by HD HOTEP
*****
“To be honest with you, I’ve grown terrified of men, most men, over the years. In all modesty, I come from a few generations of wealth and it’s as if I’ve been sheltered to the point of becoming naïve. It’s like no one’s ever serious. Everyone’s got some crazy hidden agenda. But I’m just me. Little ole’ Allison,” ‘Allison’ said, sipping her Brandy.
Mr, Bernstein began to laugh. He sipped his Vodka and appraised Allison with sophisticated eyes, sheltered by Paul Mitchell rimless glasses. “With all due respect, Allison, you don’t seem to be the naïve type.”
“Well, that’s good. And I hope I’m not naïve. But that’s how I’ve been treated by so many people whom I believed meant me well before revealing their true colors,” she responded.
Smart ass, she thought.
“Well, from the outside looking in, it took a lot of courage on my part to continue pursuing you after you initially responded to my greeting. You come off as no-nonsense, Allison. So, I believe you’ve overcome the naivety of a sheltered girl as time has passed.”
“Again, I hope so. And thank you. But I hate having to keep a shield up, a protective front to keep away the predators. I like to just be me, Lyle.”
Lyle took another sip of his vodka and reached for Allison’s hand. She allowed him to hold it, caressing her fingers gently and staring at her nails. Their eyes met again. She was 35. He was 38. Their complexions matched.
“I want you to forget about any fool who had the audacity to play games with a woman of your stature. Forget about them, Allison. You’ve got access to my work phone. You know where I live and what I’m about. I’m a very secure and honest man. You can be yourself with me. OK,” he said, eyes still locked on hers.
She held his stare for a few moments, slightly squeezing his hand.
“Do you know how good it would make me feel to know that I could safely do that, Lyle?”
*****
Allison spent the next 25 days, on and off, with Lyle Bernstein, who proved to be exactly who he said he was. His work schedule had kept him extremely busy to the point of remaining single. The two of them talked on the phone for hours at times. Allison got lost in the moment on occasions. And on the twelfth day, she’d given Lyle a little something extra: The legendary ‘Oktapussy!’ She’d placed her hands on his chest, her feet on the bed on each side of his hips, and worked her luscious love box on the head of his happy friend. She’d never allowed her lower lips to levitate below the head of his shaft, driving him insane. They’d cuddled, kissed, and fed one another. And the results of such an affair were astounding.
“It’s something about you. I can’t stop thinking about you Allison,” Lyle said.
“I can’t keep my mind or my eyes off of you either, Lyle. But I’m not out to hurt anyone. And before this goes any further, I want you to know that I’m not who you think I am,” Allison said.
The two of them sat together in Allison’s leased, fully furnished, condo. Their knees brushed against one another’s. Lyle leaned back, his eyes growing larger.
“I’ve been living off my ex-husband’s funds for quite some time. But now they’re gone. I have no contact with my father, as I told you. My living expenses are high, to say the least. And I’m $160,000 in debt. I’m an independent insurance broker and my commissions barely keep me driving, let alone living the way I’m accustomed to living. I’m…” She burst into tears, her fists clenched together, her head held down. “… I’m ruined. I’m worthless. I don’t deserve you.”
Lyle crawled to her side and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her toward him, embracing her in both his arms. He placed his chin on her head and stared at the ceiling, rocking her slowly.
After a long moment, he spoke. “Allison, I’m in love with you. You’re like no one I’ve ever met. And if you marry me, I’ll make all your troubles go away. I promise,” he said, passion in his voice.
Allison pulled away from him, tears dampening her smooth, soft features. This time, her eyes grew wide, much wider than Lyle’s eyes were capable of growing.
“Are you… proposing to a broken, … washed up girl like me?”
“Yes I am,” he said, pulling a ring from his pocket. “That’s what I wanted to talk to about. Allison, will you marry me?”
Allison allowed him to place the ring on her finger. Her lip quivered. Her eyes were still damp.
“I do baby. I do. Yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and smashing her body into his.
*****
Allison enjoyed gazing down at the clouds beneath her as the plane soared at 10,000 feet above sea level. She reclined and reveled in her latest accomplished mission. She’d swindled 35 unknowledgeable victims through Independent Insurance, Inc., from $2,500 to $7,500 dollars a pop. She’d also gotten Mr. Bernstein to hand her a certified check for more than $100,000 cash. Their marriage was scheduled to take place in the following two weeks. However, Beatrice Miller, AKA Allison Houston, had no intentions on being anywhere near a chapel or an alter at such a time. In fact, she’d most likely have three half-nude men massaging her naked body at such a time. Or, maybe she’d be taking skiing lessons in Pocono, Pennsylvania. Or leasing a speed boat and zipping along the Florida Keys. Whatever the case, ‘Allison’ would NOT be marrying Mr. Bernstein. She thought to herself how correct he’d been with his original assessment of her ‘naïve’ comment. Only, he’d failed to assess himself. And as a result, he’d been played straight out of the pocket.
“Whores don’t sell pussy… job is to separate… mark from his money… so many ways to do that…”
Allison glanced at her left hand, admiring the beautiful diamond and gold engagement ring adorning her finger. The smile that spread her face was signature. It was a victory smile which had been lining her pretty face for more than two decades.
Chapter 8
Sadie Whyte
Georgetown, Washington, DC
April, 2013
It’s been said that a woman’s greatest desire is to be envied by all other women. And if this was indeed the case, Beatrice Miller, AKA Sadie Whyte, was experiencing the ultimate on-going dream. When she sauntered into a room with her come-fuck-me-if-you-can-afford-me strut, her very presence commanded attention. She spared herself no luxury, living like an heiress to the thrown of a royal kingdom. She drove $50,000 cars and rested her pretty little head on silk pillowcases in furnished condos normally reserved for traveling politicians. She’d spent millions over the years of O.P.M. (Other People’s Money). And she’d enjoyed every illegal, immoral, and even depraved, moment of it.
Sadie Whyte had grown older gracefully, unyielding in her hell bent drive to swindle her world out of all its natural resources like sailing pilgrims ‘discovering’ a ‘new’ world of other people’s riches. Playing numerous men like a Hill Billy with a banjo. The Pied Piper with a flute. Or Prince with a piano. However, she’d remained horny, a lewd lover of lust. And her profession, usually sexually oriented scams, was truly the lust of her life. She’d evolved with the times, progressing in her levels of sophistication like a rotary phone of the 80’s to a huge cellular monstrosity of the 90’s, ultimately morphing into the sleek modern day smart phone equipped with so many capabilities that it defied reality and barely resembled the contraption it had come from. She was far from the nickel and dime scams she’d started out performing as early as her 12th birthday. She was the living example of the ugly duckling and the swan; her wicked schemes today now beautifully hidden behind a deliberate silky, almost classy, façade. Sadie Whyte had taken life by the horns and had it her way, taking the term ‘Independent Woman’ to new heights all together.
Sadie sat in her condo in Georgetown, DC, a historical, high income section of the city. She stared at her computer screen, picking the prettiest faces of all nationalities she could find off of Facebook. She added fifty of them to her own new website, NuShus.com. She’d decided to go back to her roots: High class whoring.
Unti
l the 20th century, women were forbidden from using written language in China. So, the women of Hunan Province developed a secret script call Nu Shu (women’s writing), consisting of thousands of phonetic icons. Sadie named her escort service Nu Shu’s Escorts, Inc. and the secret writing on the wall spelled ‘sex for hire.’
*****
“This is what I need you all to understand. Street walkers earn $75 per average transaction. They go to jail at least twice a year. They’re beaten an average of four times a year. And most street walking whores end up working simply to support their drug addictions. I KNOW these things from experience,” Sadie said to the eight women sitting in front of her.
Her straight, silky black hair cascaded down her back and enclosed her rectangular face in a canopy of healthy follicles. She wore a vintage gold necklace by Lacroix, a $3,500 oval link chain bracelet by David Yurman, a $29,500 Ballon Bleu time piece, a flowing birthstone-blue $2,180 gown by J. Mendell and $1,400 sandals by Jimmy Choo.
“In contrast, escorts earn 50% more per transaction than walkers. They rarely interact with the police. They’re only beaten twice a year, on average…” She smiled her signature smile, meeting each woman’s eyes.
“Damn,” one of the women said.
“That’s 50% less than street walkers. Escorts deduce client’s places of employment for security reasons and are afforded a LOT more protection than street walkers. I’ve made a lot of money as an escort. You can make lots of money also. You can live the lifestyles of your dreams. You can climb to new heights, just as I’ve done. You can go further than me. All I ask for is your loyalty, and I’ll take care of the rest, beginning with each of your first week’s wardrobes. Who’s with Sadie? Show me your hands,” she said.
The women Sadie had hand-picked from strip clubs, ‘hoe strolls’, and from the internet, glanced at one another.
“I’ve got a question,” a tall, thick, stallion of a woman said.
Sadie nodded.
“Didn’t you used to make mature movies in the ATL back in the day? Ms. Hot Pussy!”
“No baby. Ok-ta-pussy,” Sadie corrected with a smirk.
“Ooooooooh, I knew it. You worked that…”
“…who’s with Sadie?” Sadie repeated, cutting the woman off with an index finger to her lips.
Everyone raised their hands.
*****
In a world where pimps had learned nothing more than the fact that a man might do ANYTHING for a good blow job, pimps were practically useless in such a technical, advanced, society. And Sadie had learned from her experiences how to take things to the next level. Any pimpin getting done was going to be on Sadie’s part. She had each of her ‘escorts’ sign a written contract. Her subchapter ‘S’ corporation loaned each of them the funds that Sadie spent on their wardrobes. The corporation paid for their etiquette classes and image consulting. And each woman had agreed to allow a set fee to be deducted from each of their commissions.
Sadie placed ads in posh, upscale magazines and solicited referrals from Facebook, other escort agencies, bars, hotels and clubs, satisfied clients, and strip clubs.
On Sadie’s website, she didn’t show up as an owner. She simply was listed alongside 58 other ‘escorts’ as “Sadie”.
In the first two days, Sadie was requested several times. She escorted, most memorably, Gabriel Thomas, a stock broker, Wilber Strong, a married real estate investor, and Maurice “Moe” Garrett, and ex-football player/entrepreneur. She enjoyed the upscale atmosphere of the dates Nu Shu’s Escorts, Inc was charging clients up to $5,000 for. She enjoyed the company of financially stable men. She enjoyed waiting for the moment the date would become something more. She watched and anticipated when the men were willing to make the leap from casual to sexual. She played on the desires, the hidden cravings. She remembered Gabriel because he was so blunt.
“Can I see you naked Sadie?” he’d said, within five minutes of their first date.
She remembered Wilbur because of his work ethic.
“Ahh! Ahh shit! Ahhh! Ahhhh!” she’d yelled, as he’d hammered her into the mattress of their suite at the Marriott hotel.
“If you EVER make me tremble like that again, you’ve got to pay me extra,” she’d told him, a slight aftershock shooting through her body.
And she’d remembered Maurice because he was sort of goofy, like a big child. An intelligent, charming child. But a child all the same. But what stuck out most about him was the fact that he hadn’t attempted to have sex with her.
Why not, she wondered.
Sadie was in business, capitalized by the fruits of years of her ‘labor’.
Chapter 9
All In!
Sadie had been captivated by the ‘Nation’s Capital’, the Monument, the White House, the Capital Building, and so many memorials and museums. This was the home of the late Chuck Brown, the President. The past home of personalities such as Mayor Marion Barry, Cathy Hughes of WOL radio fame, Doug Williams of Super Bowl fame, and younger stars such as Wa Lai and Marcus Canty. Once the murder capital, DC had produced notorious criminals like Raful Edmonds and killers such as Wayne Perry. DC, to Sadie, was a perfect mixture of class and hidden depravity. Nu Shu’s was Sadie’s center piece. It was the capstone, peaking all her other accomplishments. And Sadie campaigned for support of the escort service like a wealthy, power hungry politician, campaigning for the votes of people he might not so much as think about outside of the election season. She had flyers, business cards, mobile and internet marketing campaigns and all, working for her at once. Plus, she was an escort herself. Nu Shu’s was Sadie’s baby.
“We do it all, ok. Suck dick. Greek. If they want you to shit in their mouths, give them a price. Anything out of the ordinary COSTS but we do it,” Sadie broadcasted to the group of escorts.
She was the legendary “Goldie Kaan”, “Miss Oktapussy”. By criminal minded women with a bit of whore in their systems, Sadie was like Elvis to Rock Star lovers.
“If you’re not up for the extra-curricular activities, please feel free to find employment elsewhere. Or accept the fact that you’re going to make a LOT less than my serious girls.”
She carried two smart phones, two pairs of panties, Band-Aids, cortisone crease, gum, condoms, and lubricant. She spent $200 - $4000 in a month on shoes alone. And she took good care of her women.
Sandie, the dark stallion from Atlanta, and Lacy, the petite redbone from New York, quickly grew to be like baby sisters or daughters to Sadie. She practiced how to walk with them. She watched image consulting videos with them. She took them with her to interview potential security workers.
“I looked in his eyes and I felt so bad. He was so good to me; I swear he’ll make some woman very happy. But I had to get him. I could not help myself. I am not joking. This man put a $75,000 check in my hand and I had just done the same thing with another one. So I said, “shit”, I might as well try it a few more times. Girl, I left that city with almost a quarter of a million dollars. And I was REALLY something then. We’re talking about mid to late 90’s. They were not ready for Sadie,” Sadie said, sipping 100 proof, R. St Barth Rum from her shot glass.
“Yeah, I heard about you. Oh my God, you fucked them up. You knew people wanted to kill you. They were talking about you for a long ass time. And you had been gone,” Sandie said, inhaling a tiny joint of marijuana. “My uncle used to watch your videos.”
“Damn, you make me want to step it up. How’d you come up with all that shit?” Lacy asked, sipping from her shot glass, woozy from the 100 proof.
“That’s just how I was raised. My Mama taught me to go get it. Fuck that love. Men ain’t worth a fuck. Get their asses before they get you. All they want is some good head and wet pussy. Dangle the possibility in front of them, they stop thinking and that’s when I start thinking the best,” Sadie said, inhaling her Virginia slim and taking another sip. “But stay on board the Nu Shu starship honey, and I’m gonna take ya’ll to the stars.”
Business began
to boom. Sadie’s phones never stopped ringing. Her escorts all had business. And the checks were hitting Nu Shu’s bank account regularly. Sandie, Sadie, and Lacy double and triple dated at times. They became the dynamic trio, although Sadie was older than both of them by more than fifteen years. And to look at her, one might doubt it.
“This is the first time this has ever happened,” Sadie said over the phone.
“What?” Sandie responded.
“I had two dates tonight and both of them bought a pair of my panties,” Sadie said.
“Are you serious? How much?”
“Well, this white guy Luther, he paid me $350. And I hope he doesn’t still have them stuck to his face,” Sadie said, laughing.
“Oh, here he is. Damn, he’s about 20 fucking feet tall. Gotta go,” Sadie said before disconnecting the call.
*****
Sadie, Madelyn, Sandie, Lacy, Bella, Reena, Sylvia, Chantay, Lillian, and Gia strutted into the vibrant, colorful club Mynt in South Beach Miami, Florida. They’d bumped shoulders with Miami’s finest while dining at STK, a sumptuous steakhouse with entertainment at Ganesvourt. They’d partied non-stop the night before at the club Amnesia; a club where sexy women and overpriced, tight clothing went hand-in-hand.
Today was Sadie’s birthday. True, she wasn’t your “Average Jane”. She was 41 years old, capable of passing for 30, and as out-going and full of fire as a hungry high school senior. She sashayed into the Mynt Club in a sparkling red, form fitting dress by Naeem Khan. And for its $4,265 price tag, it just ought to have made Sadie look like the star she felt she was. She wore a $900 pair of pumps by Brian Atwood, a Gold necklace, and bracelets by Cartier. And she carried a $4,600 calf skin handbag by Hermes. Her eyebrows recently arched, fingers manicured, toes pedicured, and skin waxed. Sadie was a walking sensation, an orgasm waiting to exhale and explode.
Rihanna’s “Yellow Diamond” pounded into the club as the women entered. The dance floor was packed with glued together women and men. The lighting was eye-catching. The atmosphere high octane. And the ethnic mix of party goers was the melting pot America symbolized to its fullest.