Fran Ross - Oreo

“This is the bitch that ruined my baby-ass-pink suit — and put my ass in a sling,” announced Parnell. He tenderly touched his behind.

Oreo translated their collective murmur as “Oh-oh, too bad for you, honey.” Behind their masks of loyalty, Oreo thought she detected a tentative snicker at Parnell.

“Now she gon get hers this evening,” Parnell said. “Just in case any you bitches begin to begin to think you can run some shit on me, I’m gon show you what happens to little girls whose mamas didn’t teach ’em no manners.”

All this time, Oreo had been flexing her arm, ready to fling Parnell to the floor as soon as things got a bit sticky. But she was curious. She still had not peeped his hole card.

“Now, y’all have heard rumors to the effect that I’m keeping some kinda way-out instrument of torture in that spare room.” He cocked his head toward a door at the opposite end of the room, cater-cornered from where he and Oreo were standing. “I want to tell you in front that this is one heavy torture, chicks. I ain’t had to use it on any you yet. Y’all been good little girls, humping your hineys off for li’l ol’ me. But this bitch”—he gave Oreo an extra arm twist, which she added to her revenge list—“this bitch is something else. It gon be my pleasure to see her split wide open.”

Oreo was getting a little worried now — she might actually have to hurt Parnell. If push came to shove, how many of these women would fight for Parnell once she made her move and started pushing and shoving him all over this room? Would she have to rack them all up? And what the fuck was this instrument of torture?

Parnell snapped his fingers, and all heads snapped his way. He pointed to the woman farthest from him. “Knock three times on that door, then step aside.” The woman looked puzzled but did as she was told. Nothing happened. “Knock again — harder,” said Parnell. The woman had no sooner lifted her knuckles after the third knock than the door burst open. She did not step aside soon enough and was knocked down as something — Oreo at first thought it was a small white horse — rushed out and bore down on them. Oreo looked again. It was a man, virtually on all fours, caparisoned in a black loincloth.

He cantered over to Parnell and nuzzled his hand. Parnell patted him, and the man straightened up as far as he could, to a slight stoop. He was deeply muscled. His withers twitched as though covered with flies. His dark forelock covered his eyes like a shade as he pawed the ground, impatiently waiting for Parnell to tell him what to do.

“This is Kirk,” Parnell said, stroking the man’s back. “Kirk is from out of town, folks. Say hello to the bitches, Kirk.”

Kirk raised his upper lip and nickered, showing teeth long and strong, with a decided overbite.

“Thattaboy,” said Parnell. “We got your first American playmate for you, Kirk. Young and juicy. You like that don’t you, Kirk?”

Kirk pawed the ground twice. Oreo assumed that meant “yes” and that “no” would be indicated by one hoof-strike.

“Strip for the ladies,” Parnell said, pantomiming to make sure he understood.

After a moment of incomprehension, Kirk did as he was directed. A gasp went up from the nine prostitutes. Parnell looked, and looked again, with a “What hath God wrought?” expression of envy on his face. Kirk’s equipment unfurled like a paper favor blown by Gabriel at the last party in the history of the world. His demanding “digit” made undiscriminating Uncle-Sam-wants-you gestures around the room.

Oreo was impressed. Male genitals had always reminded her of oysters, gizzards, and turkey wattles at best, a bunch of seedless grapes at worst. On the other hand, most marmoreal baskets (e.g., the David’s) resembled the head of a mandrill (a serendipitous pun). An inveterate crotch-watcher, she had once made a list of sports figures whom she classified under the headings “Capons” and “Cockerels.” The capons (mostly big-game hunters, bowlers) were men whose horns could be described by any of the following (or similar) terms: pecker, dick, cock, thing, peter, prick, dangle, shmendrick, putz, shmuck. The cockerels (gymnasts, swimmers) sported any of the following: shlong, dong, rod, tool, lumber . Neutral words ( member, penis ) were applicable in cases where the looseness or padding of the standard uniform made definitive assessment impossible (baseball, basketball, football, hockey, and tennis players). But Kirk’s stallion was a horse of another collar, of such dimensions that he could have used a zeppelin for a condom.

“Are you planning what I think you’re planning?” Oreo asked cautiously.

“Um-hm,” smirked Parnell.

“No-o-o!” the checkerboard Greek chorus chorused plaintively. Parnell silenced them with a glance.

“Does the fact that I’m a virgin get to you?” Oreo asked.

Parnell smiled as at a baby’s funeral. “Just makes it all the juicier.” He gave her the look of the expert. “Besides, you prob’ly lying. At your age, looking like you do? No way .”

Oreo saw that it was senseless to try the usual bullshit. She made a straightforward proposition. “Three things: I get the right of inspection for general cleanliness; there is to be no rimming — just straight-on fucking; and I get to go to the bathroom before we start.”

“I don’t know where you get this what-you-will-do, what-you-won’t-do shit. You better watch your mouth ’fore I bust you right now, bitch. But none them requests don’t make me no nevermind. My man here’s gon do you in, chick. And I do mean do , and I do mean in . So make your play — you ain’t gon get away, dig?” Kirk was getting restless. Parnell stroked his back. “Just a little while now, Kirk. You let the little lady look at you now like a good boy.”

“I hate to be a nag, but I don’t want to touch it. Could somebody else do it for me?”

Parnell laughed. “You a funny bitch. You don’t want to touch it, but it shit-sure gon touch you in more ways than one. But have your fun now. I’m gon be getting my jollies in a few minutes.” He snapped his fingers. Without turning his head, he said, “Cecelia, turn this guy out for the girl, will you?”

In a second, one of the women appeared at his side. She reached down and expertly pulled back Kirk’s foreskin. Oreo looked. Kirk had cornered the market on smegma. “You gotta be kidding,” Oreo said. “He could open a cheese store under there.”

Even Parnell’s eyebrows shot up in distaste. “Take him to the crapper and wash him, Cecelia.” He turned to Kirk. “Go with the nice lady, Kirk, but don’t hurt her. She not for you. This one’s for you,” he said, fondly patting Oreo’s afro.

Oreo was furious. She had been monumentally forbearing so far, out of curiosity — letting Parnell twist her arm, call her “bitch,” and in general dump on her — but now she had had it. She hated anyone to touch her soft, cottony hair without permission. She was having a shit fit, gradually working herself up into a state of hwip-as . Parnell would be the sorriest pimp in Harlem when she got through with him. But she would first take on Kirk and get that over with. “May I go to the bathroom while Cecelia’s taking care of Kirk?” she asked docilely.

“That’s better. Now, if you’da come on that way from the git-go — you and me, we coulda got along. Always got room in my stable for a hot-chocolate filly like you. But first you gotta take your medicine for being a bad girl this afternoon.” He snapped his fingers. “Go with her, Lil.”

A zaftig black girl of about Oreo’s age took her down the corridor to the bathroom. As they were passing a small room opposite the bathroom, Oreo heard a man’s resonant voice say something she couldn’t make out and then a woman laugh. “Where’s the woman I saw this afternoon carrying the shoeshine box?” Oreo asked.