She saw another hooker, a buxom Caucasian girl, wearing a silver catsuit with cutout circles up and down the side. It was the closest thing to a space suit she had ever seen on a human being. Yuki couldn’t help herself.
“Excuse me, but, what are you wearing?”
The woman looked at Yuki and then said, “Money.”
A black SUV drove by and slowed as it passed Yuki. The car pulled over to the curb, stopped, and a large Hawaiian man, wearing baggy cargo shorts and a tank top, climbed out and approached her.
“I can help you make a lot more money.”
“Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t be out here. This isn’t your scene. You can’t compete with these girls.”
He swept his arms dramatically to indicate the other women on the street. Yuki looked around. It was true; she couldn’t compete, if the competition was to see who had the biggest tits and gave the best blow jobs.
“I’m not—”
“Of course you’re not. Anybody can see that.”
Yuki nodded, unsure whether she should feel insulted or not, and began to walk.
“Wait. I’m not finished.”
“I am.”
The man fell into step beside her. Yuki couldn’t help but notice the Polynesian tribal bands tattooed on his biceps.
“I said you could make a lot of money.”
“I heard you. I’m not interested. I’m not a. . . prostitute.”
“I know.”
That sounded condescending to Yuki. “Really. I’m not.”
“A thousand dollars a night. Only one trick. How’s that sound?”
“You’re out of your mind. Nobody would pay that for me.”
“They would if you specialized.”
Yuki didn’t want to hear about whips, chains, leather, rubber, gizmos, gadgets, dildos, butt plugs, or any other specialization. She kept walking.
“Cut your hair. Wear boy’s clothes. You’d be surprised how many people want to be with a girl who looks like a boy.”
Yuki turned and looked at the man. He was a pimp, a really large Hawaiian pimp. By all rights she should be terrified. But she wasn’t. There was something about him that was more comforting than scary. He was being sincere. Honest and heartfelt and genuine. Yuki had never heard of a sincere pimp. But here he was, and he really believed what he was saying. He really thought she could be a sex object, that people would actually pay money to have sex with her. This idea was so alien and random that Yuki didn’t know what to think of it. Was it exciting? Scary? Ridiculous?
Yuki’s lips began to tremble; she thought she might burst into tears.
“Please leave me alone. I’m just trying to find a place to eat.”
The pimp looked at her for a beat, deciding.
“Two blocks that way; turn left. You’ll see a little place kitty-corner. They make good noodles.”
“Thank you.”
The pimp watched her go, shaking his head sadly at the lost business opportunity. “You could make a lot of money.”
...
The muffled beat of technomusic pounded against the walls of the bathroom. Occasionally someone would throw open the door, and the full force of the sound would shake the stalls. But Francis wasn’t paying much attention to the music; he was busy sucking cock. A handsome Australian’s cock, at that. Uncut. Chad would be jealous.
Francis knew he should’ve slid a condom over the guy’s dick before he put it in his mouth, but wedged into the stall of the bathroom, kissing and stroking each other, the crystal meth and Viagra propelling him forward, urging him to just rip off his clothes and start fucking—well, he just didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered. In fact, he wouldn’t mind catching some minor venereal disease, a little gift for Chad when he got home. That would show him.
The Australian had a big cock, much bigger than Chad’s. Francis could feel it getting bigger, stiffer, as he sucked and stroked it, letting it drive deep into his mouth. Francis cupped the Australian’s balls with one hand, the base of his cock with the other. He felt the balls tighten and rise, and then a surprisingly large amount of come began shooting down Francis’s throat in hot little pulses.
Francis swallowed.
Eight
It wasn’t difficult for Joseph and his uncle to find Jack. The concierge at the hotel was more than happy to tell them where the cranky old haole with the walker went. The concierge had loaded the walker into the trunk of the cab and everything. And had the gimpy old bastard given him a tip? Fuck, no.
So Joseph and Sid were on their way to La Femme Nu.
Joseph didn’t like strip clubs. They weren’t his scene. He liked to say that the ritual objectification of women was a soulless and sad pursuit that offended his sense of aesthetics. But really, the one time he’d been, he’d just found the whole thing depressing. The leering men, the prancing women with their shiny oiled skin, superinflated tits, and absurd costumes—they were almost cartoons, manga-stylized yet alive, simulating intimacy or, perhaps more accurately, simulating a fantasy version of simulated intimacy.
Joseph wasn’t sure whose fantasy it was. Not his. The uptight nurse or librarian or schoolteacher, checking pulses or wearing big black glasses and holding a book, suddenly letting her hair down, unleashing her massive boobs, and banging her crotch against a large metal pole while men cheered and stuck money in her underwear—what planet did that come from?
Sid and Joseph passed through the neon portal of La Femme Nu. They found Jack scrunched up against the stage, his face staring up at the bulging rubber-wrapped vulva of a young Korean woman with gigantic pylon-shaped silicone-injected breasts. Jack had an astonished look on his face. Apparently he was experiencing something profound and life-altering, a real eureka moment. He turned to a Caucasian guy sitting next to him.
“Did you know Chinese chicks had such big tits? I can’t fuckin’ believe it!” Then, turning to the platform: “Come here, Tiger Lily!”
She swiveled her vacuum-packed ass over toward him, bobbin’ it up and down to the beat as Jack lurched and wobbled to his feet. He stuffed a couple of bucks in her rubber panties, pulling the waistband out like a rubber band and then letting it go. Hearing the satisfying smack of rubber hitting flesh, he gave a feral howl.
“Oh, my God! You got the sweetest ass I’ve ever seen!”
Sid and Joseph watched Jack reel around, arms wheeling in the air as he fought for balance, and collapse back into his chair.
“You’re so fuckin’ hot, baby!”
Joseph couldn’t help but notice that Jack was—well, highly aroused. He nudged his uncle.
“Uncle, look.”
You couldn’t miss it. Neither could the stripper. She bent down close, staring right at the apex of Jack’s triangulated crotch.
“You want a private dance? I can make you happy.”
“Oh, yeah, baby.”
“Ten minutes, okay? I’ll come for you. Maybe you come for me?”
Jack’s eyes rolled in his head. “Oh, yeah!”
The woman turned and began abusing the pole with her ass. Jack watched in awe.
Sid leaned in to Joseph and shouted in his ear, “Lemme handle dis.”
Before Joseph could argue, Sid had bulled his way past him and was taking the seat next to Jack. Jack continued to proclaim his new discovery.
“Oh, my God. No wonder there’s ten billion of ’em! Look at the Chinese chick! Oh, my God! Look at those Chinese hooters! Who knew about this? Who?”
“She’s Korean.”
Jack turned and looked at Sid. “Korean? You sure?”
“Fo’ sure.”
Jack nodded, processing the new information, rethinking his trip to Hong Kong. “Is all Korean pussy like that?”
“I don’ know.”
Jack poured half a beer into his mouth and shook his head. “Here’s to Pyongyang poontang!”
Sid had heard enough. He picked Jack up by the collar and lifted him out of his chair. Jack sputtered a little tou
gh-guy talk, but Sid had him moving toward a room in the back. Joseph intercepted the bouncer.
“It’s cool. Our friend needs to puke.”
The bouncer nodded and went back to grinding his teeth and watching the crowd, waiting for someone to slip up so he could vent some of his cocaine-fueled tension.
Joseph hurriedly followed Sid, hoping his uncle wouldn’t do anything he’d regret.
He found them in a semiquiet spot in back. Sid had squashed Jack into a vinyl banquette and was looming over him. Jack wasn’t intimidated; he was bouncing off the seat, yelling at Sid, spit flying out of his mouth.
“I know who you are! You don’t fucking scare me.”
Sid, surprisingly, remained cool. “I’m not tryin’ fo’ to scare you. I’m tellin’ you wot it is.”
“Fuck you!”
Sid nodded, like a good parent waiting for a teenager to stop raging. “I’m only gonna say dis one time den.”
“And I’m gonna say this until you go away. Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Sid just crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Jack. He didn’t say anything.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going back to the Korean chick. I got some unfinished business.”
Jack tried to stand, but without his walker he wasn’t going anywhere. He flopped around, struggling and thrashing for a few minutes, and then gave up and glared.
“What? What the fuck do you want?”
“You gonna listen?”
Jack nodded. Sid leaned in.
“Here’s the deal. You got the job. Good fo’ you. You brought some trucks over. Good fo’ you. The union is gonna drive your trucks, they gonna take real good care of ’em. They’re gonna make you look good.”
Jack nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“When the job’s over, you leave da trucks where dey are and you go back to Las Vegas.”
“In your fucking dreams, King Kamehameha.”
“You don’t want no problems den. You understand dat?”
Jack’s face flushed red.
“I understand. Now you wanna know what I think?”
“Sure.”
“You want a war, you got one.”
“You don’t wanna go there. Not with us.”
Jack took that in.
“Oh really?”
Sid nodded.
“Dis is our island.”
Jack pulled himself up, struggling to maintain his balance, and leaned as close as he could to Sid. Then he started yelling.
“Yeah, well listen to me, Honolulu tough guy, I’m from Las-fuckin’-Vegas. Do you know what I’m sayin’ here? Do you have any idea what that means?”
Jack couldn’t hold himself up. He crashed back into the banquette.
“Go blow your fuckin’ conch shell or pick coconuts or whatever the fuck it is you people do. But don’t tell me how to run my fuckin’ business, because you are out of your league.”
Joseph was sure that last outburst would put Sid over the edge, but Sid just shook his head.
“You been warned.”
“And you’re a dead man.”
...
Yuki was exhausted. It had been a long day. On top of the constant demands of her job, her secret mission to cleanse her boss of his negative energy was the killer. Francis, she realized, was a force to be reckoned with, a one-man H-bomb capable of unleashing supercharged diva-destruction in all directions. Yuki, the staff, and any local hires would just be collateral damage, set decoration and props for the shock-and-a-we campaign of self-annihilation that Francis was bringing with him.
She climbed into bed and turned off the light. As she was drifting off, she thought about the big Hawaiian pimp who’d approached her on the street. Although the idea of selling her body for money was creepy, she was excited that someone actually thought that, with a little retooling, she might be sexually attractive. When was the last time anyone had shown an interest in her? When was the last time she’d had sex? She realized, somewhat grimly, that she hadn’t had intimate contact with another human being in almost four years. No hand holding, no hugs, no kissing, no touching, no getting laid, nothing.
It was depressing.
She’d distracted herself. Filled her days with classes, lessons, chanting, and volunteer work. But she realized that she would trade all the belly-dancing lessons, conga classes, feng shui seminars, and yoga retreats for a night between the sheets with someone. Anyone. They didn’t have to be hot or hunky, they didn’t even have to be male; at this point she just wanted contact. And along comes a pimp, a real live pimp who knows what he’s talking about, who says, “Dress like a boy and people will want you.”
How do you like that?
Yuki drifted off into a deep sleep and, as her REM kicked in, began to dream. In her dream, Yuki had short hair, cropped in the back and on the sides with a long, flowing lock that fell down over her eyes. She looked sultry, seductive. She wore a white cotton tank top underneath an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, her small dark nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. She had on ankle-length khakis that were baggy and made her hips look boyish. She wore pink canvas high-tops and had a baseball cap perched on the back of her head. She wasn’t sure what she looked like: a cool teenage boy, a dyke, or a superfashionable young woman who was hip, happening, and ready for anything.
Because it was a dream, she suddenly found herself on a tropical beach, maybe Ipanema. It was hot. The sand was littered with sunbathers laid out on towels, raw and pink and exposed, like sushi. The sun beat down, and the smell of broiling cocoa-buttered flesh mixed with the salt of the sea breeze. It made her stomach growl with a hard, deeply erotic hunger.
Yuki wasn’t like the other women on the beach. She didn’t have huge tits packed into a teeny bikini. She wasn’t wearing a thong. Yet everywhere she looked men were lusting after her, beckoning, waving, offering drinks, cash, jewelry, even a new skateboard.
She had never felt so desired.
She heard them breathing: hot, heavy, panting. She stopped walking and stood there, trembling with excitement. The breeze from the surf sprayed across her skin and caused a tingling electromagnetic surge that shot through her body, connecting her lips to her nipples to her suddenly wet pussy.
The men could sense her desire; they could smell it, feel it whipping through the wind, stirring them like a sex cyclone. They came for her, running, walking, some crawling through the sand on their hands and knees; one was doing cartwheels and flips as he approached. Some of them wore business suits, others hotel robes, swim trunks, and baggy surf shorts. A few had bulging Speedos, skimpy racing swimsuits that barely covered their privates.
They came for her. They closed in, an anemone of strong, sleek arms wrapping around her, stroking her body, touching her all over. Her body began to drip and melt like a Popsicle on a very hot day. And then, as she felt their hot breath on her skin, they began licking her. Starting with her toes and ankles and neck and shoulders, slowly working their way toward. . .
Yuki woke up. She was disoriented and sweating profusely. Suddenly desperate for some fresh air, she jumped out of bed, opened the sliding glass door, and walked out on the balcony. The night air was cool and she shivered as her skin goose-bumped up and down her body. She hadn’t had a dream so vivid or intense in years. She was annoyed that she’d woken up. It wasn’t fair. If she couldn’t get laid in real life, at least she should be allowed to get some in her dreams.
She felt her crotch. It was soaked.
...
Sid’s knuckles were white as he gripped his beer bottle. “You hear wot dat haole motherfucker say to me?”
Joseph nodded, noncommittal, and sipped his beer while Sid continued to fume.
“I shoulda pound him right den.”
“Beat up a cripple? They’d throw you in jail.”
“He a gimp, but he fo’ sure dangerous.”
Joseph turned to Sid. “Uncle, why’d you give him an ultimatum?”
�
�You wanna give him a lei? Say ‘Aloha haole motherfucker’? Is dat wot you want den?”
Joseph shook his head. “I just don’t know what we gain by threatening him.”
“He threaten me.”
Joseph couldn’t look at Sid. He wanted to tell him to be reasonable, to stop behaving like a two-year-old who didn’t know how to share his sandbox. What was happening was inevitable. Business as usual. They’d had a monopoly for years; it had given them the security to invest, to build something really good. But they’d been living in a bubble. Now that the bubble was popped, they’d have to adjust. Joseph wasn’t afraid of it. They could handle the competition. It wasn’t going to kill them.
But Joseph knew his uncle wouldn’t believe him, so he didn’t say anything. He looked around the bar. It was dark and wooden with neon signs advertising Mexican beer and filled with a mix of locals and tourists.
Sid waved to the bartender for another round. “We at war now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He bringin’ war to da island. Dat fo’ sure den.”
...
Stanley heard the banging on his door, but he didn’t want to answer it. What if it was some kind of criminal? Then he heard a voice he recognized.
“Open the door, ya putz.”
Stanley wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel and looked out the peephole. Jack was in the hallway, his features distorted and deformed by the fish-eye lens, glaring at the door like he could open it telepathically.
“Stanley! Wake up!”
“Hang on.” Stanley unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “It’s late.”
“Quit fuckin’ around.”
Jack shoved his walker against the door, making a loud scrape, pushed his way in, and scuttled into the room.
“You got someone here?”
“Of course not.”
“You should. This town’s full of hookers.”
Stanley sighed. “I don’t want a hooker, Dad.”
Jack shot him a perplexed and disappointed look. “Why not?”
Stanley sighed again. “What can I do for you?”
“Listen to your old man for a minute. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with a whore. Don’t let those Bible-thumping hypocrites tell you different. They all talk one way, but as soon as no one’s lookin’ they got a tranny bobbin’ for dollars by the dashboard light.”
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