by Zane
Now, six months later, I am Mrs. Theresa Winfield-Brown. We are currently expecting our first child, a daughter, whom we’ll name…Katrina.
The Hard-Boiled Dick
Chris Hayden
Sam was cheatin’!
No ’bout a doubt it! He was creeping home at funny hours, getting up to leave in the middle of the night, coppin’ ’tudes about nothin’, slinking around the house when he was home looking like a mangy old mutt who had been caught in the garbage, and generally slippin’ so badly that he was even forgetting to scrub the smell of his outside bitches off him before he came to bed!
How could he? LaTisha had always been the good and faithful wife! She resolved to put it to him righteous—but she needed proof!
A coworker suggested that she retain the services of a private investigator.
Sharpetta Kensington, P.I., had a posh office in an upscale part of town, but when LaTisha saw her—playin’ a “Hell up in Harlem” black fedora (broke down gangsta-style), a butchy black pin-striped pants suit, some come-fuck-me pumps with stiletto heels—sitting with her feet up on her desk reading a racing form and smoking a cigarillo like a young Samantha Spade, LaTisha started to kick her to the curb.
During the interview, Sharpetta tossed off an impressive list of credentials, cases solved, and clients served.
“Make no mistake about it, I’m an ace dick,” she said.
“Excuse me?” LaTisha said.
“That’s slang for ‘expert detective,’” Sharpetta explained. “I’m worth every dime, I ga-ron-tee.”
Still harboring some misgivings, LaTisha cut her a check for five thousand dollars, her initial retainer.
A couple of weeks later, early one afternoon, the “ace dick” summoned LaTisha to her office.
“Mrs. Jenkins, yo’ man is a dirty bird,” Sharpetta announced.
LaTisha shouted, “Wait till he gets home tonight! I’ll—”
“Chill. You need to catch him in the act.”
“When, where, and how?”
“In about forty-five minutes. I have the address of the pad where Sam is hosting a live sex party this very afternoon. We can roll right on over there and bust him.”
“I hope there’s no rough stuff.”
Sharpetta showed her a 9mm pistol and a Taser, then chuckled wickedly. “He won’t harm a hair on your head.”
“I’m not worried about my head,” LaTisha said.
“I heerd dat! We’ll take my car.”
A little later they pulled up in front of a one-story, white wooden house in a quiet part of town.
“Snug little fuck pad, ain’t it?” Sharpetta said.
“When I’m through with him, he’ll wish he was doing time in Guantánamo Bay!” LaTisha said. “I don’t see his car.”
“He’s a slick dawg. Parks his car across town and takes a cab here. Ready?”
They went to the door. LaTisha stood out of sight while Sharpetta knocked.
“Who is it?” a man asked.
“We’re the girls for the party,” Sharpetta said.
When the door opened, they bum-rushed the show.
“I’m a private investigator and this is LaTisha Jenkins, Sam Jenkins’s wife,” Sharpetta said, her hand on the gat in her shoulder bag. “Don’t start no static, won’t be none.”
They stepped into a living room thick with incense and chronic smoke. With gaudy purple wallpaper and crotch shots from Black Tail magazine on the walls, big, fat, green silk harem pillows on the floor, red bulbs in lamps turned down low, and Tupac’s “How Do U Want It” bumpin’ on the box—it looked like the waiting room of a Las Vegas whorehouse with furnishings by Snoop Dogg.
Two guys, as cut and buff as a couple of chocolate Chippendales, and clad only in cutoff jeans, were standing in the middle of the floor looking très busted.
LaTisha gazed at their rippling torsos, the bulges in the crotches of their tight jeans, and their buns of steel and wondered if maybe Sam was on the down-low. For a New York minute Sharpetta stared at them as if her eyes would buck out of her head. Then she was all business.
“Where the hell is Sam Jenkins!” she demanded.
“Never heard of him,” one of the hot studs said.
“Goin’ for bad, eh? I got something for your ass.” Sharpetta showed them her Glock. “In the back!” she shouted. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this!”
Mumbling protests, they did as they were told.
LaTisha flopped down on a pillow. She felt drained.
How long had Sam been involved in some shit like you saw on Cheaters? How could he? How—
Suddenly LaTisha heard fearsome noise coming from the back. Bloodcurdling screams, cussing, calling on Jesus and unholy bumpin’ and jumpin’—it sounded like the Rock and Booker T wrasslin’ a wildcat in a one-stall shithouse!
They got the drop on Sharpetta! LaTisha thought. Call the police! No! Not enough time! She rushed out of the living room, down a short hall, and to the door of the room from whence the hellacious racket came—
And stopped. They’d got the drop all right—on Sharpetta’s drawers! All of them were buck nekkid on a bed (Sharpetta still sportin’ her gangsta lid). She was whacking the dudes off, and when she got them good and hard, she started blowing them: first one, then the other, then both simultaneously!
The men’s eyes rolled up so only the whites showed; they groaned and grimaced in ecstasy! Then, slick as an acrobat from the UniverSoul Circus, Sharpetta switched positions so one of the dudes could fuck her doggie-style while she sucked the other one’s cock until they all came and collapsed in a sweaty, satiated heap!
LaTisha was a married woman and no prude, but she had never seen such mad, scandalous fucking! When she was satisfied that they were still breathing, she wobbled back to the front room.
A little later Sharpetta joined her. Her clothes were disheveled, her hat was cocked ace deuce, and her hair was sticking every which way from under it. She had to lean against the wall for support.
“That’s all for now!” she croaked weakly to the dudes in the back. “Don’t leave town!”
Loud snores were their only reply.
When they got back to the car, LaTisha jumped in Sharpetta’s shit with both feet.
“Look, babe, in my racket you got to do what you have to to get the dope,” Sharpetta snapped, trying to get her face together in the rearview mirror. “You ought to commend my willingness to sacrifice my virtue for the cause.”
“‘Babe’? ‘Racket’? You sound like that dykey female cop on The Wire!”
Sharpetta looked at LaTisha out of the corner of her eye a minute, then, grinning slyly, set a damp wad of cash on the dashboard.
“What is this?” LaTisha asked.
“Your cut.”
“My cut of what?”
Sharpetta snickered. “What them sorry sacks of shit was supposed to give the hos.”
“Good God, Mama! Call the police!” LaTisha groaned.
“Hey! Slow your roll, cutie-pie.” Sharpetta started the car. “Your man was here, alright, but he left. Those two mopes gave up the address he cut out to. If we’re quick, we can get right over there and bust him!”
Her name was Delilah. She was frail and trembling like a little girl, but she was ready for grown-up games in a see-through nightgown and a pair of crotchless, black lace panties.
She sat on her bed, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. Sharpetta and LaTisha stood on either side of her. LaTisha wanted to take her in her arms and comfort her, and she wanted to kick her ass.
Sharpetta was only in ass-kicking mode.
“Straighten up, you home-wrecking bitch!” she snarled.
“He was only here a little while. He acted like something was bothering him. We didn’t do anything. Honest, I didn’t know he was married,” the girl wailed. “He never told me. I never would have dated him if I’d known.”
LaTisha said, “Maybe we should just go—”
“Fuck this gold-diggin’
bitch!” Sharpetta shouted.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” LaTisha said, looking away from the weeping girl.
“Okay. I’ll take a statement from her funky ass and we can blow this pop stand,” Sharpetta said. “Say! I left my tape recorder in the car. Would you get it?”
“Sure,” LaTisha said, happy to have an excuse to leave.
She was halfway to the car before she realized that Sharpetta had not given her the keys. When she got back to Delilah’s apartment, the door was locked. She knocked. No one answered. She knocked again. Then she heard moans, cussing, calling on Jesus, and the hot and wet sounds of Divine Sixty-nine—mutual cunnilingus…
Sharpetta came out about half an hour later, grinning and freshening her lipstick. LaTisha was fit to be tied.
“Getting to the bottom of things again?” LaTisha asked.
Sharpetta shrugged and they walked to her car.
They could see the girl’s apartment window from there. She was standing in the window naked. She mouthed the words Bye, Mommy, winked, and wiggled her ass.
Sharpetta blew her a kiss, then flicked her long, lascivious pink tongue at her. The girl giggled and started stroking herself between the legs.
“Silly ho,” Sharpetta said to LaTisha as they pulled off. “Thinks she can get over on Sharpetta Kensington. I led her down a slippery slope.”
“I bet it was slippery,” LaTisha said. “How much is my cut this time?”
“Absolutely nothing happened in there that did not occur strictly in the course of business—and if it did, I didn’t enjoy it!” Sharpetta huffed.
“I don’t know if you can solve a case as good as Shaft, but you sho’ is some kinda sex machine.”
Sharpetta sputtered, then both of them broke down laughing so hard she had to pull the car over.
Sharpetta Kensington was a pistol! A real hard-boiled dick! Tough! Brassy! Bo-fucking-dacious! She’d shag a snake in a sandstorm—but fucking was her way to solve the case. If not an excuse, it was a saving grace! Maybe, LaTisha thought, if she had been more like Sharpetta, her marriage wouldn’t be on the rocks.
Maybe if she had taken care of business rather than only being about business—
But what woman can make a home, keep her front up, bring home the bacon, and fuck like a rabbit every night to boot? Shit!
“So, what did you find out?” LaTisha finally asked. “I know she told you everything.”
“Not everything,” Sharpetta said.
“I bet you know where she buys those panties.”
“Frederick’s,” Sharpetta answered. “But I don’t know what she pays for them.”
Sharpetta recounted Delilah’s story.
“He didn’t say where he was heading when he left, but she gave me a list of probable locations.”
“Lead on then, Holmes.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Why do black men cheat?
They asked the salesclerk at the Booty Sto’ where Sam copped hot movies.
“It’s genetic,” he explained, adjusting his clunky black horn-rimmed glasses. “Mother Nature has hardwired the male brain to pursue more partners than seem necessary to ensure the propagation of species Homo sapiens. ”
“I’ll homo your sapiens,” Sharpetta cracked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s go,” LaTisha said.
“Excuse me,” said the clerk. “What are you going to do about this bill for late rentals Mr. Jenkins owes?”
“File a claim in divorce court, Poindexter,” Sharpetta said. “Until then, don’t leave town!”
They asked the owner of the Peter Meter, where Sam bought his fuck books.
“Here’s a story they tell about President George Bush the First,” he replied. “Him and Mrs. Bush visited a farm one day. The farmer pointed out a rooster and said that it sometimes fucked thirty times a day. ‘Would you please tell that to Mr. Bush?’ Mrs. Bush said. ‘I say, Mr. Farmer,’ President Bush said, ‘does that rooster fuck the same hen every time?’ ‘Nope,’ said the farmer, ‘different hen, every time.’ ‘Would you please tell that to Mrs. Bush?’ he said.’”
When the women didn’t laugh, the guy repeated it. Rolling their eyes, they headed for the door.
“Hey, what about all these books Sam ordered?” the man asked.
“I’m sure you can make good use of them,” Sharpetta stated with much sarcasm.
On the car radio they heard a male caller tell Brass Balls, the host of Testosterone Talk, that he blamed slavery for the brothers’ cheatin’ ways.
“Would you believe I had a case where a white boy tried to use that one?” Sharpetta cracked.
They asked Ma Barker at the Toi Store, where Sam bought his sex toys.
“They never grow up. Just can’t concentrate on one thang too long, baby!” she said. Then she showed them an inflatable rubber doll she was holding for Sam, which looked just like LaTisha and had working orifices.
“Here’s who’s beating your time,” said Sharpetta to LaTisha. “Hey, Ma! You got any more of these in back?”
Their last stop was the Black Hellfire Club, the place for African-American swingers. These freaks were discreet: it was located in an industrial park and there were no signs, no lights, no nothing to give the slightest clue to the scandalous goings-on inside.
“It’s supposed to be members only, but they let in all skeezers. You shouldn’t have any trouble,” Sharpetta announced on their way to the entrance.
“Thanks a lot,” LaTisha said. “I don’t know if I’m up to this—”
“Hey! You want to catch him in the act, don’t you?” Sharpetta said. “Without eyewitness evidence all you have is hearsay testimony.”
“This whole thing is just unreal to me. My dad never cheated on my mom.”
“Leastwise you don’t know that he did,” Sharpetta said. “I guess these days that’s just as good.”
“If we drop it now, do I get my money back?”
“Hell naw!”
“Let’s get busy then.”
They still had to slip the bouncer/doorman a Benjamin.
The Black Hellfire Club was smoking, a copious cornucopia of copulation and exotic sexuality. It was dark and funky and cavernous as Mrs. King Kong’s cunt. There were erotic paintings and sculptures everywhere and erotic films of all kinds—straight sex, gay, lesbian, gang bang, B&D, fetishism, masturbation—played nonstop on a dozen giant video screens.
The patrons wore street clothes, sexy costumes, or nothing at all. LaTisha saw enough nipple, tongue, penis, and vulva rings to pierce the Osbourne family.
On a trapeze suspended from the ceiling, a big healthy mama in a leather-and-lace French maid’s uniform (and nothing on underneath) swung back and forth, giving everyone below a gander of her ample ass and pudenda.
“Wall-to-wall freaks!” Sharpetta exclaimed, rubbing her hands together greedily. “Er—disgusting!”
“I thought this kinda action was a white thang,” LaTisha said.
“Blame integration, love. Let’s fade to the bar.”
LaTisha stumbled to the bar and sat down on a stool. Sharpetta ordered drinks. LaTisha downed hers with one gulp.
“Lay dead, babe,” Sharpetta said. “Stop looking like Sister Mary Superior at a circle jerk and try to blend in. I’m gonna case the joint and see if I can bust your old man doing the nasty.”
She got up, cocked her fedora, and swaggered away.
LaTisha’s head was spinning. An old tune by the Time, “Wild and Loose,” pounded in her ears. She felt a warm flush spread from her burning crotch to her tingling belly to the tips of her hard nipples to her neck and face.
Then she noticed a man sitting next to her.
Dark and lovely—damned if he didn’t look like Wesley Snipes. Better than Wesley. This guy was stateside and didn’t owe the IRS $12 million either. When she was home alone, in the shower, hot water trickling over her body, tickling her clit—she sometimes fantasized Wesley
was Blade and he was going down on her—
He leaned close, then said, “Hello. I’m Dave.”
“Isn’t it warm in here?” she asked him.
He moved even closer. He took her hand. He touched her knee. He nuzzled her neck.
She pushed him away. What did he think she was? Then she remembered Sam and his fuck pad and Delilah and the rubber doll. She remembered they hadn’t fucked in ages—
Everything was like a blur after that. LaTisha grabbed Dave by his lapels, pulled him to her, and kissed him long and hard. She stuck her tongue in his mouth so deep that he almost gagged. They were pawing frantically at each other—
They were moving across the floor, holding each other tight. They went upstairs. There was a room with a huge waterbed. On it a mass of people in various stages of undress writhed and sucked and fucked. She hesitated—then she kicked off her shoes—
Then everything else. Dave was fumbling with his clothes. LaTisha pushed him down on the bed before he finished disrobing. His dick was out and as hard as Japanese arithmetic. She straddled him and guided it into her cunt and started riding it like Blade rides that motorcycle, sliding up and down, grinding in circles, faster and faster. Cussing and calling on Jesus, she fucked him until a series of orgasmic explosions rocked her world.