Microphone Fiend

by Sa'id Salaam

  Breeze was a little hurt, but he felt better instantly when she guided him inside of her wet warmth. The hot tightness immediately alerted him of the fact he was inside of her raw. Fuck it, he thought, and began to do just that. Once he worked up a good froth, he guided her legs up to his shoulders.

  Vita grabbed handfuls of the satin sheets they lay upon as he sank slowly down to the bottom of her cervix. He pulled out to the brim, only leaving the tip of the head in, and repeated the action. Again and again he hit bottom, only to slowly withdraw his engorged penis, increasing the speed and intensity with each thrust. With each stroke, Vita’s vagina became wetter and wetter, creating more and more juices for his dick to splash around in.

  “Shit! I’m about to cum,” he warned, putting the ball in her court. He would pull out if ordered, or stay inside if she preferred. She answered by grabbing his ass and pulling him deeper inside of her.

  Vita didn’t usually let a man cum in her, but this time she made an exception. Unbeknownst to Breeze, it was business for Vita, not personal.

  Chapter Two

  Breeze awoke with the pleasant glow of good sex on his face. He rolled over to see if he was good for one more before they started their day and realized he was alone. On the pillow next to him, he found a note instead of the curvaceous body he had spent the night enjoying. He smiled at the bright red lipstick print and began to read:

  Hey Sugar,

  Thanks for an incredibly pleasurable night. Good luck today! I’m so proud of you! Xoxo

  “Proud of me,” he repeated as he pondered the words. It took a second for him to realize he’d never heard those words directed at him before. He’d never had anyone tell him they were proud of him. Not his mother or grandmother for raising himself and his siblings.

  Several minutes passed with him in deep thought over the simple words before he snapped out of it and stood. He was introspective like that. He could spend hours inside of his own head. Even in a room full of people, he had no problem disappearing inside himself mentally.

  “You trippin’, shawty,” he chided himself as he glanced down and took note of the dried, flaky residue of raw sex on his manhood. He was pretty sure she was clean. She tasted clean, but he still paid extra attention when he went to the bathroom to relieve himself.

  The one time he did get burned, way back in the day, it was his early morning urination that made the diagnosis. He felt like he was pissing flaming razor blades. He wrapped his flame-throwing penis in a wet rag and ran over to the clinic. After that painful experience, he promised himself he would never again engage in unprotected sex unless he was married. He sighed with relief when he peed clean and evenly, and then headed over to his luxurious shower.

  A minute later, he stepped out of the stall clean, fresh and smelling good. He dried himself with a towel so plush it practically sucked the water from his skin.

  Breeze stepped inside his walk-in closet and looked for something to wear for the day. He ignored the suit he originally selected out of fear of second guessing himself for the third time. It had taken him hours to assemble the right suit, shirt, socks, and shoes, and he wasn’t going through that again. Instead, he grabbed a pair of designer jeans, a matching shirt, and a pair of fresh white tennis shoes. This attire was easier, as well as more relaxed.

  A cup of hot chocolate and a bran muffin served as breakfast for the newly health-conscious Breeze. When he was in the streets, he would have hit a greasy diner for grits, eggs, and three kinds of pork. Now he watched carbs and counted calories in addition to using the condo’s gym.

  After breakfast, he locked up and headed down the hall. “You did it, boy!” Breeze congratulated the reflection smiling back at him from the elevator’s mirrors. He nodded his appreciation as he descended.

  As soon as the door opened, granting him entrance to the underground garage, he hit the remote button on his keys. The lights on his midnight blue 550 Benz flashed in greeting while the engine purred to life. It was the least it could do, considering what he paid for it. He hit the button once more, and the locks popped open.

  The ride up Peachtree Street was a little too short for his taste. The only thing worse than a long-ass commute was a super short one. The drive time to and from work was a much-needed buffer to either psych up or tone down. A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot.

  “Club Illusions,” he proudly read from the sign, like he did every time he saw it. It looked rather plain by day, but come nightfall it would light up the dark sky. It would become a beacon for all who wanted to get their party on.

  “Breezy Breeze!” Coach cheered when he saw the boss step from his car. Breeze braced himself for the violent hug he knew was coming his way. The gregarious ex-football player rushed over and hugged him tightly.

  “Ugh, hey, Coach,” Breeze managed to utter while his breath was being squeezed from him.

  “I’m proud of you,” said Coach.

  Breeze wanted to smile from hearing those important words for the second time in one day, but he couldn’t breathe. It was yet another confirmation going legit was the right thing to do. That and Ice getting five life sentences plus twenty years.

  “Thanks,” Breeze finally managed to say when Coach released him and his lungs refilled with air. “You ready for tonight?” he asked.

  Coach, who was 6’5 and well over 300 pounds, wasn’t there just to show his support. He was the head of security for the club. He protected his boss with the same ferocity he had protected his quarterback on the field when playing in the league.

  “Of course! Are you?” he wondered sincerely.

  “Hell, yeah!” Breeze responded, sounding more confident than he actually felt. This was it, the big time. He went all out to set up the biggest, hottest club in Atlanta.

  Breeze had never heard the old adage about not putting all your eggs in one basket, so that’s exactly what he had done. He was all in. Failure was not an option! He had to go forward, because he couldn’t go back.

  To make matters worse, he was running out of cash, and there were no more kilos to flip and make more. Between paying bail bonds, lawyers, and bribes, things had become tight. Add to it the twenty thousand for the liquor license, another twenty thousand for the actual liquor, not to mention the hundred grand that went toward the lights, cameras, and action inside the club. Breeze knew he had splurged, but he would not let that hold him back, he vowed. Again, failure is not an option.

  Meanwhile, Agent Stevens was lurking in the shadows, praying for the exact opposite. Not only was he praying for Breeze’s downfall, he was tossing banana peels in his path, hoping he’d slip and fall.

  “Hey, Breeze,” the club’s hostess moaned as he passed by her station. She was definitely the hostess with the most-est, with her bright smile and big titties.

  “Hey, yourself.” He took a peek at both qualities that had landed her the job. She was definitely his type, but he was smart enough to know not to fuck his employees.

  Breeze gave her a quick head nod with his greeting and kept it moving. When he entered the main area, the first thing he saw was his sister, Damita, raising hell.

  “Un-uh, oh hell to the naw! This ain’t no damn shot! Look at this shit!” she griped before tossing the brown liquor down her throat. “Now, fix it right!”

  “Damita, leave ol’ Pops alone. You in here barking orders like you own the joint,” Breeze said.

  “I do. Dis here our juke joint,” she teased and cracked up. She had a good buzz going already, so almost everything was funny to her.

  “Anyway, where are the boys?” he asked, knowing she was ratchet enough to have the juveniles in there with her.

  “Eric is with his daddy, Dante is with his daddy, and Marcus is with his daddy,” she shot back while moving her neck sarcastically.

  “Forgot one, didn’t you?” he laughed.

  “Nuh uh, Brezel in the car, so there,” she said while holding her glass out to the bartender for another one.

  “A
in’t it a little early for all that?” Breeze asked as he took the glass away and set it on the bar.

  “Hell no! It ain’t never too early to turn up,” she explained, and began dancing without music. “Why ain’t no music in here? What kind of juke joint is dis?”

  “Good question.” He started frowning up at the DJ booth. He had spent thousands on the club’s sound system, so he, too, was curious why there was no music playing.

  He looked up at Pops and ran his finger across his throat, signaling his sister was cut off, before marching toward the DJ booth.

  “’Sup with the sound check, Rain Man?” he asked as he entered the booth. The only sounds that could be heard inside were the slurping and smacking coming from a wet blowjob.

  “Sorry, boss,” the DJ said as he snatched his dick out of the mouth of one of the club’s waitresses.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she muttered, now that her mouth was empty.

  “I’m sorry, too. Sorry I ever hired y’all sorry asses. Now, get the fuck up out my shit,” Breeze said, fighting against the urge to let the old Breeze surface.

  The old Breeze would have laid hands on both of them. The new Breeze looked before he leapt — most times, that is. He saw the club’s manager approaching as he turned and exited the booth.

  “Is everything okay?” Carlton asked with the disconcerted smile he wore so well.

  Breeze’s brow naturally furrowed when Carlton spoke. The boy rubbed Breeze the wrong way from the jump. When they were first introduced, he removed a wet wipe and cleaned his hands after shaking his. That and correcting everyone’s grammar were a few of the irritating habits the man had. Still, he was a necessary evil.

  Carlton Wells did not come cheap, either. He had earned the right to charge a grand a night, plus commission. Having him run your club meant it would be a guaranteed success. He had the experience, the skills, as well as the A-list clientele to fill up the V.I.P. section.

  “We need a new DJ and another waitress,” Breeze replied as the couple came out. Rain Man had the nerve to be mad, while the girl simply ducked her head in shame.

  “Can I get a ride?” she asked, and got chumped off.

  “Catch the bus, bitch!” Rain Man spat as if she were to blame. He snarled at Breeze on the way out like he wronged him, too. He had plans to make some extra cash out of the place, himself.

  “Whatever,” he laughed. Who’s afraid of a nigga wearing skinny jeans? Fuck he gonna put his gun? he thought to himself.

  “Don’t you think it’s rather late in the game to be changing players?” Carlton asked, cocking one eyebrow like a question mark.

  “I wouldn’t give a fuck if it was overtime! They disrespected me and my shit, so they gotta go. If I can’t trust you, then you can’t be around me,” he barked.

  “Very well,” Carlton agreed. He knew full well it was the right decision, but wanted to be sure his employer did. “I’ll find another DJ and waitress. Are you sure you want to keep the bartender? He’s quite — umm. Country.”

  “Shawty, we in the south! This is Atlanta. He a’ight,” he said in defense of Pops.

  “Well, if you like it, I love it,” he said flamboyantly. “Like you said, this is Atlanta. We open at 10:00 p.m.”

  “See ya at 10,” Breeze said over his shoulder as he headed for the door to leave.

  Chapter Three

  “Ok, ok, o-fucking-k!” Tasheena barked when her alarm clock refused to shut the fuck up like she ordered. It still beeped and buzzed for another 15 minutes before shutting itself off completely. That made the time exactly 10:15 when she finally lifted her head from the pillow. It was twenty minutes after by the time her feet touched the cold tiled floor. Not getting out of bed until 10:20 am is pretty bad, but 10:20 pm is some real bullshit.

  “Let me go put myself together,” she mumbled as she walked into the small bathroom to relieve herself.

  Tasheena pulled her panties down to her knees and took a seat on the toilet to relieve her full bladder. She checked the cotton lining of her panties for discharges of any sort. It was a habit she developed years ago. It was only the greenish goo she had found there that alerted her to the STD she had contracted. She had no symptoms, so had wondered why so many dudes were hot at her. Having the clap didn’t stop her from having unprotected sex occasionally, but it did have her checking her panties daily. That was her version of a lesson learned.

  After a long tinkle, she flushed, stood, and stepped out of her underwear. Next, she pulled the t-shirt she had slept in over her head before turning on the shower. She reached under the sink and grabbed a disposable douche from the dollar store.

  “Just in case a nigga tryna eat,” she reasoned, and stepped in the shower with it. The term nigga was a testament to the fact she had yet to meet the next man to be invited into her body.

  There were times when she got a nut before a name. Other times no names were exchanged to go along with the exchange of body fluids.

  Like most women, Tasheena just wanted to give love and be loved back. Unfortunately, she was raised by, with, and around other hos who believed the way to a man’s heart was through his dick. It wasn’t, but it paid the rent, utilities, and her car note.

  Tasheena stepped under the steamy spray and cleaned herself inside and out. She didn’t have to worry about getting her hair wet, since it was safe and dry in her closet. When she said put herself together, she meant it literally — in the Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head sense of the phrase. She had to add her lips, eyes, hair, and everything else. With Tasheena, everything was et cetera.

  Her skin was a spotty, blotchy mess from all the bleaching creams she had tried over the years in an attempt to turn her beautiful chestnut-colored skin beige. Now a heavy layer of foundation was required to even it out to a nice shade of tan. If people from the census bureau ever came knocking, she would still be required to mark colored.

  Once the paint on her face dried, she carefully drew her eyebrows back on. The right one had to be done over so she wouldn’t walk around looking like she was asking a question. Next came the lens that changed the color of her pupils from brown to green, followed by her long, curly eyelashes. Lastly was her hair, which was in the closet with her clothes, so she stepped inside.

  “Ok, Halle, you’re up,” she told the short wig she had dubbed Halle Berry. It was situated between her Tina Turner and Beyoncé hair. The top row of her closet was lined with Styrofoam faces topped with wigs in hairstyles of the rich and famous.

  The short wig fit snugly on her head, since she kept her own hair cut close to her scalp. The only thing in the closet shorter than the wig was the red dress she selected.

  “’Bout to bag me a baller tonight!” she vowed to her sexy reflection. The chick in the mirror opened her mouth to disagree and try to talk some sense into her, but she quickly turned away.

  Hos are like superheroes in the sense they always have a sidekick. Batman had Robin. Green Lantern had Cato. And Tasheena had Tosha. Superhos, activate!

  “Yeah, bitch,” Tosha snapped into her phone when she took her friend’s call.

  Tosha was the tall, dark, and thin to her leader being short, tan, and thick. She was actually pretty in the morning before she added all the extras. Low self-esteem markets and promotes the wearing of weaves and wigs better than any celebrity ever could. As a result, she went from cute to clown for a night on the town. She looked like she was someone in the Witness Protection program trying to hide her identity.

  “Bitch, where you at?” Tasheena asked as she stepped from her apartment. Tosha flashed her lights in reply, since the two would be riding together.

  “You ready to turn up?” Tosha gleefully asked her girl as she slid into the passenger seat.

  “Turn down for what?” Tasheena shot back like she believed it. Her birthday was a week away, and she was ready to turn down and settle down. All she wanted was someone to love.

  Chapter Four

  “Ok, people, look alive! It’s show time!” Carlton
announced as he clapped his hands loudly to gain everyone’s attention when the hands on his ten-thousand dollar watch struck 10:00 p.m.

  The clapping only served to further infuriate the workers he’d already offended with his obnoxious behavior. However, Carlton didn’t give a damn. It was his theory angry workers worked harder, and tonight’s workers were definitely pissed off. He had made sure of that. The waitress rolled her eyes. The hostess sucked her teeth, and the bartender bit his tongue, literally, to keep the curses inside from spilling out. First, he insulted the big girls by ordering security to pass out coupons for free ice cream if any of them got out of line. Furious, Coach snatched them all and tore them up. Next, he insisted white girls be granted free access because their presence attracted rich black men.

  “Gays are also free, since they’re big spenders and good tippers,” he briefed. “Ladies are free before eleven, and then it’s time to hold the line.”

  “I know my job,” Coach shot back, not bothering to hide his disdain for the man. He knew holding the line would make it look like the place to be when people drove by.

  Carlton was correct about the freeloading chicks, who would get in free until eleven. If they didn’t make it in, most would have to leave, since they couldn’t afford the cost to get in. All they carried inside their knock-off purses was a tube of lip gloss and a free, prepaid government-issued cellphone. These types of chicks were so cheap even the skimpy dresses they had on would eventually be free, after they returned them in the morning.

  “Chop, chop!” Carlton snapped at Pops. The older man cracked a patient smile and held his tongue instead of letting the younger man’s arrogance get to him. The smile instantly turned into a genuine one when Breeze breezed in.

  “I’m glad you could make it, but you’re late,” the manager quipped, just barely resisting the urge to put his hand on his hip.

  “I own the joint, so I can’t be late,” Breeze replied with a chuckle before he turned to Pops. “Nice suit.”