rule: she had to walk around topless at all times. He didn’t care what she wore on the bottom, but he needed to see those tits constantly. Her knockers were like his goddamn inspiration . He could be feeling down about something, self-doubt creeping in, and he’d go, “Yo, Felicia, come here bee-atch and chill on my lap,” and life would have meaning again.
The most chill thing about Felicia was how she knew her place in the world, and how she accepted it. She knew she was a ho, a bee-atch, and she didn’t give Max “no talkin’ back to.” Most of the other women in his life had been a lot more sensitive. Angela, forget about it. If he called her a bee-atch, she’d would’ve bashed his face in. And his ex-wife Deirdre, God rest her soul, hadn’t exactly rolled with the punches either. If Max had let one slip, called her a cunt or something, she would’ve had a big fit, going on about how he was “verbally abusive” and “a misogynist” and a “womanizer.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. Thank God he was through with all of that shit, right?
But, yeah, Max was in heaven with Felicia. If there was such a thing as an ideal woman she was it. At home, it was like she was his beck-and-call girl, his Pretty Black Woman, but nothing had ever made him feel more like a player than the times he took her out on the town. He’d be in one of his new mustard-colored suits, and she’d be wearing something really skimpy, showing as much of her boobs as was legally allowed, and just to see the looks on people’s faces was priceless. Everybody was so fucking jealous, especially the guys. They’d look at him, their mouths sagging open, and he could read their minds. All the jealous fucks were wishing that they could be Max Fisher, just for one day, just to see what it was like.
Sometimes Max took Felicia out clubbing to all the hip spots. Max felt like he was back in the good ol’ days at Studio 54. So what if he was the oldest guy on the dance floor and the kids called him “Gran’pa”? Max Fisher still knew how to get jiggy wid it and he and Felicia had a fucking blast.
But Max’s favorite place to take her to, to be seen, was the QT hotel on Forty-fifth Street. There was a hip swimming pool bar on ground level in the lobby and it was where all the current happening players hung out with their beautiful young ho’s.
Businessmen on their lunch breaks would stop by, not to swim, but just to leer in through the glass at the spectacular women in bikinis, wishing that some day their wildest dreams would come true and that they could score some of that fine poontang for themselves.
Max knew what it was like because he used to be one of those losers himself. But now he’d turned the tables. Now he was the one in the water with his beautiful smoking hot bee-atch, and the guys in suits were looking in at him. Man, it felt good to be a winner, on the other side of the glass.
The only little issue Max had had with Felicia was one day when he went into his safe in his office to put away some cashish, and noticed the wedge of green was looking a little low. He did a count and sure enough a thousand bucks was missing.
He said, “That fuckin’ puta ’s stealing from me?”
Sounding like Pacino without even trying.
He went under his bed, took out his rod. You wanna be a drug lord, you better talk the talk. Max knew shit about guns, had never even fired one, but man, just holding a piece in his hand made him feel like his dick was six inches longer. Which would make it, what, a solid nine-and-a-half inches?
He started toward the bathroom where Felicia was showering, then he decided he needed to get pumped for this. He hadn’t smoked any crack in about an hour—Jesus, it was like he was going cold turkey. He didn’t have time to cook up some shit, so he took out the little silver wrapper, did some fast lines. This was nothing like the rock, barely a notch above a double espresso, but, man, it hit him like a train, fast and
The most chill thing about Felicia was how she knew her place in the world, and how she accepted it. She knew she was a ho, a bee-atch, and she didn’t give Max “no talkin’ back to.” Most of the other women in his life had been a lot more sensitive. Angela, forget about it. If he called her a bee-atch, she’d would’ve bashed his face in. And his ex-wife Deirdre, God rest her soul, hadn’t exactly rolled with the punches either. If Max had let one slip, called her a cunt or something, she would’ve had a big fit, going on about how he was “verbally abusive” and “a misogynist” and a “womanizer.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. Thank God he was through with all of that shit, right?
But, yeah, Max was in heaven with Felicia. If there was such a thing as an ideal woman she was it. At home, it was like she was his beck-and-call girl, his Pretty Black Woman, but nothing had ever made him feel more like a player than the times he took her out on the town. He’d be in one of his new mustard-colored suits, and she’d be wearing something really skimpy, showing as much of her boobs as was legally allowed, and just to see the looks on people’s faces was priceless. Everybody was so fucking jealous, especially the guys. They’d look at him, their mouths sagging open, and he could read their minds. All the jealous fucks were wishing that they could be Max Fisher, just for one day, just to see what it was like.
Sometimes Max took Felicia out clubbing to all the hip spots. Max felt like he was back in the good ol’ days at Studio 54. So what if he was the oldest guy on the dance floor and the kids called him “Gran’pa”? Max Fisher still knew how to get jiggy wid it and he and Felicia had a fucking blast.
But Max’s favorite place to take her to, to be seen, was the QT hotel on Forty-fifth Street. There was a hip swimming pool bar on ground level in the lobby and it was where all the current happening players hung out with their beautiful young ho’s.
Businessmen on their lunch breaks would stop by, not to swim, but just to leer in through the glass at the spectacular women in bikinis, wishing that some day their wildest dreams would come true and that they could score some of that fine poontang for themselves.
Max knew what it was like because he used to be one of those losers himself. But now he’d turned the tables. Now he was the one in the water with his beautiful smoking hot bee-atch, and the guys in suits were looking in at him. Man, it felt good to be a winner, on the other side of the glass.
The only little issue Max had had with Felicia was one day when he went into his safe in his office to put away some cashish, and noticed the wedge of green was looking a little low. He did a count and sure enough a thousand bucks was missing.
He said, “That fuckin’ puta ’s stealing from me?”
Sounding like Pacino without even trying.
He went under his bed, took out his rod. You wanna be a drug lord, you better talk the talk. Max knew shit about guns, had never even fired one, but man, just holding a piece in his hand made him feel like his dick was six inches longer. Which would make it, what, a solid nine-and-a-half inches?
He started toward the bathroom where Felicia was showering, then he decided he needed to get pumped for this. He hadn’t smoked any crack in about an hour—Jesus, it was like he was going cold turkey. He didn’t have time to cook up some shit, so he took out the little silver wrapper, did some fast lines. This was nothing like the rock, barely a notch above a double espresso, but, man, it hit him like a train, fast and
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