I had my first near death experience with Patti that weekend.
We'd started getting a bit randier during the huge keg party after the race—nothing too obvious. Just the odd, surreptitious nuzzle or nibble when the opportunity presented itself.
And then she insisted we take a little nostalgia tour, driving past her high school and the old drive in that had fallen into appalling disrepair before stopping at the Dairy Queen where teenagers still gathered to lick cones and each other out in the back rows of the parking lot.
But it was 'way out at another "parking" spot in the desert where I found out how she'd learned damned near every dick trick in the book from holding boys back as long as possible.
"I was the only girl in my little clique who knew what an orgasm felt like," she told me. "Cause my hand game was so good they'd anything to keep me workin' and jerkin'."
I'm a witness to just how good that "hand game" was—that's what almost killed me. After she'd brought me right to the brink over and over and over again with her tongue and hands and tits the woman gave me this "head massage" that made my cock turn a very scary shade of purple.
But oh my God, the waves of pleasure from feeling and watching my frighteningly engorged cock piston up and down in those hands and between those perfectly round breasts of hers—my testicles drew up to the point of being almost non-existent by the end.
And when she fondled the vein along the shaft and that little sweet spot where it meets the glans she had me stomping imaginary brakes in that backseat. I wouldn't have been surprised to see jizz shoot out of her ears by the time she slid down all wet and ready and made my heart race so hard I actually blacked out for a bit.
I'm as serious as the heart attack I thought I was having. I couldn't control anything. I just bucked myself breathless and lay quaking as she managed to get herself where she wanted to go somehow, too.
Which wasn't as selfish of me as it sounds because Patti gets off on making men lose their shit. So wallowing around in all that cum I'd shot gave her the shivering fits.
It was spectacular, watching her scoot and swivel and bounce herself into a frenzy. She was a "convulsive" cummer, that one. Fell forward on me and just jerked and quivered for a good while.
And once she'd settled down some, she flipped over and hiked up that beautiful bubble with a sultry little look back that Chubby sat up and saluted to my absolute astonishment, after all he'd been through.
This went on for hours, by the way. Not just in the car but at the house she'd rented for the weekend from the lone realtor in town. An arrangement he would never have made for anyone else, of course, as he probably only sold a house every once in a blue moon.
Modest house by her standards, but probably fairly impressive by theirs. I don't remember anything about it, unfortunately. All I remember is how she straddled me from behind to do these scorching reach arounds that made me speak languages that don't actually exist.
I finally discovered that she loved having her big and ridiculously sensitive nipples sucked. A few flicks of the tongue and she would start tugging my cock like mad again. Or rubbing it between those fat labia lips of hers—careful, unlike many women, not to sand it on the stubble at all.
She was about as smooth down there as it was possible to be, but I think a lot of us get a bit fearful when women aim that dick toward but not inside those lips. She stayed right in the gooey groove. Whenever I'm not quite as enthusiastic about a woman as I should be, I think back to how she looked rocking herself into those little cum convulsions again. And the woman I'm actually with thinks she's got the best pussy on the planet.
She was even feeling and flicking and squeezing things when I was trying to make us breakfast the next day. I managed to scramble a few eggs, but mostly I was busy tonguing and banging the shit out of her on the table the whole morning.
She was fondling me even as she was talking to Ayla to get our evening itinerary nailed down.
"It's like an arm," she told her. And I could hear Ayla's belly laugh even without the speaker on. Apparently nothing was off limits between those two.
I have to admit that I was somewhat chafed when we finally met everyone at one of the two bars within the city limits. She'd powdered me but of course I'd stiffened from that, too. Got so bad that I couldn't look at any part of her without getting an enormous, insistent erection.
And she'd see or feel it and start breathing a little faster--thank God they had two single "co-ed" loos that we could lock securely. And a "bottom-heavy" sound system that masked the grunts and groans.
They'd chosen the "nicer" of the only two watering holes in town. Ayla and Maceo had secured a couple of tables for us and a little circle of friends and had started drinking long before we finally arrived.
So by the time we got there, Ayla was high enough to wink at Patti and ask, "Can I borrow that extra arm for a minute?"
While all the other women in the group, who had, of course, heard all about that "arm," too, shot each other little glances...
The true objective was to get me drunk enough to go out on the floor and learn "all the Slides." But I've told you about my long, "lost" weekends.
So while I didn't quite know how to "step in the name of love," which was fine with me as I loathe R. Kelly, I was quite good at the Electric, Cha Cha, Cupid and Casper Slides. And I could Wobble, Dougie, Stanky Leg and even Tootsie Roll with the best of them—though it was difficult to execute the latter with so many nasty girls grinding into me on the dance floor.
Even Ayla backed that thang up and said, "Lookit this boy doin' it out here--you got a little rhythm in you, pardner!"
"He gon' have a little buckshot in 'im if y'all women don't behave," Maceo warned. "If somebody they know axes they women to dance, it's cool. But this pretty mutha fukka here..."
"So we'll take a break then—c'mon, beautiful," Patti said. Pretty tipsy herself by then.
She hauled me off to the big bar just as the most stupendously beautiful Black woman—the most beautiful woman I have ever seen of any culture, age or color, period—came out of a door behind that bar and stood there, chest up, head erect, supporting herself on two silver topped, ebony wood canes.
I tell you even Lena Horne would've been jealous. And if you know who that is—and if you don't, as I often say, go Google that shit—you should be as much in awe as I was.
The woman had sugar white hair and was probably in her 80s at least. But her skin, the smoothest, richest terra cotta brown imaginable, was flawless and lineless. And she had glittery black diamond eyes, and the full lips some women have butt fat shot into their mouths trying to get. But only God could make lips like that. If she'd licked them, I would've gotten all swollen again.
And she was big but shaped like a Coke bottle. And she got a hearty cheer from everyone in that bar as she strutted along, bartenders leaping back out of the way.
"That's Madame Claire," Patti told me.
"More, please," I said.
And she laughed and said, "She owns this place. And when I say this place, I actually mean the whole damned town. Half the residential land all around here, she owns."
"Are you serious?"
"Ran the best brothel in the state. Presidents stopped by. And she bought a little piece here, a little piece there until if you wanted to buy land you had to talk to Madame Claire."
I was still marveling at that delectable bit of local history when a husky, honey dripping female voice said, "This must be the one everybody's been flappin' their gums about all week—turn around, child!"
And when Patti turned, Madame looked her up and down and said, "Titties are nice. But I'd have to fatten that ass up—who's that pretty thang standin' there right next to you?"
"Chas Devillier," I told her. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."
And she did this deep, chesty laugh that made my head swim a little bit and said, "Well, he can come on home with me. So I can die smilin'."
She had her own booth of course, Madame Claire. And she had chairs put around it for all of Patti's pals, but made Patti and I sit in the booth across from her.
"What's all this trouble you supposed to be havin'?" she asked Patti. Narrowing those glistening eyes.
"Well, it's...complicated," Patti said.
And Madame smirked and said, "Cause you let it be! Y'all women today, you got all that education and whatnot and you still lets some man just do you any old kinda way. I never married, I never had no babies and the only money I took from a man was what he paid me for what I'm settin' on. Which didn't cost me nothin' but made me the richest bitch in this state."
"He gave her money, too," Ayla said.
And Madame frowned at her and said, "If he can take it back, it wun hers to begin with—don't be tryin'a step to me, girl!"
"He can't take it all," Patti said. "He just wants to get away from paying the rest he owes me."
"If any o' that you got was made from whatever he was doin', the law'll take it from you one way or another. That's why the first people I got tight with was the law. They let me go on about my business. Cause they didn't want nobody knowin' they were up there in that house with us damned near every night. Layin' up with colored girls."
I wanted, so badly, to tell her who I was and how I'd come to be there. But she trained those eyes on me and said, "Where you from? Lookin' like some kinda movie star or somethin'. I could listen to you read the phone book, son. You come with her?"
"I wanted him to see this place," Patti said. "He reminds me of the good times."
Madame nodded and sort of "humphed" and said, "Times is always just as good as you make 'em. I bought up all that land when they wouldn't let a Black person drink water out of the same fountain as a white one. If he won't give you your money, tell him to take his thuggish ass on to prison and put that pretty ass back to work for a while! I seen women older'n' you on that TV now. You got to know somebody'd get you back in the saddle. Wouldn't take you long to get a little nest egg saved up, would it?"
"It's not as dire as that," Patti said. "I'll just have to re-arrange a few things. Scale things down a bit. My investments are doing better than I expected. And I have some property I can sell. We're in the process of doing that now."
"Now you're makin' sense—what do you drink?"
"I like bourbon," Patti said. And Madame snapped fingers and had a waiter bring a bottle of something that made Patti's eyes light up.
My father's the whisky expert. I know some names, but I had no idea what Patti poured for me and everyone else—Madame first, of course.
And Madame raised her glass and said, "God is good all the time," before sipping and setting her glass down to add, "Even when He says 'No.'"
Patti nodded and said, "Especially when he says 'No.' If you pay attention to it."
"Oh, yeah, you'n' me gon' be real good friends—you come on back here soon, girl. Madame'll make you some gumbo! And we'll just sit and sip all afternoon—bring that boy with you, too! Gimme somethin' to stare at..."
Everyone laughed. Maceo slapped me on the back.
And it slowly dawned on me that a big "No" was how I'd gotten to meet this magnificent queen of a woman. A "No" that had kicked me out of the nest and into a strange world full of surprises both fortuitous and frightening.
Of course, I'm sure God hadn't intended me to become a highly paid prostitute, but I was in the presence of one of the best and good company it was, too.
So I looked over at Ayla...and Ayla smiled...and went over to murmur my true identity into Madame's ear as if she'd read my mind.
And Madame guffawed from way down in the belly, reached for that bourbon bottle, poured me another drink, and said, "I'ma have to go back into bidness." Shooting me a sassy little wink that I hope will be the very first thing I see when I get to those Pearly Gates one day.
I am quite certain that if God is indeed good, Madame will be one of his most beloved angels, despite her chosen Earthly profession.
Not nearly as sure about me, but perhaps she'll put in a good word...