Skin Game

by Lawrence C. Ross

  “Tell her that she’ll get five hundred dollars for one hour if she calls,” Ray said. “And I expect a call.”

  Chapter 3

  You have to recognize when the right place and the right time fuse and take advantage of that opportunity. There are plenty of opportunities out there. You can’t sit back and wait.

  —Ellen Metcalf

  It was three in the morning and the final ten men were leaving the Chi Chi Room. Keisha, Patra, and Debra were sitting in the dressing room, rubbing their feet, having squeezed them into four-inch heels for most of the night. For Keisha and Patra, it had been a long night because they’d had to go onstage a few extra times because of the private dance with Marty and Ray.

  “How much did you make tonight?” Keisha asked Debra and Patra.

  “Bitch, why you all up in my money again?” Debra laughed.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” Keisha said, smiling. “But how much did you make?”

  “Well, I made about two hundred and fifty, so I’m cool,” Patra said. “What did you make?”

  “About the same,” Keisha said, counting her money. “I made around one seventy-five. It started out bad, but some niggas must have gotten paid or something tonight.”

  “I know, it seemed like it, didn’t it?” Patra said. “I think I made about the same, plus that fifty we made from that private dance.”

  Debra looked up.

  “Y’all had a private dance?”

  “Yeah.”

  Debra looked slightly jealous. “Sean always trying to make the new girls work for his friends. Watch out for that muthafucka. He’s a snake.”

  Patra got up to leave.

  “Yep, we were supposed to get one hundred apiece for that private shit, but Sean lied and only gave us fifty. That was some bullshit.”

  “Well, darling,” Debra said, picking up her purse and getting ready to go, “get ready for more bullshit working here. It’s part of the job description.”

  Patra laughed and left. Debra opened the door to leave.

  “You want a ride home?”

  “Thanks, but I took Veronica’s car. I’m good,” Keisha replied. She still had to go to the store to get some Newports for her mother.

  “All right,” Debra said. “Make sure Blackie walks you out to your car. You never know what crazy fools could be out there waiting for you.”

  “I got ya.”

  Debra walked out and, like a snake, Sean slid into the dressing room.

  “Keisha, I’ve got something for you,” Sean said, holding a business card.

  “Look,” Keisha said, standing up, “I’m not interested in doing any private dances for your patrons. I don’t do bachelor parties.”

  “Look, that ain’t it.”

  Sean sat down on the makeup counter.

  “Remember that guy you were dancing for? Well, he’s a talent scout for Pimp magazine. He wanted me to give you his card because he’d like to see you in the magazine.”

  Keisha took the card and stared at it.

  “What does he want me to do?”

  “Pose. He comes here from time to time and looks for new girls to pose. Most times he leaves without anyone, but this time you impressed him. Take it as a compliment.”

  “What’s he paying?” she asked. Keisha grabbed her bag and began to leave. Sean followed her. Blackie was sipping on a Coke at the bar, while Jojo was cleaning up the club. Keisha noticed that when the lights were up, the Chi Chi Room really looked cheap.

  “I think he’s paying $250 for a shoot. And if they like you, they’ll book you for more.”

  Keisha stopped.

  “Is he on the up and up? Or is he full of shit?”

  “Up and up. But hey, if you don’t want to do it…”

  Keisha looked at the card again. Posing had been something she’d thought about, but she didn’t know if she wanted to have her pictures floating out in the public forever. Being onstage was one thing. It was dark, and only a limited amount of regulars were watching. But putting it in print didn’t help. But she needed the money, and this was a quick way to get it.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You think about if you want to be shaking your ass on this stage for the rest of your life, then get back to me,” Sean said, smirking. “Blackie, take her to her car.”

  Keisha pulled into her driveway around four in the morning, turned off the engine, and sat still in the car. She was tired. The sun was about an hour from peeking above the horizon, but the crackheads in the neighborhood were still scurrying around in search of another hit. The neighborhood was semi-asleep, but it would be fully awake in an hour or so. Most of the residents on Budlong Avenue were churchgoing nine-to-fivers who didn’t do any dirt except what was contained in their nicely mowed lawns. But it still was a dangerous place to grow up, a dangerous place to live day to day, and a dangerous place to stay. And that’s why Keisha was desperate to get out.

  She slowly got out of the car and made her way to the front door, carrying the carton of Newports for Veronica. When she walked into the house, she saw the same scene she always saw. Andre was passed out on the couch, getting his beauty rest for another day of sitting on his black ass. Veronica was half asleep, but the squeak of the door had awakened her.

  “Where’s my cigarettes?” she asked Keisha sleepily.

  “No ‘hi’? No, ‘thank-you’?” Keisha asked sarcastically as she tossed the carton to her mother.

  “Your thank-you is that you get a muthafuckin’ place to put your head down,” Veronica replied, opening the carton. She pulled out a pack, opened it, and pulled out a cigarette.

  “You know, I should start charging your ass some rent,” she continued, lighting the cigarette. “How much did you make at the club tonight?”

  Keisha desperately wanted to get in bed, smoke a joint, and then go to sleep, but her mother wasn’t going to let her go that easy.

  “That’s my money, and my business,” Keisha replied.

  Her mother stopped smoking for a second and looked at her long and hard, as though she was just meeting her daughter for the first time.

  “Your business is my business,” she said in a low, menacing voice. “If you don’t like it, you can get the hell out right now. And I do mean right now. You’re grown.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Keisha said, ignoring her and walking to her room.

  “Yeah, that’s what you do best,” her mother shouted, walking away. “Sleep and shake your ass. That’s all you do!”

  Keisha shut the door with a noisy bang. The crystal doorknob came off in her hands.

  “Shit!” she muttered.

  She was too tired to put it back on and could only fall down on the bed. It was then that her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby, how come you haven’t called me this week?”

  Donovan always had bad timing, and that was why Keisha had given him the boot last month. He’d done wrong, and now he was paying the price. He couldn’t keep slinging crack on the block, Keisha thought, going in and out of jail and trying to be a player, and expect to keep her as a girlfriend. She’d seen what that lifestyle brought and she didn’t want any part of it.

  “Donovan, it’s four-thirty in the morning. Why are you calling me now?”

  “ ’Cause I was up and I saw you get in,” he said. “You know I don’t like you dancing at that club.”

  Keisha bent down to look under her bed. There she found the cigar box with her weed. Andre had been stealing a little bit each day, but she still had enough for one joint. And one joint was all she needed. She took a Zig-Zag paper and licked it.

  “You have absolutely no choice in the matter, son,” she said, sprinkling weed in the Zig-Zag. “If you had done me right instead of chasing all those other hoes, you may have had a little bit of say—and I do mean only a little bit—but now you have nothing. So stop sweating me.”

  “But I still love you, Keisha. You know that,” he said. “Wh
y don’t you give me another chance? I swear I can do better.”

  Keisha lit the joint and took a nice long hit. The smoke was just what she needed. Finally she let the smoke trickle out of her mouth in a stream.

  “Yeah, but I can do better than you,” Keisha said. “I know that now. You showed me that.”

  “Ah, baby, don’t say that. You know that, like the moon and the Earth, we are meant to be together.”

  Keisha took the cell phone from her ear and looked at it. She didn’t know if the weed had made her think she’d heard him say some corny shit, or if Donovan had actually thought that line would work. Either way, she wasn’t buying what he was selling.

  “Good night, Donovan,” she said. “And don’t call me at four-thirty in the morning ever again, or I’ll come by and kick your ass like I used to. You understand?”

  Donavan paused.

  “You still love me, don’t you?”

  Keisha hung up on Donovan. I hate him because he’s right, she thought as she took another drag of the joint. I do love him, but I can’t be with him.

  She turned over, reached under the bed, and pulled out a shoebox. She lifted the lid of the box, put in her dollar bills, and then pulled out a white envelope. Inside was a single piece of rumpled paper.

  Congratulations, Keisha Montez! You have been accepted into the 2007–08 freshman class of the University of California at Los Angeles. In the coming weeks, we will be sending you more information, including the academic schedule and orientation period. Please send us a confirmation that you will be enrolling at the university by September 1. Total tuition for the year is $7,700. Thank you, and we look forward to having you as a member of the UCLA community!

  Keisha slowly put the paper back into the envelope, then put the box back under her bed. September 1 was weeks away and her mother hadn’t been any help.

  “Fuck that shit,” she said, puffing on. She then took a final drag of her joint and lay down, wondering how she was going to make $7,700 for school and still get out of Veronica’s house. “I ain’t filling out no financial aid forms or taking out any loans. You want some money, then go back to that club and shake your ass some more,” Veronica had said.

  Chapter 4

  The self is not something ready-made, but something in continuous formation through choice of action.

  —John Dewey

  The Pimp magazine headquarters was in a nondescript building in Inglewood, so Steven always had to rent out a place for photo shoots. When Steven thought about his hopes and dreams, he saw himself living in a Playboy mansion as the black Hugh Hefner. But that was his dream. Right now, he was conducting a photo shoot with a man holding a ten-inch dick and an uncooperative model with size 38F titties. His photographer Jeff straddled them both and clicked away with his camera.

  “All right, Gabrielle, now I want you to lie on your stomach while Mr. Bigg is on top of you.”

  “Okay, but make sure that he doesn’t mess with my hair,” Gabrielle said, turning her naked body over.

  “Mr. Bigg, please make sure to not mess with her hair,” Steven said with a smirk.

  “Right,” said Mr. Bigg, yawning.

  “She doesn’t mind having a strange ten-inch dick laying on her ass but is tripping off her fucking hair,” Steven whispered to Marty.

  “That’s the business you’re in.” Marty laughed.

  “Okay, Jeff, let’s get the shots,” Steven said, motioning to the photographer.

  This photo shoot was taking place at the Studio. The Studio was in the San Fernando Valley, and almost every nude magazine used it from time to time. About ten years before, a porn director, tired of trying to find locations for his shoots, had built an all-purpose studio. The studio was divided into five sets. You could have your models use the kitchen set, the living room set, the office set, the pool room set, or the bedroom set. Steven liked to use it because his readers weren’t that discerning when it came to what the background looked like. They just wanted to see the ass in the photo. And that’s where Gabrielle came in.

  This shoot was in the bedroom set, and Mr. Bigg and Gabrielle were on the bed. Jeff had to climb on top of the bed to get the shots for the magazine. Things had been rocky because Gabrielle didn’t follow instructions well, and when a model didn’t follow instructions, it made for long hours of shooting. They were now into hour four of a two-hour shoot.

  “Goddammit, Gabrielle!” Steven shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your face to the camera? I mean, what the fuck is going on? You’re fucking wasting my time when you can’t follow even the simplest instructions.”

  Gabrielle was not moved by Steven’s histrionics.

  “If you think it’s so damn easy, then why don’t you put your ass in the air with a dick on it and then turn your head? I’ll bet you that you’d find a way to keep your head down.”

  “But I’m putting the money in your pocket,” he reminded her. “And if you can’t do what the fuck I say, then get up and I can keep my money. Just let me know.”

  “Well, if you just shut up, maybe we can get this damn shoot done and I can get the fuck out of here,” she said sharply.

  Jeff kept shooting, even through the conversation. He wasn’t paid by the shot, but he did like to give Pimp a bit of an artistic touch, even if Steven always deleted it. Maybe the argument could be used as a theme. It would have helped if Mr. Bigg was a bit more animated in his facial expressions, but he always had the same dull look.

  “All right, enough of that,” Jeff said, climbing down from the bed. He changed the lens on the camera.

  “Let’s have you guys lie on your side,” he said. “Gabrielle, raise your leg just so.”

  Jeff moved Gabrielle’s leg so that it was high over her head. Mr. Bigg was behind her.

  “Mr. Bigg, take your dick and put it on her leg so that it straddles it.”

  “Just like this?” Mr. Bigg asked. He picked up his dick like it wasn’t even part of his body and tossed it on Gabrielle’s leg. “Do you want it soft or hard?” Mr. Bigg was just trying to help.

  “What do you think, Steven?” Jeff asked, leaning back and looking through his camera lens at the scene.

  “Uh, let’s go with hard.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said, looking around. “Where’s Kevin? Kevin!”

  Kevin came running into the room.

  “What?”

  Jeff pointed at Mr. Bigg. “He needs some oil.”

  Kevin pulled a white bottle of oil out of his pocket and handed it to Mr. Bigg. After sprinkling some oil on his dick, Mr. Bigg immediately began jacking off, like there was nothing wrong with masturbating in front of a crew of photographers and staff. And for him, there wasn’t.

  Suddenly the ten-incher turned hard, and he gently laid it down on Gabrielle.

  “Damn, nigga, that dick is hot!” Gabrielle said. “And oily too.”

  She looked at his penis as though it was an alien.

  “It can get hotter,” he responded with a smirk.

  “Yeah, in your wet dreams,” she said. Gabrielle raised her head like Steven wanted and held the pose.

  “Let’s get this shit over with,” she said.

  Jeff took more shots, and in about five minutes, it was all over.

  “That’s a wrap, everybody,” Jeff said. “Thank you, everyone.”

  Gabrielle and Mr. Bigg hopped up off the bed, and Kevin handed them a towel.

  Steven and Marty walked off the set, not even bothering to thank Gabrielle and Mr. Bigg. For Steven, once a shoot was done, then the people in it didn’t matter to him. They had worth to him only when they made him money.

  The Studio had a room for viewing photographs, so Steven and Marty started looking at the day’s shoot.

  “Sit down, Marty, while I take a look at these photos,” Steven said.

  Steven Cox looked over Mr. Bigg and Gabrielle’s photos in his office, and he was pleased. They gave him that simulated porn look that he wanted, and Gabrielle actually look
ed like she had been enjoying herself, even though he knew she hadn’t been. And that was all he wanted—to give the reader what he wanted to see. Nothing more, and nothing less.

  Steven had bought Pimp magazine after having lost his job as a lawyer. He’d gotten into a fistfight with another lawyer at the first law firm he worked for, and that didn’t help his career track being subsequently blackballed from every other law firm. That was because he’d taken a kickback from Sean, and had manipulated some evidence to get him out from under some racketeering charges that had been the last straw. The agreement was that he’d leave quietly, and never practice law again, and the firm would keep the evidence under wraps. Steven negotiated a severance, and then signed on the dotted line. And Steven let Sean know that he still had the evidence, and if he wanted to stay out of prison, he would make sure the women of the Chi Chi Room were available to him.

  Steven really didn’t like law anyway, and with Pimp he’d taken a magazine that had previously had a weak regional circulation and turned it into the biggest-selling black magazine, next to Essence women’s magazine. He was making money hand over fist and it all came from shooting titties and ass for horny men. Now he was going into another venture. He was going into porn, and Ray was his talent scout.

  “Okay, so what do ya got?” Steven asked. Marty and Ray had been scouring the clubs for damn near a month now, looking for the right one. Steven wanted someone fresh, something that could capture the imagination of the black porn-buying public. He needed a star.

  “I think I’ve found our girl,” Ray said. “She’s going to start off Pimp Video with a bang.”

  “Where are her pictures?”

  Ray leaned back in his chair.

  “I don’t have any yet. I met her at the Chi Chi Room the other day. Believe me, she’s a star.”

  “The Chi Chi Room? Goddamn it, that means Sean is going to want a cutback, isn’t he?”

  “Of course.” Ray laughed. “But then again, this piece of ass is worth it. And I think she’s a video virgin.”

  “Description, give me a description.”