by HD HOTEP
“She used to do that same shit. Ain’t no way you ain’t her daughter,” Sylvia said, laughing.
The two women grew close quickly. And it wasn’t until young Beatrice woke up one morning and found that her small bank rolls were missing, along with Sylvia, that she realized she’d been had. She searched the room in a state of disbelief. All Sylvia’s belongings were gone and so were some of Beatrice’s personals. Beatrice was furious. Her heart beat out of control. Later, she would find that Sylvia was a dope fiend, and she’d HATED Beatrice’s mother in life.
*****
“They call that little sneaky freak the Fly Trapper, Ms. Fly Trap.” It’d been rumored about Beatrice.
“Hey Sweetie,” Beatrice said, a Cheshire cat grin spreading her young face.
She leaned into the window of the 1980, Malibu station wagon. Bending over into the vehicle, her legs formed an ‘X’, her right foot to the left of her left foot, and her petite backside propped into the air. “You lookin for a good time?” she asked, popping her gum and staring the driver in the eye.
“Get in,” the gentleman said, unlocking the passenger door and returning her smile.
Beatrice exposed lots of cleavage, although her breasts were only ‘B’ cups. Her ‘customer’ couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of them. Beatrice plopped into the car and reached for the man’s midsection and began fondling him as he pulled off.
“What kind of fun are you looking for?” she asked. “How much are you spending?” The gentleman pulled into a secluded alley way.
“I want to fuck you,” the man slobbered, staring at Beatrice while placing the station wagon into park. “Money’s not a problem.”
She chose the back of his station wagon as his fuck spot of choice. Beatrice stuck her hand out and gave him her price. The gentleman responded by punching her straight in her chin. He grabbed her throat and began squeezing. Beatrice lost touch with consciousness for a split second or two. When she regained her composure to some degree, the gentleman had her in the missionary position in the rear of his station wagon. He rammed into her repeatedly, holding her throat.
“Remember me? Huh? You remember stealing my money? Huh?” the gentleman barked as he slammed in and out of Beatrice. He slapped her several times as he plowed into her, choked, and cursed her.
Her shorts were torn. Blood ran from between her legs. The warm red liquid also ran from her mouth. She faded in and out of consciousness. Her pocketbook lay on the floor of the passenger’s side of the wagon. She could barely breathe, and what she did smell between strained breaths of air was old rubber and moth balls. She felt as if she were in a dream, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to defend herself and paralyzed.
Her aggressor finished what he’d started, pulled his pants up, and threw Beatrice from the car, her head slamming into a brick wall. Gravel shot at her face and body as the car sped off, leaving carbon fumes wedged into her bloody nostrils and lightning bolts shooting through her skull.
*****
Beatrice opened her eyes groggy. Her head was ringing like the bell in a fire station at ‘work call’. An I.V. needle was secured to her forearm. She’d been bandaged up, placed into a gown and left to rest. Beatrice shook her pounding head. Recalling the incident to memory, she sat up. She pulled the needle from her arm, pressing her bed sheet to the hole until the thin stream of blood ceased flowing.
The room was cold and immaculate, clean. White walls and sparse furnishings, the room smelled like antiseptic and disinfectant. Beatrice forced herself to her feet, hearing the faint hums and beeps of medical equipment in use. She searched the small room until locating some clothing, which was dirty, torn, and bloody, in a tiny closet. She put the soiled clothing on and fled the hospital.
Twenty-five minutes later, Beatrice, a hot mess, strutted into the motel yelling. “Rafael! Rafael!”
Rafael appeared behind the counter. Spotting Beatrice, he glanced from side to side, eyes darting in several directions at once. “What had happened to you?” he asked, his Arab accent thick.
“I need my…” she said, before breaking down and bursting into tears.
Rafael, the clerk who’d been humping Beatrice for almost a year and holding her money for her, ran from behind the desk. He wrapped his arms around Beatrice while nervously glancing around and escorted her to a room.
Through her tears, she asked, “How much I got Rafael?”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars. I keep all for you,” he said.
Beatrice thanked him, shooed him from the room, crawled into the corner, drew her legs up to her chest, and wept. She placed her head on her knees and cried like a man who’d just had his balls cut off. A painful, yet necessary, high pitched release.
“Ain’t no good… men… odds of you findin one is NONE.”
Chapter 4
Bait and Switchin
Hips
Harlem, 1988
Although the crack epidemic was in full swing and nearing a down turn, heroin was still all the rage in certain sectors. And as long as people made money pushing the product, there was always an ample supply of willing users. Beatrice had learned over the course of time that many of her tricks were addicted to the powerful drug. She’d also found, from experience, that many of her fellow street walkers were ‘on it like a hornet!’ Sylvia and others like her had made that clear.
Beatrice, ‘The Fly Trapper,’ beautiful with flowing silky hair, and a sixteen year old shapely female temple of a super model, grew die hard in her profession. She learned from her experiences, but nothing along the lines of persuading her to change her line of work. She grew more ‘seasoned’, cautious, and fluid in her schemes. But she didn’t stop.
“It’s all an act baby… ain’t no good gotdam men… the odds of you findin one is NONE…”
Beatrice played her position. She strutted her young stuff. She took what came, rubbing herself constantly. She writhed to the touch of her own fingertips, tantalizing young and horny men’s imaginations, taunting and tempting. Her life had quickly become a ballet dance, a choreographed session of smooth premeditated motions. Her body was a wonderland. A land many men knew they could caress, squeeze, and penetrate, if they produced the proper payment. She sucked from beverage bottles their contents. She sucked entire pickles and bananas into her mouth prior to taking a dainty bite. She openly stared at men’s midsections, glancing back up into their eyes. She moved her curvy, tender body while sitting as if enjoying the bull ride of her life, allowing a slight moan to escape here. A sigh there.
Attention was always her goal. And clad in the consistent wardrobe of a true slut, leaving very little to the imagination, Beatrice often got much more than she’d bargained for.
“You do your thing. Get ready for this, baby,” Beatrice said, sizing up her latest trick. “Just put the bills on the table before you whip it out.”
Jo Jo sat at the table with two lines in front of him. He used a playing card, the Ace of Spades he’d had for months, as a straw. “You know I’m gone’ see you straight, Bee Bee,” he said, glancing back at Beatrice, who sat on the bed squeezing her breasts.
He brought the straw to the tip of the first line and inhaled deeply. The heroin took effect quickly. He dabbed his fingertip in an ash tray half-full of water and drained his clogged nostrils. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, it was as if he’d left his current world for a moment. Coming back to his reality, he brought the straw to the second line and hit the ‘repeat’ button.
Beatrice watched him. This was her 4th time watching this ritual of Jo Jo’s. She knew what was going to happen next. And though she was officially on business, being paid for a service she’d soon be providing, she anticipated what was to come.
Jo Jo stood up like a robot in need of a lube job. He turned around in slow motion. His eyes had become slits a few inches beneath his hair line. His manhood jutted forth, prominent, in Beatrice’s direction. She felt herself growing warm, moist, and excited. Jo Jo was built like
a male porn star.
Gazing beyond Jo Jo at that stack of bills on the table, Beatrice focused again on her approaching pussy pounding. She grabbed his member shamelessly, snatched his boxer shorts down to his knees, and began deep throating as much of him as she could. She sucked and slurped all over his throbbing beam while caressing his balls, rubbing up and down his thighs.
Jo Jo placed his hand on the back of Beatrice’s head, closing his eyes and enjoying the show. Mindlessly, he began humping her mouth. Bee took both her hands, locked them around his love toy’s base, and began slamming her face into the closest hand to her mouth. She suck-slurped the exposed portion of the rod into her mouth, as if she had no teeth, moaning, spittle dripping down Jo Jo’s balls. Dripping down Bee’s chin.
She stopped. “I’ve heard all about the dope dick. We can fuck all night Daddy,” she cooed, saliva drenched hands stroking non-stop. “Come on, take another line and make me cry Daddy,” she purred, kissing his pulsating member, staring up at him with wide, deceptively naïve eyes.
Jo Jo’s breathing was labored. His words wouldn’t form properly. “I-I ain’t got no more money to buy…”
Beatrice began eating him alive, wild, crazy, reckless on the head of his hand tool. And within seconds, Jo Jo could handle no more.
“Ahhhhh shit!” he groaned, exploding into Bee’s young mouth, violently convulsing. Bee ate every last drop and kept him in her warm, wet mouth until he’d been reduced to a whimpering baby.
“It’s good, ain’t it? I told you it was good. Now, go get the money, so you can buy the rest of this shit. Fuck me for four days straight Daddy.”
*****
Jo Jo returned with $2,000 dollars in cash so fast, Beatrice thought he might’ve robbed somebody. “That shit is what’s happenin. But all I can get now is $2,000 worth. Give me a hell of a deal Sweet Heart,” Jo Jo said, eyes red as a stop sign.
“I got $3,500 worth of this shit. But I ain’t no drug dealer, Jo Jo. You my peoples. It’s yours for what you got. Just fuck me all night and tomorrow night. Give me that dope dick Daddy,” she purred.
Jo Jo watched Bee pull her entire stash out. She handed him two more baggies while grabbing his member through his jeans.
“Give me that dope dick Daddy. Hurry up,” she said, pouting, rubbing his chest, stroking him through his pants, and pressing herself against him.
Jo Jo ran his finger up the crack of her ass beneath her tennis skirt, squeezing her soft, young buttocks before performing his heroin ritual with his Ace of Spades, his razor blade, and his ash tray half full of water.
Moments later, Jo Jo was smashing Beatrice into the cheap mattress.
Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak!
“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! Fuck me Daddy! Ahhh!” Bee yelled. She’d cum twice in minutes. Her entire body was trembling. She felt as if she were being impaled many times by a log. The pleasure pain was conveniently bearable. And Beatrice loved it.
*****
Jo Jo could’ve easily been mistaken for someone yelling, or a heavy duty tractor truck, or an industrial generator. He snored so loud that the pictures on the thin walls seemed to tremble.
Beatrice, fully clothed and pocketbook in hand, fondled his member for a second, staring down at him. He appeared to be so peaceful. And he should’ve been. She’d given him the real deal: East side China White. She’d fucked him into a coma. The thoughts of such sessions wet her hot spot. She smiled at the thought.
Beatrice headed for the door, sure to make the least amount of noise as possible. She’d hate to wake a satisfied customer. She made a bee-line for Rafael’s motel.
*****
“Why do you need it all?” Rafael asked.
“Because I’m about to make a major move, Baby. And because it’s mine,” she said. Rafael retrieved her money for her. $2,500 dollars in cash.
“You just never asked for ALL of it before,” Rafael said, staring at her with suspicious eyes.
“I’ll be back Rafael. You worry too much,” she said, swinging her hip into his crotch before turning to leave. “Thank you. And if I don’t come back, I’ll never forget you.”
“You be careful,” he said.
Beatrice had more than four thousand dollars in her possession. And a girl could do a few things with four racks in ‘88. She grabbed some of her things and headed straight for the bus station. Jo Jo would most likely want to kill her when he woke up. He’d paid her for $100 worth of China White and 3,400 dollars’ worth of instant pancake mix, bagged up and ready to go.
“…a whore’s job is to separate a mark from his money… NOT sellin pussy.”
Chapter 5
Goldie Kaan
Charlotte, NC
1989
Beatrice, going by the name of Goldie, stepped off the bus in Charlotte, North Carolina. She’d stepped into a world where club Effects, commonly pronounced “F/X”, was hot on the ghetto scene. Movers and shakers of the time zipped up and down the streets in 280 Z’s, Jettas, and RX 7’s. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the term “Fa Reeea!”, slang for “For Real!”, numerous times in the course of a day. Men sported Starter hats and jerseys. When it got a bit cool, the Starter bomber jackets came out of the wood work. Pumas, Filas, Diadoras, British Knights, Adidas, Troops, and Kangol hats were top of the line urban apparel. The Ghetto Boys, Slick Rick, Big Daddy Cane, Danna Dane, LL Cool J, Eric B. and Rakim, Cool G Rap, and Luke dominated the music scene. NWA would officially have every ghetto, including those in Charlotte, in America yelling “Fuck the Police!” and disrespecting fast, money hungry women. Goldie, close to $5,000 dollars in her possession, stepped onto the scene ready for the world. She’d listened to many of her tricks when they’d spoken. She soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Men seemed to be drawn to her like bees to honey. She was skilled, quick witted, bold, and far too experienced for her 17 years of age. Her eyes knew too much. And she also had a free, wandering, spirit. She wasn’t afraid to meet new people, experience new things, or test new waters. She was confident in her abilities. She’d seen and heard it all.
“You can’t afford me. I charge $500 for head.”
“I’ll slap the shit out of you. You done lost your mind!”
“I charge $2,500 to slap the shit out of me,” she’d replied immediately, a devilish grin spreading her pretty face.
Lying was a natural trait for Goldie. She was graceful and charming. And her beauty was an addition to the equation which tipped the scale, often in her favor.
*****
Goldie stepped into club Effects as if she’d been surgically implanted into her micro mini skirt. She and Yalonda, an exotic dancer/prostitute, had hooked up five minutes from the station after Goldie had rented some storage space. Yalonda, a ‘Red bone,’ ‘soft butch’ lesbian, had clung to Goldie like glue.
“Hey bitch, you dance?” she’d asked.
“It’s not much I can’t do,” Goldie had replied.
In her mind, if it could be done to get some cash, she could do it. And her outfit intentionally screamed, “I’m a slut!”
“You sellin that hot body of yours too?” Yalonda had asked, lust invading her facial expression.
Goldie had never been involved with another woman, but the lust in Yalonda’s eyes turned her on. Goldie gave Yalonda her twice-over and concluded that she wasn’t bad herself. One thing had turned to another and as a result, Yalonda and Goldie formed a convenient relationship.
Yalonda and Goldie strolled up to the bar and took their seats.
“Fifteen seconds,” Yalonda said.
“Ten seconds. You’re with me baby,” Goldie responded, gyrating to the bass resonating through the club.
“Whatever,” Yalonda said.
“What are you two drinking on?” an intoxicated gentleman asked 8 seconds later, looking and smelling to Goldie like money.
He was accompanied by an associate, who also ate both ladies with his eyes. Goldie gave Yalonda a knowing glance and responded. “I’m try
in to get fucked… up,” she said. “Something stiff.”
After guzzling a couple of shots, Goldie glanced at Yalonda, snatched Joseph’s hand, and took him onto the dance floor. Yalonda grabbed Ramos’ hand and followed Goldie’s lead. Goldie pressed her tight backside into Joseph’s midsection. She ground against him, allowing her hand to brush against his hand tool a few times. He was very obviously enjoying himself. Yalonda attempted to out-do Goldie to the point of getting a small crowd of people watching the four of them.
“A man who comes to a club with less than a thousand dollars in his pocket can’t afford to be freakin on me like this,” Goldie said, wrapping her arms around Joseph’s neck, her lips brushing against his ear.
“If that’s true, I can afford to freak you and your friend,” he said.
“It’s too loud in here for me. $1,500 will get you and your friend a double take. We’ll call it a private party,” Goldie said into his ear, turning around and plastering her backside to Joseph’s midsection.
***
Goldie pulled her leased Jetta up to the club. As usual, her outfit appeared to be painted on to her toned body. Her heels were 3 inches high, taking her 5'9" inch height to an even 6 feet.
“So, what can I do for you?” the partial owner of the club, Samuel, asked.
“My husband divorced me because he couldn’t handle being married to a whore. His dick married me and his brain couldn’t handle it later on. Anyway, he’s only worth about $300,000 dollars all together. I settled out to $110,000 dollars with monthly payments added on. But I don’t start getting shit for another month or so. I need $20,000 dollars until I get my settlement. And I’ll do whatever for you to repay you for lookin out for me until I get mine. My personal funds are runnin out,” Goldie said.
She’d given Samuel the copies of the divorce case of another woman. She’d given him the copy of the bogus check she was supposedly waiting to receive. She looked like money. She was driving a very nice vehicle. And she was a walking dick magnet. This, she knew.
