Sex, Secrets and South Beach (11 page)

"Is that just a nice way of saying
black stuff?" Desiree asked Ginger, laughing.

"You know this," Ginger
replied.

Desiree smiled as she jotted down all
of the information. She was beginning to see a clear path for her
future, but it wasn't about all the school shit Ginger was always
spouting. Teachers had never done shit for her anyway when she did
go to school. And most of the shit they taught you didn't help you
one bit once you walked outside a classroom door. Ginger could talk
about school all she wanted, because she was a brainiac. Desiree
didn't mind dancing, but if there was an easier way to get paid and
get ahead, she was going to find it and take it.

Within the next two weeks,
Desiree felt back to
normal, but she had
to wait another two weeks before going back to work at the club.
The boredom was driving her insane. She had taken a roll of
pictures - head shots to get her started - and mailed them to all
the agents on a list that Ginger had downloaded from the Internet.
But the waiting for a response was driving her insane.

"Let's go sit by the pool," Desiree
suggested to Ginger. Sitting in the house watching videos that she
should be in was making her angry.

"Cool. I could stand to get a little
bit darker." Ginger inspected her already sun-bronzed
skin.

"You gonna end up like
that lady in
There's Something About
Mary,
" Desiree joked.

"Nah. Black folks don't get all
wrinkly like that," Ginger said, giggling.

Desiree and Ginger sat poolside,
sipping a strong pitcher of margaritas made with Patrón and
munching on tortilla chips with homemade salsa.

"I wish I could take my top off, but
the doctor said no direct sunlight until my checkup. Do you think
I'd be okay if I did?" Desiree fiddled with the triangle top of her
hot-pink bikini.

"Probably, but leave it on just to be
safe. Your tan lines are going to be sexy as hell and make your
boobs look bigger," Ginger informed her while spreading carrot oil
on her legs.

"I can't wait to go back to work!"
Desiree enthused.

"Why? I thought you wanted to be a
model and a rapper."

"I do. I just miss the
club."

"Don't tell me you actually like
working?" Ginger snarled, her upper lip curling up in
disgust.

"Don't you?" Desiree looked
shocked.

"Fuck no! I like the money, but that's
it. Men are pigs!" Ginger flipped her hair and frowned.

"That's right. I keep forgetting
you're a carpet muncher," Desiree said, grinning. Ginger flipped
her the bird.

"You liked it," Ginger retorted.
Desiree responded by returning the flip-off. "Anyway, bitch, I'm
saying we have a little cheese. We get props in the clubs. We get
little hookups here and there. All that's nice, but don't you ever
feel like it's not enough?" Ginger sat up and looked at
Desiree.

"All the time! Is there such a thing
as enough money, enough stuff, enough hookups?" Desiree looked at
Ginger as if she were insane. Her eyes shone nearly clear in the
sunlight.

"You know that's not what I fucking
mean!" Ginger snapped.

"I know. But what you mean is
bullshit. Having money is the best thing that's ever happened to
me. You must have had money all your life to not care about it.
Only rich people think that way." Desiree rolled her eyes and
flipped onto her stomach.

"Look, I came over here from Haiti
when I was five years old. Don't talk to me about being fucking
rich. I grew up thinking that people who could shop at Sears were
rich. My dad walked out on my mom and went back to the Dominican
Republic, and we didn't have shit. He didn't send a chip. My
mother's brother was here in Miami, and if it weren't for him, we
wouldn't have had a damn thing. But we got treated like shit when
we got here. We had to stay in Krome Detention Center. All the shit
we'd heard about America being the land of the free was bullshit,
cuz Krome is just jail for refugees; now the home of the brave,
maybe. I had to be brave; I was a little girl in a new country who
barely spoke the language. I had to fight off little boys and grown
men who were trying to molest me. And let's just say I didn't
always win. When we were able to move to Miami Shores with my
uncle, you can't imagine the ignorance I had to deal with. People
said we ate cats and did voodoo and had AIDS and all the fucked-up
things that people always say about Haitians. I've been through
shit I wouldn't wish on a dog. But getting money didn't make me
happier." Ginger's eyes reflected pain. Desiree noticed that Ginger
had the same spacey look she had when she told her about the trip
to St. Thomas.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," Desiree
apologized.

"Well, how would you have known?"
Ginger dismissed the topic with the wave of her hand.

"I guess...But can I ask you
something?"

"Sure, whatever," was Ginger's
response.

"If men always tried to hurt you, why
do you dance? Why do you trick?"

"You need to ask yourself that same
question." Ginger peered at Desiree over her sunglasses.

"I-I don't know what you mean,"
Desiree stammered.

"Okay. Play the nut role. But
remember, I've not only been around the block, I own a crib on it.
Most of us have been raped or abused or molested. Generally, girls
who haven't been place higher respect on their bodies and
sexuality. They value themselves more. Most strippers are broken
people, just trying to find a way to be whole again. Society makes
us think that money is the answer, but it isn't."

"Well, maybe when I get to where you
are, I can feel that way. But I come from shit too, and I have no
intentions of ever going back. I might not have what you have, but
I'm a long way from where I was. But believe this: I'm going to
make it too, just like you." Desiree's voice contained more than a
trace of jealousy, and anger at Ginger for being so
intuitive.

"Please, don't ever try to be like me.
You think I've made it? Please, bitch, this is nigga rich. You
think this quarter-million-dollar house is something? This crib is
the size of the real rich motherfucker's pool house. You think that
you building something with your money by saving it? I didn't get
what little I do have by hiding my money in my room. You got what,
fifteen, twenty thousand dollars? What do you think you can really
do with that?"

Desiree opened her mouth as if to
object, but there was nothing she could really say.

"Look, I ain't trying to be all in
your pocket, but don't get greedy. The harder you try to hold on to
your money, the more it will leave you. Please believe that. You
think that money is the solution to everything, but it's not. It's
a temporary solution to a few of life's little obstacles. It's like
that song you like, that Scarface type of shit by the Lox and Lil'
Kim. It's about money, power, and respect. Money is nothing without
power," Ginger schooled her.

"Money is power," Desiree
objected.

"Slow your roll, young grasshopper.
Understand this pimping: money is not power. It's how you use it
that's powerful. These niggas give us money all the time, and they
think they have power over us. What they don't realize is that for
all the sweet talk and sex, they're just another dollar sign. Is
that power? Now, if we take their money and go shopping, or go and
buy some weed, that may give us a little empowerment, but it's only
temporary and shallow. But if we take that piece of change and flip
it, put it into a business or invest it in our minds, then that's
real power."

"I see your point." Desiree nodded,
running her fingers through her hair. Why did Ginger seem to have
all of the answers? Why did she have it so together? Ginger had
been through a similar situation as she herself had, from what
Desiree could tell. Maybe it was because Ginger had a
mother.

"See, when you have money and power,
people respect you-most of the time anyway. Most of the time they
don't respect you per se, but they do respect your gangsta. There's
a thin line between respect and fear or intimidation. But the
respect that's most powerful, the real shit, is the respect that
you have for yourself."

"I respect myself," Desiree offered,
but it didn't sound convincing, not even to herself.

"Yeah, okay," Ginger
remarked dryly. "Can you tell me honestly that you look at yourself
in the mirror and feel a sense of respect for exactly who you are?
Are you cool with everything you've done in the past?" Ginger met
Desiree's eyes and fixed her stare. "Cuz
I
can't even say that, Desi. I got a
lot of shit going on inside that makes me feel like I ain't shit on
a regular basis. But I'm finding my way."

"What are you talking about? You've
got it going on! Your crib is tight, you have a business, you make
money in the clubs, and niggas is all up on your shit. And everyone
I see you around respects you, even those assholes at the
club."

"You're confusing my
confidence with self-respect and with self-esteem. And believe me,
I had to work really hard to get that confidence, harder than I
ever did to get money. But if I
really
respected myself, I wouldn't
still be dancing. Because I know that it's my insecurities that
fuel my need to do this. It's my feelings of inadequacy that
motivate me to continue to degrade myself, even though I know
better, even though from the outside looking in, I
am
better. Because it
isn't fun to me anymore. It doesn't feel wrong per se, but it just
doesn't feel good. This business will change you."

Desiree said nothing; she just waited
for Ginger to continue. It wasn't what she wanted to hear, but
Ginger always seemed to make perfect sense. After an awkward
silence Desiree spoke.

"You're a good person. You took me in,
and I really didn't have anyplace to go. You gave when you didn't
have to."

"Desiree, when I met you, the first
thing I did was gaffle you out of some money. And if you weren't so
cool, I would have just turned your ass out eating your pussy, then
thrown your buck-naked ass on the Web long ago. I've done that shit
before. And that was the plan with you. Your ass just turned out to
be so fucking sweet. It felt like I was trying to take advantage of
a little girl or something. It just didn't feel right." Desiree was
shocked by the confession, but no more shocked than Ginger was for
making it.

"Wondering if you can trust me now,
huh?" Ginger looked smug.

"Kind of, but not really. If you were
truly a bad person, you would have never confessed. It's almost
like you don't want me to trust you, though. You don't want me to
get to know the real you."

"You're right, Desi. I told you that I
don't even trust me. I don't even know the real me. I can only
teach you so much, so you're gonna have to know how to play this
game on your own."

Ginger was always warning
her about this or that. She acted like she knew
everything
. Desiree was beginning to
get a bit irritable over Ginger's constant preaching. It was real
easy for her to say things like, "Don't get greedy." From what she
said, Ginger should have understood better than anyone that greed
was a matter of self-preservation. Desiree's frustration showed on
her face.

"Hey, trust me or don't. Listen or
don't. It's your life. Life is a fucking crapshoot anyway really.
How you gonna win if you don't play? And how you gonna win big if
you don't bet big? But, Desiree, don't get caught up. Don't sell
yourself short. I did, but I'm not anymore."

April 1999

A
little over a month after the breast
augmentation, Desiree was cleared to return to work and all
of her regular activities. Her stitches were removed, and her scar
was practically invisible. The doctor ordered her to massage her
breasts several times daily to break up any scar tissue and make
them soft and natural-looking and –feeling. She hadn't been to
work, relying on her stash and favors from men who had no problem
catering to her every whim.

Ginger had been helpful as well,
cutting back seriously on her work schedule, claiming she was
burned-out. Desiree figured that with the money she was bound to
make with her new and improved breasts, she was on her way to the
top. She would gradually stop dancing as her modeling assignments
came in. She would make even more than Ginger.

"Wanna go out?" Ginger asked Desiree
while she was squeezing a handful of her new boob.

"Sure. I'm always down to show these
bad boys off." Desiree grinned. "I already know what I'm gonna
wear."

"Cool. You okay to drive, right?"
Ginger asked hesitantly.

"Sure, why?" Desiree was always
thrilled to drive the BMW.

"Because I wanna drop this roll, but
none for you," Ginger explained.

"I don't want none of that shit no
way. Not after what I saw the last time. I don't see why you even
deal with that shit. Your brain's got to be fried. Desiree pulled
her hair up into a bun on top of her head.

"Well, sometimes I need to escape
reality, consequences be damned. Besides, this is a different pill.
I wasn't trying to take my chances again with that other shit."
Ginger laughed, and the two prepared to hit the town.

They hit up Amnesia for Rocker's
Island for some dancehall reggae under the stars. Desiree loved the
open-air-coliseum style of the Amnesia nightclub. Her first time
there she gawked at the fact that there was no ceiling. But more
than that, she especially loved the bass-heavy riddims that
permeated the venue full of winding bodies. Although she wasn't
skilled at dancing like a true Jamaican, she didn't hesitate to
turn the heads of several men, her enhanced cleavage prominently on
display through the plunging neckline of her pale pink
top.

"You got any more of those Percocets?"
Ginger asked Desiree in the ladies' lounge.

"Yeah, but should you be mixing X and
Percocet and weed?" Desiree asked, half warning her.

"Chill, shawty I know what I'm doing.
You're the amateur, not me." Ginger sucked her teeth.

"Whatever." Desiree shrugged as she
rummaged through her purse for her prescription bottle. Ginger
popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it dry.

"You okay?" Desiree asked. Ginger
liked to party, but lately, it seemed to Desiree that she had been
overdoing it. When she did work, she came home so plastered that
Desiree was angry she'd even been allowed to drive. And when she
stayed home, she got fucked-up by herself. It was so obvious that
Ginger was trying to escape something by getting zooted out of her
mind.

"I'm cool." Ginger flashed an
artificial smile and bounced out the bathroom, leaving Desiree
behind.

Okay. She'll be all right,
I guess,
Desiree thought as she saw Ginger
approach a tall, sexy dread and begin to dance with him.

Two hours later Desiree was
sitting on the
banquettes smoking a fatty
with some girls she knew from the Rolexxx.
I wonder where Ginger is,
she
thought, scanning the room for her girl.

"Y'all seen Ginger?" Desiree asked
China, a thick redbone with Asian eyes.

"Nah, not for a minute. When I did see
her, though, she was fucked-up! I ain't never seen her so gone."
China slapped her healthy thigh, which was encased in skintight,
zebra-print jeans.

"Well, if you see her, tell her to
wait for me here. I'm gonna go look for her. "

Desiree strolled around the club
bopping to the beat, casually gliding by the men who attempted to
dance with her.

"No, no, no," she sang playfully along
with Dawn Penn, her cat eyes narrowed to slits from the cheeba.
Then DJ Khaled put on Shelly Thunder, and Desiree got loose. She
loved the song "Kuff" and could chant the lyrics as if she’d penned
them herself. Lost in the bass line, Desiree closed her eyes and
began winding her hips sensually, imitating the chanting of Shelly
Thunder. When she opened her eyes, the same dread who'd been
dancing with Ginger was standing before her.

"Not bad." The dread grinned at
her.

Desiree grinned back. "That's nothing.
I got my own shit."

"Yeah, you look like a star." He stood
there smiling, his eyes affixed to her breasts. He snapped out of
his trance.

"Your sister is looking for you. But
she doesn't feel too good, so she's in the bathroom. You should
check on her."

He flashed a row of
perfect teeth and disappeared into the crowd. Desiree watched him
walk away.
Damn, Ginny sure can pick
them!
she mused before heading to the
bathroom.

"Have you seen my sister? She looks
like me, but a little taller?" she inquired of the bathroom
attendant.

"Uh, yeah. She's sick. You need to get
her out of here and home." The attendant gave Desiree the stankeye
and returned to the Enquirer that was demanding her undivided
attention. Desiree huffed and walked down the row of stalls until
she recognized Ginger's shoes. She pushed the door, but it was
locked.

"Ginny, open the door! It's me!"
Desiree tapped her foot impatiently.

"Mrgrmph," Ginger mumbled
from behind the door. From the slight echo of her voice, Desiree
could tell that Ginger's head was inside the toilet. She had to be
on the verge of death to touch a public toilet seat, let alone sit
on the floor with her head in the bowl.
God!
Desiree thought.
What was Ginger's deal lately?

Desiree was not about to crawl under
the door and couldn't climb over the top of the stall. Thinking
quickly, she removed a rat-tailed comb from her purse and fiddled
with the lock. Desiree heard Ginger retch and heave. "Oh, don't
mind me," Desiree said sarcastically to the attendant, who wasn't
offering any assistance. "I'm fine. I'll just keep jimmying the
lock while my sister is in there dying!" Finally, she felt the lock
give way.

"Ginny!" Desiree gasped. Ginger was
sprawled on the floor, her head resting on the toilet seat. There
was vomit all over her top and in her hair. Her nose was bleeding
slightly. And she was as limp as a rag doll. Desiree grabbed her
arm, carefully avoiding the puke. She removed Ginger's T-shirt and
threw it in the trash can. She knew Ginger would be pissed, but she
wasn't about to carry it or ride all the way home with the smell.
Besides, no one would even notice she was just wearing a bra; it
was South Beach.

Desiree thought they would never make
it home. Blinded by tears, she crept along the expressway, worried
that Ginger might die or that the police would pull them over and
haul them off to jail. Ginger puked two times, and each time
Desiree had to pull over and help her. She'd debated taking her to
the hospital but decided against it. The hospital would ask too
many questions, and Ginger had probably emptied her system anyway.
She just needed a cold shower and some food. Desiree had
unfortunately dealt with someone in a similar situation before, her
mother having nearly overdosed once. She'd tried to convince
Desiree afterward that it was anemia and food poisoning, but
Desiree had known better.

At the house Desiree removed Ginger's
remaining clothes, then laid her in the tub. Then she cut on the
shower full blast, spraying ice-cold water on her to keep her
conscious.

"I'm going to die," Ginger said in a
low voice as she shivered under the stream.

"You're not gonna die, unless I kill
you!" Desiree grunted. Desiree figured that Ginger would be okay,
but was afraid that if she let her go to sleep, she might not ever
wake up.

Desiree went to her bathroom and took
a quick shower and changed into sweats. Then she returned to check
on Ginger, who was curled into a ball in the tub, the water pelting
her body. Desiree dried and dressed Ginger, then brushed her hair
into a bun. All the while she rubbed and massaged Ginger
vigorously, to keep her alert.

"You okay, now?" Desiree asked
soothingly. The sun streamed into the window, signaling the dawning
of a new day.

"Not really," Ginger
mumbled.

"Come on. I'll make you some soup.
You'll be cool. I told you not to take that Percocet." Desiree
stomped into the kitchen and began clanging pots around and
slamming the refrigerator and freezer doors. Ginger trudged into
the kitchen and sat on a stool. She laid her head on the cool
marble of the countertop.

"You could have killed yourself, you
know," Desiree fussed.

"You're right," Ginger admitted, her
head buried in her hands.

"What? Not Ginny admitting that I
actually have some sense? Are you saying I actually know
something?" Desiree smirked as she ladled hot soup into a
bowl.

"You're right, I could have killed
myself. And I almost did die." Ginger greedily devoured the soup
and signaled Desiree to get her something to drink. Desiree
obliged, bringing her a glass of orange juice, and noticed that
Ginger's hands were shaky. She placed her hand on Ginger's forehead
and cheeks. Her skin felt clammy but cool.

"I was on the verge of death. I saw
myself from outside my body. I even saw the white light you always
hear people talking about. My life passed before me. I saw dead
friends and relatives. They were calling out to me, reaching out
for me to join them. But God saved me. He told me it wasn't my
time. He said I would make a difference in someone's life, so he
would spare mine. And now I'm giving my life to Him," Ginger said
before gulping some of the juice.

"Excuse me?" Desiree's neck snapped
back.

"I'm really tired now. I'll tell you
all about it later. I need to go pray." Ginger got up and walked to
her room, then shut the door.

Desiree stood in the
kitchen in shock.
How she just gonna walk
off on me like that?
What's all this crazy
God mess? I take care of her ass till the break of dawn, and I
don't even get so much as a thank you? Whatever, bitch!