Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Brenda was both enraged and worried; enraged for all of the obvious reasons; unable to reach him . . . him not returning her calls . . . the whole Mission: Impossible move she pulled to get up into his home unnoticed. Bigger than all of that, all the shit they did together! She surrendered herself to him! She TRUSTED HIM! And now? All she could say was Fuck! FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK! She spent almost 24 hours claiming and exclaiming that men were all fucking assholes. But not Ken! No, Ken was a fuckin’ asshole and a flaming, freakin’ faggot! Brenda laughed like a hyena as she stood by her answering machine listening to message after unanswered message. Ken had transformed into a mass of fright. Not only had Ken envoked Brenda’s most vindictive conclusions, but she also possessed a critical key to his closest of secrets. New York’s star pitcher has a gay lover?

  “Huh! The relationship with a stripper. All this slave-hour shit. Wow.” Brenda was talking to her inanimate, unthinking, unfeeling answering machine. “It was all a front! But, Jesus, Joseph and Mary, am I ever the last woman that you wanted to piss off! Ohhhh, you were brilliant at first. Had me twisted with guilt and shame. Had me caught up in your utterly large, flamboyant lifestyle. But who’s the man now? Things change!” And now Brenda was determined to break the complete story without aaay-nother waiting moment. She felt that the “license to ill” was now hers to exercise. So what if Ken was with a stripper, a batboy or two hundred other women around the country. And?

  “And life goes—the—fuck—on, you BASTARD!” Brenda was verbally hot. And there was no stopping her flames. He’s not gonna lose a penny of that sixty-four mil. A tarnished image? If the public really knew better, they’d find them a new hero.

  That very next day, Brenda re-ignited the Ken Stevens engine, with all previous reports blending into part one of her own exclusive 4-part story. Her delivery was greatly anticipated, having been promoted heavily on the network itself, on its affiliate radio stations and in the metro section of the newspaper. After hearing the full story straight from the horse’s mouth, Brenda’s production supervisors gave her the go-ahead on the exclusive, fully supporting her no-limits approach. They knew what to expect from their top anchorwoman—nothing but high-powered resources. Still, most everyone was led to wonder about what it was that Brenda knew different from all else that had been reported. What was her hook?

  Ken was rarely pinned to the television like he was that evening of Brenda’s first report. He obviously had a stake in the broadcast . . . a concern for his future. Already nervous from having surrendered all secrets to Brenda, Ken sat at the edge of his bed with the giant screen in vertical position, awaiting her wrath. Ken was already waving his head at instant replay-speed, stuck on the revelation that Brenda’s exclusive was announced as the top story.

  Ernie Anastos segued with the introduction and Brenda began to spew her story head-first. Ken could see it in her eyes. He was about to be buried. The question was, how thick was she about to make the mortar?

  “. . . During my 8-week investigation of this story, I have come to one dramatic conclusion: this case is being mishandled in all of its extreme elements . . . from the U.S. Attorney’s office in New Jersey, the strategies behind this pursuit, to the FBI, the pawns and minutemen who have not only botched and bungled the investigation, but who have redesigned this murder case to suit their own fictional beliefs . . .” Brenda served her information, established her seniority in the players’ circle, and she delivered chasing blows all within one sweeping, 5-minute outline. She lengthened the anticipation by leaving the viewers in suspense. Brenda didn’t reveal names yet, but she promised to name names in the later segments of her series. She titled her series “The Botched Bronx Murder Case,” and all the television graphics supported her bold position.

  At Passaic County Jail, inmates were pumped up, buzzing and electrified about the visual impact of the news broadcast and how it brought the world (so to speak) to their doorstep. Because there was no exposure to the outside, through windows or otherwise, prisoners didn’t experience the instant impact of the voluptuous, picketing dancers. They had no way of knowing what was going on outdoors. Visits were denied for the time being, and correctional officers were ordered to maintain a code of silence for security purposes. But when UPN9 happened to catch tits and ass images on the TV, the evening news suddenly became the most important show on the tube. Men quickly congregated near the monitors, gesturing to one another to “shhhh” as they listened and watched attentively. The name Gilmore was mentioned numerous times, along with the words murder, topless and FBI-organized crime task force. All the buzzwords and images solidified Douglass as (once again) the big fish in a small pond. Instant celebrity overcame the 4B dorm. Douglass had already won over the most whimsical of the motley crew. But now, the universal language of tits and ass capsized the inmates with emotion and restlessness. Douglass was almost immediately inundated with questions and small talk. If ever there was a kingpin, Douglass sure earned that status now. All sizes and makes of men, regardless of the inhibitions or falsities which had previously prevented communication with Douglass (regardless of Spanish, Haitian, Caribbean and other nationalities) dropped their protective walls if only to say hi. It was instantly a cinch to create subjects and reasons to approach Douglass. And justly, he felt the popularity and the adrenaline pumping through his body. However, with no other means of release; with no way to personally celebrate the excitement, Douglass simply drowned in it all, soaking up the euphoria around him, answering questions about dancers, the topless business and about the bullshit charges that put him in jail in the first place. Despite his incarceration and related hardships, Douglass was now able to experience that whirlpool of inner joy and appreciation, despite the challenges he faced.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Great Awakening

  It was a lazy autumn Saturday morning in New Rochelle, quiet like a bed of roses welcoming the sun, with the clouds giving way to a Godly light. Underneath it all, tucked deep inside the Gilmore home, four exhausted, tuckered-out, overly satisfied lovers laid spent and spread in various positions across Douglass’s mammoth water bed. They could have been four heaps of clay, except for their legs and arms, hands and feet, layered and buried under one another like a motionless puzzle of anatomy. At once and without warning, Douglass was the beneficiary of one incredible evening of sex. Thanks to the Everglo liquor and its clever mix of tequila, vodka, caffeine and ginseng, all of it filling their systems with unbridled energy, the marathon seemed to go on for hours . . . and it did. From mid-afternoon when the girls came home from shopping, and then beyond the nap and fruits that they ate off one another. The entire ordeal was one giant, unextinguishable fire. But there was a price for such pleasure and satisfaction. And now, in the wee hours of the morning, they would wake up to see exactly what that was.

  Mechelle was the first to rise. She was feeling slimy, and soaking in her own pool. Wet and fidgeting. But even before Mechelle opened her eyes, her baby was shifting uncomfortably, now snug against Mechelle’s insides. The sex had to be to blame; how they celebrated Douglass’s homecoming . . . engaging in one wild orgy that inevitably induced the process of labor. In other words, Mechelle’s water broke, and all four of them—Mechelle, Douglass, Valerie and Debbie—were all laying in it! Yuuuuck!

  A Visit from Murphy

  On Thursday there was the turmoil at the jail. Friday brought the courtroom melodrama. And Friday night entertained that blitz of sexual activity that would test the stretches of even an overzealous imagination. Naturally, since Douglass seemed to already be on a roll, there was more drama in the forecast.

  The next 40 minutes were a blur; although Mechelle had been packed and ready for a trip to the hospital, a trip that would presumably take place in at least ten more days (or so she thought), Murphy and his laws brought about different plans. Phone calls to 911 emergency and to Mechelle’s physician didn’t seem to get the instant response they’d hoped for. So, paranoia ensued, slowing the second hand and
simultaneously thrusting all else into hyperspeed. No one was prepared for, nor were they expecting, this moment. Debbie was even less prepared than that, dashing to a closet for towels and dousing them under hot water. For what? They were useless now that the bed had soaked up that gooey fluid; and still useless for Mechelle, who was on the phone, beeping the physician mercilessly. Even if Mechelle’s doctor did return the call, it’d be pretty difficult for him to get through with the phone in constant use and no Call Waiting. Meanwhile, Douglass was also on a phone with the emergency room at New Rochelle Hospital . . . taking careful direction, waving Debbie away with the wet towels and stretching the phone’s cord to its limit. By the time the operator cut into the connection, informing Douglass to terminate his call to receive an incoming emergency call, there was a rat-ta-tat from the front door knocker.

  The ambulance, a shiny white and red vehicle, was parked just outside the entrance with the motor humming. Meanwhile, in the paranoia, the bedroom and bathroom was still a rush of naked bodies, except for Mechelle. And Demetrius, who was home . . . somewhere. Then, it seemed, out of nowhere, ambulance workers were stepping through the home. There was some order now, everyone almost all covered up, and it became evident that Demetrius had dashed to the front door to admit the paramedics.

  “Well, I heard Mechelle’s scream . . . and then you were yellin’,” said D in answer to Douglass’s inquiry. “So I knew it had to be the baby was coming.” Demetrius explained how he had come home from a long, busy night at the club, and he didn’t bother to look anywhere but at the shower and the bed.

  “And it’s a good thing you didn’t,” Douglass told him. “You woulda had anotha kind of sermon to preach if you saw me with them three!”

  “Lawd, have mercy on this man. Can’t leave you alone for a minute, huh? I thought I heard somethin’ funny at five in the morning. Blasphemous! You’re all goin’ straight to hell. Don’t worry, though . . . I’mma pray for y’all.”

  While the 3 EMS workers scurried through the house, eventually administering things, executing their initial evaluation on Mechelle, Debbie had already hurried into the previous day’s jeans, and Douglass did the same. At the same time, Valerie was in the bathroom dressing, taking a few extra moments to pick up bras, towels, panties and inedible portions of strawberries . . . spraying disinfectant. She didn’t get to the bedroom in time enough to zap that musty air; the odors of sex and caramel.

  Once the ambulance swept Mechelle and Douglass away, Demetrius eventually followed, bringing Valerie and Debbie along until, eventually, everyone landed in Mechelle’s maternity room. Tests had been done and everything looked okay by the time visitors were permitted. Mechelle was now dilated by 2 centimeters. So the wait might be hours. While in the room, standing over Mechelle’s bed, across from one another, Douglass glanced up at Debbie, Debbie at Valerie and Demetrius at them all, knowing full well that there was lingering guilt in the room. There was an urgency for laughter but it was withheld in the presence of Mechelle’s recurring labor pains. She eventually showed a desire for a bit of privacy with Douglass, and Demetrius left with the others. They did return an hour later to drop off a few bouquets of fresh-cut orchids and such, and the presence of flowers was highly appreciated.

  They changed the room’s look tremendously, bringing color and fragrance that soothed and delighted, despite the slight headache that was troubling her.

  Back at the house, Valerie and Debbie imitated a kind of command center, informing a few close friends and family members of Douglass’s return. Greg inevitably helped them, immediately racing from his home in nearby Mt. Vernon to join the fever. Together they worked to put together a welcome-home bash to be thrown at Fool’s Paradise. Perhaps they didn’t have their heads screwed on tight, thinking that Douglass would show up for the party with a newborn bundle in his arms. But they proceeded, despite their CSD (common sense deficiency), and a party was set for Saturday evening. Ultimately, they only wanted Douglass to come and show his face.

  Danni came in from Queens, and Dino from his apartment in the Bronx. The team was together once again, all of them arranging balloons, streamers, party favors and other decorations. There was a big WELCOME HOME sign, a buffet, and a cake big enough for an army. The phone lines at the office were buzzing with inquiries from catering firms, party stores and the local restaurant supply, all of them rushing to gather the orders. Valerie and Debbie contacted their phone lists as well. Everything, it seemed, was coming together nicely.

  By 4 PM, Mechelle was 3 centimeters wide, ever deeper into the delivery of the new baby, while organizers were on ladders, balancing on bar stools, taping and stapling, hanging and tacking. Gil waited and watched in the foreground, usually wide awake over his styrofoam cup of Guinness Stout beer. He was happy about the homecoming and impressed by the support that was shown for his son, approving all requests in preparation for the party.

  Additional dancers, perhaps as many as 30 or so (uncommon for an early Saturday evening), crowded the dressing rooms and the stages, all a part of the growing anticipation for the night. From experience and word of mouth, women knew that a big party at Fool’s Paradise meant big money for them as well. Yes, many of the dancers were appreciative that Gil’s son was home free; after all, they did join the demonstration on those chilly mornings in New Jersey. Not only that; the promise of some extra money on a Saturday night was convenient. It meant rent payments, grocery shopping and the cell phone bill that had been sitting unaddressed for weeks. Pay dirt.

  As usual, the dancers contacted their best tippers, inviting them to the “big homecoming party.” Anything for a theme . . . any excuse to make money.

  By 6PM, and about six centimeters into Mechelle’s labor pains, the club was more than half-full, and yet the party was in full swing. The synchronized activities of the hospital room and the excitement, the sensation at Fool’s Paradise were nearly one and the same. Almost poetic synchronicity. On one hand, there were the energies and sensations that lured Mechelle to the pit (to the club) in the first place—the music and the vibrations at the club that stimulated her imagination; her imagination and energies were personified through the sensual performance and movements of her body. And her body . . . her energy called and desired Douglass’s own. The relationship was retroactive; the club acting as the glue which kept them as one and subsidized and supported the conception of a child. And while the music (Break For Love, Din-Da-Da, Set It Off) continued pumping in the usual fashion, accommodating the showcase of tits and ass, the bottom line was clear: the enterprise that Douglass helped to build . . . the idea that transformed an auto-car garage into a multi-million dollar establishment, the money that poured in only to be dished out at a faster ratio . . . all of it was now transcended by something most incredible. The creation of another human being. And all of that was only the reality if—big IF—the baby did in fact belong to Douglass.

  By midnight, the club housed and hosted a massive amount of customers. Sadie was most vibrant, attracting attention to the stage with her slick, black thong that was sprinkled with mahogany brown leopard spots. The spots blended perfectly with her bare limbs and captivating facial expressions, almost as though there were holes in her outfit that reached deep into her soul. Sadie liked to dance barefoot, like those good, determined, loose African dancers. She was just as aggressive as they were, pumping her juicy ass to the booming bass of house music. Then things turned serious, as hip hop took over. Chuck Chillout was up in the deejay booth, blasting everyone’s ears off with KRS-ONE’S “Emcees Act Like They Don’t Know,” starting a fire that Sadie was damned sure to add gas to, pumping out her plentiful bust. Then simultaneously pulling it back in while pushing out her pelvis and hips. Bust. Pelvis. In and out, just like that, the motions were jerky, fast and determined. Both hands were on her hips. Then one flipped to the back of her head, with another on her ass. Then they switched with the next jut of her pelvis. Everything in sync, and purposeful. Every pump and shuffle across the sta
ge was uniquely Sadie. Her signature. Snap and pop. Her hand moves to grip her waist, and she’s doing a lil’ Hawaiian wiggle. Now, the other hand is grabbing a breast, with her ass winding in the musky air. All the while, patrons eyes were affixed . . . mesmerized. Eventually, Sadie submits to the anxieties of her audience, peeling the material from her breasts, untying the supportive string from around her neck. The outfit slithers down to her waist and she toys with the idea of total nudity, affording a glance here and there. The mystique of it all is enough to bring customers to the edge of the stage with $10 and $20 tips.

  Back at the hospital, Mechelle fought through tumultuous times. Almost fully dilated, she breathed heavy with that horrified expression on her face as the fetal monitor cranked up to a faster beat. Her heart’s activity was amplified by the speakers on the device. The intensity was building, something like the dumdum, dum-dum. . . . . dum-dum, dum-dum . . . music score from a Jaws movie. Mechelle braced herself, grabbing the side bars of the bed, the sheets, her hair . . . anything. She shook as if she felt a quake inside her body. Certainly there was. Then she slowly calmed, murmurs and moaning escaping her lips. Reactions from the pain in her uterus. And to think, the nurse said this was a mild contraction.

  “The baby’s coming, but you’ve got to push.” The nurse sounded factual while feeling at Mechelle’s wrist and looking at her own to measure the pulse. A couple of minutes passed until Mechelle began to wiggle again. Moaning. Heavy breathing. Faster. She strained her neck and braced herself with her fingers entwined with Douglass’s. Her eyelids expanded so wide, afraid for her life. Then with her teeth gritting, cheeks and chin and brow contorting, Mechelle shivered again until the eruption returned. The nurse reaffirmed the “push” directive. Douglass braced his ass and jaws almost as deliberately as Mechelle. The look in his eye questioned if the sex was really worth all of this. Mechelle blew three times and held the fourth to push—recalling her prenatal classes. She did it again and tried to catch the contraction, adding to her pain. The nurse seemed displaced, as though she wasn’t really a part of this, calmly checking the EKG and the intra-uterine pressure. So calm was the nurse that it threatened to make Douglass spitting sick.