Topless Page 8

  Although she was not experienced in any management capacity, Stacy handled the tasks of organizing and arranging like a pro. She maintained a certain wisdom, but was nonetheless subordinated by Douglass’s high expectations. Somehow, their relationship was overcome by need. Stacy needed a dominant figure in her life. Douglass was boosted by Stacy’s charisma, her submissiveness—how she put on that “little girl” act—and he was allured by her dancer’s features; the results of her formal training as a youngster. She had the look of a fitness instructor, with well defined calves, good posture, and that hip-hop-video ass. Stacy’s other assets were the tight B-cup breasts, the alluring, full lips and doe eyes.

  Douglass sensed an air of adventure about Stacy when they first met. She was a tagalong of a mutual friend who was just stopping by the Gilmore home. Perhaps she was more like a delivery, since that mutual friend had been planning this all along. But once she made it to the house, Stacy mentioned something about knowing Douglass’s family.

  “I went to school with your sisters, plus I was in your mother’s Girl Scouts group,” she told Douglass. Such words quickly earned Douglass’s confidence. And he easily soaked it up so that it didn’t take two days for the two to get intimate. Yes, there were those obligatory gestures of courting, like the flowers and phone calls. The two also did lunch at a classy Japanese restaurant. But eventually Stacy returned to Douglass’s house without playing “hard to get.”

  “This place is crazy! It’s all yours?”

  Douglass shrugged, not trying too hard to be humble.

  “It’s so spacious,” she went on to say. “So much . . . atmosphere. And it matches you and your free spirit.”

  “If that means it looks like a bachelor’s pad, then, yeah . . . I agree with you.”

  “Nah. This isn’t a bachelor pad. Far from it. And besides, I never met a guy as organized as you.”

  “Organized, but single,” said Douglass with that smirk.

  Stacy stayed over that night. It was a long night of personal, but not intimate, conversation. The two even fell asleep fully clothed on Douglass’s humongous waterbed. In the early hours of the next morning, with the daylight barely showing through the bedroom window, Douglass woke up to find Stacy in heat. She was hovering close to him with an exploring gaze. From that moment, cruddy breath and all, the two connected with plug-and-play perfection. They began kissing and touching. The stimulation was both original and exciting, progressively taking them into a wild and frenzied session of feverish grabbing and groping. If there was skin exposed, it was covered or palmed or squeezed. They stretched their bodies and limbs to the limitless levels of their desires. They swelled with passion, and had no regard for birth control or prevention.

  Stacy finally pulled Douglass’s naked body into hers. The thrusts invoked her cries, followed by a heavy stream of tears and sighs. She didn’t want to admit that she needed him, but he convinced her again and again that she did. In the heat of the moment, Stacy expressed that she did need him and backed it up with an emotional testimony.

  “It seems like I knew you for so much longer. I know that sounds like a line or somethin’, like out of a movie, but it’s true,” she said tearfully. The confession hit a peak, and Stacy abandoned every discipline, giving into a flow of affection. She pulled herself even closer to Douglass, until they could be no closer—as if she altogether wanted to be inside of him. The heat between them was part of that soft yet aggressive friction between her Camay skin and his, two shades darker. There was an instant when Douglass continuously entered her, as if in some race for a power-finish. She bounced with him until they were both breathlessly waiting for an answer . . . for a finale . . . or for some July 4th explosion. There was a definite end, and then neither of them wanted to move, if only to linger there in that ecstasy.

  After a time, their bodies shifted and they rolled over so that she was on top. She circled her arms around Douglass’s neck, then in a soft-spoken tone, Stacy explained, “I’m not sad, just . . . just in disbelief.”

  “Huh?” Her sincerity slowed him and a lone tear fell from her eye onto his cheek.

  “Douglass, that was my first one.”

  “First what?” he asked, bewildered and frustrated. Stacy looked directly into his eyes, expecting him to understand. Then she exhaled.

  “My first orgasm,” she said with her eyelids contracting, finishing her sentence. Silly.

  “Ooo-kay,” said Douglass before his own eyes asked, Now what?

  Expecting the moment to be more eventful, but settling for whatever, Stacy began to kiss Douglass’s bare chest. She delicately lowered her head to his waist, observing his limp penis, still shimmering from all the sex. Then, with a certain determination about her, Stacey embracing him with one hand, she pushed her straight black hair to the side, but stopped to look up into Douglass’s eyes.

  “Have you ever had any diseases?” She was bashful, but still had that sense of hope in her voice. As though his answer was irrelevant, Stacy unconsciously massaged him with her palm fully gripping his erection. Douglass looked at her inquisitively thinking that This must be some doctor shit.

  “I mean like sexual infections or whatever?” Stacy affirmed her position with a more determined tone.

  “N-no. Hell, no.” Douglass was simple and truthful and sincere. His face expressed that yuck! as if he’d envisioned the images of puss and infection.

  “You sure?” She looked at him. Her eyes smiling and not really requiring an answer.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” he answered definitely. But Stacy had already begun to lower her head. She purposefully took him into her mouth, devouring him with her cheeks tight and tongue consumed with his erection. She bobbed her head up and down on him, doing her best to maneuver on the water-filled mattress.

  Meanwhile, Douglass was trying hard to maintain his sanity, all but rupturing with gasps and quivers. Stacy took things a step further, overwhelming his greatest expectations. She licked and kissed her way around and below his testicles. She adjusted his legs and knees until they were comfortably cocked. Then she kissed and slurped at what had (until now) been forbidden and taboo. Having never experienced the feeling before, Douglass was hit hard with feelings of exhilaration. He shuddered. He was speechless. Part of him was a little frightened. Yet Stacy became engrossed as if she was trying to impress or gain his approval. He couldn’t open his eyes because he was squeezing them too tight. He was tense. Squeezing his face like a weightlifter.

  Stacy eventually revisited his erection with her swollen lips and she massaged him with both hands until he was completely spent within her jaws. Douglass just laid there in a state of comatose, stunned at how this woman just swallowed all of him just as easy as if he was her favorite milkshake. There were no questions left in his mind. Stacy was convenient. She was a freak who could curl his toes, and now (so to speak), this nymphomaniac belonged to him!

  For two years the talent showcase went from small idea to a big bang. It grew rapidly into a cornerstone of New York’s entertainment world, introducing all things amateur. People traveled from as far as Florida and Canada to be a part of the weekly showcase. The videotapes from each weekly performance created footage and content which was neatly edited together into a 60-minute TV show. The show was named “The SuperStar USA TV Show,” starting out as a cheesy video production with poor lighting and sound. The continuity was horrible and choppy—as if a naive 2nd grade student put it together. Even the response to the cablecast was discouraging. However, the core audience—families, friends and those performers—had no other choice. Gradually, even if viewers had to cope with the growing pains of an aspiring TV producer, the show eventually developed into an entertaining, hour-long presentation.

  To accommodate the needs of performers, as well as to carry out the operations of this ever growing enterprise, Douglass had gathered a small but reliable staff of supporters. Darryl was the public access studio manager who originally showed Douglass basic studio use. Greg
and Lou served as publicist and public relations directors, respectively. Huey was the stage manager for the various stage shows, and Rick hosted each live event. With this support, Douglass was inspired to grow and better his labor of love. Otherwise, the project might not have progressed past a few months. But it did survive. The t.v. show aired at 9PM every Saturday night—prime time airtime—on a channel that was wedged between CBS on one side and NBC on the other. This made it inevitable for any channel surfer to “stumble” into the world of SuperStar.

  In time, the production of the show began to improve, and its regional audience also increased since Douglass began to syndicate the show; making copies and then distributing them to other stations throughout the tri-state area. Many hundreds of thousands of people were now tuning into SuperStar USA, forcing Douglass to get his shit together. He was on the front line, where he had no choice but to improve—improve or perish.

  The benefits from the pressure was that Douglass not only grew as a talented producer, he also sharpened his skills at editing, camera angles and hosting. As the host of The Super-Star USA TV Show, Douglass performed hundreds of interviews with aspiring artists and debut artists, until he was very good at questions and interacting with just about anyone. Soon, major names began to fill the entire one-hour show.

  The toughest interview, his first major (quote, unquote) celebrity interview was Phyllis Hyman. She originally declined his request for an exclusive. But perhaps the exposure to over 2 million viewers changed her mind, and she agreed—at least, over the phone. However, when Douglass and his 2 man camera crew showed up at the Blue Note Jazz Club for the interview, Phyllis still hadn’t completely agreed. Finally, Douglass confronted Ms. Hyman’s road manager, and addressed him with that same relentless desire—the drive of a man who had confronted rejection time and time again—and in the end the interview went down as scheduled. The dressing room, an intimate setting with classy couches and mirrors and flowers, Douglass handled his questions nervously, but somehow maintained an on-air professionalism. Halfway into the interview, he became more confident. He realized that it was actually the diva herself who was having the difficulty. He slowly took account of her off-stage realities and the problems that she encountered. Yes, this was his toughest interview. But only up until Douglass found that she was human too.

  That first celebrity interview virtually broke down every conceivable barrier that Douglass had, or that he thought he had. In agreeing to come on the show, Phyllis was actually endorsing the show’s existence with a clever interview and stellar stage performance. Subsequently, Douglass’s struggle to earn SuperStar’s star-power, acceptance and notoriety virtually vanished. That particular episode of the show led to further interest. And suddenly, the show became appealing for big names. Nancy Wilson, Chaka Khan, Stanley Turrentine, Rachelle Ferrell, Pam (Foxy Brown) Grier, Ice Cube, Nia Long, KRS-One, Brandy, Shabba Ranks, Queen Latifah, Glenn Jones, and Keith Washington. The stars flowed into New York and SuperStar was the magnet, as there were no other New York–based shows that claimed such a diverse audience and track record of varying interviews. The popularity of the show expanded with bigger, live audiences, regional popularity and resources that promised a successful future in the music and entertainment industries. Douglass’s dream was becoming reality fast, without end.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dyre Avenue, Bronx, New York

  Dyre Avenue is a busy commercial strip which connects the Bronx, one of New York City’s five boroughs, to Mt. Vernon, a suburb of Westchester County. Because Dyre is also the last stop on the northern tip of New York’s mammoth subway system, commuters who are headed to homes in the North Bronx or into Mt. Vernon are forced to transfer to or wait for a bus or taxi. With so many itineraries concentrated in one area, congestion cannot be avoided. High traffic, grocery stores, newsstands, tailors and most every other kind of impulse service imaginable was a part of the flurry on Dyre Avenue. From an aerial view, the activity on a bright, humid day might engross the most uninterested eyes. All the loud noise, bustle, the twoway stream of cabbies and thicket of pedestrians was suddenly interrupted by a different person. A different attitude, not aggravated or tense, but friendly. Different clothing, loose with an unrestricting flow. No straps or elastic hugging or trapping body parts for definition. Different skin color, glowing with the color of a healthy redwood tree, not blemished or sulking with stress like some ol’ worn oak. Valerie was like this alien walking up Dyre Avenue who was fulfilling a simple task, a quart of milk for Mrs. White. Twice Valerie’s age and a homeowner who was a friend of a friend of Valerie’s mother. Mrs. White, who insisted that she be addressed with her maiden name in place. Okay . . . Mrs. Brown-White then. So be it, Valerie submitted. Since $60 was certainly below market rates for room rentals, Valerie would grin and bear the extra drama. Going to the store for these sudden needs? Well, all right. She could tolerate that. Valerie thought about these various extras as taxes, while she headed for the grocery store purposefully.

  Nearly every person who caught a peek at Valerie strolling down the sidewalk, whether they were alone or with another, gazed at her for extended periods of time. Even inside the window of the local laundromat a few women nearly pressed their faces to the window. Then came a loud, obnoxious parakeet whistle that cried out into the air. Valerie looked over and thought this guy was just acting silly, how he was standing up with his upper body extended through the passenger’s window of a moving Chevy Caprice. It appeared to be a taxi moving about 10 miles per hour—that is until those next few seconds. Nothing but confusion. The car in front, also a Chevy Caprice, either put on his brakes or merely decelerated. Either way, there was this loud CRASH! Headlights, backlights and directional signals from both vehicles were strewn about the Dyre Avenue blacktop. The back and front bumpers of the vehicles were lip-locked under and over one another. Instead of whistling, the rude boy was now moaning and still hanging from the window. And, although he looked like a damaged, human jackknife, wiggling from his circumstances as best he could, he still mustered the audacity to pursue Valerie with his eyes. Killing himself over a piece of ass.

  While the drivers argued, Valerie hardly noticed. She turned her head away from the loud noise and returned down Dyre Avenue with the slim brown bag cuddled between her arm and breast. Before long Valerie whipped back around the corner to Mrs. Brown-White’s house, not having any idea of the commotion she’d just caused. But then, there’s no telling how many men have stumbled, tripped or stuttered upon approaching or passing Valerie. Even her ex-boyfriend used to have those nightmares about her stifling the economy of Canada when she sneezed.

  Mrs. Brown-White may have also come to envy Valerie, realizing how much attention her new visitor was attracting during her first months in the Bronx. She first thought that spring fever had something to do with it. But now in Valerie’s third month as a live-in, men began surfacing with even more consistency. Mrs. Brown-White’s home had never been a site for tourists, nor was it near a traffic light. Nevertheless, car horns, the doorbell, telephone and even the extra nice “hellos” that Mrs. White was herself receiving was becoming a bit much. The activities pushed the woman to be more of an overseer than a landlady. Valerie, on the other hand, was overwhelmed, and she welcomed the kindness, the flowers and the attention. And she wasn’t cheesy about it, but she wasn’t interested in anything serious at the moment. Basically, the flurry of interest merely helped her to forget Canada and the obsessed boyfriend she’d escaped from. Besides, she wouldn’t be here for long. The house was too close to her job; she was making good money, and she was an independent woman, not the type to overstay her welcome. Not to mention she’d already begun searching for more appropriate living conditions.

  The New Job

  Valerie figured that finding a bedroom couldn’t be any harder than it was to find a job. But of course, this was Valerie. And things just kind of happened for her—like a flower receiving its timely shower of sun and rain, no more, no less. She d
idn’t think this way; that’s just the way it was. She was in a perfect rhythm with the universe around her. It was the type of assurance that made anything possible, where she could cope in just about any circumstance. For instance, when Valerie had initially sought out a job, you’d think she won the World Series or something, with how employment applications showered her ticker tape parade-style. Coincidentally, Valerie sort of stumbled into her new occupation compliments of her landlady. She joined Mrs. Brown-White for a weekly food buy. And on the way home they stopped by the local Dunkin’ Donuts. It was then that Valerie recognized a large building, painted all black. On the exterior there were bigger-than-life artist renditions of bold, voluptuous women. A 10-foot sign hung from an extended beam, where passing traffic couldn’t miss its big black, beveled letters.

  GILMORE’S

  FOOL’S PARADISE

  The Leader in Adult Entertainment.

  Valerie avoided the obvious and gave her chaperon no indications. But in time she’d learn more.