Looker

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  For she wanted it. She wanted to love it and taste it and take it as good as her son was.

  Move over, son, and let Mommy get some!

  And then she felt bad, guilty as hell; but before she could look away he looked up and saw her. And when he smiled that dangerous smile that knew that she wanted whatever it was he was giving her child, her guilty-as-hell went straight out the window.

  So while Earl-Anthony Fant was getting it too good to open his eyes, his man and his mom were eyeing each other and planning with smiles that were guilty but not guilty enough.

  Guilty-as-hell was long gone.

  So she stayed at the door and she stared. And he gave her the show, a preview of things surely to come, a taste of the medicine she’d get for her cold. He even pulled out his fat, swollen dick that was grinding her son, throbbing revealingly through shimmering form-fitting latex, and with it he slapped her son’s ass. She suddenly let out with the tiniest peep, which was hidden beneath the grunts and the grinds and the huffs and the puffs of her son begging it back inside where it belonged.

  Sticky, damp, and overwhelmed, she then silently curled herself around the outside of her son’s bedroom doorway and propped her throbbing body up against the hallway wall and grabbed at her heart, quick-beating underneath a stiff-nippled titty.

  She then caught her breath, held it, and listened and listened and listened, and then sucked her thumb before running away.

  Damn him. Damn him to hell. That motherfucking Peter. She cursed him the first time he fucked her, called him a low-down motherfucking son-of-a-

  bitch, and he totally agreed with her.

  Then one day she yelled “motherfucker” too loudly, and in classic what-goes-around-comes-

  around fashion, Earl-Anthony got home early enough to stand in the doorway and watch while his mother got fucked by his boyfriend.

  And he wished for a gun. He wished that he could shoot him. Shoot him while he came, shoot him while he screamed at her, “Who’s yo’ mothafuckin’ baby! Who’s yo’ mothafuckin’ baby now!” Shoot him so his eyes would bulge and his jaws would drop and his blood and his sperm would splatter and splash all over his chest and all over her breasts. Shoot him so that he would fall dead on top of her. And then she could scream, “Bloody murder! Bloody murder!” and ask herself, Why? And then she could wonder until her last, dying day: How could you do such an unholy thing, bringing all of this pain to your child?

  And then Selma looked up and saw her son, a zigzag blur of him. But Peter was bouncing and riding her blindly and wildly, and she could not think and she tried to make him stop with her fists while the walls of her pussy sided with pleasure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Peter was a real trip,” Miss Zara mused. “He loved me, and hated the fact that he loved me…loved another man. So when Mother gave him that Mrs. Robinson wink he just knew that that would be the cure. Shit, fucking my mother made him more of a punk than he ever was, fucking me.”

  “So where’s Peter now?” Brando asked.

  “Last time I heard, he was dating a Detroit Piston.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember that.”

  “That had to be, what? Ten, twelve years ago?”

  “Was it that long ago?”

  “Yeah. You had just graduated from law school. Had moved back to Hancock Park with your parents.”

  “Right.”

  “I remember the first time you came down to the Queen Mary in the Valley to see me perform. Shocked the shit out of you.”

  “You didn’t shock me.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I just didn’t know which was more beautiful, you as a man or you as a woman.”

  “Smooth.” She laughed. “You lawyers always know what to say.”

  “But it’s true, Zara.” Brando looked at her, and still he could see the beautiful church boy who broke his heart deep down inside her, and yet, who she was this day was truly who she was meant to be. And she was beautiful.

  “Why Peter and not me?” he suddenly asked.

  “Aw, come on, Brando, that was a long time ago.”

  “I know, and I’m over it. But I just wanted to know. Why?”

  “Why are you just now asking?”

  “I don’t know if I was ready to know until now. When I came home for summer break, I found out you had moved out of your parents’ house, and no one knew where you were. Then I saw you down at the Horizon.”

  “The whore zone.” She laughed at the bitter memory of her days anesthetizing her pain at the sleazy Washington Boulevard hole in the wall.

  “Dancin’ your ass off, high as a kite.”

  “Shakin’ it off, baby. Shakin’ it off.”

  “You hardly recognized me, Zara.”

  “I recognized you, baby boy. I just didn’t want you to see me like that.”

  “You were so fucked up.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “And I wanted to know what could have done this to such a beautiful person.”

  “The Peters of the world. The mothers of the world.”

  “So why Peter and not me?”

  “I was your teacher, Bran. You were the student. I still had things to learn that you couldn’t teach me.”

  “You can always learn from a student.”

  “Not the bitter lessons I needed to know. I needed to learn how to hold hot coal and not flinch. I can do that now, and I’m sure now so can you.”

  When Selma finally emerged from her den, she could not believe the sky had now become iridescent and dark Rembrandt gold. The smoke from the fires in Malibu billowed apocalyptically skyward, crossing paths with the red-orange sun descending safely behind the sparkling Pacific horizon.

  She turned her cell phone back on then went through the house and turned the ringers back on all of the landlines she had dismantled. She was a person of great dedication to whatever it was she was dedicated to at the moment, whether it was a cocktail or a fantasy. When she watched her videos she did not want the mood hindered or broken by some ring of a bell, ending the round while it was just getting good.

  From high noon to sunset she had been busy in the dark with her videos and cocktails and stinging memories, and it did not occur to her that she had not seen or heard from her husband all day. All she knew was it was time to pull herself together. Clymenthia Teager’s reading and signing was just two hours away and she had to look good for the gorgeous gay boys who would be there in droves.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eso Won Books was packed an hour before Clymenthia Teager was scheduled to read. After confirming with Omar his pre-reading interview with the author, Jeanette Bell mingled with the mass of early arrivals and joked charmingly with various members of the literary press and the early-arriving women of United Lesbians of African Heritage (ULOAH). She could see out of the corner of her eye the two men in the magazine section checking her out, particularly the one licking his lips like LL, demented, with hungry eyes scanning her up and down. She was used to it, yes, but still bothered by it, even to the point of paranoia.

  She checked her watch, then signaled to Omar to give her ten minutes. She started toward the back of the store when one of the hungry-eyed men, Ramon Alexander, not heeding his buddy’s gesture of caution, strutted toward her, cutting her off at the pass.

  “May I help you?” she asked, meeting him eye to eye.

  “So wassup with you?” Ramon asked her breasts.

  “Your biggest nightmare,” she answered, stepping around him.

  Whipped by her jasmine scent, Ramon pivoted with a not-so-subtle pimp-daddy cool she knew would come next, but she did not break her stride. He winked at his buddy and caught back up with her.

  “Oh I see,” he assessed. “You know what your problem is, my sista? You just ain’t met the right man yet.”

  “You know what your problem is, my brutha?” she responded. “Neither have you.” She entered through the back storage room doorway, and shut it tightly behind her, causing Ramo
n to fume, which his friend Tyler Martin knew could only mean trouble.

  Clymenthia, having just finished meditating, smiled at the sight of her beautiful partner coming toward her. Jeanette kissed Clymenthia gently on her smiling lips.

  “Hey,” Jeanette purred sexily, trying to mask the tenseness brought on by the encounter she had just had.

  “Hey yourself,” Clymenthia responded, noticing the strange look on Jeanette’s face. “What’s wrong, babe?” she asked.

  “Nothing, sweetie,” Jeanette said. “Just a little harassment from a damn breeder. Looking good out there,” she said, changing the subject. “Almost as good as Philly. A lot of the sisters from ULOAH in the house.”

  “Good.”

  “They want you for their retreat next year. I told them yes. It’ll coincide with the new book.”

  “Don’t be so sure, baby.”

  “I’m very sure. The manuscript is in great shape, one of your best first drafts. Your editor’s going to feel shamed for taking the company’s money. Trust me.”

  “Thank you, baby,” Clymenthia said with a grateful smile as Jeanette leaned in and kissed her again.

  “Ready for Omar Stevens?”

  “Sure, bring him in.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Selma Fant had barely sobered up but managed to maneuver the steep and winding drive down La Brea Avenue. She pulled into a parking space on the side of the bookstore and checked herself in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were a mess, red and veiny. She threw on her sunglasses though the night was midnight blue save for the sparkle of orange shooting up like earth-propelled lightning, a sign the fires in Malibu had not subsided.

  She stepped from her car with a stumble. The handsome, honey-colored young Latino stepping out of the car parked next to hers asked if she was all right. “Fine, hon,” she answered with a smile more solid than her walk. He smiled back at her in a sad, lovely way that reminded her of Earl-Anthony’s sad, lovely smile. Shane then gestured her toward the door and held it for her, and she felt like Blanche DuBois with her paperboy.

  As she entered past him, Shane stopped at the door for a moment and surveyed the room of handsomely dressed patrons and literary press. That’s when he saw Thomas and Andrew, the track runner and the Silver Lake thug prince. And that’s when they saw him. They were near triplets, a triptych of Brando Heywood. They were tributes to all that seemed to be in Omar’s longing, aching heart for Brando. Omar saw none of them, or pretended not to, as he was being led by Jeanette to the back room for his interview with Clymenthia Teager.

  Shane stepped into the store just in time to see Omar disappear into the back room.

  “You see him?” Senior Father purred out of nowhere. His lilac cologne purred as loudly.

  “I saw him,” Shane answered.

  “You think he saw you?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. He’s focused on his interview.”

  “And you’re here to unfocus him.”

  “No, not really. He’s here doing his job, Senior Father. Afterward I want him to focus on me.”

  “Yes, well…now, don’t forget. Two weeks from today. My winter supper.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I hope you two are still together by then.”

  Senior Father Lacey Cannon delighted in drama. His instigation so casually set up earlier in church—an inevitable showdown between Shane and Omar—was about to be played out with a hyperbolic denouement worthy of pulp fiction. Shane never struck Senior Father as the violent type, but a swift, jealousy-induced ass whuppin’ in the presence of L.A.’s distinguished black, same-gender-loving literary community would be the talk of the town, fodder for good cocktail conversation for his upcoming annual get-together.

  But if the showdown was going to happen it was not going to happen now. Omar had disappeared into the back room. Shane continued to stare long at the closed door before aiming his gaze at the two other clones who were staring at him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dinner at Brando’s parents’ Hancock Park home had been a Sunday ritual for Brando and Collier when they were together. However, in the two years since the breakup, Mr. and Mrs. Heywood often filled Collier’s vacancy with the most beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, and eligible women social standing could provide. Dee Dempsey-Bohannon, subtly pitched earlier at church, and this evening’s chosen candidate, was no exception. During aperitifs Dee impressed all three Heywoods with her vast knowledge of Mayan art and its root connection to precolonial African culture. During dinner she praised Mrs. Heywood’s southern Texas cuisine and cleaned her plate twice, in open defiance of her trim, fashion-model waist and physique. After dinner she and Mr. Heywood gleefully rummaged through his pristine collection of jazz 78’s, and later she proved to be as adept at bid whist as she was at selling wolf tickets, leading the women’s partnership to a 4-0 victory before the men begged off.

  Brando then made his apologies, realizing it was almost time for the Clymenthia Teager signing and reading.

  “Clymenthia Teager’s reading tonight?” Dee’s eyes widened.

  “Yes,” Brando answered. “You know her work?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m one of her biggest fans. I had no idea she was in town.”

  “She’s a client of mine. The reading’s at Eso Won. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’d love to!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Heywood nudged each other with gleeful anticipation as they bade the couple farewell.

  “Dee, why don’t you leave your car parked in our driveway and ride with Brando?” Mr. Heywood suggested slyly.

  “Good idea, Pops,” Brando enthused innocently. “Is that okay with you, Dee?”

  “Great.”

  “You kids have a good time tonight,” Mrs. Heywood urged hopefully, standing in the doorway with her husband of forty-three years.

  “We will,” the “kids” assured in unison as Brando held the passenger door open for his guest.

  Brando’s Mercedes glided effortlessly down Highland Avenue, headed south, past old world residences that hid and housed tastefully lush floral gardens, ancient but well-cared-for swimming pools, and quiet, old-family money. Brando’s top was down and the warm evening breeze whipped gently through Dee’s flawless hair.

  Dee closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and savored the gardenia-scented breeze that caressed her perfect face.

  “You do know what your parents are up to,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “It’s a running thing with them.” Brando sighed good-naturedly. “But it’s okay. It’s actually kind of sweet.”

  “I just got out of three years with a very nice but boring Neanderthal,” Dee then said. “Right now I’m enjoying this new round of life-after-death of a marriage.”

  “I’ve been out of my relationship for two years. We were together for ten.”

  “Do your parents know you’re gay?”

  Brando was surprised.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I kind of figured.”

  “Really?” Brando chuckled. “How’d you kind of figure?”

  “Radar. Ego. Not that I was fishing, but when you look as good as I do, with these legs and breasts and face, a subtle checkout from the most discriminating gentleman is a given. You never looked beyond my eyes, not at church earlier, nor during a single moment at your parents’.”

  “Flirting in church?”

  “Well, it is where most folks find the best pickings.”

  “Touché.”

  “So, do they know?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Then why are they trying to set you up with me?”

  “They still think it’s a phase.”

  “How long have they known?”

  “Since I was eighteen. Probably earlier.”

  “And how old are you now?”

  “Forty.”

  “That’s a helluva phase.” She laughed.

  “For them, hope springs eternal.�
� He laughed as well.

  “So you were in a relationship for ten years,” she continued.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s pretty good.”

  “He was a good guy…is a good guy. We just grew apart.”

  “Well actually, so is my ex. I mean, I really should not have called him a Neanderthal,” Dee confessed. “He’s really a very nice man, a successful TV director who afforded me a wonderful lifestyle.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Work. His work is everything to him, and this star is not used to playing a supporting role.”

  “I kind of figured.”

  “How did you kind of figure?”

  “Radar. Ego. I know a diva when I see one.”

  And that’s when she opened her eyes. She saw he was smiling. And so was she.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She wanted to be a writer the first time she read James Baldwin. She was mesmerized by his use of language, writing that expressed an extraordinary self-confidence.

  She grew up with magnificent role models. She didn’t fully understand that until she was older. The Southern black women in her life were extraordinary women for their time.

  Although she and her life partner lived on a small farm in Connecticut, Atlanta would always be her home.

  Her mother was the librarian at Spelman College. Her grandmother’s family owned the hospital. Her other grandmother’s family owned the local black newspaper. The family of a friend of her mother’s owned the mortuary.

  These were the women she grew up with. And what she also realized as she grew older was the extraordinary price that these women and their men paid to be free and black in the South.

  Her father ran his own business. He was a contractor. But she didn’t learn until she got older that he was a college graduate working on his master’s and the only job he could get was either in the post office delivering mail or as a Pullman porter. One day he said, “Well I’ll be damn. I didn’t put myself through school to serve white people on a train.” So he made a business for himself.