“Great. Then you won’t make a mess,” Kingston said, following up with a smile. He was ready to blast off a full load.
Nothing comes out of his pecker in that janitor’s closet. Nothing.
“When have I ever made a mess, hon . . . I mean, Kingston?” Correcting himself, Theodore twirled, then tap-danced back to Kingston, balancing the pie in his palm.
Kingston smiled, but his enormous lips did not part. His eyes did not depart from Theodore’s.
They were both perfectionists with problems. The military had trained Theodore to give and receive commands. Team sports made Kingston a standout and team leader of triple-doubles. Theodore was fighting a dishonorable discharge. Kingston was battling being honest about his identity.
Another call from Monet surfaced. Not prepared to give up his new lifestyle, Kingston had left her behind in Maryland, two months ago. Unwilling to admit that he loved the way Theodore loved on him, Kingston gazed into the windows of Theodore’s soul.
Holding the pie, Theodore knelt between Kingston’s legs. “What the fuck. I can’t get no peace, so you ain’t gonna get no peace with her. If we’re keeping it real, you done with pussy. Leave her ass in Columbus. She’ll be okay,” he said, smashing the pie on Kingston’s dick.
Kingston calmly corrected him. “It’s Columbia. And . . . don’t say a word.” Then he picked up the phone and answered, “Baby, let me call you ri—”
Monet interrupted, “All I want you to tell me is you’ve found a house for us. We miss you, Daddy.”
Leaning into Kingston’s lap, Theodore opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, wrapped his hand around Kingston’s lemony creamy shaft, and began stroking up and down in slow motion.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone. I’m coming to Atlanta, to help you find something,” Monet insisted.
Selecting and decorating a home each time they’d moved, his wife should’ve gotten her real estate license, instead of getting pregnant for him twelve years ago. Between stripper poles and human trafficking, there was no way Kingston was raising his daughters in the ATL.
Theodore buried his face in the filling, then alternated suctioning Kingston’s nuts into his mouth one at a time.
Rising from his knees, the boy races out of the janitor’s closet. Afraid to peep outside, Kingston closes the door. Crying, trembling, and sniffling, Kingston pulls up his pants, fastens his buckle, turns the lock, and starts counting to fifty. His grandmother taught him if you count to fifty before reacting, you’ll make a better decision.
Watching Theodore’s head go up and down, Kingston mouthed, “Stop it.”
The last thing he wanted was to give Monet a reason to pop up on him. Theodore’s head bobbed faster.
“Hold tight, baby. I’m close. Real close.” To cumming. “Listen, baby. Lilly is helping me narrow it down to two mansions. One in Smyrna and the other in Conyers. Then you can choose one or the other. I’ll FaceTime you tomorrow after church from both locations.”
Monet’s breathing became noticeably heavy with long pauses. Her voice softened. “I can retreat from the kitchen and FaceTime you now. I can use a naughty-girl tune-up.”
A text message popped up from Victoria: We’re ushering the early service tomorrow.
Inhaling deeply, Kingston quietly exhaled. “Not now. I’m at the gym. That’s why I missed your other calls,” he lied.
Kingston replied to Victoria’s text: Cool, gray or blue uniforms.
Monet’s voice escalated. “I know how the women in Atlanta are! I’m not losing my husband to a ‘do anything for a piece of change’ ho shaking her ass for a sponsor.”
Gray, Victoria replied.
Theodore stood, started jerking his arms and swinging his hips at the same time. He twirled, then twerked, making his ass cheeks greet each other. His face was covered with melted cream.
Silently Kingston laughed, motioning for Theodore to get back on his knees. “You right. I’d never fuck them hos, baby.” Kingston muted the call.
“Aw, shit!” Kingston yelled as Theodore’s lips slid along his shaft. He felt Theodore’s tongue slide, stop. Glide. Stop. Each time a chunk of pie was devoured. “You definitely know what the hell you’re doing, man. Where’d you learn that search-and-find”—Kingston yelped his next word—“technique?”
“Do you hear me, Kingston? I’m coming to Atlanta without your permission,” Monet retorted.
Theodore shook his head and wiggled his tongue.
Kingston was about to cum. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath. Exhaled. Thanks to the volume in Monet’s tone, he didn’t care that Theodore could overhear the conversation.
He told Theodore, “Don’t say a word.”
“You the one up in here screaming like a bitch. Not me,” Theodore replied.
When he gets to fifty, Kingston slowly opens the janitor’s closet door.
Is fifty the perfect age to come out? “Give me a minute. I’ma end this call in a sec and return the favor,” Kingston said, unmuting the call.
Kingston rubbed the crown of Theodore’s head, then told Monet, “Baby, ooh-whee. You need to bring it down an octave.”
What would his wife, parents, and church members think if Kingston confessed that he enjoyed the company of men?
Kingston wasn’t gay. No man had penetrated him, and no man ever would. Monet didn’t enjoy performing fellatio. Theodore was his first male experience in Atlanta. But not his only.
Theodore started sucking, pumping, and licking vigorously.
Kingston took a deep breath. “Ba-by. The, is, break, I, ma, call—”
“Kingston!” Monet yelled. “I’m getting three tickets today. I’m bringing the girls. We’ll be there tomorrow! I bet you heard that.”
Ending the connection, Kingston shouted, “Shit! Shit! Damn, man! You are a fucking headmaster.”
Kingston hadn’t cum that hard with his wife. The edginess of having Monet on the phone and Theodore on the mic turned Kingston on.
Theodore stood. Swallowed. “You’d best tell your babies’ mother to stay in Columbus, Co-lum-bia, wherever the hell she’s at, or she’s going to have to deal with me. I am not letting you go.”
He had that right. There was nothing to let go of. Kingston was not dating a man.
Langston Derby. That is the boy in the janitor’s closet. Where is he now? And how does he look?
CHAPTER 2
Victoria
“Shit.” Jesus, please take away the hot flashes or the insomnia. Praying for both might be too much. Victoria flapped the white down-feather comforter to create a breeze. Her internal inferno was on the rise.
Glancing at her longtime seventy-one-year-old lover, William Copeland, who was lying beside her snoring, she retrieved her cell from the headboard, then lay on her back and bent her knees.
Every dick Victoria touched was an investment.
Heavenly? Cedric? Both? Neither? Victoria scanned their profiles on the app TuitionCougars; they were equally handsome juniors in college. Heavenly’s major was communications. He was requesting $10,000 (for entertainment, a vacation, clothing, and car repairs) plus another $50,000 for next year’s tuition and a new car. Cedric’s field was engineering. His shortfall without a breakdown was cumulative of $80,000.
Goddamn, Victoria thought. Why are the young educated men in Atlanta trying to get over on older women, too? Just because she was a sponsor didn’t mean she was desperate.
Considering there wasn’t exclusivity, a ten-grand spread out over a year was reasonable. Eighty thousand was enough for a down payment on a house. Picturing Willy’s gray pubic hairs, she in-boxed both of the guys: Dinner or lunch at Capital Grille in Buckhead?
Victoria kicked the sheet. She wasn’t ungrateful for her gift, but out of all the spells she’d cast and broken, why-oh-why couldn’t she prepare one potion for herself? The Lord had bestowed “private summers” upon seasoned women for what good reason? Victoria appreciated making it to sixty, but she certainly wasn’t h
appy having had a decade of hot flashes and difficulty falling asleep most nights.
Expectedly, she went from a peaceful moment to what felt like a wildfire spreading inside of her. Sweat oozed from every pore. The prickling sensation along her scalp threatened to soak her freshly flat-ironed short hair, reverting it to her natural curls.
Victoria silently prayed, Lord, hear my prayer. Make it stop. Now. Her cell slipped from her saturated palms, hit her breast, bounced onto the carpet. Making a split decision, Victoria yanked off her head scarf, then slid from underneath the moist covers before her 140 pounds became 139. If she continued to lie down, the mattress would be drenched in minutes.
“Help me, Jesus,” she said softly.
Why, Lord? Why? What’s the purpose? she questioned, knowing He knew her thoughts. Why don’t men have a period? Menopause? Hot flashes. Babies? Anything. Something that would decrease or at least interrupt their sex drive other than erectile dysfunction, old age, or prostate cancer?
Tiptoeing through the dimly lit room, Victoria tried not to disturb her companion, who’d temporarily stopped breathing. Abruptly he snorted, coughed three times, then resumed his snore. Willy denied having sleep apnea; he refused to do a breathing study or use an oxygen machine.
Victoria entered the bathroom, quietly closed the door before switching on the ceiling track lights. Covering her hair with a plastic cap lined with satin, Victoria quickly stepped into the shower and turned on the cool water. Adjusting four of the ten heads, she welcomed the mist spraying from her breasts to her knees.
With a sigh of relief, she softly said, “Thank You, Jesus.”
It was too early to be perky. Too late to go back to sleep. “Please let it end, Lord. Forever, this time. This is the only thing I ask of You every day. I know You hear me. But just in case, it’s Your favorite child, Victoria Fox, Lord.
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, O Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.” The hymn transitioned to a hum.
Preparing for her cryotherapy, the liquid-nitrogen regulator was set to 192 degrees below zero. Victoria put on her special socks, boots, and gloves, then stood inside for 120 seconds exactly. Any device, workout equipment, serum, mask, or cream that prevented Victoria from wrinkling, sagging, or aging was somewhere in her four-thousand-square-foot mansion.
Stepping out of the freezing chamber, she said, “Thank You, Lord Jesus.”
Growing up, Victoria was too poor to be rich. Too rich to be poor. Thankful that she never married, had two pregnancies—no births—Victoria was responsible for one person all her life. That was the way it would always be until her Lord and Savior called her to glory.
“You okay in there?” Brother Copeland called out from the bedroom.
Why, Lord? Why? What’s the purpose of men, when most of them don’t know how to make love and women are sexually self-sufficient? she questioned.
“Brushing my teeth,” she replied, then traded her electric toothbrush for her Luxe Replenish 7-Function black stimulator.
Letting the silver vibrating tip rest on her clit, sixty seconds later, Victoria released a satisfying climax, as she’d done to start each day.
Victoria had resolved to being an opportunist at the age of sixteen. “Shit,” she hissed. Now that he was up, her getting back to the TuitionCougars app to see if Cedric and/or Heavenly had replied wasn’t happening soon.
Victoria had hoped the Lord would’ve given her just one more hour of relaxation. That way, Brother Copeland would’ve rolled out of her bed, gotten dressed, and walked out of their—more like her—house, which he’d bought, all cash, after his first wife died.
Victoria didn’t have much to do with Brother Willy’s wife passing unexpectedly.
Standing in the doorway, she replied, “I have to get ready for church, Willy Copeland. I’m ushering the early service this morning.” That was the truth. It was seven o’clock and church started in two hours.
“Yeah, but we don’t have a sunrise service, honey pumpkin. Come back to bed so Mz. Purrty can cuddle with Big Willy,” he said. “Him beez lonely.” A pouty mouth followed.
No need to deny her lifelong sponsor. Every woman needed at least one. Victoria had satisfied Brother Copeland through two of his marriages for a total of thirty-four adulterous years—plus a decade of fornication.
In the beginning, it was just the two of them, she’d thought. She was sixteen. He was twenty-seven. The Lord knew her heart. Willy didn’t. If Willy had gotten her pregnant again or procreated with any woman, Willy would’ve lived the rest of his days itching and scratching his balls.
Victoria had voodoo potions of the best and worst kind, but she preferred the ones that agitated her enemies.
“Let’s get this out of the way or you’re going to have to wait until next weekend to cum,” Victoria said, peeling the wrapper off of her favorite toy for Big Willy.
He was the only man she ever cared for. But Victoria’s mother had told her: “If a man lies, he’ll steal. If he steals, he’ll kill. And once a cheater, always a cheater. It’s not if, Victoria. It’s when he’ll do it again. Better to be the one he’s cheating with than the one he’s cheating on. And always get your money up front, baby.”
Back when she was in her twenties, thirties, and forties, sex with Willy did not require forethought. He stayed ready.
“Work your magic, darling. You are the only woman that knows how to send Big Willy to the moon,” he said. “I done took my medication. Half of your work is done, sugarplum.” His belly jiggled when he laughed.
Willy was her seventy-one-year-old steady Saturday-evening, Sunday-morning companion. She had one younger man in her rotation. Rodney Hudson, a thirty-four-years-young—big dick for real—aspiring entrepreneur that would be in her bed beating her pussy up before sunset. Rodney gave her what Brother Willy Copeland no longer had to offer. There was no voodoo potion to make bad dick better and no concoction for hot flashes, but Victoria was relieved that putting a little coconut oil inside of her vagina helped alleviate the dryness.
“Close your eyes, Willy. I’m about to take you on a ride out of this orbit, honey!” Victoria exclaimed.
“Ooh-whee,” he cheered, grabbing his manhood. “You heard that, Big Willy? Get ready.”
Victoria refused to tolerate off-beat strokes from Willy every time his enhancement kicked in. He’d never learned to properly sex her, but his pockets were always deep and her long fingers were glued to the bottom of both of them.
“Lay still,” Victoria demanded. “Turn onto your side, and—”
“I know. I know. Don’t touch Mz. Purrty or she’ll dry up. Get me off. I hafta go home and gets ready for church.”
After his last wife passed, Victoria immediately gained legal entitlement to Willy’s 401(k), military benefits, health insurance coverage, real estate portfolio, luxury cars, stocks, and bonds by catering to what Willy valued the most. His penis. What good would it do to bury Willy along with his benefits and leave his riches to a state that reinvested in the oppression of black people?
Victoria hated for any man to tell her what to do. “I’ve been handling Big Willy for forty-four years.”
“You know what time it is, woman?” The side of Willy’s belly flattened to the mattress as he rolled over. “I need extra time these days to get myself together. Shit. Shower. Shave. Sleep. Just wait until you turn my age. Come on, Victoria. I can’t let this good Viagra go to waste.”
If she was going to get excited, it was going to be for a virile man like Rodney. Or prayerfully for Cedric. Or Heavenly. Victoria was anxious to get back to the app.
“You sure you’re ready for Mz. Purrty?” Victoria asked.
Opening the plastic shell, she removed an egg-shaped masturbation sleeve, tore the package of lubrication, squirted it inside, arched her back, then tilted her vagina toward Willy’s erection. Firmly holding his shaft, she stretched, then eased the silicone over the head of his dick. Every man she used it on loved it, including her younger guy
s. The difference was they knew what it was. Willy did not.
“Aw, yeah,” Willy moaned. “How do you stay so tight and wet, woman? Guess it’s all those products you charge to my Black card.”
Grazing her hairless labia against his pubic hairs, Victoria tightened her grip. She thrust back and forth; stroked Willy up and down, using the egg.
“You ready to make Mz. Purrty wet, Big Willy?” Victoria stroked harder. Moved a bit faster.
“Pow. Pow. Pow. That’s all Big Willy got for you today?” he said, keeping his hands above his head. “After all these years, your vagina is the best I’ve had. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were trying to send me to glory on the express train, woman.” Willy chuckled.
Stuffing the soiled masturbation sleeve back into its container, Victoria retrieved a black plastic bag from underneath the mattress, dropped the egg inside. “Lord Jesus, You know I’m tired. Big Willy, you wear me out every time,” she lied, then told the truth. “I love you, Willy Copeland.”
“Love you more. Always have. Forever will,” he replied. “Nothing I won’t do for ya.”
Willy was generous with her in every way. Why not keep her old man happy?
Carefully getting out of bed, Victoria held Willy’s seeds. He’d already begun snoring. Staring at Willy, she kissed his cheek. “No, I love you more. I just can’t let you know it, big daddy.”
If Willy overslept for church, it wouldn’t be his first time.
CHAPTER 3
Chancelor
“Fake it until you make it,” Pastor Baloney preached. “It’s called practice. If you want to be a great basketball player like Brother Kingston Royale was, start working out daily. Athletes are strong. A lawyer like Sister Jordan Jackson—by the way, thanks for helping the church out with that legal matter—start by being a great debater and a better listener. Whatever you want, you can have if . . . you have faith in God and never give up. Degrees are nice, but mastering a skill set is better. Like it or not, some Instagram models are making millions. I don’t know about the other religious institutions in Atlanta, but here at Hope for All Church, we want every member to become wealthy and healthy. God does not want you to be poor. Men and women who believe they are better than you, based on the color of their skin, will never inherit the earth. Why? Because they don’t respect human life or God. We are going to move quietly. Register today for our upcoming HFAC Millionaires’ Club. Keep this between us. I want my members to eat first. Be generous with your tithes as the ushers receive your benevolent offering. For you can never outgive who?”
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