Knights of Deception
Amanda Robinson
The cool autumn breeze that touches the face, high noon on an early autumn day, loves sweet simple…wait…hold up…oh no! This isn’t that type of tale. All that romantic, young love, bullshit! Amanda, quit being stupid, if you want a man then you’ve got to push the breasts up, poke that ass out, make sure all bodily-equipment is oiled, painted, and smelling sweet. A bitch with a funky pussy needs to have that foul, stinky-ass kicked!
“You fucked with the wrong bitch Peter Ripley! I told you we were meant to be together, and I will not allow you to go against this man/ woman union. You see, men and women were designed to be with each other. When I asked you what a man could do for you sexually you told me it was the same thing a woman could. You must be out of your damn mind”.
As she spoke to herself out loud, her voice became elevated, shaky, and a borage of angry tears rolled down her cheeks. Amanda Robinson was determined to change this black man gone astray. She knew it was her mission to save Peter Ripley from himself. “I cannot allow you to shun your manly duties. We are going to have the baby we are destined to have. I just know you’re going to look back on this disgusting life you have been living and will be filled with overwhelming spiritual joy. I’m certain of this. It will happen when you look into our baby’s eyes for the first time”.
Frustrated, she hurled the black cordless phone sending it across the room and on impact, it broke apart into pieces. “You are one stupid ass bitch, girl! What the hell were you thinking destroying a perfectly good phone? Now dumb ass, you’re going to have to buy another one to replace it. What if Peter calls? Shit! I waste money stupidly sometimes”, she chortled, laughing at herself. She picked up her car keys from the kitchen counter, put on her coat, and started toward the door when she was stopped by the whimpers of her faithful canine.
“Mama won’t be gone that long, Baby Jane. Come here,” she beckoned. Rubbing her gently on the head, she began to sweet talk her, pursing her lips, blowing air kisses to her, never allowing her tongue to touch them. “As much as mama loves you BJ I can’t have us committing no bestiality act up in here,” she giggled, never taking her eyes off of her faithful dog.
“BITCH!” she screamed in horror after BJ jumped up on her, with muddy paws, which instantly stained the white linen fabric of the pants suit she was wearing. Knowing she had screwed up, BJ scurried away from her master and found a safer spot in a distant corner of the living room. With her head slumping, she laid down on the shaggy blue throw rug, specifically given to her as a gift by her master at Christmas.
She leered at the dog. “I ought to take your trifling ass to the fucking pound and let them make some glue out of your ass!” It was an idol threat and BJ sure didn’t know what the hell she was saying; however, Amanda’s tone was more than enough reason for her to know that whatever she was saying, it couldn’t be good. Then, as if she had been hit with a bag of bricks, Amanda paused, and silently started thinking, then in a tickled pitch, she retracted what she had just suggested; “oh no, they do that shit to horses – mama can be so stupid sometimes,” she chuckled at herself for making such a silly remark.
Amanda’s world twisted into what it had become as a result of a past littered with debris from all the bad relationships she ever had with men – and her father was part of that pile of garbage. She was six years old when she lost her innocence along with her virginity. “Mommy can’t do as good as daddy’s little angel,” he told her the first time, as well as, all the other times that followed. To keep her quiet, there was nothing she asked for that she didn’t receive. Her mother thought he was just spoiling his only daughter – little did she know the whore he had turned their child into.
Toys, bicycles, designer clothes, cell phone, a lap-top computer, expensive shoes – no whippings, no punishments, she could do no wrong. I suppose the guilt he felt he took out on her mother because he’d beat her for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, and a snack. One day, after receiving the thousandth black eye, her mother took a baseball bat and crushed his skull as he slept.
Because she had never reported the abuse, it was her word against a dead man’s and so, they hauled her mother off to prison on a murder conviction. Well, she was a black woman in white America what did you expect? Amanda was fifteen at the time so she was forced to live with her surly grandmother – who was crazier than the son who was her father. Since her father was dead, the fabulous gifts she used to get were part of the past.
“He spoiled your nasty ass girl, but all that’s over now.” Her grandmother told her. “I told him you were a fast ass little bitch, but he wouldn’t listen, and now look, that psycho whore of a mother put his ass beneath a mound of dirt”. After hearing her father painted as a saint, one more of too many more times, Amanda finally told her how he had been molesting her since she was six. “Yes, Granny, your dead son was a damn child molester, so what the fuck do you have to say about it now?” she screamed, through a tear striped face.
She never saw it coming, but she sure as hell did feel the sting of the slap she got. “I will not let you accuse my son of some sick ass shit like that! He must be rolling in his grave by now. I’m glad he will never know what a lying ass piece trash he brought into this world”. She snarled, staring Amanda in the eye. “When your ass turns eighteen you are getting out of my fucking house, and I sure hate I’ve got to wait another year for that day to come!” she spit some snuff into a white handkerchief.
Six months shy of her eighteenth birthday, Amanda ran off with her then boyfriend, Allan Washington, who continued the saga of abuse she had experienced with her father. “No matter how much nice shit I buy you, you just are never satisfied and, until you learn to appreciate it and respect me as a black man, I’m going to beat your monkey ass!” he swore, sucking on his fifth blunt of the day – and he wasn’t lying either, she got beat daily – sometimes more than once.
One night, while he was in the bedroom screwing one of her supposed friends, Amanda pulled a pre-packed suitcase from the closet closest to the door, and left him, boarding a train to San Francisco. “Fuck the south,” she thought. She wanted to get as far away from everything she had known and hoped she could forget the past and start new existence, in a foreign place. She just knew she could find the perfect man in California.
When she met Romello Jackson at a popular jazz spot in Oakland, she just knew he was the one. He was beautiful: Six foot two, small in the waist, skin the color of a red-honey, sparkling white teeth, he dressed like a baller, his voice was soft and soothing, and he was so gentle with her – the first month. His lovemaking was unlike anything she had ever experienced. When he asked her for anal sex, it should have been a red flag for her, but she was too infatuated and in love.
“Mandy,” he called out after entering their apartment. It was his nickname for her. She melted whenever she heard him call her that. “Yes, baby, what is it?” She answered, checking herself in the living room mirror before turning the corner and meeting him in the hallway. “I’ve got somebody I want you to meet; he’s my road-dog and best friend. We grew up together, have known one another since we were eight years old.”
“Danny, this is my girl, Amanda, but I call her Mandy – I’m the only one allowed to call her that because she’s mine.” He pulled her into him, and squeezed her around the waist while standing in back of her. While still in Romello’s embrace, she extended her hand, “It’s nice to meet you, Danny. Romello talks about you fondly, welcome to our home. Are you hungry, I cooked some pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, and made a green salad?”
“Thanks, that would be nice, cuz a brotha’s stomach is on zero,” he said, removing his coat. “I’ll take that and hang it up; you two go into the living room and watch some television and I’ll call you after I’ve set the table”. She said, playing the role of happy house wife.
“See, dude, what did I tell you, ain’t she pretty and sweet? Thanks, baby,” he said, kissing her on the neck, giving her one more squeeze before departing into the living room.
As she was setting the table, she listened to the two of them carry on a conversation, sounding like two little boys. It made her feel good inside, she was finally meeting his friend’s which meant that he must have really started trusting her. Danny seemed to be a nice guy, and he was a stunner just like her Romello: Dark skinned, deep dimples, well kept teeth, sharply dressed, diamond studs in his ears, and he smelled divine. She made a mental note to ask about the fragrance he was wearing.
But, just like all the others before, Romello turned into someone far from the man she fell in love. He soon began running the streets with his boy, and after one too many inquiries about his constant disappearances, Romello dropped her.
It wouldn’t be until years later that she would find out why he dropped her. The only thing odd about the whole set of circumstances was that she wondered why he stopped wearing all of the cologne she bought for him. He couldn’t have been allergic to fragrances because he sure as hell did seem to like and start smelling just like the one his boy reeked of.
(Mental Note)
Peter Ripley
Peter Ripley’s life seemed to be spiraling out of control. He hated his job, despised his circle of friends, and had grown irritated with the whole gay club scene. He hated being called girl. How many times did he tell them he knew what he had swinging between his legs and it didn’t purr? Every time he went out with them, he swore to himself that it would be the last time then, if his life wasn’t already complicated enough, Amanda’s persistent unwanted advances were wearing thin on his already frayed nerves.
She seemed nice enough when he first met her and, for the most part, he did want to meet new people so he could start weeding out his current circle, but: Damn. Damn. Damn. “What the hell was a straight woman doing in a gay club looking for a damn husband?” he asked Freddie Ortiz, a fellow coworker he felt he could trust.
Freddie was a stunning Latina, with more curves than the Indianapolis speedway, she was brown skinned, with curly black hair, with an ass that would make most men say J-Lo who? “Peter, you might be reading her wrong; she probably digs you the same way I do. Do you think I’m trying to push up on you? I’m always pinching you on the ass, and checking out your package I mean, hell, you are a nice looking man. Are you sure you don’t want to taste a little coo-coo?” she said, laughing, filing away at her long red nails.
“Bitch, please, I’m strictly dickly!” he said, laughing along with her. “No, Freddie, it’s different with her. I mean the way she looks at me, the questions she asks. Like the one you just asked, she asked me too, but she had this look in her eye that caused me to perspire under my eyes.”
“Really, hum…well, who knows, some women like gay men because they can relate so well to them but, any sane straight woman knows, if you both are into dick, instead of a relationship it would be a battleship, cuz let me tell you, I ain’t into sharing no man with nobody, know what I mean?” she said, again, laughing at herself.
“I ain’t scared to fight a woman, baby!” I told her, laughing along with her again. “Look, I’m serious. One time when I was leaving my apartment I could’ve sworn I saw her car parked out in the front of my building. She called me seven times last night”.
“So, what’s the big deal about that, maybe she wanted to talk about something”.
“Within thirty minutes? I don’t think so…I think she is a camping trip short a tent”.
We both laughed.
“Well…that does sound a bit extreme. Have you expressed your concern about the situation, dude?”
“No, not yet, but I believe I’m going to have to say something before it gets worse, because I’m not trying to lead no unstable woman down a rickety path without an escape route. Damn, that’s what my ass gets for being polite – hey, wasn’t that a Jackson Five song?” I said, adding a little humor to the conversation.
Sucking her teeth, and taking a break from her nail filing, she looked up at me and, waving her emery board she said, “Um…dude, I think you met Darling Nikki!” she said, bursting out with a bird like sounding roll of laughter.
We both looked at each other then said, “Grind, Grind, Grind, Grind…!” again, both laughing.
“I tell you what, sexy man; I’ll go to the club with you tonight. Lord knows I need to get out of this rut I’m in, and at least I’ll be in the company of men I ain’t got to beat off with a damn fist – shit, that’s why I keep my ass at home now – I’m sick of meeting these brain damaged, self centered, ripped bodied, men…hell, I might meet me a woman up in that bitch tonight!” she said, cracking herself up again –something I loved seeing her do.
“Freddie you giving up dick would be like Kirk giving up sampling old R&B jams, turning them into church songs.”
Together we said “It’ll never happen…” Once again we laughed in unison.
Peter Ripley grew up in a middle-class neighborhood which was predominantly black at one time, but the cultural landscape had changed over the years. His childhood was somewhat normal until a life altering moment: Carol and Mike Brady, Florida and James Evans, George and Louise Jefferson, Stephanie and Jonathan Hart, Joseph and Katherine Jackson – the whole heterosexual model broken – in that one moment when his dick got hard for Brandon Michaels.
He and Brandon were buddies back in the day. Their parents were best friends. Their sisters used to play dolls together. They must have rolled around and wrestled on the front lawns of their parent’s homes a million times, but that moment was different. He never noticed the imprint of Brandon’s piece straining against the side of his left pants pocket before, and at that moment…they both touched each other’s… wait, how? What? …
“You want to do it?” Brandon asked with an intense look of lust in his eyes. Both of us were breathing heavy and, I cannot explain the moment from his point of view but, from mine, it felt like a lion was in my pocket and baby it was ready to roar.
Well, without getting too graphic we “did it” hundreds of times. In the bed when we’d spend the night with each other, on that old trunk on the side of his parent’s house, in my room when nobody else was home but us, in his room when nobody else was there but us, until, one day, he told me he had a girlfriend.
“Damn, man, you don’t ever want to do it anymore,” I told him, but then, there were others more than willing to “do it”, and boy did I get to “do it”. Eventually, one by one I saw each and every one of my “do it” buddies take the path to heterosexual-Ville while I was on the one that seemed to be leading to homosexual-hell. Where were all the guys that were like me?
That moment…that moment…everything changed. Showering at school became the ultimate terror because I couldn’t help thinking about: what if the Johnston stiffened up and oh my god what if somebody caught me looking at theirs? I was in adolescent agony. I was in limbo behind iron closet doors, too frightened to step out, and too crippled by depression to fight.
A year out of high school I went to my first gay club with a fake ID and, once I was inside, I knew I was in another world – but that world wasn’t one I could identify with – snowflakes were not only on the mountain tops, they were everywhere in that club. It wasn’t until I went to a black gay club did I feel like there was hope but, I’ll be dammed, this became another crazy ass moment in life-- a moment when I realized I was, not just part of the black community, but I was now also part of another one, a gay one.
“When I wake up in the morning…you bring me breakfast in my bed…” Party time! This club had the booming bass, the chocolate brothers, and the rump-shaking dancing. Fuck, I had arrived.
Finally, I had found my place, however, right when I thought I was found a little piece and pride, a strange disease came along and started wiping out gay men…a bathhouse, yea, I got to go to one twice – there was lots of sex, but it was never a scene I could stomach. I likened it to loaning five hundred guys, I didn’t know, a pair of my shoes – hell-to-the-no – you keep the mother fuckers -- I don’t want them anymore -- you want to stick what where? Oh, hell no that hurts.
I am not a prude.
I am not a baby.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Then, Brandon’s ass started grilling me about shit!
“You went where?” He asked, looking at me in disbelief. “Pete, why you hanging out with that dude, everybody knows he’s gay, man; you don’t want people to start saying that shit about you. Do you?” Brandon asked, looking at me from across the table. “Man, I don’t want to talk about it, Brandon”. I was frustrated – and that wasn’t an understatement. I still wanted to “do it” with him, but all he wanted to do was stroke the pole or have me bobbing up and down on the Sequoia – which was something he never reciprocated – and damn, my jaws were tired.
“Pete, man, how do you know you don’t like the pussy if you ain’t ever hit it before?” Brandon asked.
“Man, I wouldn’t know what to do,” I told him, however, if it meant we could “do it” again, I was willing to try anything, so I continued to listen.
“All you have to do, rouge is get it hard, put it in the hole, and start poking it,” he said, rubbing my shoulders. “I got a girl that will do it with you too. She likes you anyway”.
Okay, I agreed to try it.
He set things up.
Okay, I did it.
Now I can’t get rid of her.
I felt like shit, because I used her.
Plus, after all that, Brandon still wouldn’t “do it” with me again.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
I had to flee that little community to be free.
I thought that life outside those walls would be less complicated.
Yea, that’s what I thought
Author, G. D. Grace Literary Links:
http://stores.lulu.com/enlightenment4theheart
http://author2be.wordpress.com/
http://authorgdgrace.blogspot.com/
EMAIL: Detria0918@sbcglobal.net
“A Touch of Grace” Blog Talk Radio Show:
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/author2beepa
CALL IN NUMBER TO SHOW: (347) 215-6245
(Psalms 30:5)
Author G. D. Grace reserves all rights and reproduction without written permission is not permitted. If found, legal action will be taken against the person(s) or company(s) that have cut or pasted (Plagiarized) any portion of this written document. Author, G. D. Grace; Published © 2009 July
No comments:
Post a Comment