“Whitey,” Kat began her introduction, “dis my peepz, Tender. Tender, dis my nigga, Whitey. Now that ya’ll been introduced, handle ya bizness.” With that said, Kat turned and walked away. She was confident that her pupil would follow the game plan to a tee.

“What’s poppin’, shorty?” He greeted her with a big Kool-Aid smile.

“It’s whateva, wit me!” she shot back.

The first thing she noticed about the guy in front of her was that he was ugly. There was no getting around that. He was light, bright and damn near white, as they say. This explained his name. One thing Tender couldn’t tolerate more than an ugly dark-skinned guy, was an ugly light-skinned guy. It was somehow acceptable in her book though to be ugly and dark. Those two images were embedded in her subconscious from day one by white society. At one time or another, she had heard, “you ugly black motherfucker,” this and that. But to her, to be ugly and light-skinned was definitely a curse from God. His nose was big. And his nostrils were wide. It made him slightly resemble a pig. That was a major turnoff to her.

But whatever Whitey lacked in the looks department, he more than made up for in the pockets. He was getting major paper hustling in South Philly’s Tasker projects. He was immaculately dressed in a crushed black linen suit, with matching black gators. A long platinum chain, with a scorpion medallion encrusted in diamonds, rested near his navel. This attention grabber highlighted his whole outfit.

“How much?” he suddenly asked, getting right to the point.

He recklessly eyeballed her body.

“Huh? …” Tender exclaimed, taken aback by his directness. “… I mean, it depends on what you tryin’ ta get into, playboy …”

“Well, I want it all! Gimme da whole package!” he replied nastily.

“Well, you’ve got da wrong chick. I don’t do it all. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ me in da ass! I don’t rock like dat …” she insisted. “Now, I’ll fuck you or give some head. But anything other than that, you gotta holla at somebody else. ’Cause I ain’t wit it …”

Yeah, right! That’s what they all say. Whitey thought. He knew from previous experiences that almost every stripper could be bought for a price. The higher the pay, the lower they’d stoop. No doubt about it.

Tender continued, “… I charge three hundred dollars an hour for a date. But since dis ain’t a official date, I’ll give you a break. Gimme a hundred dollars fa head or a buck fifty for a shot of cock. Two hundred fa both.”

“C’mon,” Whitey said, as he led the way to the VIP room. Money wasn’t an issue to him, he was just asking the price just to be asking. He paid for what he wanted, especially when it came to sex. And tonight was no exception; he was feeling horny.