CHAPTER 1
Kingston
He can’t remember his face, yet he’d never forget his name.
The cap of his Arturo Fuente Opus X fell to the floor as he snapped the guillotine. Slowly he dipped the shoulder of his cigar into a shot glass filled with pure honey, placed the sweetest end between the enormous lips classmates used to ridicule him for having. Lighting the foot, Kingston suctioned a long drag of the savory tobacco smoke into his mouth.
Kingston stood. Clinched the tip of the seven-inch stick between his teeth, suctioned in the bold taste, then placed the cigar in a groove on the tray. His eyes were fixated on the guest who was seated on the maroon velvet sofa. Kingston walked to the living room’s window, then closed the beige blackout drapes. Retreating to the bedroom, he removed his red designer fitted pants, black T-shirt, and green boxer briefs, then carefully lay each item on the plush king-sized bed. Optioning to keep on his red knee-high compression socks, he returned to the living room, reclaimed his seat in the black-and-white paisley-print barrel chair. Exhaling white clouds of smoke from his mouth and nostrils at the same time, he spread his legs.
Gazing across the room, he held in his darkest secret. It wasn’t his fault.
“Get off the couch. Take off your clothes. Get on your knees. And suck my dick,” Kingston said in an apathetic tone, making more of a request than a demand.
A five-star hotel in Buckhead was Kingston’s temporary haven. A place where he could be his authentic self. He placed his stick between his pointing and middle fingers.
Six feet, nine inches didn’t make him a man. Becoming a multimillionaire at the age of twenty-two hadn’t altered his character. Being thirty and one of the blackest men in America, he feared three things: being killed by a white police officer, wrongful incarceration, and . . .
Suctioning the smoky smoothness, Kingston wondered how they’d made it to arrangement number thirteen. On the square table within his reach were his room key, phone, a brightly lit lamp, a torch device, and the ashtray where he placed the stogie.
He retrieved his cell, scanned the app BottomsUp, swiped left twice, right once.
Staring across the room into a beautiful set of large brown eyes, Kingston firmly said, “Sweetheart, I’m not going to ask you twice. Your only other option is to get out.”
They’d met on the app BottomsUp. For Kingston, it was supposed to be a one and done. That was why he had to find a replacement today.
What does the kid that had performed fellatio on Kingston look like today? Slim? Fat? Tall? Short? Beard? Mustache?
Third grade. Janitor’s closet. Between brooms and a yellow bucket on wheels filled with dirty water and a mop, his pecker is being sucked for the first time.
“You know I’m not going anywhere, silly. Stop trying to act all bad and stuff. I know you want me. The feeling is mutual.” Theodore Ramsey rose in slow motion, approached Kingston, removed his shirt, twirled it in the air. He pranced to the sofa, neatly lay his pink polo across the back. Unfastening his belt, he pushed his pants to his knees, shuffled his feet back over to Kingston, then stepped out of his jeans. Theodore seductively swayed his dick left and right. “We need some music, baby,” he said, reaching toward the table with the lamp.
Grabbing his cell, Kingston firmly reminded Theodore, “What’d I tell you about that ‘baby’ bullshit. Stop calling me that. And don’t you ever make the mistake of touching my phone.”
“I was reaching,” Theodore said, emphasizing the word, then continued, “for the cigar. Come out of hiding and you won’t have to worry about anyone finding out that you’re—”
The janitor’s closet is where his innocence was compromised. Inhaling the scent of wet mops, bleach, and pine, he watches the little boy lock the door. The light is on. Kingston’s back is pressed against a cold metal stand with shelves overflowing with rolls of paper towels and toilet tissue.
“Say it and regret it!” Kingston sprung from his seat. “I’ll put your ass out of my suite for good.”
Theodore stepped two feet back. Shook his head.
Kingston sat center on the armless paisley chair, admiring his guest. Theodore was six-two with glistening skin that looked like he was dunked into a barrel of glazed caramel. His beard, mustache, and pubic hairs were shaved to a smooth shadow. Theodore’s uncircumcised penis pointed toward Kingston’s full lips.
Theodore knelt in front of him.
A call registered on Kingston’s cell. It was his wife. Her timing was inconvenient. He tapped the red circle to decline hearing her voice. Placing his phone on the wooden table, Kingston gazed down at Theodore. “Sorry, man. You don’t get it. I’m not that way.”
Staring up, he said, “Your wife is the one who’s not getting it or your dick. You’re lying about your marital status to others. The only reason you told me was because you know I don’t care anything about a pussy.”
Lying was easier. How often did women search for validation? Most men and some women didn’t care about a wedding ring.
Afraid of being a disgrace to his family, friends, and fans, Kingston found it was easier to live his life based on what others expected of him. There were things he admired about Theodore Ramsey. Primarily, his open sexuality, candor, courage, intelligence, sense of humor at times, and his not having a dark side.
Theodore leaned over; then he gently kissed Kingston’s inner thighs.
“I still want you to come by my clothing store. I have a wardrobe for you that I know you’re going to like, Mr. Royale. And I’ll have my partner design you a branded signature look.”
“Cool.” Picking up his cigar and torch, Kingston held the fire at the edge, then sucked the tip several times, reigniting the fading flame.
It feels good. The wetness of the little boy’s mouth on his pecker when they are alone in the janitor’s closet.
Monet Royale wasn’t going anywhere. He’d hit her back later. Kingston had an urgent hard-on to tend to.
His shaft grew wider. Longer. He reached toward his crotch, untucked his balls from underneath his butt. Too many encounters were beginning to lead to Kingston developing emotions for Theodore. Blowing smoke in Theodore’s face, Kingston insisted, “Let’s get this over with.”
Theodore rested his butt on his heels, placed his hand on his hip, questioned Kingston as though Kingston had put a ring on his finger: “That was her, huh?”
Kingston had the best privacy screen for situations like this. No need to deny the truth. Nodding, he realized there was no competition between Theodore and his wife. Just differences. Kingston wished he could merge the best of both of them into one person.
He knows it is wrong. But he can’t leave the janitor’s closet for two reasons. He’s never felt anything that has made his entire body tingle. And he is afraid of the rumors if someone sees them coming out together.
“If you want to get this over with, you can at least silence your damn phone.” Theodore lamented, then politely added, “Please.”
The most salacious male specimen Kingston desired—mind, body, and energy—slowly glided his tongue from Kingston’s knee to his balls, causing his erection to stand at full attention.
Wow, Kingston thought, letting the second call from his wife go to voice mail. Staring at the sugary temptation before him, Kingston anxiously welcomed being Theodore’s dessert.