William loves black women but he’s wealthy and his wealth has history. He doesn’t have what it takes to go there. Men like him can’t go there. His father, William Livingston II, once told him the Livingstons had long been touched by a spot of jungle fever but that men of their class did not give in to such petty demands. As William and his father watched their black housekeepers in their tight gray and white uniforms bending over to dust and arrange the objects in their lives, father and son would ogle and grin. William II would grab William III by the shoulder and say, “You can look, boy, but you cannot touch. The family can’t afford the scandal.” William sublimates his desires by listening to rap music. When the urge becomes unbearable, when his tongue is wet with the desire to taste a black woman’s skin, he drives slowly through West Baltimore openly staring at the young black girls in Apple Bottom jeans, with their hair gelled to their scalps and their bouncing hoop earrings, their brightly painted lips. He stares until they flash him dirty looks and call him a dirty old man or worse. In those moments when these girls are looking right at him with their righteous anger, his cock swells and strains against his fine wool slacks. He whispers, “Look but don’t touch,” until his mouth is dry and full with the thickness of his tongue.
He lives in Guilford with his wife and teenage son, in an old but stately brick mansion left to him by his father along with a significant trust fund. When William first brought his wife, Estelle, a pale blonde sliver of Connecticut, she clutched the pearls around her neck and said, “It’s like we’re nowhere near Baltimore. Thank goodness for that.” She had heard things about Baltimore all the way up in Greenwich. Her friends told her moving to Baltimore would be like moving to the jungle. Estelle is unaware of William’s penchant for the blacker berry though she finds his taste in music curious. At night, before bed, he stands in his media room between his state-of-the-art speakers, blasting DMX and Mos Def and Method Man and Soulja Boy. He watches rap videos, enjoying the lurid images of televised vixens sliding down poles and crawling across floors and allowing rappers to swipe credit cards between their ample ass cheeks. He indulges in the fantasy of fucking one of these ebony women right there, between the speakers, the bass so heavy it presses down on them like a holy spirit.
Carmen, a young black woman, is William and Estelle’s housekeeper. She lives in the maid’s quarters over the garage. She has dark mahogany skin, full lips, big breasts, narrow waist, a perfect black ass. When William described the young woman to his friends at the country club, he said, “She has the kind of ass they carry babies on back in Africa,” and then laughed and enjoyed a sip of brandy. Carmen speaks softly, with a southern lilt. She smells like cocoa butter. When she showed up at the Livingston manse, she was hired on the spot. William promptly installed a series of surveillance cameras and microphones throughout her apartment which recorded to a hard drive he could access anywhere. He used to think his wealth was a burden but quickly realized what he could get away with.
William rents office space so he has a reason to leave the house. Other than monitoring his investments online, he doesn’t work. He watches video of Carmen sleeping and showering, talking to her mother in South Carolina, watching TV, reading.
He almost fucked the maid once. It was late at night and he went to her room, his bathrobe cinched tightly around his waist. When Carmen answered her door, it was clear he had woken her up. She crossed her arms across her chest, shifted nervously.
William gripped her shoulders, breathing heavily through his nose. “I own everything in this house," he said, then laughed the same laugh he laughed at his father’s deathbed.
Carmen wore only a thin white nightgown with thin straps and flowers embroidered along the neckline. He reached between her thighs and looked right in her eyes. Carmen didn’t look away. She grabbed hold of his wrist, pushed it away. She said, “I need this job.” William smiled, looked to the floor. Carmen never spoke much, but she was a smart girl.
When she slowly sank to her knees, William placed a meaty hand on the top of her head, traced her hairline with his thumb. “Are you familiar with that Twista song, "Wetter"?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “In that song, the girl says she needs a daddy. Do you need a daddy, Carmen?”
Carmen loosened the belt holding his bathrobe closed, sighed, leaned forward. As his housekeeper gave him a blowjob, William Livingston III reassured himself that this wasn’t the same as fucking a black girl. He was getting his dick wet, something men of his ilk had been doing for more than a hundred years. He closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Carmen’s bobbing head and imagined fucking her on a beach in Ibiza or over his desk in his office. Just before he came he ordered her to remove her nightgown. She acquiesced. He ejaculated on her breasts, ordered her to rub him into her skin. He left just as quickly as he came then watched the video of Carmen scrubbing herself clean from the quiet comfort of his study. He never bothered her again. He had gotten what he wanted.
When he’s not surveilling his housekeeper, William listens to his music and repeats the lyrics about skeeting and Beckys and backing that ass up and living the gangsta life. His office has a small closet where he keeps urban clothing he sends his assistant to West Baltimore to purchase. He models the outfits for himself and masturbates while wearing Sean John jeans and a Phat Farm hoodie and Timberland boots. His understanding of what the kids are wearing is dated. Sometimes he poses in front of the full-length mirror, grabbing handful of denim clad crotch, and sets his chin to the side and tries to recreate gang signs with his fingers. After a busy day of wool gathering, William retires to the country club for dinner with his wife and son or attends a charity gala or goes to visit Sierra, the white girl with a black girl’s ass.
* * *
William is becoming more possessive, getting angry if he sees her laughing with or dancing for other customers. His hands are greedier and grabbier than ever. Sierra doesn't like it, doesn't like how he interrogates her about the lap dance she was giving to two college guys when he entered the club. She tells him his jealousy bores her. He frowns. A Ying Yang Twins song is pounding out of the speakers, "The Whisper Song." It is one of William’s favorite songs.
She frowns. “You are only paying for my time when you’re in here, William. I thought you knew that.”
He licks his lips, tries to grab her breasts before settling on holding her ass, enjoying how the ample flesh peeks into the spaces between his fingers. Sierra allows the affection because there is a wreath of at least three hundred dollars around her waist.
“I’d prefer to buy all your time. Why don’t you become my private dancer?”
Sierra laughs. “Like the song?”
