Sexaholics (7 page)

Brandi

W
ith her medium height, medium build,
medium complexion, and medium-length hair, medium Brandi Williams had been home
for hours, relaxing after a long day of teaching her beloved eighth graders and
attending her first Sexaholics meeting. She’d also stopped by
Gelson’s Market for some bananas, her regular breakfast of choice.

She lived on the west side of Hollywood on a narrow street just south of the
Sunset Strip. Her neighbors’ quaint homes ranged from French chateau and
Venetian villa–looking houses to newly remodeled, California stuccoes. And
Brandi’s one-bedroom, eclectic-looking Spanish bungalow resembled a Hansel
and Gretel–like cottage, though life inside was far from that of a fairy
tale.

Along her lush lawn, a large nectarine tree sprouted its growth from west to
east, enough to shield her small front yard. A brief wind had kicked up, and
even after the midnight hour, a sparrow could be heard singing along one of the
slightly swaying branches. Small jasmine vines crawled along the front
stained-glass window, giving off a sweet smell.

West Hollywood, also known as Gay Village due to its large gay population,
resembled the French Quarter. It was also known for its trendy, well-known shops
and restaurants, its never-ending extravagant nightlife that looked as if it
were Halloween on any given evening, and for its amazing view from the top, near
the Sunset Strip. The magical view of the city was breathtaking.

Overall, the area was one of busy sounds, bustling happenings, and a
constantly hurried feel. Yet inside of Brandi’s home, it was none of
that.

Her comfortable residence was her safety zone. It was her isolation sanctuary
when she wasn’t spending her daytime hours as an English teacher at
Harcourt Middle School, in the upscale neighborhood of View Park.

Her perky and energetic public side was the side her students knew and loved.
But her private side consistently made its usual appearance once she stepped in
from the moonlit, outside world and double-locked her front door. The door that
safely separated her from the surefire cruelness that lurked out there.

Her average-sized home with crisp celery-colored walls always smelled of the
citrus FreshMatic scent that intermittently chased away any evidence of stale
gloom, just in case the scent of jasmine from the outside hadn’t been able
to permeate the premises. It was always dark. The only illumination was from the
overhead stove light. And that was just the way she liked it. She stepped
through the arched doorway into her vintage small, tiled kitchen, and grabbed a
tall drinking glass and a bottle of Patrón, pouring the clear liquid to the
rim. She was not one to sip nor drink from a shot glass. She drank tequila
head-on. No fear.

Actually, anything strong and anything straight would do. But tequila had
been her desired liquor since her days at UCLA, where she earned a degree in
education. Back then she drank Cuervo, guzzling shots that raced down her throat
like Mexican moonshine, doing the lick-it-and-stick-it move. The firewater
brought about many a morning filled with headaches and hangovers, lying upon
stench-filled sheets spotted with lingering remnants of her upchuck. Though now
she seemed immune after having learned to imbibe only the premium brands.

Alcohol was the perfect fit back in the good old days of college, when
she’d party most of the time, skip class, sleep the day away, and cram for
tests with whatever time of the day was left. Even so, her knack for making the
grades brought her much attention, even scholarships. But not the kind of
attention the other girls got. She was, after all, nothing to write home about.
Or at least that’s what the one guy who took her out the one time in
college told her. And it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. The
thing was, without question, she agreed.

She was, after all, very average.

Plain-as-paper average.

Average at everything but the books. Brandi overcompensated her downsides by
having an overly exuberant public personality and an inherited high level of
intelligence, though she also inherited her love of booze. Her favorite pastimes
were her greatest escapes… crooked sex and straight liquor. Both always
seemed to fill in the blanks once she shielded herself from the world by
being… at home.

Home facing herself.

And her demons.

Just like those before her, who had passed it on down like a cursed
baton.

But recently she admitted to herself that even the sex and booze
weren’t enough to fill in the blanks.

Brandi had kicked off her low heels and stripped down to all but her brown
boy shorts. She’d stepped, bare feet against the cool, mahogany hardwood
strips, while shutting down her Motorola phone. With drink in hand, she took a
seat on the black leather sofa, turned on the volumeless TV, and drank her
liquor, swallowing the strength of the silver petroleum liquid as though it were
water. As with all the other nights alone, the intention was to feel numb.

A porno movie that she’d neglected to finish watching from the night
before shone before her, called
Monster Booty Meets Monster Dick
.
Actually, she’d neglected to watch it the night before that and the night
before that.

She leaned back and opened her legs to allow freedom to her greedy, needy
vagina. She put her hand down into her panties like Al Bundy would do on
Married… with Children
, and began fiddling with her curly pussy
hairs, petting herself with long strokes as though she were a cat. She poked the
tip of her middle finger inside and she was wet. She was ripe and ready like
always.

Her thoughts momentarily shifted from the light-skinned young woman who was
giving deep throat with her amazing soup-cooler lips, heading down further to
lick the lucky man’s balls. Brandi thought back to her meeting. Rachel
Cummings had talked about abstaining from unhealthy sex. She remembered the one
sentence more than the many others.
Stop lusting and become sober.

But as usual, the alone time with nothing to do but produce thoughts from her
addicted mind brought out her other half. And thirty minutes later, even with
the success that getting liquored up brought toward reaching her numbness,
she’d transformed herself into the fast side she’d given a
nickname.

She stood in her bedroom feeling a little dizzy, but that was usually how she
felt when her mind shifted from worried teacher to not-a-care-in-the-world
sexpot. She gave long blinks as her head began to swim, then she shook it off.
Having learned to deal with it, she squared her shoulders and stared at her
reflection in the full-length mirror before her.

She was now a vixen of a woman, wearing a low-cut, sheer-back jumpsuit and
high heels, a ruby-red curly wig, hazel-blue contacts, false eyelashes, and
heavy makeup. Brandi snatched her keys and a credit card, driver’s
license, cell phone, three orange condoms, and a can of Mace, and locked the
door behind her. She jumped into her bright red Chevy Camaro, red for the world
to see, and headed out under the nighttime skies to be all she needed to be. She
drove the short distance over near Sunset and La Cienega, listening to her
radio. The song was “Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé.

She parked her bright car in the nearly packed, dark lot of a closed gasoline
station and began to walk through the night with a sweet, sticky stroll. A
stroll she had mastered. She shifted her hips in a way that the sun would never
see. It was a sight only for the moon and stars, and for sore, horny eyes.

Immediately she heard a honk, and then a holler and a hoot, and then a
catcall, and then a whistle. She knew she had the look. And she worked it even
harder as she kept on strolling.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing on a street like this?”
a thirty-something woman with blond hair asked as she pulled up in her dark blue
SUV, going one mile per hour.

Brandi looked on but kept her stroll on. “I’m just taking a walk.
Why?”

“How much?”

Brandi stopped. “For who?”

The woman stopped. “For me.”

Brandi chuckled. “I think maybe you might be missing the right
equipment for me to answer that question.”

The woman leaned over to her right and opened the passenger-side door just
enough. She reached down and lifted her pleated skirt, exposing that she was not
wearing panties, and showing Brandi the eight inches of manhood she was working
with. “Now, can you give me a price?” the chick with a dick asked,
now with a voice that had slipped into baritone.

Recalling that Valencia’s sexaholic confession involved a similar
freaky lay, Brandi said assuredly, “This is your lucky night. No
charge.”

“No charge? What? You just fuck guys indiscriminately just for
kicks?”

Brandi came closer and closer as she spoke. Her eyes showed odd pleasure. She
could clearly see the throat with a well-defined Adam’s apple and a chin
tainted with razor stubble. “I’d hardly call this haphazard or by
accident. I’m here for a reason. And you, my dear, are just what the
doctor ordered. So are you down with it or not? Cause I am.”

“Hell yeah, I’m down.”

“Perfect.” And Brandi hopped in.

“What’s your name?” the woman-slash-man asked as he pulled
off. The inside of the messy truck smelled like old, musty sweat socks.

Brandi rolled down the window and looked over to notice the strands of
forearm hair as he kept hold of the chrome gearshift. “I’m Camaro.
I’ll just call you John. Or Johnetta, which one?” Brandi giggled
inside.

“Johnetta will work for tonight. Pleased to meet you,
Camaro.”

“The pleasure is mine. All mine. Don’t tell me, you’re the
stereotypical man who looks for women on the street… the giant in the
corporate world and your wife isn’t into what you’re into,
right?”

He smirked, focusing on her chest. “No comment.”

With a leer like she knew the deal anyway, Brandi sat back in the passenger
seat as the kinky driver headed the few blocks to the seedy Astro motel.

The Hollywood air met Brandi’s curious face while she reached into her
bra and turned on her phone. She had two missed calls, one from her mother and
one from her new friend, Teela. They wouldn’t get a call back, even if she
wasn’t playing free hooker for the evening. They shouldn’t feel
slighted, though. She shut her phone as the driver put the car in Park and
adjusted his stiffness under his skirt as he stepped out.

Camaro’s pussy was on fire.

The anticipation of the unknown had her all worked up.

He came around and opened her door as she stepped out and followed his lead.
He towered over her, wearing a long blond wig, parochial skirt, white midriff
top, and bobby socks with bright pink stilettos.

Fast-ass Camaro couldn’t wait for her first taste of the cross-dresser
with the sexy, brown muscular legs in four-inch heels.

Or transvestite he-she.

Or whatever the hell it was.

Miki

M
iki’s girl, Valencia, pulled up
along the curb on Pico Boulevard in L.A. and rolled to a stop, placing the
platinum Infiniti FX in park as the hustling, well-mannered valet opened her
door. Another fast-moving valet approached and opened the passenger side.

Miki stepped out. “Thanks,” she said, speaking softly with a head
nod, while adjusting the strap of her zebra barrel purse along her shoulder.

Valencia and Miki strutted up to the purple door wearing tight jeans and
tighter braless tees, both with ruby red pumps.

A burly-looking bouncer who wore all black greeted them. “Ladies. Go
right in. Good to see you, Valencia.”

“You, too, Miguel. Gracias,” she said, as he held the door open
for their more-than-welcome entry.

The song was Gorilla Zoe’s “Pole.” Miki sang along,
“She drops it down low, she mix it up slow, she’s workin that
pole,” bobbing her head as they made their way inside with an energy that
smelled of estrogen.

The strip club’s crowd of testosterone was thick. Some of the
gentlemen, who made up 90 percent of the patrons, held dollar bills in hand.
Most sat around the stage with their mouths open, lost in a mental fantasy,
comparing the young ladies who danced before them to some woman they wished
could be so limber, or so damn fine, and so willing to fulfill their every
lustful eye-need.

The room smelled like an urban honky-tonk spot, with day-old cigarette smoke
and lingering cheap perfume. The guys made sure to steal glimpses of Valencia
and Miki, like they hoped the ladies would be down for anything, being freaky
enough to even show up. Or that maybe after a little while they’d be
juiced up and ready to take home once the dancers did their preliminary jobs of
foreplay. Miki and Valencia had other plans.

Miki took a moment to eye a girl on the main stage. She was a tall Brazilian
dancer with much yellow ass. She hung upside down with six-inch clear platforms,
expertly spreading her legs and bouncing her bare cheeks. “Damn. I
remember when I used to be that damn flexible.”