reserved for dancers. It was well lit and monitored by security cameras.
Wanda scoped Mike’s new Porsche truck in front of the building. After parking, she and Tiffany walked around to meet him. As they approached, Mike was engaged in an animated conversation with the club bouncers. Tiffany blushed inwardly upon seeing Mike, remembering how she used his voice, his growls, to help her reach an orgasm the night before.
“Hey! There go my girls,” Mike announced cheerfully when they came into view. He lifted Wanda up and planted a kiss on her lips.
“Mmm. Hey, yourself,” Wanda purred, giddy from the affection.
“Hey, Mike,” Tiffany gushed girlishly.
Mike had a sisterly hug for her as well once he sat Wanda down. He put one girl under each arm and led them inside. Tiffany, who was becoming intoxicated by the smell of his cologne and feel of his touch, melted into him.
The first thing that struck Tiffany as she toured the establishment was the smell. Over the cigarette and weed smoke, through the battle of warring perfumes and clashing colognes, and even the chicken being fried in the club kitchen could not compete. The place smelled just like pussy—not stank funky pussy, just a faint whiff of vagina. No wonder , Tiffany told herself as her eyes adjusted to the light. The place was full of women in various states of undress, all glistening with baby oil. Her self-esteem plummeted as she saw beauty after beauty. Just an hour before, she was admiring herself in her mirror, but now she wanted to run and hide.
Tiffany was lost in her thoughts as she entered this fascinating new world. She missed most of the narrative Mike gave, and before she knew it, she was back at the front door. Mike was still talking, but she had no idea what he was saying. “Excuse me?” Tiffany said, stopping him mid sentence.
Wanda sucked her teeth sarcastically, but Mike was more sympathetic. He recognized the deer- in-the-headlights stare in Tiffany’s eyes, and he knew she was out of her element. “I said, this is where you’ll be working,” he repeated, pointing to the small booth where she would check ID and collect admission fees. “And sometimes my servers don’t show up, so you’ll have to help out there as well,” Mike added.
Before leaving her at her post, he introduced her to Big D, the club’s first line of defense. He protected against all adversaries, especially the dreaded broke niggers. They were the riffraff who sat in their cars getting as high as drunk as they could so they wouldn’t have to pay for drinks in the club. It wasn’t unheard of to catch one or more masturbating under the table. Big D would make sure to break an arm if he caught them.
“A’ight, lil mama. See ya later,” Mike said with a wink before leading Wanda back into the bowels of the establishment.
Not long after Tiffany got settled in the booth, the customers came in droves. She saw plenty of familiar faces from school, work, and even church. For some reason, anyone who even remotely knew her asked what she was doing there. Wearied by the question, she began getting snippy as her patience wore thin. “What am I doing here?” she repeated curtly. “What are you doing here, Deacon Jones?”
The junior pastor from her church mumbled incoherently and slinked inside.
Big D looked at her with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “What’s up?”
She caught herself, smiled at him brightly to indicate that she understood, and went back to being cordial. After all, she knew what was wrong. She needed a blast. It had been almost an hour since she’d smoked, and that monkey on her back was growing restless. As it began to fidget, so did she. “Um, Big D, I left my inhaler in my car. Can you hold me down for a sec?” she asked sweetly.
Big D fell for the helpless routine and quickly agreed. “I got you,” he said, assuming her duties.
Tiffany fought the urge to run to her car, where half a blunt waited in the ashtray. Walking as briskly
Wanda scoped Mike’s new Porsche truck in front of the building. After parking, she and Tiffany walked around to meet him. As they approached, Mike was engaged in an animated conversation with the club bouncers. Tiffany blushed inwardly upon seeing Mike, remembering how she used his voice, his growls, to help her reach an orgasm the night before.
“Hey! There go my girls,” Mike announced cheerfully when they came into view. He lifted Wanda up and planted a kiss on her lips.
“Mmm. Hey, yourself,” Wanda purred, giddy from the affection.
“Hey, Mike,” Tiffany gushed girlishly.
Mike had a sisterly hug for her as well once he sat Wanda down. He put one girl under each arm and led them inside. Tiffany, who was becoming intoxicated by the smell of his cologne and feel of his touch, melted into him.
The first thing that struck Tiffany as she toured the establishment was the smell. Over the cigarette and weed smoke, through the battle of warring perfumes and clashing colognes, and even the chicken being fried in the club kitchen could not compete. The place smelled just like pussy—not stank funky pussy, just a faint whiff of vagina. No wonder , Tiffany told herself as her eyes adjusted to the light. The place was full of women in various states of undress, all glistening with baby oil. Her self-esteem plummeted as she saw beauty after beauty. Just an hour before, she was admiring herself in her mirror, but now she wanted to run and hide.
Tiffany was lost in her thoughts as she entered this fascinating new world. She missed most of the narrative Mike gave, and before she knew it, she was back at the front door. Mike was still talking, but she had no idea what he was saying. “Excuse me?” Tiffany said, stopping him mid sentence.
Wanda sucked her teeth sarcastically, but Mike was more sympathetic. He recognized the deer- in-the-headlights stare in Tiffany’s eyes, and he knew she was out of her element. “I said, this is where you’ll be working,” he repeated, pointing to the small booth where she would check ID and collect admission fees. “And sometimes my servers don’t show up, so you’ll have to help out there as well,” Mike added.
Before leaving her at her post, he introduced her to Big D, the club’s first line of defense. He protected against all adversaries, especially the dreaded broke niggers. They were the riffraff who sat in their cars getting as high as drunk as they could so they wouldn’t have to pay for drinks in the club. It wasn’t unheard of to catch one or more masturbating under the table. Big D would make sure to break an arm if he caught them.
“A’ight, lil mama. See ya later,” Mike said with a wink before leading Wanda back into the bowels of the establishment.
Not long after Tiffany got settled in the booth, the customers came in droves. She saw plenty of familiar faces from school, work, and even church. For some reason, anyone who even remotely knew her asked what she was doing there. Wearied by the question, she began getting snippy as her patience wore thin. “What am I doing here?” she repeated curtly. “What are you doing here, Deacon Jones?”
The junior pastor from her church mumbled incoherently and slinked inside.
Big D looked at her with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “What’s up?”
She caught herself, smiled at him brightly to indicate that she understood, and went back to being cordial. After all, she knew what was wrong. She needed a blast. It had been almost an hour since she’d smoked, and that monkey on her back was growing restless. As it began to fidget, so did she. “Um, Big D, I left my inhaler in my car. Can you hold me down for a sec?” she asked sweetly.
Big D fell for the helpless routine and quickly agreed. “I got you,” he said, assuming her duties.
Tiffany fought the urge to run to her car, where half a blunt waited in the ashtray. Walking as briskly
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