PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION ~ BOOK 1 ~ TEASE ME A SULTRY ROMANCE & PULSE POUNDING THRILLER DISCLAIMER: SENSITIVE MATERIAL 21+

1 BITCHES & BASTARDS

an Francisco’s disturbing evening. She wanted to murder her husband S not because she wanted to patronize the head of his fuck stick, but because if he lost the billion-dollar empire to a tramp she hated, he had no room to love her, the silvery gray-haired woman whined frequently. Secluded in a sprawling bathroom, a crackling fireplace, marble and stone, boasted grand amenities. With their faces concealed, two-pleasing-to-the-eye women mounted together under a showerhead amid steam, peering into each other eyes as their tongues drugged in each other mouths. Though the steam thickened, one could see through the frosted shower glass, silvery gray hair and a milky complexion from one of the women when she pressed against the shower stall, tilting back. Her mouth widened as drawn-out moans escaped. An occasional jolt came from the brunette, who knew her lover wanted to put her husband in a wooden box. Her dark, glowing arms didn’t care much about her lover’s murderous intent, pleasing her lover with her tongue was what she came to do. She knew that soon she had to carry out the boss lady’s plan for the night. The brunette’s tongue slid down her lover’s cleavage, giving herself freely in the passion of her breasts. Her wild tongue traced down to her belly button until the steam hid her tongue. She stroked the secret flesh between her lover’s thighs. The gray-haired woman held something, lashing her arms against the glass door. For a moment, she sobbed about her shrewd husband, wanting it to be

Victoria A. Young a nightmare. It was too real. Real as tonight would be when she invaded the country club he delighted in and caught him in indecent exposure. He’d then realize bitches and bastards couldn’t both murder on the dark side of midnight, only one could have the upper hand. As the shower became her sanctuary, water crashed against her full breasts, offering her time to probe her thoughts, how her lengthy marriage was a one-way ticket to misery. When she dropped the washcloth, she began caressing her lower, inner thigh, directing her lover’s head movement. Soon, her cunt went wet. She spoke about how her cunt couldn’t call her husband each time they made love, enough to keep him home. The wetter her cunt got the angrier she became. Nothing was sensuous about the thrilling squeal she released. She jerked away from her lover. “Just anticipation of the orgasm he’d give me if he’d come home.” Then she waved her away. “Place it under the seat. We meet up later,” her English accent said. “Sure, boss lady,” the brunette said, and left the bathroom. Suddenly, the scream of death came forth. Blood plunged to the shower floor, curling with the water down the drain. Her shout mixed with laughter and deceit as three finger digits collapsed near the drain, sharing space with the blood. Minutes later, she jumped from the shower. Still, her face hid. Most of her bathroom toiletries read Chanel. Film noir music played in the background as she donned her merry widow. At the lowering points of the music, dog barks burst, and then whimpered. She cared less about the dog whimpers compared to her forbidden thoughts of murder. Passing her lawn with a FOR SALE sign staked in the grass, she wore a long, black trench, and two-inch heels, looking like a man in drag, as she rushed to the garage, trying to control her pounding breathing. She hurled into a 1950s convertible, rose Buick. From under the seat, she hauled up a 2

Passion Whispers an Execution machete her lover had left, embracing it near her bosom. Colder than a whore’s heart, she grimaced. “I should wait until another time before accusing him of cheating. But I should be his star. I refuse to lock away the thought of whom he’s cheating with.” She drove up to a light and paused at the street sign: TENSIN BOULEVARD. The light changed from red to green. She drove a mile into the boonies up to a four-faced veneered country club: EDIRP GOLF CLUB. “Enough of Edirp. She can’t have them all.” From where she stood in the stairwell, she heard voices she resented. “It’s her and him. They can’t have that much pleasure.” She couldn’t believe how he’d betrayed her, and then she shook off the thought and continued up the wooden, three-step staircase from the ground floor. When her anxious ear pressed against the door, it moved open slightly. The pulse of the music behind the door began sounding like moans, phone sex, and a heated orgy. Gawking, she didn’t find the joyous satisfaction she’d thought she would, but she’d been right about one thing from the start. The billion-dollar empire would go rogue. Redness glowed from her eyes. Wagging the machete, she sped off. There was no guilt on her part, just the perfect murder.

Not too much later, she arrived at CRINSON LANE. She gazed up a steep hill. Then stared at a house resembling those Hollywood housewives lived in. A minute passed before she knocked on a white paneled door reading CHATEAU, and releasing a spiteful smile. A woman’s voice from inside said, “Coming.” As the woman’s sweeping footsteps led to the door, a grandfather clock rang, “Cuckoo.”

3

Victoria A. Young

Hours later, evil killed over darkness and walled off a Cape Cod site in the San Francisco boonies. Someone had escaped from the window, breathing heavily and sprinting via the nearby golf course. Hurried breathing grew intense. Bloodied hands dialed a cellphone. 911-background chaos muffled through the cell. Sometime afterward, a slinky, dark detective charged through an elaborate room of the Cape Cod after what seemed to have been a heck of a party. “Fucking foul play. What we got?” “Chief of Police,” a San Francisco uniform police officer blurted. Blood from Brad’s gutted eyeball sockets oozed as he lay faced up, spilling down onto a chalky carpet. Forensics noted a slash across his wrinkled throat. Other than a bluish tinge running over his bleached, naked body, outside flashing lights and wailing sirens drowned out melodious outcries from the nearby CD player. A tripod paused as if it had witnessed a raw deal go bad after the victim and suspects had gotten stoned from an opened bottle of Macallan Whiskey still upright on the table. Whiskey priced at the cost of a yacht. A raw deal had gone bad. On a matchbook near a compact mirror and Chanel ruby lipstick, EDIRP loomed. The glossy kind women love, packed in a fancy onyx tube. After taking photos, forensics covered Brad with a Ralph Lauren whitened sheet. San Francisco police crew radios blurted throughout as forensics continued examining the victim where blood leaked from his pelvis. One officer glanced out the opened window, searching for witnesses or a possible suspect. “Lieutenant’s head gonna screw off with this one. She’s a lucky bitch. I’d like to get her paycheck. Wonder what went through his head before they robbed his nuts.”

4

2 DEATH SENTENCE

ears went by. Ten miles from where Brad’s execution rocked his wife’s Y world, racket emerged from Sutay Prison. It held three hundred acres of wire fencing and a wall caging women who had created heinous crimes. Beyond the wall, shouts of lost souls echoed. Spirits crushed. Murder stood as a way of morality. Warden was mounted in the chamber monitoring three telephone lines. Unlit bulbs showed above lines: State Supreme, Attorney General, and Governor. Close to the chamber, there were two windows. People witnessed lethal injections through these. He addressed his execution team. “Procedures completed?” A guard replied, “Site squad gathered, tie-down crew and backups in position to escort the condemned, boss.”

A distance away, POISETTE CHATEAU twisted, confined in a cell, holding Dolly. Dolly stayed wrapped in a Disney blanket. Poisette’s eyes moved back and forth under her wispy eyelashes. Her pudgy nose met her thin lips as she hummed Mona Lisa, sweat escaped from her tiresome pajamas. At forty-eight, she owned fine hips, shaped thighs, rumpled long, sooty hair. Flipping to déjà vu, she bared a minute of decency. When her brain switched, she clung inside her five-foot-ten stature, disgusted with her brooding appearance. Frequent out-of-body experiences had led her to talk like a five-year-old girl for the last five years. Prison medical staff struggled with her withdrawn tone after she had yelled, “Swiss Alps” in frequent

Victoria A. Young intervals. Hosting this body for years, she became weary about headaches splitting her daily living, unable to remember what she ate, who was telling her to do what, and who was yelling at her. At times, other personalities would shut her out while she waited her turn. No matter how much staff swayed her to up her therapy visits, she couldn’t abandon her headaches, and blackouts would occur. Had ten years of marriage forsaken her enough to murder her husband? Pressing her palms against her eyes and dragging her ripped fingernails down her ivory cheeks, she cursed God. “Why hath thou forsaken me?” Then her hand brushed the wall scribble where darkness blocked viewing. Every night she would whisper, “Drive out a scoffer and strife will go out, quarreling abuse will cease.” Then she balled into a fetal position until the wee hours of the morning. When the guard came to get her from the cell, his flashlight reflected on the wall scribble: NOW THE WORKS OF THE FLESH ARE EVIDENT, SEXUAL IMMORALITY, IMPURITY, SENSUALITY. “Officer, I did not write that,” she said, rubbing her temple. “I am sorry if they think I wrote it. I did not kill my spouse. Lordy, lordy. If I did, I am sorry.” “Run amok. All of ‘em say that,” he said, leading her down the hall. He’d lusted when another prisoner left the bathroom earlier. Her eyes burned when his eyes gleamed. He wouldn’t take his gaze off the new girl. It was unclear why Poisette’s eyes burned. Something in her memory surfaced and her mind began slipping when she saw a pint of open Vodka and ice in a glass under a chair.

PEPPER, another identity, shared the same body with sorry Poisette. Pepper forgot her make-up, mp3 player, and workout penis pump. If a man 6

Passion Whispers an Execution couldn’t get it up, she had a way of fixin’ it up. She hogged wild back to her cell fussing, “Men see chickies as menopausal grouches messed up from gas polyps.” Coming back, she snaked her pump. Her southern drawl mocked the judge when he’d said five years ago, “Poisette’s sentenced to death for killing Brad.” She giggled. “Way to go, chicky, cuz I ain’t kill him, either. Sexperts said sex keep yuh young, busy as a stumped-tailed cow in fly time. I ain’t got time stressing who murder who when tryna get laid. Whaddya lickin’?” Her chirpy tone shook the guard. “Yuh annoying ass.” “Scarce as a hen’s teeth.” She paid him no mind. A voice yelled in her mind; escape bitch, revolt. Pepper giggled at the voice cuz she ain’t know who voice it was other than a bossy female talking jive. It ain’t Poisette. She’s the damnest hum bore she ever did see. What took the case when Poisette fell in a corner and said, “Execution is the mark of the beast.” Pepper reckoned something must’ve flew in Poisette’s Bible, her hollering like a stuck pig. Poisette’s spiritual adviser gave her a Bible when he had come by. He shadowed Poisette. Later faded like a phantom. Puff, the redneck dragon acted like a rapper cuz guards let him smoke in the visiting room when it ain’t allowed. Poisette gotta stop playing possum. Concern herself with testosterone. Go hog wild. If she got her hair done, maybe she’d get a youngin. A man, anybody’s man. Poisette’s D-size boobs creamed Pepper’s crop. At fifty-two, her urge to weave a youngin in her web ain’t weaved fast enough. She held her pump in case security wanna tangle. Sex, drugs, money, and lust was how the game went. Nobody ain’t gonna pass her by. As long as her tweetleedee chugged full, she’d be a drop by when yuh can shugah. Guard said, “Bitches come up in here with all kinda perks. Can’t make it day by day on my lousy pay, and ya always come with some new shit.” He pushed her in shower room. He ain’t sunshine for her cat eyes either, 7

Victoria A. Young she thought. She’d either fish or cut bait. His aged lines ain’t worth charging her energy when she had one life to live. Her ultra-deluxe Parana was a dildo mac. Whoopee! She opened the door then blew kisses. “Darlin’, would yuh get my Egyptian towel?” “Cuz ya got that Bible man who visit nervous with ya friskiness, it ain’t working here. One-second ya pray. Next, bowing for sex. Make up ya mind. Use duh damn towel ya got.” “I do declare, bless yuh heart. Now, do go on.” She slammed the door. Played her mp3 player. Going to the shower, she shindig the twist, and sang the Name Game song, “Shirley! Shirley Bo Birley. Bana fana fo Firly. First two letters ain’t ever the same. Drop them both and say name. Like Fred Fred or Mary Mary. Drop the M’s Mo-Mary. One rule contrary.” Two shakes of a sheep tail, she was done. The guard tap tap on the door. She put on ruby lipstick, turned-out her hair, and then propped her breasts in a bustier making sure they groove dandy for going hog wild. When she flirted out the bathroom, Vodka was gone. The guard took her down the hall, jabbing his club to her derriere then in her ear. “Ya was taught about time. Make-up do nothing. Move, bitch.” He continued, jamming and jamming and jamming his club in her ear.

Booyah. Hit that hit that. KARMA, another personality with an urban, iron fist, notorious and hideous, busted loose as they continued down the hall of hell. Karma, Pepper, and Poisette fought to take over this body. The other scary one beneath them all ain’t know what the hell she wanna do. But die. Karma’s walk prided no shame in her game. The guard tried saying something but changed his mind. Good. Cause when he opened his mouth, his breath smelled like a cougar’s ass. She acted as a manager, prosecutor and was fed up with Pepper’s lusting shit, making Karma sick. Karma said, “All 8

Passion Whispers an Execution

Pepper wanna do was screw, eat caviar, walk around switching her ass, and sucking imported bread sticks.” I had to keep the dimwit in check. Alter swapping at whim sucked when Pepper’s alcohol binge turned her to a whore in a rut, wanting to screw every Tom, Dick, and Harry. Sam’s came into play when she used to barhop, getting drunk, crying how she wanted sexual freedom without being called a whore. “Then keep yo damn legs closed.” Karma tried to make the dimwits—the personalities—have dignity, be responsible, and be somebody. The personalities cringed Karma’s skin when they acted ignorant and didn’t obey her, especially Poisette with her mouse- talking, too-proper nervous ass. “I am sorry. I do not know what to do.” The other alter, weakest of them all, went to hell bubba fuck. When Pepper’s big mouth kept people in trouble, Karma had the urge to kill her. If she screwed up the escape plan, Karma ain’t never getting Dolly a sister. And if she didn’t keep her big mouth shut about the redneck dragon, Karma threatened to cut her every way but alive. And she ain’t backing down. Catching another case ain’t matter. She sliced one throat she’d slice another. Hearing voices gave her the upper hand over Pepper and Poisette. They knew nada and was easy get overs, why she had to be in charge. On a regular, she told them to back off. She ain’t leaving this body till hell ice over. Another bitch about to bitch. Voices came from a rowdy crowd hanging out with three po po punks about fiftyish. Two blacks, one Hispanic. The scumbags wore SFPD badges, waiting for Poisette to die. Capital punishment? The town got funky watching currents electrify people’s fucking skull while police officers, sergeants, lieutenants, looking like Larry, Curly, and Moe with toupees off the hook had nerve laughing. Nearby, a woman wore a black veil. Karma couldn’t see her face. Her 9

Victoria A. Young smoky gear stood out. She muffled to the three stooges then smacked the snot out of them. Bastards probably deserved it. They was either her pimps or she’s a tramp. The tramp bombed out looking over her shoulder for a long time. Karma and the guard continued down the hall. He pushed her into her cell. She jerked at him, ready, in Rocky’s stance. “I don’t think ya wanna piece of me.” She’d take them all on without a doubt. He knocked her down. “Still a badass, huh?” Thanks to Poisette having hissy fits over a man all four bitches about to die. Rambo charged. Karma blocked the cell, going ham. The tie-down troops stepped in. They searched her then gave her a dark uniform. After they secured her with handcuffs, she didn’t let them put leg irons on. Finally. A gurney waited when they entered the execution site. More than one guard struggled to get her on the gurney as the execution crew tried to put heart monitors onto her skin. Mission accomplished. Long tubes linked a needle from a hole in the wall to an IV drip. Warden lifted a curtain. “We’re ready.” And monitored phone lines. A dark priest entered, closed his eyes, and lifted up his Bible. “So the law’s holy and the commandment is holy and righteous and good. Last request, Mrs. Chateau?” Karma’s head tilted. “Touch my cunt you sonova bitch I’ll chew yo scabby throat out.” His eyes ran up his head. He shuffled back and mocked the crucifixion across his chest. She grinned at the Warden. “A blue-blooded bastard.” The GOVERNOR’s light flashed. Warden snatched the phone. The town’s people grumbled. Their impatience broiled. What’s the holdup? Warden rushed, waving at his crew. Halt! 10

Passion Whispers an Execution

One month had passed since the priest was threatened. All personalities claimed none had murdered Brad. A winding road led to wire fencing guarded by security wearing artillery. The torrid sun had escaped and left the evening shrouded with fog, settling like a blanket over a multi-level Gothic structure where barracks housed the insane at RIDGEWAY ASYLUM. The sign joined two buildings forming an archway. One side hosted the females’ quarters, the main building hosted males and the cafeteria. Only the sky could’ve seen the unjust tragedies patients and staff had done at Ridgeway. The wrath of death had grown brutal. The wrath of death would continue as God watched Ridgeway’s curse. Mysteek, a shadowy Siamese looter with the disturbing traits of an antisocial female, roamed the front near a punch bowl and other snacks on site while shut-ins varied their activities. Dark loose fitters, Karma wore. She always did things her way and didn’t give ass on a stick what anyone said. She rested on the main complex of lawn- sculpted hedges when a dark female, Help One, neared. Help One was Poisette’s friend from way back, who visited often, even in prison. “Twenty minutes left. Screw up, and we miss our New York flight. Ya girl on point? Kill all witnesses,” Karma said. Help One nodded. Doped male shut-ins scoped out Help One. Karma’s lopsided head signaled. “Guards checking ya out.” Help One played Mona Lisa from a neighboring music box. She danced to the punch bowl then spiked it with pills. The guards didn’t see what she did. “Viagra cocktail ought to work,” she said to Karma. Who’d think crazies couldn’t get hard-ons after they gulped the punch? A Mohawk man boogied with Help One. Two guards joined. When Help One tired, the patients rooted, giving Karma time to scheme all positions security 11

Victoria A. Young rested. Lateness arrived. A woman out of nowhere attacked the party with a water bucket. “They on fire! Fire, fire, fire, they burning.” No one blazed. Security calmed her. Other patients stumbled around, ignoring. Fire bitches were far from Karma’s plan. Super! The timing met target to cycle freeway to the airport. The fiesta ended. Guardsman fleeted to his post at the main building. Help One fixed her Bluetooth, winked at Karma then trailed him to the arch. She peered ten stories up, cued another black female, bodysuit clad, Help Two, hooking the roof. On the first floor, a glass partition separated Help One and the security from the inside where the receptionist sat behind a desk, gossiping on her cell. Help One’s humdrum kept him entertained as she glimpsed through the partition at the receptionist. “Fifteen minutes left before some dumbass hit switch and outside police ram a sham,” Karma muffled, adjusting her Bluetooth. Help One tilted away from the guard. “On point.” Karma stood, casing. A platinum chain and two hearts crossing on a pendant hurled from her neck. Mohawk gripped the pendant. Dancing, he shuffled chi-ching. Viagra cocktail residue went into progress.

Karma jetted toward the females’ quarters. Down creaking steps, she met a deep-rotted basement’s stench invading like dead bodies waiting in the wall. She whizzed through a dusty corridor. Chilling images packed rusted window bars. Escaping was no longer held in her eyes. She gripped the bars, pressing her head against the rust. Three seconds after she gripped her temple, unable to rationalize why she was behind bars, a shadow crept along the wall. She 12

Passion Whispers an Execution dropped to the floor. Pinning her back against the wall, she began biting her nails, followed by a shallow scream. A dark figure flashed a flashlight and tiptoed toward the path she was heading on, prompting her to escape. Escape. She mustn’t fail. Get out. Snapping back to Karma, she headed upstairs to the other side and met the receptionist behind her desk. Karma eyed the glass partition where Help One was posted, waiting for a progress signal. Security eased away. Help One nodded. “I got a doctor’s appointment. Name, Ms. Whore,” Karma said. Receptionist cut her call then checked an appointment book. “I’m new here…maybe Ms. Whore is listed in another book,” Receptionist said, searching another book. Karma eyes rambled the book faster than the receptionist could cry peas, pies, rumpled shit, then she pointed. “Bam, Ms. Deal right there.” “Said your name was Ms. Whore,” muttered Receptionist. “I said my man screwed whores.” Speeding down the hall, Karma cued Help One. Receptionist trailed Karma. “Don’t tell. I’ll lose my job.” Karma replied, “Learn the twerk.” Receptionist zipped back to her post.

Help One quickened off and headed to the RECORD ROOM. Computers loomed. She locked the door. Jerked from her carry everything bag a tight black jumpsuit and ski mask and changed her clothing. Why she hacked the computer as fast as she did? After Karma knocked on the DOCTOR’s sign door, a male voice muffled, “Come in.” An aged Caucasian stood near his desk. Nearby, flowers bloomed from 13

Victoria A. Young vases atop a file cabinet. “No scheduled appointment, Mrs. Chateau,” he said. She rammed through the files for anything with Poisette’s name. Doctor eyes bobbled. “What are you doing?” “Step back!” she said, shouting into the Bluetooth, “Ten minutes left.”

From the roof, Help Two countered, “Moving in, tenth-floor east.” When she finished hooking the roof with a rope, she tossed the line down to the tenth-floor window ledge then scaled down.

A fight settled after the doctor kept Karma from searching. Vases fell as he twisted his face muscles, and gripped his left arm. “Move, dammit,” she yelled to the others. Help One’s quickened response said, “Data deleted.” Receptionist dashed in, eyed the doctor, and then yelped. Karma punched her down. Help One charged in. She tugged a 36-gauge electrical wire from her stocking then tossed it to Karma. Karma tight-wired the receptionist’s neck. Gagged and coughed, showed no pity. “Tenth-floor female bathroom,” Karma said. They scooted opposite directions. Help One threw Karma a .45 caliber. “In case.” Security hit the scene. The doctor fell, comatose. Receptionist pointed in the direction they broke out. Seconds later, security examined the doctor. Executed. He checked receptionist’s carotid. Executed. Racing toward the stairway, Security called for help from his radio. Meanwhile, in the cafeteria, music shrieked Mona Lisa. Buck-naked patients cranked up their psychosis. Mohawk danced. The fire bitch snatched 14

Passion Whispers an Execution

Mohawk’s pendant. Again, she threw water. His hand clawed into a fist, aiming for her face. By the time he reached her, his hand had opened. He clawed flesh from her arm. Blood spurted. Her nerve-wracking scream excited others’ rage. Others roamed, auditioning for the Walking Dead series. Guards zoomed. Mohawk grabbed a guard’s holster. Hell exploded.

Easing up the stairwell, Security drew his .38 automatic, giving chase to the tenth floor. Stairwell door shut. Pounding footsteps grew. He pressed his ear against the door. Silence. As he eased the door open, the woman’s lavatory door closed. He slunk forward into the bathroom, inching to the last stall. Hunched on the windowsill, Mysteek growled, and then attacked. He jerked her off. In a split second, he kicked the door in and aimed his automatic. Help One gripped mace from her bag. Poof! She missed her aim. He radioed, “Tenth-floor woman’s restroom, 10-4.” “10-32, bitch with a muzzle,” Karma said, aiming her .45 to his head. She shifted to Help One. “I’ll take it from here.” Help One gave her the mace then climbed down the rope to the first floor.

The cafeteria screamed hell. Security lost control of the patients. One guard raced to a metal box. He slammed the alarm. Blasted! Blared! His shouts boomed through his radio, “10-3! Need backup.”

10-3 came over Security’s radio in the bathroom. Karma had roped his hands behind the commode, wrapped a belt around him, hooking him to it. Speeding, she pulled from a bag tape and a cloudy bag. Gloves and an oxygen mask protected her from expected fumes as she sealed off the stall with the 15

Victoria A. Young cloudy bag. She parted his legs with one hand. Poured sulfuric acid down the toilet with the other then grabbed from another bag sodium cyanide and poured that, too. Gasses mixed. Haze invaded. He awoke for a minute. No time to witness anything else, his head sagged. She hurled Mysteek out the window, landing her in a swamp then raced down the building on the rope. In the distance, emergency sirens blasted. Karma and both helpers gassed their motorcycles. Engines revved. Wheels screeched. Karma bolted to the swamp for Mysteek. They raced to highway 101 southbound, heading to San Francisco Airport.

Darkness arrived by the time they made it. Stopping at a nearby river, Karma asked Help Two, “Dolly?” “I forgot her,” Help Two said. “I’m part of another bitch’s mind not wrapped too tight. And ya wanna fuck with me?” Karma said. Help Two’s fist trembled. “Killing wasn’t the plan. We not getting away with it. Whatcha kill him for?” Karma gave her the evil eye. “Why bitches always in somebody’s business when they got no business in my business, and be the first to tell the business? Then ya left Dolly, too? My kinda plotting.” Karma took the bullets from the .45, except one. She shoved the gun down Help Two’s throat. “Now quiz me on what’s fair when ya knew about this flight to New York?” Barrel spun three times. No shot. Karma said, “Wherever ya left Dolly, get her.” Help Two pleaded, “Don’t know where she at.” Sweat poured from her skin. Her eyes shut. Death or pity? Again, the barrel spun. A shot blasted the same time Karma turned around. Help One’s eyes widened. Blood blots splattered. 16

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Help One held clothing for them in her duffle. Karma told Help One to pull the clothing from the bag. Within a second, Help One obeyed. If she screwed up, she’d be next. Karma dragged Help Two to the nearby trees. Blood leaked from Help Two’s arm to the ground. Another shot went off. Karma returned. “Getting Dolly back won’t be a problem.” She and Help One rushed on their clothing. They cleaned their exposed body parts with baby wipes, removing blood traces. Finally, they dumped the motorcycle in the river. Help One gave Karma a female human mask looking like Madonna and raced toward a hill, which she needed to go down to reach the airport. Karma froze, unable to continue the plan down the steep hill. No longer dignified, she plunged to her knees and stood, traumatic, coma-induced. “Not this again. Short term memory won’t let me push her down, cause Karma may surface only to kill me,” Help One said in a low tone. The ringing of a grandfather clock disturbed. Karma nudged her ears. “We gotta go or we gonna get caught,” Help One shouted. After three seconds of torture, Karma roused. They raced inside to Delta Airlines, forwarding to CDG Customs. Karma flashed her fake identification. AP shouted, “Boarding Delta flight 1286 to New York City.” They dashed on the Boing 707’s last evening flight. One mission completed. Karma needed to complete her final one. Sperm made it imaginable. If it fails, unlike whispers of her last execution, she’d welcome the opposition. The plane drifted on the runway. Halted. Thumped. Whistled. It took off, ascending through moving clouds. The full moon shone, exposed.

17

3 BONDAGE

oday, a panoramic view highlighted New York City’s galaxy against the T bloodied cherry sky. The sun’s heat swirled east across the horizon of Times Square, rising over high commercial buildings that boasted stunning architectural layouts. A peculiar prestigious aura welcomed cultures from around the world. People rushed. Theater marquees shimmered like the ghastly lights of casinos in Las Vegas. Car horns honked. Whores solicited, and food shops beckoned. New York’s omen was no different from the sun- bleached corpses left on a battlefield.

SENATOR IVY FLINT. Two days, two damn days, the devil wouldn’t be able to stand this much heat. Yet I sat in the Midtown precinct, puffing an unlit coco blunt, wishing it were a year ago when my bride had said, “I do.” The officer behind the desk filled out a report. I doubted that he could help find her. Still, I gave him all the answers he asked for, even while suspecting they’d just write off Yashani. The situation deserved pause, at least long enough for me to let out my long withheld what the fuck. Whether I should forgive Yashani if she showed up or divorce her, my wife would decide the cornerstone of my heroism. Fury molded my six-foot frame under my plum Adidas sweats. On down days, I sported sweats. Majority of days, a suit was required for work. My diplomatic character may rub some the wrong way. Like any man, an aha moment came like a foot shoved up my ass. Likewise, when people who don’t come from the clouds know damn well perfection’s impossible. Test point:

Passion Whispers an Execution

A man set in the garden was told not to eat the forbidden fruit. His lady dangled her sweet parts near him. Mind you, they were alone. Depending on what size ass you’re into, imagine his agony. How long should he watch her? She bit. He bit. Bit what? A fruit can be anything. Getting this yet? A forbidden act? Assuming logic, we thank the devil for the bite every damn day, clinging to the possibility of repentance. Strategic. I removed my blunt. “Drugs in our marriage were never an issue, sir.” “Mr. Flint, when was the last time you saw your wife?” he asked. “Sir, may I see a calendar?” My dark hand shook. “July eleventh. My sales lady said she went for a salad. Presto.” “And two days you waited to report her missing?” All of a sudden, he’s interested. I’m sure he thought if a man couldn’t control his marriage, he wasn’t worth a damn. “I didn’t trust how a man would judge the matter before figuring out what actually matters mattered. It’s like living in a horse’s ass dealing with what I suspect, which comes down to her personal issues.” Less interested now. “What she had on?” I showed him a red Chanel satchel. “A Chanel couture suit, too.” “Any disabilities, medical, or a mental condition?” I smirked. “It’s sickening how she changes panties seven times a day.” “Did ya’ll get into a fight before she took off?” I shuffled the nearby photos of missing people. “A bit of an argument about how she gave my life meaning, helping me to focus. Now that I want a child, she’s backing out.” He raised. “We got all necessary info. Can’t promise nothing. After a person’s missing for four days, we end our intense search,” then whispered, “that’s between me and you.” I directed his attention to the missing person’s photos. “Are they ever 19

Victoria A. Young found? Facebook’s a good place to broadcast missing alerts. A suggestion…What you’re saying, you don’t give a damn. Consider her killed off in a couple of days?” “Slow down! Booking murderers, punks tryna be Scarface, iPod robberies, terrorist threats keep us busy.” This was the end of any small helpfulness. I scooted off. When I lit my blunt as I exited, he yelled, “Dig yo caffeine cigar style.” That’s something, at least.

I headed north, pacing the streets, and glancing my Galaxy for her text. Fearing the unknown flared. I tried shifting my haunting while Marvin Gaye beats played in my head with me singing along, “I want you, the right way, baby. I want you to want me, too. I’ll give you all the love in return, sweet darling.” Forty-second and Broadway. Poise Cosmetic Surgery and my stop, Planet Fitness, were across from one another. I went inside. My legs raced on the tread. I gripped the bar harder. Speed elevated, outdoing the gym’s music tempo. Veins developed hematoma on the verge of titanic. Was she dead or alive? An hour crept by. Water dripped from my tank down to my shorts. Heat rippled under my skin as I exhaled. How long can I let her get away with this? Whose wife disappears for days cause she’s on some shit? Giving me the husband title of honor may be stretching it a bit far but I’d appreciate it. Checked cell again. Time was of the essence, here. She knew on Saturdays we went to dinner, a party, or she slipped into her high-slit whammy dress then whipped out her sugar in stilettos and danced for me. Sensuous as hell, I admit. Nine o’clock neared. I had minimal time to prepare for a politician event required of me to attend and I’m in a gym dealing with a loose cannon. I took wifey’s satchel and eased to the bench. 20

Passion Whispers an Execution

Bench press one, bench press two. Crossways, two women in their late fifties, one dark and slim, wore a weave. The other one was brunette, milky, and plump. Her eyes ripped me apart, cueing she’d be a jolt of quick ass. I’d welcomed the flattery. Right about now, I could use it. At all costs, a barrel of pleasure would cap the deal. They jogged on the tread, chattering loud as hell when a man wandered to the brunette, wanting to join. From their discussion, I assumed she was the new Planet Fitness owner. Brunette elbowed her girlfriend. “Bad boy swagger with a rugged charm. Buffed. Geez, Idris Elba is fine.” Weave shook her head. “Hell, no. A young David Beckham.” “Boris Kodjoe, Hardwick can be runners up,” Brunette replied. “You prejudiced bitch. Naming black guys cause they got beef.” Brunette looked me up and down. “Brothers in France don’t look like that. And don’t be like—” Weave eyed her. “What brothers like this should be like? In France, they wine it. In New York, they Cîroc it. Us? They fuck it.” “Oooh, don’t make me.” Brunette shook her body. Weave said, “A young Denzel? He still got it, over fifty.” “Na, he in his thirties,” Brunette grunted. “You know that’s right,” I muttered. “Uh!” Brunette’s voice lowered, and then gasped. “His deep voice.” Weave asked, “He’s hanging low. Can I get a whoop-whoop?” “When he came in, I stole a look under his shorts.” “Nasty, clit twitcher. See your man eater club’s working, huh?” “No defeat, yes. Cut the club talk. His thick dark hair, bedroom eyes got me brewing.” Brunette fanned herself. “He’s fine and all, but did you miss his big nose?” Weave asked. 21

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Which I’ve always been teased about as a child. “Thuggish sex appeal,” Weave whispered. “And what’s up with his flashy Chanel bag? Dig deeper you might find jasmine sachets.” Okay, they’ve gone too far. I’m in no mood to prove, otherwise. Brunette stared at my band. “Hooshada shit. He can’t be taking it in the back wearing a wedding band.” Weave curved. “Reality check, mama. Six packs dangle skeletons. What man-a- turn-down-a-blowjob? Think about it.” Brunette’s pelvis pounded forward to the rhythm of the background music. She’s up there in age. But, damn, she can move her body. I looked down to check my cell. Flop! She tripped over her tread and landed nearby, catching me off guard. “Quick meat for a man’s appetite, sweetheart. Don’t know if daddy can handle all that.” I tried figuring out how she fell. As she flushed red, holding her ass bone, Weave snickered. I offered helping her up. “I don’t like pain in the ass either. May I have the pleasure?” She refused. Weave was like, what? “Now you lip locking?” Brunette changed her mind. “Rita.” “My pleasure. Ivy.” She eased back toward Weave as if nothing happened. For the next ten minutes, I jumped rope hoops. By the time the rope started tangling, it was no use continuing. I headed out. Weave signaled Rita. “Sistah, do something. He’s out.” Then Rita catcalled. Can it get any better? I shuffled around. “Yes, doll.” Her words stumbled, “Your charismatic flair is... Why you stalking your cell? A pain in the butt?” She smirked. It was obvious she was reminding me 22

Passion Whispers an Execution of what I said. “How fast we never forget.” “Can’t love the want you want, kill it. Learned that in my woman’s assembly.” My smile cracked. “Involved with the bigger things in life?” “Bigger things in life you understand to be a woman’s assembly? How men think. When you heading back this way?” “Desperate, huh? A common issue.” “You can be a cynical—” “Sonova bastard. I’ve been called worse, sweetheart.” I stood at a flower stand on Forty-third. Buying peachy stargazers, Yashani’s soft voice tone trailed like midnight whispers as I recalled our candlelight moments and wondered why, after marriage, love sucks.

I arrived at Harlem, Lenox Terrace Condo. 135th Street between Fifth and Lenox. My high-rise building met other high-risers. B.J. wore hanging denim like he was selling his ass. Rapping with the security, the upstate prison reject hid under the building marquee, TEN. Thug bopping, B.J. said, “Senator man, whaddup?” “Everything’s good, baby,” I replied. B.J. tried selling me a steak. “Make dat living, brotha. Rib-eye to duh hilt. Peace out, peace out.” He left, knowing damn well he’s the neighborhood drug dealer. I asked security, “Any sign of her?” “Mr. Flint, call the cops at the three-two,” he said. “Don’t need them thinking I’m a piece a shit, too.” “How far you search?” “Flashed her picture and bag to neighborhood stores.” 23

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“Who pegs somebody out by a pocketbook?” “People dig her spicy clothes and bags. Thanks.” It struck strange when I contacted her girlfriend Jez, like unalarmed, as if she was used to Yashani doing rip-offs. I took the elevator to the tenth floor. Facing me as I went into my apartment were Yashani’s hundred romance novels, towering on a cherry wood shelf. She highlighted chapters and finished a book in two days. One of the many reasons I fell for her, which explains why she was challenging when we had played Scrabble. Without a doubt, she made up her rules. As the saying went, let her have her way. Her book cluster outdid my combat DVD series. I rushed by our vintage-styled living room, checking the bathroom and bedroom. An en-suite separated by cherry wood French doors, glass centered, then returned to the living room. Inspiring artifacts bounded our crystal supply opposite the patio. A fireplace stood near wall photos of my army days and our wedding. A shallow cry came forth. I aimed for the bedroom. A Cupid and Psyche ceiling mural rested over our king size bed. Draped from the ceiling, she made lilac sheer shit making me feel like I’m in some Arabian nightfall sleeping with I Dream of Jeannie. Near a portable fireplace from under the bed, Lily cried. Yashani’s ivory Teacup Maltese had had a field day in Yashani’s duffle. Her paws poked in Yashani’s panties when I pulled her out. Panties? Wayward thinking, Lily. What gave her the idea to tangle her head in the crotch? Okay, she got a thing for crotches. I untangled her. As she licked my arm and smothered in my chest, my cell rang. Someone’s breathing. My wife wanna sabotage my nerves. The breathing stopped. Maybe she’s not dead. Playing games? Lily jerked her head. Twisting in a faux fur bed pampered with a mat, satin quilt, and bed skirt, she understood the hectic plight of a man. Her bed filled of bows, pillows, and crazy mess. Only a woman would 24

Passion Whispers an Execution beautify a bed with all this stuff. Adding to Lily’s royal bed, the stargazers went. Helluva lot of panties ran a charge through me when I brought Yashani’s weighty duffel to the living room. Again, my cell buzzed the same time the house phone buzzed... “Hey, Mom.” She replied, “When you coming for y’all anniversary gift?” “It’s nowhere near September twenty-eighth.” “The airline had a discount, thought we send y’all on a trip.” “Mom, we? Dad had nothing to do with that.” “He’ll come around. How’s my daughter-in-law?” “She’s not home.” “Give her a kiss for mama and come get y’all gift.” “Yeah, yeah. We talk later.” Absorbed by our wedding portrait, a slow burn said I be damned. Our marriage–didn’t coordinate in theory–I desired to be honored. Apparently, my desire didn’t reach. Her brown sugar skin, when tanned, lightened my wedding day. Untanned, she could pass for an ethnicity other than black. She wore a chic gown, perfecting her stilettos and her thirty-two B cup. Unchipped toenails added the perfect flavor. Her hair was permed with a classic up twist. Though she got the ugliest scars on her arms, her arched brows cresting over her chestnut eyes sparked my inner fire. Her classic features reminded me of Dorothy Dandridge the reason I gave her the nickname Sugarfoot. When Sugarfoot lounged on our sofa posing a bone me risqué position, she hit the it factor. She coordinated it with a sassy, seductive bitch, aside from hidden morals. Sure, it frightened me. How could a woman be sensual and virtuous, then for a month, curse her husband with serious cunt lockdown? She led me believing my size magnified the issue. Her pleasure with mints solidified it 25

Victoria A. Young wasn’t. A virginal ass spitfire unable to let me pipe her sweet ass, she introduced me to something I never imagined. When I wanted to breach her tight chute with K-Y, my fantasy went out the window. First, she wanted me to do it then she denied me. Prompt! Count her panties overpowered the held denial. Why she changed them seven times a day was a thought to carry. Many times, when I’d ask why, she’d switch the subject and whine about me not going downtown. Blood flooded her body on a regular was a trump card for hallucinations. If I didn’t dip downtown, our marriage lacked romance according to she who’s on the loose for days. And she wanted me to lick what? My cell clang, clang. Her name kept popping up. I wondered if someone had stolen her phone. Or was she in a funky mood pissing me off? I threw her bag at the door. A magazine and paraphernalia charged out. Drug stuff again? Increased blood flow ran down my legs leaving my vision clouded. Let me find out she’s at a drug gallery, and I’m here needing nerve tonic. I shot to the bathroom. Opened the medicine cabinet and checked for Naloxone intranasal spray. Months back, witnessing her overdose scared the hell out of me. She looked like a blue-lipped corpse yelling cause I yelled at her trying to make out what was happening. Had she stop breathing, cops would’ve locked my black ass up assuming. If she’s at a drug spot and overdoses she wouldn’t have her lifesaver, possibly die. Can my nerves get any worse? Ivy, let it go, for now. Remain calm. Head to the kitchen. I took out thawed pork chops from the fridge. Laid the chops in oil then lit the frying pan at high temp. Spices and herbs in the cabinet made it difficult to choose. No way in hell this is a job for a man. Sprinkled rosemary, thyme, salt, and pepper then threw flour in the pan. Chops should sizzle okay. Leaving, Lily neared, whimpering. She licked flour from the floor gesturing 26

Passion Whispers an Execution she wanted her Purina Beneful. For sure, I could make that. An hour was left before the evening event. I dashed to the living room and grabbed a stylish dark tux from my neatly arranged closet. While in the shower, disturbance and a blue-lipped corpse vision visited telling me she’d relapsed. For how long this time? Ten minutes later, I came from the shower. The fire alarm blasted. Smoke, oh hell. Didn’t hear anything, let alone smell fire. Water dripped from my body, and my shit swayed as I shot to the kitchen. Pork chops charred. By the time I snatched the extinguisher, the fire department siren had blared outside my window. I sprayed the extinguisher on the chops. Someone knocked. I told the firefighters everything’s fine and I tried to do what men shouldn’t be doing when they have a wife, like cook pork chops. Okay, a bit pissed off they were. They rushed off. I styled on my tux and splashed on Curve being careful not to overdo it. Went to the kitchen, took out expresso, and shoved it in the blunt. On my way out the door, Cosmopolitan magazine flashed a half-naked woman on the cover. Sexual positions? A prospect for hard-ons. They were positions we’d done. The names on cover were Linguini, Hang Ten, Time Bomb. Exactly what I needed to see right now: A naked man and woman twisted with her legs wrapped around him in the shower. Why’d Yashani have interest in freaky positions then disappear for days? Your mind went where mine stood. Fucking. Kudos to Cosmo. I headed out to the fundraiser, reflecting on sexual positions. It took twenty minutes to hit Fifty-eighth and Fifth Avenue. I parked my year-old sapphire Cadillac then footed to Fifty-sixth, approaching a mid-sized stone building grooming a striking outlay. A rowdy crowd chanted, carrying LGBT signs opposite the door. An attendant met me. The elevator rode to the penthouse. Couples dominated the tasteful 27

Victoria A. Young ambience. For sure, Yashani embarrassed me. Cathedral ceilings, marble columns, wall moldings, and jazz music overflowed. Come home, baby, where you at music should’ve played. Crowd’s attire looked like the Great Gatsby had come to Manhattan, blending their ethnicities. Champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and caviar circulated. After I danced, I cruised over to the gourmet section. Borscht, and a Russian dish I’d tried at the last fundraiser. Stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, and apple tarts with goat cheese I didn’t want. They called rattlesnake slides and goat penis gourmet. Since my wife had gone, all I’d been exposed to were body parts. Okay, where’s the damn neck bones and potato salad? My colleague stuffed himself while his woman flirted with every man in the joint. His Pattie Labelle marmalade gear rang sirens for the fashion police. Enough hair gel plastered to his skull like his brains stayed wired, incapable of fair play. His phony grin stood under his horn-rimmed glasses, tacked on his wicked dark skin. “This is a couple gig, missing something?” he said as he chewed his food. “Ivy misses nothing. Put your girl in check, she’s down my shit.” “Envy’s the soup of the day, hustler? I almost forgot you was acquitted, asshole.” Asshole might be right. Another colleague, Dean, dark, aged, refined shifted my way. As I shook his hand, he rocked side to side. “Congress is gridlocked. A month before vacation, I see the bill passing by then.” “Enough donations coming in, it may. Won’t get my vote,” I replied. My colleague injected his two cents. “It’s a personal decision to wanna marry the same sex.” He whacked my last nerve. “The bill will not be legalized in New York. Dean, what’s up with the ethics report?” 28

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“The investigation still pending,” Dean replied. “Maybe sexual harassment should be more of his concern than him stalking everyone to make the Same Sex Marriage Act a law,” I said, aiming my thumb toward my combative colleague. “Smart ass,” my colleague hit back. “Impeachment sounds fine to me,” I said. “So, rip me down, hustler?” “Anyone who betrays the public trust needs their ass rolled out.” “Can’t make out how you became a state senator with a rap sheet.” “Unfortunately, a brother walking Harlem streets, it was what it was. Fortunately, I will take down them same bastards who shove the same shit.” Unable to relax due to marital hardship, I eased out. I paced Times Square, flashing Yashani’s photo and probing exclusive bar locales. She’d worked in bar casinos when she lived in Paris.

From midtown, I pulled up to 139th Street and Eighth Avenue. Quiet side streets and well-kept brownstones, two stories high, packed along angled rows near stumpy trees. Light poles speckled. I whipped around the corner, posting flyers with Yashani’s photo on signposts, ending at 129th and Martin Luther King Blvd., assuming one of these buildings was a drug gallery. The moon targeted a dark alley, directing me to a dead-end. A woman’s sob heightened my senses. I eased down, stepped on clear bags and hypodermic needles, praying Yashani wasn’t in this rotten dump. Loud gnaws erupted from a concrete wall suffocated in spider-webbed fissures. The sob grew. Making matters worse, I stepped in a blood trail. A shadow jumped across in front of me. Never thought I’d be thrilled to see a damn rat. From overflowing garbage, an army followed. Shrieks neared. I moved closer. A needle-sized dark man knotted up, vomiting on an eroded mattress. Blood 29

Victoria A. Young globs oozed between his fingers, downward never ceasing. My stomach kicked ass when I aided. “What you need, man?” His bones pierced his skin. Around his baldhead, eyes huge as wheels hugged and pitted his sockets. Pus escaped bodily sores as if he was HIV infected. Sweat poured. He tried to walk when his voice quaked, “Ambulance. Gotta get ambulance. Hurry.” I tugged out my cell. “Speed dialing, okay, okay?” He pointed toward the back, trembling. My pulse raced. Jaws quivered. “Who? Who, who man?” His high-pitched outburst held worrisomely. “I, I, I, oooooooh! Sorry, ain’t have no choice. Had to, had to do it.” Unable to go to the back, I called the police about a possible death. My subconscious said man-up. My conscious took me back to when Yashani looked like a blue-lipped corpse. For five minutes, I stiffened. Death. No death. Death. Compose yourself, Ivy. I moved farther down. A loud blare cried out. Ambulance neared. I raced to the back. Holy damn mac! Globs of blood soaked a Hispanic woman’s thighs and skirt. She perspired, far from mediocre, gasping, and pointing to the garbage can. Something told me wait for the ambulance. I couldn’t. I checked the trash. My Lord! A baby! A baby girl, unwrapped feet and all. I took off my jacket and secured the precious child. A beaming expression glowed her cheeks. Her feet fidgeted. Energy of her innocence from her eyes danced above her warmed spit bubbles. I assisted the ambulance with the mother and child. Then it hit me. I’d placed a call minutes ago. Where the hell were the police? I hurried. Dashing into the 32nd Precinct, the officers prevented me from seeing the captain. I refused to discuss NYPD faults with anyone else. If they took long to get to the alley, my wife might be dead. 30

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The officer said, “You a hero, now you dissing us? Charging in here like we did summin to yo wife.” I said, “Get the captain or my man Vike. He’ll find her.” “Lieutenant left early. The captain’s busy. Calm down. Go home, sleep it off. So I can get home to my wife.” The captain stepped out. “Senator Flint. Lieutenant Vike told me you’re a shakeup politician. Guys still busting each other’s chops over the debt ceiling?” My cell rang. Rang. Rang. The light flashed Yashani’s name. Heavy breaths whooped. Noise came through like motion and rattle. Some tense, queasy shit. My time bomb geared up to explode. A shout out blasted over the precinct’s radio, “Over, over. Female, black, mid-thirties, floating near World Yacht, pier eighty-one. Copy.” Heat rose behind my eyelids. My heart pounded. Muscles cramped like days ducking battlefields when my ammo ran out. I zoomed to the bathroom. Poured water all over me. Exhaled. Inhaled. Lit my cigar and raced downtown. “Bitch divorced me to drown in the Hudson?”

Downtown Manhattan at the Hudson River near World Yacht, emergency vehicles’ red lights circled. Onlookers chattered behind the taped- off crime scene. Radio buzzes raised from emergency units on standby. Paramedics pulled the bloody, blue-lipped corpse from the water.

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4 DISTANT LOVER

ASHANI. Breathless, I swam the ocean’s depth, hoping to arouse my Y midnight ummm for the pleasure I know Ivy could provide. Apart from his cutting-edge, his musk concocted with his sweat trapped the ultimate sensation of masculinity, running down the tattoo on his back. The spice pleased spicier than marine plants. He must’ve wept when I kept ignoring his calls. What happens in Paris, shall it stay in Paris, spewing red-hot rage? Early Sunday, six hours ahead of New York time, clouds glided across the perfect blue-sky, bonding the sun blistering on the Normandy Beach Resort. I arrived here from California after I had closed on my condo. I needed to deal with Baller. His schedule didn’t allow him to see me at this moment, which worked fine, granting enough time to iron out my strategy to destroy Nathan’s Empire. It’d prove I took no part in murdering Brad. However, Ivy couldn’t know. If he found out why I’d left New York, my marriage would crash to death without me ever having the freedom to love him. Why two people were created fought against my life-force. The sea of fear met at the shore where my love stood lost in the current deprived of a lighthouse. Letting him know Nathan’s empire must die was a challenge. I’d rather call the shots without him rescuing me. When he’s unable to control situations drastic or not, he blinked into a beast. Like the last two months, he said I was filled with obsessive thoughts because I won’t give into him wanting a child. Giving him a child meant the world to me, however frightening. How could I give him all of me when I’m not all of me?

Passion Whispers an Execution

Moreover, his high sex drive didn’t make it any easier, either. He had wanted his sword to initiate my back door. Though I initiated his fantasy, when he aimed for my booty, I backed away, becoming sedate. Sedate on many occasions, other than just during this request, was another challenge I must conquer. I emerged from the water wearing a dark, floral bikini and matching nylon sarong, then wrapped it around my head. The deeper my feet sank in the sand, this bubbling brown sugar recalled his first words, “How can we get better acquainted, sweetheart?” Hunting him was comical. I laughed each time the thought appeared, how he had denied me during the circumstance of proximity when I seduced him. Unbuttoning his Steve Harvey suits was sexy. He wasn’t grimy, ready to attack, promising me women were meant to be loved. I couldn’t resist attacking his machismo, though. Uncertain whether his masculinity had been erected, his weighted gaze struck a sensation. I was hooked, wanting to be his lady. All he wanted to do was stare into my eyes. Similarly, I stared into his gorgeous browns. Despite my desire for him to enter my outlet, he declined. Yet his comeback, his impish smile and mannerisms drew me closer, leading his warm lips to mine, sealing his vow to accept my passion. I wasn’t going to accept anything less. For a long time, we didn’t engage in sex. I kept my body captive, growing arousal. High on the twang of his voice and cadence, from his arms flooded an unexpected warmth. His empathetic comforting gesture spoke to my essence. I didn’t think I was alone. Women live love, dream love, eat love. We crave an erection, hoping a man wings himself into our bedroom and licks Pleasureville until our buds enflame. We scream daddy, daddy, oh so good. Erotic pleasure fulfills our hidden desires. No matter how much we complain about doggies, deep within we’re horny, wanting affection from all his avenues. We crave 33

Victoria A. Young penetration to throb right, hit left, go deep, and pounce until his magic wand finds our climatic explosion. Mother Earth whispered in my bone pit, mermaids, whether hardcore or soft, we need a man’s gadget. But, how, when women splintered like cold wood? We must be attractive, be of service, be a lady, build relationships without complaint, and steer competency. Wonders of the mind—a dangerous place for intimacy—led to an encore of deception. Like when I once made clothes for my cabbage patch and played Barbie’s beautician while mama read Fun with Dick and Jane. Playing house and feeding Dick with my easy-bake oven had a way of grooming me for the worst reputation of women. I later learned women were carved, gentle sorts from a poisonous garden to be loved. Fun with Dick swayed between love and hate. Jane had to make up her mind, team man or team woman. Laymen terms, love, live or leave it. I continued my stroll to a chaise longue. Hid under an umbrella, courtesan sprawled. Unlike the tang of sea air water, my taste buds craved Ben and Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Chunk. I sashayed to a nearby vendor and bought ice cream. I returned, wanting Ivy close that I tensed like I’ve never done before. It flowed music to my heart. An hour later, the beach cleared. I shifted my pelvis and leaned on my side, picture-shot posing. Though chivalry faded as a lost art, how Ivy mastered the art of love whipped me boggled. He took me to the life before the life. I became a rioting love goddess, venturing on my leisure as I recapped the kink in his gentleman. Sexually, he made sure a woman’s taken care of before he revved his engine. A true stallion unbuckling. I had to find a way of having him near and it had to be done today. My manicured nails brushed my iPhone. I struggled, calling him. Since I couldn’t gather up enough courage, I stayed slumped, wishing he were here. 34

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Somehow, reserve made a difference. When I tried teasing myself back at my condo, I came close. Now, I must lose my way in my secret escapade. I peeked via Chanel eyeshades making sure no one noticed how I tensed, pining for my husband. Modesty and fear attacked. Freedom rushed down my satiny skin, alerting the sun to glisten my savage curves. Gazed at my cell, regretting leaving him the way I should’ve. My desire to love him cried priority. Should a woman ground herself to do the immoral or should passion rule her? If he honored a deeper part of me, he’d know death stirs. A simple fix to rescue me would be to cuff his tongue toward my bud until I peak continuously. My whisper hid under layered sensuality, seduced by the waves. Unable to hold my whisper back, shallow breaths rasped, “Ivy.” I crammed my cell in a beach bag. Cupped Chanel body cream, caressing the slime up and down my legs and inhaling its erotic vanilla. Licking my lips reminded me why Ivy was awestruck when I wore Chanel. It tasted sweet. He said my skin tanged like honey, cinnamon dipstick. Enough said. My trance met his boldness, a regal, spirited, and untamed kind of man. When his hard tongue fondled down my back, my mental agility enticed cherryville. Pleasureville’s the leeway. Between Ivy’s cold love and bloated rod, Pleasureville surged. Freedom waited until I screamed dirty for him like he had taught me. My lips pursed at the thought of mesmerizing on his sweet ummm, which tasted better during midnight. To captivate bringing him to me, it’d be of interest to dwell deeper, wrapping in pearl’s euphoria, embracing a sensational charge called, sweet-talk me to your throne, daddy. My bold eyes sank, traveling down my leg near my tattoo. IVY. Body tilted. Gently, my French manicure glided up my thigh. Hips swayed mildly. Swirled in the seduction of his sweat, I vowed to rock my marriage. Desiring him to lick Pleasureville crept along my slender arms the same way the waves enticed the shore. Its loud squish connected Ivy’s deep voice to me, 35

Victoria A. Young pouncing. Then hushed. Oh, what a man! His ummm aimed at my ear. Upon entry, he did nothing wrong. But make it throb an awesome vibration. Pleasureville became wet. My silken folds did something amazing. Fired up hot pearl and triple swayed my hips with a steady rotation. My tongue licked across my hand as my body jerked, twirled, waiting for his dark dragon to assassinate Pleasureville because she was losing control. His moans were unpredictable. My fingers met his prick, gripped, fondled all the way until I hissed between his barbaric yells. His muscles cocked from his biceps, tantalizing me. I lost it. The chaise should be creaking. Instead, it sank. Flamed exhaustion heated between my thighs, dominating every facet of my body. The slick from my arousal opened my pink petals, surging my pour downward. Niagara cascaded enough fluid on my hand for me to gently rub it on Ivy’s tongue. Delighted, I was almost there. Something happened, spectacular. Tingle. Twitch. The nectar soaked my bikini’s cotton crotch. Captured by instinct, Pleasureville sizzled. She couldn’t stop tingling, ready to be liberated. More and more she called for Ivy’s darted pleasure. An intrusion initiated an attack, ending my great escape. Pleasureville’s disappointed with her inability. Disturbed by thirst, to clench his heart until he awakens, I gazed at the water, became sedated by insobriety and sobriety. Then I began itching. Soon after,… I knew my time was limited to shop at Chanel, eat at L'Atelier Berger restaurant, visit Psyche and Cupid, and do a dry run at Royal Chic Casino before meeting Baller. I slipped into a pearl crocheted dress. Headed to my rented Mercedes into the lot. I undid the trunk, making sure the coast cleared while my Chanel satchel loomed. Eased into the car and counted my money from Giannelli and the four hundred grand from my condo. Awesome, no one ripped me off. A black-clad Russian muck styling golf attire stretched his Viking legs 36

Passion Whispers an Execution along the exotic wood boardwalk. Last I knew he was Nathan’s guzzle flunky and worked at Royal Chic Casino, where high rollers occupied the poker and blackjack seats daily. He must’ve left the Golf Barrière Deauville nearby. He hadn’t a clue who I was because in Vegas I was always on the sidelines. Tikhon. Target. Purposeful.

Two hours passed. I reached the Louvre. A display of steel attached I.M. Pei’s glass pyramid. Long lines to get in were insane. I stood shaking and reading my romance novel. For a moment, I glued my vision to the Louvre’s façade of stone men from ancient fortresses. Another display, epitomizing stone hearts, made the world a cruel place to live. I made it in, determined to find Psyche and Cupid. I’d visited them weekly when I had lived here. Louvre's collections were enriched works from foreign civilizations: Egyptian and Renaissance art to contemporary Spanish paintings. Getting through the maze was unlike walking two-hundred forty New York City blocks. European paintings faced you at every turn. The Mona Lisa thrilled visitors. A mock of deception if they knew. My heart delighted when I saw Psyche and Cupid. Not because when I met Ivy, my damsel in distress state turned him on. But, when intimacy stroked, I’m bursting. Unfulfilled, my body cries. Cupid scooped Psyche’s head to kiss her. He embraced her breasts, giving her life with a magical kiss. My eyes drifted, unable to detach from the magical kiss. Ivy. The enchanted kiss. Then Ivy buzzed my cell. What would happen if I spoke to him? Buzzing stopped for ten seconds. He buzzed again. My muscles twitched. Please stop ringing. No matter how hard I clamped my hands, perspiration seeped, holding me in a coal inferno. My nose began running. Buzzing stopped. My 37

Victoria A. Young nose running didn’t, cuing it was time to doll up to do my dry run. I headed to the Napoleon Hotel located on 40 Avenue de Friedland near the stone Arc de Triomphe, sighted by an alignment of trees. The hotel’s Napoleon-era décor rated fiercely. Changes made to its structure faked political changes and power struggles bringing forefront an imitation. It cried an understatement. Not long after showering with Chanel Coco collection, I pampered my body. An Escada embellished, fitted gown covered my arms. I held a Chanel compact mirror, dabbing on rouge, mascara, and ruby lipstick packed in an elegant black tube. Stilettos sandals, yes. Chanel Coco perfume was the last thing I applied. From my satchel, I removed Passion Whispers, wrapped in foil. Set the table under the ceiling light. Uncapped fixtures, and hid it. After tugging the wires in place, I replaced the fixtures. The time came to dazzle the casino. Outside, on the door, a gold door knocker hung over room number 333. I eased into the Mercedes, focused on Tikhon. Target. An evening in Paris brought to mind a night in New York. Downbeat indigo lights swept back and forth against the intangible aspects of the sky. Lights everywhere. Hustle and bustle somewhere. The mob ruled, dealt with bogus stock deals and fetched politicians.

A quarter mile from Royal Chic Casino, heavy fog walled off a shadowy 1940’s Cadillac on a deserted road near a cliff. A river dodged below. Wearing denim, a woman beater shirt, and a smoked, seersucker striped blazer stood Tikhon and two hostile black guys. Tikhon eased two feet away from the two men while their pistols crushed the heck out of some tan man, Chicago old- styled. Blood gushed from the victim’s head, nose, and mouth. One man backed up, shouting the victim owed a twenty-five-thousand-dollar poker 38

Passion Whispers an Execution debt, clubbing the victim to a pulp. They dragged the man to the cliff as his yell for mercy surged in the distance when someone pulled up.

YASHANI. From a distance, men voices weren’t team nice. Shrieks, body blows, ummfs rumbled. Team static was more like it. I pulled up to a deserted road, turned off my headlights. Tikhon and two dark guys crucified some man. Tikhon scouted in my direction. My breath quickened. Did he see me? He neared with his hand gripped on his hip, close to a glinting object. Gun? Unsure of what kind. He cocked the hammer. A lump shot down my throat. I aimed toward my glove compartment for my Glock. As I stepped out, he reverted to the other end. Tikhon must’ve ranked to Lieutenant. Maybe he waited to grease palms if the beat cops came. Nathan would’ve gross millions without help from crooked cops with stakes in anything green or vaginal slime. Could the prey have been one of Nathan’s cronies? They slammed the guy’s head against the pavement on the cliff. Blood whipped onto their gangster ride. Massive head damage. Definitive. I tried seeing what gun whacked him. The fog smothered too thick. They knocked his teeth out. Blood shot everywhere. Then they hauled him over toward the cliff. Smith and Wesson bared. I tightened my eyes at the disgrace. Blast! Blast! Caught in the line of fire. I jolted, backing up. Shells flew. My teeth clamped. “Affirmative,” shot from my mouth. They spun, signaling they heard something. One gangster said, “Check it out.” Tikhon heeded. I’m dead. My finger went tight on the trigger. Out of nowhere, drunken, brash teens driving a hooptie, blasting Hip- hop music, cruised by. Tikhon went back to his murdering concern. After cremating the guy, they pulled off in an old timer’s Cadillac. I waited for about ten minutes 39

Victoria A. Young before easing over. Analyzing the damage they had done, blood smudged the concrete. Homicide! White powder sized up the dead guy’s shoes near clear bags. Nice fiery bath. His throat was slashed. A perfect slit fit. They cut his tongue out, stuffed it in his neck’s flesh. Double homicide, not to mention felonious assault. Body part robberies in France seemed to be a better investment than dope dealing operations. A neat entourage added to Nathan’s empire. My mission worsened. Didn’t know Tikhon had grown ruthless. If he doesn’t bark when I try to squeeze particulars from him, a bloody mess it’d be. Had Nathan’s partners identified me when I did my dry run I’d have to go to the Feds and give him up. That can’t happen. I have to be the one to take him down. He couldn’t stay in power. Soon, I became nauseated when I climbed into the Mercedes heading to the casino.

I ambled about the crowded casino’s slot machines, roulette and blackjack tables. To my right, off the main section, a smoky room—cigars galore—had a poker tournament and a $30, 000 start off sign. Five men wore black and white styled suits. Thousand dollar chips ruled. One man raised. Others were all in. The gambling jungle cheated for a royal flush. No surprise. Nearby, I rushed into the bathroom stall. From my bag, I grabbed my Glock. Encouraged one leg on the toilet. When I placed my piece in my thigh- high, an awful thing happened. I had to fling over the toilet and vomit. I ended at the sink, rinsing my dry mouth. Then I resumed to my stakeout. If I ever failed a vigil, tonight shouldn’t be the time. I sashayed to the lounge set in a Cotton Club background showing a pool table. A sepia tone matched the swing setting. An awesome band and dancers performed All that Jazz Hot Honey Rag. I kept an eye on the poker room, royal flush burn. 40

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Tikhon held a deep tête-à-tête with a man at the bar. From the look of things, the conversation could’ve been juicy. His eyes locked a fetish wave, unable to detach from my sandals. Sex addicts, junk in the trunk lovers, and rectum freaks kept loose screws in their minds, making obsessive desires their mission. Women were victims of their obsessions. Obsession for an obsession, I prayed it wouldn’t get me killed. Circled my finger in my rosy wine. When I shifted my body, Tikhon snuck behind, startling me. Exiting, his partner muted, “She’s trouble. Hold yo wallet.” I’ve been a thief in my day, simply not of what he suggested. Speaking French, Tikhon asked, “Why a pretty lady stand by herself?” At the same time, he ordered Vodka. “I’m American. New York, California mingled,” I said, after studying his accent. “I asked, why should a pretty lady stand by herself… then?” “Questioning me like I’m on trial doesn’t impress. You came to me on the pretense of?” Heavy Russian accent, worse than his Paris lingo. He gulped. “Smack me if I like ya honey voice, honeyed feet?” “It’s rare a man pegs me out for feet. What conditions are added to the plot?” “Ay, barmaid, give the lady what she want.” Info I want—you’re going to give it to me. “Romanee-Conti. And water, please, thank you.” “My kinda lady?” He gave the barmaid a thousand bucks, then gave me three fifty-dollar casino chips. “Barmaid, fetch me another drink.” “What’s this for?” I asked, squinting then batting. “If I don’t give to you is rude… Ya feet. I’ll suck ‘em to the corner of the bone.” “A cheap pick-up line. Filthy, to be exact.” Inward, I vomited. But I 41

Victoria A. Young needed to score. My eyes roamed. No entry at windows or rooftop. “Sensitivity. A woman all the way.” “Judging makes a man all the way?” Justified my means to an end, the reason I had to engage the poker room. “Whatcha want in there?” He puffed himself up. “I just left California. A hefty business deal. Then Georgia, where Dixies meet the peach. How ya make ya means to survive?” Getting info may be impossible. He’s more interested in getting drunk. A smelly belch escaped his mouth. “Ya operation?” Too much mob slinging. However, he’s workable. His mouth should close before he loses his tongue. Tongue violence, Nathan’s specialty. Wished Ivy specialized in tongues. They do wonders, unlike the Hitachi magic wand. Some women like the Hitachi. Some, like myself, rather her man’s apparatus enchant her pussycat. If Nathan appointed Tikhon to oversee his establishment, my plan would work. “Noticed my friend upgraded to heavy poker tournaments. Royal flush, yes?” “Know Nathan?” I hesistated. Unsure whether to tell him yes or no in the event he’d get suspicious. “How establish he was, who wouldn’t? Yup, a man to envy, got pull over whatever pretty legs he hunted,” he said, showing envy of some sort. I unleashed a seductive swerve. “When I lived in Paris. Our relationship aroused my desire. I’d like to see him again. With many businesses, wonder if he’ll have time…Barmaid, more water, please.” “Nathan’s a bigshot. I’m his top dog. Know whadda mean?” We kept to the pool table. I handed him the stick. “How’s your stroke?” I missed pockets when I broke. I shot again with a mere jiggle in my stance. He bent over to shoot. What glinted from his backside wasn’t a 42

Passion Whispers an Execution wrench. And I hoped I wouldn’t be his next victim if my plan failed. “Don’t like playing by rules,” he said. “What man does? No point winning if you don’t have the right grip…In the poker room, three black guys resembling the good, bad and ugly. Are they more of a top dog than you?” “Nathan’s fortress. Clockwise, Judge O’Hara, his golf club competitor. Middle, his attorney. Opposite, casino count room boss.” “The other two?” He snubbed me. They were with him earlier. The poker game ended. Three men entered a NO ENTRY barricaded arena. How would a sniper intrude? The other two were watchdogs. Seven more guys came from somewhere and roamed. Nine guys. Nine. Nine. One eyed me. “I have to go. Not feeling well,” I said. Threatening and slurring, “Wo wo wo wo,” he said, while slobbering on me. “Hold ya nonkins! Just paid a thousand bucks for ya drink. Three more ya can put in that pocketbook.” A man buys you a drink vows claiming you. What happened to being rude? Worse than my dry mouth. “I need to leave.” He blocked me. I tilted, avoiding attention or having to put a cap in someone’s gut. Side guy’s gibberish accents scored thick. Distinct. Blacks and Russians teamed up, expanding organized crime were more of Nathan’s get rich lords. Tikhon shoved my shoulder, aiming me beneath the table. I didn’t move. How am I going to get out of this? He persisted, offering me, “Three thousand Euros,” spitting showers in my face. Think fast, Yashani. “I don’t flatback or drop it like its hot deep throat thingy. Nor do I indulge in controlling measures. Whips, chains, handcuffs. Nipple clinchers, highly endorsed off the table.” 43

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“Why should I give ya three thousand?” “I didn’t ask you to give me anything.” “High-pressure tactic, very rude. Do ya ride?” “Stallions.” Tempted by my vixen, he’s too drunk to back down. He triple hiccupped. “All-I-wanna-do-is-suck ‘em to the corner of the bone!” Are you serious? Almost in tears, I pleaded, “I have to go.” He manhandled me under the table. “Two minutes. Or else.” The gangsters eyed us. Said something, then gripped their arsenal. Pushy Tikhon said, “Know ya can use three g’s.” Black tie gangsters went toward the bathroom. Tikhon’s beet glow wasn’t from too much alcohol, but from the vile, corrupt mind of a man delighting in taking control. He slammed three thousand on the cocktail table like he caught a fly, then threw himself under the table and neared my Glock. Bile salt lumped down my throat. I thought to ask him what domain would intrigue him to unshackle. That’d only alert him to pull out his piece. Drunk as he was, his backup would kill me. He licked my toes. Uck! I allowed him to get his suck on, hoping I eased out alive. Then pocketed the money. Disgusted with myself, all I wanted was to destroy Nathan’s empire. Tikhon would share the wrath. I’ve recognized snitches in my time. He’d be the perfect pound dog. My feet cramped. Put mind on Ivy. Pointed my foot then turned it out like a dancer. It had worked for Ivy. “Honey plum, two minutes passed. You’re done?” He slid up. “A dancer? And your feet not busted up.” My backhand brushed his chin. “Ballet, back in the day.” “That means my lovely’s light on her feet. Bolshoi Moscow?” “Moscow’s lovely. Pardon my sudden departure. Never got your name so I can call you once I return to New York.” 44

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“Tikhon. Tikhon. When?” “A month after dealing with my addiction.” “Drugs?” “Masculine rage.” I flashed my band. “Ahhh! Nice wedding band.” “Give me a number. I’ll make sure you’ll be the first person I hit upon my return. You’ll play by my rules. Name is Mrs. Flint.” He handed me his number. Leaving, the disgust of his devilare lingered. His sweat. Uck! Consistently, I looked over my shoulder.

Finally, I made it to Baller’s. Peeked out his window wondering if anyone followed me into his tattoo spot. His flat wasn’t a place my mom would’ve visit had she been alive. Or because of the whore she was. I kept scratching my skin and heebie-jeebies surfaced. A Caucasian drooped in a chair, injecting heroin into his arm. Baller, my dreadlock buddy, had finished needling a black lady a tattoo. He stepped to the back down a hall to a room. Pounds of heroin piled the table near scales. I handed him thirty-three grand. He didn’t bother counting. “How much?” I said, “Twenty-two thousand short. I’ll get the rest in a month.” He hid my thirty-three grand near tons of arsenal and a tripod in a closet. “Yo, artillery, jet and men moving in,” Baller said. “I saw Nathan leaving a bar in New York. Unsure if he spotted me. But sure he ordered a hit.” “Stop OD’ing. When ya left here, he upped more dealings. Some creeps rock his heroin flow from Yenich. I’ma shut him down real soon.” “His syndicate flunkies run New York, Paris, and California. No telling how far he expanded waiting to kill me.” 45

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“Whaddup with Janelz? I’m still sweet on her.” “She’ll be ready.” We made our way back where the others were. I sat on the sofa, sniffling and scratching my thigh tattoo. IVY centered in a wedding ring. “Door locked in the event Ivy shoots through here?” “Loot ya just hit me with don’t buy ya spinning conspiracy theories,” Baller said. Someone banged on the door. Caucasian jerk out of his nod. Baller drew out his Beretta from under his chair. I hauled from my stockings my Glock, knocked Baller down then hid behind the door. And made Baller uptight. “Chill, mama.” He eased to the door. Caucasian went into a deep nod. “Some real gangsta shit. Yeahhhhhhh.” As Baller twisted the knob, I aimed my Glock above his head. Anything hinting about a hit out on me, Lady Gaga’s busting a cap. Baller unbolted the door and pitched his mantra, “Tattoo tattoo. Pitch it, baby.” A desperate junkie vomited. “Drop that tattoo Bon Jor lingo bullshit.” Two of Baller’s people ran from the back, cocking 9mm’s. “He sick. Take him to the jutter. Cops a be rolling up in here like I ain’t no tattoo pimp,” Baller said. A scream shot through the air. I headed to the bathroom, passing the jutter room. Afterward, I eased to the closet with the arsenal. Behind the tripod, a CRIME OF PASSION label drooped from it. Blood crawled from under the door of the jutter room. I puked. Then went back to my hotel. Prior, I had met Tikhon. He took me to another spot for my fix. Baller couldn’t know my habit. He wouldn’t have trusted me for what we had planned. Afraid of losing Ivy took anxiety overboard. I went back, festering about how he’d react once I returned home. When I tell him I made a reservation for rehab he’ll give me some slack. Maybe. 46

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From under the mattress, I grabbed my string and wrapped my arm. I had to be one of them to be them. When I became them, I was disregarded as being one of them. Someone knocked. Phone rang. I took a lighter from my bag. Prefixed my dope hitter. As I injected my wounded vein, blood trampled up and down the syringe. Again, the knock. I leaned back. Snickered. My dopey attempt to the door was led by the sound of my voice, “Step right. Creep, creep, my heart.” I repeated step, step, creep my heart. I spat. Uck! Tart vinegar. My high flew spectacular. I soared the air, kissed the Creator. Clouds billowed. No worries, no pain, pure euphoria. Eyes fluttered. I made it to the door and let the house cleaner in. She confirmed how some of us serve the dictator. I nodded to her feet. “A guy in lobby tryna reach you,” she said. I crawled on the floor and began cleaning. Colors twirled. My heart raced. She said, “Ms., Ms.,” then yelled. What was she doing? Would she stop moving? She couldn’t make up her mind to leave, or stay. Then she made a phone call. I told her, “Stop it!” My heart raced faster. No longer could I breathe. Will I make it to be the wife Ivy needs? Kill Nathan, then my sister will forgive me. Death hovered. I gripped my fingers into IVY’s tattoo. Let me stay your bubbly brown sugar. A neurotic wave attacked. Sirens hooted.

47

5 WEDLOCK

VY. An antique frame shared our wedding photo of us swapping I rings. The frame rested on my desk at my job located at 125th Street and 7th on the tenth floor of the Harlem State Building. I became a senator five years ago for the sole reason of dealing with community inequality. The Harlem community needed someone working on their behalf of whom they could be proud. Death trailing? I was unable to complete my proposal to the fullest. Letting my community down needled. I tried to read the New York Times but spit ran down on it as I slept in this miserable chair. Since early morning, cramped muscles from exhaustion did me in until my body collapsed on the desk near the Dell. My watch read nine on a dreary Tuesday when the phone rang repeatedly. Ahh, I was too wiped out to answer. Dean, who visited often, said, “Took Monday off and didn’t rest?” “Don’t know when I slept seven hours’ last,” I said groggy as hell. “Picked you up some Starbucks.” Saying good morning, my male assistants entered wearing pressed suits. I turned on my computer and it wouldn’t come on. Checked other computers outside of my office, still, they were down. I asked one of my assistants, “Who bugged the computers?” “Outages the whole weekend,” he said. “I called the repair company. They’re looking into it.” My colleague, Swinink, made it in after the fundraiser wearing more hair gel. His office was down the hall. He got kicks coming in here starting his

Passion Whispers an Execution shit. His norm was to call in sick on Mondays and Tuesdays after he had gotten his head bashed. Of all my assistants wearing starched shirts, Swinink brought back Saturday Night Fever. He slammed a packet on one of my assistant’s desks, giving him a thumbs up. He and Swinink were buddies. Suddenly, something came through the fax. Pending impeachment had been squashed on Swinink. Couldn’t believe he got away with his perverted behavior. I went to my office, thinking about taking the day off since computers were down. Seriously, sleep was needed. Minutes later, Swinink peeped in my office, smirking. “A bit a disappointment? They told me you’d get the news. It was never about impeaching me. Your Mrs. called all morning,” he mocked, ‘tell Booboo I’m home, forgive me.’ Can’t keep your lady on lockdown, convict?’” I wiped my sweaty forehead. “Always a schmuck in the cut trying to rewrite your past. Don’t backslide on a monkey’s ass if you can’t bring it.” I took the rest of the day off. Since she’s not dead, who, where, what and why better have damn answers. I tripped over a rock zooming out the building.

YASHANI. I rushed into my kitchen. The window covering gilt no longer impressed me. A dark mass appeared as smoke ruined my burnt orange linen, leading up to a shadowy smog hitched on the ceiling. Ivy tried to cook or burned coffee beans. I replaced the curtains with the ones I made hoping to get to the rehab in time. I removed from the refrigerator, chicken and collard greens I cooked prior to leaving New York. They should still be fresh for Booboo. I wrapped the food then set it on the stove. I flopped on the bed, gazing at the mural, thinking how nice Tikhon was never leaving my side at the hospital. After my heroin habit began by way of 49

Victoria A. Young an ill-fated tragedy, trying to get off methadone, I developed another addiction. Convincingly, Tikhon wanted to know about it. If I were unable to disclose five fingers of death to Ivy, Tikhon had no chance. Recalling his first words, “Why a pretty lady would be standing by herself?” rang true. I couldn’t help laughing aloud how sober he was after his foot fetish chapter. He also agreed with one of my favorite quotes. “Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.” Chanel Coco had a way with her quotes. He never tried to seduce me after the casino, and we developed a beneficial platonic relationship. The short time we had spent, my cold resentment vanished. His warm smile assured me he’d help me defeat the three-headed beast. Suddenly, Lily jumped about. From the nightstand, Ivy’s Bible waited. She knocked it down. “Nono, you know Daddy’s veins pop when this is on the floor.” She whined. I nosed her cutie nose then groomed her with garnet ribbons, and a dress laced with pearls matching her shoes. We snuggled to the living room. I left Ivy a note on the sofa knowing he’d understand how difficult it was getting off heroin without his affection and support. I grabbed my duffle. We headed out toward two elevators. One delayed in the basement and the other made its way up.

IVY. Caddy tires screeched into Lenox Terrace parking lot. I rushed to the elevator. A woman came off. The door closed. I stepped my foot in preventing closure. Attacked the button several times as if it would speed me upstairs. I bum-rushed to the living room. ROYAL CHIC casino chips piled on the sofa near a note. “Hello, dear husband. Our marriage is the greatest honor given to me thus far. For our marriage to continue, some unfinished business has to be resolved. I’m 50

Passion Whispers an Execution heading to Exceptional Women Rehab, in Rockland County off the Major Deegan. I wrapped you up some greens and fried chicken to hold you for tonight. Love, Sugarfoot topped with your bubbly brown sugar.” Bullshit! Wanna feed me damn leftovers?

I darted out, down the stairs to the parking lot. She wore her peachy sheer blouse without a bra. Okay, I knew where this was going with her headscarf wrapped differently than usual. She stuck her keys in her flamed convertible Mercedes. Her engine boomed boomed. Boomed! “Yashani,” I yelled. She ignored. Pulled off. I jumped in my Caddy. Jetted.

Traffic moved toward the Madison Avenue Bridge, then jammed. I moved up to the red light. Sirens blared from another direction. If I got out and cracked her window, bet she’d hear me. I ran the light. She jumped on the MAJOR DEEGAN NORTH and outdid the 75mph speed limit. Yeah, she rushed to get to his ass. I was on hers, topping the limit, too. Caddy began stalling. Hold up gas, hold up. I pulled over on the shoulder. Tried to give it a kick. Not now, baby, come on. Car revved. Putt putt went a few feet to the nearest gas station. I hurdled out. She was nowhere in sight. The gas station had a store. I purchased a gallon of water, gas, and peppermints. Poured out the water and filled the gallon jug with gas. Then left the station without knowing where the hell I was going. I returned. “Sir, what exit in Rockland do I get off for Exceptional Women Rehab?” “No exceptional women, damn you,” he replied. Okay, I’d made an insane choice. I asked another attendant. He yelled, “Women? No, get the knife. Get the goddamn knife.” 51

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I hear you, brother. Their day was no different from mine. A bad fucking day. I raced to my car. Grabbed a funnel from the trunk. As I hitchhiked for directions, a Samaritan pulled over and gave them to me. I hopped in my car and blasted the radio. Marvin Gaye’s Come Get to This invaded the station. I gunned 90mph. My hand tightened on the wheel. Sweat charged down my temple as I sang with Marvin, “Girl, you've been away a real long time. Zonk out of my mind. I missed your lovin' when you left. Baby come here, let me embrace you, tell me what you’ve missed. Come here, honey, get to this.” A deer jumped in front. Hell! Caddy swerved. Kept my bearing and continued driving. Exit 13 posted EXCEPTIONAL WOMAN.

I pulled up to a wide driveway then loosened my tie. When I jumped out, pussy willows hit me smack dab in the middle of my face. A stone fountain’s waterfall was plopped into a pond filled with doves. I glimpsed through the glass doors at the entrance. Damn, pussy willows were in there, too, trapped by marble floors, a cozy sofa, and arched windows. A song similar to Xscape, Who Can I Run to When I Need Love? played from exterior speakers. “As I stand here anticipating on the right thing to decide, will I take the wrong path all my life? I’ve yet to find someone who cares to please me.” It dawned on me why they called this place Exceptional Woman. A bunch of sisters inside raged war on brothers after they screwed the hell up. And my damn medical insurance paid for music feeding women’s emotions and for the perfect getaway. She met a man tall like me. A bit of coco in his flavor. Patting her hand, saying a little, he offered to take her bags. Their exchange didn’t rest with me. Too friendly. They headed toward the back. 52

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Why did she bring Lily? Know damn well dogs don’t belong in a rehab. I twisted the doorknob. It was locked. I headed around to the back. “NO TRESPASSING” sign posted. I stood under another pussy willow. A botanical garden? The bed of mint leaves trailed up my nose. The aromatic mix of mint, lavender, and roses made it impossible to make out one fragrance. I bypassed the sign and entered the lobby, then relaxed on the velvet sofa. Here they come. Like a lady, she sat near me. “Booboo, you did get my letter?” I asked, “All Booboo deserve is a letter? Where’s your methadone?” “Don’t have it. I can kick on my own. Sure I can.” “Keep telling yourself that doesn’t change the fact you’re a junkie. Now, that’s dealt with, what you go to Paris for?” “How do you know that’s where I went?” “Anyone half decent won’t leave casino chips near a letter insulting me about leftovers.” “I had to close on my condo.” “Casino chips came from the place you used to work in Paris.” Her eyelids lowered. Her soft, raspy pitch dazzled, “Went there to deposit my condo money in the bank.” The man said, “Shall I take your suitcase to your sleeping—” “I’ll take it.” He had an uncertainty of who I was then held his attention on her. I kept my cool, curious how she’d respond. She gestured for him to leave. “Would you, please?” I took off my tie. “No! He needs to know why I’m here.” She coached him away. “I’d love to know, when I left a letter.” “What’s up with Paris you found it necessary to take five thousand out the account for? Didn’t you sell your condo?” “Which one you want me to answer first?” 53

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“Yashani, I’m not up for your semantics.” “My condo money would be used as backup if my plan failed. If you can’t impregnate me, I’ll pay for alternatives. And your money bought fabric and Coco Chanel since it’s cheaper in France.” “Totaling five thousand? You’re laundering perfume?” “A larger supply would be great with our anniversary at hand.” “Don’t hand me that bull. Anniversary isn’t till two months.” She picked up Lily. “Supply will hold until next year. Soap, body exfoliate, cream, powder, lotion, a dress for Lily and mudpacks.” “Mudpacks? You use egg whites. Why now mud? Ahh anyway, I control the account. When I put my foot down it doesn’t give you to green light to ram yours up my ass.” “Using the account whenever I want was why we jointed. Yes?” “An account if it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t have. This is some Paris escape bullshit so give me the truth. What’s in Paris?” “Fine, if you think it’s bull. What that has to do with you forgiving me?” Her nail tips flirted down my nose and chest as her body pressed against mine. “Am I a candidate for forgiveness?” Endless times I forgave her took me down memory lane where men didn’t campaign for shattered egos. “Who got you in Paris?” An invitation in the flaming depth of her eyes fascinated. She struck a Rita Hayworth dare. “Congenial suicide.” She was always a diva playing head games. When the energy from her body leaned against me, I had a desperate need to hug her. My arms met her with a tight embrace. Warning spasms of tension teased my sixth sense, leaving five of them in overkill. Her body paused to let me take control, when she said, “You made a pledge to love me.” 54

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“Not appreciating me makes it difficult if you can’t give me the truth.” I massaged her shoulder in a circular motion. “I did.” Her eyes protested. She fell under my arms, shivering. “Guilty about something?” “Uncomfortable how you’re scrutinizing me. I wanted to call. Tried. But, was trapped…” Her chest rose up and down. She was about to drop tears when her arms wrapped her unstable body. My heart struck a crazy mixture of hope, fear, and sympathy. I nipped her earlobe. “No man’s going to treat you like me, sweetheart.” Lily whimpered. She placed her down. Yashani’s eyes were like summer lightning. Her lips met mine. Then she sashayed to the glass door, gazed at the doves pecking water drops as I followed her sway. Nearby, we went under the pussy willow. I valued being her husband as I cupped her chin then pinned her to the door till her arms submitted and met mine above. Her nipples erected, leaving me undisciplined. It’s critical I love her steamed from her eyes. I’d never know whether to lick what she desired if she couldn’t love me more than her eyes said so. My nose swept her neck. Stimulated by her pulse, an exotic flash of cinnamon sweetened. My body nudged into hers. Pulls, tugs, and tongue pecks moved at a pace like we were lost in a desert jabbed by cactus. The lion met his lioness. Trapped by her sizzled breathing, a gruff roar rammed from my mouth till I blacked out. I cuddled her closer. If I gave in, she’d go unpunished. She leaned in, again, resistance. Her silken whisper seared. My pants bulge created unwelcomed tension so tense it stretched between us as I allowed her body signals and hard nipples to guide me. Her eyes darkened dangerously. My hand couldn’t resist smoothing up her thighs. “Feel good, baby? How long you’re gonna keep letting Daddy get hard-ons?” 55

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She backed away. “Ivy, not here. We’ll get caught.” I pulled her to me. “Don’t play that shy mess with me.” Convincing and nervous as hell. “I can’t.” “Does it really make a difference? I feel how your body wants me, Yashani. Bring me the bedroom. I deserve it.” Silence fell. A flame heated, unable to go out unless flickered by her desire for me to stop. Her tongue captured mine tightly. Overpowering. Our kiss battled, tantalizing. Her deep urge for me to forgive her pleaded in the feistiness of her tongue. Pleading for me to protect her escaped from her fiery breath. Like a caveman, my mouth clamped hers. Her saliva added more pressure. Cock hardened. The rumble in my throat said, “Tongue tastes like cherry wine dabbed in a lemon twist.” My pussycat’s soft raspy pitch came forth, “Sssss! Pleasureville flavors better. When, Ivy?” Okay, she’s with this lick my cunt shit again. Not that I minded. Sex wasn’t an issue. It just wasn’t enough. I wanted it all. It’d help me better prove I’m the man for her. Running off didn’t make me the king of my castle. I guess it’s an ego thing. I fondled her asshole, claiming my Aphrodite. Moisture from her skin said she was ready. Yeah, baby. Pussycat cringed. “Please, don’t, don’t, Ivy.” “Pretend my name’s carved in your blossoming pussy.” I grabbed a peppermint from my jacket. Shoved it in my mouth imagining warm honey flowing over her fine body hair. Mints did something to her when we had gotten down. Her mouth had heated like a twinkling trace of hell. She had said a breeze then a bursting sensation cooled her tongue. My bone smothered by her mints pulsated my itch but something kept interrupting. Why, now, she wouldn’t open up? 56

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Pussycat’s soft hands unbuttoned my shirt. Her burning tongue stroked my hairy chest and her intense purrs deepened. Fire sparked down my legs. When she batted her thick lashes, and puckered her lips for kissing, my breathing heated. Her voice hit calibrated moans. “Ivy, how long before?” Licking my pussycat’s twatsimona would never happen. Women like to swap flavors when their moods change. One day they’re sultry, another day bang me, another day you won’t get shit. Whatever cock fitted a woman’s mood for whatever day, twatsimona dictated the call. I opened my eyes. The creep—the guy—stood at the end of the corridor. Smooching got to him, gave me a reason to lock her lips. Thrust of my saliva tussled with hers even more. No rejection on her part. Kissing comforted her. It always did. When she’s submissive, kissing drove her hotness to the Himalayas. He rushed toward us like he wanted a threesome. Then played me like a sap when he gave a bass, “Can’t have that going on.” Like I gave a shit. My hand smooched up my wife’s dress till he recognized her tattoo on her thigh. And know I’m in charge of this pussy. Oh, he did. His skin flushed, raging hell. “You can begin my registration,” she said. He went ahead. She removed my cufflinks and upped my sleeve. Okay, waterfall prep. I tucked my hand under her lace panties. “Baby, let go. It won’t convict you.” Her breathing burst warmth. “Release right here?” “Bet your sweet pussy, right in my hand.” Since she wets fast, I wanted to capture her flow. Puddle my hand, baby. I probed my hard tongue in her ear, skillfully. She dug her nails in my forearm 57

Victoria A. Young till a speck of blood escaped. Enticing. How much I rejected pain, the intensity was phenomenal. Her body pulsated. “Ooooh, Ivy. Your powerful sex drive is—” “Your pussy whip chef,” I said with the rugged voice she prized. If I leaked her juice bar, she’d brush her tongue across my earlobe and whisper why the hell she went to Paris. Gently, my index spanked her clit. Cushiony. Her thigh clutched my hand. It’d be an honor knowing she was wrapped in my torture. Her hips shivered. I coated her tongue again. Grunted, “Pleasure, doll?” She murmured, “Pleasure, Booboo.” “Sweetheart, want me to slurp it, don’t you?” I eased off her clit. “Booboo, please, please, don’t stop.” Haven’t begun, baby. Pussycat’s tongue stole my peppermint. One hand fondled her ass. My other one worked her clit. Her tempo moved faster. When she released her edgy moans, I sensed her nearing a climactic accolade. Friction gripped. Her cunt clasped. Moisture grew. Nether lips possessed. My heart raced. My rugged tone vibrated, “Want me to suck it dry, yeah?” Her voice trembled, “When, Ivy. Yes. Yes.” I ripped off her panties. “Pain isn’t easy, sweetheart. A sweet way asking me lick your cunt after you went extinct!” Her body collapsed. She puckered. “Ivy, darn you!” “That guy’s taking care of your drug habit?” I snatched opened her duffel, shoved her panties up. Pussy willow buds showered us. Her mouth twisted into a threat. I’d care to know how well she’d defend being a wife. Maybe I’d forgive her.

YASHANI. I struggled between defiance and guilt. “This-is-how-you- 58

Passion Whispers an Execution assess-my-worth, Ivy? I’ve been down that end of the bed before. Shame in my stand won’t let you belittle me.” His voice griped, “Think I give a shit?” Lily barked when he grabbed my arm and examined it. He bypassed the old track marks. I assumed he was observing for new ones. If he used the same energy opening his eyes when kissing, he’d see my heart was lethal. His toxicity was damaging. “We’ve gone through this before,” he said. I was certain. “This place will be better than the out-patient one.” “I come here and you rendezvousing with a man. And all I asked for was more sex to make a family.” “You’re not concern with what I want. Slam bam thank you, Mrs. Flint is far from romance.” “I pay the bills, including your car note and insurance. How much damn romance you want?” “Not one time you stared in my eyes when kissing. It’s about you wanting to control this marriage.” “A junkie I helped before I knew was a junkie, you’re robbing me, I can’t get an answer why the hell you went to Paris. A woman can’t be in charge of shit. Damn right I’m gonna control this marriage.” I cuddled under him. “Hold me, please?” I desired his hands to grasp my heart pieces and swallow them until he choked up love revere. “Hell!” He careened and exited. I ran after him before he made it to his car. “Ivy, I lost interest in sex but not your love, which deserves an Oscar. The shield behind the shield has to be dealt with. Would you wait?” His nose flared. I pleaded, “Answer me, please, Ivy.” We glared at one another. No chance 59

Victoria A. Young of him forgiving me. I shouldn’t have told him I lost interest in sex. How do I fix it? “Lily can’t stay here. Take her home, please?” “My pleasure, doll.” Lily bowed as he cradled her. The man stepped from the room. Wrong timing. I didn’t know him. But to Ivy, it’d be a hard sell. My fingernail tips seduced Ivy’s neck followed by my lips puckering. He flinched, rejecting me. My pulse pumped. The gage pumping it broke. When Ivy swooped his hand down his chin, spat toward the man’s direction then lit his cigar, I knew it’d be a matter of time before he exploded. “Playing me like a fiddle, Yashani? He was with you in Paris? Yeah, yeah, I know.” My lungs busted. “I depend on you to help me quit.” He held my chin. “You were independent when I met you. Your determination outweighs anything when you believe in it. You can do it on your own.” “I tried doing it cold turkey style. My muscles crawled out of my skin. The pain and cramps were unbearable.” “Don’t give beans worth of damn. Find a way to quit. Start by seeing a doctor and find out why blood’s coming from your stuff all the time.” “I never said it came from there.” “If blood’s on your thighs it can’t come from any place else.” “It’s not coming from my body either. I just see it. Always.” He babbled, “Okay, I’m done. Sistas practice driving brothers’ nuts.” He reached the exit. The man yelled, “Yashani, you gotta get started.” Maybe it’s time to ask for the Lord’s help. There goes my marriage. Ivy shifted. “He called you by your first name?” He didn’t yell. His cold edge frightened me as he gritted his straight teeth. 60

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“Shove that dope down your throat. Take him with you. I’ll be back with divorce papers.” I jogged after him. “Can’t do this to me. Please. I’ll quit. Watch.” He turned back and gave me his handkerchief. His eyes blazed. I imagined him spitting fire. “I gave you a head start. You violated, leaving me damn leftovers. I’m gonna find out why the hell you went to Paris. If you can’t give me what I want, I don’t need a woman only worthy to play my pisser the fuck off.” Was he gone? All the passion I put in our marriage rotted. His aura spoke elegance when he gave me the vineyard of the finest wines. Now he wants to take it away. A bulge absorbed my heart’s cusp, waiting for the next rush of blood to ooze vibrations until my heart hit catastrophic. Addicted to his flesh, attentive with every touch, he knew how to make me twitch until I had vaginal spasms. Control. The depth he went teaching me how to let loose and talk dirty during sex. Control. No matter how much I wet, hollered, climaxed, he held his erection. Control. When I sniffed the bold elements of his cologne, musky and amber, I couldn’t resist magnetism. Control. He had the right kind of intellect, classy precision with a tad of thug, sexual dominance, most of all a gentleman. When I’m not with him, I’m controlled by a dapper man who’s skilled with handling a woman’s solemn rapture. I’d never known him to be vengeful. I was desperate to find my place. No one can help. Not even the Lord Ivy prayed to. Sometimes.

IVY. I rushed out in my Caddy. The fender bumped into the fountain pond of doves. She hated me wanting control over our marriage. Or something else controlled her and she didn’t have enough strength to conquer it. If I allowed her to get away with this, it’d continue. Suddenly, a brick crashed down, cracked my front window. I flinched, 61

Victoria A. Young curving. The guy stood at the exit. She thrust the car door open then slammed her suitcase on the window. Panties shielded my window. By the twist in her face, her bitch was about to break loose. “Am I trudging on shaky ground? Your pride stank worse than hog’s manure. Threatening me with a divorce? Crack the ground, start the petition! Unlike you, haven’t been down this road before.” She stepped off, switching her ass. A sudden stiffening rammed my neck. Every man got him a bitch. But you don’t put fire to man’s balls and expect him not to fire a shotgun. Ivy loses to nobody. I zoomed off.

And busted through Starbucks, ordering Hazelnut Macchiato with espresso. Crack the ground, Yashani? Let’s see about that, my dear lady. Lily whimpered, jumping around as if she was possessed.

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6 GAME OF CHANCE

Caucasian woman cheered as the staff of New York Downstate A Medical Center gave her Godiva gift baskets of gourmet chocolates and coffee truffles. They congratulated her on a transfer to Harlem Hospital. She had spent a year working as an L.P.N., after offered an opportunity to adjust her awkward social and profile status. Promoted to Registered Nurse after she arrived in New York two years ago, her farewell party gave her a collaborative effort to embrace communal bliss with others. She created a fantasy world to escape post-traumatic stress—developed along the way as she aged to her forties—affording her a break from mountain-peaked glaciers, smelly basements, and a doctor’s malpractice. Departing the office, she trailed down the hallway. A man was giving his ailing three-year-old crying child a lollipop as he rubbed her arm bandage, covering a bruise from an injection. A humbled blend crossed the woman’s ivory skin and met her rosy cheeks when she headed to the bathroom. For the first time, in a long time, she admired how her nurse uniform hugged her body. The mirror over the sink reflected her hair, glowing auburn, arranged neatly. Lavish lips hid below her slender nose. She wore a stunning platinum necklace: two hearts crossing on a pendant. She switched from her working clogs to Mary Jane’s. Then off she went. Her six-foot body jogged to her ruddy Porsche parked on the street. She could not wait to apply her nursing skills at Harlem Hospital, which reared

VICTORIA A. YOUNG north of Manhattan. Getting home would be suitable since she lived in Harrison, New York, where her house sat on acres. Her roommates had said homemakers and ex-housewives like Atlanta lived in Harrison waiting for the real husbands of Hollywood to reap what they’ve sown. Other women in the house said lifestyles of the rich and famous would be more suitable for their living quarters. Minutes later, she traveled south on the Major Deegan at 40mph. Her eyes held modesty as she gripped the wheel. A song similar to Mona Lisa resonated, “Are you a cold and lovely work of art?” when her weary smile cracked. Facial wrinkles deepened. Suddenly, the Porsche gave her problems. She pulled over on the right shoulder then lifted her hood, leaving the driver’s side door ajar, praying about whatever had stalled her car. Tugging between how prayer worked and how it didn’t was why she blacked out when she had witnessed a shaved vagina. Her mind had raced to a shaved vagina on three occasions: Vaginas have no purpose, somebody blamed the vagina for the purpose it once served, and another part said the vagina has a purpose.

IVY. Yashani back-talked thinking I wouldn’t do it. Losing needled. Been there done that. Break the ground? On the Major Deegan heading south in the right lane, my speedometer read 100mph when another deer jetted out. I tried going around, somehow lost control and careened into a Porsche, smashing the driver’s door. A woman ran around her car. The Caddy spun. My head slammed the steering wheel. I mustered up enough eye movement to glance at her auburn hair. She was laid out. I tilted and peeked at the Porsche’s mild damage. Caddy totaled. Lily peeked out the window. The woman wasn’t dead, thank God. She rushed over. “Outside are dogs and sorcerers and the sexually

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION immoral and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” Okay, what the hell? Maybe she bumped her head when she ran around her car. “Excuse me,” I said, getting out my car. She wrung her wrist. “Are you okay?” “Me or the dog?” She went into her trunk then drew out a first aid kit. I studied her charming pendant. “A nurse or a doctor?” She gave me an icepack. “Hold this to your forehead.” “Ma’am, I don’t want ice. Need to get to Manhattan.” “Shaking horribly? Coffee caused you to crash into me. Sorry.” “How you blame me when you opened your door? Ma’am, I drove at the right speed.” “The deer. You killed a deer! Call animal control. Oh, it is my fault.” She cell phoned animal control then a tow truck company. I tried reasoning how she reacted over a deer. That’s a woman for you. She ended her call. “Lordy, lordy. Do not worry about the damage. I am sorry, sir. I will make sure someone fixes your car.” “Sweetheart, I have insurance. Assuming I’m broke?” “I will never. Accidents happen. It is not your fault.” A meek spirit after a car accident? I observed her car for damages. Inside, a portable piano rested. She twisted her wrist where blood leaked. Why’d she attend to me when she’s hurt? She bowed. “Please, sir, do not worry about the damage.” I grabbed a retreat medical kit from my trunk: antiseptic, cotton and Band-Aids. Then I shot her a wink. “A retreat kit?” she asked, a bit surprised. “Learned CPR.” I pointed. “POW! When I ran as a trigger nigger.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

Her eyes narrowed when she mumbled, “A killer? I am sorry.” “Dodged bullets behind trenches. And believe it, sweetheart, America don’t give you platinum for being a veteran. Keep still. Blood may get on your uniform.” Her hands felt like sandpaper as I cared for her wound. Charming lady with a rough life. “You are staring at me.” “A come-hither look? Eye-catching as you are shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.” She covered her face. “No one has ever thought...” “Are you able to give me a lift to drop off my dog?” “I am uncertain what my new job would say if I do that. The hospital staff may be displeased terribly. What should I do?” Dated as hell. “Call.” She nodded. “Thank you. Sorry. I will take you.” The animal control picked up the deer. I removed the Cosmo magazine from my car and stuffed it in my inside jacket pocket. The tow truck held my car on the lift. I opened the driver’s side of her car, letting her in. She drove this baby. She didn’t have much to say other than she was a widow and lordy, lordy. Lordy was never found when you’re in some shit. Let me not forget, she kept palming her chain and pendant. Nor did she recall how she got to New York. Senility could be age related.

We made it to my house. I asked her to wait two blocks away. Instead, she went to Harlem Hospital to introduce herself. She returned wanting to eat. Courts closed at five. Why not kill time? We went back and forth about what to eat. I wanted Cîroc. She wanted seafood. The back and forth was crazier than trying to get her name. She requested I address her by her last name. I left it alone. Afterward, she asked

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION for advice where to go. A drink would help settle what Yashani and me had just gone through. I took her to 125th and Lenox to a seafood joint. The only restaurant I knew sold hot dogs and seafood. The food was great and she’d enjoy it. I’d have time sorting out whether to start my divorce or not. Heard it’s a strained process gathering papers and all. She sat unable to face me. Then picked over her fish and didn’t bother eating her coconut cake. Weirdness like I’ve never seen.

An hour later, she offered to drive me to 60 Centre Street. I entered the Supreme Court. Steps for filing a divorce summons were tiresome. After getting the original, two copies, and paying for an index number for the clerk to stamp the summons, I had to figure out how to serve Yashani. Summons read DO NOT STAPLE OR CLIP. MUST TAPE. How the hell they supposed I hold it together?

Afterward, I went back to the car. My lady friend wanted to stop at the cosmetic surgery joint across from Planet Fitness. We wounded up in a parking lot on 44th and Broadway. “How long you think you’ll be?” I asked. “Every year marks a handful of women celebrating their anniversary. About an hour. Sorry.” Cosmetic surgery? The boob trend. I brushed across her hand. She told me I could call her by her first name. Poisette. She left.

POISETTE wandered on the concrete into a glass and steel skyscraper, interlocking triangular glass panels. Ivy’s manner impressed her. Her smirk branched deeply as she advanced to an oval lit room of multi-cultural women of different ages. Alcohol beverages circulated. Ox-blood balloons shaped

VICTORIA A. YOUNG breasts like hovered. Balloons popped. Women cackled about, in their words, amazing year of diva boobs. Poisette kept to the back, off from the others into a room. She gave an Albino gentleman a thirty-thousand-dollar check for an endoscopic brow lift, chin, cheek, facial expansion, injectable fillers, eye, ear, and nose reshaping, and skin resurfacing. Her man of distinction had refused to pay the surgeon money upfront until he was certain Poisette’s identity change would not crack. He was her imperator who gave her whatever she wanted, as long as she continued her silence that Chateau Enterprises continued as a lucrative enterprise. Even with the pricey identity change, she was fixed on men branding her as unworthy. They were not only attracted to young women’s subtle skin, but also to their vibrant sex appeal. Upfront, Poisette joined the celebration. A mid-twenties woman told her, “Men gas over fake tits.” The young woman was attractive and spirited. A sensation pulled from Poisette’s gut when the woman continued boasting, offering Poisette a glass of Hpnotiq liqueur. Somewhere in Poisette’s mind, alcohol rang of vaginas, penises, drugs, and fun. Hpnotiq robbed her existence as she gulped.

IVY. Captured by hypnotism, I gazed at the summons while riding the tread at Planet Fitness. Rita hadn’t come in today. I could’ve used some humor. Gave so much into my marriage for it to ball down to Yashani whipped some shit on me. After an hour workout, I asked about Rita. Ebony said the women’s assembly had a problem with their coach and went crazy. A woman wanted to quit cause the duties to stay in the group didn’t work well with the woman. Rita tried to persuade the woman not to leave. Some assembly. I asked for tape, in which case, she said it was in Rita’s office and she had no key. “Then who’s in charge when Rita’s not here?” I asked.

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“Ain’t nobody goin’ in that crazy office. Rita’s bizarre. BDSM. Shoot, it slipped out my mouth.” “Something told me she was kinky.” Her head shook. “Her woman’s assembly ain’t all about spanking. They got some cult stuff goin’ on there don’t think you’d wanna think about kinky.” “The times we live in, everybody in their own right make a spectacle on extreme when it comes to expressing sexuality.”

I went back to the parking lot fixated on Yashani seeing blood, changing panties, and her Paris rendezvous. Suddenly, whoa, a helluva figure eight. Hips pronounced, Poisette swayed kinda loose coming toward me. Why was she barefooted, flinging her shoes in the damn air? An age thing. “Slingbacks or kitten heels? I do declare,” she said. “What? Breast implants the new trend. I feel you.” “Do come on, shugah. Gotta buy slingbacks or kitten heels.” Shit! Where the hell that accent came from? A pre-requisite before thinking about pussy? “Breast implants are cool. Didn’t mean to insult you. You got it, you got. What’s there to say?” “Don’t let yuh mouth overload yuh tail.” My head did a three sixty. Escorted her to the driver’s side, and opened the door for her. She forced me to the passenger side. And shoved me in each time I tried to be a gentleman. I sat wondering where the hell this was going. “Happy as a dead pig in sunshine, swagger. I drive,” she said. This some shit. What happened between the gym and the surg place? I missed something. Swagger? She loosened her dress and bra. Switched her ass to the back of the car,

VICTORIA A. YOUNG jumped on the trunk then climb on the hood. Her head aimed down the window shield. Upside down? Forty double D’s smothered my vision. Whiplash. I ventured on a few one-night stands, never had a booty call on a window shield. She went for more than a breast checkup and celebration. Her pissed off tone said, “These look like silicones? Not by a tit shot.” Apparently, she was insulted. A humble woman crashed into my car, now some wild southern belle freaking me the hell out. She flew off the hood. “Sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail all the time.” Something told me I got what I deserve thinking she had fake boobs. Well spoken, lady. She widened her arms. “Enjoy life. Fish or cut bait.” Winking, she smooched into the car, fanning above her crotch. “Oooh! Tweetleedee.” My mom had menopause waves. She didn’t act this way. I knew cougars were a major epidemic. She was more than major. Hot. And a giggling nut as she trailed tickling fingers down my chest. She grabbed my thing and went there. An adulterated calamity met an honest man. What a man supposed to do? I get a beat down from my wife, this one flashing pussy. Ripe. Quickly, I snapped her hand away. “Poisette, come on, now. Sweetheart, you coming on kinda strong.” She gave an expression as if I melted her dogmatic intention. Her decision took over. She continued rubbing my X factor. I jumped out. “Ain’t mean to frighten yuh. Wanted to go hog wild cuz we got something in common. Testosterone. Figga it’d set off sparks,” she said. Her desire to screw a young man spiraled. I told her, “No disrespect, was a pleasure meeting you.” Her body fluttered like she lost track of what she was doing. “Shugah, we can mend fences.”

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Exiting, I turned, making sure she wasn’t up my ass. A fugitive from attempted rape never sounded better. Okay, she was peppered nicely for her age. How the hell I missed her name at the accident? PEPPER in bolded letters showed on her license plate. I called Ameko, then rode mass transit uptown. Couldn’t wait to tell him this one.

8 FORBIDDEN CHOCOLATE (out of sequence)

EPPER ain’t waste time when she left Ivy. She had bought three- P inch leather slingbacks. Putting her feet on vanity and jiving in a dressing room at Belvaire, she told the chickies they got no axe to grind for baiting, allowing her to lust in her moment. If a man tingled tweetleedee, her moment it was. Naïve about danger prowling, a man gave her reasons to carry on. But if she was passed over, she’d give a lickin’. She stared in the mirror, putting lipstick on, and then poked Botox into her forehead. Other babes was fixin’ their belly dance outfits. One babe said, “Tits is all they see. Our opinion ain’t nothing.” Eyeing the babe of the insult, Pepper shrug. “Then them crusted cum stains gon think we useless.” “Just gimme my tips then hail Mary.” The babe threw up her arms. “Don’t bite off more than yuh can chew, shugah. Yuh go hog wild, Swaggas guarantee an ole good time. At a coon’s age of fifty-four, I ain’t gon say I don’t want it. Tweetleedee ain’t hollering like a stuck pig. And I ain’t fixin’ to fly off the handle, betcha. Yuh better ask somebody.”

IVY. The cabbie dropped me off at 96th and Broadway to Belvaire Lounge. A rooftop bar and grill joint where happy hour ended and the party crowd rolled low. The cozy joint had a two-flight walk up to grouping booze and seafood with whatever you wanted to cook up for a sleazy night. Mellow music played. Entering, women flashed glitzy outfits they could no longer pull off. I stood at the bar and bought a Guinness. Doublemint held the

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION petition papers. Four tidbits across the top did the job. Kudos, petition was ready. A belly dancer wore a sari. Her entrancing moves took me back to when Yashani had danced ballet, with one difference. Yashani’s moves told a story. The woman finished. Applause came forth. The music switched to some hot shit, twisting my mind into a naughty vibe. Another woman came out. Poisette? I be damn. Her sizzling non-revealing outfit squeezed every bit of her bump and grind. Blonde flipped hairdo, too? What happened to her auburn? Slingbacks meant an instant parking lot replay. She moved her body like a sister, hell. I sat down for this. I swiped my hand down my chin, wondering what else came with slingbacks? Had I gone home I’da missed out. She touched every spice of her body, giving me a hint what I’d miss if I didn’t make a move. I marveled if she was pissed off about the car episode. Maybe. At least for the most part. After twenty minutes, I ordered another Guinness. Leaned my shadowed beard against my hand. When her time ended, she pranced around. Nobody handed her tips, though. Could it be her age? She flirted toward me, then changed her mind and braced at the other end. Clearly, a sign she was bothered about earlier. The waiter brought her a tray of food. Doubt swept through me whether I could swing with an older woman. Since she’d made the first move in the car, and I needed to get laid, simply put, I needed a good fuck, I took the longest way getting to her. “Still upset about earlier?” She patted her blonde, hinting she was pissed. I chuckled. “What are you drinking, sweetheart?” “Remy.… Reckoned it was yuh wedding band why yuh flew off so fast.” “Sweetheart, bands don’t make a man run. Depth ties to bands do.” “Man and depth? Scarce as hen’s teeth.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

Her tone was similar to Yashani’s. A bit older and playful. “Poisette, scarce? What are you trying to say?” I asked. She barked. “Poisette’s a hum bore.” Whoa! How the hell she spoke about a hum bore when she just tried screwing me? I was a bit lost here. “Sorry.” She guarded her head. Maybe I gave her a headache. Earlier, everything had been cool. On the other hand, perhaps my style didn’t impress, boring the shit out of her. Hope she didn’t think I thought she was a hum bore. And my angle was sex. Her southern tone said, “Poisette? We ain’t two peas and a pod.” Minutes later, a sharp tone snapped, “When she did her wife duties, it caused her nothing but a cock that ain’t know what asshole to fuck.” What the hell was that? I brought something out I shouldn’t have. She stormed off, stood near the DJ, and squatted fifty times like Hulk Hogan’s outreach. It wasn’t like she needed her ass firmed. She studied me as if I messed up. When she grabbed a drink from the revolving waitress and guzzled, I said to myself, okay. Ten minutes flew by. She switched her ass back to me. “Poisette run off half-cocked. Much obliged.” As she finagled my wedding band, I wondered what was she talking about. I moved my hand. “One minute I see a lordy, lordy lady. Next—” “A whore? Wonder who ain’t takin’ me home tonight.” “Hold up, I don’t think you’re a whore.” “It ain’t bad having fun and be done with it. Every dog got fleas when busy as a stump-tailed in cow time. But when redneck dragons holler like stuck pigs, tweetleedee get the wrong end of the stick.” If my head could dance the wobble, it should now. “A whore’s an understatement. My mistake.”

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION

“I swing with mending steel, swagger.” She offered a plate. “Caviar? Gotta make rounds.” She dispersed caviar and flirted with every damn man. Was she a waitress, belly dancer, or whore? She headed back. I sniffled. “Fishy stuff grabbing me strong.” “Doggonit. I put on too much pheromone cream.” I touched my neck as to avoid her spotting my lack of knowledge about pheromones. Either I was crazy or almost there. She continued, “And not enough perfume. Ain’t that a lickin’?” She curled under my neck and whispered, “Pheromones make a swagger less leery to lick my erogenous zones.” Erogenous. She was frisky. This was how older women picked up johns. I couldn’t let her box me in the inexperienced category. “Should I be leery to lick you, sweetheart?” “Yuh ain’t got enough stamina to hog wild the ride.” “What M-eighty hanging in your saddle?” “A night with yuh wild wrapping mine.” “Feisty. And to the point, woman.” “Challenge yuh to a fertility test for my time.” “Normally it’s an AIDS test. A fertility test for a date?” “Thirty seconds ain’t no time to hog wild. Nor worth my time. Three hours is more of a lickin’.” Her riddle talking flipped me out. “Fertility testing isn’t for that. You think more testosterone holds an erection?” “The longer yuh hold, yuh ain’t gon shift into low gear.” She was crazy as hell. I said the same thing. Who am I to know how cougars got off? I tried to figure out whether to pretend I know how cougars swing or admit I was a cougar virgin. She popped her ass, giggled then snorted. “Ain’t no sense begging the

VICTORIA A. YOUNG princess if the dog ain’t gon gear right. Ain’t that right?” Damn right she was crazy. Hit back, Ivy. “That’s your angle?” “A leap in my desire pit is.” “Ouch, woman. Just say cunt, get it over with.” “Cuz desire ain’t always desired. A pit will always be a pit.” “Shall we make a date?” “Yuh sayin’ yes to my demand?” I ordered another Guinness. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time sitting here if I wasn’t.” “Yuh ain’t gon gimme the short end of the stick agreeing to a fertility test then change yuh mind later?” She gestured kissing. “I don’t wear lipstick unless it’s from my wife.” “Shugah, yuh just said yeah for testing.” She went on stage. My cell buzzed. Yashani texted. “Sorry, Ivy.” I returned the text. “Likewise.” Again, she texted. “Kisses and smooches. Please don’t do it.” A photo shot up with her legs wearing thigh highs. “I’ll be there in a few. Have something for you.” She disconnected the call. After dancing, Pepper stood at the end of the bar, curling her index finger, come. I took the hint. “No commitment, just a thrill.” She grabbed my hand and aimed it under her dress. “Yuh can keep warm.” “A hot phone number for a date.” She aimed for my lips. Again, I jerked back. “A bump on a log. Kiss my back,” she said. Has to be her age. This some shit. “I never heard of this for a date.” “Stop hollerin’ like a stuck pig. Sealin’ the deal will let me know yuh there

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION when the goin’ get goin’. Yuh ain’t gon lie with our deal.” Bitch was crazy, but I wanted some ass. Oh, shit! Yashani’s girlfriend, Janelz, staggered in, drunker than me. My cell buzzed. Yashani kept calling. Pepper turned her back the same time Janelz sat at the bar. I rushed her, “Give me your number. I’ll kiss your back on our date.” As I was locking her number in my cell under Pep, her hand swooped down my pants. She shouted, “Whoopee!” Embarrassing me, I assumed this came with the package. Patrons looked this way. Janelz was too ripped to follow suit, wobbling over what was considered a bill. I gestured for her to let go of my nuts. “Pepper, this means a date?” She countered, “Waiting for yuh answer to my test.” She wouldn’t let go of my nuts. Frequently, I peeped at stoned Janelz’s head swaying. My nerves did the cha-cha. “Your concept of fertility isn’t detailed enough, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re qualified to darken the captions once you agree on this date.” She continued massaging my evidence of dare. “Yuh hung like a horse. Two peas in a pod. Tomorrow?” Disbelieving the grip she held on my nuts, I asked, “Pick you up where?” “At yuh job.” “Which is two.” “The one flooded with politicians.” “How you know I’m a politician?” “Yuh got no car and need me to pick yuh up.” “Okay, you’re on my ass?” “Say no to LGBT posters ain’t hide at the accident is on it.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

“Thought I noticed everything.” “Yuh party?” “Republicans say no to the unjust, Democrats say no to the just then switch to unjust. Independent makes me my own man. I get off at six, see you then.” At all costs, pleasure capped the deal. I gave her the address to my job. On my way easing out, a dude stepped to Janelz. Said his name’s Leonardo, trying to hit on her. She ripped the paper she was sobbing over. Right on time.

My footsteps thumped. My voice faded into drunken slurs. I wobbled into a stance, relying on tree bark for support. It was difficult trying to catch a cab. Each time my arm flagged, something told me my hand wasn’t up. Bureaucratic delay. When a cabbie heard I’d pay him three hundred big ones to get me to Exceptional Woman, he didn’t hesitate.

An hour later, I arrived at Exceptional Woman. Yashani’s counselor wouldn’t let me see her. I told her it was urgent my wife get this summons. Her facial expression conveyed that my breath stank. A guard came out. She told him she had it under control. Like I was too drunk to know what I was not doing. I calmed down a bit. She said it was too late to visit. Yashani wasn’t allowed visits until she completed treatment in a month. I called Yashani. She didn’t answer. I left her a message, “Need you to fill out summons and affidavit so our case will be placed on the calendar. It’s gonna take time, so please sign promptly.” I gave the package to her counselor. Since sisters at the rehab raged war on brothers, I wondered if Yashani’s counselor would give her the package.

9 DIVAS’ IMPULSE

ASHANI. Wearing a sheer amber headscarf, sitting in my room, I Y decorated a gallon-sized jar with enflamed fabric and trimmed the neck in onyx lace. Just when I brought velvet from Paris hoping an erotic fantasy jar will spice my marriage, he thought it was necessary to give me his crippled mind. Allowing the opportunity for me to become the bitch he let loose, I called him, “I dare you have me in front of a judge airing our dirty laundry. No judge will dictate my marriage.” “Changing panties for another man is what did the dictating. Don’t give two shits about your complaint. Sign the damn summons,” Ivy threw his gripe. A ripped summons would make certain he heard how disgusted I was. “My attorney will serve you next,” he said. A dial tone was heard. I came here for redemption and wound up ostracized. Held Ivy’s hanky with my dried up tears near my heart thinking how he wanted a divorce because of my sister. He knew how I felt about her. I didn’t tell him the whole story at the beginning of our relationship, but he had enough gossip to pass judgment on me, which led to one conclusion. Don’t tell your man everything. Passion endured a timeless experience. Mistakenly fitting a role determined by expectations of others led to a perilous journey. Women were fashioned to battle between the weak and strong. Strong because of independence, weak because at times I knew I needed a man to carry my emotions until I was secured. The time I stood by the lamp waiting for a

VICTORIA A. YOUNG genie, reality began sinking in. I went to the garden’s exterior. Under the pussy willow, bound by a circle of women, I slumped in my chair. Women from every part of the world, aging from twenty-one to sixty-one, sat around with facial expressions and body positions indicating hope had vanished. Ms. Counselor said, “This is Yashani. Let’s welcome her.” Their applause painted the perfect picture of what if love could sparkle sapphire. Peering at DIVORCE on Ivy’s plea, I nearly swallowed my tongue, having no time to come up with a way to stop him. Ms. Counselor began the session. “Today’s discussion will be about emotions you’ve experienced giving you an urge to pick up. How drugs have contributed to your addiction.” Woman #1 managed to shrug and say offhandedly, “Cheating bastards.” “She said emotions,” Snooty woman replied, as she dropped ten heroin- filled bags from her purse. The symbol stood out on the bags. “It’s up to you if you want to give it to me,” Ms. Counselor said, extending her hand. Snooty hesitated in picking up the pile of bags. Thirty seconds or so after, she surrendered. Woman #2 said, “My man flaked, giving me no attention then left me. I did what’s good for the goose was jackpot for the gander. Later, I hated myself and started snorting coke.” “I’d be paranoid if I cheated. My guy was a sperm donor for his baby mama,” Woman #3 said, when her body began to sway to and fro. “I wanted to cheat. Couldn’t since it was my fault.” Snooty Woman shot up. “I’m done! Sick and tired a bitches doin’ what they ‘pose to be doin’ at home. Then turn around, blame gaming.” She shoved her cellphone in our faces. “Facebook! Facebook shit on my wall. No

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION excuse for him smooching this bitch. Stick my foot up her flabby ass, she won’t be showing off I-Hop photos.” “She can use discounts on liposuction,” Woman #1 chuckled. Woman #3 said, “I did molly. It set off crazy panic attacks.” “Gurllllllllll, molly is like Russian roulette.” Woman #4 teased. “You think drugs ruin relationships?” Ms. Counselor asked. Woman #3 said, “Guilt. The more I harbor, the more drugs began calling Crystal. Crystal. My name felt so personal.” “My bitch cheated. When we broke up, she threatened me. I slashed her face and did a year on Rikers. Came home, she was strung out on dope. Guilt played me out with meth,” Woman #4 said. “I did a bid, too. Hit the pipe later. My sleaze pumped that chauvinist bull, ordering me to cook and clean after I work all day. Then want me to screw his fat ass. I was too damn tired. He kept bossing me then gave me the S, the T, the D. I got fed up. I was outta there. Got me a sugar dad,” Woman #1 said. Ms. Counselor leaned back, suppressing a sigh. “How did he handle it?” Woman #1 said, “He looked me up. Repeated the same bull. I went Decatur and croaked his ass. Pow! One dead chauvanasty nigger.” Woman #3 said, “They do stuff, then go postal when we do ours.” Woman #1 said, “I got no concept of loyalty or love. Do me. Go ‘bout your business after ya be a man and lick the pussy right.” Woman #3 twisted her eyes. “T.M.I.” “Like we live with only Benedict Arnolds,” Woman #1 said. “And don’t sleep on them Benedicts, either.” Counselor said, “Yashani, we haven’t heard from you.” “I’m trapped between love and honor,” I said. Woman # 5 said, “When my man shoved my head in the toilet, I was like

VICTORIA A. YOUNG that. Cuz afterward he wanted sex. I couldn’t say no.” In a lightning fast motion, Woman #1 looked at her intently. “Toilet? Keyshia Cole said,” singing, ‘If he don’t wanna love you the right way he ain’t gonna.’ That’s his way saying ya ain’t shit. Leave him.”’ Woman #5 wept. “Afraid. Can’t do it by myself.” Woman#1 eyed her. “Then ya don’t need a man.” “I beg to differ. I’m team man. We don’t need men to complete us but biology is inevitable. Love’s our preferred emotion,” I said. Then leaned forward, somewhat confused. Woman #1 said, “Mama come from lala land. Men ain’t shit. Bet yours out there about to meet blowfish. And if he’s giving the hoochie dollars, blowfish gonna blow the hell up. Dump him if he ain’t doing right. Cocks die mid-age anyway. Just lick my shit then see yuh.” Woman #5 said, “If she loves him she won’t dump him.” Woman # 1 said, “Mind yo business. I don’t know what kinda sex you and yo man having with him sabotaging yo head in toilet bowls.” Woman #5 replied, “We ‘pose to submit to our husbands.” Woman #1 said, “I read, ‘Husbands love your wives. Don’t be bitter against them, vengeance is mine.’ Clobber his ass with a cleaver. He won’t put yo head in shit again.”’ It was like Woman #5’s mind and body froze. “Won’t have no husband if I kill him.” Having regrets, I replied, “I understand her dilemma. The weaker sex is the stronger sex, due to the weakness of the stronger sex, for the weaker sex.” A shallow cry escaped. “I know we’re strong. Sometimes our emotions collide and it’s tough trying to leave.” Woman #1 sprang up. “Lynching hoes. My clit just left this session. Counselor, since I can’t smoke a Newport, may I take a shit?” She stormed

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION off. I sniffled at the ripped petition. Removed the chewing gum from it and tried to place the shabby portions back together. Tears fell. “Ms. Counselor, you have tape?” Ms. Counselor said, “Get it all out… In summation, for the next month I’d like for you all to focus on a coping strategy. Whether it’s betrayal, love, infidelity, try moving it out. Escape.” Could she be saying escape as her way agreeing that mental illness drives our relationships to catastrophe and it was a prescription to nowhere? If so, it was no surprise, regardless of what spiritual level one journeyed to, what social status one boasted about, or what planet they’ve orbited, we all had one thing in common. Venuses trapped by flies. Flies haunted us; soothed us; hated us; evaded us. I called Janelz. “Where are you?” “Busting through the door,” she replied. “Meet me at the pond in the back.” I ran to my room and grabbed my erotic fantasy jar. Met Janelz near the doves. Her daisy dukes, vest and how she walked was hippy. Other days, she wore jerseys. Not dismissing her angle when she approached. It wasn’t the time to be flashing her 9mm ready for static. Her fast-talking self said, “The 911, Yen?” when she didn’t let me speak. As we neared the pond, “Put it away,” I said. “You didn’t sleep again. Bags are horrible. Hanging out all night?” “A little here, a little there.” Her breasts concerned me. “And how did your doctor’s appointment go?” “No job, cancer in tits will be cancer tits. Going back to Cali. For real.” “You’ll find a job. Just don’t miss your appointments, please.” “What’s with the lemonade jar?”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

“Once a week, Ivy has to pick out an erotic ball.” Her eyes fluttered. “Balls, Yen? Cosmopolitan mag stunt?” “I wrote in each one for him to do what I want. I do the same. Good chance he’ll taste the berry. Yassssssssssssss.” “Yah. Picture that. When senators campaign, they ain’t tryna lose.” “He was hard-boiling me, too. His lack of knowledge that women buy a thousand panties a year is getting to me.” A devilish look came into her eyes, “Yennnnnnn.” “You know our panties have stretched elastic, and holes. Not to mention periods. I have to keep changing them.” “Yah. Do ya recall I read Blood Panties for Dummies?” Her head shook. “What’s the 911?” “I called, texted, he didn’t answer. It has to do with Zariah. Yes, I know.” “Not you? Well, cooking and sewing for him ain’t working. Give him the scoop on fingerprints.” I gave her the sheet of fingerprints. She said, “Why should I give him the down low with them?” “He’ll question me to death. Then he’ll think I’m a liar and a whore.” “You was a whore when he met you.” I smacked her. “I’m not an apologetic bitch, either, because I fell for him.” Her Asian accent shouted, “What you do that for?” “Can’t tell a man everything, he’ll throw it up in your face. You’re starting to think like him.” “I played dumb when he got NYPD to scout you out while you was sunbathing in Paris, quit my j-o-b, left Cali to help you get through this crap, and you can’t tell him about the prints?” “You left California for the same reason I did. Don’t make it seem like you did me a favor leaving. If anything, I was the one who—”

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION

“Kewl, thanks for hooking me up with a man who bust a nut at the drop of his pants. I ain’t working after I quit working for you and yo husband. I’m worse off. Yah.” “I’m not going to fight with you.” I coddled the doves. “Glad you brought up fighting. We never did the details about yo massacre in Paris cuz you too wrap up in lying. Nathan and his cutthroats, way way too dangerous. Don’t know if I can roll.” “Backing out after I risk my marriage going to Baller?” “Ivy and Vike can crack them. Take them out insteada us gettin’ killed. You tell Ivy everything, he’ll make sure it’s under control.” “He’ll never control this matter. Just give him the prints, please.” “No. How you gonna trust what he’ll do if you don’t tell him?” I leaned, grabbing her hand in one fluid motion. “Janelz, please.” In the depth of her black eyes, bits of stone came forth. “I’ll be back,” I said, determined to get her on my side. I couldn’t have her back out. I returned, offering her five grand. “This will hold you until you find a job.” “I don’t want yo money. Want you to tell him.” “It stays here, they may rip me off.” She ignored. And unlikely she was concern about me telling Ivy. I suggested, “Us getting killed bother you?” “Popping needles till you hit rigor mortis do.” “This place is feeding me methadone. If it doesn’t work this time around, I’ll cold turkey. That’ll make you feel better?” She pouted. “Test him. Tell him a lil bit, then a lil bit more. See how he react.” “Men never grow up, Janelz.” I gave her his hanky. “Well, would you give

VICTORIA A. YOUNG this to him?” She shrugged, smirked, and then gasped. “It’s wet.” “Pleasureville couldn’t hold out when he left.” She held it as if it were a rat’s tail. “Eweeek! Yen.” “In the Victorian era scented hankies sent a message.” “They ain’t air mail twat juice! Twitter the damn things. How you get them minty?” “I took peppermints from his mouth when we kissed under the pussy willow.” My body reeled. “And my eyes wooed over his magical kiss.” “Totally, I’m mixed up. Juices, pussy willows, mints.” My velvet purr came forth, “Black pussy willows thrive in harsh zones. When you give it to him, tell him, love’s the most beautiful thing to have, hardest to earn, painful to lose.” She gripped her breast. “Painful to lose? I gotcha.” I gave her a bear hug and a kiss. “Muah. Bestie, our bond is dear to me.” “Give me the fingerprints. I’m not taking the money till you stop depending on him.” She left. Part of what the group and Janelz had said made sense. Some of my anger evaporated, leaving me confused, still. I was tempted to tell him about what whispers. Certainly had I told him about Paris and the other stuff, his magic wand would be at my disposal even more and he’d agree to what I was willing to agree to. I pecked the doves, and then went to my room.

Hours later, I glared out the window. The clouds sped by as day turned to night. I tried to shut my eyes, but was unable to. Mused about what Ms. Counselor had said about escape. I took a breath and was certain she meant mental illness drove relationships to catastrophe. If that were the case, I’d have to sneak out and buy me a man. I’d have a month to practice on him

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION how I’d tell Ivy about Paris. Then I’d take back what’s mine with a plan Ivy won’t refuse. The reserved part I kept in the bedroom, as he said, “Bring me the bedroom.” When I get out, I will bring him the bedroom! Midnight ummm was the token to any man. And tasted sweet like a banana daiquiri, much stronger with a kick. It made me a drunken wife who couldn’t get enough. Whatever drunken state I sank into, the flavors changed sometimes.

10 DARK OBSESSION

raffic mounted on 132nd between 7th and Lenox in Harlem, behind a T GEEK LORDS loading van. The employee took his time loading computers. Behind, Pepper denied holding her horses. She honked. When he climbed into the van, he gave her the finger, and then steered seven blocks south of 7th ending at 125th Street. GEEK LORDS was tagged on his shirt. Moving the computer, he hurried inside the building where Ivy worked. Security waved to go in opposite a line of people paused for the metal detector. While waiting in line, Pepper tapped her feet as she viewed herself in her compact mirror putting on ruby lipstick. Too big for one’s britches, she patted her butternut blonde pompadour hairstyle, swept upward. Her pointed slingbacks complemented her dark linen cape over a strapless dark sundress. Ivy came off the elevator clean shaven, dazzling a swell to do for the occasion navy suit. His cologne sugared the lobby, sending a sweet swagger blush over her face. She puckered her ruby lips then giggled. “Yuh ain’t piddle, Swagger.” Awestruck for what she was fixin’ to do. “Two shakes of a sheep’s tail.” He said, “Cool lipstick color.” Patronizing a dame’s image was his Starbucks. She ain’t gonna work too much getting what she needed. Chances it would go swell if he hogged wild ten minutes after the last hog wild and kept hog on the wild until she hollered like a stuck pig. Since she ain’t been laid in years, her intention was to make up for lost time, wanting her adventure to be easy as sliding off a greasy log

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION backward. But Ivy suggesting, “Where would you like to go?” was a sign he wanted to take the lead, and was dead-on being a gentleman. Eager, Pepper flushed when she refused to let him take the lead. “Bless yuh heart. We like two peas and a pod. Got tickets for Avery Fisher Hall.” “Cool. No Dutch?” His arm wrapped hers. “Darlin’, may we?” She supplied an impressive smirk. “I do need pantyhose, though.” “Lot of stores on 125th Street.” “Pathmark,” she insisted. “We’ll be late for the show.” “Ain’t no place got Hanes body shaper like Pathmark.”

IVY. Pepper had opened four pairs of body shaper pantyhose, checking textures. We arrived at Avery Fisher Hall late. Seated in the dark, watching Macbeth, bored me like hell. I never liked Shakespeare, but if watching Macbeth capped the deal, tonight I’d be a Shakespearean. She was a steel magnolia at heart offering to pay for our date. A few times, she wanted to ease lipstick on my back and kiss, reminding me of the agreement we had made. I gestured no. When she didn’t agree, I had to put my foot down and told her the public wasn’t the place to kiss. I was too whacked out on how to serve Yashani papers since she ripped the last set. Kudos to Staples copying, I’d be able to get them to her. I called Ameko, “Would you serve her?” He didn’t want any part of it. “Ask Vike. He got a NYPD badge. I go up there addicts may whip me with chains. Shani and Janelz, long-time trigger- finger buddies. The new school Thelma and Louise.” Then I scooped out to the lobby and called Yashani, “Why give me a hard

VICTORIA A. YOUNG time when you the one who violated?” “I’ll agree to litigation or arbitration where my side can be heard,” she said. “We’re negotiating my condo, business, and other assets?” “Does my heart matter?” Pepper entered the lobby, signaling me to come on. I flagged I’d be a minute. She didn’t leave. I turned away, directing her away from my business and continued with Yashani, “Hearts aren’t considered an expense to be negotiated or litigated, my dear. Arbitrators render decisions for assets or settlements.” “My verdict stands. It should’ve gone to court…Who are you mumbling to? Where are you?” “In the dark.” “Sorry for keeping things away from you. I’m willing to tell you why I went to Paris. How about making it fair and simple? Ask Ameko to search for an arbitrator,” she pleaded. “Vike will be a better choice.” “Isn’t he on vacation? Nonono, he was a stiff and dirty cop.” “He’ll make sure the arbitrator’s fair. He stands his ground.” “Ivy.” “Okay, I’ll check with Ameko.” I called Ameko again. He liked the idea of finding someone who’d listen to both sides. I uttered relief. Irritated, Pepper plucked at her clothes. We went back inside. She cuddled under me. “Like for yuh to be my swagger.” “What its gonna cost me? Sweetheart, you leap pretty fast.” She whispered, pissing off a snob in front, sitting with a man. “Madam, I’d like to enjoy the ballet,” the snob said, as her facial wrinkles

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION deepened. “Happy as a dead pig in sunshine. Handle yuh handle with yuh man. I’ll do mine,” Pepper said. The woman gasped, palming her chest. “He’s my husband.” Pepper hit back, “I do declare, whatcha think I’m tryna get?” My head angled. “I didn’t own up to that. There you go, leaping. Lady can be our grandmother.” Pepper fingered my cheek. “Don’t be naive. I ain’t tellin’ her our fertility jive. Too personal.” I questioned personal. In any event, it could go in many directions. She motioned her body. “Booty pop.” Could she be trying to say twerk? “Again, what will it cost me to grant your swagger request, my dear?” “Ain’t have yuh head blown in different ways, have yuh?” “For the rush, I don’t play to lose. A guaranteed rule I live by.” We continued watching Macbeth. Pepper was obsessed with the story. She grabbed my hand. I didn’t know what to make of this. An illusion I was about to get some ass from an older woman. I pulled back, hoping she didn’t want a committed relationship after we’d agreed not to. She slipped into my pockets. What happened to testosterone? I was offended when she tried to rob me when Yashani had done the heist earlier. My skepticism increased. “Pepper, what are you doing?” “Relax. Gotta make sure yuh ain’t hiding Cialis.” I stayed guarded. What were the chances of her robbing me? Have to watch them classy, fine women. You get hooked on them, next thing you know they’re charging at you with a blade or a gun. Been there done that. Her hand took my hand up her thigh. Then she buckled into my chest as her silky blonde fell on my lap, a bold contrast to my navy slacks. She didn’t

VICTORIA A. YOUNG take her time about the whole thing. What were my options? Tell her I’m nervous as hell, or? I bonded my back to the chair, fondling her hair. When I nibbled her ear, her voice cracked into a harsh voice. Okay, what the hell’s going on? Her facial muscles switched from horny to grim. What if she was a man came to mind, and it was disturbing. It’d embarrass her if I walked out. A shame if I was wrong, and blew my chance for getting pussy. She directed my hand toward her clitoral hood. Better than a cunt doctor, my hand engaged her sex and made sure RuPaul didn’t pay to bring me to the ballet. She shuttered. “Fondle, shugah.” I shifted. “Naughty.” Our snob friend moped, grabbed her husband, and scurried away, giving me room to check out Pepper’s Oil of Olay. Her tongue traced her lipstick. I embraced and accepted her pleasure pursuit as my fingers probed her volcano. Moisture piled into her depth. When her wall ridge tightened, it was like she was punishing me for assuming she had a manmade cunt. Her clit rose, well positioned. Anxious to finalize my doubt, I asked the dumbest thing. “Have children?” She ignored. Her fingers impeached my cock for a crime it hadn’t done like she knew my yen was about to deepen, stiffening, ready to rupture her canal. Hell with this opera shit. I looked down her rousing outfit. Her nipples erected. My rod hardened. Demanding her to thrust my cock faster, my legs stretched out from the row. Her pelvis gyrated, and then her body swayed back. I sensed her urge to climax. Blood surged down to my jumbo. My fingers danced around her clit till her heated sighs and a voice, ladylike, challenged my delusion about her being a man. Thanks. A leap in her desire pit was much respected. My inquisition about her

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION secret folds raged. Her body pulsated. Juices flooded my hand. Unable to abandon the urge, her muscles kept yanking my finger letting me know her cunt was too active to resist an explosive orgasm. She gyrated ying-yang faster. Beat my meat, sweetheart. I massaged her clit faster, yielding more and more till her heavy breathing gained ground. Ruggedly, I moaned. When she neared her ultimate, I imagined seeing her panic button’s shallow skin removed. Our breathing quickened. Her dared climax rushed over. My balls drew up into their bag. As normal, I didn’t get off. Intermission interrupted. Our faces went wet as breathing began to slow down. She asked, “Why didn’t yuh?” “Kiss your back or come? I’m pleased you did.” My cell buzzed. Yashani had sent a photo, wearing stilettos.

Within four weeks, Pepper and I hogged wild. She was about money and knew how to party. With that much money, she was involved with something else other than waitressing at the Belvaire. Age made no difference. Women hated telling men their age. The same applied when they didn’t show other sides of them but faked stage names and used middle names or whatever. Who saw their mindset? I was unsure whether Pepper was her middle or stage name. Or was Poisette her name? For sure, Mrs. Chateau remained constant. She took me shopping at the Palisades Mall in West Nyack, New York. After she had bought me clothes and colognes, we chilled in her Porsche. I couldn’t get her nose out of my neck. She absorbed my Curve cologne as if cologne was going extinct. Weird. I guessed some men came across a time in life where adventure served curiosity. She didn’t get laid. Me wearing lipstick to kiss her back never happened.

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She either forgot the back kiss or had bluffed about testosterone. Most of the time we’d foreplayed, she’d climaxed. What was she waiting for to get laid? I hadn’t the slightest clue. Another time, we went to a zoo. She tagged me and said I was it. I couldn’t recall the last time I played run, catch, and kiss. Tag? Young hearts did run wild. An older woman tagging—dawned on me why we don’t outgrow the kid streak. Bogart’s line, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Okay, on target. I wait any longer, Tinker Bell may emerge.

13 SCANDALOUS UNLEASHED (out of sequence)

ears ago, one personality treasured her status as an honor student. Y Another had endured beatings and witnessed a ruthless doctor perform an illegal abortion, balling down to her running from it all. Later, someone forced her to give blowjobs each time she opened her mouth about what had happened until Karma said enough of this rah rah bull. The day before Pepper’s barbecue, Urelynn gripped the concrete, unfinished basement near a jar reading HOLY WATER. Slowly, she moved further along the fifteen-foot wall stretching, cowered, wandered back and forth, murmuring, “Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and the sexually immoral and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” Then eased her hand along the writing on the wall. Minutes went by, Urelynn balled into a fetal position, mumbling like a five-year-old. Soon after, she coddled herself, wanting affection, giving herself affection.

POISETTE emerged. From the look in her eyes, she knew she did not write the writing on the wall, but heard the scripture read. She had no idea who was saying the scriptures. Her focus was how beauty had fallen into her husband Brad’s bosom. Repeatedly, she said I am sorry. Playing her portable piano and humming Mona Lisa’s song were better than listening to the angry music upstairs. A maze materialized as she crawled further into the basement. Pressing her back against the decayed wall’s fissures, she palmed her chest. Women upstairs had called Poisette, Karma. Poisette did not want to offend anyone. She did not know Karma. When Poisette wanted to do the opposite from the women’s normal routine, the women agreed. She did not know why

VICTORIA A. YOUNG they feared her so. She was not cruel. Unlike what the prosecutor had thought. He had convicted Poisette erroneously for someone else, perhaps. She was convinced she had not sliced her husband’s throat with a machete or pared out his eyeballs or cut out his testicles. In the San Francisco courtroom prior to the execution, the DA had presented proof from the crime scene: Poisette’s fingerprints from a tripod, and a lie detector test. Upon investigation, he found Edirp was a golf club Brad had owned and where he gave elegant parties. She admitted envying whomever he slept with the many nights he did not come home. His eyes lusted after others for some time; she loved him enough not to murder him. The prosecutor had said, “Brad and Poisette argued about his sleazy nights. A night without her man was enough of a motive for her to slaughter Brad. Poisette and others partied the night Brad’s murder occurred. The room where he was found stank of whiskey, fused with the white carpet.” He moved toward the jurors flashing photos of Brad’s corpse. His tone raised and hardened ruthlessly, “There was enough booze, anyone could taste it before entering. After Posiette had gotten drunk, she and her husband had rough sex. Rough! Brutal enough. She killed him in the heat of passion. Why, jurors, do you think she did an inhumane thing?” He pointed at the jurors. “Have you even been in love and your lover cheated on you? Study the photos. Then consider the polygraph of her confession. Mrs. Chateau not only butchered his eyeballs, but also mutilated his genitals and slashed his throat. She said it. Not I. Deliberate. Poisette’s witness from the wives’ club said she saw her leaving her house with the machete, rushing in her car, to look for her husband. However, that became improbable because there was no vehicle. A whole other ballgame. Deliberate. Police found Poisette outside with blood on her hands. How did she get there? She escaped through the

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION window after murdering Brad.” On the witness stand, Poisette quaked her head and claimed her imprint on the Bible, twisted her fingers in her necklace and said she never said or did those things. Whatever Brad asked her to do, she did. From washing his clothes to stitching his ripped socks to birthing their daughter, Dolly. Brad did have affairs. However, she did not take his life. Now, Poisette stared at the basement’s wall, palming her chest for her platinum necklace with two hearts crossing on a pendant. It disappeared. Her memory began to surface when she recalled her friend Lana at her side when she had visited her therapist before the murder had occurred. What hospital Poisette and Lana worked at still fuzzed her, though. Lana told Poisette Brad controlled Poisette’s life and kept her needy. Poisette had gone astray, losing a sense of who she was. Lana knew Poisette did not murder Brad. Why would she if she was carrying his child? Poisette’s standards would not allow her to raise Dolly without a father, especially a wealthy one. Poisette had asked the women upstairs about Dolly. The women wanted to know who Dolly was. Lana told them Dolly was Poisette’s identity. Poisette’s advisor swore Dolly and Brad owned Chateau Enterprises. Lana said Chateau Enterprises bought the estate where Poisette and the other women lived. Lana stressed to Poisette not to sign anything having to do with Chateau Enterprises. Her advisor’s goal was to keep Poisette monetarily secured and poppy fields’ disturbing countries. She regarded Lana’s reasoning behind Chateau Enterprises. Poisette’s headaches began surfacing. For a minute, she blacked out. Murmured, and then yelled, “Swiss Alps.” Squatted then fell. The music playing upstairs paused. Fast breathing and panting, similar to Lamaze, developed, alarming her. Footsteps rushed down the steps. Lana scooted toward her. “Hurry, hurry, she had it!”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

She startled. Lana grabbed her. She followed, shutting her eyes tightly. Seconds later, she planted her feet and stiffened.

By the time Poisette came into the living room, booyah, booyah, hit that. KARMA showed up. Annoyed, she looked at the pregnant woman wiped out on the floor near a bloodied towel and puddled water. The woman’s legs opened. Breathing slowed. Karma was obsessed about sweat crawling on the lady and said, “Who delivered when they don’t know nada about cervix centimeters opening?” Silence. Karma gave Lana the wicked eye, and then poked a bloodied, white wrapped blanket. “Lana, don’t play with me. Who did my job? Ya always a problem in hell. I ain’t Poisette.” She didn’t like Lana cause when she came to see Poisette back in the day in prison, Lana’s fingers smelled like she had played in her cunt. Even though she helped her escape posing as Help One, it ain’t mean jack. She cute and all, in her mid-forties, and got a divorce like smart women do. But, Karma wanted to slaughter Lana for igging her. Lana had teamed up with Poisette, working at San Francisco General Hospital when Posiette started having husband drama. Poisette trusted Lana to share in therapy settings while Poisette spilled out her guts to her shrink how her creepy husband took her through changes. Poisette cried about how he ain’t sexed her in six months and so on and so on. Karma grew disgusted with Poisette dropping love bits on a desk to her shrink with Lana listening. She said Lana soaked up every word and wouldn’t be surprised if her flat ass shook a free willy drive to go for Brad’s loot. Everybody wanted his money. Poisette was too stupid to know ya don’t tell another bitch how good yo man make you come. On a positive, Poisette ain’t gotta be iffy no more about Brad leaving her for another woman. Karma butchered his nuts and eyeballs.

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So, Lana had better not bring her crap to New York. Karma dug under the white cover and searched beneath. She scooted out of sight for a minute, and then returned, opening and closing a stainless steel vaginal G.Y.N gadget. “Last time Ima ask who delivered the baby.” “Goldie,” Lana said, fidgeting. Karma stepped to Goldie. “Goldie! Ya ain’t call me when ya know I give the command?” She wheeled around like in The Exorcist. “Stillbirth, cause ya took control!” Goldie’s shoulders tightened. Karma charged to the kitchen, roaring. Then charged back faster than any of the women could say peas, pies, rumpled shit, waving a machete. “Goldie, we live by rules and choices. Ya chose to serve me over a sex slave. Apologize for delivering her baby.” Goldie apologized to the sick lady. Karma said, “Not to her, ya damn idiot.” Beads of sweat rolled down Goldie’s lips when she said sorry to Karma. Karma said, “Put yo hand on the wall.” Goldie hesitated, flinching her nose. Karma shouted, “Put yo hand on the wall. Spread fingers.” Goldie submitted. Karma slashed her digits. Blood sprayed the same time Goldie yelped, bringing forth body tremors. Karma showed no pity when she licked the blood from the machete. “I take care of y’all enough to honor me. Difficult?” She paced among the women. “Goldie, now kneel to her.” Then paused, and flung the cougar blade at Mona Lisa’s portrait, stabbing Mona’s eyes. “Lana, hold my stopwatch.” She dragged Lana toward the woman who’d aborted. “Goldie, thirty seconds, chew her arm to the bone.” The stopwatch viewed, tooting, “Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

Karma snapped, “Ten seconds, ya only at the skin?” Twenty seconds ticked. Crazed out of her mind, Karma said, “Only at the tissue? Ain’t near the bone!” Goldie’s mouth flooded blood. She vomited. Her chest shook when she gasped for air. Thirty seconds passed. Blood shot on the watch, on Karma, and on the furniture. Highly hinged, Karma said, “Ya bit the fucking artery! A mess. Lana, clean it.” Lana took the wrapped bloody towel and washed up the blood. Karma grilled Lana, “Why use ruins?” “I’ll get something from the bathroom,” Lana said, rushing out. Karma whipped, whipped, and whipped her blade. The women screamed, enlarging their eyes and covering their mouths at what she had done. Evil. A J.D. Walker slashing at a Freddy Kruger nightmare. Suddenly, Rita from Planet Fitness rushed through the door, pulling a shopping cart filled with Cîroc, Grey Goose, Diva Vodka, Appleton Estate Jamaican Rum, Tequila, and Cristal Brut Champagne. She sensed something had gone down. Was she about to have another fight with Karma? Rita said after fighting with Karma when the last lady wanted to quit the women’s assembly, she wasn’t in a fight mood. She pulled out 1926 Macallan Fine and Rare. “Your order for tomorrow’s barbecue.” Karma said, “That bitch Pepper’s idea. Lana, boil Goldie’s blood. This time only one ice tray.” Frozen blood from veins, Karma couldn’t wait. Lana rushed to freeze Karma’s blood request. Rita reached for the CD player and played Robin Thicke’s song, Blurred Lines. Then she danced. “Wish I didn’t have to work. Know ya’ll gonna have fun tomorrow. That’s my song.”

14 EROTIC VELVET

VY. The cougars twerked to a song similar to Beyonce’s Who Run the I World? “Girls, who run this mother?” Saturday had come. I wore a teal linen shorts set. Ameko sported his mechanic uniform, threatening to leave for work if Pepper’s barbecue wasn’t all what I had said. Pepper wore slingback sandals and a peacock halter dress, sizzling better than the smoked food she was grilling. Flowery dresses the other cougars wore fascinated. The décor and liquor flowed like the cougars lived in the Hamptons on Mardi Gras Day. Ameko’s jumpy eyes roamed. “Bootylicious. And some.” I said, “Pick your poison. Take a drink.” I have one more vacation day. He cracked his neck. “No Heineken. Pass.” “No Guinness. But, I be damned.” Rubbing my hands, I headed over to the outdoor fireplace bar where Lana was serving. My personal barmaid. She asked, “What you tasting?” “Never tried any of them. I’ll gamble with your choice.” Diva Vodka on the rocks, classy bottle? Impressive. She pressed against my hand, fed me olives, and then tilted Diva Vodka from a ten-ounce woman’s curve-shaped glass. I guzzled five back to back, wanting to impress her when I soon realized, whoa! I had to slow down. After an hour, my vision began blurring. Ameko eased over. Whatever he said, he must’ve stolen him a drink cause he sounded like he spoke in his Spanish accent. Not knowing Spanish, my dumb ass slurred, “Yes, yes, yes, amigo.” He pointed to the Koi pond. “Something moving in the water.” “Ponds got fish, and seaweed. Baby, stop freaking out on me. Relax.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

Pepper stepped to me. “Yuh pal is a cutie.” He whispered, “Head cougar?” I nodded, shifted. Ripped like hell. “That’s Pepper. Hot, right?” His nose twisted. “Whaddup with the one nodding? On heroin?” Pepper giggled. “Narcolepsy. Feeble-minded. She can give yuh what yuh bargain for, shugah.” Ameko swayed, taking a long time choosing. Then mumbled, and elbowed me. “Ain’t tell me ‘bout a country hick.” “Didn’t know either when I met her. Introduce him to the rest, Pepper.” Pepper pointed. “Lana, a long story. The blue hair chicky read a lot. She ain’t getting Alzheimer’s. Hawaiian babe go off half-cocked with euphoria.” Then she whispered, “Sniffs coke, too, the reason she got some kinda orgasm malfunction goin’ on.” Me and Ameko eyed one another. Pepper continued, “Bony chicky got a dislike for food after doin’ two prison sentences for murder. Her passion? Bloody Mary.” Ameko asked, “Bru, Bru, Bruhman, can we speak?” “Not now. Man, chill, there’s more.” Pepper pranced to more chicks. “This is Oralynn. Woo! Every swagger forte. She get pains when sexing. Kind of a hormone imbalance. But finds other means to her means. And busssssssssssssssy as a stump-tailed cow in fly time.” Ameko nosed up. “The dark one, spazzing?” I told him, “Man, the word is spasm.” “Tremors, whatever. She ain’t stop shaking since we got here.” Pepper fanned herself then palmed Ameko’s shoulder. His crooked weasel eye bobbed. His head shook still. Pepper said, “Tourette’s,” fondling the woman’s thighs. “Shuga, stop

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION ruffling yuh feathers. We got guests.” “Dikes, ya right,” he whispered. “Now, she can work a snake. Her native, Africa. Ain’t getting caught in her habitat,” Pepper said when a growl shrieked. Ameko’s head jolted. “What-was-that?” “The land she got stretches to the Bronx Zoo.... Pepper, why Goldie didn’t come?” “They say she got the short end of the stick. Karma and Rita had a fight after what’s a name had her baby. Bet they mend fences over the redneck dragon.” Ameko was confused and rattled. “Dragons?” He wasn’t blowing my high. “The pregnant chick had a girl or a boy?” Pepper shook her head. “Boy! Boy! Boy! A lot a blood when she delivered.” Intoxicated, she switched back to the grill. I headed to the bar. Ameko followed. “Syndicate of sluts ‘bout to give ya the politician special.” “Barrel of pleasure caps the deal, my man. Just enjoy your chill time.” Oralynn massaged Ameko’s thighs. “I know you about to make your decision,” I said. “They ain’t twerking right, shakes, drugs, hormone imbalance. Bruhman, I ain’t feeling this. Bad vibes.” “Man, what woman twerks like the sisters? Cougars are age-defiant, baby. Get with it.” “Pussy in the air? Ain’t lying, pussies everywhere.” He jetted. Barely holding my balance, I swayed after him. “Ay ay ay. Come on. Like I knew all these things were wrong with them. What’s there to say? Pussies every damn where.”

VICTORIA A. YOUNG

He said, “Meeting Madam Palm and her five sisters better than watching ‘em twerk.” Again, a spine-chilling growl annoyed Ameko. He looked from the corner of his eyes. “Don’t tell me a zoo.” I wondered about the growl, too. A scary ass cat came from nowhere. Hissed, humping his back. “Pepper, I didn’t know you had a cat.” She cuddled the dark mouser. “Sun ain’t gon shine on the same dog’s tail all the time. Mysteek, be nice to our guest. Yuh guys like cats?” Unease met me. “I’m not into felines.” Pepper and Mysteek cuddled to the grill. Ameko said, “This is hot and all, something came up. I gotta go.” “Man, this is livestock. Most men run to the pussy.” “Looking like millennium gangsters, cougar boodahs? Tryna keep ya out the gas chamber. I can see CNN headlines. Troop a tarts killed the pride of a politician.” I tried dancing. You know you ripped when you lose your balance and try to make your drunk step a dance step. Unexpectedly, the cougars drew static, prepared to fight. The blue haired one, Sapphire, told the once-pregnant chick her baby’s daddy tagging her Facebook wall. He bragged to some guy that it was over between them. Sapphire said the baby daddy supported the pregnant chick because of the baby. I remembered him the last time, sucking on a tootsie roll. He didn’t know women were drama before posting that crap on Facebook? The once- pregnant chick began yelling, sobbing, breaking whiskey bottles, then picked up glass shards from the ground, stabbing her armpit. What the hell? Post- traumatic stress. Women scattered, going wild. One woman neared the pond. Sapphire shouted, “Come from there. What’s wrong with you?”

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION

Pepper yelled, “Whoopee to the redneck dragon, she suicidal.” Ameko’s tone raised, “Too much whiskey, dead twerks, black cats, dikes, growls, fighting over redneck dragons?” He hauled ass. I yelled, “How you getting back home when the house remote as hell?” He didn’t wanna come from the get. Cougars freaked him out. What choice I had? Take these bitches on like man or run like a bitch? I eased toward the bar. Lana gave me more Divas as Pepper smeared on ruby lipstick. They led me to a hot tub near the fireplace when.… Lana asked, “Can I do anything else?” What she thought I was gonna say? She placed coke on her knee, coaching me to sniff. I didn’t bother. Pepper strutted over. Snorted the coke. When Lana undressed me, I wouldn’t allow her to remove my shorts. I couldn’t bear the thought of my nuts going blue in the opening. A condom pouch was safety pinned on the inside of my underwear, giving me control. Lana slid her tongue down a blade. Another cougar brought over some whipped cream. Pepper rubbed the cream on her shaped thighs. My tongue licked thigh after thigh like a dog with an appetite. Lana fingered me toward her, then handed me the blade. “Ever role- play?” My wife did, never with weapons, though. No way I’d let her know I couldn’t roll with older babes. I grinded my body like a whore, swinging the knife without advancing on her. “Gotta go after the ass, catch the ass, pretend you killing the ass,” Lana said. “Awww! I got this shit now.” I remembered other guys talking about S&M. Pepper wiggled under the blade, pretending I murdered her. Her breasts whipped my chin making it difficult for me to aim at her neck. The more she

VICTORIA A. YOUNG wiggled, I became determined to capture her. I wouldn’t let her remove my shorts. Her persisting hand continued, going down, down. She licked down my chest till her sniffing went out of control. Another cougar flashed a camera, not-for-your-eyes photos. Politician Special? Yeah baby. Then Pepper took me on a house tour. Her living room, upscale décor beamed three levels. A nostalgic clock neared a Mona Lisa portrait, covering an ocean-sized wall. “Your grandfather clock, tasteful,” I said. A baby grand. Wow! I rested on the piano’s bench and pulled her toward me. “Come here!” She asked, “Yuh play?” I ran my hand down her face. “I would’ve been a Django or Wes Montgomery had I listened to my heart. Watched my parents play.” Her eyes brimmed with passion. “Ivy.” “Yes, sweetheart.” “Want yuh to only wear yuh cologne for me.” My fingers ran through her hair as I brought her closer, cupping her chin. “Sweetheart, in a primitive state, I can’t honor that.” Her hand moved down my arms. “Summin’s telling me this gonna be our last time. A month done gone by, yuh wife’s coming home. And I ain’t never get laid by a politician.” What she thought, I went around screwing cougars? I sensed sensitivity. Her tone implied if I screwed her, it might not be the sane thing to do. She picked a fine time bringing my wife into our intoxicated rough draft. Then brought my job in the mix, too? Her comments jabbed a dent in our evening when my high began sobering. Politician etiquette didn’t have a damn thing to do with me wanting to get laid. I tightened her to my chest. My cock began pulsating. Upholding my gentlemanly manner, I shifted back and forth, cupping her ass. Gripped her

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION up off the floor. Her pheromone perfume roamed up my nose. Fatal attraction. I brought her back down, adjusting her legs around my waist. Her flexibility stunted, I needed another angle. We stood. I whipped her around then pressed my dagger to her ass. She led me to a sauna hinting not yet, shugah. My jock danced down. Little she wore eased off. Her private parts hid due to the mist escaping from the vent. Enough water droplets compacted our bodies as our desperate motions hungered when she swirled out an exotic dish of apple slices, then breastfed me one by one. Rough hairs from my legs nipped against her ivory skin. She exposed her hard tongue, licking apple bits from my mouth, sending delighted chills through me. When she aimed for my tongue, my back move motion slanted. My hand slid between her thighs, teasing her crevice till her juices pooled. How bad I wanted to slide my fingers up her cunt, teasing her secret flesh and clit enflamed me more. Plump boobs jiggled. She smacked her ass, wanting me to smack it. No way would I bruise her skin. Instead, I straddled her blonde around my tips, exposing her throat. An arousing gasp emptied. She masturbated me, followed by asking me to masturbate myself. My tone went gruff. “Sweetheart, can’t keep telling you no.” When I slid her index over her clit, she forced my hand to plunge into her crevice. Much obliged, as she’d say. Her hips pushed forward, rounded, squirming rage. The sensation of watching her body swerve up and down exploded raw ecstasy. Wet spices from her cunt soaked my hand. My blood pressure wasted no time rising. I eased up to her breast, nibbling the fine pimples around her rosy nipples. Nuts tightened. Dragon hardened. I removed my wedding band, avoiding pussy juice flavor. To a certain extent, erase marital guilt. Then eased out a condom from my pouch, stroked it on, making sure it was tight, leaving no room for a mass explosion. Her slippery cave slid along my shaft. Deliciously, heat penetrated my gripped

VICTORIA A. YOUNG condom till my erection began throbbing. She hinted doggy style. G-spot jiggy, a quickie. She crouched to her knees. I stood. Clutched the base of her sweet ass to ride me up and down. Behind her, I plunged. Animalistic roars found way from my mouth. She did a backward thrust, desperate. After five minutes of pounding, she switched positions. She flipped upside down, supporting her hand on the wet bench. I supported her ankles. She guided me for the erotic roller coaster. Under my command, I wanted my pursued lover to cream. Throb her cunt till she ached at my disposal. She bowed to no restrictions. Her persistence went raw. Erotic roller coaster stroked the perfect screw with no eye contact with extensive reckless role-playing. After she had squatted on my cack, her back faced me. Each time I rammed, she plunged to her knees. Our body voltage fumed ninety degrees in a powerful sauna dome. Hard as hell, my rod pulsed. Her orgasm fired. Daddy wasn’t done. Didn’t she beg me to screw her for a long time? Baby, blast this sauna. I needed to lunge my snake till I climaxed. Her coming spiraled more orgasms. Granted. Ride this baby. Cosmo Passion Propeller. A dare screw. Raunchy, smelly, a roar attack. My beast emerged. I positioned her to a sixty-nine. My ass grinded to the floor as her head faced my ankles. In charge, I roved my iron up. Her yells mingled with my grunts as she controlled her tunnel movements. Heat rigged my body. Our legs trembled. Mouths widened. Her teeth nipped my ankle. Breaths panted. Badass bitch peak exploded, when I gasped. I pulled my head out before I came. Whiplash! No matter how drastically my tendons stretched, I was in some shit. My flawed reasoning compelled my logic. I couldn’t escape. My cell rang: WIFE. I kept an eye on Pepper. She demanded more sex after tragedy just happened. I gripped the head that had sense. It didn’t help.

PASSION WHISPERS AN EXECUTION

What happened must be dealt with, instantly. Yashani didn’t stop calling my cell, either. How do I speak to her and not hurt Pepper’s feelings? I grabbed my clothing. Brushing her hair and moping, Pepper asked, “That’s it?” “Love, I have to go. My wife keeps calling.” “Yuh cologne.” “You’re the one who said all you wanted was testosterone.” “Too shakes of a sheep’s tail.” Tail? What just occurred, she was country-talking shit about tails? “Enough of this Southern Belle equation, what are you saying?” “Done? Jump off after yuh parked in my tweet?” “It’s getting late, doll. Gotta pick up my wife in the morning.” “This whatcha call a relationship?” I gave her a bitch you crazy look. Didn’t dare to say it to her. Mass destruction had occurred. And the woman wanted a relationship? “Fine,” sobbed from her mouth. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. “Yuh ain’t never kissed my back or me,” she complained. “Take rain checks? I’ll be back after picking up my wife. Fine?” “One kiss.” I ignored her. She wouldn’t stop sniffing my cologne. She bit my neck, giving me a hard way to go. Again, my flawed reasoning compelled my logic for urgent care. I didn’t know how to handle it or her. How would I explain the mass destruction to Yashani, if?

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