SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet

by ATLANTIC LIBRARY PRESENTS Jackie Christian

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  SEX ON PISMO BEACH

  Copyright © 2009 TWEET

  PUBLISHED BY ATLANTIC LIBRARY DIGITAL

  *SMASHWORDS/Mark Coker Edition

  Printed digitally in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book

  or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Book One

  JANUARY

  When She Was Poor

  *Summer 2005

  Pismo Beach, California

  February’s mustang was flying around the side of the mountain…80 mph, 100 mph, 120 mph. Now that Adam Crown had asked her to have an abortion, she didn’t care how fast she drove. Tears filled her eyes, gently dislodging her green colored contacts to expose the vibrant natural brown sparkling beneath them. Every warning sign from the last six months seemed suddenly visible. The Crown family had to protect its good name from naive young beauties like February Foster (and thank God they didn’t know she was an exotic dancer). They were, after all, the richest, most respected African-American family in the United States—Atlanta’s infamous House of Crowns.

  February felt like a fool now, because until this night, speeding along the curvy cliffs that hugged California’s roaring Pacific shoreline, she had managed to live in denial as to how they saw her. To the mighty Crowns, she was nothing more than the unfortunate off-spring of a typical single black mother; a Registered nurse who never finished high school—“black trash.”

  “Oh, she’s absolutely beautiful…and I do mean breathtaking, but… she’s still a ‘cavity’,” someone had whispered behind February’s back when she’d gone with Adam to a Crown family political fundraiser on Martha’s Vineyard. Only recently had February found out what the black elite mean when they call someone a ‘cavity.’ The meaning is literal—a diseased stain messing up the uniformity of what were otherwise perfectly straight healthy teeth; unnatural and un-belonging; a cavity.

  Color, in most instances, had nothing to do with it.

  The rich-rich blacks (those worth twenty million or more) called themselves, collectively, “Teeth.” If they spoke of their kind as an individual, then that person was called a “Tooth.” Lower millionaire blacks or upper middle class blacks were affectionately referred to as “Gums”; the regular middle class were called “Breath,” which could be “fresh” or “stale” all depending. But any black who was working class, uneducated or poor was a “Cavity.”

  February couldn’t believe how simple it all was—pregnant by a Crown yet she was nothing. Some people at the club who knew about her pregnancy immediately labeled her a “gold digger.” But in reality, she had never approached Adam or any of the men she danced for. Adam had been the one arrested by her beauty, then infatuated by her sweetness. All along, he had done the chasing. Even when February had first let him kiss her—she hadn’t known that his last name was “Crown” or that his father was worth two billion dollars. All she had known was that a young wildly gorgeous black man insisted she give him the time of day and that little by little she had fallen in love with him. Not just a little in love—but completely and irrevocably. It was as though February’s heart couldn’t beat without him.

  “Excuse me, but are you February Foster?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Bliss Carrington—Adam’s fiancé from Australia. Adam’s mother said I should ask if you’ll be one of my bridesmaids.”

  “You took my virginity. You made me love you, Adam.”

  “It’s not a problem, February…I can send you to Wood’s Hole for an abortion.”

  February pressed her foot to the metal, accelerating around the edges of the cliff—both the black ocean and dark of night forming an endless ledge that made it very hard to detect where the cliff ended and where the night-sea began. The one thing she could detect was the center of her universe—Papa Sinatra’s place.

  Beyond her Gucci gloved hands gripping the steering wheel she could make out the blur of lights as they twinkled from that sinful little haven that all of Hollywood and the jetsetters of the world loved, hated and lost their souls in—that infamous yet irresistible little oyster known as Warm Leatherette.

  Calm as day, her car flew off the cliff.

  When She Was Rich

  *March 2009

  Pismo Beach, California

  Adam Crown stopped dead in his tracks. February looked the exact same as when he’d left her four years earlier.

  The thing was—she was supposed to be dead.

  Adam checked off in his mind—car crash, Twin Devil’s Cliff, Pismo Beach, 2005. He had even attended her funeral and met both her mom and her sister—well he hadn’t seen their faces due to the black veils they wore—but he’d met them at the funeral. And now, miracle of miracles, here was February Foster right where he’d left her that summer in 2005—sitting alone at the Gold Tooth Booth in the V.I.P. lounge of Papa Sinatra’s Warm Leatherette.

  Just as back then, the classic rock anthem that the club had been named after was playing in the background, the voice of Grace Jones slashing across the room with a trance-like delivery: “Waaarrrrrm Leatherette. Waaaaaarrrrrm Leatherette!”

  “February…are you real?”

  January Foster Sinatra Knuckle-Joy looked up as the handsome race car driver stood staring over her in stunned disbelief. Immediately, she remembered him from her twin sister’s funeral. She started to answer his question, but then to her shock—he broke out in tears. The vibes that were coming from his body formed an invisible sheath over January; her skin crowding with goose bumps and her throat going dry as some indescribable force clutched her and rooted her to the duality of Adam’s need and shock.

  He said with total honesty, “I loved you. When you died, I vowed never to return to this place—not just Warm Leatherette, but California period. I married Bliss Carrington and we moved away to Australia. I told myself I could force my heart to love Bliss—for the sake of my parents and everything—but it hasn’t worked, February. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

  “I’m not February.”

  Adam fell silent, his gaze sharpening around the contours of her lush mahogany-brown face.

  “My name is January—I’m February’s twin sister. You met me at her funeral, but I kept my face covered because I didn’t want to upset people. Please—have a seat.”

  It suddenly all made sense, but just the same, it was all too much for Adam. He sank into the shark-skinned chair and numbly began picking out the tiny things about January that were different from February. Chief was the confidence that swirled in her molasses brown eyes like fire and Christmas bells, and as well, she had a flawless Cosmo girl accent.

  January was a stronger being.

  “I suppose you’ll want to be reunited with Papa Sinatra,” she continued, blithely sipping champagne. “I’m his widow.”

  “Papa Sinatra remarried? He was ninety-years old when I left.”

  “Yes, and he was very dear to me. Unfortunately, it only lasted six months. His children hate the ground I walk on. But I’m the owner of Warm Leatherette now. He left it all to me.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not following how you got here.”

  “It’s very simple. I came to Pismo Beach wanting to see the cliff that took my sister away from me. February was more than just a sister—she was the other half of me; my clone from birth; my heart. I had to come here to make peace with it all. And that’s how I met Papa Sinatra. Apparently, he’d never been able to bed February. But I was different—angry and ful
l of emptiness. I needed to be healed, and being so old, Papa had the wisdom to do it.”

  “How did he die?”

  “On top of me.”

  Adam found himself drowning in the warmth of January’s sensuous root beer brown eyes. By accident he said, “You’re still…the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “Thanks. But I’m not her. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Adam—Adam Cooper Crown—and even though you’re not her, you still haunt me on her behalf. It’s awful.”

  “I apologize, Adam. I can imagine what a freakish moment this is for you; to see your true love alive and well—but still nothing more than a hallucination; a cruel trick.”

  “How can it be a trick? Who would be playing it?”

  “Life—life is the one playing it. That’s what love is anyway; one of life’s card tricks that always turns out not to be true.”

  Adam disagreed, but he was so into her, hanging on her every word. Behind her cool dark elegance was enormous pain, and behind that—fire—flickering with a sensuously fascinating rhythm that almost seemed dangerous.

  “Do you remember my sister’s funeral, Adam—the reason we had to have a closed casket?”

  With agony, he did remember.

  “Do you think that was fair of life? Ha?”

  “It was awful—what happened to February’s face.”

  “…life is such a…a draining experience.”

  Draped in a flowing Siberian Mistress Parka and seven hundred dollar perfume, January left out the fact that she’d been nothing more than a recently fired receptionist when she’d first arrived in Pismo Beach. In fact, she was dead broke and immediately qualified for welfare and food stamps. Her speech back then had been more “working class” than February’s (though she was one to switch from street lingo to high rise socialite effortlessly), and just like February she’d started out at Warm Leatherette by dancing and disrobing on tables. The tips were outrageous (sometimes $300 per celebrity), and just by stripping for tips, she’d cleared five thousand dollars a week. But unlike February—January had gone a little farther than stripping.

  “Just so much…hard work,” January said with tears. And behind the tears was the memory of the closed casket at February’s funeral—the fact that her sister’s body had been pulled from the ocean headless, the skull and legs eaten off by sharks. Immediately, she blinked the tears into dryness.

  Adam nodded, “I feel you.”

  January’s eyes then swept over the wedding band on his finger. The power of what he felt for February had haunted him and dragged him back to America; back to Pismo Beach; back to Warm Leatherette—but the reality of what had taken him away in the first was still just that—a reality.

  “I see you’ve returned to America still married.”

  “Yes. And I see you still wear Papa Sinatra’s ring. That’s wonderful when the widow…”

  “Oh no, I’ve remarried since Papa died. My new husband is Buck Knuckle-Joy—the famous boxer.”

  Adam let that sink in for a moment.

  “I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”

  “No, my brother—you wouldn’t.”

  On that note, she began to stand up from the Gold Tooth Booth, but couldn’t quite do it in one movement. Adam got up to help her, his hands gently supporting and lifting her—and that’s when it happened.

  The chandelier tinkled by a bloodcurdling scream.

  Security filled the room, immediately, but their speed was all for naught. Yet another patron from the old days had wandered in and been shocked to see February back alive, they figured. Only it wasn’t a patron from the old days, it was Adam’s mother.

  January locked eyes with the immaculately dressed black woman who had screamed; completely dismayed as to why the woman was staring at her with such naked hatred. Then Adam looked up and things became clearer. He said, “Mother Dear.”

  Queenie Crown couldn’t acknowledge her son, however. Her eyes were riveted to January, her face contorted with confusion. The bones in her body trembling.

  “Mother Dear, it’s not February. It’s…”

  With a ferocious scowl that she just couldn’t suppress, Queenie Crown hissed, “I implore you not to touch that woman, Adam! Didn’t I raise you not to pick up trash?”

  January cut her eyes at Queenie. She would have let it go at an eye roll, but the society matron’s gaze became more than just a stare—it became a threat, a dare, a human laser beam filled with pure, unadulterated hate. If looks could kill, January would have been double-fried. But by the same token, January decided to go ahead and give ‘Mother Dear’ something to be mad about.

  She turned towards Adam and grabbed him!

  Hungrily, feverishly—right in front of Queenie Crown—January planted a kiss across Adam’s mouth; and the harder and longer she pressed it; the more passionately he kissed her back. And before they knew it, they were lost in it. Their arms encircling the shoulders of the other, their eyes tightly shut as their tongues swam deeper and deeper until the dreams traveling between them were so spiritual that they couldn’t get much deeper—or ever get back.

  The Warm Leatherette

  “Oh god…I feel it!”

  Debbie Dallas finally did it. She shut out the small town Texas girl shyness and lost her amazing bikini-clad body to the pulsating vibes of an electro-house stripper’s sex beat.

  Sensuously, the blue eyed blond twirled her hips and buttocks, tossing her hair like a goddess as she sexily removed her top.

  The men in what was dubbed the “The Clinton Library” cheered and clapped Debbie on, some of them popping champagne bottles as a smiling January Knuckle-Joy watched the proceedings via video monitor from the shadows of her moon-roofed executive suite penthouse. The video monitors weren’t just pre-2005 cache, January had recently had them all switched to high definition. Autonomously, she flicked her monitor camera from showroom to indoor pool disco to restaurant to women’s massage parlor to the seashore and back again to the west gates.

  “Sky beams,” January said into her blue-tooth. And like magic, the club’s Sky Beams shot up from the back of the building and reached into the heavens like fluorescent klieg-glowing skyscrapers. A hot California night was unfolding and everybody who was anybody knew exactly where to party. The sky beams would be their beckoning guide.

  “Open sesame” January cooed into the blue-tooth, and the giant west gates that admitted people to the dance club entrance of the spa resort opened at the command of her voice.

  Pairs of luxury car headlights snaked down January’s private stretch of coastline, Sinatra Drive, but as well, she could see from her penthouse windows that the ocean was moody that night. Thinking of her dead sister she whispered, “There’s nothing worse than the ocean having mood swings. It means that something major is about to happen; and good or bad, it could go either way. The sea is like a woman—unpredictable.”

  ~*~

  Beautiful but chilly-eyed soul singer Dao-Ming took a deep breath and watched as two men wearing German police officer costumes opened the heavy double doors to the Munich Machine Basement. Once again, thoughts of suicide filled the sullen Chinese girl’s mind—but she resolved; the show must go on. Enchantingly dressed in a see-through sheath of Siberian spider silk, Dao-Ming’s soulful voice rose out her tiny porcelain white neck as she welcomed that night’s “orgy-room” participants with the sexily sung refrain: “Where life begins….where life begins…on top of me…on top of me.”

  Sensual energy flooded the Berlin-styled basement corridor immediately. A sixty-year old woman with the face and body of a forty year-old untied her bathrobe and lay on a cushy love sofa just as a younger guy randomly walking by decided that she looked sexy and that he wanted some pussy. “Cum…cum,” Dao-Ming sang with languidly sad eyes. Two men who were married to women during their regular hours, embraced and dove their tongues in one another’s mouths; an innocent-looking pretty black c
ollege girl standing in front of the wet bar sank to her knees and devoured an older Russian diplomat’s penis, her glove-like mouth suctioning as hard, hot and wet as the tightest vagina.

  And then in the midst of it all, there was Buck Knuckle-Joy; the famous heavyweight boxer and husband of January—his eyes possessing Dao-Ming from the back of the room as though he were some Mandingo warrior guarding an ancient mask.

  January was his wife and glamorous tabloid-page conquest, his link to his own cultural identity, but Dao-Ming was his real true fire and desire.

  Stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss; the secret love they made each afternoon in her bungalow was more than just seductively forbidden. It was scorching, poetic and heart felt. And as she stood on stage with tears tripping over her bottom lid—that’s what Buck Knuckle-Joy believed her sadness to be all about—the joy and pain of loving a married man. But that wasn’t…what her tears were about.

  ~*~

  Queenie Crown’s arthritis was killing her. She had refused to stay at the Warm Leatherette resort and telephoned her daughter-in-law from the plush back seat of a limousine.

  “Mother Crown?”

  “Bliss…I need you to listen carefully.”

  “Oh dear, it sounds grave,” Bliss intoned with a charming Australian accent.

  “It is grave. Your marriage is in trouble, big trouble. You never knew the story behind that rotten colored snatch, February Foster. The one you asked to be a bridesmaid several years ago…but I’m going to tell you alllll about it.”

  Bliss Carrington Crown listened, intently, but she was hardly a pushover at this point. As a teenager, the tall “kind-of-pretty-on-her-good-days” blonde had met the Crown family whenever they vacationed in Sydney, her mother Estonia serving as a maid and nanny for the Crown children, Adam, Cynthia and Winston.