Chapter 4
"Nigger fucking again," Helen said.
"Felt great, didn't it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Is that an uh-huh you agree or an uh-huh, if I say so? "Both."
"Okay," Helen sighed, "What's wrong?"
"You felt it and I felt it."
"Felt what?"
"Felt the years peel off.
"Felt like a school girl again.
"For a while.
"Tell me it didn't happen."
"Okay, okay, it happened. So what?"
"Helen, we don't want, we don't need a fantasy. "We need to straighten ourselves out here, in reality.
"And turning back the clock, escaping into the past is not facing today, not solving today, it's running away from it.
"And I, for one, am too damn stubborn to run away from anything, last of all my own problems."
"You saying no more nigger fucking?"
"I'm saying no more kids."
"Blacks grow up fast."
"You know what I mean."
"No, I really don't."
"I mean we are not college girls any more. "We're mature women.
"Mature, successful women who can surely find black cock somewhere else than at the college level."
"Who said the boy was in college?"
"If he wasn't, he should have been, okay? 'Anyway, that's hardly the point. "Let's learn from ourselves, Helen. "We solved the problems, scratched the itch back then using the black cock that was in that world.
"That world is gone. "It's in the past.
"We can never go back there again. "We'll never be twenty again. "So let's find the black cock in our world and leave the post-teen stuff to the coeds. "Deal?"
"Deal.
"At least until you go back to the city." They laughed.
"Tell you what: If we can't find it and use it in our world, you can go back to that one.
"But why live the dream when you can live the life?"
Helen sighed.
"Lead the way, as always, kiddo."
"Hey, have I let you down yet?"
"There's always a first time."
Leroy F. Washington II, esquire. This last because he is an attorney at law. A criminal defense attorney. Except that, at the moment, he is not. Being a defense attorney, that is. He has just completed a case. And inttoduced so many irregularities in the handling of the alleged violation, from illegal search and seizure to mishandling of the evidence that the world will never know whether or not his client was (is) actually guilty. The case was dismissed.
And Leroy's fee, astronomical by some standards, paid without a blink, qualm, or murmur by the alleged importer of powdered happiness.
Who will recoup this expenditure in less than a month.
And who will, no doubt, require Leroys services once more in less than a year. Stupid, Leroy thinks.
Man has made more money than he will ever spend, tax free, most of it, and he continues to live a life of risk.
Ass hole.
But rich, powerful, successful ass hole. So far.
But how long will his luck hold?
But Leroy dismisses him from his mind.
Because he is at a card table in one of the more opulent casinos in Atlantic City.
So that the question before the jury, ladies and gentlemen, is how long will the luck of one Leroy F. (for Francis, his one personal secret) Washington numbah two, and esquire thereof, hold.
Not that he will be hurting, win of lose.
He is winning at the moment, but, should he begin losing, that shit will cease at two thou.
Not that he cannot afford more. Except that he has developed a rule early in life. Which is simply this-To avoid being a loser, you must do no losing thing. And he never has.
Although his judgment has often beer, questioned.
Such as his insistence on dating white girls, back in college.
Appealing to their sense of liberality, to their blatant lack of prejudice.
But there were enough of them worth looking at to make it worthwhile, his going after them.
And, upon graduation, the only thing black in his existence was his law firm.
And, of course, their clientele.
At whose problems, he became expert.
And this too carried its rewards.
Not only in salary and fees, not only in partnership (accepted, with a view to being on his own as quickly as possible), but in other ways.
The grateful pimps, only too happy to provide him with a sample of their finest white meat of the moment, over and above his ever-increasing fees.
But Leroy was a climber.
A climber and a joiner.
The bar association quickly spotted the personable young lawyer and needed a minority in its various official slots.
And Leroy proved himself an admirable technician and administrator and an excellent social functionary as well.
In fact, it was at a cocktail party at a judge's house that he met the cool, blonde legal secretary who was to become his cool, blonde-and legal-wife.
So that a goodly chunk of Leroy's earnings went into a mansion in which to house her.
And a steady drain was tapped into his income to keep her in furs and jewels and household expenses.
Steady, but not significant.
Because Leroy founded his own law practice, taking with him all the criminal clientele of his old firm.
And, to offset his cool, blonde wife, Leroy saw fit to acquire a warm, blonde mistress.
Whom he established in-a high rise condo uptown, in the city.
Whom he had met, quite by accident, in a courthouse where she was in the process of obtaining a divorce from her husband, an organized crime figure, minor, of Mediterranean extraction.
Who was hardly in position either to object or to provide extensive alimony, considering his then (and present) state of incarceration, having engaged counsel less competent than Leroy at a crucial juncture in his life.
So that the young lady had been quite distraught, and looking quite lovely, in fact, considering Leroy's taste in women, almost irresistible, crumpled on a bench in tears, there in the courthouse.
So that lust, masquerading as compassion, had resulted in a love-feast, masquerading as lunch, during a recess in Leroy's own involvement there.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But now, he was alone, there in the glittering casino.
Because he wanted to be.
Because every man has his getaway, his relief, his relaxation.
And Leroy's was testing his luck.
So that he, who did not believe in luck, would nonetheless put it to the test.
To see if the powers that be still loved him, notwithstanding that he did not know and did not want to know who they were or what they were all about.
So that he who did not believe in the existence of fate should throw himself, in measured, limited degree, in minor matters, upon the mercy of fate.
Would chance, lady luck, fortune, destiny award him an unnecessary additional prize?
Why not?
After all, he does not gamble with scared money. His money has all the balls, all the confidence, of seven figures behind it.
And, as for the glittering women circulating here and there, well, perhaps there would be one blonde and beautiful enough for him.
Who would or would not turn out to be a professional.
Meaning either a whore or a gambling groupie.
Who would either charge him outright or accept a gift or perhaps merely hit him up for a champagne supper and a room for the night at the hotel upstairs.
And if she charged, fine; and if not, also fine.
And if he found nobody like that, or vice versa, that was okay, too.
He would either avail himself of a room there and get a good night's sleep or head back home or to the condo, a choice of sure things, the one a physical technician, the other a creature of passionate response, either of them ... adequate.
And now, he is winning.
"Twenty-one. House pays."
House pays.
House has been paying.
But even this has begun to lose its glow for him.
And the dealer, and the floor supervisor, are not sorry to see him pick up his chips, toss one of large denomination back at the dealer as a tip, and vacate the table.
They enjoy, they need good players, but enough is enough.
Because his publicity, his encouragement value has been exceeded by his winnings.
And Leroy takes a check father than cash at the payout window, waiting as the cashier copies information from his driver's license.
And only then turning toward the bar, tucking his billfold into the pocket of his dinner jacket.
He seats himself, alone, at a booth.
The waitress comes over and takes his order.
And he surveys the bar.
And notices not one but two, count them, two blondes assembled to the Leroy Washington specification.
Briefly, self-mocking, he raises his eyes to the ceiling, asking, What are you tryna do, turn me into a true believer?
And it is true that fate (or is that Fate?) does seem to be going overboard to convince him of an active benevolence at work in the world, where he is concerned.
And operating, in his behalf, for no discernible reason.
Whatever it is, it certainly cannot be a moral force.
He has both wife and mistress and has built a fortune defending men who, for the most part, would be worthy of only the most extreme effects of divine wrath, if such existed.
And he along with them.
That is, if there were any such thing as justice.
But, fortunately for him, there is not.
There is only due process-an administrative, political, pseudo-logical, artificial technology of which he is a master.
Due process, his stock and trade.
And the rewards of same, he adds, raising his glass to the two big blondes, who raise theirs at him in return.
And it is only as he gets up and advances toward them that he notices that they are neither hookers nor gambling groupies.
Because they are wearing plain, black cocktail dresses, one in watered silk, the other in satin.
But there is no flash to them.
They wear small earrings and strands of pearls, but nothing else by way of artificial adornment.
And wedding bands.
Real ones, conservative in cut and size of stones. "Ladies, perhaps you would care to join me at my table."
Without hesitation, they pick up their drinks and follow him.
The bartender looks up at the movement and Leroy says, "Close their tab and have it sent over, please."
"So, ladies, what brings you to this den of iniquity?"
"Iniquity," Cynthia replies, simply, looking him in the eye over the rim of her glass.
He smiles.
"As sport, as pastime, or as profession?"
And, lest they think him accusing them in a nice way of being whores, he adds, quickly, "I'm a lawyer myself and iniquity is very much a part of my profession."
'And you're on duty now?" Cynthia asks. "No, no.
"Iniquity is also a pastime for me.
"That is, if you are one of those who consider gambling a form of iniquity."
"Only for those who can't afford it," Cynthia replies. "For those who can, it is, as you say, merely a pastime."
"Ah! So then, you're here to indulge in your pastime."
Meaning, you are obviously not whores, obviously women of means.
"No, we're here for sport."
And he notices that Cynthia's companion has difficulty swallowing her latest mouthful of Baccardi cocktail.
Cynthia and Leroy ignore her.
"And just what sport might that be, if I may ask?" he asks, sipping from his glass.
"Nigger fucking."
And Leroy proves himself a master of self control, as he manages to smoothly swallow and put his glass back down quietly.
"I see."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes.
"You wish to avail yourself of the world's facilities."
"Exactly. Do you?"
"More than you could possibly know," he replies.
"And, uh, the fact that there are two of us?"
"Shee-it! Whut ch'all be talkin"bout! Buck niggah stud lak me, ah be han'lin' me ren, twenny hot white poontang lak y'all, don' make me no nevah mine! Yowzah, yowzah, yowzah!"
And the three of them laugh.
"At this point," Leroy adds, "I customarily go into my tap dance.
"Regrettably, the floor is carpeted."
"That's okay," Cynthia replies, "we can skip that part."
"Well then, shall we?" Leroy asks. "Let's."
And Leroy signals for the tabs.
I do not disappoint.
That is the phrase that jumps to Leroy's mind as he strips.
And sees with pleasure that their eyes widen at the sight of his long, thick, black whang with its plum-like, dark pink head.
Take a good look, ladies, he thinks.
Because that part is worthy of the darkest of the African jungles of their minds.
So that they must think (over the years, several white girls of the pseudo-intellectual variety have told him this) that his cultured speech and manners are only a veneer of civilization.
And that it is the truth about himself, his own true self, in fact, that juts from his bush, an obscene revelation.
Which is potent beyond belief.
Which carries with it the wild, dark mysteries, the erotic power and secret sexual strength of the dark continent.
They are looking at the Root.
And Leroy?
He is looking at the voluptuous white flesh of two more examples of that which he has always desired, that which the world has ever hastened to easily provide him.
And yet, he has never taken it for granted, has never been unimpressed.
On the contrary, it is the same thrill that he has felt since his youth the first time new white nookie falls to him.
And since there are two of them, he is doubly fascinated, doubly excited at the prospect of what is to come.
Helen is on the huge bed, from which she has quickly stripped rhe covers.
And he is beside her, holding her in his arms.
And now, he begins to travel down her body, lips and tongue finding all sorts of exciting places on her neck.
And now, he is sucking and fondling a breast.
And Helen feels the glow begin deep in her abdomen, as the initial flashes of sexual lightning zap downward from the stiffening nipple.
And she thinks, Cynthia is right.
Because this is not some greedy, hungry boy grabbing what he can, reveling in his incredible luck at landing a white beauty who, for whatever reason, has been convinced (tricked? mesmerized?) into surrendering to him.
And rushing in his haste to bring things to their final, glorious denouement before he wakes up and finds it a dream or she wakes up and wonders what the hell she is doing in bed with this nigger.
No, he is calm, self-assured, expert, as lips and tongue and mouth and hands and fingers do their work of arousal.
Helen is nor aware of his full drill, but she knows that he skips no steps, leaves nothing out.
He is as thorough, as deliberate as he is calm.
And the salami may be the Great African Root, but the technique is Rudolph Valentino by way of Casanova.
Latin lovers be damned, this one is pushing all her buttons!
And now, he arrives at the button that counts most.
And his tongue works its magic on her joy buzzer.
So that what it has felt in sympathy to arousal elsewhere now blooms in full intensity, now that he has arrived there.
And Helen feels herself aroused to a degree that, other times, other places, she has only felt after a cock is in her, doing its thing full force.
So that, when he does actually mount her, when his long, thick, hot, vibrant meat does fill her pussy, even stretching it with his bulk, she is in ecstasy.
She twists and writhes, moans and shrieks her sensual delight.
And she does not know and does not care that Cynthia is seated there, on the edge of the bed, watching her, watching the action.
Cynthia is fascinated.
Because technique does not end with insertion, in Leroy's case.
Rather, it continues, as his hands reach around and under Helen.
So that her rictus of delight is punctuated, accentuated by a hand here, a finger there, supporting, delving, activating.
As though he knows where all the points, the triggers of delight on her body are to be found.
And it is only after a good quarter of an hour of this manipulation, accompanied at all time by the action of his mighty piston, that he scoops her thighs up from underneath.
Thus turning her into a package of voluptuous, sex-maddened flesh, concentrated on the great prong inserted at its base.
So that he possesses her completely, seeming to envelop her from without, surrounding her, even as he continues to shaft deep into her innermost self.
And Helen cannot be sure afterward where his head was at.
She has known lovers, men expert in the techniques of sexual arousal, before.
But, at a certain point, there was always, always their abandonment to their feelings, to the flood of sensation, to raw passion. Except in this case.
Because, even as she rises up the rainbow because of what he is doing, how he is doing it, she has no sense of accompaniment.
But, such is her sexual fever, her erotic, lascivious, intimate passion and arousal, that she does not care.
She cares only tor the feeling.
And the feeling and the feeling and the feeling.
Within her.
Filling her to overflowing, radiating out beyond her.
Making her hotter and hotter, the pressure within her greater and greater.
So that she finally explodes in the incandescent glory of her raw passion, the reflexive spasms of her multiple orgasms milking his thick, working pole of its load.
And finally, when she comes back down to earth, she looks into his dark, handsome, smiling face.
And only a few beads of perspiration on his forehead shows that he has even been there.
That, and his big cock, that he deftly slides out of her streaming cunt, thereby breaking the connection.
And in fact, he has not even worked up a good sweat.
So that, while Helen showers, he has but to wash his heavy equipment at the sink.
And Helen returns to the bedroom, drying off, only to see that he is midway through the ceremony with Cynthia.
Whose rhythmic grunts of sexual satisfaction are elicited from her with each mighty, inward, controlled thrust of the great, black prong.
And Helen knows exactly what Cynthia is feeling as she checks the side view, to see Cynthia's complexion ruddy with the blood of her sexual arousal, as are her breasts and upper body.
And she sees the flexion and release of Leroy's muscular, prominent buttocks as he ploughs away into Cynthia's juicy, responsive cunt.
And there is something of dja vu here as Leroy gathers Cynthia's big thighs from behind and braces himself against them with his arms as he continues to hump away.
And now, he is driving her all the way home.
And Cynthia's little cries of delight echo flatly in the luxurious suite as Leroy takes her to their shared climax.
Yes, Helen gives him that much-at least the climax is shared.
But she knows that, within that well-groomed, well-kept black body with its formidable sexual equipment there is a brain as dispassionate, as calculating, as manipulative as a computer, if and when a computer is designed of such exquisite complexity.
But perhaps Cynthia is right.
And perhaps not.
Because this was the same thing, him versus them, as they have done with the kids.
Drive them crazy, up the wall, give them a sexual experience unparallelled in their lives-and walk away.
She knows that he is prepared to do exactly that with them.
But then, she reasons, perhaps this is as it should he.
Perhaps this is what mature swinging is all about. And now, as his spurts and Cynthia's orgasmic spasms subside, Helen cannot help but reflect that perhaps this is what maturity itself is all about.
Because people use, have always used each other.
And this is what fucking is, biologically, all about.
But this, this is too cool and calculating for her taste.