Pandora's Box

by Allison Hobbs

  Without a word, and with minimal eye contact, she pointed the grinning ferret to the cot. She surveyed him and unfurled a condom.

  “What do they call you? Precious?” the truck driver asked with an unattractive, crooked smile.

  “Pleasure.”

  “You’re a pretty girl. Either one of those names fits you to a tee.”

  Shuddup and stop trying to be nice, she thought as she covered the condom with a generous amount of KY jelly. She straddled him, trying to avoid touching his rough thighs. A full body condom was what she needed.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he said, running a sandpaper hand over her shoulders. Victoria groaned, then pushed down on the lubricated condom, careful not to permit his knotted pubic hair to brush against her own neatly-trimmed pubis.

  She bounced up and down mechanically, and after only a few seconds, the man cried out. “Ugh!” It was a mournful sound. Wearing the doomed expression of a drowning man, he reached out and fondled her breasts. Victoria looked at his callused hands scornfully, then smiled when she felt his shudder, a prelude to his orgasmic moan. Hallelujah!

  The man redressed quickly. “Thank you, Precious,” he said. Victoria didn’t bother to correct him. He reached for her hand, and she pulled away. But he was quick. Quite unexpectedly, the truck driver forced money into her balled fist.

  “Thank you, so much, Precious,” he repeated, his rheumy eyes filled with warmth.

  Victoria couldn’t bear it. She’d treated him so shabbily; she didn’t deserve a tip. She thanked him, and stuffed the bills in her purse, too embarrassed to look at the amount.

  After he left, she peeked inside, and was shocked to discover that he’d given her an extra two hundred dollars, more than she’d ever been tipped. She felt so ashamed. Then she reminded herself that nice or not, the man had a lot of nerve coming there expecting to copulate without even bothering to take a decent shower. Hmph. She deserved that extra money. The truck driver had made a pit stop at Pandora’s with the same urgency of someone pulling over to make a restroom stop.

  Still, Victoria was disgusted with herself. The things she put up with for money. It was downright revolting. Her poor Nana must be turning over in her grave.

  But those self-deprecating thoughts retreated to the corners of her mind the instant she heard the peal of the bell.

  CHAPTER 16

  Muhammad looked distinguished and somewhat afro-centric in a black cashmere coat and black and bronze kufi. He gazed at the women—studied them, as he stroked his chin. His eyes, resting on Milan’s breasts, grew wide. But under the glare of three ready-to-be indignant black women, he shifted his gaze to Victoria, selecting her with a confident nod.

  It was now four-thirty in the morning; Victoria felt fatigued. Working two shifts was grueling. Still, she couldn’t have been more pleased to do business with the well-groomed gentleman. He was a godsend after the grungy little truck driver, and a tip from him would give her the rest of the money she needed toward the down payment on the car.

  He undressed, and placed his kofi on top of his clothing. Victoria was surprised that the kufi concealed a balding head—a rather misshapen head, at that. Instead of holding onto the remaining tufts of hair, he should have shaved it all off, and gone completely bald. It would have given him more dignity.

  “Why don’t you join me?” He patted the cot he lounged upon, lowering his eyes seductively. Victoria thought the gesture looked a tad feminine.

  “Would you like a massage with oil?” she asked, sitting down next to him.

  “No, let’s not waste time with preliminaries.”

  Victoria nodded. She didn’t feel like giving him a rubdown, anyway. In fact, she didn’t feel like doing anything. If she had it her way, she’d just extend her hand, take his money, thank him kindly, and bid him a fond adieu.

  Muhammad inched closer; he ran his fingers through her braids. “I chose you because you had that look.”

  “What look?” she asked, suddenly interested. She could use an ego boost.

  “The look of a freak who can get real down and dirty!”

  She gagged, and then gasped in shock, fingers fluttering to her heart. “Moi?” How could he think such a thing? Compared to her sleazy cohorts, she should have appeared innocent and untouched—a virgin, for Chrissakes. What had made him decide that she was his best bet for a down and dirty deed? And God only knew what that might be.

  Unfazed by her incoherent protests, Muhammad continued, “Yeah, I like a woman to give me all her nasty stuff…”

  Her what? Instead of running toward the door, Victoria opted to give this seemingly normal sick-o, the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was only kidding, making awkward small talk. Besides, she had already counted the guaranteed fifty and was flirting with the idea of getting a hundred-dollar tip. Greed was a terrible thing! She decided to hear him out, hoping that he was actually in the market to purchase normal, old-fashioned, missionary position sex. Maybe he had to rely on filthy, perverted dialogue to get it up.

  “So, what do you have for me?” Muhammad ran his fingers up and down the front of Victoria’s beaded G-string. She noticed with a twinge of irritation that his nails, which were too long, shimmered from several coats of clear polish. Unwelcome thoughts of Justice Martin and his glossy nails crowded her mind, filling her with sudden rage, which she directed toward the customer as she roughly pushed his hand away. She could just see the precious beads flying every which way, if Muhammad snagged them with his long, stupid nails.

  “Do you have something for me?” Muhammad asked, his voice softly seductive.

  “What are you talking about? What am I supposed to have?” It was late; she was tired. What a jerk Muhammad was turning out to be. Why didn’t he just get to the point?

  In the same sexy voice, Muhammad said, “I was hoping you might have a little pee-pee for me.”

  Silently, Victoria screamed obscenities. She wanted to pummel him with her fists, scratch out his eyes, and kick him in the balls. But she was too weary. Drained.

  “I’m not into that,” she said finally, and without emotion. “You can have your money back, or I can send someone else in.”

  “No problem,” he said, shrugging. “Look, I tried to look out for you…tried to give a sistah some play. I should have known better. Black women have so many hang-ups…so inhibited. Then you wonder why brothas cross over.”

  Victoria stared at Muhammad. She could think of a million retorts for the pervert, but it was pointless to debate the issue, her loud sigh would have to suffice. “Do you want your money back or not?”

  “No. Send in the white girl. The one with the big…” He made a lewd gesture in front of his chest. Victoria sucked her teeth.

  On her way back to the lounge, after informing Rover that the customer wanted to switch to Milan, the door to the middle session room opened.

  Victoria froze. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp. Dominique stood in the doorway; her nude body glistened from oil. She was strapped with a monstrous black dildo that was also slathered with oil.

  “Hey, Pleasure, you wanna make a quick fifty bucks?”

  “Doing what?” Victoria asked, appalled.

  “Nothing. Just watch me work this mothafucka.” Dominique opened the door wider, revealing the unfortunate man inside the room. He was on his hands and knees.

  “He was talkin’ a lotta shit a few minutes ago, so I had to whoop his ass. Come on in, let me show you how to train a dog.”

  Victoria hesitated briefly, then decided that getting paid to watch Dominique working her craft was more appealing than being in the presence of someone who wanted to ingest urine.

  “He’s being a good doggy now, ain’tcha boy,” Dominique said, patting the man’s head. The customer imitated a whimpering dog and nuzzled Dominique’s hand. “Good boy, that’s my good boy,” she cooed.

  Victoria was fascinated. She’d never observed an S&M session. She supposed that Muhammad’s request could be viewed
as S&M, but his desires were beyond her capabilities; she was not into playing any games that involved body fluids. Not her own, and certainly not anyone else’s.

  “Come on boy, turn around. I know you want it doggy-style.”

  The customer turned quickly on all fours, and impatiently wagged an imaginary tail.

  “Oh hell no!” Dominique said, pushing the man away. “I don’t give up the dick that easy. You got to show me what a good dog does.”

  The man quickly turned around and scampered toward her. Dominique forced the dildo into his mouth. The man made a choking sound, his eyes watered as he tried to pull away. “What the fuck! Are you refusing to suck my dick? Huh?” She kicked him in his side. He yelped, and scrambled to a corner.

  “Get over here, goddamit,” Dominique ordered. The customer didn’t budge.

  “You better obey me, you fuckin’ mutt.” Dominique advanced toward the man, slowly. She grabbed a hank of his stringy brown hair and pulled him out of the corner. With an oil-slick finger, she parted his lips. Once again, Dominique forced the dildo inside his mouth. He slurped and gagged as she cursed him with every thrust.

  The novelty of the act began to wear off. Victoria shifted her position and checked the time. Sensing Victoria’s waning interest, Dominique launched into the next phase of the exhibition. “Get the money, you mangy dog.” There was a glazed-over look in her eyes. “Get the fuckin’ money before I choke your ass.” She jammed the device in deeper.

  The customer began heaving, his eyes wild. “Don’t you throw up, you bastard. Throw up and I’m gonna make you lick up every drop! Now go get the fuckin’ money!”

  He scooted across the room, naked and on all fours, then with his teeth, he retrieved a fifty-dollar bill from beneath a pile of clothes on the floor. Crawling, he brought the money to Victoria. Self-consciously, she accepted the money.

  At the end of the tawdry session, Victoria rushed from the room, feeling diminished for having viewed such depravity. Dominique, she concluded, was as sick as the poor customer.

  The other girls often laughed about the weird things that some men requested, and Victoria had the impression that most of the girls onlypretended to dispense punishment. Not Dominique. She wasn’t pretending; the deranged woman was completely involved.

  CHAPTER 17

  By the end of February, Victoria had given in and accepted the friendship Jonee (whose real name was actually Jonee) extended. Being with Jonee was fun, in certain settings. But Victoria regarded the friendship, like her new profession, as only temporary. She doubted that she’d ever stop feeling embarrassed by Jonee’s garish attire, and her limited worldview.

  One wintry evening, the two women made an impromptu decision to get away to a warm, sunny locale. Her utility bills were paid up-to-date, and she had saved enough to find a new place, and only needed a little more to make a down payment on a car, but the payment agreement she’d worked out for the huge recording debt would keep her at Pandora’s a little longer than she’d planned. She deserved a vacation; she needed to get away. Plus, taking a vacation would distract her from constantly thinking about Kareem, who, despite their magical, practically spiritual sexual encounter, had never returned.

  “Let’s go to the Jamaica,” Victoria suggested.

  “Okay, Mon. No problem,” Jonee said, and laughed.

  Victoria laughed with her, and then stopped abruptly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was thinking about Jordan. I’ll feel guilty leaving him with his sitter while I’m having a ball in Jamaica.” Victoria paused, in thought. “I know…why don’t we take our kids with us?”

  “I can’t take Alec out of school.”

  “Isn’t spring break coming up soon?”

  “Not until next month. The end of next month.”

  “Okay, let’s put the trip off until spring break. Instead of Jamaica, we should take the kids to Disney World.”

  “Disney World!” Jonee squealed. “Now that’s whassup! I’ve never been to Disney World, and I’m not waiting for no spring break. Alec’s a good student; he can afford to miss some time.”

  The night before their five-day trip to Orlando, Victoria agonized, hoping that for once Jonee would relax and dress down. Victoria mentioned pointedly that she planned to free herself of beauty rituals during their vacation. No makeup, no fancy hairstyles, or flashy clothes. She hoped Jonee would take the hint, and tone down her look.

  But no such luck. The next morning, Jonee showed up at the airport gussied up, face painted, and flinging a bright maroon weave that hung down her back. She was toting knock-off Louis Vuitton luggage; a matching duffel bag was slung over her shoulders.

  “Pleasure! Pleasure!” Jonee yelled when she spotted Victoria. She grabbed her son’s hand and rushed toward Victoria and Jordan.

  Victoria was mortified. Repeatedly, she had asked Jonee to refrain from using her alias while out in public or in front of Jordan.

  Jonee greeted Victoria with a bear hug. “I can’t believe we’re going to Disney World! I think I’m more excited than Alec.”

  Victoria fought the urge to fan her face. Jonee smelled like she’d taken a bath in the fake designer cologne that she wore at work. Jonee and most of their colleagues preferred the fake stuff, claiming they didn’t want to waste their good fragrances in a whorehouse. The faux cologne of choice was contained in an aerosol can, and the girls generously sprayed up and down the length of their bodies, fumigating the lounge. The strong scents, combined with cigarette smoke, often sent Victoria running out of the lounge, choking and gasping for breath.

  “Hi, Alec. This is my son, Jordan,” Victoria said, nudging Jordan forward. “Jordan, say hi to Alec.” The two boys mumbled, “Hi,” but clung to their mothers, shyly checking each other out.

  Long navy blue nails brushed strands of the maroon hair from her face. Jonee was either unaware or unconcerned that clumps of dried gel made it obvious that she or some jackleg beautician had tried to blend her badly-in-need-of-a-perm hair in with the straight, store-bought hair.

  In stark contrast, Jonee’s six-year-old son, Alec, was tastefully dressed in OshKosh. Alec, with his soft curls and creamy complexion, was obviously biracial. He was a well-mannered little guy, a first grader at a private school on the Parkway. Victoria couldn’t help wondering what the school staff thought when Jonee showed up looking like a floozy, dressed in one of her outlandish outfits.

  Jonee was an enigma. She strutted around like the last of the great hoochie mommas, without an ounce of good taste, yet she had the foresight to invest in her son’s education. Go figure!

  Victoria’s half of the trip was financed with a portion of the money she had intended to move with. On the appointed court date, the aging landlady sent a well-dressed attorney in her place, alleging that her failing health prevented her appearance.

  Victoria described the condition of her apartment and claimed that she had withheld the rent with the hope of forcing the owner to make the necessary repairs. A female judge listened sympathetically as Victoria rattled off a long list of problems: missing ceiling tiles, exposed pipes, doors off hinges, broken faucets, leaky pipes, no smoke detectors or fire extinguishers, and an inoperable oven. Appalled, the judge looked from the nattily-attired attorney to Victoria, who looked slightly unkempt. She hadn’t been able to find the time to sit through another agonizing eight-hour rebraiding and her hair was looking kind of rough. The judge demanded that the negligent owner make the necessary repairs.

  “That place is unsafe for anyone to inhabit, let alone a young child. Shame on your client,” the judge admonished. Looking over her glasses, she turned to Victoria. “Should the owner not comply in the future, be aware, young lady, that you are not to withhold rent without going through the proper channels. You are required to put the rent into an escrow account.”

  Blinded by the flaming Orlando sun, Victoria fumbled in her purse for a pair of sunglasses. Jonee’s designer sunglasses had been affixed to her face
since their departure from Philadelphia. The boys, excited by the change in climate, hastily discarded their winter gear before hopping into a waiting cab outside the terminal. According to the travel agent, the temperature in Orlando in February was expected to be in the high seventies. The high nineties seemed more accurate.

  There was plenty of room in the back with Victoria and the two boys, but Jonee slid in the front seat.

  “How ya doing, Pedro?” Jonee asked flirtatiously.

  The Hispanic cabbie smiled and said, “I’m fine, thank you.” The name Antonio DeJarnette was boldly printed on the identification card posted on the dashboard.

  “Boy, it’s hot! What’s the temperature today?” Victoria asked the cab driver.

  “High eighties,” he said, with a great deal of pride.

  As the cab glided along, Jonee squealed like a child, pointing to the palm trees lining International Drive. Jonee’s lack of sophistication usually embarrassed Victoria, especially when they were out in public. Once, while dining in Chinatown, Victoria shrank in her seat, mortified when Jonee gleefully screeched, “Ooh, look at that!” as the waiter, making careful steps, carried a flaming meal to patrons seated at a table nearby.

  But here in Orlando, Victoria wasn’t bothered at all, she was glad that Jonee was happy, and found her unguarded expression of joy refreshing.

  Their entrance into the hotel lobby caused quite a stir. All eyes were on Jonee as she and Victoria registered at the front desk. Two bellhops—one black, the other Hispanic, gawked and elbowed each other. Victoria shifted her gaze downward, certain they were making lewd comments. Jonee encouraged the lustful admirers with puckered lips that spread into an inviting smile.