You folks ain't ever going to believe this story by the time I'm done telling it to y'all. Hell, even I myself am still finding it hard to believe, but it happened, and I'm gonna tell y'all just what happened, and how it all happened. If you still don't by the time I'm done telling, well, that's your problem; the way I see it, you don't have to anyway, so that's why I'm putting it all down on ink and paper.
What I'm about to tell you happened about a week ago.
I woke up one hot morning and found that I was dead broke. Except for a lousy twenty bucks, which was the last dough I had on earth, I was as broke as yesterday's jug. My predicament wasn't made any buoyant by the fact that being in a city that I was still unfamiliar with, having left home a hundred miles across the Atlantic just to come study, I had virtually no one else to turn to. That last money I had, I knew I could only do one or two things with it: call my folks back home, explain my situation to them, and hopefully pray they'd find it in their grace to send me some money, or I did the most obvious thing one is apt to do when they wake up in the morning and find that there was no sign of grub in the kitchen -- head out and get myself something to eat.
A tough decision, I tell you. Perhaps if you'd been in my shoes, you'd have known what to do -- call a rich uncle perhaps, or call your lover up and how he/she'll put you back on your feet. Unfortunately, I had neither. The best option I could take was head on out and fill up my stomach -- ain't no sense thinking while the inner man's running on empty, my old man often told me.
I showered, got dressed up, and hit the streets.
There was a restaurant not too far from the apartment building where I resided; it was here that I went to get myself breakfast. The meal sure was enjoyable, but it wasn't until I sipped my coffee to the end that I realised that I'd just lay spent my last dime -- now what was I going to do with myself, I thought.
In a brooding mood, I stepped out of the deli, though instead of returning home, I decided to take a walk along the bloke, try and feed my eyes on whatever was out there.
I stopped at a clothing shop to admire a cashmere jacket. My mind was so lost in thought, I didn't even notice the white guy who was standing beside, me. At first I figured he too was checking out what was on the shop's window display, but it wasn't until out of the corner of my eye, I saw that his eyes were sort of sizing me up that I became alert.
"Help you with something?" I said to him. Instantly he blushed as if embarrassed that I'd found him out. He had on a pair of glasses that made him seem awkward and bookish.
"Hi there," he offered me his hand and I shook it. "Please ... forgive me for staring at you like that ... I didn't mean to be rude or anything. I was wondering if I could, like, make use of your time ... if you have time, that is."
This time it was I who sized him up. He didn't look like a fag, or even if he did, he was way too skinny, and it wouldn't take me much to break him in half if he dared anything funny.
"First off, what are you offering?" I asked.
"How about two grand," he said. "Just for a couple of hour's work." "Doing what?" He had that shy look on his face again when he said: "Nothing harmful or serious, just some bit of entertainment. I'm an amateur movie director, and I was just checking out your figure, and I see that you're just the right type of fellow I need." At that moment, I knew I just had to ask. I leaned closer to him and enquired rather quietly: "You ain't a homo, are you?"
He looked at me for a moment and then laughed. "No, I'm not into that, and trust me when I say that what I'd want you for has nothing to do in that line." He took out his wallet from his back pocket and gave me his business card. True enough, he was a film director -- at least that's what it said on his card. He took out some wad of bills and dropped them in my hand.
"The building's address is written there on my card. There's five hundred bucks, just so you know how serious I am. If you're interested, show up at that address by one' o clock. I'll be expecting you."
He gave me a thumbs' up and then turned around and walked off. I stood there staring at him as he disappeared into the crowd, then my eyes looked at his business card, and then felt the texture of the money he'd left in my hand -- they were real and genuine enough. Just so you should know, I was still sceptical as to what the white dude wanted with me -- I mean, just what could a white guy want to do with a black brother anyhow? But I knew I was going to find out, one way or another.
The hour of one came, and I couldn't wait to get to the address and see whatever it was the white dude had in store for me. The taxi drove me into a swanky, suburban neighbourhood. At first I thought he'd taken me someplace else, but when I glanced at the street address, I saw he was on the right track. The funny thing was the place didn't look like the sort of place for a movie Director to have an office ... though the whole place smelled of rich man's money; it's no wonder the dude said he was going to pay me two grand.
The taxi dropped me off in front of right the house. I got off and walked through the open gates, up the driveway, and came and knocked on the door. The white dude soon came to the door; he shook my hand at the same time ushered me into his home. Damn, it was a lovely place, I tell you. I could hear him throwing some questions at me, but my head just kept looking around, sizing the place up, wondering just how much green a brother's got to have to be able to afford a crib like this, at the same time I felt him leading me up the stairs.
"By the way, I didn't catch your name?" he asked me.
"Kwame," I told him. "The name's Kwame."
"Are you from around these parts?"
"No, I'm from Africa. I'm here studying for my Masters."
"Really? That's nice to hear. Really nice."
Up the stairs we went, and he led me along a wide corridor, to a door ahead of us. He opened it and ushered me inside.
I stood there at the threshold, feeling my jaw come unglued at what my eyes were staring at: two half-naked ladies lay there on the bed, both of them wearing high heels. One of them was a blonde wearing white silk stockings and matching garter belt, and she was older and kind of bore some bit of resemblance to the white dude. Though she still possessed a supple body, and her breasts were though a bit droopy, but appeared firm. The other lady was a brunette and appeared younger than the other. She too wore stockings, though hers were the same colour as her hair -- you'd think they planned it somehow. They'd been fucking themselves with a rubber dildo when we walked in on them; I kind of figured they'd be startled, you know, seeing a brother walking in on them the way I did, but they weren't bothered. More than that, they were kind of glad seeing me. I know my jaw was still hanging open as I watched them get up from the bed and come towards us; my John Thomas was doing supersonic weight lifts while my eyes just kept ogling their lovely bodies.
"My God, don't tell me you too have already begun without waiting for me," the white dude said.
"No, we were merely fooling around," the blonde replied. Both women came over and began running their arms over my body.
"And just who are my, handsome stranger?" the brunette enquired.
The white dude told them my name and then introduced me first to the brunette, who so happened to be his wife, followed by the older blonde, who was his mom -- can you dig that? "So hot stud," the blonde rubbed her hand against my crotch. "We're about making a video. Hope you wouldn't mind joining in -- we could make use of the company."
It was then that I glanced about the room and noticed the three cameras standing on tripods positioned at the corners of the room, all of them focused on the large bed. At a corner was a desk with an open laptop and some cables connected to a TV screen, with a director's chair positioned behind it. It was then that the white dude actually let me in on why he'd wanted me down here and what he wanted from me -- a performance. I just about smiled to myself. Hell, if fucking these two lovelies was what he'd wanted from me, he needed have bothered paying me for it.
