Raoul's 18th Birthday Ch. 04

"Up to you," Raoul shrugs. "Usually people call me Raoul of course."

"Jerry Maynard," the guy says as he sits down in his chair. "Call me Jerry."

"Alright, Jerry, pleasure to meet you, sir."

Raoul takes a seat at one end of the sofa and gestures for Raven, who's standing awkwardly in the doorway, obviously wanting to come into the office but needing an invitation, to join him. She hesitates, but he pats the sofa next to him authoritatively, and she reluctantly sits next to him, grabbing his arm for reassurance.

The sofa's so low, or Raoul's so tall, that his knees are higher than his hips as he sits.

"So she gave you our gift?"

"She sure did. I really appreciate it." He takes his wallet out and looks at the fake driver's license. "Looks good. Where'd you get the photo?"

"Raven gave it to us. I don't know how she got it."

They look at her. She's hiding half her body behind Raoul's arm.

"I stole a yearbook," she explains. "I just walked right into the Essex library and lifted it, easy as pie."

They nod, apparently appreciating her management of the situation. Feeling a little more confident, she tosses her hair back over her shoulder.

"Did she give you the money too?"

"Yup."

"All of it?" Jerry looks at Raven.

"All two hundred," she says, defensively.

"Yup," Raoul confirms.

"We wouldn't mind if you spent a piece of that here tonight," Jerry encourages. "The girls'll treat you right. Ain't that right, Raven?"

"We sure will."

"We set your ID up so it'll be good until you're actually twenty-one and don't need it anymore," Jerry resumes. "But if you ever do need another ID, you know," he winks, "if for any reason you can't use a real ID, you come to us. The Khans'll set you up any time."

"I'll remember that," Raoul promises, putting the ID back in his wallet with a grin.

"But we had something else made up for you as well to give you if you came in."

"Really?"

"I can't give it to you myself. Wouldn't be right. Raven, run out and get Scott. Tell him to come in here, don't tell him why."

"He was, uh, busy when we were coming in." She turns to Raoul. "Scott was the guy getting the lap dance."

"Aw, shit, he can get another dance any time. Go get him."

So she steps out.

"You'll like Scott," Jerry promises. "He's a good ol' boy. A real son of a bitch. But he'll have a couple of things to show you."

"Okay," Raoul nods. "I like that flag, man. Can I get me one of those?"

Jerry turns around to admire it with him. "Yeah, she's nice, ain't she?"

"Fucking badass," Raoul confirms.

He turns back to Raoul, nodding proudly. "But I'm afraid that's a members-only thing."

"I see." Raoul senses that he shouldn't ask to become a member. They can invite him if they want. "That's too bad."

"Maybe someday, son," Jerry consoles him.

Then Scott bursts in, apparently not someone who has to knock.

"Boss fucking Badoss!" he declares with a rich southern accent as Raoul stands to greet him.

He's another big white guy, not quite six feet tall but probably pushing three hundred pounds. He comes in with his tattoed arms flung open as if for a hug, and Raoul stands to meet him.

"I'll be goddamned!" Scott announces, shyly stopping short of a hug, but clasping Raoul's hand with a ferocious camaraderie. "Gaw-uhd dayam," he repeats (pronouncing all four syllables even more clearly), stepping back to look up at him. "You a big ol' boy, ain'tcha?"

"Yes, sir," Raoul grins.

"Well, I am tickled fucking pink to meet you." Scott turns to Jerry. "D'jou give him the knuckle dusters?"

"Figured you should," Jerry replies. He opens the bottom drawer of the file cabinet behind the desk and hands Scott a small box.

"Oh boy oh boy," Scott gushes up at Raoul. "You gonna like these, boy. Wait till you see 'em."

"Why, thank you," Raoul says, receiving the box. It's a small cigar box, but when he lifts the lid he finds two sets of shiny brass knuckles, one for each hand. At a glance he can see that they're big enough for his hands. They must've been custom made.

In Fist Punch Two, Boss Badoss wears a pair of brass knuckles very similar to these, with a palm grip coated in leather and the letters "B," "O," "S," and "S" inscribed on the rings.

The ones they've given him are very similar, but a little more angular, with a soft rubber grip, and the right-handed one says "KHAN" instead of BOSS.

"Oh, shit! These are fucking awesome!" Raoul gushes.

"Ain't they though?" Scott agrees happily.

"You mind if I try 'em on?"

"You go right ahead," Scott encourages. "Just don't hit me!"

"Wow," he says, opening and closing his fist around the grip. "These feel real good. They fit great."

"Well, good! Raven told us you'd like them. Where'd that little bitch go?"

Scott looks around and finds her standing behind him. "Come on in here girl, what are you doing back there?"

She squeezes between Scott and the desk and walks around to hide behind Raoul again.

"Thank you so much, guys, I really appreciate this. Is this from both of you?"

"From the entire Los Angeles chapter of the Khan Nation," Jerry says. "Nobody's here tonight but me and Scott. Family night, you know. But you should come another time and meet more of the guys."

"I will," Raoul promises. "I definitely will."

"You really should. But why don't we all have a seat?" Jerry suggests.

With Scott taking up his share of the sofa, Raven opts to sit in the chair in front of the file cabinet.

"What do you drink, Boss?" Jerry asks when they've seated.

"Beer."

"I'm a Bud man myself," Jerry says.

"Fine with me," Raoul nods.

"Raven, honey, go get us some beer," Jerry tells her.

Scott watches as she passes in front of him, and as soon as she closes the door behind her he comments: "Damn fine ass." He asks Raoul, "You ever get a piece of that?"

"Nope," Raoul shakes his head as if disappointed, but in fact he'd never really considered her until she started rubbing him on the ride over.

"Well you should. She'd give it up to you easy. Lousy little tits but the best goddamn lap dancer in the club."

Raoul nods.

"So how'd you get to be Boss Badoss?"

"You want the whole story?"

Scott says they do, so Raoul tells it. Raven gets back with the beers in time to hear most of it as well.

His ex-girlfriend's father — she'd died a few years ago — was Robb Green, one of the most famous martial artists in Britain, and Master Green knew John-Claude Segal, so when he found out that Raoul was moving to LA, he gave Segal a call and asked him to take a little care of Raoul. They met up at a Thai kickboxing place, and by the end of their first workout JP invited him to be in the movie. The original script of Fist Punch didn't even have the Boss Badoss character, but JP persuaded the authors and everyone to create a character for Raoul to play.

Jerry and Scott ask questions like, "Do you really fight on the set or is it all fake?"

It's all fake. More like dancing than fighting. Practically ballet.

Does he think he could "whoop Segal's ass?"

JP's been in a lot of fights, but he's not that big, Raoul smirks.

How'd he learn to fight?

Just always loved fighting. Couldn't keep him away from fights. When he was a kid in Singapore, he and his friends used to sneak out to watch the illegal kickboxing matches that old men would bet on. Then he took all the martial arts classes he could. Boxing, wrestling.

"Singapore? That's what you are? Singaporean?"

"Half," he says. "My dad was American."

If they think that means white, well, Raoul didn't lie.

"Where'd you learn to talk like that? That how they talk in Singapore?"

"No. I lived in England for seven years."

"You said you box?"

Every Sunday morning.

Know how to use "num-chucks?"

A little bit, but he's more of a bare-hand fighter.

Of course they also ask the usual questions about how tall he is, whether he works out...

Raoul enjoys the conversation though. He's getting the celebrity treatment from motorcycle gangsters. They seem like normal middle-aged working-class guys, but even so, they're motorcycle gangsters, and he's drinking beer with them in the office of a strip club.

Plus, he suspects they may be racists, and he hasn't ever knowingly talked to hardcore racists before. Whether you personally don't consider Raoul "really black" or not, he's black enough in his heart to feel a bit of the excitement of a spy in enemy territory.

He almost chuckles, imagining what the ghost of his father might be thinking in that moment.

They don't seem to care, though. To them, he's the guy who played Boss Badoss, one of the nastiest motorcycle gangsters ever put on screen, a rebel who'll never surrender to human law.

Before it's over, they're on their third beers, and Scott is getting shy. Something's bothering him.

"Mind if I show you sump'm?"

Raoul shrugs. "Course not."

"Okay, but don't laugh. If you laugh I'll fuckin' kill you."

"I won't laugh," Raoul promises.

"You won't think it's gay or anything. I ain't no fuckin' homo."

Raoul just looks at him with another shrug.

There are some promises he can't make, and most of the time when men tell him they're not gay it's only a matter of minutes until they're asking him to come over for oyster stew.

Scott stands up and starts to take off his shirt. While he's pulling it over his head, Raoul looks at Jerry and "Raven" to see what they think of the situation. Whoever he expected to see topless at a strip club, it wasn't an obese tattoed redneck dude. Jerry's eyes are twinkling and Raven apparently doesn't understand what's about to happen either.

But a moment later they see: Scott apparently has the words "Boss Badoss" tattooed on the mounds over his shoulder blades in a kind of heavy metal cursive script.

"What do you think of that?"

Raoul stands up to get a better look. It actually says "Boss Badass."

"That's sweet," Raoul chuckles.

"You like it?"

"Sure." He says it with an enthusiastic tone.

"See what I did? I changed it to Badass!"

"Yeah, that's definitely better."

"You can touch it if you want."

"No thank you," Raoul laughs.

"Put your clothes back on Scott," Jerry teases. "He didn't come here to see your tits. Why don't we let the boy get a dance?"

"I'd like that," Raoul says as they all begin to move toward the door. "I'd really like Raven here to dance for me."

She looks at Scott and Jerry.

Apparently she can't agree to anything by herself.

When Jerry nods, she says, "Well, then, I need to change. Why don't you just sit at the rack a while first? The girls'll want to put on a show for you."

"No, you should sit back in the corner with us," Jerry advises. "More privacy."

"You ever been to a strip club?" Scott asks.

"No," Raoul shakes his head, putting the box with the brass knuckles in the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Aw, let the kid sit at the rack," Scott tells Jerry. "Boy ain't never been to a club, Jerry. I bet he ain't even had tits rubbed on his face before."

"Alright," Jerry shrugs. "You got your cabbage, son?"

"Sir?" Raoul blinks.

"Singles for the girls," Scott explains.

"Oh," he grins. "Lots."

"Have a good time then," Jerry smiles. "I've got work to do in the office."

"'At 'ere Nick at Nite ain't gonna watch itself is it?" Scott teases.

So Raoul and Scott step up to the rack and take a seat. A barely-dressed waitress plops a couple of bright orange cocktails in front of them. "On the house, honey" she informs them, winking at Raoul. As she turns away, she drags a finger up his thigh and brushes her boob against his shoulder. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

Raoul looks at Scott and they clink glasses.

"Sidecars," Scott informs him, and Raoul nods. This is another new thing for him.

If a motorcycle gangster is going to drink cocktails, sidecars would be the drink.

He's starting to get ideas about Scott, though.

Raoul has spent enough time in fashion to have lost any of his nervousness about homosexuals, and he doesn't even mind them hitting on him anymore. He usually wants to tell them, "Hey, bro, it's okay, we can get along, don't worry," but he guesses that being in an outlaw motorcycle club complicates the calculations.

"Don't go to other clubs calling it cabbage," Scott tells him in a confidential tone. "That's just Jerry. You can't stop him so you just go along with it. But this," he taps the stage, "this is the rack anywhere you go."

Raoul nods appreciatively and laughs. "Thanks man. You're gonna show me the ropes, huh?"

"That's what I'm here for, son."

Another rather chubby white girl with faint bikini tan lines is strutting around topless, apparently "rocking" the men "like a hurricane." She bends over, pops up, twirls around, pulls a strap of her thong halfway down one of her hips, struts around, pulls the other strap down, struts around some more. Pretty soon it's off, and everyone can see that she's trimmed her pubes enough to reveal the lips of her vagina. Then she's on her knees, waving her big butt around.

Some of the men cheer, and Raoul does too, just to participate, but he's actually disappointed. This dancer is definitely not his type, and seeing her boobs is not such a treat for a guy who's gotten laid twice and had his dick sucked five times earlier in the day.

As the song ends, she crawls along the stage collecting her tips. Raoul sees Scott put out a five, so he does the same, but then Scott pushes his five in front of Raoul, as if Raoul had tipped ten.

"Watch this," he says. "You'll like you'll like this."

Sure enough, when the dancer sees the two fives, she pulls Raoul's face forwards and bounces her boobs off both sides of it. He chuckles at the absurdity of it, which she takes for appreciation and moves on.

"Ya liked that, didn't ya, son?" Scott slaps him on the back.

Raoul nods happily.

It's comedy if nothing else.

Another sidecar appears in front of him. "You liked that first one, didn't you, baby?" The waitress asks, both hands lingering on his thigh.

"Thank you, I did," he smiles at her.

"We've got a lot of good stuff here, honey. All you've got to do is ask." She leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, pressing both boobs into his shoulder and sliding her hands up his thigh so far that her fingers almost brush his cock.

When the next girl is wrapping herself around the pole (because Ratt is spinning her right round) and is about to pull off her top, Raven reappears wearing what is supposed to be a police uniform, if police uniforms featured miniskirts, fishnet stockings, and as much cleavage as Raven's able to push her little white tits up to.

"Can we do it privately?" she asks. "In the VIP room?"

"Of course."

"Jerry might want you to pay more."

"How much?"

"Twenty for the dance, twenty for the room."

"Fine with me."

"Have fun, son," Scott encourages him, and then to Raven, with a smack on her ass, "You do him right, ya hear?"

Raven leads him to what is apparently the VIP room: there's a naugahyde sofa, a table with a pole, and pink lights.

"Thank you for coming," she says, closing the door behind her. "You wanna sit there?"

"Sure."

He sits and watches her drape a blanket over a mirror on the wall.

"Now it's just us," she says, sitting on his lap. "The rules say no touching," she warns, "but you can touch if you want. Just don't tell anyone. In fact," she puts a hand on her chest, "we can just fuck if you want. But you can't tell."

"I won't tell," he promised. "But we can't fuck. I didn't bring condoms."

"That's alright with me," Emma (it's safe to use her name here) coos.

"No," Raoul sighs. "I may not be clean. I've had sex twice already today and, Jesus, I think about twelve different women have sucked my dick."

"Twelve?"

"Yeah. Maybe more. I lost count. So... for your sake, we need a condom."

"Don't go anywhere," she orders, running out of the room.

In the minute that she's gone, he takes his jacket off and lays it on the sofa beside him, placing the cigar box on top.

Turning the brass knuckles over in his hands, admiring their cold, hard steel, he considers his situation.

An outlaw motorcycle gang has just given him a pair of customized brass knuckles.

Well, two nice old guys who are apparently in an outlaw motorcycle gang. He wonders if they're like the accountants or something, or if outlaw motorcycle gangs really are just nice old guys.

On top of that, they've given him money to get his first strip club lap dance, and from a young woman considered to be talented in that field.

And she says rules be damned, he can do anything he wants with her.

So far, so good.

He feels a bit sorry for the M-girls back home, worrying about him. Half of them are probably crying right now, and the other half are trying to comfort them.

That reminds him of poor Mrs. X, whose life might be falling apart because her daughter caught her giving him a blowjob. If Scarlett hasn't kept her mouth shut, Mr. X might even be beating the shit out of Mrs. X at this very moment.

He remembers that Coach Roberta, an Olympic athlete, risked her career to fuck him and wound up hiding in a bench in a boys' locker room like a naughty schoolgirl. She may still be sweating over it right now.

He considers that Shona probably got up around 3 AM to get to him first. Hannah played "Miss Vaughan" with him in someone else's home. Half the girls of Kappy took turns kissing his dick.

He's so sentimental in that moment — perhaps it's the three beers and two sidecars, besides what he'd had at the sorority dinner — that even the girls hugging him and playing Marco Polo with him in the pool seem to have made some kind of sacrifice to be with him.

Just about then Emma bounces back into the room.

"Guess what?" she sings.

"Condoms?"

She shows him the package. "Ribbed for her pleasure," she laughs.

"That's very important to me."

She raises her chin and points a finger at him. "Good. I like that. Wanna fuck?"

"Definitely," he grins, "but how about a little dance first? I heard you're really good at it."

"I am," she promises, flashing her eyebrows. "You want the show, huh?"

"Absolutely."

As Quiet Riot encourages girls to rock their boys, she begins her dance, smirking at him and trailing her hands down from his shoulders to his thighs.

She definitely does know what she's doing, and she does her best for him.

It's much more than he expected. Girls have given him lap dances — or, as he now realizes, they've tried to — but "Raven" is a professional.

Sure, she grinds on him a lot, teasing his cock more expertly than most, but there's so much more than that. At a certain point, as she straddles him and he rests his hands on her waist, she pulls her top off, revealing small bright white breasts pushed up by a black bra. She grabs the back of his head, two handfuls of his thick hair, and pulls his face into them.

Her perky little tits, ghostly white with blue veins, excite him much more than the big water balloons outside had.

After a moment of that, she climbs his body and wraps her thighs around his shoulders, hooking her ankles on his chest. She gyrates there a while, rubbing her clit on his chin through her thong panties.

He looks up at her, impressed, and she looks down at him. "You like that, don't you, Big Cock?"

"Sure do."

Eventually she arches her back, putting her hands on his knees, and does a kind of backflip. She lands it perfectly, with her arms up like a celebrating cheerleader, and he claps, admiring her athleticism as much as anything else.