Red Light Wives (16 page)

Even before me and Clyde got real close, other women, mostly rich White women he met on one of his many jobs, had already spoiled him by giving him money. Besides, it made his life with Keisha easier. So it wasn't no big deal when I started spoiling him by giving him my money, too. I even told him how I got paid. He didn't like the tacky way I made money, but he never turned none down, though.

“Ester, hustlin' them streets the way you doin' will get you killed or messed up for life real quick. Baby, them street tricks'll end up hustlin' you,” Clyde told me. “A pretty young girl like you could play with a much better class of tricks. You ought to be gettin' paid in nice hotels with clean dudes from out of town or nice married men in the suburbs. Like the ones I know…”

“I don't know how to hook up with men like that. I been in the ghetto all my life,” I reminded him. “Where they at?”

“They everywhere. I been dealin' with upscale men like that for beaucoup years,” Clyde bragged.

Clyde wasn't lying about that. Even though he was friends with a lot of thugs, and other people who worshipped the low-down side of the law, he really did have “friends” in high places. All of them horny as hell. In addition to all the other jobs he had already done, he worked in some nice restaurants, and he worked in some of the biggest, most expensive hotels in San Francisco. Big stars and other everyday rich people went to them places all the time. Clyde had even parked cars and worked as a cabana boy in L.A. There was nothing like the beaches in a lusty place like L.A. to make weak rich people want to get loose. And Clyde was there to tighten them up.

Clyde was the kind of person rich people liked to take aside and spill their guts to when they got drunk. Some of them same drunk people wanted Clyde to do more than listen to them. You would be surprised at how many fat rich ladies, White ones especially, wanted to go to bed with a husky Black dude like Clyde, at least once. Some of them women wanted to do it real bad so they could get back at their husbands for some shit they done. And some did it just to see what all the fuss was about Black men in the bedroom. Them women wanted Clyde bad enough to pay him some money or give him expensive gifts.

Clyde's own words was, “If they fool enough to give me money to do what I'd probably do to 'em for free anyway, the least I can do is be fool enough to take it.” He laughed when he said that.

When it was men sharing their life stories with Clyde, the subject
always
got around to women like me.

“Well, since you know so much, you be my man and hook me up with some of them tricks who come from out of town and who live in the suburbs.”

And that's just what Clyde did.

“I make the phone calls, y'all make the house calls,” he sometimes joked.

I never really liked sleeping with men for money. To me, it was always just a job.

Clyde's newest “bride” (I guess that's the best description) Lula, already said she didn't plan to do but enough tricks to get herself situated. But that's what Rockelle said and look at her now! As much as I hated to admit, that shit Clyde fed to me about Lula being new and maybe cooking up a scam on Mr. Bob made a lot of sense. I
had
to go with her to make sure that didn't happen because I couldn't have no new girl interfering with my money. Mr. Bob was special to me.

I would have been cooking my own goose by not having Mr. Bob's back. He asked for me more than any of the other girls. When he traveled, I was the only one he usually took with him for emergencies. So far, all I'd had to do on those trips was sit around and drink and go shopping with Mr. Bob's credit cards. What more could I ask for?

Mr. Bob was real entertaining, too. He'd play the piano for me, do magic tricks, and teach me French words. The real fun happened once, and if, I got him into his bed. Most of the time he couldn't come if I called him. I think he just liked being naked with women for the thrill of it. He'd flop around on his bed for a minute or two, then deflate like a stuck balloon. But every now and then, Mr. Bob managed to stay sober long enough to do the job. And, believe it or not, he done it good!

Clyde was right after all. It would be better for all of us for me to go with Lula on her first date to Mr. Bob's house.

I would make sure she done a good job on Mr. Bob—but not too good. That was my job.

C
lyde didn't want me to be Rosalee's roommate. After only a month, he suggested I move out of her apartment.

“Rosalee needs her space to keep her mind clear. When she get distracted, I got a mess on my hands. She can be as mean as a old settin' hen. That husband she left back there in Motown let her go around unsupervised. That was why she ran amok to the point where she threw him aside to come out here with her mama. Sister-girl got some seriously spooky, down-home, southern-fried shit goin' on in her head, and you ain't too much better. But you a lot easier to keep in line than Rosalee, and I like that,” Clyde told me. I was in his bed with my head on his chest. He had a strong heart. With every beat, my head rose like a cloud.

Clyde was the first man I'd made love to since Bo. Well, there had been quite a few trick sessions since Bo, but they didn't count. To me, screwing a trick was just another bodily function. But it was still on the same page as lovemaking—but at the bottom of the page, even below masturbation.

While a lot of people just shared a cigarette after sex, or a joint in a lot of cases, Clyde and I curled up in each other's arms and had some deep conversations.

I'd only been with Clyde a week before he decided to see for himself why so many of his clients were already calling him up and asking for another date with me. One, the popular Mr. Bob, had already put in his bid to be one of my regulars. That really got Clyde's attention. It got to the point that every time he saw me, he looked at me with a sparkle in his eyes and a sly grin on his face. I knew that the other girls noticed it, Rockelle especially.

“Don't let Clyde's long-eyed looks go to your head, girl. He used to do the same thing to me when I was fresh,” she told me with a sly smirk. I noticed right away how Rockelle seemed to keep some distance between herself and the other girls, even when we were all together. She was quick to disagree about something and quick to point out a flaw in one of us. Like the time Rosalee told us how a new trick had admired her long legs. “Too bad you got such knobby knees. And didn't I see a varicose vein the other day?” Rocky said to Rosalee.

Anyway, I ignored Rockelle's comments when it came to the attention Clyde paid to me. Ester was the opposite. “Get ready to spread your legs, girl. Clyde's got that same look in his eyes he had just before the first time he jumped on me.”

I guess I could say that when Clyde was ready for me, I was ready for him. I had experienced such an intense sex life with Larry that I had perfected almost every trick in the book and then some. If I didn't know anything else, I knew how to please a man in bed.

 

Tonight was my second time in Clyde's bed. It had been a long day. Clyde had taken me to see some of the magnificent sights in San Francisco that people came from all over the world to see. We'd had breakfast in a sidewalk café in Haight Ashbury, walked and shopped all over Chinatown, rode the cable cars, and had drinks on a party boat on the Bay facing Alcatraz. Since I had never been outside of the south until now, seeing things that I had only seen in movies and magazines was a real experience for me. I behaved like the country girl I really was.

In the Castro District, home of most of the city's gay population, I played a guessing game with Clyde, trying to determine which people were men and which ones were women.

After a heavy dinner and several glasses of wine in an Italian restaurant near Fisherman's Wharf, and an hour of salsa dancing at a Latin nightclub south of Market Street, Clyde took me to his apartment in the expensive Marina District. We drank more wine and listened to Miles Davis before we wobbled into his bedroom.

I would curse Larry Holmes until the day he died for spoiling me. I knew that for the rest of my life, I would compare every other man I slept with—real lovers and tricks—with Larry. Poor Clyde. Fucking him the second time was just as dull and unsatisfying as the first.

As cool and sexy as Clyde acted and looked, his lovemaking style was on the level of a schoolboy. At least to me. He would have had a fit if I'd told him how Ester and I discussed his bedroom techniques. He was clumsy and loud. And kissing him was like kissing a fish. He pursed his thick lips, kept his eyes open, and made barnlike noises that would have made me laugh out loud if I hadn't been so drunk.

Lying to Clyde about how great a lover he was, was something I knew I was going to have to get used to. So much for the myth about all Black men being such great lovers. As a matter of fact, he didn't even excite me as much as my dead husband, Bo. Poor Bo. He had approached lovemaking in the most unromantic way, spreading my legs and probing and staring at my most sensitive areas like a gynecologist.

I was glad when Clyde leaned over and lit up a joint. I just didn't like the conversation he'd started about me living with Rosalee.

“I don't want to live by myself,” I told him. “Payin' that high-ass rent, not havin' anybody to talk to would depress me.” My head was back on his firm, smooth chest. His heart was beating even harder. I could even hear it thumping like a drum. I liked the way Clyde smelled and tasted tonight. There was butterscotch residue on his lips from a mysterious drink he'd had earlier. I didn't like to think about it often, but if things had been different, I would have wanted Clyde to be more to me than what he was. I felt safe when I was with him.

Clyde waved his hand. The room was dark, except for a dim lamp on the nightstand and the moonlight coming in through the window. “Hold on now. Let me finish what I started.” Clyde cleared his throat and started talking in a loud, anxious voice that could have also been described as angry. “Shit, girl. You ain't got to live by yourself. I done fixed it up with Ester. She would love to have you share her place with her.”

I didn't like where this conversation was going, but I knew it was useless to try to change the subject. “I don't know about livin' with Ester. That girl's got too much energy. I get tired just listenin' to her talk. It'd be like livin' with a talkin' head. Anyway, I don't think she likes me that much. She makes these pig faces every time I tell her about somethin' you did for me.” My breath caught in my throat, my chest got tight. The rest of my body got stiff. I felt like a slab of stone. My head felt so heavy, I couldn't lift it to look at Clyde's face to see his reaction.

“Well, like I said, I done fixed it with her. She'll be expectin' you to move your shit in this weekend. You'll be doin' me a favor, anyway. I want you to keep an eye on her. I don't trust her.”

I was finally able to lift my head, even though it still felt as heavy as a brick. I turned to face Clyde. In the glow of what little light was available, all I could see was the outline of his head, the whites of his eyes, and his teeth. For a moment, it looked like his head was floating in midair.

“Ester? You don't trust Ester? I thought she was your main wife.”

“Main my ass,” he said, laughing. “I don't trust that woman.”

“But you trust me?” I asked, my mouth struggling to get the words out. “Why me?”

He laughed again, but then his voice took on a serious tone. “Me and you, we come from the same tribe, same part of the country. If I can't trust you, I can't trust no woman. Besides, if a brother can't trust a sister, he can't trust nobody.”

After Larry, a
brother
, I wasn't so sure of much anymore. Especially when it came to trust. But I was learning a lot about the games men played. Clyde had his own agenda. He wanted to keep his women on guard with one another, hoping it would benefit him in some way. I felt it would benefit me if I kept Clyde happy. I hauled off and kissed him.

“I appreciate you feelin' the way you do about me, Clyde. But I'm curious. Rosalee's a sister, and she's from the south, too. You don't trust her?”

Clyde groaned. “Like I said, Rosalee got too many issues. She don't trust nobody, includin' herself. A woman like that is dangerous and leanin' toward bein' downright evil. She superstitious, too. She goes to fortune-tellers, burns candles, and she calls them psychic hot lines.”

I wondered what Clyde would say if I told him I went to fortune-tellers, burned candles, and called the psychic hot line, too. But I didn't admit it because I didn't want to know how Clyde would react. Especially since I had him where I wanted him for now.

 

That weekend, I moved in with Ester. I didn't spend too much time thinking about it because I didn't plan to associate with her, Clyde, or any of the others for too long anyway. Just long enough to get myself straightened out financially. Just like Rosalee and Rockelle were always saying.

Sleeping with strange men for money was something of which I was not proud. But other than for money, I had every excuse in the world. My own mama and how she'd supported us was one of my reasons. And I could not ignore the fact that my own grandmother had predicted my future. Besides, trick money was the easiest money I'd ever made. The way we operated was a lot healthier, safer, and respectable than the girls working the streets. Some nights Ester, Rockelle, and I cruised up and down San Francisco's red-light streets in Ester's Jetta commenting on the pathetic women strolling the streets. A lot of them had serious drug problems so they looked like hell. That's why the easiest, richest tricks came to clean, healthy-looking women like us.

“Holy moly, some of these girls make these blocks look like Jurassic Park,” Ester said, a pitying tone in her voice. We all stared as an Asian woman in her
sixties
strutted her stuff in a pair of white hot pants. She was too pitiful for words.

Most people thought that all tricks were just as slimy and crude as some of the women who worked the streets. That was not true. Not only had I been with some of the classiest men in the country, I'd even had fun a few times. And so far, every trick I'd been with had been nice to me.

I was learning a lot about men and sex. That tired belief that all Black men were great in bed was not the only myth I'd found to be untrue. Latin men were not the lovers they were made out to be, either. That was a lie Ester said Latin men had probably started themselves, which was probably true of Black men, too.

I had a regular Mexican trick who lived in a big pink mansion in Pacific Heights. Ramon Suarez was divorced and owned a popular restaurant near Union Square. Judging from his size, he must have sampled everything on the menu. The tight undershirts he wore kept his titties in place, but when he got naked, he scared me. My biggest fear was that he would have a stroke or a heart attack while he was in bed with me. There was more sweaty hair on his chest and arms than on his head. He weighed too much for me to allow him to get on top of me. There was so much fat around his crotch, it wasn't easy finding his short, thick, foul-smelling dick. I had to straddle him and squat like I did when I went to the toilet.

And that was exactly what it felt like.

Ramon never stopped talking. Not even when we were having sex. He bragged about his money, his good family back in Argentina, his five sons in private schools, his way with women. “My little
puta
this, my little
puta
that.” I didn't mind Ramon calling me a
puta
, until Ester told me that it was Spanish for slut or something just as filthy. Just knowing that he thought of me that way was bad enough. But the fact that it was true made it seem even worse. I knew that Bo was probably rolling over in his grave.

I felt even worse about dating Ramon when he made me promise I wouldn't speak to him if I ever ran into him in public when he was with his friends.

Ramon's insensitive request made me even more determined to get my shit together and get up out of the business before it was too late. I didn't want to end up like Rockelle. That uppity, high-yellow battle-ax was so dependent on the fast easy money, she was going behind Clyde's back and freelancing on the streets, too.

Ester and Rosalee also occasionally worked the streets behind Clyde's back. They took overflow tricks to the motel where I'd met Ester, and they kept all the money for themselves. However, they didn't make it a habit the way Rockelle did.

For Rockelle to be on such a high horse, she associated with people I wouldn't want to know where I lived. Ester and I had rescued her twice when two Latina girls got in her face for working their territory.

I smelled trouble. I just hoped that I was long gone by the time it happened, so that I wouldn't get caught up in that, too.