Prologue
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you. Can an old man come to
check up on his only son?”
“But you’re dead.”
“You don’t think I know that by now?”
Charles patted his leg on the step and laughed like it was the funniest joke he
ever heard. His eyes crinkled at the sides from his laughter. “They say a dead
man can’t tell no tales. So I came to tell you the truth. But you better listen
up. ’Cause I can’t stay long.”
“I’m bugging,” Chris said aloud and rubbed
his eyes, certain that when he looked at his father again, he wouldn’t be there
anymore. Chris had just left his best friend Melvin’s house and he’d had one
too many drinks. He knew it had to be the alcohol playing tricks on his mind.
“It ain’t the alcohol,” Charles
said and held out his hand. “Touch me. I’m real.”
Chris looked at his father’s
extended hand, but made no move to touch him. He blinked continuously, but no
matter how much he blinked, his father would not disappear.
When Chris was fifteen years old,
a sophomore in high school, he came home one day and found his father sprawled
across the living room couch, the front of his face blown off, brain matter
stuck to the wall behind him, and so much blood that from that day forward,
Chris despised the color red. Chris was now thirty-two years old. His father
had been beneath the ground for over a decade and a half. Skin and organs that
were in his body when they placed him in his grave had decayed and deteriorated
a long time ago. The man was nothing but bones and just a few teeth—the few teeth
that didn’t get blown out his mouth when he pressed the gun to his jaw and
decided to end his life. It had taken some time, but Chris had come to terms
with his father’s death. Had he forgiven him? Somewhat. Had he let go of the
pain and devastation? Some days were better than others.
But whatever the case, his father
was dead. That’s why, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why his
father was sitting on his front steps, wearing the same plaid shirt and
white-washed jeans that he’d been wearing the day he died. The only difference
was his face wasn’t hanging off. He looked healthy, vibrant. Taut, tanned skin,
teeth that had browned a little from years of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and
poor hygiene habits, and his perfectly trimmed goatee, never a hair out of
place. His twinkling brown eyes and his handsome smile that had made many women
swoon and was undoubtedly the culprit of his failed marriage. He looked to be
about forty-two, the same age he was when he died.
“Sit down beside me, son; let’s
talk.”
Just as Charles said those words,
Chris’s wife came soaring into the driveway, her convertible stopping just
inches from hitting the house. Chris and his dad both looked questioningly in
her direction. Angelique jumped out of her pastel pink convertible and all but
pulled Christopher out of the car, rushing toward the house.
“He has to pee,” she explained to
Chris as she hurried across the lawn with Christopher, Jr. already unbuttoning
his pants. “He almost pissed in my car! All that time we spent at the school
rehearsing for that play, and you would’ve thought he’d have the decency to
relieve his bladder there. But no-oooo!
He wants to wait until he gets in Mommy’s leather seats and not say a thing
about having to pee until we’ve passed every convenience store in the state of
Texas! Christopher, Jr. if you pee in your pants, I’ll skin you alive.”
“Hurry, hurry, Mom! I can’t hold
it no more!”
As she fussed, she hurried up the
steps, all but dragging Chris’s son behind her, and the two literally walked
through Charles as he sat there with his chin propped in his hands and a
wistful smile on his face.
Angelique continued walking,
unaffected by passing through a ghost. But Christopher, Jr. paused momentarily
and turned around and looked at his grandpa with a smile. Charles waved at his grandson
and Christopher, Jr. chuckled and waved back before Angelique yanked him in the
house and raced to the bathroom.
“You spit him out,” Charles said,
once Angelique closed the door behind them. “Handsome little rascal. He’s gonna
go far in life. Do some great things.”
Still unsure about the situation,
Chris eyed his father warily. “He looked at you like he knows you.”
“He does know me. I come to him
all the time, him and all my grandbabies. They still have their innocence. They
can still see the other side.”
“So what are you supposed to be?
Some kind of angel?” Chris smirked. “I know that’s a lie. If you kill yourself,
you die and go to hell. So what are you, a demon or something?”
Charles exhaled loudly. “I’m just
your father. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Father?” Chris guffawed and
leaned against his car. “Because you bust a nut in my mother and made four kids
by her does not make you a father.” Chris couldn’t believe that he was talking
to a ghost, but there was so much bottled up in him that he was thankful for
this opportunity to get it out. “You bailed out on her,” Chris said, clenching
his jaw. “I became the father. I’m the one who held her when she cried.
I’m the one who raised my three
sisters. Times got hard, and your sorry ass just checked out on us. Did you
have to do it in the house? We still had to live there, you know? You could’ve
went and drowned your ass in a river or something. But no, that would make too
much sense. That would be too easy on us. And you could never make things easy
on us.”
Charles pushed up from the top
step and his knees creaked. Chris found this surprising. Everything about him
seemed so realistic, from his creaking knees to the piece of lint sticking to
the side of his curly hair. He couldn’t possibly be a ghost, could he? But he
had to be. He was dead. Chris had seen the aftermath of the suicide with his
own two eyes.
“I ain’t get it all right,” Charles
said, sighing heavily. “I messed up time after time after time. I could give
you excuses, but that’s all they’d be. Excuses. I could apologize, but it don’t
take away the pain. Millions of times I’ve asked God—literally—if I can go back
and do it again. But He said nah, it don’t work that way. You make your bed,
you gotta lay in it. It’s consequences to everything. You gotta understand that
it ain’t just your life. When you make decisions, they don’t just affect
yourself. You understand me?”
“Why are you telling me all this?
What does it matter now? Just like you said, you can’t go back and change a
thing. Why are you even here? Go back to heaven or hell or wherever you came
from.”
“Chris, you’re gonna die.”
Chris shrugged his shoulders. “You
ain’t telling me nothing new. All of us got a number. We all gotta go one day.”
“Yeah, but sometimes you speed up
your time. It’s all about choices—”
“Which is what you should’ve
thought about when you took the coward way out.”
For the first time, Charles
raised his voice. “Won’t you listen to me, Chris? I’m trying to save you and I
ain’t got much time left. I came to warn you.”
It was then that Chris noticed
that his father was fading, flickering like a flame that someone was lightly
blowing on. Ignoring his father, Chris popped the trunk and began taking out
the $100 worth of groceries that he had purchased from Womack’s IGA store. With
ten bags in each hand, he walked through his father and felt a cold chill come
over him as he passed through Charles’s body.
“Don’t be like me, Chris. Don’t
be stubborn. Don’t be—”
Chris used his foot to kick the
door shut on his father. As far as he cared, the man could crawl back in the
wooden coffin that he had slithered out of, and choke on his own embalming
fluid.
Inside, the house was warm,
uncomfortably warm.
“Baby, did you turn the heat on?”
Chris called out.
From somewhere upstairs,
Angelique called down, “Yeah, I did. When I got on the steps, it suddenly got
so cold. Like the temperature dropped or something. I got goose bumps. Did you
pick up the ground beef from A-Pointe?”
“Yeah, I got a few other things
too,” he called back, and quickly went in the kitchen to unload the bags before
Angelique came downstairs.
She hated when he shopped at
Womack’s IGA store. The IGA store sold primarily knock-off, generic brands of
food, and she considered the place the “poor people’s grocery store.” He had no
problem shopping there and felt that he got three times the food with the same
amount of money than shopping at A-Pointe. Moving fast, he unloaded the goods,
balled up the grocery bags, and stuffed them into the bottom of the trash.
He moved over to the deep freezer
to pack in the frozen food items he’d bought, and nearly jumped out of his skin
when his father suddenly appeared at the kitchen table, sitting in one of the
cushioned dining chairs.
“Dammit, Daddy,” he whispered
fiercely. “You’ll have to chill out with that mess before you make me have a
heart attack. Go away! Isn’t there some rule that if I tell you to go away, you
have to disappear?”
His father was already fading so
much that Chris could look through his body and see the beautiful mounted
bronze butterfly art piece behind him on the wall that Angelique had paid
nearly a fortune for.
“I can’t go until I warn you,
son. I came for no other reason but to warn you. If you chase after her, you
will die.”
“Chase after who?”
Now, not only was his father
fading visually, but his voice was fading as well. It sounded as though he was
speaking to him from the other end of a fluted cone. His voice was tiny, barely
audible.
“Pay attention to the man…”
“What man?”
“The man in the shadows… He’ll be
in the shadows…”
Irritated, Chris flung the frozen
veggies into the deep freezer, then turned to face his father. Instead of
facing his father, he was face to face with his wife, and she was looking at
him like he needed to be admitted to a mental ward.
“Who in God’s name were you
talking to?”
Chris shrugged his shoulders.
“Myself.”
Angelique didn’t seem convinced.
She rolled her eyes and walked to the table, then picked up some canned beans
he’d bought. “PorkaPorkin’ pinto beans? Really, Chris? You’ve been shopping at that cheap store again?”
Chris pecked his wife’s lips.
“Babe, you know this is my week to buy groceries, and money is tight. I still
have to put gas in the car.”
“Well, you should’ve just said
something. I would’ve given you the money—”
“I don’t need your money.”
“It’s not my money, it’s our money.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need ‘our’
money,” Chris retorted with plenty of attitude.
Angelique sighed as she washed
her hands at the sink, then popped open the package of ground beef. As she
seasoned the meat, she asked, “How’s your job search going?”
“It’s going.”
“Your breath smells like liquor. Let me guess, you went to the bar with Melvin.”
“Maybe.”
She huffed. “What’s up with the
attitude?”
“Long day,” he called over his
shoulder as he swept his shirt over his head and raced up the stairs to take a
shower. “And I’m not hungry. I already ate.”
In the bathroom, his father
appeared once again. But this time, he was so faint, he was more like a mist
sitting on the toilet than an actual person. This time, his father didn’t budge
or even look up from the tiled floor. Just before he disappeared entirely, he
looked up at his son with forlorn eyes and whispered two words: “I tried.” Then
he vanished.
Shaking his head at the absurdity
of the whole situation, Chris stepped into the warm spray of the shower and
made a solemn vow. “I’m retiring from drinking.”
After that day, he still took a
few drinks here and there, but nothing heavy. He never saw his father again. Not
on the steps, not at the table, not in the bathroom. But he never forgot his
father’s warning. And he never went a day without paying attention, very close
attention, to anything that moved in the shadows.
Chapter One
“Melvin,
do you see dead people?”
“Hell
yeah, every day. You ever seen those women walking around with that foundation
on that’s two shades too light? Face look like Olay and neck look like Oh-no. I
call it funeral makeup. Look like they supposed to be in a casket.”
“Melvin,
I’m being serious.”
“I’m
being serious too.” Melvin chowed down on a sprinkled, chocolate-iced
donut—which was his sixth donut in the past ten minutes—then said with his
mouth full, “I’ve been working on this joke. Tell me what you think about it.”
Without sparing
his friend a glance, Chris continued to vacuum the passenger floor of the black
and chrome Cadillac Escalade, pressing the lever to squirt out a layer of foamy
Rug Renew before sucking it up with the angled vacuum head. He had just
finished the passenger carpet and was moving over to the driver side when
Melvin pulled the plug on the vacuum.
“Man, what you
do that for?”
“That vacuum
cleaner might be loud, but it ain’t that loud. You heard what I said.”
Chris pointed at
the three other sedans and the two SUVs that they hadn’t even touched yet, the
ones that had been repossessed a few days ago and were still full of trash,
crumbs, and other debris. “Do you see how many cars we still have left to do?
And I got to leave at two for an interview. Save your jokes for another time
and let me do my job.”
“An interview!
You ain’t tell me nothing about an interview,” Melvin said, walking over to his
friend and giving him a heavy thud on his back. “So what kind of job is this?
You’re gonna be a computer IT, or some crap like that? Somewhere where you’re
making a little more money than the chump change I’m putting in your pocket?”
And he wasn’t
lying when he said “chunk change.” He paid Chris forty dollars per detailed
car. On a good week, like this one, that meant a total of fifteen to twenty
cars and a measly check for $600 - $800. Eight hundred dollars wasn’t enough to
pay a quarter of the mortgage on his two-story, cobblestone and paneled French
country house. Six to eight hundred dollars a week, or roughly twenty-five
hundred dollars a month, seemed like a slap in the face when just two years
ago, he was bringing home monthly paychecks that always had three zeroes behind
the leading double-digit number.
After investing seven
years of his life into TCP Robotics Research, and coming up with several
technological advances that had landed the company numerous international
contracts that stretched from Toronto, Canada all the way to Sydney, Australia—then
to be called into the office and fired because they had to cut their staff in
half? To go from being a computer engineer specialist to a…to a car detailer in
his best friend’s backyard? It was more than embarrassing for Chris—he’d rather
have two baby nuts and a pinkie for a penis than to deal with this bull.
“So what kind of
interview is this?”
Chris’s eyes
dropped to the vacuum cleaner in his hand and he pretended to be completely
engrossed by the black and orange lettering on the 500 watt machine. “I’d
rather not talk about it. If I get the job, then I’ll tell you. If not, then it
really doesn’t matter, does it?”
Melvin looked at
him strangely, realizing that it was something more going on with his friend
than what he was letting on, but he decided to let it go. “Anyway, so let me
tell you this joke I’ve been working on—”
“Melvin, on the real, I’m not trying to hear
another one of your tired ass jokes.” As soon as he said the words and saw the
hurt expression flash across his friend’s face, Chris quickly said, “I’m sorry,
man. I didn’t mean it like that. Say the joke. And I swear this better be
funny.”
Melvin held the
orbital polisher and leaned against the burgundy PT Cruiser, one of the
worse-for-wear cars that they hadn’t even begun detailing. He performed a
magical feat and stuffed the last chocolate donut in his mouth, downing it with
just two chews. Then he cleared his throat, which meant that he was getting
into character for his comedian act.
“A’ight, so a
man walks in the bar and sees a gorgeous woman sitting alone, sipping on a
martini. He asks her if she’ll sleep with him, and she says, ‘How much you
offering?’ So he tells her that ’cause of the recession, he just lost
his job and he’s a little hard up right now. She calls him a scrub and tells
him to keep it moving. So he sits at the bar beside her and watches three other
men try to get at her, but they’re all hard up on cash too. Finally, they’re
the only two at the bar and she asks him what time is it. He says it’s a quarter
to eleven. ‘Eleven?’ she exclaims. ‘I’m usually in bed by this time. But if I
ain’t in bed by midnight, then forget it, I’m going home.’”
Always the one
to crack up on his own jokes, Melvin doubled over the car, clutching the hood
while his large belly jiggled with every laugh. It took Chris a minute to get
the punch-line, but once he understood it, he simply lifted his eyebrow and
gave Melvin a half-smile—one that was more pity than humor.
“That was funny,
right?”
“It was all
right, man.” Chris gave his friend dap. “But keep perfecting your art. The
worse thing to do is to take the stage, tell a punch-line, then hear the
crickets chirp.”
“Yeah, like what
happened last time, right?”
“Right,” Chris
said with a nod, recalling the last time that Melvin begged to be the opening
act at a concert only to receive bored stares, a chorus of boos, and the
persistent request to “Get his fat ass off the stage!”
“I’ve been
trying to hone my skills, you know? Steph got me this gig at a sport’s bar that
she’s gonna be bartending at this weekend, and I really wanna make a lasting
impression. You coming to see me in action, right?”
“You know I got
your back. But here’s what I recommend.”
“What’s that?”
“One thing that
tends to go pretty well with a crowd is to make fun of yourself. All the great
comics have done it. If you’re short, crack jokes about your shortness; if
you’re ugly, crack jokes about how ugly you are; and if you’re fat—”
“You
calling me fat?”
“—then crack
jokes about your fatness. It’s a way of letting the crowd know that you got
this flaw, and instead of them laughing at you, they can laugh with you. You
feel me?”
“My dawg.”Melvin
did an about-face, then saluted his friend. “See, that’s what I like about you.
You seem to know the solution to everything. So tell me this; what’s the
solution to getting Stephanie to like me how I like her? I ain’t just trying to
smash, either. I’m really feeling her. I want to tell her, but…I don’t know how
to deal with rejection—which is something your pretty-boy, muscle-packed ass
don’t know nothing about.”
Chris shooed his
friend’s accusation away. He got that a lot, being called a pretty boy. Maybe
it was because of his toasted-almond complexion, or his jet-black long
eyelashes and eyebrows that were naturally arched. Some said it was his low-cut
hair that had more waves than the oceanfront. Others said it was something
about his lips, his almost naughty smile. And then, of course, it was his 6’2”
frame that housed not an ounce of body fat, and was covered from neck to calves
with defined muscle tone. He knew he was a handsome man—back in the day, he
used to be a bit of a ladies’ man—but he never considered himself a pretty boy.
However, he had
to admit that he was a bit surprised that Melvin was feeling Stephanie like that.
The kind of women that Melvin usually tried to talk to were women with low
self-esteem: overweight, unattractive, missing teeth, old enough to be his
mama—the distasteful list was seemingly endless. But Stephanie? Stephanie was
built like a brick-house with an hour-glass figure, light brown eyes, and a
flawless bob haircut that fit her heart-shaped face perfectly. Though she oozed
feminine beauty, she had a classy tomboyish demeanor that kept the drooling men
at bay. She was the type of woman who could kick it with the fellas and easily
fit in.
Up until this
point, Chris always thought that Melvin found her attractive but assumed he had
placed her name at the top of his unattainable, never-in-this-lifetime list.
“Kiss her.”
Melvin’s eyebrow
shot up high. “What you mean, kiss her?”
“Kiss her with
confidence.”
The way Melvin
was looking at Chris, it was as though he was speaking a foreign language. “Of
course, she’s going to slap you. But she likes you, Melvin.
She likes your personality. You make her smile; she even laughs at your corny jokes. And if you kiss her with confidence, controlling the kiss and
coercing the kiss, that’s your unspoken demand for her to recognize you as
something more than just a friend.”
Though he was
standing a car’s length away, Melvin seemed to be on another planet as his eyes
took on a faraway look and his lips perked up, giving practice kisses to the
air. His tongue darted out, whipping around in a circular motion that made
Chris cringe and force back a gag.
“No tongue,”
Chris added. “For first kisses, tongue is tacky. Just lips, your hand on her
chin, holding her face still, and your body close to hers, but not touching—not
touching unless she steps forward and flattens her breasts against your chest.”
“Damn,” Melvin
whispered, still lost in his fantasy world. He shook his head, shaking himself
away from the imaginative stronghold of his thoughts. “No wonder Angelique is
so crazy over you. You know your stuff.”
They exchanged
dap again, then Melvin turned on the polisher and Chris plugged in the vacuum.
As he finished vacuuming out the Escalade, Chris couldn’t stop thinking about
Melvin’s words: “No wonder Angelique is so crazy over you.” Boy, if Melvin only
knew the truth. But he hadn’t let Melvin in on the ugly reality of his marriage.
The truth about
his marriage was that it was falling apart worse than wet tissue paper.
Chris had no doubt that financial woes were to blame. Every place he put in an
application, he heard one of two things: either they weren’t hiring, or he was
overqualified. It had gotten so bad that he’d even put in out-of-state
applications online—and actually got an interview that offered him the job on
the spot, under one condition: they’d have to move to North Carolina. Of course,
Angelique had refused to relocate, saying, “No one wants to move to that
country bumpkin state. That’s where people go to retire and babe, I still have
a year before I turn thirty...I’m staying right here in San Antonio, Texas.” So
he’d turned down the job and continued to search for employment, while she
continued to do the same. It didn’t take long for the unemployment they had
been living on to run out; and then suddenly, they had to start figuring out
how to turn twenty cents into twenty dollars—it had went to hell in a
gasoline-drenched hand-basket from there.
Angelique had
stubbornly refused to downsize her lifestyle, even though they both had lost
their jobs during one of the hardest economic times in years. He had
recommended that they let the house go, suffer the loss, and move in with his
mother or one of his sisters until they could get back on their feet. But when
he made that suggestion, she reacted as though he had cursed her out. She was
determined to live in their posh neighborhood where each home was either a
French country house, or had a Mediterranean or Italian flare. She still wanted
to keep their luxury vehicles, and continue to shop at the top-notch stores and
bombard their son Christopher with new toy after new toy—regardless of the
price. She was determined to continue keeping up with the Joneses, despite
their hardships. And for that reason, she made Chris feel inadequate. Luckily,
she was able to land a sales representative job at an insurance company where
she was making almost the same amount that she had been making at Delta
Airlines. With that weekly paycheck, she alone paid every single bill—the
mortgage, the car notes, the insurance, utility bills. Any time they went out
to eat, she picked up the tab and left the waiter a gracious tip.
And though she
tried to make it seem like footing all the bills and having a “broke” husband
didn’t bother her, her actions and behavior screamed otherwise. The Angelique
he’d known before getting fired was never short-tempered or belligerent. The
Angelique before the termination was his personal freak: she gave him the
cookie anytime, anywhere, and any place. He didn’t even have to ask for it; all
he had to do was give her that look and she was wet and ready. Now, he couldn’t
even remember the last time they’d made love, or even had a quickie for Pete’s
sake. She was always too tired or too sore; her period was on, or she had to
get up early the next morning, or she just wasn’t in the mood. She never had a
short supply of excuses.
After he finished
vacuuming the car and using the compressed air blower to remove any leftover
dirt and grime from the carpet, cushions, and the crevices in the vinyl and
burled walnut wood trim, Chris returned the tools to Melvin’s garage-shed. He
washed his hands in the grit-covered garage sink, then donned his black blazer
and gray and black plaid newsboy cap.
“You gone
already?” Melvin asked as he sprayed down a coupe that was in dire need of a
wax and polish. Chris kept walking and gave him the deuces sign. “I’m only
paying you for two cars. That’s eighty dollars. Unless you come back
after your interview and help me knock out a few more of these babies. You know
I gotta have these things ready for Old Man Henry by tomorrow.”
Old Man Henry
was basically Melvin’s boss. He was a little white-haired old man who owned
R&R Cars, an auto shop that sold refurbished, confiscated, and repossessed
cars. All the man did was sit in his office and play his guitar. Chris was sure
that once Old Man Henry passed, he’d probably let Melvin take over his business
since he didn’t have any living children.
“No, they’re all
yours,” Chris called out as he ducked into his black on black, customized
Infiniti G. “I gotta go.”
“Aye, man, why’d
you ask about dead people?” Melvin called out as Chris started up the car.
Chris rolled down
his window and yelled back, “’Cause my dad was sitting on my porch steps
yesterday when I got home. We actually held a conversation.”
“But your dad’s
dead.”
“I know.”
Melvin just stood
there a moment, unblinking, then said, “Fool, I knew you was crazy. Get out my
yard, and you better get that job!”
Chris hoped he
got the job as well; and based on how desperate the manager sounded when he
called Chris in for the interview, he was pretty sure that the job was his. However,
there was no way in hell that he’d tell his wife that he’d finally landed
employment as a night-shift stocker at Womack’s IGA store. He decided that if
he got the job, he’d tell her that he worked there, but as a security guard,
not a stocker. And that would be the first outright lie he ever told his wife
since the day he stood before his family and hers and said, “I do.”
He felt some
kind of way about lying to Angelique. His intentions weren’t to deceive his
wife; however, he was at a point in his life where he felt like his well of
options was running dry. He had become a man who was distressed and despaired;
but most of all, he had become a man who was downright desperate.
Not wanting to
think anymore, he blasted his music and rolled down the windows, then out-sang
the newbie R&B artist on the radio, singing at the top of his lungs the
whole ride to his interview.
Two
“And now I introduce to some, and
present to others…Miss Butterscotch.”
I heard the DJ call my name, and no
matter how much I pinched and rubbed my nipples, they wouldn’t stay hard. In a
last ditch effort, I grabbed my chilled bottled water and rolled it across my
flat nipples. They perked up and stood at attention like two missiles.
Satisfied, I put on my shiny black vinyl top and hurried out on to the stage.
The DJ winked at me as he put on a slow, sensual song, and I smiled my
appreciation.
With an alcohol-drenched towel in
hand, I did something that my boss absolutely abhorred. I thoroughly wiped down
the stripper pole—got to be sanitary—then tossed the soiled towel to the DJ. As
I looked around the crowded club at the white men dressed in suits, conducting
“lunchtime meetings,” I licked my lips and tried to choose which one would
offer the most money for a lap dance. I preferred dancing for this crowd
because I didn’t have to bend over and touch my toes. There was no droppin’ it
like it’s hot. These guys liked big titties, not big asses. But one thing they
paid well for was for me to squat over their laps and gyrate my ass all over
their hard little sticks. Or, their personal favorite: straddle them and
suffocate their reddened faces between my fun bags—boy, did they get off on
that. And it suited me just fine, especially since my breasts were natural
triple Ds.
Finding the beat of the music, I
winded my body while massaging and jiggling my breasts. Dollar bills littered
the stage. But I wanted more than flimsy, washed up George Washingtons—I wanted
to see some Benjamins. I could tell the men were captivated by me because they
stopped talking and their eyes followed my every move. Some of them drank
liquor while others leaned back in chairs and discreetly touched their groins.
I felt like a goddess, and I imagined every man in the place as my slave. They
had to worship at my feet. The thought almost made me laugh, so I bit my lower
lip and loosened my vinyl mini-skirt, slowly dragging it down my toned legs.
Prancing around the stage, I
showed off my flat stomach, small waist, and apple bottom. I made eye contact
with some of the patrons before slinging my blonde wig side to side. I
continued making seductive gestures before spreading my legs into a V, then
flipping upside down on the pole while I slid down into a slow split. The men
went wild. They whistled and clapped. More money littered the stage. At the
edge of the stage, I bounced my booty until I felt someone slide some bills
between my crack. Only then did I reach behind me, undid my bra, and flung it
across the stage. I ran my fingers between my ample cleavage and gave a naughty
grin. I knew every guy in the club wanted to do me. Being the object of so many
men’s fantasies made me feel even more powerful and sexy. I liked being in
control.
One man in particular was screwing
me with his eyes. So I descended the steps of the stage and walked over to him
and swallowed his face with my boobs. While I wiggled and jiggled my breasts, his
penis grew harder by the second. He stuck a wad of money into my garter belt,
and the bills felt good pressing into my thigh. After him, I moved over to
another man and slow-winded my ass in his lap. He grinned like an old, balding
pervert and filled my garter belt with even more bills.
Noticing that the song was about
to end, I returned to the stage and gave everyone a final showdown as I wrapped
my long, slim leg around the pole and swung my body around until I slid down to
the floor in a provocative position. The song ended, and I collected every
crumpled dollar and gathered my clothes off the floor before leaving the stage.
I went straight to the dressing
room to count my money. Some of the other dancers were in there touching up
their makeup, styling their hair, and adjusting their costumes. I counted out
fifteen hundred dollars and stuffed it in my Prada bag. Not bad for four hours
worth of work.
Quickly, I changed into a pair of
tight jeans, gold top, and open-toed, high-heeled, rhinestone sandals. When I
went to pay the DJ, he grabbed my arm and whispered, “You need to stop playing
and let me get your number, Butterscotch. Your husband can’t wax that ass like
I can.”
He always did this; try to flirt
with me, even though he knew his flattering attention was headed down a dead
end street. The only time he tried to talk to me was whenever our boss was not
around; but when Dexter was present, the DJ would jokingly whisper, “Let me
leave you alone because there goes your boyfriend.”
I don’t know why he called Dexter
my boyfriend. My relationship with my boss was strictly about the business;
even though he was a piece of dark-chocolate eye candy…and you know what they
say about dark chocolate. It’s good for the body.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said
to the DJ, handing him his cash. “And find me another song like the one you
just played. I liked that song. You see how it had me grooving.”
“Girl, you had me so hard
watching you dance…”
I ignored him and said bye to
everyone, put on my designer sunglasses, and left the club. I couldn’t be late
picking up my son from kindergarten.
As soon as I got in my Lexus, I
flung my purse on the beige leather passenger seat. I felt free as I rode down
the highway, thinking about my place in life. Seven years ago, I graduated from
Texas A&M University with a degree in International Business. Chris and I
got married a year later. Not long afterward I landed a job as a marketing executive
at the airport. I loved my job, and I worked there for five years. Then the
recession hit, and I got downsized out of a job. The timing couldn’t have been
worse because my husband got downsized too. We had some savings, the equivalent
of six months of our salaries in an emergency fund, so we thought we’d be all
right until we found other jobs. The problem was that we didn’t find other
jobs.
A year had passed, our
unemployment had run out, and neither of us had landed new jobs. Not the kind
of jobs we were used to. The final straw came when we were unable to afford our
mortgage. Never in a million years would I have thought we’d be in that
situation. We were hardworking people who stayed on the right side of the law,
paid our taxes and our bills on time. The thought of losing the home we had
worked so hard to get made me feel like a failure.
Stripping was my last resort. I
tried other avenues first, like trying to sell our house. But the housing
market had crashed as well, and there was no way we could sell our home without
incurring a loss. Chris wanted to downsize, but we couldn’t qualify for a new
home without either of us having any proof of income. And if we allowed the
house to go into foreclosure, it pained me to think about how many years of
suffering we’d have to endure while trying to rebuild our credit scores. When
he suggested moving in with his mom or his sisters, I just looked at him like
he was crazy. I had not come this far in life to allow the mat to be yanked from
under my feet. Time was of the essence, and since my husband wasn’t stepping up
to the plate, I worked my way into the adult entertainment business and did
what I had to do.
At first, I felt ashamed of my
profession. Even now, I wouldn’t brag to anyone about being an exotic dancer.
But over the past six months, to my surprise, I’ve come to like being a dancer.
I don’t work at some sleazy, graffiti-covered hole-in-the-wall. Instead, I
landed a job at an upscale gentlemen’s club. Besides the money, I liked the
flexible hours. I worked only three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday
from 10:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. That worked well for me, especially since I never
took home less than three grand a week.
Unlike some of the other girls I
worked with, I didn’t need to drink alcohol or do drugs to get me in the mood
to dance in front of a bunch of strangers. Most of the time I thought about
making love to my husband, or how much money I stood to make just for being
sexy; that made me wet real quick. Something about getting paid to be hot
resonated with me. I felt like a model or an actress. Like them, I put on a
show, and gave the customers what they wanted.
Unbeknownst to my husband, he
actually gave me my stage name. He often commented that my golden-yellow skin
felt as soft and smooth as butter, yet tasted as sweet as butterscotch.
Butterscotch just has an exotic sound to it; that’s why I picked it. Plus, it
goes along with my Puerto Rican and black heritage.
Working the pole came with ease.
Long before I had ever thought about dancing professionally, I put a pole up in
my bedroom and took a pole-dancing class with a few of my closest girlfriends.
I knew how to work it. I just hated keeping this part of my life a secret from
my husband, family, and friends. Rather than telling them the truth, I told
them that I got a job in sales. That wasn’t a complete lie. Technically, I was
in sales. I sold fantasies to men.
Regardless of how messed up all
of this seemed, telling lies didn’t come easy for me. It pained me to my core.
Lying goes against my moral fiber. I think I’m a decent person…at least I try
to be. Even though I understand my reasons for becoming a stripper, I fear the
judgment that’ll come if anyone I know and love ever found out, especially my
husband. He’d be disappointed in me. That’s putting it mildly. He’d be so
disgusted that he’d probably divorce me and seek full custody of Christopher.
And my father, he’s probably
turning over in his grave. Never in this lifetime would he have thought his
sweet baby girl would be doing something so naughty. My mother, if she ever
caught wind of it, probably wouldn’t even be surprised. She wouldn’t hesitate
to drag my name through the mud and utterly destroy my character. The quote
came to mind: It takes twenty years to
build a reputation and five minutes to destroy it. That’s why I strive so
hard to keep my professional and private lives separate. I don’t want people to
confuse what I’m doing with who I am.
Enough with all the negative
thinking; I’m giving myself an anxiety attack. I can’t focus on stuff that
hasn’t happened. Chris doesn’t know, my father is deceased, and my mother is
non-existent, so what am I so worried about? I refuse to be consumed with
intense fear, worrying about what ifs. For now, I’m going to roll with
it…whatever it is.
