What You Sow

by Wallace Ford

  Her laugh was soft and enchanting. It was the kind of laugh that promised pleasure and passion. I wished that I were driving the car so that I could just push the gas pedal to the floor. In retrospect, it’s a good thing I was in the backseat.

  “Well, Kenitra, if it’s too late ...”

  “Sture, you really are a madman, aren’t you? Please get your Norwegian ass over to room thirty-two thirty-two right now. I have two chilled champagne glasses and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that I need you to open ... and I may need for you to open something else, too.”

  “The next sound you hear will be me knocking at your door.”

  “Ciao, Sture.”

  I never knew that the sound of words could feel like velvet—on my ears and all over my body. I felt myself shuddering in anticipation.

  The way she said my name made my palms sweat and my heart beat like I had just crossed the finish line of a footrace. There was no force of logic or power of reflection that could have kept me from room thirty-two thirty-two at the Waldorf that night.

  Within a few minutes, I was in the ornate lobby of the Waldorf. Since it was past two in the morning, the place was practically deserted with the exception of some security and maintenance staff. And, since I was a well-dressed, blond, blue-eyed, white man, no one even suggested an inquiry in my direction as I made my way toward the elevators. A few moments later, I was in front of room thirty-two thirty-two.

  I have to confess that I hesitated a moment before knocking on Kenitra’s door. Maybe it’s the same thing that prey experiences when it knows it is just about to be captured by the hunter. But my hesitation did not matter. As I took a breath to contemplate what it would mean to begin any kind of relationship with Kenitra Perkins, the door opened. She must have been looking through the peephole in anticipation of my arrival.

  I remember that she was holding two chilled champagne flutes in one hand and an icy bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the other. She was wearing ... well, she was wearing almost nothing. The “almost” consisted of a sheer black camisole with a matching pair of panties and the most impossible five-inch high-heeled shoes that I had ever seen. I entered, and I remember that Brenda Russell was playing on the sound system that she had in her room. I don’t remember too much else.

  “You certainly believe in making a girl wait, don’t you?” Kenitra virtually slinked across the room like some wonderful sexual feline.

  “Sorry to be so late, Kenitra... .” I could not believe that I was feeling so shy and nervous, like a teenager in a wet dream.

  “Don’t be sorry, Sture. You can start making up for it by opening this bottle, and then one more thing.”

  Looking at her smile was like staring into a galaxy of never-ending starbursts.

  “Sure.” I felt like my tongue was tied into a million-million knots. It was then I knew what was meant by “bewitched, bothered and bewildered.”

  I quickly and expertly opened the bottle of champagne, the cork escaping silently, like the sigh of a controlled woman, and then poured until the two flutes were full. We toasted and sipped. The champagne was excellent, although it could have been flat ginger ale that night, for all that I cared. Kenitra was simply intoxicating. And now, being alone with her, in the hotel room, with her dressed like some sex fantasy come to life, I hardly knew where to begin.

  “You mentioned something about one more thing?”

  “Yes, I did, Sture. Yes, I did. Tell me, where would you like for me to kiss you first?”

  Clearly, this entire evening was some kind of dream come true. So I told Kenitra, and she kissed me where I asked, over and over, and I kissed her where she asked, over and over. And she introduced me to a universe of pleasure that I never knew existed and never wanted to leave.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jerome

  In My Solitude

  I hung up from my conversation with Paul feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I had been battling the demons of loneliness and sadness and simple misery ever since Charmaine had died, and I had finally attacked those demons by taking the initiative to do something that would be enjoyable, pleasant ... fun. For a moment, I thought I might have turned the corner for which grieving survivors search with desperation and limitless hope. Or so I thought.

  Missing Charmaine has always been more than a matter of grief; it was more than sadness and it was more than simple misery. I truly felt that a part of me was just missing. I had always been in control of my surroundings and myself. I have prided myself on being able to handle any challenge, any adversity, and any crisis. But it has always been more than pride. It has been the way that I have chosen to define myself.

  I have never wanted anything more than an opportunity to be myself. Whether it was in the mean streets of Philadelphia, the ivy-covered halls of Yale, the urban intellectual boot camp of Columbia’s business school or the cutthroat, tailored-suit, hand-to-hand combat that is Wall Street, I have never known fear and I have never doubted that I would prevail.

  Much good fortune has come my way, that’s for sure. But I have always believed that good fortune is only good if you recognize the opportunity and use it to your advantage. I have had friends and enemies, and Gordon Perkins has taught me everything I ever want to know about betrayal. But there are no sad songs that I need to sing.

  I guess the best way to put it is that I have always been comfortable in my own skin. That is, until Charmaine died. Since then, I felt like I have been in a constant struggle to stay behind. And the tomorrow that everyone writes songs and poems about never seems to come for me.

  After his girlfriend Samantha Gideon died, Paul would come and visit Charmaine and me for company and consolation. The few times that he did come by the house, it was for dinner and casual conversation. Paul certainly didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t want to be with his usual rotation of alternate beauties who seemed to characterize so much of his past lifestyle.

  But I remember one evening after dinner when Charmaine had excused herself and Paul told me how Samantha’s loss had affected him. His words haunt me these days.

  He told me how he would be all right through most of the day, but when evening fell, he was helpless to avoid the waves of sadness that would crash against his very soul, over and over. It was almost as if he was suffering from some kind of photophobic disorder. He was fine during the daylight, but when the sun set, he felt like he was just going to pieces.

  He did mention that he felt he had some kind of “closure” after Samantha started appearing in his dreams from time to time. He said that she would try to comfort him and encourage him to live life and to enjoy it.

  About a year after Charmaine died, some friends suggested that dating might help—that sitting around being sad was just not the way to live the rest of my life. And I do recall having drinks with Trini Satterfield, Ralph Watson and Jerry James, and being advised that the best cure for my continuing malaise was to go out and get a woman, any woman, preferably several. They were adamant in their belief that frequent, rambunctious, sweaty sex was the cure for me. They even offered to “make a few calls and hook me up.”

  I have never thought of myself as any kind of monk or prude. If the truth were told, even with her illnesses, Charmaine and I had a loving and intense relationship that carried into the bedroom. And despite her illness, Charmaine was actually a ravenous lover, until her life started to ebb away. And feeling her loving arms, her willing body, her knowing hands, her voracious mouth, was just something else that had been missing from my life.

  But from the time that Charmaine was too ill to even think about sex to the time she died and then to this very moment, almost two years, I had not had sex. And while I truly missed having a physical relationship with a woman, I had not met a single woman with whom I wanted to go to bed. It had gotten really strange.

  I certainly felt the need. I was a healthy human. I wanted to be with a woman. There just was no woman that I wanted to be with. It was a mysterious condition in which I found mysel
f. Things got so bad, I actually thought about taking up Trini, Ralph and Jerry on their offer. But then I figured that at that point in my life, some meaningless fling would just make things worse.

  And after hanging up from my conversation with Paul, I noticed that it was after six, and since it was September, it was going to get dark soon, and that meant another losing battle with sadness. And I hoped, I really hoped, that this night would be different.

  But I could almost hear the footfalls of heartache and the desolate winds of inconsolable loss as if they were just around the corner, and I knew that this night would be just like all the others. And already I was sure that going to Los Angeles, or the moon, wasn’t going to change anything. At that moment, I almost called Paul back to change our plans.

  But something told me to at least wait until the next morning. So I waited for the next morning, and I waited for Charmaine to finally visit me in the middle of the night to let me know that everything was going to be all right. And I waited for someone to remind me what it felt like to be embraced with passion, if not with love.

  CHAPTER 13

  Gordon

  ’Round Midnight

  It’s hard to explain, but at some point, I started to be able to relax in that hospital, even with all of the tubes and monitors and wires and nurses and doctors. And it’s hard to explain, but even though I am sure that I didn’t go to sleep, once I started to relax the Dark Lord would pay me a visit. He would always have my new G-Perk wardrobe with him, and after he disengaged me from my wires and tubes, I would get dressed in my gear and simply stroll out of the hospital. As I look back, I am amazed that the nurses, doctors and orderlies seemed to be asleep or just unaware of my departure from and then return to what was supposed to be one of the most exclusive wings of New York–Presbyterian Hospital. But that was simply of no concern to me.

  The Dark Lord and I always had a few runs to make, starting with picking up some excellent cocaine from one of my old suppliers in East Harlem and then on to my new hangout on 125th Street, the Purple Dragon, a bar and lounge just west of the elevated commuter train tracks on Park Avenue. I had my reasons for going to the Dragon: I was putting together a crew to take care of some of my new business operations, even though my new crew couldn’t spell “Wall Street,” much less find it.

  After getting my personal ration of coke on East 112th Street and immediately snorting up almost a gram of what I thought was close to pure Colombian product, we flagged a livery cab to go up to the Dragon. With my denims and Timberland boots and shades and baseball cap, my G-Perk persona was absolutely complete and in keeping with my new ventures. I was also glad that the Dark Lord had come up with a nine-millimeter Glock pistol someplace along the line. It was equipment that would come in handy.

  When we got out of the livery cab on 125th Street, it must have been close to one A.M. on a Wednesday night. Clearly, there were a number of late-working motherfuckers or a gang of niggers who never heard of a job because the Purple Dragon was very busy. It was a dingy, worn-out joint that had seen its best days decades ago. At some point, it might have been a slightly respectable joint, but now it was just a dive, and as the Dark Lord and I walked in the door, all I could see were pimps, whores, faggots, fences, undercover cops, hustlers, boosters, gangsters, snitches, knuckleheads and a few squares hoping to score some drugs or some pussy or both. The squares had no way of knowing that they might as well have been wearing bull’s-eyes on their foreheads, since everyone else in the Dragon had them down as pure, grade-A marks, ready and begging to be taken.

  “What’s happening, Ernie? Busy night, I see. Give me the usual.”

  Ernie Argentina (no one knew his real name) was the bartender, and he knew enough to start pouring my Rémy Martin straight up as I came in the door.

  “Another quiet night in Dodge City, G-Perk.” Ernie was a big guy, with a baseball bat and a shotgun under the counter. It made no sense to mess with him, and it was only the rare pure fool who did.

  Since most people didn’t notice the Dark Lord when we hung out, I needed a seat for only one at the bar. As I moved toward the one empty seat that I saw at the middle of the bar, a hand attached to a wrist dripping with half-ass bling jewelry was thrust out to block my way.

  “Excuse me, brother, I’m just going to have a seat.”

  “Not in this seat, motherfucker. It’s saved.”

  This turned out to be one of those pivotal moments that passes for a test of manhood in the Dragon and in similar joints in similar ’hoods across the country. Even though no one stopped talking and the jukebox kept playing yet another Luther Vandross tune, I knew that all eyes were upon me and that the people behind those eyes wanted to see what G-Perk was going to do.

  I took a better look at the Gatekeeper to the Bar Stool. Although he was seated, he was at least six feet tall and had to weigh well over two hundred pounds, in the fashion of the knucklehead overweight “big boys” who proliferated throughout the surrounding neighborhood. He had on the mandatory denim outfit with shades and baseball cap (his proclaiming the supremacy of the Boston Red Sox). In the moments that I had, I also noticed that he had a keloidal scar that snaked around his throat like some kind of fleshy necklace. The tattoos creeping up from under the collar of his jacket told me that he had probably been in some gang in prison, and probably not that long ago.

  What to do, what to do? If I backed off from the Gatekeeper to the Bar Stool, I would be marked as a punk and a pussy, not only at the Purple Dragon, but far and wide. If I got into a fight with this knucklehead, it could get messy, and Ernie Argentina might end up kicking everybody’s ass, including mine. That was when the Dark Lord whispered some strategic advice into my ear. I am still amazed that neither the Gatekeeper nor Ernie Argentina nor anyone else in the Purple Dragon noticed him, but that was their problem, not mine.

  I knew that I had only moments to make a move. So I did. I grabbed the Gatekeeper by the back of his neck and slammed his face onto the bar, at the same time taking the Glock pistol out of my waistband and shoving it into his mouth as far as it would go. Those two moves pretty much took all of the fight out of the Gatekeeper.

  “Motherfucker, why do you want to fuck with G-Perk? All I want to do is sit my ass down and have my Rémy, and you want to fuck with me? I should make you eat this pistol ... or maybe just shoot your stupid ass.”

  The Gatekeeper’s eyes were bugging out of his head. If he could have spoken, I imagine begging for mercy would have been one of his first priorities.

  “Now get the fuck out of here right fucking now and let me drink my motherfucking Rémy. And the next time you come to this place, motherfucker, or to any place else where you might see my ass, just remember to leave G-Perk the fuck alone. Got that, motherfucker?”

  I removed the pistol from his mouth and placed it squarely between his eyes. I could see in the mirror that Ernie Argentina was eyeing his shotgun, but since the situation seemed to be under control, at least in the universe of the Purple Dragon terms, he didn’t see the need to blow me to kingdom come.

  “Now tell me, nigger, are we straight? Are we clear?”

  The Gatekeeper nodded a vigorous assent while picking up his shades off the floor and skittering out the door. And from that point on, word spread quickly that it was not a good idea to fuck with G-Perk.

  And after having a few glasses of Rémy, I took a livery cab back to New York Hospital later that night. I had picked up a couple of miscellaneous bitches on my way out of the Dragon, and they accompanied the Dark Lord and me back to the hospital. It’s amazing what those bitches did for a couple grams of coke and two hundred dollars.

  The Dark Lord took care of securing my G-Perk gear and getting me hooked back up to all the tubes and wires and monitors. The nurses and orderlies and doctors just never seemed to notice a fucking thing.

  And after my late night excursion, I relaxed and got myself some much-needed rest. I knew that G-Perk would be going up to the Purple Dragon again real soon
.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kenitra

  But Not for Me

  My affair with Sture was meant to be nothing more than one more fling. It was meant to be a fulfillment of passion and fantasy for the moment and nothing more. And that first night at the Waldorf, I thought I was going to be the one to rock Sture’s world, and I certainly did my very best to do just that.

  But whatever they feed the boys in Norway turned Sture into a treasure and a pleasure. Once he got over being nervous (I guess he thought Gordon was going to come into the suite and tap him on the shoulder), he proved to be so skillful and fantastic with his lips, fingers and tongue that when he finally entered me, first on the couch, then on the carpeted floor, and then, finally and wondrously, on the king-sized bed, he ended up feeding hungers that I had suppressed for much too long.

  After that first night at the Waldorf, I just couldn’t get enough of my Scandinavian Snow Cone, which was my nickname for Sture. It was a nickname he hated until I spelled S-C-A-N-D-I-N-A-V-I-A-N S-N-O-W C-O-N-E all over his body with my tongue, again and again. After that, just whispering “Snow Cone” into his ear would arouse Sture, no matter how cool, calm and collected he tried to be.

  I had planned to be back in Venice Beach communing with the wonders of my Pacific Ocean panorama after just one week in New York. My spontaneous fling with Sture was meant to be an adjunct to shopping, taking in some Broadway shows and more shopping. But it was the Sture part of my little plan that changed everything.

  In addition to letting me be a total sex beast, in addition to satisfying me in a way no man or woman ever had, Sture Jorgensen was gentle, kind and, most of all, lots of fun.

  Sture opened the doors to passion, sexual freedom and mirth. And it was the mirth that meant the most to me ... and it was being able to smile freely again that made me extend my stay in New York City for another two weeks.