Power Couple (14 page)

CHAPTER 20

L
ast night's ESPY Awards and the after-parties had been thrilling, but now, my tired ass was paying for all the fun I'd had. I could barely keep my eyes open as Clayton applied my makeup. We were both sipping cups of Pu-erh tea, a fine blend of dried and fermented leaves that came from the Chinese Yunnan region next to the Tibet border. I didn't always share my luxury tea, but I'd had such a good time last night, I was feeling charitable.

Clayton took a long sip of tea. “Mmm. This tea is delicious, but I have to say, you are making me earn my pay, today.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look exhausted, and I'm doing everything I can to make you look wide awake, but hiding these bags under your eyes is not easy.”

“Work your usual magic with concealer.”

“I'm trying, but you overpacked, baby. I've never seen you carrying this much luggage,” he quipped.

“Ha-ha, you got jokes, but it's too early in the morning for me to laugh.”

“I'm serious. Concealer isn't working, so let's try an ice pack to get down the puffiness and then I'll reapply the concealer.” He wiped the concealer from under my eyes and then pulled his phone from his pocket.

He called one of the college interns who was working on the show as production assistants, but were basically, gophers. “Bring
a bowl of ice to Cori's dressing room, pronto!” Clayton enjoyed exerting power.

“What about Preparation H? Isn't that quicker?” I asked.

“Chile, that's an urban myth. You can go blind if any of that shit gets in your eyes. You better keep it up your ass and away from your eyes.”

“Thankfully, my ass is just fine. No Preparation H for me.”

Clayton gawked at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you're lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Are you telling me that you don't suffer from even a minor case of hemorrhoids?”

“Hell, no! Why would I? I never pushed out a baby. And back when I was a child, my grandmother would have a fit if my cousins or I sat on a hard surface. She said it would give us ‘the piles,'” I said, chuckling at the memory.

“Umph.”

“Umph, what? Speak your mind.”

“I'm not trying to get all up in your business, Cori, but if you don't ever have to dab on a little bit of Preparation H, then you must not be handling yourself in the bedroom—if you know what I mean.” Clayton winked in an overly confident way that suggested he knew more about how to cater to a man in a bedroom than I did, which I found offensive.

“No disrespect, Clayton. I don't mean to be offensive because you know I'm not homophobic, but—”

“Here we go,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Let me brace myself for all the disrespect that's about to come out of your mouth.”

“No, seriously. I'm all for gay rights, marriages, and everything, and you're completely aware of that. But being a gay man, what
would you know about sex between a heterosexual, married couple?”

“Oh, I know plenty,” he said smugly. “Every one of my lovers has been a so-called heterosexual man—and quite a few have been married.”

“Ew. I'm not talking about the fruity, down-low brothers. I mean, real, heterosexual men.”

“There's no such thing as a real heterosexual man. All men either want their salad tossed or they want to toss someone else's. Or both. But I'm a true-blue bottom; I don't toss salads. I have a problem when a man wants me to pump dick into his ass. I'll let him suck my privates, if he's into that, but I won't fuck my man in the ass.”

“That's way too much information, Clayton. And it's too early in the morning for me to be listening to the sordid details of your sex life. What kind of masculine man would want to suck a gay man's dick?”

“Girl, plenty of 'em.”

The intern arrived with an oversized bowl of ice, and Clayton and I went silent. It seemed to take her longer than necessary to situate the bowl on the table beside me. Trying to make room for the large bowl of ice, she fiddled around with our teacups and the array of makeup that was spread out, rearranging the setup. Once she'd finally left and closed the door behind her, we resumed our conversation.

“Why do you think anal sex is sordid? It's as normal as vaginal sex,” Clayton said, all up in his feelings, and sounding defensive.

“To each his own, but come on, Clayton. Be realistic. God gave women pussies for men to insert their dicks and procreate. It's as simple as that. Now, I'm not knocking your lifestyle or anything, but you know damn well that the Lord gave you an ass to shit out of and He didn't intend for you to turn it into a fuck-vessel.”

Clayton scrunched up his lips. “I can't believe you're such a narrow-minded, ignorant bitch. No disrespect,” he said snidely, mimicking the words I'd spoken earlier.

“You are seriously overstepping your boundaries, you Fruit Loop motherfucker,” I spat, lashing out at him for calling me a bitch.

He applauded theatrically. “Nice to know how you feel about gay people. Thanks for letting your true colors show.”

“I apologize for calling you a Fruit Loop, but you shouldn't have called me out of my name, either.”

“True. I'll give you a pass…this time. Truce?”

I nodded.

“All I'm saying is expand your mind. Sex isn't supposed to simply be a way to procreate; it was also intended as an expression of love and a way to give and receive pleasure. You're a prime example of that. No shade,” he quickly added. “You fuck your husband regularly, don't you?”

“Yeah, and…?”

“Well, you two haven't made any babies, yet. So you're obviously not smashing to procreate. Look, you're the one who tweeted about hiring a surrogate, so it's not like I'm making a false statement.”

“Okay, you're aware that I can't have kids, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I read something about it in the blogs.”

“I would carry Mav's baby if I could,” I lied. “Under normal circumstances, a man and a woman are supposed to breed. But two men can't do anything except play the roles of poop chute packers. No shade.”

“The male G-Spot is the prostate gland, which women don't possess. Why would God give men such an intense pleasure center if we're not supposed to use it? Wanna know what I think? I think men and women were supposed to procreate and make the Earth plentiful, but the purpose of two male lovers is to provide
each other with the kind of extreme sexual pleasure that a woman could never give.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Have you ever directly touched Maverick's prostate?”

I scrunched up my face. “Hell, no!”

“Don't knock it unless you've tried it. Believe me, he'll thank you for it.” Again, Clayton winked, acting as if he knew something I didn't know.

“I'm confused. If all men love getting dick rammed up their asses, and you claim to be a true-blue bottom, then how does your man get satisfied?”

“First of all, no pussy in the world can compete with a tight asshole, and secondly, I don't have anything against giving my man a little tongue action, if you know what I mean.”

“Ew. You lick assholes?” I grabbed my cup of tea and covered the top with the palm of my hand. “I hope that intern didn't mistakenly rearrange our teacups because I'm scared to drink after your nasty ass, now.”

“Girl, ain't nothing wrong with my mouth.”

“So you say.” I contorted my face as I moved my cup far from Clayton's reach.

Being overly sensitive, Clayton snatched up both cups of tea and stormed over to the washroom and poured out my super-expensive Pu-erh tea. I could hear him rinsing both cups out, swishing water around vigorously. He came out of the bathroom, drying one of the cups with a paper towel.

“Now, you don't have to worry about catching anything from me. Would you like me to make you a fresh cup of tea in your sterile cup, your highness, or are you afraid you might catch something from my hands?”

“You're being ridiculous.”

He put a hand on his hip. “Maybe you want to hire a new makeup artist, too. Someone you won't be likely to catch any kind of diseases from.” His voice cracked, and I realized how badly I'd hurt and offended him.

“I'm sorry, Clayton. I took it too far.”

“You sure did, bitch,” he replied with a hint of a smile.

“Well, I'll be careful to watch what I say around your sensitive ass from now on.”

“Since I keep my ass lubed up real good, it's far from being sensitive, honey.” He gestured flamboyantly and burst out laughing, demonstrating that our little tiff was over.

• • •

With the competition narrowed down to only four contestants, I had much more free time than usual. I had finished taping my segment where I explained the next task to the contestants super early and had the rest of the day to myself.

Today the kids were participating in New York's campaign against hunger and were cooking tasty meals at a community soup kitchen in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of the city. Their task was to prepare my recipes in a heart-healthy and diabetes-friendly way, using only a fraction of the fat, sugar, and calories found in my classic Southern cuisine.

Their judges would be the impoverished souls who depended on the soup kitchen for sustenance. Azaria and Norris would be on hand to count the votes and declare which contestant had garnered the most votes. Lucky them! Azaria was always trying to outshine me and I wished her luck preening for the camera while inhaling the stench of the homeless. It wouldn't be an easy feat.

I didn't have to appear on camera again until tomorrow when another contestant would be sent packing. That someone was
supposed to be Becca, but I didn't think our female viewers (who were the majority) would appreciate seeing Becca kicked off the show. I needed to talk to Josh about keeping Becca around until the final two. I felt we needed to make it seem like our remaining female contestant at least stood a fighting chance.

Clearly, it was time for Angus, the racist skinhead to go home. I had no doubt that I could persuade Josh to agree to get rid of him next, instead of Becca.

For the finale, Josh wanted the pretty boy and the preacher to duke it out. He believed that Yancy's quirky personality and Michelangelo's dreamy looks would keep the viewers riveted. And that was probably true, but I had a personal vendetta against Michelangelo. How dare he jeopardize my unblemished reputation by pulling down my damn drawers while I was in an emotionally weakened state?

He had to go. If by some fluke, he ended up winning the competition, I would have to make appearances with him, promoting his ventures as well as promoting the show. I didn't want to be tempted into any more intimate situations with that smooth-operating panty-peeler. I had enough problems in my life and couldn't risk being accused of fooling around with a contestant.

I'd already made sure that Ralphie would keep his mouth shut by flying Ellie to Chicago to personally pay him off with cash. Ellie reported back that she had to twist his arm to get him to take the money. He didn't feel that I owed him anything and said he was grateful for everything I'd already done for him.

It was a great relief to learn that he didn't hold a grudge against me for allowing him to be sent home. I truly appreciated his loyalty.

CHAPTER 21

I
thought about using my leisure time to shop for baby clothes or maybe meet up with an interior designer to discuss concepts for the baby's nursery. But the fabulous evening Maverick and I had spent at the ESPY Awards had robbed me of sleep, and what I needed more than anything was a long nap. I told my driver to take me home. Usually, I'd communicate with Ellie, check emails, or make calls during the ride home, but today I simply I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the peace.

My peacefulness was short-lived when my thoughts flashed to the conversation I'd had with Clayton early this morning. According to Clayton, there was no such a thing as a heterosexual man. He'd said all men wanted to suck dicks and get fucked in the ass, but I found that statement to be ludicrous. If there were such vast numbers of men who were sexually attracted to other men, then why did Clayton have such a tumultuous and sad love life? He was constantly bitching about being done wrong by one of the many unidentified men he was known to refer to as his fiancé. Every month he had a new fiancé. No ring on his finger, but he was constantly engaged to some anonymous man.

On further thought, why was he always kicking it with his queen friends on special holidays instead of being booed up with one of his future husbands? I should have asked him that during our discussion. Hindsight sucked.

A real man like Maverick, who loved the female anatomy, would never be interested in plugging the butthole of a hairy ol' man. He certainly didn't want a dick or anything else being shoved up his ass. And if a motherfucker with a swinging dick tried to stick an erection anywhere near Maverick's mouth, that gay-fish would get a beat down he'd never forget.

Coming to the conclusion that Clayton was delusional, I drifted off to sleep. When we reached my apartment, the driver woke me by gently calling my name. That short nap gave me a second wind, and instead of going up to my apartment and getting in bed as I'd planned, I waved goodbye to my driver and then walked around the block to the garage where I kept my whip parked.

With dark shades hiding my face, I drove to Babeland, a sex entertainment boutique. This was the kind of shopping excursion that I would normally have had Ellie handle for me, but it was a sudden decision and she was taking care of other business on my behalf.

Hastily, I snatched up three different types of anal sex toys: a shaft ring with an attached anal arm, a beaded butt probe, and a very small butt plug for beginners. If Maverick enjoyed the tiny butt plug, we'd work our way up to the other devices.

The idea of sticking objects in Maverick's asshole was repugnant to me, but the Mavcor brand was potentially a billion-dollar business, and if I had to go as far as to strap on a damn dildo and fuck my husband's brains out, then that's what I'd do to keep our marriage intact.

After I got home and emptied the contents from Babeland on the bed, I had second thoughts about trying to introduce Maverick to anal sex. The objects looked intimidating and dangerous, like they'd rip him a new asshole.

The idea of tampering with Maverick's ass was gross, and doing
something that could possibly cause the smell of shit to drift around my bedroom was out of the question. Repulsed, I dumped all the anal devices down the trash shoot. Rethinking the situation, I decided to introduce Maverick's ass to something small and gentle—like the soothing tip of a tongue. But not
my
tongue. Fuck that!

I wondered if Tamara would be amenable to tongue-fucking Maverick. She was definitely a thirsty bitch who would probably do most anything to attain the status of mistress to my successful, wealthy husband. Maybe I should string her along and make her think that Mav was looking for a discreet side bitch.

I'd sweet-talk her into eating Maverick's ass, but after that, I'd have to give the slut her walking papers. I couldn't have a shit-licker cooking for me.

Bringing up the subject of Tamara licking my husband's ass was going to be really awkward. I had no idea how to broach the subject. Hopefully, after brainstorming, I'd be able to come up with a clever idea.

I checked the time and was surprised it was only half past noon. Tamara wasn't scheduled to start preparing our dinner until five, giving me ample time to come up with a devious way to convince her to cooperate.

Meanwhile, my second wind was over. My eyes were getting heavy. I threw back the covers and slid into bed. I also clicked on my grandmother's recording, allowing myself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of her voice and the infinite wisdom she imparted.

• • •

It pissed me off when the newspapers referred to my business as a
house of ill repute. That description gave the impression of a ramshackle
place in need of repairs and a good scrubbing down.

My brothel looked as good as most rich folks' homes. It was decked out
with plush carpeting, expensive furniture, and original art that I got from this intellectual fella named Albert Banner. Mr. Banner had traveled all over Europe buying paintings from artists who were new on the scene. He was a regular at my place and also gave me stacks and stacks of books to line the walls of the main room. It tickled me the way he would pick out a book of poetry he'd donated from the library and then take the book up to the room with him and his chosen gal.

My whores called him the “Poetry Man” based on the fact that he recited long passages of Yeats, Tennyson, Longfellow, or Wordsworth while slowly undressing the gals. The only reason I know the names of those poetry fellas is due to Mr. Banner bringing the new additions for the library straight to my office before placing them on the shelves. Thank the Lord he didn't read me any poetry, but he sure made me suffer through listening to the life story of each and every one of the poets he admired. I only put up with that crap because Mr. Banner was one of the kindest and most generous men I'd ever met.

Lots of men came to my place to socialize as much as they came to screw the whores. My place was more than a whorehouse; it was a sort of gentlemen's club where the upper-crust folks could sit around drinking good liquor while playing backgammon and card games. If they wanted solitude while waiting for their favorite gal, they'd sit and quietly read a book from the library that Mr. Banner had donated.

I made a shitload of money by doubling and tripling the price of the booze I sold. And I charged a pretty penny for my famous dinners, also. White folks loved my cooking. They couldn't get the kind of food I served at home. My Southern-style cooking was as foreign and exotic to those Northern crackers as were my colored and Spanish whores. I charged my clients extra for damn near everything, and it occurred to me to put a price on the books they selected from my library, but I didn't. I figured
charging folks to sit and read would be downright tacky. And there wasn't
anything tacky about Eula Mae.

Every so often, folks wanted to rent out my place for exclusive, all-night parties and that's when I really raked in the dough.

Of course, O'Grady always got his cut. His bribes and kickbacks were already costing me a fortune, but when his greedy behind started demanding an even higher percentage of my exclusive parties, I had to draw the line. It was to the point where O'Grady was making damn near as much as I was without investing one red cent into the business.

So, I finally stood up to him, which was a big mistake on my part. That ornery son of a bitch sent two paddy wagons and three squad cars to my place. Those coppers didn't merely kick the door in—no, sir, they showed me they meant business by tearing down the door with axes and sledgehammers.

I would have opened the door for them, but that would have deprived them of the fun of raiding the place. Oh, how those boys enjoyed causing a ruckus: blowing on their whistles, kicking over furniture, and smashing
lamps with their billy clubs. Whores were running naked through the place, screaming and stampeding toward the back door. The tricks, holding shoes and a pile of clothing in their arms, were climbing out windows and huddling together on the rooftop.

Those coppers loved creating mayhem. Grinning with malicious delight, they collected the fleeing whores and chained us all together as they hauled us off to the county jail.

Believe me when I tell you that jail is not a place for a woman to be.

Mr. Banner tried to use his money and influence to get me out, but those honkies made me do a fourteen-day stint before they gave me bail.
Though some may think two weeks isn't a lot of time, it was too goddamn
long for me. I'll tell you something: when my court date came around,
I was scared shitless that the judge was going to send me upstate and make
me do some hard prison time. I was nervous, but I didn't let it show. I
pulled up at the courthouse in my Cadillac. I was glamorous as a movie
star when I strutted inside the courtroom wearing dark sunglasses and
wrapped up in a full-length mink coat. Pictures of me were splattered on the front pages of all the Negro newspapers in and around the Philadelphia area. I was notorious, honey!

It turned out the judge was a regular at my place, and I got off with only a slap on the wrist. But in order to continue running my establishment, I had to give in to O'Grady's demands. Lord, how I despised that man. My hatred festered inside me to the point where all I could think about was getting revenge on him.

First of all, he had ruined the life of my best girl, Sophronia. It hurt when I had to run her off my property when she was hiding behind bushes, trying to secretly solicit my customers as they entered and exited the premises. According to gossip, she was offering to suck a dick for fifty cents and would suck off an entire party of men for two measly dollars.

My heart went out to Sophronia, but I was a businesswoman, and I couldn't have her skulking about my property, harassing customers while looking like death warmed over. It didn't take much to run Sophronia off. All I had to do was threaten to come outside and whoop the living daylights out of her. But there were times when that heroin habit of hers
had her feeling brave. At those times she'd get right stubborn and ornery, and would refuse to carry her ass off my property. Whenever she got out of hand and refused to skedaddle, I was forced to come outside and scald her with a bucket of hot water. I didn't like treating Sophronia so harshly, but it was the only way to get rid of her junkie ass.

Besides Sophronia getting on my nerves, there was O'Grady. That man was a monster and it seemed he lived and breathed to make my life miserable. When he started raiding my place on a weekly basis, he left me no choice but to find a way to get rid of him.

• • •

If I had to hear my grandmother admit to committing a heinous murder, I was sure I wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully, so I turned off the recording. Before I knew it, I was in dreamland.

“What are you doing home so early, baby?” Maverick's deep voice entered my dream and gently pulled me out. I yawned and stretched and then sat up and smiled at him.

“I had a short day at the studio,” I said, inhaling a whiff of something that smelled wonderfully spicy. “Is Tamara here already?”

“Yeah, she's been here for over an hour.”

I glanced at the clock. It was after six, and I was surprised I'd slept for so long. I was also disappointed that I hadn't gotten an opportunity to talk to Tamara in private before Maverick came home.

“Listening to your grandma's tapes?” he asked, gesturing toward the old-fashioned tape player on the nightstand.

“Yes. I miss her and listening to her voice, hearing her talk about the good old days makes it seem like she's still here.”

Maverick nodded in understanding. He had no idea that Grandma Eula Mae had been a notorious madam in her heyday. He was only aware of her culinary skills and how she'd cook for and hosted numerous civil rights activists at her restaurant and put them up in the hotel she ran for colored travelers in need of lodging.

“Listen, babe. I, uh…” Maverick hesitated as a slow smile crept across his face.

“What's the smile for?” He looked so cute and kissable, I couldn't help from smiling, too.

“Tamara brought an assistant with her tonight.”

Instantly pissed, I scowled and folded my arms across my chest. “That's presumptuous of her. Fuck if we're paying for a goddamn assistant. No one gave her permission to bring extra help.”

“Calm down; it was my idea. I was joking around with Kevin Berenbaum at the station today and he mentioned that back when his wife was his chef, she used to bring a helper with her from time to time.”

“But it's not as if we're having a big dinner party. Why does Tamara require a sous chef to cook a simple dinner for two people?”

Maverick and I had been more than generous with Tamara, and it annoyed me that she was trying to squeeze more money out of us.

“Before you blow up, let me explain.” Maverick spoke in a calm tone as if I were a loose cannon, apt to explode at any moment.

Matching his calm tone, I said, “Okay, explain.”

“Kevin's wife and her kitchen helper used to put on a novelty act during the meal…if you catch my drift.” He raised his brows twice, suggesting that the novelty act was something salacious.

I'd had an idea of my own—a novelty act that I wanted Tamara to perform—but Maverick looked so excited about whatever our chef and the kitchen helper had plotted, I supposed I could put my plan on the back burner for now.

“I hope Tamara's helper is discreet. The last thing we need is for someone to sneak and take pics of us and post them on Instagram. Did you confiscate the bitch's phone?”