Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  For the second time Valerie got a good evaluation of Cinnamon. Cinnamon was brilliant on stage with so much confidence. She didn’t speak a word, but her bedroom eyes spoke volumes of fantasies fulfilled to the audience of onlookers. Cinnamon kept such a flawless appearance. No scars, tattoos or blemishes. Her skin was brown like the soft leather of a suitcase. Her breasts curved up as if inclined, with erasershaped nipples as peaks. Her curves were accentuated by the stagelights and lasers swinging to and fro. The definitions, her navel, her cleavage, collar bone, waist and spine were all sculptured chocolate delights. Targets for soft, dark and sensual shadows.

  Cinnamon toyed with her G-string, hinting that it was removable at will and that there was more to see. She was creative, never removing it totally, but revealing shades of her most erogenous zone. The fire-red outfit that she wore, including the top lying on the stage floor, was small enough to fit into a 6-oz. glass. Wow, Valerie thought to herself. She observed her new friend, and now appreciated her even more. There was a second where Valerie looked closer, concluding that Cinnamon had to be clean-shaven and hairless between her legs because the G-string was no bigger than a Star Trek insignia and there was not a hair to be seen. Again, she said wow to herself.

  A customer raced up from his front row seat to tip Cinnamon. But she kept her pride and made him wait a few seconds. Soon after, she belly-danced her way over to him, leaning over and down to drape her arms as she shook her marvelous breasts inches from his nose. Cinnamon turned around with her legs spread apart and the customer’s eyes strained with his arm and a $10 bill extended. She bent over to touch her toes, giving him an exclusive view, while looking at him through her legs. She jiggled her butt cheeks at him, requiring his appreciation. Then, backing up her ass to be inches from his nose, Cinnamon reached between her legs and grabbed the man’s wrist so that it was snugly wedged in her crack. Slowly, Cinnamon guided the man’s hand, sliding it southward until releasing him precisely as he cupped her mound. Leaving the tip with her, the customer returned to his seat half crouched as if he had to pee.

  Unsympathetically, Cinnamon resumed her dancing, spreading herself to other areas of the stage as if that little intimate moment with the ten-dollar tipper never occurred. Valerie smiled to herself, feeling more encouraged and remembering Cinnamon’s words.

  “. . . All these men are sweatin’ yo’ ass . . .” I can do this, Valerie thought, loosening the grip of her folded arms.

  “You ready to give it a try?” Jimmy’s voice caught Valerie off guard. She dropped her arms to her sides before shrugging in agreement.

  “Could you ask the DJ to put on something slower, like an Isley’s tune or something?” Jimmy chuckled a bit, knowing that that was a far-out request. The DJ was 40 minutes into a jam session that boosted the crowd into moments of spasms. It was a busy after-work crowd that craved release and excitement. And the DJ was feeding the frenzy with the sensational mixes. Now, he was fading from “Rock Creek Park” to “I Get Lifted,” the classic by K.C. & the Sunshine Band. As they say, the DJ had the house rockin’.

  “Sure. I’ll ask him. But he usually does his own thing. That’s the boss’s son, you know.” Valerie turned her eyes up to the DJ booth, hoping to make eye contact with whoever. As she was helped up the steps to the main stage, other dancers, the bartenders, bouncers and Gil watched with intense anticipation.

  “Please welcome Valerie to the stage . . . Valerie!”

  The heavy, hollow announcement startled her. She looked over towards Gil, recalling his voice. He was laying down the mic and lifting a half cup of Guinness Stout to his lips as the club full of men applauded and Cinnamon stepped down.

  The Audition

  The crowd inside of Fool’s Paradise was usual for a Friday evening. Maybe 70 or 80 blue collar, white collar and greasy collar workers were concentrated close to the bar and main stage. The club or the dancers could not want for a more appreciative audience. Hungry, full of desire and pockets full of money. The mirrors in the club, along the walls and behind the dancers on stage reflected the incredible illusion that everything was more than it was. The capacity, the activities, the impact of it all . . . everything was MORE.

  Valerie felt every bit of the illusion, because to her there seemed to be thousands of faces in the audience. All men. Her imagination was exaggerating the worst. With the heels, Valerie stood almost 5 feet, 10 inches, and on the 4-foot stage she towered over the crowd of captivated and bemused patrons with every dimension, color and age of working men. Valerie took a deep breath, doing her best to wait for a change of music. No waiting was tolerated, however, as men continued applauding to build her confidence. She stepped and swaggered smoothly, in contradiction to the boom-boom-bap of the deejay’s latest musical selection. He was on a roll now, blending in the instrumental version of “California Love.” Valerie addressed Dr. Dre’s hardcore drums with her own trademark elegance, swaying, swerving and swishing her hips. Projecting a sense of maturity with her smooth moves, high cheeks and sweet almond eyes. She captivated all without any of the usual hip-hop dance moves or clever neck and shoulder shifts. She simply followed and drifted into her own complete rhythm. Eventually, the DJ got soft and changed the music to fit Valerie’s mood. He allowed the pitch of the record’s speed to slow to a stop. Simultaneously, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” changed the vibe of the club into a desirable melancholy. Soothing the excitement to a slow groove. The changeover suited Valerie just fine and fit her sensual movements. For half of the song Valerie began to play the crowd. She toyed with men at the edge of the stage, picking a cap from the head of one balding patron in his 50’s and then adjusting it on her own head. She pulled her hair through the adjustable strap in the rear, instantly creating a ponytail with her long hair. The elderly man was thrown for a spin of his emotions, suppressing his embarrassment with a gulp from his bottle of Budweiser.

  By the time Valerie canvassed the front row of tables with her provocative approach, the DJ was mixing in Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo.” Determined that these would be her last moments of the audition, Valerie wrapped her arms to reach behind, hugging herself and pulling at the string that supported the top which she wore. It quickly came loose and she continued hugging her breasts along with the furry, white bikini top. She was playful, and slowly let her arms drop with the clothing. Her breasts stood out despite the lack of support. She eventually let her hands down casually, comfortable now with erotic, sexual expressions in her eyes.

  With most of Valerie’s body exposed, customers turned to each other, while staff and dancers shared comments. Most everyone was amazed by Valerie’s perky breasts. She was thick and thin in all the right places as every man’s fantasy, and it was all right there on stage at Fool’s Paradise. If you weren’t present then you missed out.

  She was a heavenly sight, passing her hands slowly through her hair and winding and wiggling her curves as if the music was carrying her. The hat which she snatched from the customer was glowing and stood out against Valerie’s jet black hair and dark coffee tone. There were subtle indications of Valerie’s innocence, thrown off by her being half naked in otherwise raunchy circumstances. Even more innocence was cast by this being her very first topless audition. But that too was contrary to her sexual expressions and the innate confidence that eventually surfaced on stage.

  The music made another transition. Valerie bent over to pick up and tie on her top. She already noticed Cinnamon waiting by the bar, and she approached her. At the same time, there was applause from a number of patrons as Valerie left the stage. She hardly noticed as Jimmy the bouncer came over to help her down. Cinnamon rolled her eyes at Jimmy’s “extra shit,” but reached out to embrace Valerie.

  “You were great, girl! They love you. See how they’re all looking at you?” Valerie took the small stack of cocktail napkins from Cinnamon and began dabbing at her brow and neck and underarms.

  “Really? I was so—nervous! I couldn’t even dance at first. But I started
getting into it after a few minutes.” Valerie was a little gleeful, trying to contain herself.

  “Girl, you did all the dancin’ you needed to do. Just keep doin’ what you were doin’. They love that shit.”

  Valerie’s spontaneous audition quickly earned her a slot on the busiest nights at Gilmore’s. She filled a significant void at the club, even more so than she knew, considering her genuine elegance and that Caribbean flavor that the club needed. Sure, Moet was the top girl. And Sadie was an easy second place pick. But perhaps, Valerie would be number three one day.

  Within a week of Valerie’s employment, she moved into a room; a room that was in the home of a club patron. With that, she broke rules number one and two.

  “Never mix your personal business with a customer, and never accept any gifts like cars, apartments, or huge diamond rings,” Cinnamon told her. “Not unless you plan on fucking the guy. And if you do that, they got a whole ’nother profession for that type a shit.”

  Even as a teenager, Valerie’s uncle told her, “Nobody gives you something for nothing.” However, Valerie ignored those early warnings and went with her own gut feeling. The room she rented was about as close to the job as Mrs. Brown-White’s home, which was convenient. But, of course, Valerie had already recognized this arrangement as too good to be true. And she had her guard up just in case the fat slob that she moved in with was not as altruistic as he appeared to be. All the while, Valerie had to wonder: Do books live up to their covers? Only time would tell.

  The room that Valerie rented from the guy was lightly furnished with a mattress on the floor, a dresser and a chair. Simple enough to build upon and for Valerie to get a good night’s sleep after the evening hustle at Gilmore’s. She was making three and four hundred dollars from an evening’s work. But already things had to change up. Her new (so-called) landlord became a nuisance, always picking her up from work instead of the usual, how he used to stop by every now and again. Furthermore, he was taking her out to eat more, as though they were a couple. Eventually, he propositioned her for sex. Before she busted out laughing in his face, she caught herself and simply uttered an uncompromising “NO.” Even the way she said it to him was like a warning to back off, which was exactly when the shit started to hit the fan. She declined his favors and even lost a sense of security that she felt behind a locked door. After all, this was his house. But especially, breaking rule number three (don’t sleep with the customers) wasn’t even a distant idea. So while the man remained in heat, his soft hearted, wimpish nature nowhere to be found, Valerie again faced inevitable changes. Not only that, so consumed was she with her living situation and keeping her impact at work, that she had no idea that all the while (even at Mrs. Brown-White’s home) she was being followed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wake Up!

  At 11:20PM, Mechelle was situated on a rickety wooden bench, under a swinging sign that read “BUTNER, N.C.” A halogen lamp above the sign attracted various insects that bounced on and off the lamp window. The 70 degree weather would have been bearable, except Mechelle had to constantly shoo the flying, buzzing annoyances from her face and legs. She wanted to move from the light, but the spot where she sat had become warm from her behind. She decided to remain there until the next bus pulled up. Maybe she’d take a quick stroll later.

  Otherwise, the climate was calm. The environment was still. There was no more sleep left in her, but she tried awfully hard, pulling her legs up to her breasts and propping her forehead between her kneecaps. Mechelle squeezed her eyes tight, looking to create designs in the darkness of her eyelids. All she could envision was an empty lot to the side of the Greyhound station. An ice machine with a padlock securing the door. A sign, erect at the entrance to the terminal: JD’S REST AND GO. Mechelle wondered if the old fart who locked her out was J.D. There was a red and blue Greyhound logo at the top portion of the sign, and all that did was make things worse—does Greyhound know the type of people they partner with? A Coke machine stood tall at one side of the bench she occupied. The entrance to the station was to her right with shades pulled down on the inside of the glass doors. The loud red sign wedged in the door was a harsh reminder of the bastard who locked her out earlier. CLOSED.

  “Asshole.” Mechelle cursed him for the 50th time.

  The station was shack-like with a shingled roof stretching over Mechelle’s head, just enough to shield her from any potential rain. But no hint of that tonight. Her view of the silent, moonlit sky was a pleasant one, even though she was just bored of looking at the stars. Now, she was no astrology student, but these stars seemed to be saying something to her. What, she couldn’t say. And, if listening to stars wasn’t driving her crazy, then the trees were next, since every other inch of her surrounding was occupied by trees, trees and more trees!

  As the midnight hour came around, halfway through Mechelle’s frustrating wait, she began to hear some humming in the distance. Moments later, the humming turned into muffled tones, and then voices. She wondered where they were coming from. People? People! Mechelle lifted her head and looked towards the left and right of the main road. A slight tremor in her chest warned her of possible danger, but she felt it too late to run and hide as three figures came into eyesight. It was dark, and they were merely shadows for a time, but Mechelle was quick enough to know they were white men. She wondered if it wasn’t she who was being the suspicious one. But nonetheless, she returned to her seat and remained there as still as a cat with her eyes begging for compassion.

  “Lookie there, Bo. Somebody’s over on J.D.’s bench.” Mike was the first to notice Mechelle. He was also the youngest of the three white men. A delinquent since his early teens, Mike was a pimple-faced eighteen-year-old now. With the crew cut, spectacles and thin build, he maintained a schoolboy appearance. But inside of his head he was conjuring plans like shooting his high school principal and some of the other wiseasses who graduated without him. He even figured to use Bo’s rifle to do the job. However, the plan was on the backburner for now, still leaving him with the images of suicide and his own body falling on top of a small pile of 10 or 15 other dead bodies.

  “Yep. That’s a somebody, alright. Ifn’ it ain’t a greezy ole groundhawg, it might be a lil’ ole nigger-girl.” Bo was the heaviest of the bar-room buddies. The local paper mill had laid him off just two months earlier. Meanwhile, he’d be sittin’ home with his mother or spending idle hours at the local tavern, making noise, creating conflicts or just bein’ plain ole lame-ass Bo. His beer belly was extra luggage, and he rarely kept good health or hygiene. So, his older appearance was but a lie since his neglect made him appear much older than 34.

  “N’yall just hold on a cottn’ pickin’ minit now. The lil’ nigger girl might need some help sittin’ there all ’lone.” Jed was the eldest of the trio, at 42. He spoke real fast, like he was always on the run. He also earned himself an artificial limb as the contender of a tree-cutting contest, pulling and pushing a 6-foot saw against the county champ.

  During the final seconds of the feat, with the stainless-steel blade glowing hot-orange from the friction, the champ lost his grip. Jed made the last pull out and down, he fell back to the ground, and in one quick, freakish motion, the scorching sharp blade melted halfway into his leg. The town of Butner and neighboring Daneville heard his hollers for almost 3 days after the accident. But that was 8 years back. It took a few years for him to get comfortable with the prosthetic leg, but he was never the same Jed that worked at the local hardware store; that happy dude who helped the elderly or who mowed the lawn. He just gave up and turned evil. He didn’t care anymore. Or as he would say it, “I don’ give a flyin’ fuck!” And from the time he emerged from the hospital, everyone looked at him differently, like he was an abomination. The champ on the other end of the big saw was Big Blue; a monster of a black man who Jed never did forgive. Jed blamed him and every other black person for the mishap.

  And now, here they were, strolling along the road at the most awkward hour;
Jed and Mike with their dirty blonde hair; Bo with his grassy, jet black mop. The three of them wore clothes that could’ve been thrift store specials; holes, stains and faded colors. They also carried the same rubbery, intestinal odor that you’d smell in the corner alley where men urinate. This mangy trio stepped off the main road and approached Mechelle as if they were lazy gunslinging desperados. But, really, all they were looking for was trouble.

  “Hey, Bo, I gotta go piss sumpm’ awful.” Mike made a twisted face at the other two. Bo ignored him while Jed did the introductions.

  “Hey, whatcha doin’ there, lil’ nigger-girl.” Jed spoke at his normal rat-tat-tat speed.

  Mechelle didn’t catch most of what this hillbilly just said, although she did hear the “girl” part of his inquiry. She assumed that the older man was offering help.

  “I . . . a . . . I missed the bus.”

  “Idn’ that right,” one of them said, pouting as if concerned. Meanwhile, the same guy bobbed his head, appraised Mechelle from head to toe, and even seemed more comfortable now. Now, all three of them felt more comfortable easing closer—about 5 feet from where she sat. The boyish looking one propped his foot up on the wooden walkway in front of Mechelle.

  “Where’s ya headed?”

  “New York.”

  “Idn’ that right. A little ole city nigger-girl.”

  Mechelle heard all of that comment, with her legs still pressed up against her chest in an upward fetal position. Her arms and her jaw tightened. No words to express what she was thinking.