by Tiana Laveen
White pimps exist; most people who have read a book or two about the subject know that. However, they are not the norm in this country. They are the norm in Europe, but this story takes place in the United States, so that fact stays somewhat irrelevant. How he became a pimp, his mindset, etc., create a situation that hopefully the reader will not only understand, but proceed to develop less revulsion toward him as the main character’s inner workings are explored and revealed. This is not an effort to necessarily excuse his language towards and about women, his mindset and actions, but to at least see how he got from point A to point B. You, as the reader, need to find out that Smoke is in fact VERY human. He is not some demonic, testosterone-drinking robot roaming about the Earth, turning women into sex slaves (Hey! That’s a great story idea! LOL!) Anyway, back to the topic… Some may ask, why did I do this? Why did I write about the life of a pimp? The answer I give to this question each and every time is – Why not? Everyone on this planet has a story and many, in my opinion, are worth exploring.
As Smoke (the hero) grows and develops, chapter after chapter, the reader will see the many layers within this man. He is a complicated person, though he carries himself as if life is simple, picture perfect and crystal clear, and can be broken down into easily understandable compartments. He is organized in his thinking, actions and behaviors, even the occasional vehement ones – but internally, he is a ticking time bomb ready to explode at any moment.
The heroine is equally complex, but a more vulnerable soul, despite her, too, being from a lifestyle many would snub. Contrary to many of our feelings as a whole about people like this, and our preconceived notions, these people may live under the radar. They are our neighbors, family members (whether we know it or not), friends, church members, associates, teachers, bosses, employees, jogging partners, PTA members, and individuals who help collect money for the local lemonade stand and fire department. They will continue to exist until the end of time. The reason I know this is because prostitution is one of the oldest professions on the planet. Men and women will continue to be sexual beings. We will continue to lust, love, seduce and covet other human beings based on how they can make us feel physically, as well as emotionally. This is the human condition, and despite anyone’s religious or spiritual beliefs or lack thereof, this is simply a biological fact. Human beings want to be touched. This need for tactile contact expands and grows as we physically mature and sometimes it can become perverted, warped and downright dangerous if it is not handled in a nurturing, positive, and uplifting way. Our sexuality is so tied into what we observe and witness as children, as well as developed by means of genetic and environment factors, thus, some of our inclinations come to exist through no choice of our own. It is plain to see, at least from my perspective, that sexuality is fluid – it is interpretable and what one may see as tragically vile, another may see as splendidly divine. We came into the world via sex, and we leave it still wanting intimacy. How many times have you seen, heard or read about a person dying, and reaching out to hold their relative’s hand during the final hours? It is that touch that drives us. It is nonstop, and there are people that capitalize on this basic premise. These people are called sex workers, escorts, ‘massage parlor’ employees, prostitutes, hookers, pimps, porn actors/actresses, sex movie directors and producers, sex therapists, sex surrogates, tricks, johns and a host of others, who dedicate a great portion of their lives to what we systemically gravitate towards – and that is sensuality, sexuality, intimacy, affection and lovemaking.
Smoke and Paris are a part of this world. They enter each other’s domain and things happen – strange things, wonderful things, horrible things, and beautiful things. I don’t want to give the story away, so I will just wrap this up now by saying, please sit back and enjoy. If the book gets a bit too heavy at some point, take a break if you need, but by all means, continue on the ride, for Smoke and Paris have a bona fide love story to tell. Are you ready? Let’s go!
*
Preface
She is an indestructible ruby red rose growing between the jagged cracks of time. I plucked her uneven petal, and her thorns caught around my heart, making me bleed along the razor blade’s glistening edge. I sacrificed myself for the sweetness of her garden, decided to perish, shed my old skin after inhaling her beauty. Though I now die a million times in her fields, the slow, tortuous fatality is worth it. Pardon me while I take my last breath. I want to be alone, to savor the perfume of her undying love…
*
A Word from Our Hero…
Despite what I am, and what I evolved into, this is a story about love turning up and growing in the oddest and most unlikely of places…
My name is Brent “Smoke” Jeremy Patterson III, and I am a few hours away from being released from California State Prison. I’ve decided to tell my story so that maybe one day, it could help someone. Not to mention, it needs to be told. It’s time. Another reason is, I’d like to clear my conscience. I was not always the person that I came to be; I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to fight the world, tooth and nail. There are more reasons for this confession, but for now, that will do. Now, as I sit here on this teeter-tottering bench with a brown paper sack of my belongings sitting next to me, I realize that this will be my last day of being incarcerated. No, not in prison, but in my mind… I am done with this. I can’t point the finger at anyone though. I can’t blame my choices on my childhood. Actually, I could, but I’m a grown ass man that made grown ass choices with grown ass consequences. I’m not one of those motherfuckers that tried to plead insanity, or claim to not know right from wrong to save my own ass.
I knew exactly what the fuck I was doing. In other words, I did what I did, I own it, but many would say that my crimes against women weren’t my greatest offense. You see, I broke the code and then took it to a whole different level. I was trained to never fall in love with my product. As the saying goes, don’t mix business with pleasure—but I did that and then some. I came from a long line of men who simply don’t fall in love. It is not even in our nature, but it is our legacy. I used this to my advantage, and it helped me with my product. In my case, the product was women…
So you see, my greatest violation and my ultimate love coexisted; actually, some would say they were one and the same. I won’t sugarcoat this or beat around the bush, I’ll come straight out and tell you what I am, and make it perfectly clear who you’re talking to.
I’m a pimp.
Being a pimp is a mindset; it’s a way of life. Pimps are born; they aren’t made. Before you go passing judgment, let me break something down for you. Some men, who are born pimps, don’t pimp just women, but an entire enterprise. They are called CEOs and government officials. We’ve been tricking for them since the day we were assigned a social security number. These aren’t semantics; this is the real world, the reality of the shit. A man could go his entire damn life not knowing he was a born pimp, but under the right circumstances, if he rolls around in just the precise amount of filth and delusions of grandeur, and he is seasoned to perfection from an environment that encourages such behavior, the personality will manifest, and he will take on his birthright at just the precise time…
The shit going on out here in the streets right now is bullshit. Those aren’t real playas, O.G.s or aristocrat playboys. They are little children with the personality of a piece of chicken shit. Despite their adult physical age, they are mere babies feigning to be full-fledged men. They are simps, man-ginas, Bettys, Mitches, reluctant betas pretending to be alphas, professing to be down by law. They’re caught up in their feelings, instead of keeping their mind on their money, and their money on their mind. Yes, I came into the world this way, but it took a series of twisted events to serve as a platinum key and unlock this darkness inside of me. Before you think to yourself, ‘what could this man who peddles pussy and then collects the cash possibly have to say worth listening to?’—I think I have a lot worth hearing, actually.
You see, you don
’t know me…but you’re about to.
I don’t think I’m special, but I know for a damn fact that I’m different. You may think based on what I’ve told you that I’m the scum of the earth and well, in some ways you’d be right. Regardless of that, I’ve got a story to tell because you see, I’ve learned a few lessons along the way and if I can spare someone else from repeating my mistakes, then all of this shit was well worth it. On top of all of this, my story is rather unique. I’m a rare breed. So, I take back what I said…I am fucking special, and in a minute, you’ll know it, too.
I don’t know what image you had in your mind of me, but let’s get the preliminaries out of the way so there is no misunderstanding. I’m white. When you look at me, there is no mistaking that, no second-guessing, or the need for a survey or family tree DNA test. If I don’t get enough sunlight, I look like a fucking vampire. Some would say I was one anyway, sucking the life out of women for my own financial gain. My straight, thick, dark brown hair is usually combed back away from my face, cut close at the sides. My electric light blue eyes will either entice a woman to drop her fucking panties on a dime, or lure her ass to sleep, whichever I so choose. I have them due to a recessed albino gene from the paternal side of my family. They are the first thing motherfuckers see when I approach, and the last thing they look into when I have to stomp some son of a bitch into the ground.
Now, in regards to my confessions, don’t go making assumptions. I didn’t fall in love with one of my whores. That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you? No…it was much deeper than that. You see, I fell in love with someone in the same league as me. This particular female, this woman, is a Madame or Madam, however you wish to say it…you can make it sound French if you like, put a fancy twist on it like double olives in a martini. In any case, this woman is like no other. She is a ball breaker, john shaker and money taker. An individual whose confidence, influence and beauty brought me to my goddamn knees.
The day I met Madam Paris Raven was the day my life took a turn not even God himself could have expected. In some eyes, I’m now viewed as fallen from grace. I’m looked upon with disdain, seen as no better than a trick, because there is not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for this woman, even behind these bars, moments away from my freedom…
If you want to hear me out, I’m going to sit here and tell you my story while I wait for official discharge. It’s my first time telling it to anyone, the entire damn truth, and nothing but the truth, since the shit went down. You may wonder, ‘Why now?’ Well, I’m one hundred and eighty-two minutes away from being a free man…and they say a man is only truly free, if his heart and mind are as well. So, here you are, and here I am. Have a seat. I want to tell you my narrative…a love story born in the midst of chaos and self-destruction. A story that turned me, Brent ‘Smoke’ Patterson, from Legend, to Legal ward of the state, and now, Lover of a lady of the night…
*
Prelude
Present Day…
DRU DOWN’S, ‘Can You Feel Me’, played on the baroque music system in Smoke’s brand spanking new, black on black Porsche 918 Spider as he sat parked on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. He’d been in the mood for some music that drew him into his younger days when he’d sit outside a baseball park and daydream, with the palm trees swaying above his head and the wind flipping through his hair. Regardless of him feeling rather relaxed, a sense of urgency had begun to slowly creep up his spine like tiny fingers meandering towards the base of his neck. So he sat on the side of the road, his head still spinning from a rather loud and crazy evening and his hangover gripped his cranium as if it, too, was trying to read his damn mind.
Wait a minute, what’s going on? That’s him getting in his car. Leaving early? She didn’t call me to tell me she was finished. That’s not like her. Something’s not right…
He got out of the car, adjusted his Urwerk CC1 King Cobra watch and made his way into the L’Ermitage Beverly Hills Hotel, one of five hotels that he used in steady rotation. It had all the amenities needed to keep his clients exultant, his stable content, and most importantly, he did it so well, the staff, minus one manager that was well paid to keep his fucking mouth shut, remained none the wiser to his exploits. Regardless, it was time for a come-up, an upgrade, and he had just the solution. He’d just purchased an apartment building, hired an old friend of the family to help stand guard and contracted several working crews to revamp the place, make it fit exactly what he had in mind. It would be turned into a place for his stable to reside all under one roof, as well as double as a pussy palace. Several of the apartments within it would be used as space for his employees to work, but in the meantime, this was their current situation. It had taken a while to reach this pinnacle. Over time, he not only taught himself the game, he fucking improved it, making the dull shine, the mundane draw curiosity, and the undesirable coveted. This would be the place, this would the time…a slice of the busted cherry pie to call their very own. No more hotels, no cop infested or dangerous areas. His whores rarely walked the track. That was his first rule. The second was, he commanded and demanded complete obedience. They had one time and one time only to try him: lie, take his money, or get on drugs, and their ass would be blowing in the Los Angeles winds.
Thanks to his father’s reputation, many members of his old man’s previous stable put in a good word for him, making his trek to street stardom a bit less of a tedious climb, though it proved challenging all the same. Nevertheless, he had a golden resume by association alone. He thought he understood that his father’s specially selected whores were dedicated to that man, but he really had no clue until after the man was long gone.
He’d had no inkling of just how revered his father had been out in the thoroughfares, but the adoration that was surely showered upon him by default was a beautiful thing. His father followed old-school rules with new school flair, and that was precisely what Smoke wanted to duplicate, with his own wicked twist and a touch of class. He needed to prove himself, and when he first got his feet wet, he found the prospects daunting. The hardheaded bitches gravitated towards him, including the ones with ravenous cocaine addictions. If he survived that first round draft pick, he’d have to duck and dodge some of his first deranged and obsessive recruits who believed they were in love with him and would grow perilously jealous should he dare turn his affections towards another in the stable. As time passed, he grew wiser and devised an internal radar to avoid such circumstances, but the ladies still came in droves.
He dressed unlike most of his peers and predecessors… not too flashy, not like your average Joe, but somewhere in the middle. He drifted toward dapper with a slight dash of flash. He wore custom suits in various earth tones and kept his shit simple. By all appearances, he was a white, rich businessman and refused to be addressed as anything differently. After he broke his first two steady whores in, he’d gotten a clean grip on the life. Joan, a transplant from Alabama who was as country as buttery grits, red dirt roads and greasy pig feet, stood at his side as well as ‘Tiny Tammy’, a pretty little naïve thing that seemed to get wet when he simply uttered her name. With the two of them, he built his regal reputation, earning respect as they pulled more johns than many thought was humanly possible.
Soon, other pimps’ whores were choosing him, and as an old-school act of good faith after teaching himself the ropes, receiving royal advice and studying his father’s blueprint, he would pay the pimps a few dollars, as a consolation prize. He did his shit bigger and better than anyone else. He had two legitimate businesses – he owned the pizzeria he used to work at when he was eighteen and he’d also jumped into real estate, renting several houses out to respectable families. His T’s were crossed, and his I’s dotted, too. Never fucked up or delayed his taxes, kept his nose out of other peoples’ business, and would beat someone into near oblivion if they tried to strong-arm him. Not bad for a naïve, pussy fearing mama’s boy from Monroe, Ohio…
“Stacia, are you ready?” He rapped on the locked hotel do
or with the pale gray ‘Do Not Disturb’ hanger placed across the brassy handle and clicked his tongue impatiently against the side of his mouth. He began to count inside his head. She knew the routine. If one of his women didn’t respond to him when he came knocking, he surmised she was in danger, and then he’d let himself inside and take care of his business. One too many times, he’d seen a sick john get a hold of one of his ladies, tie her up against her will and do shit that wasn’t agreed upon. He jiggled his leg, feeling the hard, heavy metal against his waist shake a bit. Stacia had three more seconds…
3…2…1…
Sliding the extra hotel room key out of his pocket and inserting it in the lock, he heard the click and eased himself inside. He was swallowed in darkness, but didn’t dare flip on a light. He focused, relying on his other senses to make swift assessments of the situation, and sniffed the air like a trained bloodhound as he cautiously moved about, his gun now in his grip. His dander rose to a fever pitch while he made for the bathroom as if he had a built in Garmin to find her ass, dead center in the middle of his brain. Once he reached the lavatory door, he wrapped his large hand around the cool knob. Locked. He stepped back, and kicked the motherfucker in, causing muffled cries to echo throughout the small quarters. Then, he flipped the switch and groaned in fury. Naked, Stacia sat crouched down inside of the white tub, the floor of the basin peppered with blood splatter as the muscles beneath her pale skin jumped. Her blond hair was crimson streaked, her mouth tightly gagged, bruised wrist and ankles wrapped with sticky electrical tape. Her left breast bled profusely from an abrasion, as well as cavernous teeth marks that had punctured the soft tissue right above the muted pink areola against her reddened flesh. Copious tears ran down her face as she mumbled incoherently, trembling, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.