Rutger’s gyrating white body on top of Chas’s beautiful brown body drove Ellie wild. She was uninhibited as she sucked and fucked Leonard.
Fully inside, Rutger gently pushed Chas’s face into the pillow to muffle the moans. The once timid Chas was now pumping back, intoxicated by the mix of pleasure and pain.
Chas never imagined that a white man’s warm cum would one day seep from his ass.
And he certainly never imagined that Rutger and Leonard would simultaneously suck his dick once it was over.
But it happened.
Chas and Leonard would have meaningless sex play sparingly after that day, but Chas longed for Rutger.
Six months after the one-night stand, Rutger came to New York to participate in a summer film program.
With Rutger at his side, Chas had grown comfortable with his true identity as a gay black man who loved a foreign white man.
Chas fell madly in love with Rutger and planned to be a longtime lover and helpmate to the future filmmaker.
To celebrate the end of the summer film program, Chas and Rutger tipped a New York cabbie $100 to film them making love in the back of his cab.
Rutger promised Chas that he would apply for a visa and permanently relocate to the States, as soon as he got his business in order back at home.
Chas pined for Rutger, but didn’t hear from him.
Days went by. Then weeks. Then a full year.
Chas repeatedly watched the cabbie sex tape—one frame in particular where Rutger, deep in the throes of the “best blow job” he’s ever had, says to Chas, “I only wish…,” but doesn’t finish the thought and he collapses in ecstasy instead.
As Chas watched the tape, he completed Rutger’s thought on his on:
“I only wish I could…stay. I only wish I could…have you longer. I only wish I could…marry you and bring you to England.”
Sixteen months later, Chas turned on the Emmys and saw Rutger and Ellie on the red carpet. They were in Los Angeles. Rutger was looking successful and well fucked. Ellie was sporting a diamond ring and a very pregnant physique.
Chas was devastated.
Chas called Rutger’s studio in L.A. and demanded a meeting.
Rutger obliged and sent for him.
A car picked Chas up from his home and escorted him to La Guardia. When Chas arrived at Los Angeles Airport (LAX), another car whisked him away to Orange County, a popular neighborhood of the old-money set and the new-money set that weren’t eager to flaunt.
Chas wanted to freshen up prior to his confrontation with Rutger, but no hotel plans were on his itinerary. Chas was to meet Rutger at the exquisite Rancho Las Lomas, a private zoological garden and popular wedding venue.
Rutger was as sly as the devil. Of course he would arrange to fight against the backdrop of cool reflecting pools, English rose gardens, and baby Bengal tigers.
Who could be angry in the midst of such beauty?
The driver helped Chas retrieve his things just as Rutger walked up.
“You might as well send the luggage back to New York,” he mused. “You won’t need clothes here.”
Rutger had rented the entire estate for his lover, and they roamed the grounds wearing next to nothing. Chas never had the will to say no to the first man that ever touched him. But he didn’t fly all the way from New York to get laid. Chas demanded answers.
“I waited for you, Rutger.”
“I couldn’t return to you.”
“Those six months in New York were liberating for me. How could you lure me out of the closet only to go in yourself?”
“I enjoyed every moment I spent with you, Chas. But I was only good for our moments. Your body, your jaws of life. You are the most fascinating human I’ve ever met.”
“You knew that you were returning to her—”
“Chas, no. I never left her. She is dinner. You’re dessert.”
“So that’s what I am, just your dark meat on the side?”
“When we are together, do you ever feel that way?”
“No.”
“That’s our moment. Hold on to it. Enjoy it when we’re in it.”
“I love you, Rutger.”
“I’m married.”
“I want to be with you.”
“I’m a family man now.”
“I know that you love me, too.”
“I appreciate our moments. Fuck that, I crave our moments, Chas.”
“We need to stop pretending.”
“I would be pretending if I were to enter something more with you. The fact is, I’m not gay.”
“Your dick seems to think so.”
“You arouse me in ways that she never could. But I can’t mentally, wholeheartedly, fall in love with a man.”
“It happens every day of the week, Rutger.”
“It won’t happen between us. I’m sorry to have misled you. I thought that as a man, you could compartmentalize as a man. I thought you would understand the concept of moments.”
“Like the rest of your bitches?”
“No, Chas, do not attack the women I sleep with. They are less than moments to me; they are a necessary evil in this town. Focus on our moments and nothing else. Things will be fine, I promise you.”
And there it was: Chas could be content sleeping with the love of his life who didn’t want him, or he could run away.
“Come on in, bloke!” Rutger said now from the entranceway of his home, breaking Chas out of his trance. “I’ve been waiting.”
17
Playing the Game
Chas’s parting advice, “Play the game,” bounced around in Ritz’s head. But if this was the kind of game she thought it might be, it was the one game she had promised herself that she would never play. Ritz’s heart was pounding. Trickery was one thing, tricking off was another.
With Chas gone, Ian was ready to unleash his full agenda. Ritz looked spent. And she was. What had she got herself into? Here she was chasing dreams in California and risking her career back at home. A change of venue was good, but would she always double over in fear at the sight of a speeding vehicle? If so, the tabloids would have a field day with her.
Not that she had to worry about tabloids.
What bothered Ritz more than anything about L.A. was that no one, not the staff at the hotel, not at the spa, not passersby, no one, recognized her—and she was a star on the East Coast, and in thirty other states! And now she was sitting in a strange man’s home hoping to get a crack at her television show just because she was black? Ritz Harper had been reduced to playing the race card from the bottom of the deck.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Ian chided. “Tell me what’s on that mind of yours.”
“I want to know if you can really help me,” she spoke clearly. “Something tells me that I am going to give up much more than I get tonight.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “I make the deals happen—but for a price that very few are willing to pay. Look at my Wall of Fame. Those are the women who have sat in the same seat you’re sitting in now. Ritz, that is my prized collection. Most people see autographs, I see souls. I have keen memories of each smile. Recognize any of them?”
Of course she did. Ritz’s mouth nearly crashed through the floor as she scanned the photo wall of black and brown celebrities, each with glistening white smiles and flawless airbrushed skin. Each autograph displayed a scribbled message of gratitude. She wanted to add her photo to the wall. But what would it take?
“So Rutger tells me that you want to host your own talk show,” Ian said. “What can you add to the body of talk show entertainment?”
Ritz imagined that she was back in the studio behind the mic. In control. In command.
“I don’t know if we, my demographic, can rely on what’s out there to tell our stories. Some hosts are female or have brown faces, but they are giving us their limited life experiences. I’d like to see someone focus on our progressive, multicultural, hip-hop-meets-high-society stories. So far, no one is doing that
.”
“Great concept, but you’re the wrong person to see it through,” he said dismissively.
“What?” Ritz fumed. “How is that?”
“For one, you can promote multicultural all you want, but everything about you, from your European weave to your French manicure, screams that you want to assimilate into my culture, not celebrate your own.”
Ritz was in disbelief. “You’re so wrong. I like a little glamour, but I also love who I am.”
Ian stroked the stubble on his bulbous face. “You women know how to speak your minds,” he said with a smile. “And I like honest, frank conversation. Do you?”
“Yes, that’s what I do every day. I talk honestly about whatever.”
“Ritz Harper, I want to talk honestly about you. Tell me about yourself right now, in this very moment.”
“I’m the Queen of Radio in New York, and I want to conquer television,” she said boldly. “I have a lot to say and I think that the world would embrace me.”
“I’ve seen you a gazillion times,” he chuckled.
“You’ve seen me?”
“Not you, per se, but your type. Every Jezebel whore, aspiring actress, or out-of-work reality star wants to be the next talk show queen. I’ve heard that line before and it tells me nothing about you. I want to know about you, in this very moment. Why are you here?”
Ritz bit her tongue and chose her words carefully. “I’m here because I want to take my radio show to television. I want to take my career and my audience to the next level.”
“There you are, speaking of your career again. Let me tell you this up front. If you do what I ask of you, you will get your shot at a TV show. All I ask now is that you stop pitching and converse with me.”
Ritz felt a wave of relief—she couldn’t fuck this up, especially when all she had to do was talk. She took a deep breath.
“I’ll answer your questions.”
“Okay. Go stand on that platform over there and tell me about your outfit. It is fabulous.”
Ritz rose from her seat and walked to the platform as if she were on a runway.
“Crimson and cream silk patchwork dress,” she said, moving her hand over the fabric to display its beauty.
“And who is the designer?”
This one is easy. Ritz smiled. “Christian LaCroix Couture.”
“And the hat?”
“A simple cherry hat, from Chanel.”
“Ritz, those are the most beautiful shoes. Like art for the feet.”
“Red snake…John Galliano for Christian Dior.”
“Fabulous! Ritz, did you wear those big designer labels just for me?”
“Actually no,” Ritz blurted. “I didn’t even know about you until today. I work hard. I like nice things. I wear my star shit all the time.”
“Must all nice things be so high-end?”
“I think most nice things are pricey.”
“What do your clothes say about you, Ritz?”
Ritz looked down at her outfit. She had never pondered that question before.
“Confident. Classy. Well-dressed. Red says I’m outgoing…and fierce.”
Ian chuckled again, this time it sounded more like the kind of laugh you would hear from the villain of a horror film.
“I’m sure that’s what your homeboys in New York would think. Your outfit conveys the opposite to men of my caliber.”
“What?”
“Foolish woman,” Ian said bluntly. “The bigger the label, the smaller the person behind it.”
“Um, no disrespect, but you don’t strike me as one who is really into fashion. Trust me on this, image is everything.”
“Yes, yes!” Ian said excitedly. “Image is key to your people. That’s the fundamental difference between your people and my people. You are concerned with image. We are concerned with reality. See, you’re dressed in big fancy labels, looking like a walking Times Square. Your image is great. But the reality is that I can buy and sell your ass ten, maybe a hundred times, and I’m wearing khakis and Birkenstocks.”
Ritz bit her tongue so hard that she tasted blood. Play the game, she kept repeating to herself.
“You can step down from the auction block now,” Ian said. “Do you like it? It’s a family heirloom.”
Ritz didn’t quite process what he had said. She was still reeling from his previous statement.
“What are you proud of, Ritz?”
“Women are expected to fuck around to get ahead. Personally, I haven’t slept with anybody for a job or a handout. That’s what I’m most proud about. I worked hard to get to where I am, and I never had to compromise myself to do it. And I never will.”
“You’d be surprised by what you would do, if given the right stimulation.”
Ritz clenched her teeth, making her jawbone jut out just a bit. “I took the cards that I’d been dealt and I made something out of myself.”
“You have made something of yourself. I’d like to really see it, though. Please, convince me that you’re worthy of a talk show. You’re all dolled-up and you’re still so basic.”
“There’s nothing basic about me. Name another woman who went through what I did and still managed to come back on top of the game. I have my life back and under control. I am in control. And I’m here, working on my next move, just like I wanted to do.”
“Career is all you have. It is all you speak of!” Ian said just below a shout. “And you are not in control. You are not in control of the hot gossip that Chas brings to you. You are not in control of your ratings. You are not in control of aging. You are not in control of the men that roam in and out of your life. You are not in control of the baby that died in your arms or the bullets that invaded your flesh. You are not in control of anything! You have no reason to be proud.”
“I can control this conversation!” Ritz exclaimed. “I don’t want to have it any longer.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said coldly. “If this makes you uncomfortable, you can always walk.”
“I don’t want to play this game. I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say.”
“You’ve failed, Ritz, if this is how you are going to host your talk show. When a guest says something that you don’t agree with, you’re going to take the mic and go home?”
“No.”
“It’s this sense of entitlement that I smell about you. You stink of it.” He walked closer to her, smiling. “Black women are especially intriguing to me. So passionate and strong. You’re like roaches, you’re cursed and crushed, but you never go away.”
“What?! Ian, you’re adept at delivering the backhanded compliment; something sweet, something shitty.”
“Hollywood is up to its hairline in little black roaches,” he said, dismissing her last statement. “You all think you’re entitled to be the next It girl. And you just keep coming, although there are no quality roles for you. Audiences barely want to see you. Ninety-seven percent of you remain unemployed after your so-called breakthrough role. And you try so hard. How pathetic.”
“Why must you compare us to roaches? Roaches are not generally considered strong…they’re pests.”
“Because you’re the only species that survives with nothing and for naught.”
“I don’t agree. Everything I’ve wanted, I’ve gotten. I’ve had it all.”
“What do you have? A great career? You work a job and you have no natural allies. You can’t confide in white women, as they may be racist. You can’t seek guidance from black men, as they are so busy bonding with white men that they become sexist toward you. There is no black female bonding because of your competitive nature, and no one sabotages a black woman the way that another black woman does. You have no mentors. You have no companionship nor any camaraderie. You work for cars and clothes.
“You have no one who has your back in the workplace, and it is this disconnect that makes black women excellent managers. Your loyalties lie with the only thing you truly trust—your work. And that’s just one facet
of your pathetic nothing of a life.”
“That is not true! You’ve been misinformed.”
“Really?” Ian said playfully. “Who will correct me, your invisible man? The only man in your life acts like a girl. Where is your husband or even a faithful boyfriend? But, yes, you know your situation better than I do. Enlighten me if I’m wrong.”
He wasn’t wrong. Ritz was silent.
“What we are doing here is reaching your core. Who are you, Ritz Harper, without the job and the jewels?”
She didn’t answer.
“You’re nothing! So humble yourself and behave like someone with nothing. Be nothing for a few hours and you’ll have a shot at your talk show.”
Ritz swallowed hard; the lump building in her throat felt the size of a grapefruit. She couldn’t cry, not in front of this man. But he had hit a nerve. He more than hit it, he all but severed it. Ritz wished that he had so that she would not feel any of the pain.
“I don’t know how to be nothing,” she managed out of her constricted throat.
“Come with me, Ritz,” Ian said warmly. “I can show you.”
Ian led Ritz onto his sunporch in the back of his mansion. It overlooked two acres of lush greenery beneath a huge blue moon. Ian eased behind Ritz and slipped his cold, clammy hands around her waist.
Ritz jumped but didn’t move away. It won’t get that far, she told herself. He stood on his tippy-toes to talk into her earlobe.
“Do you know what that is?” he said, pointing out into what seemed like a mile of greenery. “You should.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s my symbolic garden. Whenever I feel that we are losing the race of all races, I come back here and soak up the history, the beauty of what this field represents. I imagine a return to those good old days.”
Ritz gently removed his hands from her waist and turned to face him.
“Ian, what are you growing back here?” she asked, but somewhere inside she knew the answer.
“Upland cotton,” Ian said broadly. “I believe in history. I am an advocate of active history. I believe that history runs in our veins. We should map our future around it. You uppity niggers are out of control.”
“What the fuck? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to like that?!”
Ritz Harper Goes to Hollywood! Page 8