Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  “A heavy contraction . . . good,” said the nurse, most unimpressed. Unfazed. Douglass inhaled, afraid that if this was “good,” what the hell was “great” like. Mechelle deflated again and collapsed in numbing pain and a state of exhaustion.

  “China up!” Gil barked over the microphone as usual. Uncouth. Abrasive. The captain of the ship.

  China was tall. But there was so much more going for her: her “chinky” eyes, her stunning shape, that copper-toned tan, and the long, black hair, all added to her absolute beauty. The contact lenses which she wore were unnecessary, since she was “a natural,” riding the median between an Afrocentric, ghetto-girl (with her sassy street-smart dialect) and the exotic, Oriental princess (the posture, the sensuality, the attitude). It was a blend so unique that she didn’t need to do a make-over before she came to work. China woke into the characteristics of exquisite beauty, culture and sexuality, and it was that way for every waking moment, until she put her head back down to rest.

  On stage, China stepped and moved and wiggled in the most provocative, erotic way. Every gesture she threw was effortless. Each swerve was intentional and by design. She was pleasing and delightful to the eye; not overdone or exaggerated.

  The Method Man and Mary J joint was thumpin’ with that deep, grungy groove: “All I Need,” but China was that smooth coffee ice cream, melting . . . oozing over hot apple-hip hop beats and rhymes. A contradiction that could’ve tasted oh-h-h so good. In stiletto heels, China stepped proudly across the stage with her arms draping casually along, commanding all attention in the room with luscious, exotic poise. She’d lay eyes on individuals, making them feel exclusive. When she shifted her lure to address the next man, the previous one never even noticed her widespread appeal—China was suave like that; to make you think it was all about you. Then, in the quickest transition, she parted her lips wantonly, becoming the salacious bitch that men want in the bedroom. She would lean up against that wall of mirrors, with her ass beaming for all the voyeurs, jiggling her cheeks up and down repeatedly. She pushed herself away from the reflection some, bent over, and with one hand still against the mirror, the other delivered an arousing, self-inflicted spanking. Bad girl. China didn’t have to remove her top to maintain a customer’s imagination. His, his . . . and even his imagination as well as the wildest dreams of that guy over there were hers to squander.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Done Deal

  Heading back towards New York, from the New Jersey Turnpike and then onto I-95, Douglass couldn’t help thinking that the meeting wasn’t long at all. A half hour at best. And it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it might be to convince an investor that his was the greatest, most profitable proposal of all time. All he could think to do was smile to himself to match the joy that he felt inside. Valerie was with him, an ornament for anyone checking, yet fortunate just to be there; to experience it all.

  Swing, the leader, organizer and producer of the popular R&B group JAYCI, had just agreed to back Douglass for the full $500,000 investment needed to take over the club from his father. Swing was impressed with the idea that he could make money, be part-owner in a spot where he, his group and his celebrity friends could congregate, fraternize with the dancers and feel at home; and he could do all that without the headaches of operating a nightclub. Douglass promised him all of the above, knowing that a 19-year-old who’d been responsible for over 15 million records sold didn’t want much more than to be loved, to feel accomplished and to have his ego stroked. Sadie could handle that task all by herself. And if she was busy, there was China; and behind her, there’d be someone else in line right behind her. Valerie wasn’t as impressed as Douglass was by Swing’s home, but in Douglass’s deeper evaluation he could see the whims of young wealth here. Here was an entertainer who already came through the club time and time again, and now he wanted a piece of the action. It was only right.

  While Douglass and Valerie waited in a living room with furnishings that were still wrapped, or still in the boxes, Swing was down in the basement, cutting some tracks in his million-dollar recording studio with another group, a girl group that he had conceived. In the meantime, there was no mistaking new money. This was quite a large house; maybe 13,000 square feet. There were no curtains yet; stereo equipment was fresh out of the box, barely touched, with the various components scattered in a corner of the living room. Styrofoam pieces that protected the equipment were also on the floor with empty boxes. The fire-place was unused, without a speck of dust. A giant screen TV still sat in its box unopened. Douglass felt as though he’d interrupted a major shopping spree. The fixtures in the bathrooms were shiny enough to use as mirrors, they were so new. Cordless phones were everywhere, some cellular, some residential.

  What all of this meant was, Swing and his group of singers were getting dough. And it all made Douglass that much more secure about the business of entertainment and the musical genius he had come to know well. Even that was convenient, not necessarily because Douglass was a 12-year veteran in the entertainment business, but because Swing, his group JAYCI and many of his colleagues and associates who were also young, successful entertainers, simply made Fool’s Paradise a second home. Since their interest was already established, Douglass knew for sure that this would be the deal of a lifetime.

  “Ain’t no problem,” said Swing. “If you got a deal with your father and he’ll sell the club for five hundred, I’ll put up the dough . . . I’ll also put up the dough for the refurbishing you wanna do . . . and you and I can split profits until we’re buried in the ground.”

  “Bet,” said Douglass. And the two shook hands.

  Now that Douglass had his major investor, he needed to get the club out of his father’s hands. He had to get him to agree to the terms of his deal before things got bad . . . before the staff robbed Gilmore’s blind, or worse, before the State Liquor Authority recalled the club’s liquor license due to the prostitution, and other such inappropriate behaviors that were thriving within. Douglass was about to approach his father with a proposal that would knock his socks off. For Swing, the only thing left to do was sign wherever and make out a check. That meant, maybe, one less Ferrari that the singer, songwriter and producer would buy this quarter.

  By the time that Douglass stepped into his dad’s office, content that all was about to be said and done, Gil had already done some research. Douglass had told his dad of his intentions, and with whom he intended to do business with. So, that afternoon Gil was skeptical enough to ask questions and to come up with his own opinions.

  “I don’t wanna be no partners with no rap group.” Gil twisted his mouth as if to admonish that genre of music.

  “What are you talkin’ about, rap group? JAYCI isn’t a rap group. They’re a singing group . . . and they make songs.”

  “Well, they have a rap image and I don’t want to turn this into no rap club.” Douglass, on one hand, felt he had to defend rap music; something that he was certain his father knew nothing about. On the other hand, buying the club from his father had nothing whatsoever to do with rap music as much as it had to do with keeping the family business afloat. He felt his father was guessing, or at most, pigeonholing the individuals based on what he heard.

  “Well, I have news for you, Dad. We play their music in the club all the time. Not only that, if you’re so much against rap . . . the fact is that more than sixty to seventy percent of the selections that play over the speakers here are rap songs. So what’s your point?”

  “Look, I’ll tell you what the point is . . .” Douglass saw his father grimace like he used to do before he popped him upside the head as a youngster at the family grocery store. “. . . This club is running just fine without your ideas, your rap friends and their money . . .”

  “Rap friends? These are investors. What’s the difference? Money is money. You said you’d sell for a million, with five hundred down. So I got the five hundred.”

  “And what about the rest? What am I suppose to do after I
get the money? You end up messing up the cash flow—changing everything . . . then what? Plus . . . the girls here aren’t gonna work for you. Look at your attitude. Nobody’s gonna wanna work for you.” Douglass huffed through his grin, almost anticipating his father’s insults.

  “Of course the dancers aren’t gonna be working for me, because they’re not gonna be working here at all. Half of the girls you got here are lousy looking or lousy money makers. Others are questionable prostitutes. The staff is nothing but a bunch of lechers and thieves. They’ve been rippin’ you off left and right . . . rippin’ you off means they’re rippin’ me off.”

  “Well, I say, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And as far as I’m concerned, the deal’s off.”

  “I don’t think you wanted to sell in the first place. You were right to ask ‘What am I gonna do after I sell it to you,’ because this is your life. If you could eat, sleep and live here, you would . . . and you’ve been running this club like you run your car, your house, other people, and even your family. You’ve abused it all. You’ve made one big mess of business, of other people’s lives and of your life. Stepped on everybody you could, just to get your way. You’ve chased everybody away; your wife, your daughters and now me. I’m the only one you had left . . . and not for nothing, Dad, but if it wasn’t for this club and this business, I really wouldn’t have been around you either. We never really had a relationship. I was just there for you to use. I thought it was my gift to be able to operate the cash register at the grocery store and to be able to sell liquor next door simultaneously . . . I thought it was a gift to be able to do that at ten years old. But the truth is, you were just saving money on salaries. Using me for cheap child labor . . . like a slave!”

  “Hey, you wait a minute . . .”

  “No-no, you’re not gonna out-talk me, because the fact is that any hopes I had for a well-financed college education were diminished when you used the scholarship money that my mother’s parents . . . my grandparents put away for me!” Douglass was full of adrenaline. He knew that he was dropping a bomb, and there was no stopping him now. “You’ve screwed up your credit, my credit, my mother’s credit, my mother’s brother’s credit . . . use-use-use, that’s all you know how to do is use people to have things your way. That’s the only way you know!” Douglass was choked up, suddenly realizing that he went all the way off. He verbally pummeled his father. But he didn’t want to let up. He had to get it out. He knew that this was his last stand.

  “For your information, since the beginning of time . . . fathers don’t charge their sons big unobtainable sums of cash to take over the family business . . . once their sons have proven themselves, they pass it on and live off of their good fortunes. They teach their offsprings how to run it and guide them along proudly. A million dollars?! Ha-ha . . . you think this club is worth a million dollars? You stay in this office, screw who you want, with the door closed . . . locked. And your staff . . . your staff is out front at the register, at the front and back door, in the bathroom . . . screwing you! And you expect me to stand by and watch all of this? I put my sweat and tears into this place. I went to my friends and their contacts to get licenses and clearances for the club. Even with a million dollars you couldn’t have opened this club without the right resources . . . my resources. And something else . . .”

  —Tears were welling in Douglass’s eyes now—

  “. . . I promoted the biggest, most successful night this club ever experienced or profited from . . . residuals are still coming in from that promotion a year or so later. . . . and this is how I’m treated? Listen, as far as I’m concerned you can have the club, the house, the car, and the money and you can shove it! It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it!” Douglass walked out of the office, not slamming the door behind him, and simultaneously brushed the tears away while dashing towards the exit. Blood was rushing to his head and he was even a bit dazed from the emptying of his soul. But the bottom line was that he felt liberated. Alone and scared for the instant, yes. But, more importantly, he was free. Leaving from under his father’s wing.

  With his first breath of fresh air outside of the club, he could envision the staff inside, behind him, grinning and satisfied as though their ears were pinned to the door and walls. They must’ve sensed the severance and even wished for it to happen, for their own job security.

  Swing eventually got word of the hostility in the Gilmore family, and pulled out. He was discouraged by the lack of unity. And Douglass couldn’t blame him, thinking that maybe he should have shut his mouth and played along until his father had no choice but to hand the business over to somebody. After all, his dad was in his 60s. But the tension was obviously too great to bear. Because, for Douglass to sit and watch the mischief and his crumbling dream was more torture than the prize was worth.

  Easy Living

  Living arrangements for Valerie, Mechelle and Debbie grew to be much more than just “acceptable.” They were convenient, beyond compare. They all worked and lived and cared for Destiny; all of them accepting Douglass’s brand-new baby girl as their own. And they also made money together as a team.

  All three women became heavyweight commodities in the adult entertainment industry, with more work at the high-class gentlemen’s clubs in the city, and higher paying gigs like bachelor parties, business functions, and even team celebrations. The three once put a show on (and took their clothes off) for a real-estate tycoon—a 50-year-old—who got so excited his heart began to beat irregularly until he fell over in his chair. The hotel where the anniversary was held had a doctor in the house. Apparently, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. More like a cramp than a heart attack or a stroke. His friends and family immediately broke out of their anguish and tears, erupting into hysterical laughter. On another occasion, there was a mechanic who was getting married. So the girls arrived as planned, waiting for the guy to come back from lunch. He had been working on a particular vehicle before he left, so impulsively, the dancers plotted their scheme. Valerie was stretched out in a blazing thong on the back seat of the car. Debbie was in a similar outfit on the front seat. Mechelle was propped on the trunk of the car. Upon his return from lunch, the shock on the mechanic’s face was like an alien encounter. He looked around for his boss and coworkers, unaware that the joke was on him. Eventually, his colleagues were barricading the entrance and exits to the garage with the bachelor now cornered by the vixens. The mechanic climbed various walls, like a tarantula frightened out of his wits, as if he was trying to escape an inferno. His face dripped with perspiration, his eyes were wide open like an opera singer’s, and he even pissed himself, evident by the tiny wet spot near his zipper. The girls had never seen anything like this before. Generally, a man calmed down and went along with the teasing after a couple of minutes, realizing that there’d be more joy than pain. But this husband-to-be was ridiculous. He went on (half screaming like a bitch) climbing on top of the car hoods in the dingy garage, pulling down fan belts, tools and such, escaping the threat of the erotic dancers for more than 20 minutes. When they finally caught up with him, he sat obediently against a set of old, oily tires, biting his nails to the cuticles as the triple-threat team made a puppet out of him.

  The threesome had an even bigger adventure on a trip they took overseas. The one and only Sultan of Brunei hired the threesome for a yacht trip. He sent a 747 (complete with stewardesses and a full flight crew) to get the women in New York, and they flew to Brunei, where they were to put on an exclusive show for the Sultan. When they arrived in Brunei, they were pampered and chauffeured for a grand tour of the Royal Palace. It was a monster, made of marble, brass and gilded domes, with more than 1,700 rooms. The 2-hour tour got them all wound up for the big party set for that evening. From the palace yard, a brilliant, white helicopter lifted them up and over the spectacular, sprawling dynasty and above the Pacific Ocean until they descended towards a sharp, white, 152-foot yacht labeled “TITS.”

  “A little bold, isn’t he?” Valerie mention
ed. And she had to show the others what she meant, pointing down from the helicopter so they all could see the name of the yacht.

  “If ya got it, why not flaunt it,” said Debbie. And she and Mechelle shared in a high five. From the aircraft, the girls could also see that the super yacht had two pools, a miniature golf course and a second helicopter. There were some other people looking to the direction of the landing pad, with glasses in hand, as the helicopter made its landing.

  Aboard the boat, the girls were treated like trophies, introduced to more Mohameds, Abduls, Hakeems and Hajjis than they could bear to stomach; all of them with so many fanciful, identical smiles and all. Lots and lots of teeth. There were so many Princes and Chancellors and Prime Ministers that it could make a girl dizzy. And the celebrity list was one for the history books, including moguls of fashion, magnates of business and icons of song. Finally, they were escorted to meet the 44-year-old playboy himself. Downstairs at the restaurant, the girls were seated at a corner table designated for the Sultan. When he arrived, he had all manner of assistants and hangers-on surrounding him. Debbie was particularly engaged in the jewels about his wrists and fingers, while Valerie concentrated on his eyes.