In Search of Pretty Young Black Men Read online

  Strangely enough, Lamont and Mercy hit it off. He found her sweet angel face and her quick sailor mouth anomalous. With hand skills that would make Helen Keller proud, she found nine inches of big-headed, perfectly formed Mandingo meat underneath the table and suddenly he didn’t look so square after all.

  In a matter of weeks Lamont and Mercy became a clandestine item. Their secret was shared only with Albee and Vera, who relished the deceit perpetrated on Lamont’s stand-offish, saditty, and ill-cordial wife.

  With Mercy the pressure was off. There was nothing Lamont had to prove to himself. Good, bad, or indifferent, he was everything to her. He knew all about her marriage to Joe Jay Randolph and was confident that he, Lamont Lester-Allegro, was the far better man.

  He did not always feel the same way about Sadikifu. Still. Not after all these years. And he still could not forget the child Maggie had sacrificed for him. But with Mercy he found a refuge from all those things about himself he did not want to see. Maggie, on the other hand, was the mirror.

  He did not know if he loved Mercy as much as he was grateful to her. For that matter, he did not know if he truly loved Maggie. But after so many years of marriage, he had grown accustomed to her, careful with her.

  And although he was adventurous with others, he was, still, always careful. He never spent the night away from home, always showered thoroughly when he got up from a bed other than his own, and always carried and put on the same cologne he left home in. He always checked for cum stains. And Maggie was the only one he did not use a condom with.

  But over the years Mercy grew impatient with and suspicious of the man she could not have completely. Now, more often than not, their sexual encounters at her Malibu home ended in an ugliness not uncommon to mistresses of someone else’s husband.

  “Who else are you fucking?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Other than me and your wife, who the hell else are you fucking, Lamont?”

  “That’s a dumb-ass question, Mercy.”

  “And that’s a dumb-ass answer.”

  “Look, I gotta get home.”

  “I’m sick of this shit, Lamont.”

  “What?”

  “It’s bad enough I gotta share you with that saditty-ass wife of yours, but now I gotta share you with some other bitch too?”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Well then go! And don’t come the fuck back! NIGGAH!”

  And of course Mercy didn’t really mean it. Oh she meant the NIGGAH part all right, but the don’t-come-the-fuck-back was a lie straight from an aching heart. She had truly fallen in love with Lamont, was addicted to him. All of her privilege—her money, her pussy, and her whiteness—could not afford her the one thing she so desperately needed—to have Lamont Lester-Allegro all to herself.

  Months of crying, anonymous phone calls to his house, dog shit on his car handle, stalking, even a serious but ultimately aborted plan to have Maggie killed, preceded the only remedy to her pain. And so, as she stood in his driveway and placed the gun in her mouth, the last thing she thought about was the taste of his dick. Then her nipples stiffened with sudden pleasure, and the blast in her face made her cum.

  Chapter Ten

  “Just take the goddamn gun, Maggie.”

  “I don’t want the gun, Lamont.”

  “Look, with all the shit going on out there you better go on and take the goddamn gun, Maggie Arial.”

  She hemmed and hawed a beat longer, then finally threw her head back with a tad of disdain and tisked…and, of course, she took it. After all, in spite of everything, Lamont was right—with all the shit going on out there, “you better go on and take the goddamn gun, Maggie Arial.” Gang-bangers cruising Crenshaw Boulevard, drug dealers at fruit stands on Pico and Union, and bad-driver uninsured immigrants everywhere—this little two-shot pistol could come in handy someday. And it did.

  But why think about that? Why? Why not think only about how good it was when she was high off Thai stick, liquor, and Luther, and his kisses were warm and familiar—comfortable kisses—sweet, caring kisses; when his touch was gentle and curious, a probing as innocent as a babe and with a knowingness as ancient as forever; when a pastel sun just beyond the terrace was setting, settling in for a good jazz nocturne.

  She savored the smell of him and allowed it—the smell of his youth—to dizzy her and weaken her and reduce her to a youthfulness of her own and a foolishness well deserved.

  And then she thought about when it got good and nasty. She thought about when gently she ran her fingers through the thick soft naps between his legs and his pretty black dick smiled at her with a swell. Hypnotized by it, mesmerized by it, she found the condom that lay just beneath his propped-up thigh. Without blinking or looking away from the thrill ride, she grabbed it and bit at the edge of its packet, spit out the corner she’d torn with her teeth. Then she struggled to open it; fumbled with it the way she’d fumbled with the joint.

  Sparing her dignity, he took it out of her hands.

  “You’re trembling,” he whispered.

  “I know,” she barely answered. “I didn’t think I could again.”

  She watched hungrily as his throbbing snake stood at full mast while he expertly, artfully, removed the moist shield from the foil. While she bore witness with a shortness of breath she was hard-pressed to survive, he then rolled the vibra-ribbed latex over the thick head of his dick, past the circumcision line, and down the thick veiny shaft with a slow, showy deliberateness. All she could think was that she was the glove, naturally moist, being filled by the boy with the dick of a man.

  When finally he entered her, her eyes crossed, her jaw dropped, and her breathing stopped. All of her senses gave holy obeisance to the immeasurable pleasure and damage taking place between her thighs; damage, yes, for after him, she knew, she would never be any good for anyone else.

  And so while he fucked her, fucked her good and long, fucked her up and down, softly and roughly, till her head banged against the backboard of his bed and her eyes rolled back and she sucked her teeth, she found herself wondering through all of this good madness just what had she done to deserve all this? What had she done to be in his arms, in his bed, and have him inside her, fucking her like no one had ever fucked her before? Not since Sadikifu had she been fucked with such intense caring and love and supreme satisfaction. All she now knew for sure was that she owed God one. But she would pray her thanks later. For now she would kick back and sweat funky while being ravaged by the touch and the feel of this beautiful child.

  It was syncopated lovemaking, always just a little ahead of the fourth beat. It was the kind of slow-churning, pop-smacking lovemaking old blues oracles call “stirring the fudge.”

  She wanted it to last forever, even though somewhere deep inside she feared that more of this kind of bliss would kill her. So she cursed him when he finally came and her body trembled again, a series of tiny little tremors, tiny little dances on hot coals that just couldn’t help themselves. She felt herself laughing and crying at the same time, her long nails digging into his sweat-streaked torso as it, too, trembled ruthlessly on top of her.

  And then she could feel the young boy growing inside her once again, growing to full and satisfying manhood. Tears filled her eyes again as she, with desperation, tried to beg off the intolerable pleasure.

  She licked and sucked whorishly at the black nipples on his chest of smoky gold. He whimpered ever so slightly when her licking and sucking became hungry nibbles of that kind of pain one comes to love.

  She was carnivorous. She needed meat. And so with a dancer’s smoldering obsession and with duty pumped with desire she made him grind her from side to side, up and down, slow and around, while she held on for dear life, held on tightly, fearing and wanting deadly bliss. She held on and cracked the whip, strained the bit, and rode him down until they both collapsed in their newly made puddle of stank.

  And then, from out of the sudden still, she, like God looking over t
he created universe on the seventh day, she, bathing in their sweat, pronounced it “good”…“Well done, my son.”

  He was so much better than the fantasy that had been building imperceptibly beyond proportion in her mind. All this touching, cloying, fucking evening she silently thanked her lucky stars. She had found a man-child who had blessedly found her center and filled it to overflowing.

  Dorian.

  Dorian Moore. What more could she have asked for?

  She came again, gloriously, fully. And when she did, she cursed him once again, called him “a mighty good motherfucker!” Then she giggled schoolgirlishly and wondered how a term of such ghetto passion could have escaped her lips, her pristine lips, her saditty, piss-elegant lips. She then let with a deep, graveled vampiresslike chuckle as she lay back just below the square of his chin and deep within dark Hershey’s chocolate arms that glistened and reeked of sweet boyhood stench.

  Elaine had been oh so right.

  “Carry on, Sergeant,” Elaine said real nastylike, in a barely audible gutter growl, when she entered the room. She loved watching him torture his body beautiful with weights and barbells. He looked over at her with a casual smile as he continued to pump his iron.

  She strutted past him and took in a whiff of his intoxicating odor. On the desk in the corner she placed her briefcase and clicked it open.

  “You know, you’re really quite a hit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I haven’t had a single complaint except from those we can’t squeeze in.” She searched high and low for her Gucci-covered checkbook. “I could use three more like you. If you run across anyone half as good as you, have them give me a jingle.” Ah, there it is, she thought to herself.

  “Right.”

  “Oh, by the way, Senator Maharry?”

  “Tuesday, four to six, rush-hour trade.”

  “She went on for days about last week and the Anton Berg cordials. But just remember, she’s back from all that time on retreat—”

  “—read: fat farm—”

  “—so don’t let her do too many of those liquor-filled chocolates. She’ll end up gaining back a ton and blaming it on sex.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks. I can’t believe how much I’ve been running. What with the kids and the parlor and the clients it’s been one mad day.”

  “You should slow down.”

  “Please. I’m just a poor widow trying to eke out a meager existence. I can’t afford to slow down.”

  “Yeah, right,” he smiled wryly without missing a pump. “Angelus is the only funeral home larger than yours, and that’s arguable. You’re making big bucks off most of the people that die up here in Baldwin Hills. A poor widow you’re not. No. You pimp for the sheer thrill of pimping.”

  “So why do you whore?”

  “Because I’m very good at it. Because you appreciate talent. Because you made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “And you were smart enough to accept it. Bravo. It’s good to see there’s more to you than a pretty face and a big dick.”

  She signed the check and left it on the desk. She turned to him and admired his beauty as he continued to flex. She let out a tiny little sigh, then shook her head with a smile. Only a keen business sense trumped her desire to take him out of her stable and keep him all to herself. He was her best. The money was too good.

  “I have someone new for you,” she then said. “She’s a very good friend. And she’s fragile, so make it very sweet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maggie. Maggie Lester-Allegro.”

  “Of the Lester-Allegros?

  “Yes.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Lunch hour at Serenity.”

  “Got it.”

  “She’ll like you. She needs a lift, some joy in her life, some variety.”

  “Well, hey, here I am. Designed to fit every mood and depression.”

  “You know something? You are. You really are. I should give you a raise.”

  “Yes you should.”

  “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I have my own particular mood and depression in need of…fitting.”

  “See? There you go again. Hell-bent on eating up the profits.”

  “That’s right, sugah, and in no time at all, I won’t have a tooth left in my head.”

  So he set down his barbells. She put her checkbook aside. He gestured toward the bedroom. She went in before him. And he fucked her in that special way that made her think of Cameron on the j-o-b.

  Chapter Eleven

  A beautiful baby, he should have been named Onyx. That the adoption was swift was of no surprise to anyone. He was a prize, a golden child. His new parents, Coretta and Malcolm Moore, were devout Jehovah’s Witnesses. So he spent his childhood Saturday mornings not in front of cartoons but “spreading the good news of the kingdom through The Watchtower and Awake! for a small contribution of ten cents.”

  He was always selling something, if nothing more than a smile.

  Everybody at the Kingdom Hall—the entire congregation—called him “mature little Brother Moore” because he always spoke with a comfort and wisdom far beyond his years. His little boy black-as-midnight eyes and his baby dimples and his sweet money smile gave off an old fireplace warmth, and all knew he was blessed when he led them in prayer.

  All also knew that he was adopted. Aside from the fact that Coretta and Malcolm were nothing like him in looks, demeanor, and idiosyncrasies, the gift of a child in the Moore household was much ballyhooed throughout every tract home in Del Amo Hills.

  And something about the mystery of his parentage gave off perfectly imperfect light and the too sexy angelic little boy engendered the vision of low-hanging fruit to more than a handful—both men and women—at the Kingdom Hall. But no one would dare allow such thoughts of carnal idolatry and sainted debauchery to creep out with sounds greater than a deep inner moan. It was all in the looks. They couldn’t look at him without feeling themselves being swept off their feet and in need of catching their breaths and changing their diapers. He had the golden naps of his gorgeous and angry dead father and his real mother’s bush queen blue-black beauty.

  Mrs. McDaniel—his seventh grade journalism teacher—did what others wanted to do but dared not follow through. She went on and tasted him. She used her new shawl to cushion her knees and save her hose when, one day after school, while they worked late on the yearbook, she sucked his fat little dick behind the paste-up table.

  His quiet mystery and beauty caused all to sin in their hearts. Young Dorian Moore was not unaware of this. However, his knowledge was kind and his intentions were never malicious. That too was part of his multifaceted irresistibility: charm, valor, honor, class, discretion, and straightforwardness when called for. He simply went about the business of serving the community in much the same way that he serviced the congregation, with his old fireplace warmth. His black bourgeois clients—secretaries and salesgirls could not afford him—always thought of him to be salvation at a bargain price.

  In L.A. terms, the distance between Del Amo Hills and Baldwin Hills was not so great—the 405 North to La Cienega South—but by the time he was only twenty, Dorian had saved enough to lease a place in Baldwin Hills and leave Del Amo, Coretta, Malcolm, and the Kingdom Hall behind him in the South Bay.

  And it was within the walls of his new and impeccable cantilevered-view home that he set up shop.

  But perhaps “shop” was not the right word. For when the grand and glorious ladies of color came calling it was not like they were shopping. It was more like they were coming to Sunday morning service where the minister prayed over them, for them, and with them. He baptized them and brought them to shouting his name and speaking in tongues. When the collection plate passed in front of them they gladly filled it with weak and breathy thank-yous and went out that day feeling like a c
hampagne brunch at Gaston’s.

  No. It was nobody’s shop. It was a haven. It was heaven. It was Dorian’s place.

  Serenity was also Dorian’s place. It was his office away from home. The elegant décor, soft amber lighting, and secluded, flowered, and candlelit booths, discreetly accessed from the Art Deco bar, invited the sort of sophisticated liaisons Elaine Ramsey and Dorian Moore trafficked in.

  And that’s where he saw her. What he didn’t know could not hurt him.

  Chapter Twelve

  One could have only speculated at the depth of Maggie Lester-Allegro’s immediate devastation when she realized the terrible truth. One could have only guessed. But the only feelings that had, at the time, touched her mind were feelings of deep caring and being deeply cared for, of loving and being loved. After all, everything costs. And yet, his crying and his warm tears and kitten whimpers while she lay cradled in his arms, sending sweet shivers through her body, should have, perhaps, alerted her to something deeper and sicker, something beneath the surface of this all too perfect May-December business arrangement. But no. Truth would come later. Realization would come later.

  Then, Maggie Lester-Allegro was happy being held tightly in his arms. All she knew or needed to remember about that one night almost a year ago to the day was that she had been guided beyond the gates of husband dependency and through the pearly gates of passion and caring by some sweet and lovely young angel that, for some reason, she was never to see again.

  And although she parked herself often on her favorite stool at Nuts ’n’ Bolts with too many drinks inside her—yet held upright by her great bush dignity and bourgeois sensibility—she knew, for some inexplicable reason, that her vigil was hopeless, that it was only to have been that one night and that she was not to see him again.

  If only she could remember the reason why. She had read about it, heard about it, saw it on the news. And now it and he were gone.