A Crazy 2010 Kind of Love E-Book

J.M. Barber

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Tyler loves the strip clubs, so much that he's nearly destroyed his life for them. But things have changed for Tyler and now he has more money than he can spend. Finally he can do the things he desires and more freely than the average person. When he decides that he wants to use one night to get to know a beautiful stripper by the name of Candice but also use the same night to get so high that he can't function the next morning, he will encounter a number of situations that may enrich the life he has or end the life he's worked so hard to build for good.

Leseprobe

J.M. Barber

A Crazy 2010 Kind of Love

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

1

One thing changed about me in the last year, something that’s made such a radical difference in my life that I think the story is worthy of a theatrically released biopic. But that’s me being arrogant, which chicks simultaneously claim to love and hate by the way.

“God, I love how you believe in yourself, Tyler,” they would say but a week later tell me, “God, I hate how

you’re so goddamned full of yourself, Tyler!”

Bitches don’t seem to know what they want. What was the joke that Chris Rock made during his Bigger and Blacker standup? Though I’m not sure if that was the exact standup I’m sure that it was Chris Rock who asked the audience, “What do women want,” and answered, “Everything!”

I love women. My God I love women. Especially black women. It’s such a love that to talk about it seems crazy, but to express it in writing or poetry or song would seem sweet. Or vice-versa. It depends on who you’re asking. But there’s something about black women that makes you want to conquer the world in their honor and lock them in a cage somewhere so they can’t do the kinds of things that fuck up your head. You don’t need to hook up with a stripper to put your sanity on the line. That’s the risk of being with any woman, not just a black woman.

My stomach gets this fluttery feeling when I step into the confines of a strip club and I see the different beautiful women performing their quick, limber tricks on the pole or doing the more graceful walk and slow dance and conserving energy. When I first came here it was more intense and I was obsessed with the idea of just sleeping with one of them. That’s all I wanted was one and I didn’t care how many Whataburger checks from my manager position I had to cash to achieve this. I was willing to do whatever was necessary. Call it a sickness. Ass, lips, mouth, nose, tits, ass, pussy. Christ, all of these images were fixated in my mind twenty-four seven with the incessantness of the voices inside the head of a schizophrenic.

I dropped thousands of dollars in the strip club. Blew so much money that there were weeks I had to scrounge up enough cash to buy Ramen noodles just to get me through the week. Here’s the thing about Ramen noodles by the way. If you eat them on the right day they hit the spot; you eat them on the wrong day and you may never want to look at another pack of this twenty cent bargain item again. There’s more to the story of the money that I wasted for the sake of getting closer to women, women that I should’ve known would only show me attention as long as I kept flashing those paper faces. When the money stopped the attention halted with the force of a sledgehammer against an iron wall and if you remained in the strip club long enough without throwing up any ones you were asked to move so the next loser could blow a paycheck on his own pipe dream.

Money, it’s something you don’t want to be obsessed with but with the way society inundates you with commercials and films stating that money is everything you can’t help but be affected in some way.

Tonight I sat at one of the tables with ten bills in my hands, all hundreds. I had a small smile on my face, waiting to see how this bitch would respond when she noticed the cash. I loved tossing hundreds because you only had to toss one to make a girl lose her mind.

The stripper that was on the pole now was a dark-skinned black girl with her bra and panties still on. She was yet to remove them and was doing that classic trick where she holds onto the pole with one hand, curls one leg around the same pole and twirls around. Impressive? I guess. Did I throw the hundred? Hell no. Not worth it. No, considering how I used to be treated here I’m not throwing a hundred unless they earn it, and if they want to bullshit, I can take my two hundred-million-dollar ass up out of here. Quite simply, I don’t need them. Fact is I never did, but now I no longer feel dependent on this establishment—any establishment for that matter—or the girls here. I brought the most money and I was one of the few that could fuck any chick in here that I wanted. I had a reputation. Such a powerful one that I didn’t even have to pay for sex. It’s like an aura that money creates. Like the person with a bunch of money has a scent that emanates from them that only girls can smell.

“Hey Tyler,” the girl at the table said and now she laid down on her back and opened up her legs to perform a few thrusts.

I said nothing, only looked at her.

“How’s business,” she asked.

I thought she sounded desperate. I could hear it in her voice, could tell that she was concerned that I might simply stand up and move to another table and therefore deprive her of having a very lucrative night.

“Business is good,” I said, unsmiling. “Business is always good. What’s up with you?”

“Have to take my damn car to the shop. Not even able to get to work with the shit, have to—”

“Keep it on the positive tip, please,” I said. “Don’t nobody want to hear all that.”

She smiled. “Okay, sweetie.” She turned onto her stomach and began to shake her ass. I liked that. Liked the way that she responded. Hell, she earned this tip. I lifted the strap of her G-string and slipped a hundred dollar bill inside. “Fucking love you, Tyler.”

“You should,” I replied.

I had talked to this girl a number of times. Sweets is her stage name. Yes, the shit is stupid but you know how it is at a strip club. All the names are fucking stupid. It’s like the girls that get hired at these clubs are told to reach into a hat called ‘fucked up names’ and pick without looking.

“Tell me what I could do to make you love me sweetie,” Sweets said.

“You’re doing it,” I said. “But tell you what. If you really want to impress me than why don’t you go ahead and break a sweat. You break a sweat I’ll toss nine hundred on the table, don’t care if it takes you only a minute to do

so.”

Boy did I put that bitch to work! Shaking and twerking and ass-clapping and sliding the front of her G-string to the side for some pussy-popping. It took her fifteen minutes to break a sweat and I dropped the nine hundred dollars in hundreds on the table like the money didn’t even exist to me. Because I’ll tell you one thing, when you make it past a certain amount that’s just what it’s like. The money doesn’t seem to exist. Fucking monopoly money dude.

I left Sweets’s table and moved to another one. Reached into my suit pocket and pulled out ten thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, all banded and fresh and crisp looking.

“Hey Tyler,” the blonde at this table said. Yes, she was white, but I don’t count that as a negative. She works twice as hard as the other girls who take their curves and breasts for granted because she knows she’s being looked at extra hard.

“Hey.”

“You want a lap dance tonight.”

I shook my head. “No. I just want you to break a sweat.”

2

I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve been rich for one and a half years. I haven’t become completely used to having this amount of money. When you can wake up and do whatever you want but you’ve been living the first thirty years of your life just struggling to get by, it seems that you can never get the memories of being broke out of your mind. But I only have myself to blame for what seemed like an endless cycle of poverty. I can say now that before I was rich I had an addiction to strip clubs; now that I’m rich I still have an addiction to strip clubs but a more sophisticated addiction now. My vice, admittedly. But I’m good with money. These beautiful women won’t be able to give my story the Mike Tyson treatment.

I have a website dedicated to stripper-wear and perfume. Seems like bullshit, right? Not when it’s high quality, sells cheaper than anywhere else and comes with next day delivery. It’s not just G-strings and panties that I’m selling. I sell the shit that allows the strippers to look good before they reveal their panties and bra, if they should choose to do a show that involves starting with more on. Long story short, I forced myself to stop going to the strip club, saved fifteen thousand dollars, and invested it in starting the company. It blew up like firecrackers and I had enough green to drown a whole city of stripping bitches.

No, I don’t think all girls are bitches okay. I don’t think all strippers are bitches either. But boy, I’ve run into many.

“You’re so smart,” Sweets said a week after I’d thrown nine hundred dollars on her table. She was performing and once again I was seated in front of her, one of several men throwing money for her attention.

“You think so?”

She crawled toward me, put her lips to my ear and said,