Mojo - 19. Chapter 18: A Tool of a Toady

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Part Six – Ostriches in the Sand

Chapter 18: A Tool of a Toady

I flicked with my fingertip; Burtron’s tablet screen shot straight to his calendar, and I saw his 3pm appointment was a guy code-named ‘Uncle Tommie.’ He was booked for an impressive four hours.

We’d been here for several days already, and my racial kink friend was right about needing help. It had been non-stop since the moment we’d checked into this Bellagio penthouse suite. Sheepish men, and those with red necks and shaggy beards, trouped in one by one for ‘atonement’ with the Master. They arrived in sunglasses and blushing hues, but left with springing steps and relieved smiles in their eyes.

As I glanced out the window and over Sin City, I was glad for this suite – we each had our own bedroom, while two more cycled through penitents and chamber maids, who were on stand-by 24/7. The women from Housekeeping shrugged, apparently used to this sort of thing, and did not ask about the racks of flogs, shackles, and knotted lengths of rope each ‘penitent chapel’ contained.

After the hotel staff had cleaned and tidied, and after Burtron had escorted a man to one of the rooms, I could be alone. Even though these chambers were dedicated to the paying of racial transgressions, and were kept fairly dark and sound-insulated, I could still hear the near-continual bevy of smacks, soft pleadings for forgiveness, and grunts of sexual release. On long appointments, like the one coming up, I could peruse Las Vegas on my own. But I always came back for Burtron’s scheduled downtimes to attend to his needs.

Ding! Dong!

Speaking of which – I sprang to my feet – the boy was right on schedule.

I popped over to the door and opened it, immediately stepping back so Room Service could roll in his cart. It rattled cheerily, laid out for high tea – plates on a metal rack with cake and sandwiches, and pots of coffee, cocoa and tea. I made sure Burtron wanted for nothing this time of the afternoon. He needed his strength.

I closed the door and watched the teen-boy booty work under his trousers. He pushed the mobile tray into position by a pair of sofas facing one another.

He’d been the one to come every time, and I’d taken notice for sure, which was his intent, no doubt. A guy doesn’t wag his ass like that by accident.

He set the coffee table for two, knowing the routine, and I inspected the perfectly cut nature of his black slacks and bowtie against the crispness of his white shirt. Eighteen or nineteen, the boy had sandy-blond shag atop his head and a slight bit of lip fuzz to match. Judging by the way the clothes gripped his body, I’d say he’d been some amateur gymnast in high school, and I drooled a little to think about the onesie still in his closet at home.

The kid called himself C.G., and now his eyes glanced at me sideways from his task, knowing his ass was sticking out just right.

In another moment, he pushed the empty cart to the suite’s kitchenette and came smiling towards me at the door.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Kohl?”

“No, we’re set.” I slipped him a twenty, my hand briefly on his shoulder. “See you at seven.”

“Yes, sir.” He paused, grinning like only a straight boy on the hustle could, palmed the cash as I watched his fingers sink close to his bulge, and then surprised me.

The same hand came out of his pants again with a hotel card. He gave it to me with a ratcheting down of his smile to lecherous.

“I put my number on the back. Call or text anytime, and I’ll be here, sir. To serve you, in any way that I can.”

He left quietly, and I looked down. Handwritten appeared: “Claude Germaine,” followed by a cellphone number.

I regarded it, feeling a real affinity for this ambitious kid at my beck and call. I was sure he thought nothing special of me, but was on the make with all of his suite guests – picking up spare hundreds as they came his way – and why not. I’d have him pinned down in a second, if…. Well, and despite how popular his ass must be on this top-floor bastion of affluence, I can’t perform, and I’m not a bottom.

The door from his bedroom opened and Burtron came out wearing a bathrobe, toweling off his short hair.

“Good nap and shower?”

“Yeah, Kohl, thank you.”

He immediately made a beet line for the sofa and sat. I poured him some coffee while he selected sandwich slices. I glanced at my watch as I served him his beverage; we had a little while before ‘Uncle’ showed up.

He said “I’m famished,’ but I couldn’t help laughing.

“Whaaat…?” Crumbs came tumbling out of Burtron’s mouth.

“I guess I’ve never seen you in your full kink vestments before.” For indeed, The Black Hammer’s robe had slipped open, revealing a harness and waist belt above a leather jock – long cuffs covered his wrists.

Far from shy, he kicked the robe off his thighs and lounged back so I had a full, sumptuous view.

He smiled while chewing. “I got suited up right away. Next penitent is on his way.”

“Yeah, but you can relax a bit. Still got ten minutes.”

He took a sip of coffee. “Been slammed. My yearly week in Vegas has always been like this. You’ve been great arranging things for me, Kohl. I really appreciate it.” He ate some ham and cheese.

“I don’t mind helping out as best I can, and well, let’s just say it’s been a real eye-opener. I’ve learned a lot.”

“So, what did you do today?”

“Went to the Liberace Museum.”

Burtron laughed.

“I went there to ask around about my slumbag ex – if anybody saw him with Gordon there, as it’s the type of tourist spot Assauer would want to check off his list.”

“List?”

“His bucket list of kitschy places to say he’s been to.”

“I see. You have any luck?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry, still a lot of cheesy places in this town you can go and ask around.”

“I guess so.”

He lifted his juice glass. “Cheer up. Only rule here is to enjoy yourself.”

He toasted, but I was struck by the irony that if I’d been able to enjoy myself with my boy, then Gordon wouldn’t have thrown me over for my two-timing Exfreund.

“Anyway,” I said, “don’t worry. I’ll clear out of here and head out before your next client – um, pilgrim – arrives.”

“You don’t have to with this one; especially not this one.”

“How come?”

“Uncle Tommie is an exceptional case. He’s all about vocal atonement for his racial sins, and gets off knowing there’s an audience to hear his pleas for forgiveness.”

“No…. No, shit?”

“I shit you not. He likes an audience, especially a white one, and you will do nicely. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re white.”

I chuckled. “I don’t have eyes for such things.”

“Well, let me assure you, you are. And so is his ‘celebrity’ assistant for that matter.”

“Fuck. This guy’s messed up, huh?” I took a sip of tea.

“Yes. He’s my only Black client.”

I nearly did a spit-out, swallowing down my “No…!” as best I could.

“Yeah.”

“So what’s he got in his past he needs to do penance for?”

“Oh…” Burtron was suddenly very serious. “A lot. You’ll probably recognize his face. Little Stevie Tinn – former token head and laughingstock of the Retrogressive Party.”

“Don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Then you’re lucky. Little Stevie was the Chaney-Junior Administration’s lackey whipping boy: sent him out to tell Black folks it was all for the best their Social Security was being privatized and turned over for speculation by brokerage-house Massas who know better about their money than dumb negros, like ‘dem’.”

“That’s dark. He really did that?”

“Fuck! He did much worse. During the fight for The Affordable Care Act, Tinn hushed up a woman telling a town hall meeting about going bankrupt – losing savings, job, home – just to try and save her mother’s life from cancer. Uncle Tommie, up there, strutting the stage like a cock-ass rooster, one hand on his hip, microphone cord in the other like Cher in her Half-Breed phase, told her something like: “Okay, sista. You done had yo’ five minutes of fame in front of them der cameras, so sit yo’ black ass down before I be calling the po-lice!”

I felt sickened to the point of chuckling nervously. “That’s so horrible.”

Burtron finished his coffee and set the saucer rattling on the table, then, with authority, he cracked his knuckles.

“Most of the poor white bastards coming to me for humiliation raise a spark of pity in my breast. Their sins are at least partially societal. But not so with Stevie Tinn. When I beat him to propitiate flesh for his soul’s trespasses, we both know it’s for true crimes and misdemeanors.”

Burtron finished his last bite of sandwich, adding, “He’s a real token tool of a toady – the Gop’s wet dream of white-power ‘Yessums, boss’ politics.”

“And you say his PA is some sort of celebrity too?”

“Angekwekwa Umfume-Kintay.”

He paused, like that should mean something to me.

“Wha-what?”

“That’s her so-called name, although she was born Maggie Smythe III – rich, privileged and white.”

“She’s not white now?”

He laughed. “Not according to her. Oh, come now, you must have heard about the disgraced woman masquerading around as a strong Black female and heading a Malcolm X activities club before being outed as a closet cracker.”

Come to think of it, that did sound somewhat familiar. “And now the Uncle Tom and this one have teamed up?”

“Yeah. I guess they’re both social outcasts, pariahs to African Americans – one Black but marshmallow to the core; the other beige but feeling hot cocoa on the inside – both ashamed of who they really are.”

I shook my head. For this day and age, that was truly sad.

Ding! Dong!

I jumped up to get the door. Burtron dabbed his face with a napkin and stood regally, his beautiful ebony flesh glimpsed through a slit of terrycloth.

I opened the door and let two people in: a mousy man, and a taller, beefier female tapping furiously on a personal device.

Tinn appeared to be a caricature, or several, really. As a 1950-something 'black' man, he looked like a cartoon ‘one of the good ones’ effigies from a box of instant rice – dough-boy expression, wire bifocals, bald head with a monkish fringe of gray-white hair curtaining the back; monkey’s foot mustache.

He was also the visual parody of a corporate-owned ‘conservative,’ with a discount department store suit in gray and a brocade tie that must have cost him all of $20 at the airport. Speaking of airports, no doubt this guy was a true Grand Ole Partisan, and thus an expert toe-tapper under the bathroom stalls.

Angekwekwa Umfume-Kintay was about my size and stature, dressed in a black pantsuit, and mean. A surly snarl inhabited her upper lip as she typed, while a mass of twist-style locks sprung in front of her eyes and forehead like mattress coils. A part of me knew she could not have grown that hair herself, so I suspected a fair portion of actual Black lady hair had been woven in to ‘augment.’

Gathered by the sofa, Burtron did the honors. “This is Kohl, a friend of mine helping out with my trip.”

Little Stevie Tinn flashed subservient pearlies at me. “Ah, how do you do, sir? Such a pleasure to meet one of The Hammer’s honorable friends and colleagues.” He forced a clammy handshake on me.

We paused, glancing together at Uncle’s personal assistant.

She eventually looked up from her screen to bark, “’Sup.”

I cocked my head in surprise. “Not much.”

“Now,” Burtron said to Tinn, “have you been practicing your self-abasing punishments, like we discussed online?”

The former RNC Chair turned on a penny. He lost all the squishy deference he’d slathered me with like mayo on white bread and got short with his fellow Black man. “Maybe, maybe not, brotha. You got somethin’ you wanna say about it?”

Cool as an arctic 4th of July, Burtron latched on to Uncle Tommie’s ear and led him to the bedroom.

As he went, stooped over as he was, the toady still made sure to turn his face back to me, bury his pain in a fake-ass smile, and say, “A pleasure to have made your acquaint—”

Burtron slammed the door behind them.

After a moment of awkward silence, I said to the PA “Help yourself” with a hand gesture. Soon after, I was back at the sofa, loading up my plate with a delayed lunch.

Umfume-Kintay, née Smythe, came around and sat on my left, pretending she was not checking me up and down from behind the anonymity of her personal device.

I chewed and started to hear odd things from the Black Hammer’s atonement room. First, there were orders to strip, and then Tinn’s vocal refusal.

“So, you a queer too?”

Angekwekwa’s question startled me; she’d barely even made eye-contact with me.

I swallowed. “Yeah, I’m a real Gay – you Black?”

She set down her gadget with a sigh, picking up a full cup and saucer. Now she held my eyes like a schoolmarm going over a lesson she’d rehearsed her whole, tired career.

She took the creamer in her other hand, adding just the tiniest drop to her steaming beverage. “Think of my racial orientation along the lines of your high-end, luxury coffee. At one end you start with dark, full-bodied French roast – all a tingling on the roof of your mouth as it goes down.” She added another drop from the creamer. “But then you progress, you know, through the less heavily roasted, the Espressos, the Breakfast blends, till you finally start gettin’ in the Mocha range.”

“So, you’re ‘Mocha’?”

Her attitude did a defensive spine-snap. “Who said that?! I ain’t said any such thing.”

“Then…where do you fall on the fandeck of coffee hues?”

“Well, ya see, after the beautiful Mochas – with just that dash of luscious cocoa – you come to the creamer shades; the, um, Cappuccinos and whatnot.” She dumped in the whole pitcher of creamer, picked up a spoon and starting stirring.

“So you’re a whatnot.”

“No, no. In the rich, diverse, coffee diaspora, you might say I’m in the café-au-lait range—”

“Any Black relatives?”

“Well, no—”

“Then you nothing but 2% Milk, huntie.”

A look of ‘gottcha’ smeared her snarl. “Just like you BLTQTQIAXYZ+++'s carrying on these days about ‘hetero-flexible’ this, ‘metro-sexual’ that – not to mention Poly-wanna-experiment in collage and ‘Don’t-label-me-bro-no-HOE-mo’ – you be your kinda light in the loafers and let me be my kinda African American.”

As punctuation for this bit of sham sophistry, she downed her milky coffee.

‘Gott im Himmel,’ I realized. ‘She is white!’ I mean, how pastier could a person get, except for occasions where they’re lucky enough to have backup vocals from the Mighty White Chorus, lol.

We were both distracted; more muffled sounds of the penance-in-progress drifted out to us. First, Uncle’s refusals, followed by smacks and yelps from the cowardly kowtowed. Then Burtron's strong voice telling the supplicant what a disgraceful streak of toe fungus he was, followed by more smacks and moans of pleasured resistance.

“I ain’t got no beef against quee—”

“Say Gay, for God’s sake.”

A new light dawned. “You a foreigner too?”

“Yes. German.”

“Ku-ool.”

She warmed to me a bit, unfortunately, and tucked a knee under her as she rotated on the sofa cushion to gape at me with a power scowl. I ate and slowly came to realize this woman was ‘black’ in the same studied way an angry, bitter drag queen is ‘feminine.’

“I ain’t got no problem with you people; look who I work for,” she said, casting a disgusted glance at the door from behind which Tinn’s whipping sounds emerged.

I set down my sandwich. “Is Uncle Tommie out…?”

“Oh! Fuck no. He follows a long line of closeted Milkmen – RNC flunkies required to give head as part of ‘the position.’”

“Uh.” I was learning more than I wanted.

The sounds from the other room had transitioned to Tinn agreeing with Bertram on what a worthless traitor to his race he was and needing re-education.

“I don’t mind you being queer, you know. As you’re fly and all, and you are, so you must be gettin’ lots o’booty in Vegas.”

“No…” Something made me hesitate. I didn’t know for what reason, but I somehow felt I had nothing to lose, so I confessed. “Actually, I’m here with Bertram to try and track down my ex and current boyfriend. They ran off together because…well, because I can’t get it up.”

“Shiiiiiitttt…?”

“Yes, it’s true. See, back in L.A. I ran afoul of a crazy sex cult, and the mad leader put a hex on my dick.”

“No lie?”

“Weird things happen, huh?”

Speak of the devil, sounds of ‘weirdness’ from the other room punctuated my point; now Little Stevie Tinn was practically begging for BBC -- big black cock -- to wash away his sins.

“I guess you could say that. You lookin’ for a cure or somethin’…?”

Angekwekwa’s power-salute attitude was slipping. She continued a bit more sheepishly. “Cuz, word on the street says there’s a Vegas underground cult…to, well, to the Cock God.”

My heart lurched. “Not to Priapus?!”

“Who? No, no, to the Holy God—” She stopped herself short, readjusting her ‘ku-ool.’ “Um, if you’re serious about finding a cure – you know, for your gay limp biscuit – I could maybe see about an intro to our…I mean, to their leader.”

I shrugged. “You think they could help?”

She winked. “Oh, I know they can.”

Sounds of full-on sex interrupted us again. Tinn was grunting and yelling at top volume, pleading for Burtron to “Fuck this sissy negro ass like it deserves – by a real Black Man!” He settled into a rhythm and continued to sing out, as if they were the words of an old spiritual, “Oh, yes – yes indeedy. Lordy, yes! Make... Me... vote... DEMOCRAAAAAT!!!!”

Uncle Tommie, surly little penitent, was now a full-on penetrant, and in the thralls of sheer atonement ecstasy.

˚˚˚˚˚

“Alone, newly alone –

Counting the characters of love

For my lost boy.

My heart aches for you –

Alone, yet not alone.”

I rechecked the character count before posting; 110, that was all right. I’d been uploading lovesick tweets for Gordon since I’d resolved to fight and win him back. It was like a new poetical form all on its own, and it gave my broken heart an outlet to keep my mind fairly constructive.

The pipey fanfare of Mendelssohn’s wedding recessional sounded yet again.

I glanced up from my back-pew position in the Holy Rollers Wedding Chapel, Pai Gow Parlor and Skate Rink. I’d first come here a couple of days ago, asking about my ex and Gordon on my tour of Vegas’ kitschiest marriage venues, knowing it was right up Assauer’s cul-de-sac.

The happy newlywed couple – a pair of middle-aged bikers in black leather and bandannas – stomped down the aisle in their wedding dresses and boots. The six or so people watching as guests trailed out after them for a night on the town. I’d seen half a dozen weddings so far this evening, including being called upon to be an official witness at the union of male and female plumbers from Bemidji – where ever the hell that is.

Thus, right now my heart was heavy. No, broken. Oh…. A new tweet….

“Like a crystal shattered,

I grieve a loss, but know

Yours is the only glue

To mend this broken heart.”[1]

Nothing worse than trying to reduce my heartbreak to 140 characters. It made me sad. I wanted my dick back; I realized now it was the worst curse a cruel god could inflict on a Gay man – worse than death, that’s for sure.

I remembered an unpleasant scene from years ago. Thinking, with dread in my stomach as it were, that my ex deserved the truth in Ramstein-Miesenbach, no matter how painful it was to the both of us.

“You what…?”

I had floored Assauer.

“I – um— I’ve fallen in love with another. A boy named Rolf.”

My boyfriend approached me with fiery eyes. “Rolf…? Rolf?! The boy you are tutoring; that boy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about which part? That you are tossing me over for a piece of twink ass; sorry that you’ve deceived me for weeks and months now; or sorry for the boy, the one getting conned by a man five year older than him? Hmmm. Which. One.”

“Look, it’s not a con. I didn’t intend to…to even like the kid. It just happened. I know this is unfair to you—”

“That’s it. Pack your bags and get out tonight. We’re over.”

I stood there.

“What?” Assauer demanded. “What are you fucking grinning at like an ape?”

“I can make it up to you.”

“What…?”

I had astounded my boyfriend – um, ex-boyfriend – again.

“There’s money too.”

He was speechless.

“I can’t tell you how I got it, but it’s a windfall for us, provided by Rolf’s rich daddy.”

“Kohl—”

“I’m saying, half of it is yours when we decide to cash it in. I’m still willing to be 100% ‘share and share alike’ with you, brother.”

His tears started to fall. “Is this what you think will make it better? I lose my boyfriend to a snot-nose punk with a rich daddy…. And you think I want cash?”

“No, no.” I put my arms around him. “I know you are hurt. I know you deserve better than me, one who’s a whole lot better. But I’m saying I still love you in a way, and what’s mine will always be yours because of it.”

We cuddled for most of the night. Sometime before morning, we indulged in our last ‘goodbye’ sex.

Then, I packed and moved fulltime into Rolf’s house.

Fate had stepped in and wrecked my relationships with both Assauer and Rolf, but I resolved if I ever got Gordon back, I was going to make it official somehow and never let him go again.

Someone plopped down next to me and snapped me out of my stupor. I couldn’t believe it; it was CG – Claude Germaine – the Bellagio bellboy.

“Fuck, kid,” I said. “Did you follow me here or something?”

The boy sputtered with laughter. “Shit man, that’s my line. What are you doing here?”

I held up my phone for a second. “Sending out lovesick tweets, and watching folks get married.”

“Ah. You got dumped?”

“Sure did. So, what are you doing here?”

“Me? Oh, I come here sometimes, just to daydream.”

I sensed a sob story about to come my way.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “You okay?”

He shrugged, and turned adorable as he explained: “This town is okay; 24/7 whatever you want; wide open; anything goes. I should know, was born and bred here – so to speak – from old school Vegas ‘royalty.’ You think the mob ever controlled this city?” He glanced over his shoulder, adding cryptically, “Think again.”

“Who then?”

“It’s always been run by the magicians and ventriloquists”—he glanced around one more time—“but you didn’t hear that from me. Got it?”

A new couple entered to the strains of Wagner’s wedding march, so we popped up to our feet. I leaned sideways and whispered to the teenager, “Got it. Cross my heart and hope to lie, I won’t say a word.”

“Good.”

We sat down again and waited for the preacher to start.

“But,” I continued in a low voice, “it looks like you do all right for yourself in Sin City, if I understand your setup on the top floor of the Bellagio.”

He blushed a bit. “Even though I prefer to run with girls, and I’m essentially straight, I don’t mind a bit of fun and getting tipped with stray Benjamins here and there.”

Something about his earnest tone made me ask, “You’re saving them, huh?”

“Yes.” He appraised me quickly, deciding I was all right. “See, I’ve got big plans – part of why I like to hang out here I guess. I want to get hitched and run away from Las Vegas for good. We have dreams of settling down on a farm in Ohio.”

“Um—”

He was lost in his own world as he continued, “Imagine it. That would be the life. No partying till all hours; no easy access to liquor, drugs and sex – and best of all, only spotty cellphone reception! Ah, Paradise.”

At first I wondered if the kid was pulling my leg, but his glazed, starward glance told me, yes, this was the guy’s most fervent desire. Then it hit me: ‘We’re all the same. Raised in quiet, we long for the fast life. Raised in non-stop “temptation,” we crave wholesomeness. Each want is equally rebellious.’

I felt my phone vibrating with an incoming text. Pulling it up, my heart skipped a beat. Maybe Gordon was answering my tweets…. No. It was that crazy black-face lady.

“You’re in. I’ll pick you up at 10am tomorrow and take you to our…um, their leader. Wear loose draws. Peace out.”

As the recessional fan-fave struck up again for the humpteenth time, I stood and prayed with all my might for a cure. I had no other way to win my boy back to me.