This whole place—Bliss had thought to herself in the garden using her writer’s mind—is just an intersection for dreams and temptation. It’s a sex nest; a sinner’s church. And then when she’d returned to her bungalow and decided to seduce Adam by giving him a blow job, she’d felt the ambiance of January’s passion drowning hers out. It was an aura that seemed to be thick in the room—dominating like humidity yet just as invisible. It clouded Adam’s eyes as naked Bliss straddled him on the bed, her creamy white breasts jiggling as she rode up and down on his erection, not even her best moves seeming to shake him from his boredom.
“Come on, fuck me,” Bliss had called, but Adam had said, “No, you stay on top. I’m tired.”
Room service had delivered an “after-sex” cart containing champagne and saucers of cherry glazed pastrami that was shaped like vagina ruffles and stuffed inside slit Ethiopian Enjera bread.
“The food here is like magic,” Adam had said while wolfing it down, dreamily. And with the spark dancing in his eyes for some obvious distant secret love—Bliss’s heart had crumpled. She wished they’d never come to Warm Leatherette. And with that wish also came the realization that she didn’t want a divorce as she’d previously believed. She realized that although she lacked chemistry with Adam and hadn’t felt especially guilty about all the fucking around she’d done behind his back—he still was hers, legally—for richer or for poorer; for better or for worse; in sickness and in health—her man; hers.
Now she imagined Mother Crown’s face in the dark. The stylish older woman was imploring her to fight back. She understood now what Mother Crown had meant by calling the woman and her twin sister a “colored snatch”—they were cavities—lower class “skeezers” who had the nerve to protest their social station and try to steal what rightfully belonged to more distinguished and cultured women like herself and Mother Crown.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” Adam suddenly mumbled in his sleep. Bliss wanted to slap him, but then, he turned his body away from his sleepless wife.
“You damn dirty low class ghetto bitch,” Bliss Carrington Crown whispered in the dark. Then she got up and began packing her husband’s suitcase for the flight to New York.
~*~
Her neck, her back—January couldn’t stop the fire.
Sex…is an art form, Papa Sinatra had taught her. “To be taken with the utmost care and seriousness,” he had intoned. “But even more than that—abandon—natural, unpretentious, outright animalistic abandon. After that there is spirituality, passion, rage, need and affection. I love you, my wife, January. I love your salty knotted hair, there’s none softer anywhere. And I worship at this sweet little black cacao—this forgiving little open wound. Pussy is the ultimate warm leatherette, January. Pussy, and pussy alone, is what makes the world go ‘round. And of all the women I’ve ever possessed—your pussy is the best.”
Her neck, her back—January no longer had to strip for a living, but the sensuality of simulated sexual movement always allowed her to escape her pain.
Watching the monitor as though she were hypnotized, she swayed her toned, luscious body before the both of them—Adam on one side of the room in a velvet King’s chair and Bliss on the other side of the room in a velvet Queen’s chair. “For goodness ‘sakes,” murmured Bliss with a pained, worried expression as January sexily undid the sash to her lace-teddy widow’s eye robe and let it slink down the contours of her body.
“Fuck me…not your wife,” sang a chorus of high-voiced nymphs in the background. “Fuck me…not your wife.”
But January couldn’t take her eyes off the monitor.
The little steel ball in the middle of Lorna Sinatra’s pink pierced tongue was driving Buckle Knuckle-joy wild as she artfully flicked it like a snake’s tongue. Her wet mouth swooping down and devouring Buck’s massive black cock; sucking and massaging his hardness until all he could do was clutch her by the back of the head and mash her face even closer.
“Fuck her in the face!” Adam’s Australian wife suddenly moaned from the Queen’s chair as she opened her own legs and began fingering the sweet pinkish-white groove in between them. “Ooh yes! Put some black in this crack!”
January felt feverish, as though she was drunk. She tried to lift the side of her head from off her shoulder, but then she heard her dead sister February’s voice drifting into the room as it joined with the chorus of singing nymphs. February was calling, “Touch us…”
“Touch him,” January sang—“Touch his fur.”
“Tarantula’s velvet,” Adam announced.
And, indeed, fastened against January Knuckle-Joy’s eyelids was a pair of $12,000 fake eyelashes made of real mink—her favorite gift from Papa Sinatra. They were wing-like apparitions that veiled the sad look of loneliness and heartbreak that stormed in her eyes.
“I need love—real love.”
“Tarantula’s velvet,” Adam said once more. And suddenly, January was out of the dream…waking…her mink-lidded gaze trance-like as she watched the beautiful sex on the monitor.
The young black guy in Bungalow 7 was voraciously fucking a gorgeous but virginal looking young Jamaican girl. Bucking, lunging and banging as though he hadn’t had pussy in years. It made January touch the wetness between her legs with one hand while with her arm as she wiped sweat from her burning brow.
“Goat from the mountain!” the black Island beauty cried in ecstasy, her insatiably accented sex moans driving January to reach for wild movements; to dance faster and faster.
“Ram…goat…Ram…goat…Ram…goat…Goat from the mountain!”
Her neck, her back—Ooh—January swayed her hips, feverishly flicking at the hard thumb-like nipples of her breasts and closing her eyes as she held her mouth open and hang her head backwards and then sideways against her shoulders and then all around.
The hot black guy’s body was a shining wet love machine, his humping deep and athletically artful. January cooed with the Jamaican girl, wishing it was her in place of the girl and Adam Crown in place of the guy. January danced as passionately as she could. The fever wouldn’t stop; ecstasy possessed her—and as she danced around with her face pointing up to the ceiling; her mouth open and her eyes shut with delirium—she didn’t see her husband enter the bedroom or hear him calling her.
She didn’t see the confusion on Buck’s face turn to rage as he witnessed her touching her naked brown body and calling out, “Adam…Oh, Adam! ADAM CROWN!”
~*~
Noble Sinatra told his secretary to buzz Tiger in.
Tiger Holden was January’s confidante and personal secretary—an openly homosexual young black man who had grown up on the toughest streets in Chicago and had paid his way through Illinois State University by stripping in gay bars.
“What’s up Tiger?”
“January wanted me to deliver these to you by hand.”
“But I’ve got a meeting with her this afternoon.”
“Yeah, but she wanted you to be looking these over.”
The documents were labeled: “MARDI GRAS 2010.”
Noble pulled a solid gold stop watch from his trouser pocket. Flipping open the document, he said, “Well, well…nobody does Mardi Gras quite like Warm Leatherette.”
“That’s right,” Tiger nodded. “And my girl Jan wants it to be especially killer next year. All of us in administration have got to pull out all the stops, Noble. That is…if you’re still part of the team next year.”
Noble ignored the crack about his disloyalty to January. He was a Sinatra first and he always would be. That smarmy little cum-catcher had no business ruling more than half the Sinatra family empire.
“I was thinking maybe we could hire Grace Jones herself to do a concert.”
Noble shook his head. “She won’t be available. Papa Sinatra tried for years getting her to come here, but she never has.”
“Well then I’ll put out some feelers for Ciara or Shakira. Hell, if I can get you to sign o
ff on a million dollar pay out for a two hour performance—I might even be able to get Beyonce to do it.”
“No way I’d pay a million bucks. We don’t need to. We’re the hottest adult spa outside the Mediterranean.”
“True, the rich and powerful came all the way from Rio, New Orleans and South Africa for January’s last Mardi Gras festival. But next year…has got to be killer, Noble.”
Staring at the secret photo that he kept of Dao Ming in his stop watch, Noble Sinatra chuckled wryly.
He said, “A killer Mardi Gras at Warm Leatherette? Oh…I’m sure it will be, Tiger. I’m sure it will be.”
~*~
Buck Knuckle-Joy wasn’t having it. He raced to the nightstand beside one of the bedroom service couches and lifted a pitcher of ice water.
In one athletic swoop, he dashed over to where his dancing wife was twirling along the penthouse ocean view—stopping on a dime like a quarterback about to hurtle a football. He prided Dao Ming’s silky flowing black all-natural tresses and couldn’t wait to see his wife’s hair weave drenched and deflated. “Wake the fuck up!” he shouted as he doused her with the pitcher of ice water. But as January screamed in shock and came shaking and freezing back to reality, his problems were only just beginning.
January dashed to the closet, grabbed a terrycloth robe and began cursing him like a sailor for splashing her.
Buck watched in disappointment as her slick-downed hair weave didn’t recede from its luster, but was even sexier wet. He shouted, “You were dancing around sleep walking and finger-fucking yourself to some fantasy about another nigga—that Adam Crown motherfucker in bungalow 10—so how you going to act like I’m wrong for splashing your nappy ass?”
“Why is it that every time we get in an argument you have to bring my hair into it, Buck?”
Whether rocking a weave or flouncing her natural hair in a fluffy bush, January was such a devastatingly beautiful woman that he couldn’t answer her. He was still pissed off about the fact that he’d just sent off a million dollars to the blackmailer.
Fully expecting to receive that pay-off, January teased, “What’s eating you—ha?”
“Nothing is eating me. It’s just that—I love you, girl. You’re supposed to be my woman, but you’re fucking some other nigga.”
“You love me, Buck?” January let it go. She said, “I haven’t been unfaithful to you, Buck.”
“Why you masturbating and dancing to some punk ass race car driver then?”
“Dreams are God, Buck. They’re beyond our control.”
“Didn’t I take you to the BET Awards and the Espy Awards? Don’t I fuck you good enough?”
“I’m a woman, buck—I need more than just a fucking.”
“I love you, girl. Come here.”
“You don’t love me, Buck.” He reached for January and began trying to kiss her. She whined, “Stop it—let me go.”
But he wouldn’t stop. He forced his tongue in her mouth and groped the slopes of her soft shapely body until he had her under his power and was lowering her to the floor.
“Ooh, Buck—I said—I said....oh”
His penis entered her and his gallop was horse-like. Suddenly, January was getting exactly what the Jamaican girl in Bungalow 7 had been gotten and it felt good, but she wasn’t swayed.
Buck Knuckle-Joy was a player-player from the old school. He didn’t give a shit about January beyond her gorgeous face, her position among California’s jet set as “Queen Saloon Hostess” or her celebrated body. What he wanted was to have her in his stable and to keep her there. He considered Dao Ming to be his queen and his heart, but January and all the others were necessary on another level. Even if he got up the nerve to divorce January and marry Dao Ming, he was the kind of man who would fully expect January to still be one of his “bitches”. Women eased his insecurity.
“I said…you’re being too rough!”
With tenderness in his eyes, Buck rose up off his wife.
“You boxers don’t know your own strength,” January told him. “Your hands are registered weapons, Buck. Your type of playfulness can be scary, especially when you’re jealous. I don’t mind going for a little roll in the hay with you—but not when you’re mad.”
“Well I wouldn’t be mad if you hadn’t given me a reason.”
January started to bring up the way he hopped around Warm Leatherette like a kid in a candy store, gleefully fucking her step-granddaughter Lorna and giving his heart and soul to the depressed Chinese beauty from Oregon, but she stopped herself.
“I’m never going to let you go,” Buck told her.
“I’m not a possession, Buck.”
“Yes, you are a possession—and I’m never going to let you go.”
The doorbell rang. January’s maid, a pretty young white girl named Alison, pressed the intercom and said, “Tiger Holden’s here to see you, Ms. Knuckle-Joy.”
Buck shouted at the ceiling speaker, “That’s Mrs.—not Miss!”
January called to the ceiling, “Send him in, Alison.”
“Great,” Buck complained as he threw his fists in the air. “Two black men get more attention from my wife than I do in one day. And this one’s a little boy-pussy queer.”
Buck couldn’t stand Tiger Holden or gay people in general. He’d accepted the tall handsome lawyer’s brother-sister relationship with his wife due to January being so protective and reliant on him. But it always bothered Buck that the dude never acted feminine or spoke with a lisp like other gays in the spa. Sometimes, Buck doubted that Tiger was really gay, but he couldn’t figure out what kind of man would go around broadcasting it if it wasn’t true.
“Hey Jan, hey Buck,” Tiger called as he entered the bedroom double doors and descended from the foyer fireplace landing and down the circular designed staircase into the bedroom cavern. Immediately, Tiger noticed January’s hair. “You’re soaking wet, Jan.”
“Ignore that.”
Buck stood in front of the bedroom’s wall-sized second fire place while January stood with her back to the sky-view windows showcasing the Pacific Ocean. She poured a round of expensive mountain water for them all, unfortunately passing Tiger his glass first, which almost provoked Buck to slap the glass out of the man’s hand. Luckily, he contained himself. Still jealous about Adam Crown and always insecure about Tiger, Buck glared at his wife.
In secret code Tiger said, “The stork delivered today.”
It meant that the million dollars had arrived. January and Tiger couldn’t resist sharing a secret giggle about it.
“What are you and this faggot giggling about now?” Buck barked.
“What did you call me?” Tiger walked over and pushed Buck backwards. “I’ll show you who’s a faggot!”
January jumped in between the lawyer and the boxer, her head ducking as she knew she had to save Tiger’s life. She screamed out, “Buck, can you please go to the gym or fly to Vegas for lunch or do something? I have a resort to run!”
“Do you love me!?” the boxer demanded in a blur of jealous rage. “Are you my woman, does the ring mean anything!?”
“Yes!” January relented. “Now look, honey, just…go cool off.”
Flustered, the boxing champion stormed out.
Tiger straightened his tie and patted down his Armani suit. He liked looking GQ clean, but he was always ready to throw down with homophobes if he had to.
“Okay, Tiger. Tell me what’s up.”
“I briefed Noble about Mardi Gras. He seemed okay. I get the feeling he’s with us on next year’s carnival, Jan.”
“I hope he’ll stay that way once I let the cat out of the bag at our meeting today. He’s the one Sinatra who deliberately stayed on so he could be a thorn in my side.”
“He’s never forgiven you for rejecting the Red Panty kit.”
January bit her bottom lip in agreement. She said, “The Red Panty Kit was his mother, Caprice’s, dream. But I’m just sorry, Tiger.
I couldn’t agree with her. I have the utmost respect for Caprice Sinatra’s feminist views. I share a lot of those views. But I couldn’t live with myself if I had invested Papa Sinatra’s name and money in the Red Panty Kit.”
“But that’s just it January. When Papa Sinatra was alive, he never stopped Noble from doing anything he wanted to do. If Noble believed in something and wanted it, Papa Sinatra invested in it—he put the whole company behind it if he had to.”
“I still say that I knew my husband better than anyone. I’m convinced that Papa would have drawn the line when it came to the Red Panty Kit. It’s such a hateful product against men. I think it should be outlawed. You and everyone else can disagree with me, but if Noble and Caprice really believed that the women of the world couldn’t survive without Red Panty Kit—then why didn’t they get Caprice’s hard line feminist groups to finance it? Why does he think it’s my job to back something I don’t believe in?”
“Noble was angry about losing the trial, Jan. Papa left you everything in his will and that document stood up in court. Red Panty Kit was just a ploy to make you lead Warm Leatherette down the wrong path.”
“I’m sure he’s not done trying.”
Tiger looked at his watch. “Okay, pretty lady—time for our meeting.”
~*~
Adam Crown’s nose was broken.
On the plane to New York, he and Bliss held napkins full of ice cubes against the center of his face—the both of them still shocked that Buck Knuckle-Joy had shown up just as they were getting into their limo to depart Warm Leatherette and had grabbed Adam from behind, turning him around and punching him square dead in the face.
“You want your faggot husband to stay alive?” the hulking Buck had asked the screaming Bliss. “Then you make sure he stays away from my goddamned wife!”
Then he had walked away.
But even as Adam was bent over and the boxing champion walking away, Bliss had known that socking Adam in the face had been the wrong move. Such violence only pushed men like Adam into modes of defiance and rebellion. Adam was anything but a wimp, and now, his manhood and pride had been challenged in front of his own wife. January, the woman he couldn’t stop dreaming about, would surely hear about it, and that wounded his pride even more. Just the fact that he hadn’t uttered a single word since their car had glided through the gates and down Sinatra Drive was enough to stop Bliss’s heart.
SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet Page 4