Barbarosa Madonna Vincente Hatcher.
She’d strolled into our office, eyes shooting rage darts though her speech gave no hint of her malcontent. I knew the shit was about to hit the fan for some unlucky soul.
Blond haired, green eyed, she was decked out in an expensive pantsuit, had a two hundred dollar haircut and I’m more than sure the surgically enhanced body would be judged at least a nine point five on the male ten point scale. It was obvious she was a fitness junkie. She had that “gym” look. Angles and muscles moving in sync.
I’d seen her type plenty of times before.
Married the husband when she was young, dumb and full of come.
Was the woman behind the man as he made a name for himself.
Now fifteen years later, the rose-colored glasses were finally snatched off and she had to face up to what she had. A cooling relationship. Kids half-grown, didn’t need her as much. No career of her own since she was helping hubby further his and besides, no wife of his would be allowed work anyway. All that was facing her was a mausoleum of a house, limp, unfulfilling sex every few months if she begged for it and wrinkles popping up daily. Money was no object and loneliness had become her constant companion.
Get in line sister. You’ve got plenty of company.
Roofing composite. Check.
Barbie explained her predicament in clipped tones. Her husband, Lester, Mr.-Damn-Near-Impotent-For-Her as she called him, was seeing someone else. She knew it.
As she told us, “After you’ve been washing a man’s shit stained shorts for years, you know when some come is added to the mix.” And that’s what she’d been noticing. Come stains. But she and hubby hadn’t had sex in two months.
“He can get it up for some trollop in the mall, but can’t get the sucker to rise to the occasion for me.” Barbie’s face reddened. “Look at me!” Her hands spanned up and down her body. “Men are always picking me up. But do I spread my legs like a bitch? No. Why?” Her lips trembled before she continued. “I—I happened to love the bastard, that’s why.”
Barbie wiped back the tears as we watched. Gave a couple of linebacker snorts into a lacy handkerchief she’d pulled out of her Coach purse before she straightened her back and met our eyes. “There is no way in hell, I’ll let that worm fuck over me and get away with it. Hell, I own that cock swinging between his legs, lock, stock and barrel.” A red fingernail to the chest punctuated her point.
A pissed off Barbie doll.
Schi and I both stifled our laughter as Barbie got straight to business. Brisk and businesslike, she’d let her face morph from rage to placidity, no trace of the uber bitch previously seen in the room, and said simply, “I need to nail a motherfucker to the wall.”
We could do that. That is our specialty after all.
“Want the son-of-a-bitch to remember me all his natural born days and beyond. Feel me?”
We did and planned to make it a hell of a delivery so he’d understand it too.
When we’d delivered our surveillance info a week later, I didn’t know what to expect. Telling me that my husband prefers to be the screwee versus the screwer would fuck with my mind royally. Some bail money would probably have to be arranged before it was all said and done.
Not Barbie. She was all cool; gave little hint that it fazed her much at all. It was when she called us back to give further instructions that I had to sit up and pay attention.
Barbie might look like her namesake but beneath that epidermis lay Shequisha Jenkins gone pale pink.
Shoot, her plan truly made me think twice about ever crossing her because she definitely but the D-E-V in deviant. In fact, as quirky as her mind apparently was, I didn’t understand why Les was in the streets. Hell, he had a freak fest at home!
Red Paint. Check.
Barbie requested a splosh party for ole Les. Splosh party? That was a new one for me but Barbie had narrowed the learning curve pretty fast. Apparently, it’s a party where you get aroused by pouring and smashing edible things on your body prior to having sex. From the photos I’d viewed on the Net, nothing was off limits—cake, honey, syrup, bread, pudding, mashed potatoes, ice cream, if you can smush it, mash it, smash it or pour it, it was fair game. Sticky foreplay, they called it. I shuddered. Sticky food all over me was not my idea of pleasurable foreplay.
I had to hold up a minute because this request was so unusual. Yeah, Les liked being beaten and taking it up the ass, but how the heck would we get him to join into a sploshfest?
Black paint. Check.
The answer was simple: money. No, not for Les. For Annette Hawkins, his dominatrix slash porker buddy. Laugh if you want, but the power of money is no joke. One grand and Annette—think the WWE’s Chyna—was in Schi’s pocket. Schi said she looked like she wanted to be in her pants too. Not my cup of tea but Schi was smiling like it wasn’t a half bad idea. To each his own.
Annette said she had no problem beating Les’ ass then pounding him raw before we did our thing.
She then let Les’ secret out the bag. Seems like many men, Les still hung on to a college tradition that had been a career killer for countless others: he didn’t mind sniffing a line of coke…provided it was free and in the comfort of a select environment. After all, who’s drug testing the CEO?
Annette offered to let him snort a line or two, mellow him out, before she cowered him into submission. Worked for us. As long as we don’t offer the drug, it’s fair game. Besides, it would definitely make him more “agreeable” for our leg of the night anyway.
One thing for sure…we were definitely going to find out!