Just the name of the place sent chills up Ling Mae’s spine.
She sat naked on the edge of her bed for what would be the last time at the house in West Linn. She was watching music videos as Dao Ming took a hot shower just a few feet away.
“I’m not afraid to live my life as a virgin,” Ling called, but her sister didn’t respond.
Inside the stall, steam rose around Dao Ming’s head like a sinning woman’s veil. Though she lathered vigorously, trying to enjoy the soothing pelt of the hot water, the sexual powers of three men weighed on her senses like feathers tickling flesh. First there was the memory of losing her virginity to high school jock Jared Presser in that very room on the very bed Ling was sitting on. She didn’t know why, but she could feel him teaching her how to kiss again, the thrill of it glazing the deep innards of her tiny shaved pussy face.
Though he’d been a jerk, the unapologetic macho wanderlust in Jared’s lovemaking was unforgettable. Then there was the big beautiful black cock of Buck Knuckle-Joy. Not to mention the way he ate pussy with his nose buried inside it, his tongue licking inside out. He was the one who fucked her the hardest and the longest, the one who always made her feel superior; always treated her like gold. And last there was the tallest, sexiest of the three—handsome Italian stud, Noble.
Dao Ming braced in the shower as she imagined Noble standing behind her with his penis draped along her crack, his hairy but muscular stomach and chest pressing against her back as rivulets of water poured down his big manly soccer legs. Then the penetration—from the back as shower water turned to rain falling in the parking lot at National Bank at midnight. Oh god. He’d leaned her against her car door and hit from the back with her skirt barely up and her panty hose barely down, in and out…in and out.
Feverishly, Dao Ming raised her face to the sweetness of the rain—but now the pelt was stronger; it was shower water again, and all between her thighs was memory’s slippery glaze.
“Dao Ming? Dao Ming—are you listening?
The water stopped.
“Ling?”
“I said that I’m not afraid to live my life as a virgin. Do you think I should be afraid?”
With a grunt, Dao Ming came out the shower slicking her hair back. “I think it’s foolish of you to let mother burden you this way, Ling. A woman’s body is her own—it’s for her own pleasure. Why should you be deprived of sex just because mother says men are dirty and unworthy?”
“I can’t miss what I never had.”
“Oh, but you will.”
“Mother says that men were the cause of your depression, Dao Ming. She says the suicide attempt…”
Dao Ming’s eyes cut Ling like a knife. She didn’t like anyone discussing her inner conflicts.
Quickly, Ling said, “One thing I know I won’t like about Pismo Beach—the earthquakes.”
“Earthquakes in California are nothing,” Dao Ming shrugged. “The technology of building structures nowadays is so advanced we hardly even feel them anymore.”
“But what about that Catholic girl’s school that was on the cliff before Warm Leatherette was built? Wasn’t it destroyed by a really big earthquake? Didn’t it fall into the sea?”
Dao Ming laughed her ass off before saying, “Yeah, it did.”
Noble’s mother, Caprice, had been a student at Saint Theresa’s Observance before it fell into the sea in 1968. Dao Ming laughed, because she wasn’t too fond of the woman and had pictured her feminist lecturing ass falling off the cliff with it.
Now it was Ling’s turn to step into the shower stall. Closing her eyes as the warm jets beaded the hickey on her neck, she too began to remember Jared Presser’s kiss. Her hand gently slipped between her legs, cupping her tight virgin mound, and a blush of lust swept over her.
What was it like being with a man, she wondered? Did it hurt when men stuck it inside you? And if it felt good, then what was it that made it feel good—love?
Dao Ming applied lotion and perfumed her body. She checked her phone messages and found her loyalty tested by the last voicemail from Noble Sinatra. He had called begging her to make a surprise call to January during his board meeting concerning the Red Panty Kit.
“January always listens to you, Dao Ming. You’ve got to help me sell it to her,” he pleaded in the message. But in Dao Ming’s heart of hearts—she was against the Red Panty Kit. Lots of women thought it was an idea whose time had come, but Dao Ming had to side with January on this one. Especially now that Noble was playing footsies with the mafia. If so much as a hair on January’s brow got plucked, Dao Ming planned to snitch on him.
She loved Noble, but she wouldn’t call the meeting.
Suddenly, Ling yelled from the shower—“Oh my god, that is my song! Can you turn that video up, Daisy?”
Dao Ming looked at the screen and couldn’t believe her eyes—it was Tiger Holden’s gorgeous little biracial sister, Fox. Apparently they had had different fathers. But now just as Tiger had been predicting for years, his baby sister’s music career was blowing up. Fox had come to visit Tiger at Warm Leatherette several times and Dao Ming had gotten to know her pretty well.
Dao Ming’s opinion was that while Fox Holden was a very sweet person—she wasn’t all that talented. More than anything, she was a rip off of the Caribbean pop sensation Rihanna. Teasingly, the pineapple colored girl’s face filled the screen with dazzling hazel eyes as she sang her first top ten hit: “My mind is in disturbance…my mind is in disturbance. Don’t stop the music…chow-bum, chow-bum…Do not disturb!”
She sounds like crap, thought Dao Ming as she turned it up for Ling Mae. No lyrics, no depth. She shook her head. Artistically, Dao Ming felt that she was dying. Being Asian seemed to cancel out her own gorgeous look, her stunningly soulful voice. Fox Holden couldn’t write or sing and yet she had a record deal and a hot video getting major airplay.
Ling said, “Dao Ming—how come you don’t sing songs like that? How come you don’t rename yourself Daisy?”
“Rename myself Daisy?”
“Yes! That would be so hot. Plus it sounds more American.”
“Sounds more American,” Dao Ming mumbled, sadly. And with a big frustrated sigh, she got in the mirror and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you America’s newest one name superstar…Daisy.”
Who’s Afraid of the
Red Panty Kit?
At last, they were removing it from its box—the most frightening and effective rape control device in the history of the world—China’s infamous “Red Panty Rape Stopper”.
A gloved Physician and an R.N. positioned a rubber pink-skinned female Demonstration Dummy on the board room table—situating the dummy’s vagina so that it was open and exposed to everyone. From the head of the boardroom desk beneath the portrait of Grace Jones, January Knuckle-Joy kept a poker face as dread and horror welled in her gut. Caprice Sinatra narrated from an opposite corner end of the boardroom table through a small microphone:
“The Red Panty Device is a latex sheath condom and ‘penis biter’. It was originally called RAPEX by its white South African inventor, Sonette Ehlers, but was updated by the Chinese. The inside of it is covered with thousands of sharp, inward-facing microscopic barbs. It is worn by a woman in her vagina just as she would a Tampon.”
The R.N. inserted the ivory white latex sheath into the dummy’s rubber vaginal opening.
“If an attacker were to attempt rape, his penis would enter the latex sheath and be snagged by the bards. During his attempts at withdrawal, he would be overcome with intense pain—reverberating throughout his central nervous system—which would give the victim time to escape.”
The R.N. yanked the white latex panty out of the vagina—but now it was red with blood!
Caprice reported gleefully, “The biggest benefit of the condom, however, is that once the attacker withdraws his penis from the victim’s vagina—the Red Panty remains attached to the attacker’s body. It can only be removed surgically. This es
tablishes for the hospital emergency room staff that would have to remove it, and for the police, that a rape has occurred and that the person wearing the condom is the rapist. No more protracted drawn-out courtroom battles. ”
Finally, Caprice looked dead at January. She said, “Missionaries in Africa swear by it, and in the parts of China where it’s being used, rape statistics have fallen dramatically. We’ve all seen it publicized on the internet. But what we haven’t seen is this controversial and much needed vaginal weaponry released in the United States.”
Vaginal weapon, thought Tiger Holden. That’s putting it mildly. Noble Sinatra tried to read January’s eyes, but even with Caprice directly engaging her, she maintained a poker face.
“January—I propose that the Warm Leatherette Corporation get ahead of the curve and be the one to mass market and promote this product in the United States.”
“Absolutely fucking not!” responded January. There was an audible gasp from executives around the table and Noble Sinatra bowed his head so as not to reveal the steam of hate that was gathering a cloud behind his temples. He cleared his throat and looked up just in time to see January standing.
“Woman to woman Caprice…how many times have we inserted a tampon only to forget whether or not we put it in? Let’s say I return home from a long, hard day at work—fall asleep on the sofa, completely forgetting I’ve got this device in my twat—and then my beloved husband comes home and decides to be romantic right there on the couch. We start making love, because I forgot there’s a razor-toothed condom inside me, and I not only slit his dick up, but it has to be surgically removed!”
“January, you’re being…”
“And then let’s not forget all the cunningly vicious and bitter women out here who would love to get even with men they feel have wronged them. Can you imagine how easy it would be to seduce a man you really hate and frame him for rape? Can you imagine how easy it would be to pretend you forgot you had this device inside you and proceeded to slice a man who was planning to leave you? I mean, are you even calculating just what a horrific sex weapon this could become?”
Caprice hated January and she hated that goddamn naked bald-headed black ass Grace Jones portrait that had haunted the Sinatra family since the day Papa Sinatra hung it over the chairperson’s chair. Over and over, Caprice could hear her brother calling from the grave, “…Sicily.” It was the name that he called his various photos and statues of Grace Jones in private. And why he did so, not even January knew—but Caprice knew, and it wouldn’t leave her alone. “Sicily…Sicily,” Papa Sinatra whispered from the grave. In exasperation, Caprice looked to Noble.
Noble said, “We can iron out the details later, January. But for now—we need to be the first to jump on this. I know and you know that some other corporation is going to get wind of this product’s popularity in China and be the one to cash in for possibly billions of dollars. I propose that we take a vote and…”
“I will automatically VETO the vote,” January retorted. Ignoring the glares of those on the board who loved money no matter the source, she said, “I don’t care who or how much money is to be made from this by some other company. I don’t believe in this product. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
Noble jumped to his feet, shouting, “You bitch! You fucking black bitch! Who are you to tell the Sinatra bloods what to do with their own company?”
“Papa left me in charge!”
“Yeah—because he had Alzheimer’s after you sucked his brains down into his balls.”
January was two seconds from pulling her gun from her purse. She said, “Listen knot fucker—regardless of how I got where I got, I’m here. And I’m the boss and the last word at this goddamn table—and though I know you’re not a racist, Noble, and that you were speaking out of anger—yes, I’m a black bitch—a good one. And not a dime of my dead husband’s money is going to be spent amputating the dicks of those few innocent men who don’t deserve this reactionary feminist bullshit.”
“You’re not a woman!” hissed Caprice. “You’re a goddamn prostitute! My brother married a woman who protects rapists!”
“Yeah, well—whatever.”
One of the white male executives who’d flown in from Wall Street said, “You have no education, you’re not fit to run this company, you’re keeping us from billions of dollars.”
“My decision stands—I hereby Veto the Red Panty Kit.”
Tiger Holden interjected, “Can the board please calm down and reconfigure itself to modulate our plans for Mardi Gras 2010? We’re supposed to be business people.”
She’s dead, thought Noble as he stared at January through the intense darkness of Mediterranean eyes. There’s no other way. This fucking cock-slurping, gold digging uppity black cunt is dead!
Caprice Sinatra had the same thoughts, but hers went one step further. Because once January was dead, she intended to personally take down Papa Sinatra’s portrait of Grace Jones. For more than twenty years—she’d been dying to take “Sicily” down.
ROAM
As though her penthouse was orbiting the sun, January’s private jet raised up out of California leaving the furious rage of the Sinatra clan and Warm Leatherette behind her. Reclining in clouds and sipping champagne, she kicked off her shoes and mentally prepared herself for the long flight to Paris, France.
Unfortunately, Buck was tagging along—paranoid that she was off to meet up with dashing race car driver Adam Crown. But in reality, January was going away to Europe to escape the fantasy of such diversions. Her most pressing desire was to become a more proficient businesswoman. She wanted to show those snooty board members once and for all that she was every bit as intelligent and savvy as they seemed to think they were. One of the people in Paris who could certainly school her was one of Papa Sinatra’s oldest friends and backers—Yves Malle.
“You think you’re slick,” Buck said to her on the jet.
“What are you talking about?”
“Flying off to Europe just a few weeks before old dude is supposed to be racing in Monaco.”
“Adam’s racing in Monaco in a few weeks? I know nothing about that.”
“Yeah, tell me anything, January.”
“Buck—you’re my husband. I’m bringing you with me.”
“Bullshit. I demanded to come. But you want to know something, black beauty? Now that I’m here and you can’t run away from it…”
Buck slinked down, obviously about to eat her out.
January demurred and closed her eyes. The only reason she was keeping Buck was because of his big dick and what he could do with it. Buck didn’t just fuck; he danced with his hips. She had figured long ago that if she couldn’t have true love—then she’d at least have her physical needs met. And that’s what Papa Sinatra and Buck had been for. Papa had the money and Buck had the bedroom prowess. True love, she figured at that point, just wasn’t in the cards for her.
Elegantly, she pressed the DO NOT DISTURB light and reclined on the air chaise, gingerly parting her legs as her summer dress was lifted and Buck’s tongue and soup cooler sized lips began licking and slurping magnificently. “Ooh,” she cooed in ecstasy. But within seconds, Adam’s handsome face was all she could see. And Adam’s penis inside her—was all that she wanted.
Book Three
Deeper and Deeper
A HIGHER FIRE
Ivory Coast, West Africa
Deeper and deeper, two sets of ashy black hands dug into the earth. They wanted to stop, telling Fat Tagba they were tired, yet just as they complained—up sprang the water that Fat Tagba had somehow known would be there.
“You see it is true…” the very old Senufo tribeswoman muttered more to herself than to the two teenaged males who were required by ancient ritual to be the ones preparing “the spirit bed”. Fat Tagba said, “Two that were stolen from here hundreds of years ago are returning to consummate the Poro-Sandogo.”
As though it were precious milk, the teenaged boys
used a brass urn to gather up the water that was rising from the hole. In silence they poured the water into a scraped out turtle’s back that Fat Tagba had painted up like a bath tub. As the resident toy maker of the village, Fat Tagba usually crafted comical or ritualistic figures for children’s birthdays and other celebrations. But this time, she’d been moved by her dreams to fashion two dolls of a sexual nature.
“Here,” said Fat Tagba, as she presented the first doll—a wood carved man whose penis protruded in a hook shape. Glued to its head was a puff of nappy hair. “Take the man and wash his body in the turtle’s back.”
After the boys were done, she presented them the female doll, a brass figure with a hole through which to receive the wooden hook penis, long, heavy breasts and a puff of nappy hair glued to her head. In Senufo culture, it was customary that bronze masks be danced alongside wooden masks in all public parades and that the two branches of their society; Poro (the Men) and Sandogo (the Women), take turns in the cleansing of what was considered their crown (their close-knotted hair). The actual ritual began after the heads of the man and woman were dunked and then erected against the African sun to show that the Crowns were retaining the water and holding it within the lawns of short afro like a brow retains sweat.
In unison, as instructed, the boys dunked their heads into the turtle’s back where the wooden doll and the brass doll had been bathed together. Fat Tagba then had the teenagers to stand face to face—one holding the woman and the other holding the man.
Into each boy’s mouth, Fat Tagba placed a dollop of honey. Looking eye to eye, the boys reported, “It is sweet.” But then after that, Fat Tagba placed red pepper in their mouths, and each boy grimaced reporting, “It burns like hell.”
“This is love…this sweetness that burns like hell,” Fat Tagba enchanted as she ordered the boys to offer the dolls to the sky while looking to the ground. “I see them coming. The will of the ancestors is bringing them here from a very far place; moving them across sky and sea.”
SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet Page 7
