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They asked Ma Barker at the Toi Store, where Sam bought his sex toys.
“They never grow up. Just can’t concentrate on one thang too long, baby!” she said. Then she showed them an inflatable rubber doll she was holding for Sam, which looked just like LaTisha and had working orifices.
“Here’s who’s beating your time,” said Sharpetta to LaTisha. “Hey, Ma! You got any more of these in back?”
Their last stop was the Black Hellfire Club, the place for African-American swingers. These freaks were discreet: it was located in an industrial park and there were no signs, no lights, no nothing to give the slightest clue to the scandalous goings-on inside.
“It’s supposed to be members only, but they let in all skeezers. You shouldn’t have any trouble,” Sharpetta announced on their way to the entrance.
“Thanks a lot,” LaTisha said. “I don’t know if I’m up to this—”
“Hey! You want to catch him in the act, don’t you?” Sharpetta said. “Without eyewitness evidence all you have is hearsay testimony.”
“This whole thing is just unreal to me. My dad never cheated on my mom.”
“Leastwise you don’t know that he did,” Sharpetta said. “I guess these days that’s just as good.”
“If we drop it now, do I get my money back?”
“Hell naw!”
“Let’s get busy then.”
They still had to slip the bouncer/doorman a Benjamin.
The Black Hellfire Club was smoking, a copious cornucopia of copulation and exotic sexuality. It was dark and funky and cavernous as Mrs. King Kong’s cunt. There were erotic paintings and sculptures everywhere and erotic films of all kinds—straight sex, gay, lesbian, gang bang, B&D, fetishism, masturbation—played nonstop on a dozen giant video screens.
The patrons wore street clothes, sexy costumes, or nothing at all. LaTisha saw enough nipple, tongue, penis, and vulva rings to pierce the Osbourne family.
On a trapeze suspended from the ceiling, a big healthy mama in a leather-and-lace French maid’s uniform (and nothing on underneath) swung back and forth, giving everyone below a gander of her ample ass and pudenda.
“Wall-to-wall freaks!” Sharpetta exclaimed, rubbing her hands together greedily. “Er—disgusting!”
“I thought this kinda action was a white thang,” LaTisha said.
“Blame integration, love. Let’s fade to the bar.”
LaTisha stumbled to the bar and sat down on a stool. Sharpetta ordered drinks. LaTisha downed hers with one gulp.
“Lay dead, babe,” Sharpetta said. “Stop looking like Sister Mary Superior at a circle jerk and try to blend in. I’m gonna case the joint and see if I can bust your old man doing the nasty.”
She got up, cocked her fedora, and swaggered away.
LaTisha’s head was spinning. An old tune by the Time, “Wild and Loose,” pounded in her ears. She felt a warm flush spread from her burning crotch to her tingling belly to the tips of her hard nipples to her neck and face.
Then she noticed a man sitting next to her.
Dark and lovely—damned if he didn’t look like Wesley Snipes. Better than Wesley. This guy was stateside and didn’t owe the IRS $12 million either. When she was home alone, in the shower, hot water trickling over her body, tickling her clit—she sometimes fantasized Wesley
was Blade and he was going down on her—
He leaned close, then said, “Hello. I’m Dave.”
“Isn’t it warm in here?” she asked him.
He moved even closer. He took her hand. He touched her knee. He nuzzled her neck.
She pushed him away. What did he think she was? Then she remembered Sam and his fuck pad and Delilah and the rubber doll. She remembered they hadn’t fucked in ages—
