Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  The Gilmore’s staff was somewhat aware of Douglass’s presence. But that virtual immunity prevailed in spite of him; that anything-goes attitude lived on in the establishment, with almost each and every employee out for themselves, could not affect his own protective shield. Douglass often maintained an attitude which checked or inhibited others from walking over him. He rarely fraternized with staff or dancers, since doing so might seem to condone their ongoing conspiracies. Instead—and this was entirely not healthy for the business, or his relationships with others—Douglass kept a skeptical eye on anyone whom his father had even remote trust in. In fact, these various challenges fueled Douglass’s own artistic arrogance—the sort that inspired creativity, productivity and mystique. The kind that said loudly, “Leave me alone and let me fly.”

  Short of the uncontrollable capital gains and the unexplainable fever that Fool’s Paradise provoked as “the leader in adult entertainment,” nothing was going according to Douglass’s vision and intentions for a successful nightclub. Moreover, Gil kept his son at a distance from any proprietary interests or decisions having to do with the club. The frustrations continued on.

  Porn Queens

  Fool’s Paradise was poetically licensed when it came to healing its own wounds with good times, euphoria and thrills. The second year in the Bronx saw tremendous growth despite the club’s inner ills, mainly because of exclusive stage shows by some of the porn industry’s most notable black stars. Angel, Jeanni, Nina, Ebony and Heather were all featured at Gilmore’s and therefore also served to endorse the existence of the club, making Fool’s Paradise their second home.

  When it came to promoting Gilmore’s, Douglass was the brand ambassador. In other words, he helped spread the word about the business. This escalated the stakes, and it helped to draw in bigger shows and names. He tried white porn stars and even Vegas showgirl types (complete with sequined pasties over their nipples). But the overall audience response wasn’t pretty, and in some cases audience members nearly tossed their drinks at performers. That was the last mistake Douglass would make when showcasing performers. Even if the audience was a mix of cultures, they expected women of color here at Gilmore’s. And not that color had anything to do with skin tone—just that there was a hunger for that down ’n dirty street savvy; that homegirl who knew how to shake her ass and bare all without shame. Ethnic girls with ethnic features—big butts, shapely breasts, wide, alluring and succulent lips. Even Latino and white girls with ethnic features worked well in the club. Those were the types that made Gilmore’s shine. Those were the types that the customers wanted to get to know, to watch, and, if they were lucky, get to grind up against the wall with. To bring anything less than what the customers wanted was a learning experience for Douglass.

  At the time, the newest, hottest performer in adult videos was Dominique. And Douglass had to have her. With no readily available directory of phone numbers for porn stars, he did some light research of video production companies until he was directed to a Hollywood studio that shot most of Dominique’s films. She didn’t have a manager or agent to speak for her, so, bemused at the idea of having skills in hunting for and finding hot sex stars, Douglass managed to reach her directly by phone.

  “I never been to New York,” she told him on the call. So instead of going through the usual routine that he’d grown accustomed to—agents, hotels and limousines—Douglass handled Dominique with kid gloves. For example, she didn’t know what to charge for a stage show. So, naturally, he suggested a price for her. Not to mention, Domonique was so green in the business that she didn’t even have a stage show to speak of!

  “Don’t worry yourself, baby. Take my word for it, any lil’ wiggle and smile will work in my club. All the customers want is to see you up close, live and in living color.”

  Naturally, the phone calls led to their meeting at the La-Guardia Airport arrival terminal. And even if he didn’t know what she looked like in her raunchy films, or even if he wasn’t the one spearheading the promotion of her appearance, Douglass couldn’t have missed Dominique standing in the baggage claim area of the terminal. She was larger than her movies projected her to be. Full of life, the porn star was not only taller, but more colorful in person. It could have been the heels on her yellow cowgirl boots, or the suntan that was common of westerners. But her presence seemed to call out to him, until moments later, for the first time in his life, Douglass was escorting a porno star!

  Lanky, but stunning at first sight, with some obvious signs of breast enhancement (her breasts curved much too high and expanded too much at the sides), Dominique had an intoxicating, brilliant cocoa brown shine. Douglass could see that her hair was purchased, but he had to admit it looked good—natural and deliberately black and long, with the mane swooping down against her white leather outfit. The pants hugged whatever curves and calves she did have, and the vest was opened to permit an all-access view of her studded black brassiere, and the loop of gold that pierced her navel. Her loud appearance was completed by a yellow sombrero and those tassels that dangled along the sleeves of the vest.

  Besides her packaging, Dominique was spunky and vibrant with enthusiastic eyes and a smile that seemed so willing to surrender. Then there was that pep to her walk and the adventurous attitude that had Douglass thinking that he’d commissioned a whore, since everything appeared so . . . for sale. But he easily dismissed it all as naive and dizzy.

  Maintaining that trademark no-nonsense demeanor, Douglass chauffered Dominique to his home and designated her to a guest room. As though he was revealing a new pair of cufflinks for all to see, he then took his new guest out to eat, to some nightclubs, and even shopping. She was his ultimate marketing tool for all that men (shallow men, at least) loved in a woman. Big tits. Big, luscious lips, and big, alluring bedroom eyes.

  At the time of Domonique’s visit to New York, Douglass was still steady with Mechelle, his live-in girlfriend. And she didn’t seem to have any problems with this other woman in his home. Besides, the idea of a porn star being so accessible in Douglass’s house was at least novel to the two lovers. Mechelle did no less than turned on the charm. She also turned up her own sexual motors, somehow wanting to prove to Douglass that she was just as good, if not better, than Dominique was; or maybe, quiet as she kept it, she was insecure about her place in Douglass’s life. But as hard as Mechelle tried, there was no need for persuasion. Douglass was a committed man and just not interested in fucking a porn star.

  On the second morning during her two-week stay, Douglass made up a breakfast tray and carried it waiter-style directly to Domonique’s room. Still getting over a slight jet lag and adjustment to the east, Dominique was sprawled across the bed totally nude, and the door to the hallway was partially opened.

  “Whoa!” Douglass barely breathed the exclamation as he took one real good voyeur’s look at her. His eyes bugged out to see how her breasts didn’t relax naturally, how they took on box-like shapes. For a moment he stood there at the doorway watching her. He could even see the healed incisions at the outer edges of her nipples, where her enhancement operations were executed. The gross gashes on this woman’s most precious jewels were suddenly aberrations to Douglass, confusing his foremost references of this woman’s humping, shrieking, sucking and slurping. And to think that Douglass swore he knew this woman so personally. But standing so close to her naked body, no makeup, or crafty camera angles, and . . .

  Where’s all the hair!? A wig! Douglass quickly knew for sure that he really didn’t know this woman at all. And what he thought he knew was but smoke and mirrors.

  Knocking at the door, Douglass kept a respectable distance with the plate of soft scrambled eggs. That sweet morning aroma no doubt helped him to wake Dominique. Lazily, the woman didn’t flinch or cover up; instead, she casually lifted herself, took the breakfast tray and began to eat and talk naturally, as if her body was nude like this 24 hours a day. During Dominique’s breakfast she managed to put Douglass on the spot.


  “Okay . . . don’t hold it in.”

  “What?”

  “You look like you got a whole lot of porn-star questions. I can see it in your eyes. So, don’t hold it in. Ask away.”

  “Well, to be honest with you, no . . . I’ve never really thought about it,” Douglass answered her reasonably.

  “Your eyes are lying, Gilmore. You mind if I call you that?”

  “They usually call my pop that, but—I guess it’s okay.”

  “Well, Mister Gilmore, about your views, I can already understand your point of view,” she said. “I’m sure you have a bunch of whys and whats and hows in your chest; all those questions dying to get out. Come on . . . I get this kinda stuff all the time. Plus, I’m curious about how you see me.”

  “How about if you start, Dominique. You tell me about how you feel as a porn star.” Douglass was careful. He could hear that she wanted to have a big discussion about this, and he leaned against the doorjamb to lend her that ear she wanted. He folded his arms like a shrink looking on.

  “I didn’t actually grow up wanting to be a porn star. I like, wanted to be an actress and all. But I never thought I’d be acting . . . like this.”

  “Do you like what you do?”

  “Well, I really like sex,” she explained like a true fiend. “So there’s very little acting that I have to do. But before I do a shoot, I’ve like, gotta get loaded first.”

  “Loaded?”

  “You know. Like, I have to have, like, a six pack of Heiny or something. My first gig was like that. I was seeing this video producer back then. I was drinking, and one thing led to another. Next thing I know, I’m doin’ it all the time . . . with everyone,” she said, giggling.

  Douglass stood dumbfounded, sneaking an eyeful of her each time she went to scoop food into her mouth, examining every area of her body as he listened to her go on about her 3 breast augmentations and her aspirations of crossing over into the real film market as a legit actress. Tough chance, Douglass told himself.

  That encounter with Dominique wasn’t the first or the last time Douglass would be exposed to porn stars. In fact, these interactions came more frequently with each passing month. His favorite starlet was Heather. Except, where Dominique didn’t excite Douglass in the least, Heather did just the opposite. It was Heather’s movies that jaded Douglass as a teenager. Watching her films taught him what to expect from a woman and also how to reciprocate a woman’s attentions. Even as recent as a year before the club moved to the Bronx, Douglass was talking about Heather’s talent (especially her giving blow jobs) with college students who actively traded her tapes. Heather was that fine, fair-skinned cutie who indirectly lured him to want to see more and more porn flicks, until he eventually OD’d on the practice. And by the time the club opened, by the time those endless loops of X-rated films played constantly on the club’s giant screens, Douglass had seen it all. And still, Heather was that fantasy vixen who left very little to the imagination in her performing oral sex on selected male and female partners. With her sound effects and extremely passionate facial expressions, there was no doubt that she was not acting, and that she was enjoying it. On screen, Heather had perfect round shapes and curves, with no evidence of breast implants. She had those naturally large and erect breasts, and didn’t seem to need any excessive accessories such as wigs, or piled-on makeup. She also had those full, luscious lips, and captivating doe eyes. All of that packaged on such a flawless, petite frame was attractive to Douglass. Bigger than that, Heather was always so adventurous in her movies, with all of the form and flexibility that a gymnastics champ would envy. She was simply that wholesome, girl-next-door type that could never disappoint you, with an innocent, youthful appeal; and yet, underneath that good-girl mask, this was the raunchiest, nastiest sexual being on the planet—at least in this young man’s eyes. And nobody did it better in the fuck flicks as far as Douglass’s eyes could see.

  Demetrious

  After 2 years of weekly talent showcases, Douglass became less interested in the production of his Westchester Talent Competition. Often feeling burdened by the monotony of the same ole performers, singing the same ole songs and following the same ole routines of expression. The Wind Beneath My Wings, The Greatest Love Of All, and, of course, all of Mariah Carey’s songs. Week in and week out Douglass would have to go home and cope with those tunes conflicting with his sound sleep. Besides that, the amateur-talent end of his enterprise was outdone by his growth and consistency in the more interesting field of television and the maintenance and marketing of the family business, Fool’s Paradise. Inevitably, time constraints and the overall stress was taxing. So Douglass consolidated his interests. Most of his cash flow was now coming from the club, and that enabled him to comfortably finance his ongoing television show.

  Even the TV show experienced its growing pains, shedding its skin and excluding amateur talent altogether. Abandoning that format, along with all of its mixed nuts of aspiring entertainers was a huge relief, and it simply left more airtime for a more focused effort; a platform for more popular entertainers and icons who were cumulatively and essentially creating a steady stream of substance and power in music, television and film. Now, the show could really live up to its claim:

  “THE MOST ENTERTAINING 60 MINUTES ON TELEVISION.”

  Anyone who assisted behind the scenes in the live productions now contributed and took on the responsibility of learning the necessary tasks of television production. Those who were once stage managers, ticket takers and organizers now trained to become cameramen, assistant directors and on-air personalities. The SuperStar team kept an “open door policy,” all the while allowing individuals with their own energies and input to join in on the good time.

  Demetrius was just one of those who fit well within those channels. D (Demetrius’s nickname) more or less became involved and joined the team as a natural component of the operations. He was once a model in a fashion show at the Palace—the same venue at which Douglass staged his talent shows. However, a chemistry ensued between Douglass and Demetrius, even if they were virtual opposites. While Douglass had his foot firmly planted in the booty business, and this business was somewhat spearheading and subsidizing his direction in life, D was a born-again Christian. He frequently read the Bible and did all that he could to practice what he preached. Besides preaching (only amongst his friends), D studied nine forms of martial arts and a single form of abstinence. Douglass admired his friend for his discipline, faith and enthusiasm for his beliefs and practices. D had that absolute power of a man who, despite all, was determined to follow and believe. It was a ritual that Douglass could barely imagine, much less follow. He was too busy having fun; too much a product of his environment. Sex and cash.

  Within no time, Douglass had incorporated D in his life and his home. D not only became a best friend, but in a way, Douglass saw him as his own personal ninja. The camaraderie also served to fill the void that Douglass was feeling—how he was missing that genuine security in his life. The police couldn’t provide that; he wasn’t into guard dogs; and he didn’t own a firearm. D, in so many ways, was that firearm.

  When D moved in, it also created a buffer for him to catch up to his own lingering after-college financial loan responsibilities.

  “They just keep calling,” he told Douglass when they discussed the possibility of D moving in. “They don’t even give you breathing room after college! They expect me to immediately get the job of my dreams and to cash in and pay that loan off.”

  “So, your solution was to max-out a credit card?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I was paying off the loan with the card while I was still looking for a job. Plus, I was still pursuing my modeling career, and—”

  “Damn, D. It looks like you got swallowed into a black hole.”

  “More than you know. See, while I was working that one card I was being sent approved cards from other—”

  “Oh no . . .”

  “Oh, YES! They sent me seven
other cards. Soon, I started to just live off of the cards. Taking from Peter to pay Paul and whatnot . . .”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Douglass.

  “He is having mercy, now that I ran into you. You’re my safety net right now!” And so, D found refuge after a year of surviving on credit cards, and the creditors who had been chasing him. Douglass quickly situated D with a position at the club where he could make some unreported income. And, as it turned out, D was probably the best and most valuable member of the staff. D wasn’t hired in time to witness that corrections officer who stormed into the club that night, waving that gun like a madman. If he had, he would have likely snatched the weapon and delivered a forearm to the guy’s chest in the same move. Nonetheless, even D’s mere presence was acknowledged and respected by all.

  It was during one of Heather’s engagements at Fool’s Paradise that this most unexpected relationship began. The Porn Star & The Preacher-Ninja might be an awfully long movie title, but it would be an appropriate one to describe this most unique occasion—how in this busy Fool’s Paradise (with a mob of porn fans begging for Heather’s eyes to find them, all of them in one way or another testifying their appreciation of her presence on stage before them), Heather almost lost her balance when she caught an eyeful of Demetrius for the first time. D didn’t notice her interest in him since he was on the job and so much a disciplined soldier of the Lord—uninterested in lusting after the flesh like the majority of patrons and staff in the club. He didn’t bother like most others to pay Heather the attention that her performance demanded. Even Heather wouldn’t know that D was simply performing his nightly ritual of focus that the job required. Heather also wouldn’t know that D routinely shunned propositions from the club’s top-shelf dancers. But for certain she was about to become another victim, already magnetized and set afire by D’s looks. Demetrius had that perfectly chiseled body of a stone sculpture. Not too big nor too small, he was something of a darker shaded Tarzan or Fabio. If not for his unconventional looks—the ponytail; that rough and aggressively wide step; and, of course, his unbreakable defensive demeanor—women could easily mistake D for one of the world’s most popular soap opera stars. And that’s pretty close to the way women treated, reacted to, and approached Demetrius; as if he was a movie star. Countless phone calls and jealous pursuits of fatal attraction were just some of the baggage D had to cope with. And if he wasn’t at home to receive a phone call, it wasn’t uncommon for Douglass to get cursed out for not uttering the answer the caller wanted: Yes, of course he’s here. I’ll get him!