by Tiana Laveen
In another tell-all book, Saint was reported to be able to sustain numerous sessions of intercourse in a short span of time, back-to-back, from sun-up to sundown, mercilessly. He could perform superb oral sex, causing some women to pass out from the multiple, intense orgasms. His impressive endowment and slight curve gave unbelievable g-spot orgasms too. The women seeking him in the hotel lobbies tripled in number, treating him like a celebrity prostitute. No one, however, was invited to his home. Saint always maintained the position that home was for his future ‘queen.’ Instead of this undying popularity being a positive for Saint, it was an annoyance. He would wade through the crowd of large breasts; sweet, nauseating perfumes mingling together; and smiling ladies saying “excuse me” several times until he and his security staff were able to get him safely into his hotel room. This forced him to use different aliases every time he travelled, and his whereabouts were not to be disclosed, but every now and again, it still didn’t work. Saint also felt he was being hypocritical. He thought it imperative that his clients and fans not give their bodies freely, yet he was out exploiting his reputation and power. All of these factors made him swear off of sexual encounters until he found his “Nubian goddess – African bride – his Black ‘queen,’” as he would often say. This new, self-imposed rule resulted in daily masturbation which at times left him more frustrated than he was beforehand.
Saint lie exhausted after the conference. He slipped into a foggy dream as his body relaxed, his mind taking over the driving. The dream began with rich, dark-purple mist and lilac clouds. His goddess lie beside him, her naked, glistening body turned toward his. He could smell her Gucci Guilty perfume; hear her sultry voice whispering his name; taste her succulent, red-wine-flavored full lips; and feel her long brown legs wrapped around his warm, hard body. Her thick halo of dark-brown, curly, soft hair and generous breasts made his temperature rise. He could see his light-tan fingers caressing her smooth brown shoulders. Her eyes, large and deep ebony, with long eyelashes, heavy lids, and perfectly-arched eyebrows made him believe she must have been an angel coming to visit.
When Saint awoke, he felt refreshed despite only getting a few hours of sleep. He was pleased that he could clearly see the face of the woman in his recurring dream. In his mind, the dream was prophetic, and it gave him a cause for celebration.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
The cold air touched the men’s bones and shook them to their core. Mammoth pine trees and morning dew on soft oak leaves painted a canvas of woodsy beauty. Three men dressed in camouflage held their rifles over their shoulders as they rocked back and forth on the heels of their tan and brown work boots. Directly across from them were three other men, all dressed in black robes, one holding a gold staff with an ankh on the end of it, swaying as if music was playing that no one else could hear.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” said one of the camouflaged men. “For once, we turn to a common opponent.”
“Lance, get to the point,” said the leader in robes. He was older than the others, his skin resembling dark-brown leather. He clung tightly to the loop in the ankh.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere with you and your…friends. You called for a neutral location. You have guns, and we do too, so don’t try anything. We’re here because of Saint Aknaten, so enough of the small-talk. Let’s get on to getting rid of him, please.”
“Fine,” Lance said. “Saint isn’t intimidated by anything we’ve tried thus far. He even went so far as to post our emails on his website and make a mockery of our contacts with him. When he does answer our calls, he laughs and hangs up. He’s alerted the police to what’s going on, but luckily for us, the police aren’t too concerned with helping him. They’ve got our backs.”
“Big surprise there.” This time it was Ted who spoke. He was twenty-two, tall, and African-American with long locks that swept to the middle of his muscular back.
“So,” Lance said as he started to walk around, “we need to step up our efforts, email Saint’s entire organization. We don’t know exactly who helps fund him, but it has to be someone big. We’ve spent the last two years trying to figure that out. If we can get to that person or group, we’ll have it made. Keep calling and emailing the others, as well. If we can get to the people he works with, it’ll have a more profound effect because he’s treating us like some joke right now. We need your help because at the end of the day, this is about the survival of our races. Saint can’t do that on his own, but he has the capacity to organize and encourage mass groups of people to do his bidding. It’s like people fall under a trance around him. He’s too dangerous to ignore. He’s a one-man wrecking ball. He’s having white men take your women and we…”
“We know what the hell he’s doing, Lance,” Ted interrupted. “We’ve been trying to talk to Saint about this for a long time. I’ve even had some good conversations with him, but he still upheld his position. You’re right – either he doesn’t care, or he thinks we’ll just disappear. He’s destroying our families. More and more Black women are buying into this garbage. It’s now in style for Black women to date white men, like that shit’s cute or something. It has to stop. I don’t want to get physical with him, but I’m not opposed to it as a last resort.”
“I bet you wouldn’t say that if he were white,” Lance sneered.
“You’re right, I probably wouldn’t. But he isn’t white, he’s a man of color, so I want to try a different approach and see how we fare.” Ted surveyed the faces around him. “Physical harm should be the last resort. That’s something your people seem to know little about despite your pillaging and robbing. The only reason we’re working together is because Saint’s influence is growing, and we’re seeing the consequences of his handiwork. He’s become very popular these last few years, and there’s no way to stop a train that fast without more manpower.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not going to just let you insult us. We don’t think too highly of you, either, Ted,” Lance said, resisting the urge to blow the mouthy punk away. “Your people think everything is owed to you. You’re lazy, act entitled, make children you can’t afford, yet stand around blaming the white man for everything. We don’t have to do anything to your people. You’re doing a fine job yourselves!”
“You put drugs in our community!” One of the other men yelled out that was standing next to Ted.
“You sell them, smoke them, and shoot ’em in your arms!” A man next to Lance yelled back in response.
“Enough!” Lance held up a hand. “Keep focus, please! We can’t argue. That’s not what this is about. Look, I apologize, Ted. I didn’t mean to derail this. We have to work collectively. We need to find who Saint is close to. That’s been difficult. He’s very secretive. We’re working with a guy to tap into his computer so we can get more information. Saint seems to change his IP address often, but I’m certain we’ll get it. The more information we can get on him, the better. Find out who he cares about, put them at risk, and that may slow-up his activity. In the interim, keep the emails and phone calls coming. Maybe together we can get through to him.”
“He’s a product of racial mixing himself, Lance.” Ted rolled his eyes.
“I know, Ted. That doesn’t change anything. He’s neither Black nor white. Ethnically, he’s irrelevant. Now let’s get to work.”
* * *
Saint’s bodyguard, T-Rex, stood with him in the jerky elevator. They were making their way to the Xenia Donnellson Show which aired Monday through Friday from 7:00-11:00AM. Just like all the other countless interviews he had agreed to, Saint was prepared for the typical comments and usual litany of questions. He sighed as they reached the seventh floor, rounded the corner, and headed into the reception area. He was immediately greeted by the office assistant who stood up and escorted him to the studio booth, but not before tripping on the carpet as she continued to steal glances at him from over her shoulder. He was led to Xenia Donnellson, on-air extraordinaire.
Xenia took a final
sip of her water, crumpled the plastic bottle in her hands, and tossed it in the nearby trashcan. “Where the hell are my notes?” she thought as she looked around the studio. Her producer motioned to her to check her headset. Xenia nodded in return, picking it up and adjusting the volume while darting her eyes to and fro in search of her evasive notes. ‘I’m so unorganized today. That crazy dream kept me up half the night,’ she thought as she set her headphones back down and rubbed lotion onto her hands. Finally noticing them, she picked them up and studied them carefully, preparing for her guest for the day.
Saint nonchalantly entered the room, taking notice of the multitude of computers, cables, and large speakers that cramped the area. As he got closer to Xenia, whose head was down while she read from a crinkled piece of pink paper in her hands, he stopped in his tracks. He stared at her wild, curly, dark-brown hair. It was adorned with a large, green-and-silver peacock feather with black and white polka dots. Her thick eyelashes batted as her eyes roamed the piece of paper she was studying. Saint’s eyes followed down to her lips, dark-red and juicy. Xenia’s low-cut shirt displayed a set of breasts that many women would kill for. She swung her crossed leg ever so slightly as she dangled her purple peek-toe heel from her dainty foot. Saint watched as she lifted her head and looked at the controls in front of her, gradually sliding the dials in different directions with her long, pecan-complected fingers. Suddenly becoming aware of his presence, she looked over at him. Their eyes met and neither of them seemed to be able to speak.
“Are you OK?” T-Rex asked, noticing the eye lock.
Saint nodded ‘yes.’ He felt hungry, but not for food. The feeling was so overwhelming he glanced away from her to gain his composure. Saint took additional notice of her small diamond nose ring. It sparkled in the filtered morning sunlight.
“Um,” Xenia cleared her throat, “you must be Dr. Saint Aknaten,” she said as she slowly stood up and extended her hand. Saint stood there looking at her, leaving her standing for what felt like an eternity, her hand floating in mid air.
“Ah, yes,” he said as he shook her hand. Their fingertip dance lingered until she gradually slipped her hand completely away. “We finally meet,” he added, his hunger increasing. He felt the saliva in his mouth accumulate as the mouthwatering prey before him moved about, teasing him with her floral perfumed scent.
“Please have a seat,” Xenia offered, pointing to a black leather swivel chair across from her. Saint kept his eye on her as he sat down. He was fixated, incapable of looking away. He pushed the gum he was chewing towards the back of his mouth and continued to leisurely look her up and down. He felt his entire body becoming hot.
“We start in about two minutes,” Xenia said as she put on her headphones. “Do you want something to drink?”
‘What the hell is he looking at me like that for?’ Xenia thought as she smiled at him. Saint inhaled deeply, overdosing on her flowery perfume and shea butter lotion. He rubbed his forehead, realizing a headache emerging as he fought the urge to grab and kiss her. He watched in slow motion as she swept her pouty bottom lip with her moist tongue.
“No, I’m good,” he said. ‘Yeah, I want something to drink, but you can’t put it in a bottle,’ he thought. ‘Let me taste you.’
“We’re going to start now,” Xenia said with a grin as she waved to the show producer and hit the “on air” button.
“We have a very special guest today, kinfolk! I promised y’all he’d be here, and he doesn’t disappoint. The always provocative, attention-grabbing, and oh-so-sexy Dr. Saint Aknaten is here with us in the studio today,” Xenia said as she swiveled in her red studio chair. She pushed another button and music started. Trina’s “I Got a Problem” came on. Saint smiled at the music choice, one of his favorite songs. He looked down at his crotch, then back up at Xenia.
“Before we begin,” Xenia announced, “I want to remind everyone that this morning’s show is adult in nature, and it’s highly recommended that children not listen to this program. This is extreme adult content. Sex and profanity will be off the charts, so get ready for a really raw discussion. Dr. Saint Aknaten is a sex therapist and sexologist out of New York City. He grew up in South Bronx as well as Brooklyn. This is a direct quote from a fan of his on his website: ‘He has a degree in fuckology.’ He’s the author of ‘Black Goddess,’ ‘White Knight,’ ‘The Black Vagina Vortex,’ ‘The Bible’s Interracial Marriages Explained,’ ‘The Black Pussy Chronicles,’ ‘The Swirl Seed,’ and ‘It’s More Than Just About Pussy.’”
Xenia swung her leg harder and faster, her nerves getting to her for the first time in years. Confidence was never something she struggled with until that very moment, and she soon acknowledged it. “OK, first of all, Dr. Saint Aknaten, it’s a joy to have you here. We’ve been trying to get you on this show for over a year, so I’m glad that you were able to squeeze us into your jam-packed schedule.”
“Thank you for having me,” Saint said. He looked at her as though he was the big bad wolf. As Xenia continued to speak, Saint became concerned about his strong attraction to her. He felt all he was missing was a club to hit her over the head with and a cave to drag her into.
“I understand there was another convention, the L.A. Rainbeau Valentine Conference, last night, the kind that only men are invited to, and it was sold out, as usual,” Xenia said, drawing him back from his lustful thoughts. Saint blinked his eyes and came out of the trance.
“From my understanding, that’s correct, it was sold out,” he said.
“You seem to really leave an impression on people, positive and negative, wherever you go. Oh, I’m sorry, I was supposed to discuss your credentials more.” Xenia was flustered. She couldn’t believe she had lost her train of thought.
“I want to let the audience know, in the interest of saving time, the rest of Dr. Saint Aknaten’s background. He’s not just a sex therapist and author, but a world-renowned public speaker and icon. His topics typically pertain to interracial relationships and sex between Black women and non-Black men. He encourages these unions to a great extent, even stating that they’re necessary from a spiritual standpoint. OK, I don’t get all that,” Xenia frowned. “Dr. Aknaten, can you please explain why you’re so gung-ho about non-Black men dating Black women?” She crossed her arms over her breasts. Saint read her body language and filed it away for further inquiry.
“That’s what my lectures and books are for – to educate. It would take too long to cram an answer into a thirty-minute radio interview, but I can say that it’s imperative that we, as non-Black men, take the cues from God to date, marry, and mate with Black women. There’s a shift, finally, in the acceptance of Black women dating non-Black men. But unfortunately, it’s due more to necessity than preference. The numbers don’t lie. For every Black man in this country there are eight Black women. Because of this difference in numbers, Black women have begun to look elsewhere to see what you’ve been missing.”
“What I’ve been missing?” Xenia laughed.
“Yes, what you’ve been missing. Love and sex don’t have a color. They either exist in one’s life or they don’t. Someone like me, for example, could end up being the love of your life,” Saint grinned.
“Dr. Saint Aknaten, with all due respect, you come off in your books to be an arrogant, pompous, and egotistical, and from your answer right now, I think that’s a fair assessment. I did look at your book, ‘The Black Vagina Vortex,’ and I can honestly say,” Xenia bent over laughing, “this is ridiculous! Really? You really believe that Black women are just going to leave our brothas in droves? You need to wake up. It isn’t gonna happen. I believe in the survival of the Black family. Now sure, there will be some women that’ll look outside the community, but the majority of us are standing by our Black men, and I refuse to believe those numbers you quoted. That’s just a scare tactic. I want to make it clear to the listening audience that I have nothing against interracial dating. Love who you love, but I refuse to sit here and have our Black man demo
nized.”
“I didn’t demonize the Black man. You’re giving me entirely too much credit. You don’t have to believe my numbers. Go to your local hospital and ask how many Black boys and girls have been born in the last twenty years, then come challenge me. Investigate how many of these young boys grow up to be incarcerated, drug addicted, or uneducated – sometimes due to racism and a system set against them – but that doesn’t change the end result, now does it? Some of these guys don’t want you anyway. Some are gay, or prefer non-Black women themselves. Don’t blame me for that, it isn’t my fault,” Saint laughed. “Have you ever slept with a man who wasn’t Black, Xenia?” Saint flashed a smile.
