In Search of Pretty Young Black Men

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  But no. That could not be. The existence of this child in their lives would be a constant reminder to Lamont of what he was not and, perhaps, could never be. It would remind her of the same.

  Sadikifu was dead. All things reminiscent of him must die away too if there was to be a chance for them, Maggie and Lamont, and happiness.

  In spite of the natural pain that comes with childbirth, Maggie barely cried out; the painful thoughts far outweighed the physical discomfort. Dutifully—absently—she followed Doctor Alexander’s encouraging commands while nurses assisted like ladies-in-waiting.

  The child, a boy, was born perfect. And during the few moments after, when the excruciating pain of delivery gives way to the unfathomable joy of new life and new motherhood, Maggie, without thinking, just feeling, reached out to the sweet cries of her child, stunned by the physician’s slap into taking his first breath, and all she could say was “please.”

  Lamont’s eyes said it all. And the newly cleaned baby he could not bear to look at was put in its mother’s arms.

  Though she was too weak to cry, Maggie was strong enough to hold her son. And she kissed him all over and examined him all over, wanting but not wanting to photograph everything about him in her mind, in her heart: his little yawning smile that said he knew just who she was, dark sparkling eyes strangely open and wide, the smooth baby skin of smoky gold that seemed to grow darker, deeper, even as she held him in her arms, and the tiny little birthmarks—near-matching teardrops—barely noticeable within the lower fold on his left inner thigh.

  She then looked up at Lamont. Having stolen a glance, he could now only turn away. The delivering physician and his staff of ladies-in-waiting were too routinely pleased by the everyday miracle to notice the ignominy.

  To be given away. To be given away. Maggie thought about it over and over until she could handle it no more. Tears began to fall, tears that matched the matching tears that marked her baby’s birth. A nurse, understanding a new mother’s state yet not knowing this mother’s plan, smiled and gently removed the child from his mother’s trembling arms.

  “Now don’t you fret,” the nurse cooed sweetly. “You’ll have a lifetime to be together.”

  And so as that episode in her life—their lives—became more and more distanced, Maggie tried to forget. She knew that she had to forget that there was a child, forget the dizzy spells and confessions made in a Swiss hotel room. She had to forget the schoolgirl daydreams and be the woman whom he needed as much as he needed the diplomas on the wall.

  She had only to remember her mother’s admonitions, those philosophies that seemed to keep her so happy. Well, at least contained.

  And so the honeymoon, delayed by things forgotten and forgiven, had begun anew, not in some foreign country but in the bedroom of a Baldwin Hills home where a stern-handsome young doctor, prince of darkness and his perfect and pedigreed wife, fell winsomely victim to new love and lust.

  Margaret Arial Lester-Allegro, fueled by guilt and gratitude, schooled by one who had held on to her own man—her mother—learned to please her old man in the old-fashioned way.

  Give him what he wants and he will not venture far, if at all.

  Maggie faced her hesitation head-on and dived into what she thought she had to do. She shivered at the touch of his lubricated nine inches kissing playfully at the tight lips of her virgin ass. She moaned with brave delight, for her puckered rectum was not wrecked at all. It was fed bountifully and smiled wide for more, thrilled with him filling it, easily, warmly, thickly, ruthlessly.

  She gave it all to him. Everything. All of her bad and guilty self. She wanted to, needed to, for he could disappear out of her life just as easily as he had appeared.

  As time went on she gave him more and more: spankings with spiked leather, golden showers, handcuffs and torture racks, anything she thought he might want. But he soon became bored with the games and the punishment, and he truly did begin to disappear.

  When this happened, Maggie was somewhat surprised that she did not get any crazier than she was, surprised at how well she was able to pretend that it did not matter anymore. No, not anymore. She pretended not to hurt so much when he was gone—still there and gone. She just didn’t give a damn anymore. She was determined to convince herself of that, just as she was determined to convince herself that none of the losses, none of them—not Martin, not Sadikifu, not that sweet baby boy, not even her sense of self—mattered anymore.

  “Maggie?”

  But she could not answer. Not right now.

  “Maggie,” Elaine nudged her, “you’re crying in your margarita.”

  “Wha…what?”

  “You’re coming apart, girlfriend.”

  “Am I?”

  “Your makeup is running.”

  “Is it?”

  “You won’t be in any shape for cards like this.”

  “Sorry, Mamma…I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Five

  “No driving, girlfriend. And you know Lydia and Arleta are going to be so pissed when they see you like this, out in public and all. You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

  Elaine figured that the grinning Creole who had earlier offered his bar stool and who had been hovering in her general space all evening had earned the honor of helping her drunken friend to the car.

  Elaine prided herself in being Maggie Arial Lester-Allegro’s best best friend. Maggie Arial Lester-Allegro had a certain thing about her—a something—that made the most skeptical believe she had diamond class, which she did, and not even this drunken exit, this sleazy blow against her iridescent dignity, could tarnish her rep.

  Begrudgingly Elaine admired her. Begrudgingly. Yes.

  Elaine tisked to herself and allowed herself to be distracted by the grinning Creole’s slimy dexterity—awkwardly holding the passenger door open as Maggie elegantly stumbled in, handing Elaine a blue laminated gold-lettered personal business card, and yet somehow managing to grab a good clawful of her ample behind.

  “Now, now,” she purred as she circled defensively to the driver’s side. She aimed a coquettish little wave and threw a plastic little smooch at the high-yellow Cheshire, then hopped in and sped the car away.

  “Why do I attract all the circus acts?” she sighed dramatically.

  But Maggie did not hear her. No. Maggie Arial Lester-Allegro allowed herself to float away on memories of Dorian Moore where Luther sang of here and now.

  “My God you’re gorgeous,” she remembered saying accidentally when he innocently stretched in front of her. “Oh. I’m…I’m sorry,” she continued with a gasp—high off Thai stick, Bombay gin, and desire. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I did, but what I really meant was…Oh God…you know this is really some tongue-loosening smoke, and you know what they say, ‘loose lips…’ ”

  “…make for great lovemaking,” he said with a smile worth licking.

  She could only stare back at him, touched by that charming little turn of a phrase “…make for great lovemaking.” It suddenly seemed like an offer that went beyond mere sex. Was it truly an offer of love, no matter how brief? Or was she just tripping?

  Silently, sadly, gratefully, she was being carried away by her own crazed thoughts—thoughts of him, thoughts of Lamont—and those thoughts began to threaten her already fragile mind.

  But even if she were crazy as a loon, she was not blind. She knew Nirvana when it surrounded her. Lamont was the old pain and Dorian was the newfound pleasure—her pretty young black thang—and yes, she was tripping, trippin’ hard. But why not? She believed that she was entitled.

  “How’s your drink?” he mumbled with intent.

  “Oh God, I’m on empty,” she Betty Booped back.

  He took her glass and sauntered over to the bar.

  “And could you check the oil while you’re at it?” She knew she was being bad but she just couldn’t help herself. He rewarded her audacity with a growl and then turned his back to her while he freshened her drink.

  “Y
ou have a very nice ass,” she declared.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  You’re a model,” she went on.

  “Really?” he replied.

  “It’s in the walk,” she pronounced.

  “I’m a painter,” he then said.

  “Well…okay,” she conceded, taking the glass. “Are any of these yours?”

  He looked around the room and at each wall where the dark divas—La Baker, Miss Lena and Ross—hung enshrined in oil and charcoal, on film and canvas. Then he looked back at Maggie with eyes that saw inside her dirty mind.

  “No,” he said, “these are just good prints of other people’s work, a few originals, things like that. I sell all mine.”

  “You must be very good.”

  “I make a living.”

  “I see.”

  And suddenly it was happening. He was kissing her, so sweetly, so gently, that it took her breath away. She then pulled back, ever so slightly, in fear of an ecstasy that kills, and then she turned away from him, savoring the sweet taste of his soft thick lips thrilling her beyond repair.

  “How did you know?” she managed to ask.

  “I read lips.”

  He touched her face with a single finger which brought her ’round into his stare. He was so pretty, so nice and young and black and pretty. And his pretty young black finger toyed with the pucker of her lips, lips too loose to resist flirtation. And so they gave in, they surrendered and parted obediently, but ever so slightly, just enough to let her tongue stroke and probe a part of him—a pretty black finger, a much needed warmth, a reaching out, a little care.

  But before she could taste it all, locks were unlocking and door chains were calling her name.

  Chapter Six

  “Drunk!” Lydia declared at the first glance of Maggie pouring through the front door of their house on Don Thomaso Drive.

  “Again!” Arleta concurred, shaking her head as she steered them all toward their game room.

  Lydia Titus was beyond in love. She was absolutely fortified by her seventeen-year committed relationship to Arleta Moorehouse Grey of the Detroit Greys, fast-food people who, years earlier, had turned old slave dishes into an eight figure annual gross income through a nationwide chain of soul food drive-thrus. The Greys of Detroit were right up there with Cosby, Oprah, and the two Johnson clans.

  Arleta Moorehouse Grey was a bright young thing, a fabulous forty-year-old silly-willy of a child whose purple beauty was equal to that of her longtime companion. To see Lydia and Arleta together made it easy to see the depth of their love and romance. They also had a felineship based on an intriguing mix of vanity and self-esteem. They needed only to glance at each other to glance at themselves. They were dark Doublemint twins whose very startling presence evoked a crystal-framed mirror image.

  Though a sepia dilettante of monied leisure in many harmless ways, Arleta was not unmoved by Lydia’s fierce by-the-bootstraps savoir faire. The fact was she admired it as long as it did not get in the way of good times, great parties, and those wonderful sojourns to the white beach that fronted their twelve-room cottage on Grand Bahama Island.

  Judge Lydia Titus was often called Judge “Tight-ass” by nervous public defenders, fat-off-the-crime private counselors, and politically ambitious worker bees—assistant D.A.s, three-piece lackeys, and assorted bureaucratic ass-lickers—who brought their honey to her throne, for they had been warned by many who had tried that she didn’t fuck around.

  But if Her Honor had an Achilles’ heel it was her deep passion for her lady and her deep passion for her cards.

  Bid whist.

  She was indeed addicted to the game and most likely fell in love with Arleta Moorehouse Grey seventeen years earlier to some degree because in her she had found a life mate who lived and breathed six nos, Bostons, and trump-fat kitties as much as she did.

  Arleta Moorehouse Grey, Lydia Titus, Elaine Ramsey, and Margaret Arial Lester-Allegro made the perfect four-some—black bourgeois sorority sisters of a not-so-unusual Southern California ilk drenched in quiet power, patience, passion, and long-suffering. Explosions, like land minds, waiting to happen at the most unsuspecting time.

  The four best friends got down to immediate business—bid whist.

  Maggie neither sobered up nor got drunker. She simply wooooooozed in a holding pattern, a purgatory of inherent dignity, of cotillion class bravely held up against falling-down drunkenness. She was a trooper, for the moment, a credit to her piss-elegance and saddityhood. And so she stayed oiled between the cracks, allowing only so much of that night—Lamont’s slipped confession of boredom the night Queen of Outer Space played on the Z channel and Miss Ross played on HBO—to intrude upon the game. It was bid whist night. Bid whist. Whist à la cart.

  “Four.”

  “Five.”

  “Six low.”

  “Six no. Downtown.”

  Arleta lit a joint to calm the nerves she pretended to have in need of calming. Miss Elaine had taken out her bid with a “no trump,” and Arleta was sportingly pissed, which made Lydia howl and snap her fingers, being able to tell by her lover and partner’s dramatic display that Arleta and her bid were doomed. Of course all of this meant that no one really noticed that the mind of Maggie Lester-Allegro had slipped passed her vow, had crept back up the warm breezes of the past to the memory of a boy.

  The smell of him. That’s where she was. The lemon pungency of his youth on that late afternoon had dizzied her and weakened her and reduced her to a youthfulness of her own and a foolishness well deserved.

  Yes. She was back to being that schoolgirl again, that little Miss “It,” Mount Vernon Junior High School’s black Barbie doll the year they shot John Kennedy, the first time she sucked Sadikifu’s dick when his name was Raymond Harris Jr.

  No! No. Not that far back. Too far. TOO FAR!!!

  No…

  It was just last year. Yes. Almost a year to the day. No. Not Sadikifu. Dorian.

  Sweet Dorian Moore.

  He kissed her again and she almost drowned, but then with a suddenness she came up for air, cleansed by the baptism of his gentle touch.

  Then suddenly she began to laugh and he pretended not to know why. He just smiled that smile, gave her dimples and black-as-midnight eyes, and moaned a dreamy “What?”

  “You have lipstick on,” she giggled.

  “Oh?” he asked innocently.

  “My color looks good on you,” she teased.

  “Really?” he flirted back.

  “You’d make a beautiful girl,” she prissied.

  “Is that a fact?”

  And she was ready to lick his pussy.

  But instead she fetched her purse—yes “fetched” it—and proceeded to ease him down next to her on the sofa. Then, for some strange reason, she felt like Ethel Waters mammying the little white girl in The Member of the Wedding.

  Switch reels, she ordered herself in silence.

  “I have a Kleenex in here somewhere,” she singsonged, cautiously rummaging through her Gucci, afraid of what she might reveal. “Ah! Here we are…you don’t mind, do you?” she asked, having already aimed the Kleenex toward those lips.

  “By all means,” he mumbled easily, moving in and to her, giving her all of his beautiful face. Ever so slightly he puckered his lips and his eyes closed. His thick long lashes almost touched his cheeks.

  A calm, almost religious, held her frozen in a stare. He was so perfectly beautiful she almost shed a tear. The hand that held the Kleenex meant to wipe his lips trembled. Between her legs a drop of moisture tingled. She squirmed a bit, in a way that let him know she was ripe, weak, and sticky.

  She tried to pull herself together but could not. Not completely.

  With strokes wrought with innuendo she wiped and dabbed at juicy lips; wiped and dabbed…wiped and dabbed…dabbed and wiped until they were lip-smacking clean.

  “Oh! Where was I?” She snapped out of it.

  “Are you playing or not?”

&
nbsp; “Yes…yes…yes.”

  “Miss Thing to Earth. Miss Thing to Earth.”

  “Come on, girl, we know you have the ace.”

  And she did, so she played it and took the book.

  It was after midnight—four full hours of nonstop play—before someone called it quits (it certainly was not one of the dark Doublemint twins), and they all found themselves laid out on chaise barges, sipping brandy and coffee, and watching silent videos of boys fucking boys.

  After a long, still quiet, Elaine burped—a dainty little ladylike burp—and then for no particular reason she just started talking while a new something young, black, and pretty gave it his all onscreen.

  “Sex and coffee,” Elaine said out of nowhere to no one in particular. “Cameron on the j-o-b. That man would have me in seventh heaven, all lost up in the nasty, and then came those first few drops of something hot and delicious like fudge on vanilla ice cream—a shutter, a gasp, a moan, and I would feel dizzy and dazed like I couldn’t hold my balance even though I knew I was lying down.

  “Cameron on the j-o-b. And then my eyes would open and before I could think, Where am I? I would still feel myself all caught up in the nasty. And there he’d be, his beautiful spit-shining premature bald head bobbing up and down between my legs with a smacking, him having his good-morning pussy. His darting tongue killing me with pleasure. So each morning of my married life prior to this young widowhood, I just went on and died a thousand deaths of pleasure. For twelve years—every day, at the break of dawn, come rain or shine—he’d feast on me, then he’d fuck me. And I mean he’d fuck me good. He’d fuck me till my nose bled. And then we’d have coffee.”