Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Before Debbie could pull the lever to get out of the jeep, Jackie came flying out of the screen door, down two steps and through a waist-high wrought iron gate. Debbie hopped down from her seat and they both embraced, each shedding their own silly tears. David unpacked the back of the jeep with that all-systems-go smile, and he followed the two as they chitchatted their way into the house. Debbie fell silent, taken by the atmosphere inside. There were artifacts of every sort on the walls, on the floor and on the tables. The tables and chairs themselves were even cluttered. In a slow-motion ballerina twirl, Debbie became preoccupied with surroundings.

  “Hi!” A man about Debbie’s height popped out from the hallway. He could’ve been a young Sammy Davis Jr., with his head so square. Reaching to shake Debbie’s hand, the guy then turned to help David with the suitcases.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” The guy was trying to do everything for Debbie all at once. And he barely acknowledged David’s presence.

  “Some water,” Debbie answered with the unimposing voice.

  “You just have a seat . . . I’ll get you something nice . . .”

  The kind man shot a shiny glare and smile at Debbie, and David could smell that something was up his sleeve. Debbie nodded, and she moved towards the couch, folding her ankle under her behind. The two men disappeared into the back of the home.

  “That’s Danny,” said Jackie. “He’s Mom’s boyfriend. It’s actually his house. But we’re all family.”

  “What’s with all these African artifacts?” Debbie nodded towards a mask on the wall and tall drum with animal skin stretched at its surface.

  “He’s into that stuff . . . collecting and all. But you ain’t seen the end, girl . . .” And they went on to discuss Danny’s tofu meals, super-nutrition drinks, mandatory Tai-Chi routines, and the sound effects in his bedroom after hours. Jackie made a face when she explained this, but the truth was that she was just happy that her mom was compatible with someone. The idea that her mom was getting the guts boned out of her in the next room was not as outrageous as the fits that she’d go into during her lonely spells without a steady man. A win-win-win situation, if you asked Jackie.

  Settled In

  A week went by before David had opportunity to see Debbie again. The vibe was kept warm with a phone call here and there, but there wasn’t that same “Internet feel” about things. David was busy anyhow; inconsistent. Never content with any one woman. In fact, he was manipulating much more than he could handle. Eventually, however, David came back around. On a chilly Friday evening, David pursued his promise to show Debbie a good time. His idea of a real good time was thwarted somewhat, because he’d encountered some unexpected sexual satisfaction just an hour or so earlier. But the date was already arranged. And so, even though he was spent, he went through with it. David just had that insatiable appetite for more and more.

  “It’s a surprise,” was all he mentioned to Debbie, as they traveled northbound on the Grand Central Parkway. David actually had two surprises up his sleeve for Debbie. But for now, he was feeling that total control as he commanded his Cherokee over the Whitestone Bridge and through the toll. Unbeknownst to Debbie, David was headed for a full course menu of crab legs at JP’s, one of the dozens of fish restaurants on City Island. But once she got in the restaurant . . . once Debbie sat down in front of her plate, she ate like a whale.

  “Damn, baby! Where you puttin’ all that?” David asked while assisting with a nutcracker, breaking the meat free from the crab’s shell, dipping it into the red, spicy cocktail sauce and then feeding it to her directly. For David, this was nothing new; he’d been here plenty of times before with one chick or another. It was actually a while since David had been to JP’s, and he’d almost forgotten how incredible the food was. But for sure, he had been to almost every restaurant on the strip with his crab-feeding, his under-the-table foot games, and the oyster slurping. Deep into his game, Debbie sucked it up like a sponge.

  “Well, just how adventurous are you?” David’s question came after their dinner, while they were traveling away from City Island, northbound on the Hutchinson River Parkway.

  “Pretty damned adventurous, David. I can handle most things, if you don’t recall; I’m a Chi-Town girl.” Indeed, Debbie seemed excited enough to get into anything, so David took a shot.

  “I don’t know . . .” said David.

  Then Debbie said, “Try me.”

  “Okay. Close your eyes.” She did, expecting David to maybe reach over and fondle or kiss her. She braced herself for anything. Almost.

  David had no such thing in mind. He was close to the Pelham exit of the Hutch. He glided up the off-ramp as if by gravitational pull, made a left, caught a few traffic lights and parked.

  “We’re here,” David announced. And with the motor still running, he relaxed in his seat, watching Debbie open her eyes to have a look around. Disregarding the various auto body shops that lined either side of the block, Debbie eventually zoomed in on a crowd that lined up outside of the entrance. Swinging over their heads was the bold and bright sign that read:

  GILMORE’S

  FOOL’S PARADISE

  The Leader in Adult Entertainment.

  Having no idea of the usual Friday night frolic that took place inside of the club, Debbie smiled inquisitively at David while her hands stretched out in front of her to her knees. Bashful, but game.

  After a quick U-turn, David took a vacant parking spot. He ran around to open the passenger door for Debbie and upon closing the door, armed the vehicle’s security system.

  “Bleep-bleep.” The alarm called the attentions of many men who waited in line to pay their $10 admission. And that was just fine with David as he took Debbie’s hand, arrogantly stepping ahead directly to the entrance. Debbie tagged along, in a black, short skirt and a matching blouse. The material clung to her body like cellophane wrap, merely outlining her breasts and curves with somebody’s fabric. The excitement, attention and evening chill further provoked the impressions of her nipples through the clothing.

  As usual, David displayed his familiar savvy at the entrance, attracting Jimmy’s attention and preferential treatment in front of the eager crowd. Upon entering the club, the atmosphere all but sucked the two in, how electric it all was, with wall-to-wall people. Most of the focus was on the main stage where Sadie was twisting her body to the club banger, “Over Like A Fat Rat,” and tossing smiles to as much of the crowd as possible. She was sweaty and glisting. Her attitude was convincing and her dance moves driven. While Sadie captivated the customers, the bartenders and bouncers were politicking to increase their own popularity or stake in the game. Bartenders leaned into individual customers with concern and interest, while bouncers put on their bold veneer of Superfly and Superman, impressing one and all (or trying to) in their muscle-stretched STAFF t-shirts. All the while, two adjacent stages promoted similar hustles, with 2 dancers on each, vying for their own audiences. In the front corner of the club, Gil was counting singles for a customer. And behind that customer was another who also wanted singles. Above everything else, the DJ and his music, the movie screens featuring X-rated films, and the colorful streams of light that flickered throughout the club, made Gilmore’s a completely electrifying experience.

  David was jaded, accustomed to and no longer impressed by the euphoria in the club. Instead, he proudly weaved through the crowd, showing off his new friend, until he reached the VIP area. As an elevated area in perfect view of the main stage, the VIP section was enclosed by decorative wooden railings and accommodated five tables with respective seating. One table still had two empty seats, which David and Debbie quickly occupied. With their backs to a mirrored wall, the two looked on at the heat in motion. David was comfortable; Debbie, on the other hand, was new to this, set in her own moment of silent shock, and yet mesmerized by all the various activity. No words were exchanged as David bopped his head to the beat of the music, hoping that it would rub off on Debbie and that she would grow
just as comfortable. He could see that she was apprehensive about this “surprise” and he refrained from looking her directly in the eye. Instead of facing the honesty of the circumstances, he asked her if she wanted a drink.

  “Could you suggest one for me?” Debbie replied.

  “How about a . . . a rum and Coke?”

  “Cool.” Debbie suddenly twisted her smile into a tight grimace, realizing that David was leaving her alone. Now, she could feel more comfortable! With arms folded, she let her eyes wander. Various areas along the walls in the club were occupied by groups of women, mostly in bikinis or negligees, with just about every one of them shamelessly hunched over, with their hands clenching their knees to brace themselves as they grinded up against the groins of those customers behind them. Those same men kept a tight grip on the dancer’s love handles, hips and even their breasts. On the movie screens above, various porno flicks were showing. In one, a man and women were humped over and under each other, bobbing and bumping into each other’s pubic area.

  At the table next to Debbie were three men and a dancer. They paid that girl their undivided attention, each working hard to strike up meaningful conversation. Debbie peeped the girl concealing a yawn, which when they locked eyes, almost made the two giggle.

  Debbie Meets Moet

  Moet sat with drink in hand, legs crossed, with her attention on the porn flick. Close enough to touch, Moet eventually focused on Debbie and they smiled at one another.

  “First time?” Moet asked.

  “First time here? Yeah. You?”

  “Nah, honey. Like, 10 years in this game. Started when I was like thirteen. I had blessings.” Moet wiggled slightly in her seat, squared off her shoulders and pushed out her chest to emphasize her “blessings”.

  “. . . But you know, the suckers never seem to disappear.” Debbie tried to suppress her laugh, knowing how the three men were within listening distance, but Moet made it easier with her own deep, jolly cackle. And Debbie joined in.

  “I’m Debbie.” Debbie reached out her hand.

  “Okay. And I’m Moet,” and the ladies both shook hands. “My real name is Nadine, but please call me Moet.”

  “Ten years, huh? Wow. Do you like it?”

  “It’s a living. I wanted to go to college, but the money got so good that I stayed with this. Sometimes I wish I went to school. Other times, I love this shit. Depends on the time of the month, I guess.” The two laughed.

  “What’s the money like?” Debbie was curious.

  “I do well . . . sometimes fifteen hundred, sometimes two Gs.” Moet pulled a cigarette from a new pack and offered it to Debbie. Debbie raised her hand to say no and Moet put the white stick to her lips. One of her customers played humble servant, flicking at his lighter again and again; on the fourth try, a short flame popped up.

  “Baby, you need to step your lighter-game together, fo’ real.” Moet brushed her admirer away and turned back to Debbie.

  “A month?”

  “No. A week.”

  “Wow. The club pays you that much?”

  “No. The club doesn’t pay, boo. Most of my money is in tips or bachelor parties.” Moet sucked on the cigarette and released a relieved stream of smoke into the air.

  “You thinkin’ about gettin’ down?”

  “I’m just visiting, really. But the money sure sounds good.” Debbie looked back towards Sadie. She was now pressed up against the mirrors on the wall behind the stage, arms extended, jiggling her shiny ass in rhythm with the music. The DJ mixed in “Encore” while, one by one, men stepped to the stage and tossed singles into the growing pile.

  “Your . . . good love . . . deserves . . . an encore!”

  “That is the jam,” Debbie testified while Moet sang.

  “Don’t get me wrong, girlfriend . . . I make that kind of money . . . she makes that kind of money . . .” Moet pointed to Sadie with her nod. “. . . But she doesn’t make our kind of money.” Moet had directed her remark towards Claudine, who was nearby at a table on the main floor, practically begging with excessive fawning and flashing. Just then, Debbie could see that David was making his way back to the table with two drinks in his hands.

  Moet also saw David coming. That’s when she said, “Listen. I don’t know how you got with that loser, but if you want to make some real money, meet some real men . . .” Moet fumbled quickly for a business card. “. . . call me.” Debbie squinted, disturbed by Moet’s comment. But David was back at the table by now. He curiously acknowledged Moet, as she did him, and he passed the rum and Coke to Debbie. The couple spent the next hour watching the excitement of dancers wiggling, gyrating and touching themselves in front of a capacity crowd of about 200 anxious men. Debbie tried to count the shower of money that fell at the feet of the dancers. By 1AM she lost count.

  Back in David’s jeep, he attempted to feel her out. For the most part, despite the euphoria that consumed her mind with images and sounds from the club, Debbie was quiet about the experience. She couldn’t shake the comment from Moet. She kept thinking “loser” and “real men.” But her comments were contradicted by David’s actions and words. The Internet, on the phone, at the restaurant. He was so polite; a gentleman. He was humorous and seemed to know a lot. All those months that Debbie had invested, believing that he filled voids for her. And his poem . . . David’s poem set a fire in her heart. Nobody ever wrote or said anything so beautiful to her. Somehow, she found herself looking for a crack in such a perfect picture. Was he putting on an act?

  The trip back to Queens was a confusing one. Debbie didn’t have those same romantic feelings that she had earlier. She easily dozed off, awaiting the view of Jackie’s house. She needed to know more about David before they went any further. She had let him get close to her heart, but did she really know him? Moet would tell her more, of that she was sure.

  A quaint kiss and hug ended the night. But the next morning brought questions and concerns that couldn’t escape Debbie’s every thought. She had grown so callous because of the various nightmares back in Chicago and feeling the weight and responsibility of achieving in the name of the Rose family. Part of that responsibility meant being in good hands and on the right path.

  Moet.

  The business card Debbie received didn’t even have Moet’s name printed. There was simply a phone number in glossy, raised black print, in the center of the card. Considering Moet’s blessings, less was certainly more. When Debbie finally connected with her, the two agreed to spend the night out. Moet provided the transportation, driving her brand new Mercedes Benz. They made small talk on the way to Moet’s favorite restaurant, Mobay in Harlem. The journey was a short one, past LaGuardia Airport, over the Triboro Bridge, through the toll and down 125th Street. Moet double parked outside of the popular Harlem hot spot, which had already developed an early crowd. Unusual for a Saturday night. Many other sporty vehicles were also double parked in the vicinity of the restaurant.

  Moet and Debbie stepped proudly towards the Mobay entrance, like celebrities deserving of fanfare. They blended into the night, a part of this impeccable Harlem night. Before Moet had a chance to step through the doorway a homeless man with dark clothing and crusty hygiene ran up as if to accost her. Debbie gasped under her breath, but then she realized that the scruffy man was offering to keep an eye on the car while they were inside. Moet always kept her car clean anyhow. Cleaned and polished. She also had a silent alarm built into the vehicle that was designed to alert the cellphone on her waist. But the guy was polite and humble and convenient for Moet to impress her present company. Without haggling, Moet agreed to let the guy take care of her car while she and Debbie disappeared inside of Mobay. The homeless man scurried to retrieve his bucket and rag.

  Quickly becoming a cornerstone of Harlem’s dining and nightlife, Mobay was suitable for Moet and Debbie to have a heart to heart talk. Tevin Campbell’s classic song, “Can We Talk” was playing just loud enough to encourage customers to lean in for a little more intimacy
in their conversations. Bartenders and waiters bounced from one patron to another, wearing neat black and white uniforms, pleasant attitudes and blending evenly with the buzzing, humming crowd. Every one of the seats, it seemed, was occupied. Some drinkers were standing shoulder to shoulder with one another for even more personal discussion.

  Moet and Debbie made their way through the musks and perfumes of the thick, well-dressed crowd, and into the dining room where reserved seats were awaiting them. A maitre d’ greeted the ladies and escorted them. Table candles were lit throughout the room, flickering about the faces of diners and silverware in use. Fine art hung about the walls. A few ceiling fans and flowers on each table and excellent Caribbean food completed the authentic and genuine dining experience.

  A waitress readily stepped up to hand menus to the ladies and suggested the fish of the day. After ordering drinks and finding themselves in their own intimate sphere, Debbie thought it as good a time as any to ask some questions.

  “What’s it worth to ya?” Moet tried to break the seriousness in Debbie’s face. “Just kiddin’ . . . loosen up, girl. He’s just a man. I deal with men everyday—I damn near have a Ph.D. in the field.”

  “So I’ll ask you again . . . what’s wrong with David?” Debbie sipped at the glass of water that the waitress poured for her.

  “I think he’s a user. That’s another way . . . another word for a pimp.” (Debbie visibly gulped her water.) “That’s right . . . I said pimp.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Debbie asked, a bit defensive. Chaka Khan’s voice was now romancing the establishment.

  “You mean, besides seeing him with a different girl every now and then? Girlfriend, listen, the guy’s a fuckin’ pimp-wanna-be-mack, whateva. He even tried to fuck me. He tried to . . .”

  “So that’s what this is about? Cuz y’all didn’t hit it off, I’m s’pose to turn his lights off?” Moet restrained herself, aware that nearby tables were too close for her peak emotions.