Sugar Pimp

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… Oh, Colleen said, she had never thought of Gerri as her pimp: Pimps were black nasty men who wore expensive suits and had at least one gold tooth.

Never heard of a nice white Jew-Woman pimp before. Colleen lowered her gaze; this was as close to confronting Gerri as she could manage.

Honey, where you been? Lulu Belle interrupted. Gerri’s what they call a Sugar Pimp; treats you real good, not like that Gorilla I was with. The black ass motherfucker! Made me walk the streets, rain or shine—couldn’t come home til I had a hundred dollars—beat me if I didn’t have the money: take a wooden coat hanger wrap it with a towel so the marks wouldn’t show and wail the shit out of me, then the last time I got picked up, the bum left my ass in jail to rot.

Colleen’s eyes widened. You really been in jail?

Yeah, a working girl’s got to have someone to take care of her—like Gerri here. Lulu said, and glanced at Gerri.

Now, Colleen, you don’t ever want to go to jail, dirty smelly place. I’m clean, but some of those filthy bitches that walk the street …

Really. You’re the first prostitute I’ve ever met, Colleen giggled ignoring Gerri. Spend my time under fat old fart business men or stuck away in this apartment … ‘cept when Gerri takes me out … never had anyone to talk to about … you know … what it’s really like to be a ...

Whore, Lulu finished, tell me how you got started and I’ll tell you what happened to me.

Well, I was in the sixth grade when ...

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SUGAR PIMP

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The story of a pimp and the women

who loved her

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By

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S.A. HART

Sugar Pimp published by:

Sniggledorf Publishing

Wooster, Ohio 44691

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2001 by SALLY HART

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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Sniggledorf Publishing.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2001116671

ISBN: 0-9708801-0-3

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Manufactured in the United States of America

Cover design by Robert Barker of Local Color, Stroudsburg, PA.

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SUGAR PIMP

PROLOGUE

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One eye open, one eye closed, the monstrous corpse lay in the recliner, too grotesque to be the peaceful slumber of eternal death: A fate of violence disturbing her repose, a trauma to body and soul. The left side of her mouth sagged, and dried spittle formed a crusted trickle down the chin. One arm lay across the arm of the chair while the other curled in a clinched fist, as though clutching for the heart. Legs, large and round—heavy enough to support any piano— lay splayed on the chair’s footrest. Pale blue silk pajamas covered the torso: legs and arms bare-naked, almost as pale and blue. The silk-covered belly and breasts, a huge mound in the chair, were decorated with six round holes, even and precise, showing red openings into the body: The gray velour chair providing a cradle for the lifeless form: a huge sponge to hold body fluids, since the bullet holes, so small at entry, grew large at exit.

The dark silence, of the room only broken by the tick of a clock: One eye closed, one eye open, staring into nothingness.

CHAPTER ONE

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THE BEGINNING NEW YORK CITY

WINTER 1940

Grace shifted her weight: Eyes moving from corner to corner, first to the Club Royale, then to the Seven Steps Pub. She caught a glimpse of a woman, no a man, a hint of beard showing through the powdered face and the profile of an Adam’s apple giving away his sex. He wore a sequined gown draped over a flat butt with cotton stuffed breasts that looked hard to the touch. Grace grinned. The man put a hand to wig, a little gust of wind rippling red sequins as he tripped down the steps—platform shoes clicking a path into the bar. Grace’s grin turned to a smile as she moved her gaze to the Club Royale.

It was early for the actors to arrive, almost nine-thirty, but sometimes a showgirl would pop in before Grace had to run the eight blocks home to beat her ten p.m. curfew. Before Seven Steps opened, she kept her nightly vigils at the little neighborhood theater then she would follow the performers as they made their way the two blocks to Club Royale: watching as they laughed and chatted, ready to eat and drink, letting the high of the night float into contentment. Grace would strain to catch every word, but mostly, could only see from a distance, the beautiful starlets stripped of make-up, with fur jackets slung carelessly over faded jeans and men’s white shirts tied at the waist—sometimes unbuttoned, a hint of breast to tease her.

The corner had become hers: nightly voyeurism rewarded by glimpses of men dressed as women and women dressed as men, for the word drag had yet to become part of her vocabulary. Grace first stood on one foot, then the other, moving eyes from bar to restaurant—nothing to be missed— forever glancing at her watch, willing time to slow, before she must run for home. That’s when she saw her. No mistake about her sex. Black tuxedo, shirt open at the neck, long legged, short black hair combed flat in a mannish style—a cockiness in her saunter, straight even features that could only be described as handsome...Grace stared.

Hey, kid, Wanta see what’s going on? The apparition motioned.

Grace pointed to herself ... pausing ... making a who me? expression, before dashing across two lanes of traffic, skidding to a stop, penny loafers pinching bobby-sox clad toes.

Come on! Max bounded down the seven steps opening the plate glass door. Now, don’t drink anything you’re not supposed to, she grinned.

Grace flushed, she had died and gone to heaven, all thoughts of curfew and the dash for home gone, she stepped into another world: A smoky haze hung in clouds, dim lights punctuated the darkness.

Come on! Max headed for the bar. I’ll buy you a Coke.

I’d like seltzer water with a little Grenadine please, for this was the treat her mother had given her on special occasions.

Max turned laughing out loud. So, the little girl wants a Shirley Temple.

Grace’s flush deepened as she pulled herself up to a full five feet, I turned sixteen two weeks ago, I’m not a little girl. She straightened her pullover top and pleated shirt trying to look larger than her ninety-five pounds: Only her voice was large, full and deep, coming from the depths of a tiny body.

Max was nineteen and could pass for twenty-one, but the three years made them worlds apart. Grace knew she had some catching up to do.

I’m Max, Maxine Mann. She said, and stared down at Grace who immediately caught the significance of her name. And you?

Grace, I’m Grace Goldstein.

Grace Goldstein, Max shook her head in disbelief. Nobody’s called Grace for God’s sake. And Grace Goldstein, what could be worse. You’ll get nowhere with a handle like that.

Grace stared. Nobody had ever questioned her name. Her mother still called her Little Gracie for her grandmother had been Big Grace. She was from a good Jewish family and Grace was a proper name.

G.G. That’s what it’s gonna be, Max said.

Grace frowned. G.G. makes me sound like a little girl, her voice was low with an undertow of authority.

Yeah. Max saw beyond the facade of pleated skirt and bobby socks. Yeah, you need a bigger name.

Always liked Gerri.

That’s it. Let’s call you G. Gerri. G. Gerri Goldstein, Max repeated then yelled toward the bar, Hey, Colleen, look what I found. This isGerri—G. Gerri Goldstein"

A strawberry blond head turned, a cigarette coyly dangling from a full lower lip. She wore a tight angora sweater—pink like her mouth, a little taller than Gerri—with a petulant young face in the body of a woman.

Hi, Colleen placed the cigarette on the bar, pulling up a stool for Gerri. Here, sit with me.

Max sat a cocktail glass filled with pink liquid and a long stemmed red cherry in front of Gerri. Have fun, she whispered, turned, and walked away.

Gerri stared into the baby face feeling a warm tingle in her groin—moisture filling the space between her legs. She wanted to reach over and run a hand over the soft fluffy sweater feeling the high breast—instead she sat dumbstruck, staring … just staring.

Sixteen years for some is a short lifetime, but for Gerri it was interminable: Trapped in the endless purgatory of childhood, one day slowly following another, she waited for the chance to rush headlong into life, not knowing how or what was to be—longing to be part of the adult world, forced to skirt its periphery, just waiting to barge in. Now she was face to face with her fate: a sexy woman who was causing explosions of budding hormones.

Wanna dance? Colleen swiveled her bar stool—knees brushing Gerri.

Yeah, Gerri let her hand rest lightly on Colleen’s leg before gently sliding fingers over thigh and hips to catch a small waist as they both came off the stools. The jukebox was playing In The Mood and Gerri naturally fell into an easy swing pattern guiding Colleen under an arm and reeling her in. There was no question of who would lead: with a hand firmly in the center of Colleen’s back, she was in total control—doing the sugar foot then making double time rhythm with her feet, whirling and twirling Colleen—the floor clearing as a circle formed to watch the dancers. Gerri alive, her pleaded skirt flying as she dipped and spun Colleen about; it was dancing like she had never done before—a mating ritual, the body vibrating waiting for release.

This was no longer the play-acting she had done with her sisters and cousins on lazy afternoons when they practiced the latest dance steps to 33⅓ records and Little Gracie would steal cigarettes from her mother’s purse: each smoking with exaggerated sophistication.

It was about a year earlier that her older cousin Myrna had taught her finger games. They would hide in the closet trying to achieve an elusive orgasm. Gerri learned the lesson well and it became part of her nightly routine before falling asleep.

The music changed and Hoagy Carmichael was singing the lullaby Stardust. She pulled Colleen close—pink angora fuzz filling her nostrils: For Gerri … sex would never again be a solo event.

*

EIGHT HOURS LATER

The bed was round, soft and moist against Gerri’s bare body.

Oh, my God. Gerri sat straight up; eyes on the days first light making a ribbon under the window shade.

Hmm. Colleen turned over refusing to wake up.

Mom’s going to kill me. I was supposed to be home at ten last night—probably called the police and everything.

Oh, call her and make up a story, Colleen said and rolled her eyes. You can’t go home now, it’s too early. Yawning, Colleen slid deeper into the bed.

A minute later Gerri’s frantic voice could be heard, Ma, Ma, now don’t go get all upset, I fell asleep and just now woke up.

Colleen smiled as Gerri spun a tale trying to convince her mother that she had gone to a girlfriend’s house and fallen asleep while listening to records. And, of course, since it was now almost 6 a.m. it would be better to just go to school from there and come home afterwards.

You go to school? Colleen questioned as Gerri bounced back into bed. How old are you anyway?

Sixteen … I just started high school … I’m in the tenth grade.

What! I thought you were a baby dyke in drag.

Gerri let the strange words flow over her, baby dyke in drag.

If you’re just sixteen, how did you learn to make love like that—mounting me, then scissoring, God, you’re good, Colleen said, and pushed her breasts against Gerri, and the way you went down on me.

A wet tongue stopped her words, as Gerri found Colleen’s mouth—they could always talk later.

An hour passed before, Colleen, exhausted from a night of lovemaking, pushed Gerri away. Got to get to work, I’m starting at nine today.

I should get to school. Gerri yawned.

Why bother? Colleen reached for her bag fishing out a handful of bills. She counted out a hundred dollars mostly in fives and tens and tossed them on the nightstand. Sleep in, then why don’t you get yourself some breakfast. I’ll see you later. Colleen pulled on last night’s clothes; made a feeble attempt to brush angora lint from black slacks, ran a comb through her hair and headed for the door.

Gerri’s yawn deepened as she retrieved a lost blanket from the floor, burrowed in and became one with the bed. Her sleep was long and full: resting and refreshing a young body not accustomed to nightlong sex play. It was early afternoon before she drifted into that somnambulistic state between sleep and wakefulness where the events of the day lazily played out in her mind. Had she dreamt it all? This wasn’t her twin bed, two feet from her sisters, sharing the bathroom wall, with its noisy pipes from the upstairs apartment.

She spread her arms and legs in an arc, making angels in the sheets, her body curving with the roundness of the bed. It had been the first time she had spent the night with anyone, cousins not counting. Gerri giggled at her new sense of power: The way she had played Colleen—her music, a beg for more—bringing her to orgasm after orgasm; not consciously thinking about it, just a natural response, Gerri saving her release until Colleen had been completely dominated—lying submissive under her control.

She stretched a hand to the bills, not stopping to consider the implications or wondering why an almost total stranger would leave her such a sum. Money was for spending: hadn’t her mother said that a thousand times when her father complained of his vanished paycheck? It was time to do a little shopping.

Gerri stepped nude from the bed heading for the shower, this was fun and a trip to Hern’s, her favorite department store, would be even more fun. Scrubbed clean, she winced pulling on yesterday’s clothes—the white pullover and the plaid pleated skirt. Gerri thought of the tuxedo pants worn by Max and Colleen’s black silk slacks—school required skirts, for slacks were forbidden. Oh, one could put a pair of pants under a skirt when the weather was foul; only to be removed before class, but wearing pants was reserved for play. Somehow, she didn’t feel like school anymore and she definitely didn’t feel like skirts.

*

It was four days later when Gerri returned home opening the door to a shocked mother.

Gracie! What have you done to yourself? Sadie Goldstein momentarily forgot her anger at Grace’s long absence. Your hair! And where did you get those clothes? Sadie ran a finger over Gerri’s fur jacket: It was short, cut in a navy pea coat style and made of dark beaver fur.

Oh, I just borrowed a few things from my new friend, Colleen, Gerri lied.

Well dear, you seem to have borrowed a whole new outfit. Her mother surveyed the gray flannel slacks topped by a crew necked sweater with just the collar