That wasn’t my first time getting thrown out of the house, but it was my last time calling my mother what I’d wanted to call her for a long time. She was a bitch. Why I’d gotten kicked out every other month since I’d grown unusually large breasts twice the cup-size of my mother’s and sister’s put together, I didn’t know. How could my mother carry me for nine months, birth me, then despise me for being molested by her man?
Dressed in pink shorts, and a white shirt with a pink cat on the front, I stood outside the door for fifteen minutes praying my mother would open it. When she didn’t, I knew better than to bang on Rita’s door. The smell of Mama frying Sunday morning bacon and baking homemade buttermilk biscuits made me hungry. Surely Rita would slide me a plate or a slice of my birthday cake so I wouldn’t have to walk down the street to the Sunshine Rescue Mission.
I waited in vain, drifting off into thoughts about attending my first day of school tomorrow, celebrating with all the seniors, and getting my driver’s license in the mail. Within seconds all of my hopes of becoming the youngest valedictorian had become dismal. I sat on the steps watching the heat waves float through the hot air in Flagstaff, Arizona. Our small town was a short drive from the Grand Canyon, where lots of tourists came to see one of the seven natural wonders of the world. As a homeless child, I felt like the eighth wonder that no one cared about. People drove by me waving but all of them kept going.
Sitting alone on the steps gave me lots of time to daydream about the big city with bright lights. I’d heard lots of neighbors and students rave about Las Vegas, but I’d never been there. I heard that pretty girls made lots of money simply because they were cute like me. Vegas was over a hundred miles away from my house, too far for me to travel alone with no money.
The orange sunrays traded places with the blue moonlight. Gazing up at the stars, I questioned why I’d fallen into a bottomless pit so young, so innocent, and so afraid. Cursed for being beautiful, I slept on the ugly concrete porch until the break of dawn. The crackling of the front door startled me as I sadly looked up into my mother’s piercing brown eyes.
“Mama, please, I’m sorry. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stay in my room after school whenever he’s here, I promise.”
Desperately seeking my mother’s forgiveness, I apologized for Don’s faults. I had no place else to go. Not permanently. With her silver spiked heels, my mother stepped on me like a doormat and kept walking as if I were invisible: incapable of being seen.
Years later, at times I still felt I wasn’t perceptive to the human eye. Funny how back then I thought I was grown until I had to make it on my own. Over the past decade, I’d learned a lot about being a woman, not necessarily the easy way.
In my opinion, ninety-five percent of all women were abused at some point during their lifetime by their mothers, their fathers, their husbands, their boyfriends, strangers on the prowl seeking a rape victim or in my case all of the above. Living on the streets convinced me that the five percent who weren’t abused died at birth. If only I could’ve been so lucky.
My sister to this day still lives at home with our mother. An old high school acquaintance said Honey was dying of some rare form of cancer and that I was Honey’s closest possible match for a donor. Was that God’s way of paying my mother back? They didn’t need me then and I don’t need them now.
After my mother kicked me out I would’ve gone to live with my dad, but we never knew our father. And the way I saw it, any man who’d abandon his children was the worst type of abuser. Forget that lame bullshit about the mother keeping him away. I swore I was never having kids. My daddy had a choice! He could’ve fought for joint custody, weekends, supervised visitation, something. Anything was better than nothing. The one time we asked about our father, our mom cursed us out.
“Jean St. Thomas’s green-eyed, slick-haired red ass ain’t shit! Never was shit! Ain’t never gon’ be shit! Sorry-ass son of a bitch ain’t never paid one damn dime to help me take care of y’all and if you ask me about him again I’ma beat y’all’s ass! Now, get out of my face!” Then she mumbled, “That good-for-nothing-but-a-wet-dream bastard better not ever call me again asking to see y’all.”
Daddy wanted to see us?
My green eyes filled with tears at the thought that my mother hated me but wouldn’t let my daddy love me. I guess I was light-skinned with straight hair like my father, because my mom and sister had skin like dark brown sugar and hair equally coarse.
Whatever, I didn’t need any of them. I was fine. Honestly I was. But it still hurts that after all these years Mama never inquired about where I was until Honey got sick. Mama didn’t care if I never came back. If she could suction my marrow through a straw over the phone, she would do so, then hang up in my face without saying thanks. Maybe one day I’d go back to her in my white-on-white or my black-on-black Jaguar and show her how successful I’d become.
I still blamed and will never forgive my mother for the life I was forced to live after being kicked out. As an involuntary high school dropout, I’d hitchhiked and moved in with my instant twenty-three-year-old boyfriend who brutally stole my virginity, then yelled at my ass every other day like he was bipolar. He had me so screwed up in the head I jumped every time he spoke. I’d leave the house and forget to put on my shoes. I’d pour orange juice on his cereal instead of milk because I was so afraid he’d beat me if I didn’t get him what he wanted fast enough. After six months together, I slept in the doghouse that was inside the garage just to stay out of the way of his fists.
At seventeen I ran away and married only what I could describe as Charles Manson’s offspring. Brutally he stomped my ass daily, I think either for his amusement or for his daily thirty-minute workout. The reason I stayed was, once again, I didn’t have any place to go, nor did I have any money. That was another lesson learned.
Men controlled women by making women dependent upon them for everything from food and clothes to shelter. So for an entire year, if my husband had a bad day, I had a worse night. But what I did have was enough sense to realize if I didn’t find the courage to escape, one day a coroner would carry me out in a body bag and deliver me to Rita’s, only for her to write return to sender on my toe tag.
Before leaving his ass I stole a blowup doll, inflated it, then doused his bed and the doll with six gallons of ketchup mixed with two gallons of gasoline, praying his ass would light one last cigarette.
I went to a pleasure store and stole four dildos that looked exactly like his dick, hiding them under my skirt. The first dick I chopped off the head with a butcher’s knife, then sliced the shaft into tiny confettisized pieces and left the plastic floating in his toilet. The second one I set on fire on top of his gas-burning stove and left it there with a tent card that read last meal. The third one I ground in his blender on PUREE until the motor shot bluish red sparks into the smoky air. And the fourth one I poured fire-red fingernail polish over the head, watched it bleed down the sides, then drilled an ice pick into the piss hole and left it on his doorstep with a note, Fuck and beat this, you piece of shit! If you come after me, your motherfuckin’ dick is next! I guarantee it!
Needless to say I never heard from him again. Hopefully because he’d flicked that lighter and burned to death. If by some misfortune he was alive, his cruel abusive ass probably thought I was the crazy one.
On my eighteenth birthday, I moved into the Pussyland Ranch and didn’t move out until I was twenty-nine and went to work for Valentino James as a madam. Eleven grueling years on my back with my legs spread open was no easy feat, but where could I earn decent money with no diploma? After fucking a different john every day during my first three years at Pussyland, I became the top-requested girl. The high demand allowed me to establish a regular clientele, granting myself two days on and two days off. On holidays my nonnegotiable rate of three hundred dollars an hour tripled.
Working for Valentino helped me maintain my sanity and gave my body a much-needed rest. Instantly my twelve female e
scorts depended on me, and in return I relied upon them for my five-figure monthly paycheck. I especially counted on my personal favorite, Sunny Day.
There was something special about Sunny. Something beyond her striking beauty. Something deeper than her almond-shaped eyes that beamed rays of light. Sunny was unique. She was young, vibrant, and enthusiastic about life. Sunny possessed the passion I lacked, and although she didn’t know it, in many ways she’d helped me. I wasn’t there yet, but occasionally I felt the desire to genuinely care about her and the other girls I’d hired. Kinda like how I wished my mother would’ve loved me. Sunny didn’t have an old soul; she had a wise spirit beyond her years. Always happy, motivating the other girls, and willing to work extra hard to please her clients. Sunny’s invincible, indispensable take-charge leadership personality reminded me of myself when I first started prostituting.
For me, prostitution provided a much-needed clean and safe place to live off of the hot, sweltering, or freezing snow-covered streets of Nevada. I wasn’t always cold and callous. My God, I hoped Sunny didn’t end up like me. She wouldn’t. Tonight I’d decided Valentino could take Onyx or Starlet off the circuit for himself, but at the end of the month, three days from now, I was firing Sunny for her own good. Sunny needed to do what I couldn’t…go home to a mother and father who loved her.
It was too late for me. I’d been in the game so long I didn’t know how to get out. Didn’t know what else I’d do. I’d been mentally, physically, sexually, spiritually, financially, you name it, taken advantage of. The only thing left for someone to take was my life and that’s what was not going to happen without a fight. Whether I’d win or lose didn’t matter to me as long as I never again voluntarily allowed anyone to beat me. I’d paid my dues. In some ways I was stronger. In many ways, wiser. Now it was my turn to take control of my life.
Abuse damaged me. Abuse was not cute and it took me a while to learn that abuse was not love. The next man who laid hands on Lace St. Thomas was one dead motherfucka.
CHAPTER 2
Lace
Day one of the seventy-two-hour countdown to Sunny’s freedom, I envisioned Mommy sitting on the front row before a naughty professor raising her hand instead of spreading her legs to make a good impression. Sunny had the prettiest pussy of all my girls. The first time I peeled open her outer lips, I saw her slim pinkish shaft extending down to a mocharidged flap exposing a succulent pierced clitoris.
“Did this hurt?” I recalled asking while I teased the silver bar with pea-sized balls on both ends.
“Yes, Madam. Hell yes.” Her wide smile flashed perfectly aligned teeth. “But it feels nice now, Madam. I like it. I have my own set of balls and they sure do drive men crazy.”
Sunny started playing with her own pussy and she never flinched when I French-kissed her.
“Tell me why I should hire you?” I’d asked her, applying a drop of gel to my fingertip. Teasing her clit in a slow circular motion, I dripped another drop onto the bar, gliding my finger back and forth.
She smiled, held my hand, then slid my middle finger inside her incredibly hot, tight, juicy pussy, and replied, “Tell me why you shouldn’t hire me, Madam.”
Well, over my incredible year of being Sunny’s boss, I had fallen in love with more than her personality. She was amazingly flawless. I could’ve waived Sunny’s body inspection that day but I didn’t. I couldn’t resist experiencing the rest of her. Caressing her plump breasts, kissing her protruding nipples, massaging her firm ass, then putting her through my multiple orgasm tests—fucking her with a nine-inch dildo while finger-fucking her in the ass and savoring her sweet pussy with my tongue all at the same time—I’d come hard. Twice.
“I’m gonna miss Sunny,” I whispered, strutting my red stilettos into the southside entrance at the newest and most extraordinary casino on the strip. I smiled at the thought of Sunny getting all As, then using her brain while maximizing her pussy power to make lots of money. For the first time, tonight I felt more like Sunny’s big sister.
Working my hips into a figure eight, my red lace wraparound minidress slightly exposing my pussy pasty, I glided along the gold-marbled tiles. Men gawked and women pretended not to peep at the dollar sign between my legs.
Ignoring them, I glanced at shoppers inside Chanel to my right and Dior and Louis Vuitton to my left. I stopped at the Rolex store, bought a ladies’ Presidential watch, and walked out.
Surrounded by trees decorated with thousands of sparkling white lights streaming from the roots to the trunks to the green leaves scattered amongst the limbs, I swung my long slick hair shoulder to shoulder, sashaying down the aisle as I showcased my diamond earrings, necklace, bracelet, and rings.
God, how I love being a woman, I thought, constantly reminding myself that women, not men, were the dominators of the universe.
I’d learned that the people with the least amount of control were more aggressive because they struggled to conquer that which they didn’t have power over. Men beat women to make them submissive. Bosses demoted their smarter employees or gave them lower performance ratings to keep them as subordinates. And johns paid to fuck prostitutes because if only for five minutes, they felt they owned a bitch.
If reincarnation were possible, I’d definitely come back as a black widow spider or maybe a queen bee. Sad but true, men were only necessary for reproduction. Everything else, hell, I had that covered with no problems.
Admiring the horizontal patterns of the purple, green, and gold curtains that seemingly parted exclusively for me, I entered the upper level bar winking at a few of our regulars who were tossing back dirty martinis straight up, stirred, not shaken with blue-cheese-stuffed olives.
I knew the intricate intimate preferences of all my top-paying clients. I knew details that their wives and girlfriends either didn’t want to know, or simply, like with most sneaky, freaky, down-low bisexual men, their women would never embrace the truth: Men were basic creatures.
“Hey, Daddy,” I whispered in one of my client’s ears. “Feel like predickting the forecast?”
“It’s definitely a Sunny Day,” he replied, then nodded in Sunny’s direction before resuming conversation with his woman.
That stiff bitch cupped her drink with both hands, burying her face in a piña colada. I didn’t give a fuck about her. Any bitch sipping a frozen drink wasn’t a real woman unless she’d planned on having her man suck the pineapple and coconut juices through her pussy. I’d never let my girls drink that sweet-ass, make-you-sick-to-your-stomach shit unless they used it to make me money.
Men wanted to cum with lovers who were fun. Not some sexually repressed housewife curling under the covers draped in flannel pajamas with ridiculously fluffy slippers at their bedside who’d turn her back on him without saying good night, making both of his heads hurt while he stared at the hideous scarf hiding her hair.
I should salute boring bitches. Those were the types who made me successful. They were the kind of females who made their men cum running to me with her paycheck while she sat at home trying to figure out who her man was fucking. Women always asked the wrong questions like, “Who were you fucking?” or “Where were you all night?” The question women needed to answer was why their man was sticking his dick in somebody else.
With my mental sex Rolodex second in content only to a set of encyclopedias, I understood that most men enjoyed having their assholes licked while fucking, their balls squeezed while nutting, and having a dick in their ass while having their dick in an ass calling some faceless woman “Bitch.” The right size butt plug or vibrator humming against a man’s prostate with his woman sucking his dick or jacking him off would blow his fucking mind, but the average woman wasn’t down with asking, doing, or hearing what her man honestly wanted in the bedroom.
That was why the streets of Vegas were filled with chicks sucking dicks in cars for twenty dollars a nut. An outdoor whore could never be on my team. Her standards were too low for me but higher than those of the women
getting fucked for free by men who wouldn’t get out of their beds at three o’clock in the daytime and surely not three in the morning to pick her up if she was stranded in the middle of Timbuktu.
The way I recruited new customers, I’d stroll the red carpet that divided the craps players from the blackjack gamblers. With a ten-thousand-dollar bet per hand on the open floor, it was easy to differentiate who had real money and why some men didn’t mind paying ten grand an hour to get laid by a beautiful woman. Some of those guys needed to blast off after losing a hundred thousand dollars in less than fifteen minutes. The price of good pussy wasn’t a problem for a high roller who could walk a short distance to the credit manager and cash a check for a million dollars.
That was the type of client my girls serviced at Immaculate Perception. Image was everything. If a woman dressed, spoke, or carried herself like she was poor, she shouldn’t wonder why she attracted cheap-ass, broke-ass men. I dressed all of my girls in the best of what each designer had to offer.
I circled the bar where my twelve showgirls were seated on the orange polka-dot sofa and caramel leather seats facing the Niagara-sized waterfall flowing outside the panoramic window. Dressed in miniskirts, halters, and high heels, my girls laughed, chatted, and crossed their glowing legs while sipping champagne.
Bypassing the girls, I motioned for Sunny to come to me, then escorted her to the downstairs bar. We sat in the corner at a table for two. Covering her hands with mine, I said, “Sunny, you are so beautiful. You’re smart and you’re special.”
I felt she needed to hear me say that because I so desperately wanted to hear my mother tell me the same. But Rita never did.
“Thanks, Madam,” Sunny replied, tucking her long sandy-blond hair behind one ear.
Sweeter Than Honey Page 2
