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The African Gentleman

…and The Plot to Re-establish The New World Order

A Novel by Fred Beauford

Chapters 28-29



In a few days she gave me the manuscript. It was only 30 pages. It was entitled Dating in the Age of Fear. I slowly finished the few pages, still marveling at her considerable skill at avoiding naming her main characters, or even suggesting their race.

After I sat the manuscript down, I must confess, however, I was extremely disappointed.

Not that what she had written wasn’t compelling. It was, in fact, very compelling. But where was the modern day Count Vronsky, trim little mustache and all? And what on God’s good earth was Liz Gant doing prancing all over these pages? And for the first time since I had been reading her work, she named a character, Liz Gant of all people!

Gladys had been taking note all right, but not about me.

But, the truth be told, maybe I am just a bore, a dull bird, too dull to walk boldly on anyone’s pages. Maybe it was just my former actor’s vanity getting in the way of my fully enjoying her effort?

I will share a part of it, so you can be the judge:

    The woman, still quite young, but bordering on early middle-age, highlighted by small, but growing little smile lines, was still angry at herself for letting her best friend, the artist/writer/professor Liz Gant, talk her into this date.

    “I hate blind dates,” she thought, putting much psychological heat on the word blind.

     She was standing outside of the door at the Barnes & Noble bookstore on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the ocean. She looked around wondering where her date was, closely checking out all the men who even vaguely resembled the person she saw in her mind’s eye, and whose photos she had studied online.

    And many of these men appeared before her, coming in waves from both directions. as this was a busy, people part of town, especially on a nice, warm, sunny weekend.

    She continued to beat up on herself as she carefully scanned the men walking by or entering and exiting the bookstore. Why did she pick Saturday? What did he really look like? Who knows how old those shots on the internet were. What if he was one of those guys trying to pull something? Maybe that’s him over there by the fountain?

    A handsome, clean-shaven man in his late thirties, with a full head of hair, sitting on the edge of the fountain, was staring at her. It was clear from the way he looked at her, that he was also expecting someone he didn’t know.

    He walked over to her. “You must be…”

    “Yes,” she answered eagerly, greatly impressed by a warm, wide smile and a great set of even, white teeth, “Good to meet you.”

    “Would you like to go inside for coffee, or just walk the Promenade?” he asked her. His voice was pleasant, well-modulated.

    “Ah, wow. It’s such a nice day.”

    “I know! Let’s walk down to the pier.”

    “That sounds great.”

   She was now impressed at how quickly he took the lead. Along with the teeth, she also was highly impressed at that full head of hair. That was a good thing. She loved men with lots of hair. Those bald guys everyone gets all worked-up over did nothing for her.

   As always, this first date turned to the question all of these dates sooner or later turn to. “What made you pick my ad to answer?”

    What could she say? Liz Gant had pointed to his face and said. “That’s the one.”

    “How do you know so much from one photo about the usual stuff, about how wonderful they are?”

    Liz quickly gave her a smart, wise-woman look, a look she is well noted for.

    Who was she to question that look, and the sharp, well-practiced instincts which lay behind it? After all, Liz Gant was the writer/professor/artist Essence magazine once called “brilliant.”


 “Well, you just sounded like someone I wouldn’t mind meeting,” she answered to the man with the quick smile, and flowing locks.

   You know what,” he said, “I live right near here.”


   “Really, you can see the ocean from my window. Why don’t you come up. I will show that special collection I wrote about in my ad.”

    Yes, she thought, why not? I would love to see his special collection. That would be a real treat.

    They walked a few blocks to a large high-rise. His apartment was on the seventh floor, and yes, it lived up to its billing. She could look out of his living room window and experience an enhanced, spectacular panoramic view of the coastline seeing all the way to Malibu.

    “Where’s that great collection?” she asked.

   At that, his face assumed a deep, conspiratorial look. “Ah, yes, the collection.” He pointed to his bedroom. “It’s this way.”

   He led her to the room and as they walked in she could feel his inner being taking a strange turn. What the hell was this all about, she thought, amazed at what she now saw? Dildos of all sizes and colors were propped up everywhere.  A large, round bed, covered with a bright, blood red spread, had visible restraints hanging from the wall over it.

    Photos of bounded and gagged women covered the rest of his walls. A large, life-size plastic model of a woman in a bondage outfit, holding a whip and covered with chains, stood guarding a corner of the room.

     Where was the large tank filled with exotic tropical fish?


    “But, but, where, where, is the tank  the fish?,” she asked, sensing that something was terribly wrong, and this man was not who she thought he was.

    He grabbed her by the neck and pushed her over to the round bed with the restraining straps hanging from the wall. “From now on, if you know what’s good for you, my little slave, you speak only when your master orders you to speak, my little Miss M. You told me what you wanted, you no good slut. Now give me your hands and if you open your fucking mouth again without my permission, I’m going to beat that ass of yours so black and blue that you won’t be able to take a shit sitting down for a year. Understand, bitch!”


    Somehow she made it back to her apartment in Mar Vista barely alive, her ass still stinging in pain. She wanted to call the police, and told him so. He dragged her over to his computer and showed her “her” email, signed by “your little Miss M,” that said, “I can’t wait to have my ass whipped, master S. I have been a bad, bad girl. See you in front of the bookstore, master. Miss M.”

     “Police! Police! Are you crazy, bitch! I only gave you what you asked for, Miss M!” he shouted after her as she sprinted for the door after he had excitedly shot copious amounts of warm cum all over her face, and released her from the restraints on his bed and dragged her over to his computer

    She was not now who she once thought she was, but a slutty, nasty bitch named Miss M.


What the fuck was that all about, she thought, feeling foolish and deeply humiliated. She opened up her computer and found an email from, waiting for her.

     “I am sorry I was so late, but got caught in traffic. You know how this damn city is. I had hoped that you would have waited. Maybe next week. I promise this time that not only will I be on time, but I will be early. I really want to meet you, I don’t know too many women who know so much about exotic fish, so I am dying to meet you, and perhaps to show you my wonderful collection.”

     She looked again at the profile she had shown to her best friend, the writer/professor/artist Liz Gant.

    “How in hell could I have ever thought that he was the guy with the fish tank. They look nothing alike!” she thought, feeling herself flushed with embarrassment.


Assai has been sent back to his homeland, although he had never set foot in it. They don’t waste time these days. Your ass is grass and you are out of here, fuck old rules and old laws. Those days are gone forever. But whatever he did or did not do, for me, he is a prince of a man.

I was worried sick that I would be out of work. Another man, however, bought our shop. Lucky for me he was an old friend of Assai. I learned that Assai quietly pleaded with the new owner to keep me on in the same position. I just hope this guy stays away from protest parades.

As I thought about my good luck, my thoughts turned back to Gladys. How does she keep coming up with all of this stuff!

I mean, for God sakes, a dead person dying to get back to earth to tell everyone what dying is really all about; jealous, loved starved old men, and now a woman who by mistake meets the wrong man on a blind date and ends up in a S&M chamber.

And, instead of a dashing Count Vronsky, which would have made much more sense in at least one of her stories, we get Liz Gant!


I later confront her about that, in a friendly manner, of course.

“I see you were eavesdropping on me.”

“In what way?”

“Well, Liz Gant, for one. I thought that was my property.”

She phased in a thoughtful manner; I could see that she didn’t just want to brush off my question.

“Do you know the story of the Otter and the Scorpion?” she finally answered. “It’s an old story.”

“I can’t say that I do,” I answered.

“Well, it seemed that they had encountered a raging river that they had to cross. The Otter offered the Scorpion a ride on his back, but only if the Scorpion promised not to sting him, which, as he carefully explained, would result in his certain death, thereby drowning them both.

“The scorpion eagerly agreed.

“As they were half way across the river, the Scorpion suddenly let loose all of its fury. As they were both about to be pulled under by the deep, swift currents, the severely wounded Otter asked why.”

“’Because this is what I do,’  the Scorpion replied.”

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