Kendrick was stunned and infatuated by her frank, no-nonsense approach.
“I have a suite at the Morgan. My room number is 204—you’re more than welcome to spend the night with me,” she said as she collected her purse to go.
“Is this a joke?” he’d asked, amused.
“Am I laughing?” Cassius said.
Kendrick, still believing this was all too good to be true, accompanied the woman to her hotel room and had a drink, a hit of Hades (which he had already been casually acquainted with), and the best sex he’d ever had in his life.
Afterward, Cassius slipped him a vial and told him that whenever he needed to make a purchase he should call her.
“Can I call for sex too?” he’d kidded.
“Maybe.”
Kendrick didn’t think that he would be calling Cassius for anything but sex. He wasn’t a junkie. But three days later, feeling down and out, he plucked her business card from his wallet and made the call.
It quickly became a habit, the drug and Cassius, but as time passed he craved only the Hades. Cassius was just an afterthought and then not a thought at all, because during moments of clarity, Kendrick believed it was Cassius who’d turned him into the addict that he’d become, and he hated her for it.
“So business must be bad,” Kendrick said as he watched Cassius take her seat and cross her long legs. Her short skirt rose three more inches when she did, revealing a curvaceous thigh.
“Why would you say that, Kendrick?” Cassius asked, looking genuinely surprised.
“Well, you don’t usually make deliveries. What’s the matter, did you have to lay off the delivery man?” Kendrick teased.
“Oh, no . . . he is still with us. But you are such a special client that I thought, What the hell? And besides, it’s called excellent customer service.” She laughed a deep, throaty laugh that both excited and disgusted Kendrick.
“Yes, well, that’s very nice of you. I’m sure you’re very busy, so if you would just give me what I ordered, we can both get back to work.”
“You are quite the rude little boy, aren’t you?” Cassius’s eyes slanted and she slowly turned her head and looked at the door before turning back to him and whispering, “Does that door lock?” A mischievous grin covered her face.
“Of course it locks,” he heard himself say.
“So, we can maybe . . .” Cassius nodded toward the large brown leather sofa.
Kendrick shook his head no, but Cassius had already stood up and started to remove her jacket.
Kendrick watched, his objections stuck in the back of his throat, as Cassius tossed her jacket aside and then removed her blouse and then the cream-colored lace demi-cup bra. That she dropped into his lap.
Her breasts were large and firm, melonlike and just as sweet. He knew that for sure and licked his lips at the memory of it. Her nipples jutted out at him, beckoning to be sucked.
By the time Kendrick was able to will himself to stand, Cassius was wearing nothing but her six-inch Jimmy Choos.
His reasoning slowly coming back to him, he shot a look at the unlocked door and quickly crossed the room to it.
“Put your clothes back on, Cassius,” he demanded in a hushed voice.
“No,” she said simply as she strutted to the leather sofa on the opposite end of the room and stretched herself across it.
Kendrick eyed her, growing more excited by the moment.
Cassius threw one long leg over the back of the couch, while extending the other across the carpeted floor.
He could see everything—her vaginal lips, her bell. The soft pink flesh insides of her cunt were moist and reminded him of the polished conch shells that dotted the shores of the Bimini Islands.
He licked his lips.
Kendrick’s eyes went from Cassius to the attaché case and then back to Cassius.
“C’mon, Kenny baby, you know you want it,” she purred as she slid her ring finger up inside herself. A gasp escaped Kendrick when the two-carat diamond ring she was wearing on that same finger disappeared into the polished pink folds of her pussy.
He wanted it, all right—the “it” not necessarily Cassius’s cunt— but if he had to fuck her to get what he really wanted, then he would. At least I’m not no crackhead, sucking dick for a hit of rock, he told himself.
Kendrick turned the lock on the door, went to his desk, picked up the phone, and said, “Kayla, hold all my calls, and please don’t disturb me for anything.” He hung up and began to undress.
Twenty
I love men. I love men. I love men. I love men.
That was my new mantra, my warrior chant against pussy.
I called the cable company and told them that I wanted them to block all the music video channels.
“May I ask the reason, Mr. Bodison?”
“Yeah, ’cause they making me straight!” I screamed into the phone like a lunatic.
I realized that it’s not only that damn Beyoncé Knowles: that lil’ Jessica Simpson is kinda sexy too. If you like white girls. And I don’t. I don’t even like girls! Or do I? I don’t know, I don’t know!
Lord, why are you doing this to me?
I looked back into the mirror and began my warrior chant again:
I love men, I love men, I love men, I love men.
I hadn’t been out of the house since the last Saturday night when I went to Langston’s, a gay nightclub on Atlantic Avenue. I was having a good time. Ran into some friends of mine. We were all drinking, dancing, and just acting the fool. I was feeling so gay! I mean the happy kind as well as the homo kind.
Right there on the dance floor, dancing between all the hardbodies to Sylvester’s “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” I felt like the old Noah had finally come back. And then I saw this brother watching me from the other side of the dance floor. He was doing more than watching me: he was salivating, and by the time the DJ started spinning “Love Is the Message,” so was I.
He had a body to die for. Muscled arms covered in tattoos. Oh, man, a barrel chest and a neck as big as a trunk. I just wanted to throw myself into his arms!
When I saw him nodding at me, I gave him my sexiest come-hither look. And honey chile, did he come. Just a strutting!
When he finally made it through the crowd of people, he took my hand and pulled me to him.
Right then and there the DJ announced lovers’ hour an hour early. Go figure!
“Fire and Desire” came on and he pressed his body against mine. We clung to each other for that entire song, and the two that came on after that. His dick was as hard as a rock; I still have the bruise on my stomach.
He told me his name was Rick and asked if he could have my telephone number. I said I was kind of involved but wouldn’t mind taking his.
Rick walked me to the door and gave me a kiss so passionate, I wanted to throw him down right there and then and do him!
But thoughts of my lover, Zhan, kept me from doing that. And besides, I ain’t no ho—don’t get it twisted—but I am human, and a little innocent slow grinding on the dance floor does not a cheater make.
So you wags out there, put your tongues right back in your mouth. I tossed that number in the very first trash receptacle I came across.
It was such a beautiful evening, I decided to walk home. I love strolling down the residential streets, admiring the brownstone homes, inside and out. White people are the strangest creatures; they keep the windows of their parlor-floor homes free of window treatments, allowing the world outside to see in. Delicious—I’ve gotten many decorating ideas by just strolling the neighborhoods.
I’d picked up two new ideas for bookshelves and was seriously considering cutting a hole in my living room ceiling and installing a spiral wrought-iron staircase when it hit me. I had to pee. I mean, really, really badly. You can’t be taking any chances pulling your dick out and stealing a piss behind a tree or beside a Dumpster anymore. Those good old days are gone. These white cops are looking to bust a black man for anything. An
d shoot, I’m liable to get shot right away if they catch me holding my dick.
So rather than take a chance, I hurried down the street to Brown Sugar, one of the neighborhood watering holes.
When I stepped through the door, I was immediately hit with a sultry singing voice. I turned to see a short, chocolate, buxom woman with a mane of fiery orange hair.
Her octave skills were so impressive that I temporarily forgot my pressing emergency.
Our eyes collided as I moved through the crowd and toward the bathroom. Halfway there, a large meaty hand fell on my shoulder. I turned around and looked up and into the ugliest face I’d ever seen in my life. “My God, you are an ugly motherfucker!”
“What did you say?” the seven-foot-six, three-hundred-pound bouncer asked.
I couldn’t believe I’d said it out loud. Sometimes ugliness startles you into verbalizing your thoughts.
I had to think fast and stood on my tippy toes, cupped my hands around my mouth, and yelled into the cauliflower-shaped ear he tilted down at me. “I said my God, it’s hot in here!”
“Yeah it is,” he said, and his eyes rolled hungrily over me.
Oh my God, he was one of my peoples!
I tell you, we come in all shapes, sizes, and ugly nowadays.
“Um, look, little man,” he began, his hand still on my shoulder. “The bathroom is for customers only.”
My bladder was screaming.
“Of course I’m going to have a beer, but I need to drain the snake,” I said.
“Drain the snake”? Where the hell did that come from? Wasn’t that a straight expression? Didn’t Guido white boys say shit like that?
It was worse than I thought.
“All right, man,” Ugly said. “I’ll be watching you.”
And I knew he meant it.
Now at the bar. My bladder was empty, but my eyes were struggling to stay open. I was exhausted and knew if I had another drop of alcohol I’d fall asleep standing on my feet, so I ordered a club soda with lime.
As I stood sipping, I perused the restaurant. Brown Sugar was packed wall to wall with patrons. To my surprise there were even a few white faces floating among the varied brown hues. And they seemed to know every word to each soulful song the singer belted out.
I found myself singing along too, and once again my eyes found hers and I swear she winked at me. I hurriedly gave her my back and mentally ran my mantra through my mind: I love men. I love men. I love men.
I was still mentally chanting when the band announced that they would be taking a fifteen-minute break. Immediately the room was filled with the sound of quick conversation and laughter.
“Hello.” A sweet voice came from behind me.
I slowly turned around and came face-to-face with the songstress.
“H-hey.”
She squeezed in beside me, expressed her gratitude to some people who approached her with compliments, and then turned back toward me.
She fluffed her hair and her massive bosom jiggled beneath the close-fitting hot pink and red silk dress she wore.
I felt the heat start to build beneath my collar.
“Never seen you here before.”
Her voice was deep and husky and seemed to have fingers, because her words stroked my cheek.
I shuddered.
“Um, I come in every now and again,” I said, looking everywhere except at her. My eyes moved to the door and Ugly was standing there, giving me fish lips.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight,” she breathed and placed her warm hand on my wrist.
Johnson stirred.
“What’s your name, honey?” she asked, stroking my hand.
I eased my hand from beneath her touch and finally turned to face her. “Noah,” I said, presenting my other hand.
“Candy,” she said as she looked deep into my eyes and took both of my hands in hers. They were warm and soft and I immediately wondered if it would feel the same between her thighs.
Damn.
“Um, is that your real name?” I said, clearing my throat and taking back my hands.
“Yes it is, honey. Do you mind if I call you honey, Noah?” Her plump red glossy lips turned up into a devious grin.
Me, I just shrugged my shoulders.
I turned away from her. Johnson was fully awake now, banging on my briefs, begging me to unzip my pants so he could get a look!
“Stop it,” I bent my head and whispered.
“Stop what?” Candy said, her face puzzled and amused at the same time. Then she lowered her gaze. “What’s going on down there?”
My dick bucked, and I discreetly stuck my hand down into my pocket and tried to adjust it back into an unnoticeable position.
I just grinned like a naughty five-year-old.
Candy sipped from her wineglass for a while, shared a few words with some people, and then turned her attention back to me. I drained my club soda and was eager to be out, but Ugly was still standing at the door, eyeing me, and I looked around for an emergency exit I might be able to escape through.
“Honey, can I get you another drink?” Candy was so close to me now that I could feel the heat rising off her body. I sniffed and my nose was filled with a slightly musky scent. I knew that odor well; she was already creaming her panties, if she even had any on.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Let me out now! Johnson was twitching this way and that, determined to bust out. I had to get away from her, and fast.
“No, thank you,” I said, turning to leave, but Candy caught me by the elbow.
“Do you have to go so soon?” she whispered into the back of my neck. All of the hair there stood at attention. “Please,” she uttered, pulling me backwards and spinning me around to face her.
“But—” I started to say.
“You can’t go. You have to stay for my next set. I’m going to sing a song just for you.” She leaned in close and brushed her button nose against mine. Our lips brushed and she didn’t even seem upset when Johnson poked her in a happy place.
“Hmm.” She looked down and moaned.
I love men. I love men. I love men.
“Stay right here,” she said and started back toward the stage.
I looked down at my erection.
You know, you’re going to have to fuck her, Johnson said.
I know. I know.
I love men. I love men. I love . . .
I hadn’t left the house since that night.
I’d barely left my bedroom. I called in sick and told my boss that I had a summer flu. I figured, I was going to lick this sickness. So I played gay porn videos all day and night.
“What are you doing in there?” Chevy yelled through the door.
“Leave me alone. I’m sick. Go to work.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Go away!”
“Noah!”
“Leave your rent money on the kitchen table,” I said, pulling out the heavy artillery.
I heard Chevy tiptoe away, which is exactly what I knew she’d do.
Twenty-One
Can I see you in my office, Chevy?” Ms. Fitch, or Ms. Bitch as I like to call her, said as she walked past my desk.
I’d just walked through the door. Okay, yeah, I was a little late. But shit, it was Friday, and so what? Do they realize how much money I generate for them?
“Okay let me just—”
“Now,” she said as she twitched her narrow, stuck-up behind into her office.
I followed.
“Close the door,” she said as she peered at me over her wire-rimmed glasses.
She was, what, twenty-six years old? I had her by a good nine years and I had more experience in this business in my pinky finger than she did in her entire lily white body.
I mean, what the fuck, just because she graduated from Johnson and Wales, that made her an instant expert in this business? Not!
How much time did she do in the trenches
before they promoted her? Six months, maybe?
Now she was my boss. I tell you, white people are magical!
“Yes?” I said as I sat down, folded my hands, and gave her my best uninterested look.
She blinked her green eyes at me, tugged at the hem of her pinstriped suit jacket, leaned back into her leather chair, and considered me for a moment.
“Yes?” I said again, using my annoyed tone and rolling my eyes for effect.
Ms. Bitch picked up some papers and looked over the black numbers that filled the columns. “It says here, Chevy, that you were ‘away’ more than twelve hours this week.”
“What?” I’d been late a few times that week, but nothing that would add up to twelve hours. Okay, I took an extra half an hour on Thursday to get a manicure and pedicure, but that was it. What was this bitch talking about?
“Your telephone,” she said and tapped the paper with her index finger. “All of the phones are computerized. I can see how many calls you take, how long it takes you to service your client, how many calls you make, and how long you put your phone on ‘away’ during business hours.” Her eyes bored into me and her face did something. I leaned in a bit closer. Was she sneering at me?
She never liked me. I was a better dresser than she was. Plus, I was better-looking.
“Well, Ms. Fitch,” I said brightly, “as you know, a great majority of my job involves paperwork. And so for me to do it accurately and to Thomas Cook Travel Services specifications, I need to be able to focus my attention on the job at hand, and so, yes, I put my phone on ‘away’ so that I can do what needs be to done as efficiently as possible.”
“A-ha,” Miss Fitch said and then chuckled a bit. “Well, Chevy, your coworkers have the same responsibilities you do. And none of them needs twelve or more hours a week to look over a PNR, pop it into an envelope, and drop it in the mail basket. So why do you?”
She had me there.
I just shrugged my shoulders.
“On top of that, your lateness has become a real problem.”
I yawned.
“If this behavior continues, I’ll be forced to write you up, and you already have two warnings in your file. One more and you’re gone,” she said, a little too happily.
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