Double Dippin' (39 page)

The few black chicks employed by Lizzard’s were exceptionally pretty with perfect bodies. Indeed, some of the best black eye candy in the city was found swiveling down the pole at Lizzard’s. Problem was, you could look but you couldn’t touch unless you paid a crazy amount of money for a quick and unfulfilling couch dance. The stupid no-physical-contact rule irked the hell out of Reed. Still, just being in this tits and ass environment gave him a rush.

“Corona,” he said to the bartender, knowing he’d get a scowl of incomprehension if he asked for a can of Old English, his preferred libation.

Sipping the weak beer, he winked at the dancer on stage. Heidi, a petite busty brunette, instantly sauntered over to Reed, trying to give him the impression that her performance was exclusively for him. But after licking her lips and rubbing her tits for over sixty seconds without a tip, she huffily moved on to the next lustful patron.

“Is Sensation dancing tonight?” he asked the bartender.

“Yup, she’s up next,” the bartender said, yawning pointedly as he looked down at his watch.

Reed gave the bartender a sneer; the guy had to be a fucking faggot to act like he was all bored and bothered by the never-ending parade of tits and ass featured at the strip club. His annoyance with the bartender, however, became a foggy memory the moment his favorite girl, Sensation, hit the stage in a flash of pink.

Coffee-colored with a drop of cream, Sensation looked good enough to eat in her glow-in-the-dark neon pink thong set. Curly blonde waist-length extensions swayed as she undulated to a slow song.

Sensation gave Reed a come-hither look, seducing him with pouting lips as she sensually rotated her hips, persuading him to dig deep into his pockets and pay for the special attention she was giving him. With a subtle pelvic thrust she urged him to be generous.
Pay me!
her body screamed.

Reed, however, interpreted her body language in an entirely different way. Her body was talking to him. Writhing with mounting desire, she was begging to get sexed up. Every gyration was a cry for release. Release that only he could provide.

Talk to me, baby! I know you want this dick
. He almost shouted the words out loud, but restrained himself as he imagined himself and Sensation sweaty and naked, engaging in all the positions of the Kama Sutra.

With his eyes fixed on Sensation, his imagination running wild, Reed was at first unaware that many of the men in the club, also aroused by her display of oozing sexuality, had moved to the front of the stage and were showing their appreciation by flinging fives and tens onto the stage. These men, mostly suit-wearing Caucasians, seemed to be of one mind and had left Reed behind with their display of generosity.

Fighting for position was a wearisome reality at his place of employment. But he’d be damned if he’d allow himself to be chumped outside of the workplace and in front of a sister. Reed pulled out a neatly folded wad of one-dollar bills. He scowled at the money and stuffed it back into his pocket. Sensation deserved currency of a much higher denomination—a twenty at the least.
From his back pocket, he extracted another wad and peeled off a twenty, changed his mind, put it back in his pocket, and pulled out a ten. Ten dollars was enough for the moment. He’d give her much more when they got together later at her place or at a hotel.

Quite suddenly, Sensation dropped to all fours and went into a sexy panther-like crawl, her hair sweeping the floor. Transfixed by this carnal exhibition, Reed forgot to throw his money on stage. Moments later, his reverie was broken by rude catcalls and whistles as a slew of drunken pink-faced college students rushed the stage. They made airplanes out of five-, ten-, and even twenty-dollar bills. Airborne money crash- landed on the stage. Caught up in schoolboy-ish frivolity, the men in suits decided to join in. As drunk now as the college kids, the suits absurdly attempted to transform their bills into airplanes, but having forgotten the technique, they quickly gave up and resorted to balling up the dollars and throwing them onstage.

Seemingly unaffected by the ever-increasing mounds of cash, Sensation eased into the next song. Climbing the pole like a slithering snake, she descended upside-down with only one leg wrapped around the pole. When both feet hit the stage, she stood stock still with her back turned to the crowd. Nothing moved except her perfectly round buttocks. One cheek at a time, her ass danced. The white guys howled in drunken delight, and threw more money at Sensation. Reed, an admitted ass-man, felt tortured as he watched Sensation’s cheeks clap.

She moved quickly across the stage and jumped into a handstand. Working her ass muscles to the beat of the song, Sensation drove the crowd wild.

A hot current raced through Reed’s loins, causing a swelling so painful, he prayed he wouldn’t explode in his pants. He couldn’t think straight. His dick was too hard. His mind was muddled and the only coherent thought running across his brain was that he had to get inside that pussy.

At this point, had he dwelled in a world without social constraints, Reed would have simply snatched Sensation off the stage, thrown her luscious body over his shoulders caveman style, and whisked her off to his private cave where he’d devote hours to ravishing her ass, her pussy, her mouth. What the hell, he’d fuck her tits, too. He’d fuck them until the skin was chafed and raw.

But sadly, he didn’t abide in such a world. In his world, a man had to exercise great patience to get what he wanted. He had to put in the time to flatter, court, cajole, and ultimately pay for what should rightfully be his.

Paying for pussy seemed unfair, but Reed wanted Sensation and he was willing to pay. Fuck getting her digits and bullshitting on the phone, fuck dinner and the movies. Plain and simple, he just wanted to fuck.

When the song ended, Sensation gathered and picked up the cornucopia of bills that were strewn around the stage in various shapes and denominations. She tossed the money inside a plastic bucket and sashayed off the stage. There had to be at least four hundred dollars in that bucket, Reed surmised. Not bad for fifteen minutes’ worth of work.

Sensation had another set, but Reed had grown tired of this rock-hard-dick-inducing atmosphere that encouraged suckers to throw away their money, but offered no prospect of relief. He decided to go outside and chill in his whip…roll a Dutch and listen to some sounds until Sensation came out. It was now 8:03. Reed knew her four-hour shift ended at eight-thirty, so he had less than a half-hour wait. He hoped her price wasn’t so steep he had to stop and tap an ATM machine.

When Sensation finally emerged from the club, Reed unconsciously began stroking himself. Looking like a chocolate milkshake poured into skin-tight jeans, Sensation slung a huge plastic Von Dutch bag over her shoulder and ambled toward the pizza parlor next door to the club.

Reed honked the horn. She stopped, turned in his direction. Recognizing him, she smiled and waved, but continued her purposeful trek.

Damn, now he had to wait for her to order a damn pizza! He leaned back in his seat and got comfortable. Though there’d been no verbal communication between him and Sensation, and though no plans had been made to spend an evening together, Reed was convinced they shared the same carnal desire. That smile and the wave she just gave him was her way of asking him to wait a minute while she bought some grub. He knew she wanted some dick, but due to her line of work, she probably would expect to be compensated.

Hey, he couldn’t blame her for mixing business with pleasure.

Swinging her hips, Sensation trotted past the pizza parlor, then slowed her
stride and sauntered over to a parked gray Bentley. The driver, a young black man wearing a bright-colored do-rag, rolled down his tinted window. Sensation leaned in and gave the driver a kiss, and then dreamily glided around the car to the passenger side.

It was a startling revelation; Sensation was getting it on with Stone Allen, the star of the Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers! And if that wasn’t Stone Allen, then he damn sure had a twin. Stunned, Reed didn’t know how to feel. Damn! Stone was the man and everything, but goddamn, he could have any female on the planet, why’d he have to roll up and grip Sensation?

Defeated, Reed watched the Bentley as it ripped down Chestnut Street.

Chapter 3

S
ensation had played him. That shit she had pulled was real greasy. Quietly seething, Reed entered the Apache, a strip joint on Masters Street in West Philly. Predictably, the club was dark, crowded, and funky. The Apache was a dive and any female who walked through the door could get hired. Fat, skinny, young, old—it didn’t matter as long as the woman had a pussy, a set of tits, and an ass.

He scanned the pickings. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Never in his life had he seen so many trifling-looking women parading around half naked. They were all drug addicts; they had to be because any woman who put herself on display looking that damn bad in a thong had to be on drugs. And even the women who had banging bodies and nice-looking faces were crazy—certifiably! He knew this to be true because he’d been intimately involved with enough dancers to know they all had issues.

Each woman who sidled up to him quickly scurried away. His scowl of disgust dissuaded even the most ambitious dancer from soliciting him for a lap dance.

The hell with a lap dance. The only thing on Reed’s mind was sex. He wanted to fuck. Straight up! No chitchat, no persuasive sweet talk, no haggling over the price. And the only girl who clearly understood his needs was Buttercup. He usually gave her forty dollars for a lap dance that quickly progressed to intercourse. So where the hell was she? Searching for Buttercup, Reed squeezed through the dark, musty, smoke-filled dive. He wished he were carrying Chuck’s flashlight. Chuck managed the Apache and one of his responsibilities was to patrol the place, looking for any couple who appeared to be engaged
in more than a lap dance. Chuck used his flashlight to illuminate the dirty dealings of any girl who was trickin’ on the low. When caught, the girl had to give Chuck his cut. Any slick bitch with her thong pulled to the side who didn’t pay up was instantly ejected and banned from the club permanently. Chuck didn’t play those types of games.

“Hey, playa, you dancing?” asked a nutritionally challenged woman. Her practiced smile radiated confidence, but desperation shone in her eyes.

“You seen Buttercup?” Reed asked the woman.

The woman huffed up; her fake smile quickly twisted into a sneer. “Damn, nigga, why you gotta come off like that? I axed if you was dancing? Now, how you sound axin’ me ’bout some other bitch?”

“My bad,” Reed said, admitting to his bad manners. He pulled out two dollars. “I’m not dancing, sis, but here’s a little something for your time.” He took a deep breath to calm himself for he felt on the verge of strangling the little toothpick of a woman, an obvious smoker who was wasting his time and withholding important information.

Like a magician, the skinny dancer did a hand trick so swift, the two dollar bills went poof! The money disappeared somewhere inside her sagging costume. “My name is Flava, nigga—not
sis
,” the dancer snarled once the money was safely tucked away.

“Yo, don’t be comin’ at me like that! I gave you a couple of dollars. Now, whassup? Is Buttercup here or not?”

“How the fuck should I know? Ax Chuck. He got the list; he oughta know whether or not she signed in tonight.” Flava rolled her eyes at Reed and then weaved through the crowd, walking fast like she had just picked somebody’s pocket.

Standing still, Reed scanned the dark room hoping to see the flicker of Chuck’s flashlight. Or better yet, he hoped to catch a glimpse of Buttercup. He located neither. Feeling like a voyeur, he unwittingly observed couple after couple getting their freak on atop swiveling barstools, metal-folding chairs, and wooden benches. Some were standing up, copulating against the wall, their bodies twisted like contortionists as they got their freak on.

It wasn’t his night, Reed angrily resolved. If he’d had a pistol he would have
gladly unleashed his sinister side-the fiend that lurked within would have opened fire and, starting with that ugly little runt who called herself Flava, every hooker in the house would be dead.

Someone approached from the shadows. “You dancin’?” The voice was low and lacked enthusiasm, as if she expected to be turned down.

A quick glance revealed a moon-faced, rather homely woman. The tire around her waistline spoke of too many late-night snacks and a long-expired membership at L.A. Fitness. Her appearance, coupled with a defeatist’s attitude, assured Reed of getting what he wanted: a quick, cheap fuck. He nodded his head and allowed the dancer to lead him to an empty folding chair. Reed dragged the chair from the heavily populated area where it was positioned and took it to a more secluded area. “How much?” he wanted to know.

“Five dollars for a dance.” The dancer quickly began to squat down into his lap. Reed caught a strong whiff of ass, which mercifully dissipated as the dancer began brushing her bare buttocks across his crotch.