“Come in,” I said, sitting up. I was beyond surprised when Michelangelo entered my dressing room. For some reason, I felt exposed, and I tugged on the hem of my dress, covering my knees as if they were intimate body parts. He was so hot-looking, my nipples went rigid, and I self-consciously folded my arms across my chest to conceal them.
“Sorry to bother you, Cori. I know your private dressing room is off limits to us, but I’m kind of desperate and was hoping you could help me out. I tried to speak to Josh, but he’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“I bet he is,” I replied. “What’s the problem besides all the chaos out there?”
“The producers are sending our moms back to the hotel, but with everything that’s happened, my mother doesn’t feel safe being in the room next to Ralphie’s foster mother. Would you ask someone from management to please switch her to a different room on another floor?”
“Sure. I’ll have my assistant make the arrangements,” I volunteered. I pointed to my desk. “Write your mother’s room number and other pertinent information on the notepad on my desk. I’ll make sure she gets a different room.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it, Cori.”
He strode over to my desk and my eyes followed him, lingering on his broad back and then sliding down to his ass. As he bent his torso to write the information, I found myself wondering what he looked like beneath his clothes. Then I grimaced, instantly ashamed of myself for lusting after a contestant. I had a fine-ass husband at home—a sports icon—who possessed a gorgeous, athletic body, and had recently signed a multimillion-dollar contract, ensuring that we’d continue living our luxurious lifestyle for another ten years. There was absolutely no reason for me to yearn for an amateur cook who was trying to win meager prize money in order to jumpstart a career that most likely would never get off the ground.
But then again, with Michelangelo’s looks, I could see a career for him as a returning guest-chef or judge on any of the numerous cooking shows that dominated national TV.
Not wanting him to catch me gawking at his muscular physique, I quickly averted my gaze when he finished writing on the notepad and turned to face me.
“Ralphie’s mom was doing the most. I wonder what that was about.” Michelangelo made a face, which made him look adorably handsome.
“I have no idea what was going on with her, but we lost an entire day of filming due to her shenanigans,” I said, feeling suddenly world-weary as I envisioned all the extra time I would have to devote to the show instead of being home trying to fix my marriage. My facial expression must have betrayed my emotional exhaustion because Michelangelo gazed at me with concern in his eyes.
“Is everything okay, Cori?”
I plastered on a smile and nodded.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded again, but this time my bottom lip trembled the way it tended to do whenever I tried to fight back tears. For some odd reason, the concern that was evident in Michelangelo’s voice was bringing out weird emotions in me. I couldn’t remember the last time Maverick had genuinely inquired about my well-being. It made me sad that another man was more concerned than my own husband.
Thinking about the condition of my marriage was heartbreaking. Sure, Grandma Eula Mae had always said that a woman should look the other way when her man’s catting around with a whore, but she’d never said that the wife should get involved and personally manage her husband’s hookups.
Naively, I’d thought that being open-minded about my husband’s activities outside our marriage would strengthen our relationship. But I was losing him, anyway. His heart simply wasn’t in it anymore, and I could feel his love slipping away.
I tried to contain my emotions, but a strangled cry escaped my lips. Coming to my aid, Michelangelo traversed the room swiftly, reaching me in only three strides. He sat down next to me. “What’s wrong, Cori?” he asked worriedly.
I had been trying to be strong for so long, it had only been a matter of time before my emotions overwhelmed me. I burst into tears and Michelangelo gathered me inside his strong arms. With my face buried against his chest, I allowed myself to have a long overdue cry. As I sobbed, he patted my back, caressed my hair, and murmured consolingly.
I hadn’t realized how utterly lonely I was—how badly I craved affection until I looked up at his face and saw unmistakable desire burning in his eyes. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to mine, kissing me gently…cautiously, as if he expected to be pushed away. The sensible part of my brain was waving a red flag and screaming for me to pull away, to slap his face, and curse him out for taking such liberties with me.
But instead of upholding my dignity, I looped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Moaning, I parted my lips invitingly. He cupped my face as our tongues danced together. His lips then moved to my neck, making a path of kisses down to my chest, causing me to tremble.
It was a moment of madness where body ruled over mind. My heart knocked so loudly in my chest, I was mortified by the sound that seemed to announce how deprived I’d been of genuine affection.
I’d never stepped outside my marriage before. Not ever! Everything in me screamed for me to put a stop to this madness. But Michelangelo’s kiss was so achingly sweet, I clung to him, drinking in the taste of him, and urgently kissing him back.
His hands roamed over my body, and the warmth of his touch caused me to squirm and moan softly.
Suddenly, the doorknob made a clinking sound, and I realized I hadn’t locked it. Panic seized me. Michelangelo and I abruptly pulled away from each other as the door opened to a crack. I was incensed that someone had entered my dressing room without my express permission.
Self-consciously, I smoothed out the front of my rumpled dress and was completely stunned to discover that my panties had been lowered. They were hanging below my knees. How the fuck had that happened? I glowered at Michelangelo, close to slapping the shit out of him.
In the split-seconds before the door opened fully, I desperately tried to pull up my panties, but I wasn’t quick enough.
Standing in the doorway with a hand over his mouth and his eyes bulging in astonishment was Ralphie.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking? What the fuck do you want?” I yelled angrily as I yanked my panties over my hips. I couldn’t believe that I—someone who’d always been super vigilant about preserving my good image—had been caught with my fucking panties down. I could have strangled that goddamn Ralphie for barging in on me.
Michelangelo sprang to his feet. Adjusting his clothing, he hurried toward the door. “I’ll give you your privacy, Cori. I, uh, I’ll talk to you later.”
I didn’t even bother to respond to Michelangelo. I wanted to stab him in the eyeballs repeatedly for causing the horrible dilemma I was in. If the sexy, fucking bastard hadn’t used his magical fingers on me to stroke my flesh and slide my panties down, I wouldn’t be in such a God-awful position.
“I…I…I’m sorry, Cori. But I need your help,” Ralphie stammered. “They’re tryna throw my mama off the show, and I wondered if you could put in a good word and do something to help her.”
Not even God could save his disgraceful mother. But needing Ralphie’s loyalty and silence, I decided to string him along.
“It won’t be easy to get any sympathy for her after that stunt she pulled on set with cameras rolling. It was obscene.”
“She had a slipup, but it wasn’t her fault. One of the other moms—Angus’s mother—went out of her way to make my mom feel like an outcast. She turned her nose up at her and treated her like dirt. My mom is a super-nice person when you get to know her. But she was feeling insecure. That’s why she started drinking backstage. She needed liquid courage to get through the taping.”
Angus’s mom had a fucking nerve turning her Nazi nose up at any damn body. But fuck that bitch and Trenell Carter, I had my own issues t
o deal with. I had to make sure that Ralphie didn’t spread any malicious gossip about the uncompromising position he’d caught me in.
“Listen, Ralphie. I’m going to do everything I can to keep your mom on the show, but you have to promise me that you won’t breathe a word about what you observed in here.”
Ralphie frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. When I came in here, you were taking a nap, and I apologize for disturbing you, Cori.”
Giving me that toothy smile that I’d grown to like so much, Ralphie made it a point to lock my door from the inside before exiting my dressing room.
Thank God I could count on Ralphie to keep my secret safe, at least for now. He wasn’t going to be a happy camper for long. I’d have to figure out a way to keep his mouth shut after his foster mother was sent packing.
CHAPTER 16
Josh made a last-minute decision to replace the contestants’ mothers with celebrities, and then he cancelled filming for the rest of the day. After the terrible embarrassment of getting caught with my panties down, I couldn’t wait to get out of the studio.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Someone was beating on my dressing room door like a war drum. The sound was loud and authoritative, jolting me out of my desk chair. The pounding matched the throbbing in my chest as my heart beat uncontrollably. What now?
I unlocked the door and wasn’t surprised to find Josh standing there looking evil as hell.
“Ralphie has to go. There’ll be no negotiating, Cori. After that fiasco with his foster mother, I want him gone!”
Too beaten down to protest, I simply held up my hands in surrender. Had Ralphie not caught me in a compromising position, I would have continued to fight for him to stay. But under the circumstances, I was also eager for him to leave the show.
“I’m glad you finally see things my way. If you’d listened to me sooner, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“You’re right,” I conceded. With no fight left, I closed the door after Josh left and then slumped down into the couch.
Poor Ralphie. He had a real chance of winning the prize, but his foster mom had blown it for him.
Once a contestant had been targeted, the judges were instructed to critique their food unfavorably no matter the complexity of their technique or how scrumptious the dish turned out to be. Although it saddened me that Ralphie would be treated unfairly, I was also a bit relieved that I wouldn’t have to see him again after tomorrow. He was a reminder of my shameful behavior with Michelangelo.
How I had allowed myself to fall for that pretty boy’s charm was beyond me. Michelangelo was wonderful eye candy, but he didn’t have shit on my husband.
Negative thoughts began to flit around in my head. Suppose Ralphie became so upset about being eliminated that he wanted to get even with me? Suppose he decided to run his mouth about what he’d seen? No, he wouldn’t do that…not after all I’d done for him. Or would he? I pushed the frightening possibilities out of my mind.
Letting out a sigh, I wearily ran a hand through my hair before clicking off the light. I couldn’t get home soon enough.
After such an abdominally bad day, I wanted nothing more than to watch a movie and cuddle with my hubby. But Maverick was still upset with me for moving forward with the surrogate pregnancy.
I wondered what Grandma Eula Mae would advise me to do if she were still among the living. She believed that the combination of pussy, brains, and female cunning could reduce the strongest man to a blithering idiot. She’d probably be ashamed of the way I was squandering my power.
I thought about what she’d said about the value of pussy on one of her old tapes:
If more women realized they had a goldmine between their legs, they wouldn’t give the goods away. I don’t care if a gal has the face of a moose, or if she’s knock-kneed, pigeon-toed, or slue-footed… if she knows the value of her pussy, she can make the meanest, most hardened criminal shed tears. You see, physical attractiveness is well and good if your goal is to get noticed, but in order to rein a man in, a woman needs more than a pretty face. There ain’t a bitch on earth that can keep a man if she has piss-poor bedroom skills.
I’ll give you an example. I once had a gal who went by the name of Sophronia. She was built like a brick shithouse and had the beautiful face of an angel. After applying her makeup, she used to draw a beauty mark just north of her mouth. Now, Sophronia was already the number one gal at my establishment, but that facial polka dot made her stand out even more from the rest of the girls. Other gals tried to copy her, hoping that a mole on their faces would help them attract more customers. But it was called a “beauty mark” for a reason, and it looked ridiculous on regular-looking gals.
I’m telling you, Sophronia had the men lined up waiting to get in the sack with her, and no amount of persuading could make her regulars try out any of my other gals. While waiting for Sophronia, the gentlemen callers would spend a few dollars to converse and drink with the other whores, but they were saving the big bucks to spend on Sophronia. On more occasions that I care to recall, a big spender left my premises with a wad of cash untouched and secured inside his pocket after growing tired of waiting for Sophronia.
Seeing money walk out the door was frustrating to me and my whores.
One night, Vincenzo Drucci, a local mobster known as Big Vinnie, stopped by, looking to have a good time with some sporting girls. He brought in a group of his Italian cronies and other well-to-do local men, such as bankers, law enforcement officials, lawyers, merchants, politicians, and such. Those men were corrupt in one way or another, and were in Drucci’s pocket, so to speak.
My place was packed to the rafters that night and all the gals were turning tricks, regardless of any physical deficiency they may have possessed. Everybody was making money including a one-legged gal who called herself Deluxe. Ha-ha, that name tickled the hell out of me.
There was this gal named Ida—tall and gangly, and with an unattractive, big gap in her front teeth. I used to tease her and say that I could park my Coupe de Ville in that big space between her teeth. Ida didn’t have much in the looks department, and she usually ended up with the bottom-of-the-barrel customers—the worst kinds of cheapskates. But that night, she lucked up and got herself chosen by a Jewish fella, Milton Wallach. Mr. Wallach owned a mom-and-pop corner store, but had recently been able to parlay his profits into the opening of a big ol’ supermarket that was well-lit, with shiny tile flooring, handy shopping carts, self-serve aisles, and counters staffed by checkout girls.
It was the late 1940s, and at that point in time, only affluent whites were welcome to shop in those flashy new grocery stores. I was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee, and I’d personally experienced the horrors of Jim Crow. The constant lynchings and cruelty to coloreds is what sent me up North in the first place. But let me tell you something, crackers up North are just as prejudiced as the rednecks down South. Only difference is that they’re a little more polite about their bigoted ways.
In Philadelphia during the forties, Negroes weren’t getting lynched but we had to abide by an unwritten law that upheld segregation. We better not had taken our black behinds from the colored side of town and tried to mingle with crackers on their side of the tracks. We weren’t welcome in their neighborhoods unless we came to cook, clean, or do some kind of a service for them. Meanwhile, whitey was free to venture into our areas whenever he got good and damn ready. Hell, back then, the Jews and Italians owned all the corner stores in the colored neighborhoods. The mail carrier was white, the ice delivery man was white, the insurance man was white, the landlord was white, the milkman was white…everybody who earned a living off us was white. And those white men strutted into our neighborhoods and into our homes without the least bit of fear.
But I digress.
That gal, Ida with that big ol’ gap in her teeth had legs as skinny as twigs, and they were crooked to boot. I heard she had ricke
ts as a child, poor thing. She was skinny like Olive Oyl and built straight up and down with a flat chest, like a boy’s. Ida was one homely whore. And her hair! Whoo, my Lord. It was a shame the way she would sweat out her nappy hair as soon as she finished with her first customer. That knotty-headed wench cost me an arm and a leg trying to keep her hair looking presentable. The beautician I paid to do the gals’ hair always complained when Ida sat in the chair. She said Ida’s hair was so coarse that even after applying globs of hair pomade and pulling a scorching-hot pressing comb through her naps, Ida’s hair still looked dry and brittle and would hardly hold a curl.
Yet, with all those flaws, Ida managed to capture the heart of Mr. Wallach. All the gals were shocked. Then rumors started. My gals said that Ida had used an unnatural method to snag that rich Jewish man. But you can’t believe the word of a bunch of jealous whores, now can you? Anyhoo, rumor had it that Mr. Wallach had a teeny-tiny, little peter about the size of my baby finger…some said it was smaller. They said he couldn’t get any friction going inside the loose lining of Ida’s big, overused pussy, and so Ida, being a resourceful ho, suggested that he fuck her in the mouth instead of her pussy.
Now, there wasn’t anything new or unusual about mouth-fucking. All my gals gave head. Shit, most of my clientele came to my place for the sole purpose of getting a professional blowjob since their prissy wives either flat-out refused to blow them or did a piss-poor job of it when they made a feeble attempt.
On the subject of fellatio, I have to say that I profited very well off of certain kinds of blowjobs. I figured it only made sense to charge my customers twenty extra dollars to face-fuck the gals who were blessed with big, blubbery lips. The feeling of two fluffy pillows cushioned around their little pink peckers was something they could never get from those thin-lipped hussies they were married to.
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