Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Dino rented a schoolbus, and on a chilly Monday morning, everyone loaded up in front of the club. There were close to 70 dancers in all, including Valerie, Debbie and Mechelle. Mechellee was 7 months pregnant now, and more than ashamed of having left—either that, or it was just damned convenient to be amongst friends.

  There were also 5 staff members who boarded the bus. Demetrius acted as chief of security and Dino drove. A boom box kept things lively with a DJ Envy mix tape, and Greg addressed the group with instructions and predictions for the occasion. Meanwhile, the bus was a blur of fur coats, leather outfits, calf-high boots and perfume. Valerie acted as resident waitress, passing out cups of hot coffee and crumpets from Dunkin’ Donuts. Dino and Demetrius chatted about the best directions to Passaic County Jail, as the bus continued on its pilgrimage to FREE GILMORE!

  In New Jersey, a block away from the jail, Dino paid a gas station attendant twenty bucks to create a parking space on his property as the dancers engaged in their last-minute preparations; pushing up their vinyl halter tops or adjusting their skin-tight pants. One girl might be pulling her hair back into a purposeful ponytail, while another was adjusting a wig. Someone else was retouching her makeup. Finally, one by one, dark and light shades of brown-skinned women descended the steps of the big yellow school bus. The women were voluptuous, colorful and wide awake. They carried big signs and banners that proclaimed “FREE GILMORE!” “JERSEY INJUSTICE LIVES!” “LONG LIVE SLAVERY!” “PASSAIC’S TOBACCO GAS CHAMBER!” “MANDATORY SMOKING-OPTIONAL JUSTICE!” “FALSE IMPRISONMENT + FALSE ARREST = TRUE CRIME!” The banners and signs said it all, while being held and waved by a casting call for the world’s biggest outdoor strip show.

  An audience was inevitable. But instead of the area being bombarded by a stream of exotic entertainment, onlookers were surprised by revolt and protest towards law enforcement, the judicial system and the torture inside the jail. Never was a picket line so attractive! So alluring! Such a contradiction! Darryl had his video camera rolling, as he maneuvered to obtain exclusive footage for the special broadcast he was arranging with some local news stations back in New York. He was plotting to reach 8 million homes with the story.

  All the while, the dancers kept with the plan and followed instructions, walking in line formation, stepping to the leadership of Cinnamon. She initiated the vocal rap.

  “Let Douglass Gilmore Go—

  He Didn’t Murder, No!

  You Had No Right To Take Our Man

  You’d Better Let ’Em Go!”

  Even the gas station attendant was unfocused, following the dancers with his eyes, and already pumping $18.00 worth of unleaded fuel for a $5 purchase.

  By the time the curvaceous cavalry of calves assembled in front of the Passaic County Jail, the area was raining with bystanders. It was still a bit chilly, but the dancers kept warm with loud chants and a determined march in an endless, elongated oval. Darryl weaved through the onlookers to catch their expressions on camera, and also captured the excitement of uniformed corrections officers who stood outside of the jail’s entrance. Within an hour, the bright light of the sun created brilliant setting for the live UPN9 news broadcast that reached an estimated 12 million homes. Reporters appeared one after another, from talk radio and newspapers—all part of Greg’s plan. His four Georgetown buddies were also present with pads in hand, following the marchers and recording statements. They helped to turn up the volume on the event, pulling cellphones out at various opportunities, pretending as if they were doing some instant reporting to a higher authority. During the next hour, vans showed up from 2 New York networks (another 15 million homes that would be exposed to the conflict). Eventually, the street was closed off and Danni couldn’t help but to enjoy the chemistry of it all. And now, one idea was not only affecting the hundreds of people who congregated in the streets, but also tens of millions of viewers, readers and listeners who might be at work or home.

  One of the dancers pumped the volume on the boom box, and Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life” banged through the speakers, boosting the energy of the march. Dozens of voices were now screeching with the hook in the jam, lil-orphan-Annie-style, bopping along with signs floating up and down in the air. They all shouted in chorus:

  “. . . I flow for chicks wishin’

  they din’ have to strip to pay tuition,

  I see yo’ vision, Mama!”

  Police presence increased, but the demonstration continued for an hour or so until 1PM. The movement was noisy enough to affect the morning rush hour and the afternoon lunch hour. Mission accomplished.

  When the bus returned to New York, Greg had a buffet waiting at Fool’s Paradise for the troops. In addition to the food, there were pads of differing stationary and pens ready for a post-picket letter writing campaign. In the rear of the club, while the enterprise continued to bustle with music and exposed tah-tahs, Greg addressed the ladies once again.

  “Thank you once again for your time and energy today. There’s one more quick task I need to ask of you. In your own words, write a Dear Judge letter. Let the judge know your association to Douglass Gilmore, what you know about him and even Moet. If you know more, then write more. If not, speak with my colleagues standing here in blazers and ties—the reporters who approached you in New Jersey . . .”

  A few chuckles erupted.

  “If you’re angry about what’s going on, then spill your guts. The only way this issue will become really big is if we make it so.” After a few questions and answers, and a full plate of food, the dancers got kicking. They jotted down their feelings, concerns about Douglass, the conditions at the jail, and they questioned why the case was dragging on for so long. The efforts in the rear of the club drew more and more attraction from the crowd of regular customers. Many of them even totally ignored the action on stage until there was no more stage show. Soon, everyone in the club, including customers and staff, became engrossed in the letter writing. For some dancers, it was back to English 101, as in some cases customers leaned over and assisted them with spelling and syntax. For others, it was a frenzy, having not written a letter in months or years.

  Gil was busy himself, in the office with the door locked and Claudine‘s head bobbing up and down between his legs.

  A Firm Go

  Brenda was quite bold, inspired by desperation. It was more than a month since her last episode with Ken; or for that matter, with anyone. She felt that she had put a “down payment” on a relationship and that she “invested” quality time. She expected something more out of it, if even an explanation as to why Ken hadn’t returned her calls. There were 2 returned phone calls from Ken to Brenda’s 10 messages. Both of his calls (and she was certain that he calculated the timing) came when she was on the air.

  To keep her mind off of Ken (if that was possible), Brenda practically found things to do at her place; and if not that, she watched news footage of the various baseball games that Ken pitched in—videos that she got from the sports desk at work. Nonetheless, she still anticipated their next tryst. And one more thing on her mind:

  I still owe him one more slave hour.

  Inevitably, the distance encouraged the naughtiness in her; a good enough excuse for her to act on her instincts. She grew balls since being with Ken Stevens—enough to find herself across the street from his building in the Village. It was just another night for her. The broadcast was the usual scatter of grief and theory for awestruck viewers to absorb appreciatively or apprehensively. Either way, Brenda knew, they had to eat it up regardless.

  Brenda sat quietly in her platinum Lex, munching on golden honey apple chips, watching vehicles cruise into and up out of the garage in Ken’s building. It was nearing midnight. She subconsciously timed the raising and lowering of the garage door, suddenly wondering if her idea would work.

  Brenda poked at her cell phone, expecting again to hear Ken’s answering machine. When his voice sounded in that same ole digital tone she hung up and waited for the right time to strike. When
the opportunity afforded itself, Brenda followed another car down into the garage—using that access as her own. It was something Brenda recalled Ken doing when he had first brought her home. And now, those minor details were making things so much easier. Those little tidbits of information were turning this into somewhat of an adventure, and so far her plan was working smoothly. She peeled off from behind the leading vehicle into the direction of Ken’s parking space. The idea was to be impulsive; to surprise him as he had her the morning she read his journal. And the further she moved along, the more confident she grew about her plan.

  Okay, so maybe she did see something like this before, an idea she ripped off from the movie Boomerang (with Eddie Murphy and Robin Givens), when she surprised him with that sexy teddy under her overcoat. Brenda smiled, knowing that Robin’s character had nothing on the baseball outfit that Brenda had in store; how she aimed to shed every thread of clothing she had on, and to surprise Ken when he came home. She hoped he would be returning soon, but as she made the bend and looked for his parking space, his black Navigator was already parked. The engine was cold.

  Funny, she thought. I just called him less than a half an hour ago. Brenda pouted, and in her own deep thought, she contemplated some alternatives.

  Again with the impulsive behavior, and remembering the dynamics that were required to operate the elevator, Brenda waited a few more moments for the resident to lift up and away before she stepped up to press the button herself. The car eventually returned to the basement and Brenda executed the actions of her “master,” Ken. Up she went, deeper than ever into her surprise attack, expecting to blow Ken’s mind. Even before the elevator reached the second and third levels, Brenda took the leap of faith and began to shed her clothes. She began with her top, then she stepped out of her slacks. By the fourth and fifth floors she deliberated about her bra and panties, asking herself if Ken was worthy. Thoughts of his celebrity, fame and fortune encouraged her further and before the elevator finally stopped she squinted, concentrating on how far she and Ken had gone and the taboos that she’d turned in his bed. Brenda paused for a few beats, the elevator moving upward with every passing second.

  Hell, you’ve already seen everything, she determined. And that’s when she told herself, fuck it. Brenda anticipated Ken’s wide eyes and hungry manhood as she dropped her head, looking down at her naked, proud nipples. Her nostrils flared with heavy anticipation, and she deviled her eyebrows in that fiendish, satisfied expression. Her mind was eventually consumed with a playful mischief, as the car came to a halt at the penthouse. Brenda rolled the tip of her tongue along the surface of her teeth, as though she had her own slam dunk to execute. She carefully pulled the strap, separating the horizontal doors of the elevator. The atmosphere was as dark and cavernous as when she first visited.

  He’s sleeping; no need for him to activate the alarm, she reckoned. Then, with the doors still fully opened, and the elevator’s light lending subtle visibility, Brenda gathered her clothes, tossed them to the floor inside the loft, and she gently closed the doors behind her. With the room pitch black again, Brenda sidestepped the welcome mat and used the moon’s glow to guide her to the hallway. There were pin lights along the edges of the carpet, leading towards the back, right side of the loft. There were also pin lights leading up the stairway in the dining room. She climbed cautiously, wanting to take Ken by complete surprise. She wanted to amaze Ken with her own creative spontaneity. But as Brenda rounded the corner to Ken’s fairytale bedroom, she was consumed by the scent of sex, flickering candlelight and a mellow volume of Roy Ayers’ Everybody Loves The Sunshine.

  Brenda took a deep breath as she tiptoed closer, with her eyelids fluttering, enough to get caught up in her own amazement. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Ken was voraciously billowing on top of a young, submissive, hairless Latin boy. He couldn’t have been more than 17 or 18 years old at most. And there was Ken, piling into the boy’s asshole as if he was a human jackhammer. The youth was arched over with his face buried into a few pillows, his ass elevated and his reaction muffled.

  Umphs and arghs.

  Brenda’s reaction on the other hand wasn’t muffled, just stiffed. Her presence was unfelt. The bedroom activity was so intense, so aggressive, that Brenda almost wanted to applaud. For a few seconds of measuring Ken’s audacity, listening to the profanities and watching his smelly, raunchy pummelling, Brenda stood in awkward amusement. She folded her arms. Then she shifted her position, her stance, and switched her hands to rest on her naked hips. She almost became jealous! When Brenda saw how much Ken was perspiring, that took the cake. She busted out laughing, sincerely tickled that Ken was putting in so much effort. Her explosive scorn was, of course, loud enough for Ken to hear. And the action stopped completely. Brenda threw her open fist to her lips too late. Dizzy with the shock of it all, and realizing that she’d been discovered, she went on giggling at the absurdity, then she pivoted and went quickly to retrieve her clothes at the entrance to the loft. Still a little delirious, Brenda wondered aloud, “How did I ever miss this in his journal.”

  She descended the stairs and headed for her clothes in a determined stride. She could hear Ken calling out to her, hurrying to catch up to her. Real quickly, she turned to see his bathrobe flying open in the rush. And just as Brenda was crouching down to pick up her clothes, Ken grasped her elbow and spun her around.

  “What are you doing here?” Ken was irate. But Brenda was questioning his nerve. The whole revelation was a gas. Ken Stevens the jock. The 64-million dollar man. The slave master. The fucking homo! Brenda was shouting with her mind, and all the while still caught up in sheer disbelief. She observed his slightly glistening limp dick between the folds of the robe that he had hastily tied.

  “Ahem!” Brenda drew her head back an inch and looked down, challenging Ken’s hand on her elbow. Ken immediately released her. She went back to collect her clothes, stepping and reaching into them.

  “Mr. Stevens. We can talk about this another time. I wouldn’t want to disturb your moment with the batboy. By the way, is that boy of age?” Brenda paused for a moment, then she went back to finish fastening and buttoning. “As a matter of fact, you know what? Never mind. I don’t wanna know . . .”

  Now a tear in her eye. Ken just stood there speechless.

  “. . . just tell me something . . .” Brenda was now finished with her clothes, just enough time to finally inhale. She gathered her thoughts. “Was our thing . . . was that serious, or were you just using me?” she hissed. Ken began to speak through trembling lips. But again, Brenda cut him off. “And don’t you fuckin’ lie to me!” She had her forefinger in his face.

  “I . . . I do . . . care about you.” Ken’s hesitation made her furious. All she needed was a 2-foot reach, and she used that reach to smack him hard across his face. Then, Brenda turned to open the elevator doors. But they didn’t give in her haste. She spun to address Ken with that raised brow.

  All she had to say was, “Now!” Brenda contracted the muscles in her face, more frightening than a cobra, willing him to act. Defeated, Ken moved to help her and she left.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Behind the Scenes

  The first early morning demonstration outside of Passaic County Jail was so effective that the team set it up for a second go at it. The dancers all agreed, even if just for kicks. Naturally, when they became aware of all the publicity and television news coverage, the outfits were embellished just a tad bit. Sequined bras. Glittering, shimmering, bright, skin-tight skirts and plenty of fishnet stockings. Not to mention all of those fabulous hairstyles. Sum it up to the girls all going beyond the call of duty to look their best, as if they were looking for that golden Hollywood opportunity. They certainly fulfilled the objective, attracting a small legion of followers. Even men that worked at the jail and in the vicinity became addicts and voyeurs of the voluptuous demonstrators; establishing conversations, some even taking the 40-minute trip down I-95 to see more of their flesh after wo
rk. You had to love it when a plan came together.

  Fred Gordon left an indelible impression on his viewers, detailing the issues relating to Douglass’s arrest and the case in general, while blasting the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s office for mishandling many of the various elements. The young man was in jail for over 7 months without the setting of a trial date, or without the benefit of knowing what evidence he was facing. Hell, those weren’t benefits, but his legal rights as a citizen protected under the U.S. law. Fred also focused on the horrid conditions at the county jail and the stream of incidents that endlessly branded the facility as the worst of the worst. Moreover, Fred kept the intensity with a follow-up story after the dancers demonstrated the second time.

  The Fabulous Five filled in the various pockets of regional and national press outfits with stories and subjects that ranged from “THE TRAGIC LIFE OF A DANCER,” to “MURDER WITHOUT A SUSPECT.” Their editorials and columns were strategically placed in all major publications, newspapers and just about every well known black magazine. But not only was the country familiar with the Gilmore case and the FREE GILMORE! campaign, Douglass was suddenly becoming a household name along with his various accomplishments, contributions to the community, and the unusual circumstances that put him in the cleft of purgatory. If there were any negative marks on his life’s blueprint, they were far outweighed by the good he’d spread. Funny how the press can turn anything they wanted into a newsworthy feature.

  Brenda Feather quickly defeated her thoughts of feeling used, because now it was all about her J—O—B. After she caught Ken red-handed . . . after she went out of her way to creep up into his loft, lifting the big elevator doors and all . . . trespassing nonetheless . . . just so that she could surprise him with her naked body! She went through all of that only to find him fucking one of the Yankee batboys in the ass!! It was enough to make her scream! She still couldn’t believe it! The motherfucker had her thinking that he was the biggest gigolo, laying that big dick on her like he did . . . and come to find out that he was really nothing more than a downlow brotha! JESUS!