasted luxury cars and backyards had customized gym sets or in-ground pools.

Her stucco and brick palatial home was small in comparison to those of her neighbors, but it was big enough for her family-to-be. She loved the side-entry, three-car garage because it camouflaged the unpacked moving boxes from passersby. She parked in the usual spot—closest to the mudroom door—and then she smiled wide. He’s home.

Debra grabbed her purse and Bible and then jaunted into the house. She placed her belongings on the granite countertop, careful not to make noise. Since the television wasn’t locked on a sporting event, Vincent had to be resting in the master suite. A 3,500-square-foot home and he preferred the family room and bedroom.

She slipped off her stilettos, tiptoed up the stairs. Her heart beat faster with each step. She wiped her palms together to dry the sweaty moisture, pressed her ear to the door. His subtle snores seeped through. She giggled and then covered her mouth to halt the escape of more laughter.

She opened the door, peeked in, swung it wide. Vincent! What the devil?

Debra, what are you doing here? After a quick dismount, he rummaged the floor for his Fruit of the Looms. When’d you get home?

"Who is this woman and why is she in my bed? She ran to the side of the bed, towered over her betrayer. Breath stalled in her throat, eyes widened. Catherine!"

Catherine—the first person to welcome Debra to the neighborhood—reached for her clothes, scurried to dress.

Debra lunged at her, snatched her by the ponytail, drew back her fist. Just as she connected with Catherine’s right jaw, Vincent grabbed Debra around the waist, pulled her away. She flailed her arms, kicked at his shins, head-butted him in the mouth. When he released her, she pursued Catherine who was halfway down the stairs, underwear in tow.

Debra leapt from the top stair, using Catherine as a landing pad. Spewing expletives, she pummeled her in the back of the head, until Vincent pulled her off.

He tightened his grip on Debra’s arms, spun her around to look him in the eyes. Stop it! A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

"I cannot believe you had that female up in my house. The same channels that had released tears of joy now flooded her face in sadness. Vincent, how could you?" She watched Catherine sprint through the backyard; battered, bruised and butt-naked.

I tried to tell you, but—

You tried to tell me what? The last thing I knew, you were looking for an engagement ring.

I was…for Catherine.

Debra’s head danced like a bobble-head doll, her vision blurred. Her body quivered and then went slack as she collapsed in Vincent’s arms.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few minutes later, Debra awoke on the family-room couch. She picked up the note that set on the table.

Debra,

I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I’ll be back to get my things. I love you, but not enough to make you my wife.

Vincent

As she let the note float to the floor, the back door opened and then closed. The man whom she was willing to love forever had tiptoed out of the house and driven out of her life.

The agony of unreciprocated love left Debra in despair. Virtual restrainers confined her to the bedroom—the viaduct of deceit. She cried until her body heaved and the reservoir of tears was empty.

Chapter 2

Wallow

Depression infiltrated Debra and she withdrew into an abyss of desolation. She called off from work using a flare-up of Crohn’s disease as the reason. Given that her body responded with similar symptoms—loss of appetite, abdominal cramps, fatigue and diarrhea—she resolved that it was a legitimate excuse for at least a week of sick days.

Unable to lie on the bed stained with the passion of another, she walked through the French doors that separated the bedroom from the sitting room: her Me Time room. On chilly nights, she’d cozy up in the oversized chair next to the crackling fireplace, sip on hot chocolate and admire the wooded backyard through the picture window. On occasion, deer emerged to nibble on bark.

Debra rested on the chair and would have slept away her sorrows but for the fact that memories of Vincent invaded her dreams. When she tired of the torment, she forced herself to walk past the bed to the walk-in closet. She changed out of her church clothes into black satin pajamas. The soft material alleviated the itchy sensation that spread across her arms and legs like poison ivy on a scantily dressed trail hiker: a side effect of stress.

As she stood in the closet, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She rationalized that her actions caused this life disruption. Why did I come home early? My life would be so much easier. She bowed her head, released a sigh from the depths of her belly, cried.

She wiped the tears with the back of her hand and noticed Vincent’s dress shirts—pressed with light starch—hanging on wooden hangers. She stared at the array of shirts, most of which she had purchased. She caressed her face with each shirt, inhaled hoping to get a whiff of his scent: Dolce & Gabbana. She slid her size-six feet into his favorite dress shoes and then reached for a necktie. When she contemplated using it as a noose to dangle strange fruit from the loft balcony, she fell to the floor. After a minute or so of unbridled tantrum, she sat up, pulled her knees to her chest, rocked back-and-forth, side-to-side. The movement lulled her into a brief nap.

Having relaxed the tension in her neck, her head jerked and startled her awake. She left the comfort of the closet floor only to be assaulted by a recall of Vincent and Catherine. Unwilling to revisit the experience with each glance of the bed, she made the arduous trek to the family room. She grabbed the trashcan from the powder room in case her dry heaves manifested into something more than mini-convulsions and then positioned herself on the couch.

She skimmed through the channels, but didn’t see anything to complement her melancholy mood so she let reruns on the Lifetime channel keep watch over her.

Debra alternated between bouts of nightmarish sleep, crying and reminiscing. She recalled Vincent’s attentiveness. He loved to cook. He often had dinner prepared and the table set when she walked in the door. And on those days when the demands of the job overwhelmed her, he massaged her feet, caressed her hands, made love to her.

In return for his passion, she upgraded him. Lavished him with expensive gifts, exposed him to exclusive restaurants, fine arts and music. He often traveled with her on business trips and enjoyed the lifestyle of the rich and famous at the expense of her clients: first-class airfare when private jets weren’t available, five-star hotels, limousine service and meals by world-renowned chefs. While Debra prepared for trial, Vincent spent her money on clothes, cologne and probably Catherine.

Instead of bringing her a semblance of peace, the memories served only as weapons of destruction. How could he love her the way she wanted and needed to be loved, yet give his heart to another? Why wasn’t her love enough? What could she have done differently? Where did she fall short?

When the house phone rang, Debra let it roll over to voicemail. She turned off her cell, disconnected her laptop. Like a tree planted by the water, Debra took root on that couch and left only to relieve her bladder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Debra was startled by the rattle of the garage door opening.

Oh, no. Vincent is coming to get the rest of his things. She sat up on the couch, contemplated hiding and then decided to stay and fight for her man.

A loud, female voice echoed from the kitchen. Ms. Dee! Where are you?

Debra rolled her eyes, slumped on the couch. In here. Why didn’t I change the code on that garage door?

Her girlfriends, Rachel and Sherry, bounded into the room like they were on a reconnaissance mission. The trio met in college during freshmen orientation and melded instantly. Each had aspirations to graduate, travel the world and then settle into the traditional roles of wife and mother, but only Rachel had succeeded in fulfilling all of the objectives. She met her husband, Brian, at a Greek event on campus. The statuesque pair resembled models from Ebony Fashion Fair. They married a few years after graduation and their wedding photo was featured in Jet. Brian’s romantic gestures and Rachel’s nurturing ways inspired Debra to believe that true love is attainable. In contrast, the couple’s compatibility sickened her because it reminded her of her unfinished business—mid-thirties, single and no hopeful prospects—a torturous type of purgatory for a project-oriented person.

Sherry was the conservative one in the group. Frivolous spending during her college tenure left her with lots of credit-card debt and student loans. Although she paid off the debt years ago, she committed to never live beyond her means. She survived off half her net pay and banked the rest. Her modestly furnished one-bedroom apartment was within the city limits. Her used 2002 Monte Carlo was reliable and paid in full. She shopped for clothes twice a year, buying quality versus trendy. Makeup and hair-care products were purchased from Wal-Mart. She became an expert do-it-yourselfer from changing a flat tire to fixing a leaky toilet to doing her own hair which she set in tight curls. She washed and set her hair Saturday nights and then slept with the rollers to have full locks for Sunday. She combed her hair by running her fingers through it—oftentimes the parts from rolling her hair were still visible. The remainder of the first week following a shampoo, she slept in a satin bonnet and styled her hair using the same finger-comb technique. Week two, she combed and wrapped her hair. The process gave her hair body that lasted until the next shampoo; not a complimentary look, but a cost-effective time saver.

Rachel walked to the customized drapes that shrouded the floor-to-ceiling window. Girl, if you don’t open the drapes and let in some sun. It looks like a cave in here.

A gurgle rattled in Debra’s throat. She shielded her face with her arms as if the light would singe her flesh.

Sherry pinched her nose. And it smells like one, too. She sniffed toward Debra. Is that you? She covered her mouth, gagged. That is so nasty.

Rachel hit Sherry on the shoulder. Have some compassion. This is tough on her.

With a hint of sarcasm, Sherry said, I know. Been in this place many times myself. Her tone mellowed. But coddling her is not the solution. She turned to Debra, rubbed her back. You have got to get out of this funk. You haven’t been to work in almost a we—

Debra grabbed her stomach. It’s these cramps.

Uh huh. As I was saying, you look awful, smell worse.

Is this your way of making her feel better?

Is what she’s doing now going to make her feel better? Look at her. She pointed to Debra as if she were a freak at a side-show carnival. Her dark, puffy eyes look like a football player with that black stuff on his face. Sherry tried to comb her fingers through Debra’s coal-black hair which cascaded mid-way down her back: an attribute of her Cherokee heritage. Her hair is so matted, my hand is stuck. Tell me that’s okay with you and I’ll let it go. She cocked her head to the right, waited for Rachel’s response. Her acne has flared up and don’t tell me that you are not offended by how she smells. That is a-w-f-u-l!

Debra rolled over on the couch, turned her back to her friends.

See what you did, Rachel snapped, as she rubbed Debra’s arm. We are supposed to be consoling her.

I am not an enabler. She tugged on Debra’s arm. Come on, girl. It’s time to shake this off.

Debra jerked away. Leave me alone.

Can’t do that. I love you too much to let you let Vincent get the best of you.

Like a ventriloquist, Rachel’s lips barely moved as she said, You are not supposed to say his name. She punched Sherry.

Sherry cut her eyes at Rachel. That was your last pass. One more punch and it’s going to go all wrong up in here. She grabbed Debra’s arm. With each mention of the assailant, she tried to pull Debra off the couch. "Vincent is not worth it. Vincent can go back to the hole he crawled out of. Vincent is going to regret the day he played you. Vin—"

Debra looked up at Sherry, tears brimmed her eyes. Why are you being so mean to me?

You’re not going to be able to avoid him or his name.

Rachel started to punch Sherry, but then remembered the promise, withdrew her hand. So you’re going to beat her over the head with his name to desensitize her?

If that’s what you want to call it. We run in the same circles. She’s going to cross paths with Vincent, she tugged on Debra. And I don’t want her to crumble when she does. It’s time to gird up her loins for warfare.

Oh, Lord. You’re pushing her to fight mode and she’s still in the oh-woe-is-me phase. Give her time to recover.

And how long is that? Another couple of weeks? By then she’ll have lost her job, her mind and her hair. I’m not trying to make her suppress the pain, just work through it. She can’t stop living because Vincent is a self-absorbed, good-for-nothing, high-paid gigolo who skeeted and screeched! She snatched Debra off the couch, stared into her eyes. Now, we are going upstairs so that you can take a bath; a very long bath. Do you need me to put you in the tub or can you do it yourself?

A tear trickled down Debra’s cheek, she expelled a deep sigh. I can do it.

Very good. Sherry commended her like a schoolmarm with a pre-schooler and patted her on the head.

Debra shrugged, lowered her head and then turned toward the stairs. Sherry walked behind her.

I said that I can do it myself.

And I know that you can. I’m just coming for moral support. She smiled. I want to hear the Jacuzzi running. You need to let that water work its way into every nook and cranny.

Debra walked into the master suite. She paused, looked at the king-sized bed that clung to the evidence of the exchange of bodily fluids.

Sherry said, How about we buy a new mattress set and sheets?

That would be nice. With slow, somber steps, she entered the bathroom.

Sherry brushed past Debra, turned up her nose. She started the