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One morning in bed, she asked Tom, “do you know any of the black prostitutes in Chicago?”

“Ummm Kate, I do, but you know I’m getting all I need right here.” At the moment he was between her legs and had just finished using his tongue. He gave her flaming red bush a kiss and rubbed his face in it.

She giggled, “I know, but I’d like to meet four or five of them. Maybe, they can give me a few ideas to keep our loving exciting.”

That wasn’t the complete truth, but it served her purpose. Tom came up with some names and Kate had him deliver invitations for afternoon tea to a half dozen of them.

Five showed up. The very idea that this white woman would extend such an invitation made them skeptical. “Ladies, this is my friend, Tom. He lives with me.”

There were whispers all around. They didn’t know Tom personally, but around Chicago, they knew why he was called Big Tom. One woman whispered, “so the white lady likes the big dark meat,” and giggled.

A few minutes later that seemed to be confirmed. “Ladies, I’m looking for men; young men.” ...

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