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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 15 Jul 2003 23:13:18 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Color Bar (Bradley Stoke) (MF Caution)
Date: Wed, 16 Jul 2003 06:10:04 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Color Bar (Bradley Stoke) (MF Caution)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF Caution
Short Summary: Tizzy discovers the worst about racial 
prejudice.



Story: Color Bar (4,017 words)

Tizzy is visiting her sister in the South where she works. 
Of course she is familiar with the color bar - it's not
unknown in New York where she lives. But here she finds
that racial prejudice has an even more sinister aspect.

Caution: This story uses some pejorative terms relating
to race which I do not condone in normal usage.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           


Color Bar
=========


What a horrible place it was! Not at all the kind of place 
where Tizzy would have chosen to wait for her sister Edith. 
But she couldn't very well stand in the street. Certainly not 
in the twilight of this unfamiliar town under the gas lit 
street lamps. She'd only be asking to be arrested. And none 
of the other bars and hotels would have permitted a person 
of colour on their premises. But this hotel, the 
Breckinridge Inn, so close to the train station, had, 
according to Edith's letters, the only mixed bar in the 
whole of Tramville. 

Tizzy wasn't really the kind of girl who'd normally choose 
to enter a bar at all, any more than would her sister, even 
though in Harlem there were many bars that welcomed 
coloured people: bars, in fact, where not only the bar 
stewards but the proprietors were themselves black, brown 
or yellow. Even so, she thought of them as places of ill 
repute, and although not an especially religious girl, she 
had many sympathies with the temperance movement. 
Drink was surely an excuse for vice and impropriety. And 
drunkenness was the disease of so many working families. 
Tizzy had read enough novels to know that the 
consequences of drink were generally bad ones.

But here she was, as arranged, at the battered heavy door to 
the Breckinridge Inn where she had arranged to wait for 
Edith who would come as soon as she had finished her 
day's work at the house where she worked as a maid. When 
Tizzy pushed open the door, she could see that there were 
not very many friendly Negro faces. There was one girl 
who looked coloured, but all the rest of the few people in 
the bar were all men and all white. But what could Tizzy 
do? After her long train journey south, she couldn't very 
well just turn tail and return to New York.

She bravely drew in her breath, conscious of the eyes 
focussing on her, and then strode across the sawdust-
strewn floor, past the piano by the corner, and with her 
handbag and umbrella gripped to her bosom. She dressed 
well. She knew that. Her job as a clerk in the factory had 
provided her with the income to dress as a lady. And her 
education at the college had equipped her with the taste 
and manners to carry it well. But here, she was just a Negro 
woman. No one in Tramville would see beyond her skin 
colour to the sophisticated lady underneath. 

She strode towards the bar, careful to stand a distance from 
any of the men leaning against it and leering at her. The bar 
steward, an elderly man who was half Negro, half White, 
approached her. He didn't seem especially welcoming.

"What you doing here, miss? This ain't your beat, is it? 
They's other gals doing business here. They ain't gonna be 
anyways too pleased when they sees you here."

Tizzy had no idea what the bar steward was trying to say. 
His Southern accent didn't help her comprehension any. 
She smiled. "I'm meeting my sister here, sir. She works for 
the Tylers. She's a maid. I shall just be waiting for her 
here."

"You ain't no local gal, are you, miss? You're from the 
north, ain'tcha? So, what's it you'll be wanting. We ain't not 
got no fancy wines here in Tramville."

"Just a soda," Tizzy replied. "Soda and ice."

"We ain't got no ice. But we got soda plenty. You won't be 
wanting it with anything else?"

Tizzy shook her head. What did the bar steward think she 
was? A woman who drank in public? The next thing, he'd 
be expecting her to light a cigarette. Like that other Negro 
girl she could see through the blue haze of pipe and 
cigarette smoke at the other end of the bar. She was 
smoking a cigarette at the end of a long black holder and 
was surrounded by men. Tizzy wondered at moral values in 
these Southern States. No education, that's what it was. 
Coloured girls were just not behaving as they should. No 
wonder it was known that white men in the south treated 
women of colour so badly. Tizzy took her glass of soda and 
sat on a stool by a table as far from the bar and as close to 
the door as she could.

As she sat perched on the stool, crossing her legs so that 
her dress was raised above her ankles, showing the white 
stockings she'd so recently bought, she studied the bar with 
desultory interest. Darn! The place was filthy. No wonder 
bars had an unsavoury and disreputable reputation. If only 
there was a nicer place for her to wait in Tramville. 
Infuriatingly, more pleasant places than the Breckinridge 
Inn did exist. Quite a few of them. Tea shops, a drugstore, 
a couple of rather more pleasant looking hotels, but none 
of these places admitted coloureds. Indeed, one of the tea 
shops even went so far as to put up a small cardboard sign 
in the window: 'No Coloreds'. Tizzy had frowned when she 
saw that, but she could scarcely pretend that it was the first 
time she'd seen something like that. Such signs graced so 
many of the shops in downtown Manhattan. And, indeed, 
even some shops and hotels in Harlem didn't welcome 
people of colour. Tizzy sniffed, but this was the way of the 
world. It had been like that all her life. And it would 
probably be like that forever. Leastways, she wasn't no 
slave. Thank the Merciful Lord for progress!

The wallpaper in the hotel was peeling, torn and stained 
yellow and brown by decades of tobacco smoking and from 
the flickering flame of the gaslights. The bar was both 
grimy and dirty. There were dried puddles of beer on the 
timbered floor. On the walls were faded posters for 
circuses that had passed by many years before, local 
elections that were long decided and, more troubling, sepia 
prints of women with voluminous petticoats and bare arms. 

Tizzy sipped her soda slowly. She could see from the clock 
just above the bar that she had at least an hour to wait. She 
studied a nearby poster for the circus, amused by the lurid 
descriptions of freaks, clowns and acrobats. The coloured 
woman at the other end of the bar lifted herself off her 
stool and strode across floor of the bar towards her; arm-in-
arm with a man she'd been talking to. When she 
approached Tizzy, she smiled at the man who disengaged 
his arm and entered through a plain door not many feet 
away from her. As it opened, it let free the most appalling 
stench. Tizzy had unwittingly chosen to sit right next to the 
door to the men's urinal. The black woman glared at Tizzy. 
She was dressed in a lurid red and black dress that was so 
loose at the bosom that Tizzy could see the very heave and 
contours of her breasts. As if that glimpse were not 
sufficient, the woman leaned over, her straight arms 
supporting her weight and the breasts very nearly falling 
out.

"Hey, girl!" She said in a not very friendly voice. "You're 
new here, ain'tcha? This once, and I mean this once, I'll 
take it you just don't know the rules of this here bar. But if 
I sees you here again, I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

Tizzy was shocked. She knew of the word 'fuck', of course. 
Who hadn't? But she'd never heard it uttered before. She 
sat silent in shock as the woman left the premises, taking 
her male friend with her. Tizzy was quite puzzled. Was this 
woman one of those women of ill repute that she'd read 
about? One of those people she'd been warned so many 
times not to associate with?

As if in answer, three men approached her from across the 
bar where they had previously been engaged in 
conversation with the woman who had just left. They 
strode right over to the table where Tizzy was sitting, 
carrying their steel mugs in their hands. This was not 
welcome attention, but Tizzy didn't know what to do. She 
couldn't disappoint Edith by leaving the bar at this 
moment.

And then they sat down in the chairs around the table, 
imposing themselves on Tizzy without as much as a by 
your leave, and plonked their mugs on the table. Tizzy 
gasped, and pulled her handbag against her chest and 
picked up her glass in the hope that the soda could 
somehow defend her. The men were not dressed especially 
badly. And they had shaved their chins and cheeks. Tizzy 
could see that they weren't workmen. But neither were they 
gentlemen as she understood it from her readings in 
popular fiction. 

"You is sure a purty gal!" exclaimed one of the men, who 
was tall and slim with a thin moustache and wore a smart 
bowler hat. "You're new here, ain'tcha?"

"And I don't reckon old Emmie wants more competition on 
her turf, does she, gal?" sneered a second man, who also 
wore a bowler but whose moustache was very thick and 
who was perhaps nearer forty than thirty years old. "She 
gave you a bit of friendly advice I could see there."

"Well," smirked the third, who was portly and wore a 
broad brimmed hat rather like farm workers were known to 
wear, with no moustache but very thick lenses on his steel-
frame spectacles. "This gal's damned lucky that it was 
Emmie and not Peggy or Bonnie who gave her a word."

"Yeah!" agreed the first man. "Then there'd have been a 
fucking catfight!"

That word again! Tizzy gasped as the three men chortled 
and laughed at their imaginings. What horrible foul-
mouthed men! Oh! If only Edith would arrive!

"So, gal! What's your name?" asked the tall thin man.

"Name?" half-whispered Tizzy.

"Yeah! You got a name, ain'tcha? All God's children got 
names," continued the tall thin man. "I'm Tom. This here's 
Jack." The fat man nodded with the same unchanged 
smirk. "And this here's Ollie." The older man gave a thin 
inexpressive smile. "So, gal, what's your name?"

"Theresa," replied Tizzy, not for one moment intending to 
reveal the name she was most often known by.

"Turh Reeza? That's a real fancy name, gal," sniffed the 
man named Jack. "For a nigger. You ain't from round these 
parts, are you?"

Tizzy shook her head. No, she wasn't. And where was 
Edith? Help me.

"We got some Noo Yawk whore down for the day," 
laughed Ollie. "You got tired of doing tricks in the nigger 
bars of Manhattan? Jerking off nigger dicks. You come 
down here for real southern meat?"

Tizzy blanched. "I. Am. Not. A. Whore." She spelt out. 
"I've come into this bar only to wait for my sister. She 
works for the Tylers, you know. Here in Tramville."

"Old Terence Tyler," Jack remarked. "The accountant. I 
never liked the man."

"Pah!" Tom snorted. "All nigger bitches are whores. 
Ain'tcha? What else could they be? They's be just gasping 
for a length of a white man's dick. C'mon gal. Whatcha 
got? And what's it cost? You don't have to worry about 
Emmie. She's gone now!"

Tizzy didn't answer. She looked down at her soda. Should 
she just leave now? Or try to finish her drink and hope that 
Edith would arrive soon.

"Hey girl. Don't ignore us," ordered Jack, the fat man. 
"You can't pretend you came in this bar not expecting a bit 
of attention. A purty gal like you. C'mon. Give a man a 
kiss." He leant towards her and puckered his lips. Tizzy 
turned away, not really able to disguise the expression of 
disgust on her face. But turning away from Jack brought 
her eyes in line with Ollie. Before she had a chance to do 
anything, he planted a kiss on her cheek.

"See, Jack!" boasted Ollie, while Tizzy tried wiping off the 
slimy memory of his kiss from her face with the back of 
her hand. "It's me she likes."

Tom laughed and grabbed Tizzy's hand from her face. 
"Don't worry, Jack. I'm sure she likes all of us. She's just a 
little shy. Ain'tcha girl?"

"I must be going now," said Tizzy weakly, seeing that she 
was surrounded on all three sides of her. And she could see 
that a couple of other men from the other side of the bar 
were approaching in her direction. And they carried not 
looks of concern and reassurance, but leering unfriendly 
smirks like these horrible men. She put her drink down, 
still far from empty, and made to stand up. "I'll meet my 
sister outside."

"You ain't going nowhere, girl!" commanded Tom, in a 
rather less friendly manner. "Leastways not till you've 
given my friend here the courtesy of a kiss. That ain't too 
much to ask, is it?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, 
pushing her back down into her seat.

Tizzy was genuinely scared now. She looked around her at 
the five men surrounding her. The two new men wore 
broad-brimmed hats and their clothes were clean but 
designed for rough farm work. They pulled chairs over and 
sat at Tizzy's table. She pleaded with Tom. "Just a kiss. Is 
that all? Then I can leave."

Jack chortled. "A kiss that's all dearie. You have my word. 
Just a kiss."

Tizzy shivered. This was not good. She closed her eyes and 
breathed deep, while her heart thundered in her chest and 
threatened her composure. She pursed her lips in a kiss-like 
fashion and pushed her face towards where she thought 
Jack was. But what met her lips was not a cheek, but a 
tongue that was slobbery and wet and rubbery. Tizzy drew 
back in alarm.

"C'mon gal! A kiss!" commanded Tom.

"And one for all the boys!" ordered one of the new men, 
who was younger than the others, not even sporting a 
moustache, but with horrible cold blue eyes.

"No. I can't. I mustn't!"

"Are you telling us what to do, you nigger bitch whore!" 
growled a suddenly rather aggressive Ollie. "All we want is 
a kiss. A purty nigger bitch comes into the Breckinridge. 
Waaall! A fellow expects a kiss, don't he?" He grasped her 
wrist with a hand.

"Please leave me!" Tizzy cried, tears welling at the corner 
of her eyes.

"Without a kiss?" snarled Tom, taking her other wrist and 
holding her to her chair. "That's not polite, that ain't. You 
just gonna have to satisfy all the boys here."

"I wager that bitch has got the biggest fucking mamas you 
seen!" suddenly interspersed the younger man. "These 
nigger whores. They've always got a mother of a bosom." 
He leaned over and pressed his large hands on both of 
Tizzy's breasts. Tizzy cried out in alarm and shame, but a 
hand from someone, she didn't know who, had grasped her 
round her chin, pulling back her neck. Her forehead broke 
out in sweat and her eyes popped with terror.

"How they feel, Bob? Juicy and firm?"

"This bitch has got big cocksucking lips, Ollie."

"I'll lock the goddamn door, fellows."

"I can't tell what she's got under all these damned layers of 
her goddamn dress."

"She's got real black skin, ain't she? They say the darker 
the nigger the more stupid. That's cos they ain't like 
civilised white men."

"She don't look like she's happy none."

"These nigger bitches are always hot for it. That's what my 
grandpappy said when he had all them slaves back then."

"I wanna see this whore's tits."

Through the tears which clouded her vision, Tizzy watched 
the faces of the men tormenting her, so close to her face, 
and behind them, taunting her, but impressing itself on her 
consciousness, was a poster for a circus. And then after 
this, events became clouded and uncertain. The sequence 
became muddled and indistinct. But always painful. 
Always horrible. And with no let up. 

First her blouse was torn from her from the front, by one of 
the men, probably the younger man who'd been groping her 
so roughly through her dress. It didn't tear smoothly. It was 
roughly tugged and pulled by rough violent hands, while 
her hands were pulled back behind her, her head pulled 
back and then in a series of rips and tears and rents, she felt 
the covering over her bosom come off and then the 
unfamiliar sensation of air against her breasts.

"This bitch ain't got no special big tits, has she?"

"They're black. But they ain't mamas! Peggy's are twice, 
three times the size than these little things."

"I thought all nigger bitches had big tits."

"They all got big asses, though!"

"And fucking big cunts!"

Two words that shocked and horrified Tizzy coming 
through the mist of her terror. But the words were not all. 
The next few minutes saw her pushed onto the ground, and 
her back held by one of the men, her legs spread out on 
either side of her and pulled apart, her hands and head 
restrained, her breasts revealed, their nipples reflected in 
the smoked glass of the mirror opposite. And then her 
petticoats and knickers were as roughly torn from her as 
her blouse, so her legs were bare. She was wearing the torn 
rags of her smart clothes, the starched white of her 
underwear visible and contrasting with the blackness of her 
skin.

The men were strangely quiet now. Somehow they had lost 
the need or even the desire to speak. They were panting 
heavily. Their faces had become even uglier: wild and 
bestial with their desire.

"Let her have it!" said one.

"Yeah. The bitch was asking for it. She's just a northern 
whore come down to muscle in our gals' territory."

"These nigger bitches like it anyway. You's can tell. Nigger 
bitches always gagging for white man's cock."

Another foul word! But one that was so soon substantiated 
as Tizzy caught a glimpse of erect penises that were pulled 
free of their pants. She had never seen a penis before. Well, 
not since her kid brother's. Unless you counted the marble 
ones on the statues in the Met. And they had all been very 
tiny. But these ones weren't tiny. They were horrible and 
huge. And so ugly! Long and thick and veiny. At their end 
was a stiff purple knob with a leering grin, but one tilted on 
the vertical axis. But Tizzy had no chance to study this new 
sight. Indeed she had little chance to see the penises at all. 
She felt rough hands against her thighs, and then the 
friction of hairy thigh against her stockinged leg, and then 
the shock, the pain, the trauma of violation.

Tizzy had never been this close before. A kiss with a boy at 
the college one evening. A prolonged mistletoe embrace 
one Christmas. Furtively held hands in the park one winter. 
But never this physical violence. And so much more 
painful than she imagined. Exacerbated by her shame, 
confusion and fear. A pain greater than the slaps that hit 
her face as she struggled to get free. Or the grip on her 
arms and ankles that tightened as she jerked and thrashed 
about. Or the occasional bite and pinch on her breasts by 
one of the men who roughly held her down with his face 
on her bare bosom.

And all through this, while it was happening, as much as in 
her later memory, a disjointed series of images. Of 
looming, leering, cruel faces. Of the peeling wallpaper and 
posters lit up by the flickering gaslights. Of the grunts and 
pants and wheezes. Of her own salty sweet tears and the 
snot which bubbled out from her nostrils. Of the chafing of 
men's thighs and knees against her own. Of the roughness 
and violence of her deflowering.

Edith had no notion of course of what was happening to 
her sister when she arrived at the entrance to the 
Breckinridge Inn. She hoped that her sister hadn't had to 
wait long, and she was sorry that she couldn't have 
arranged anywhere better to meet up. But she knew how 
very unfriendly people could be towards women of colour. 
The local constable had once arrested her one evening 
when she was checking the timetable at the train station, 
accusing her of soliciting when all she'd been doing was 
asking the time from one of the passengers who were 
alighting from a train. But the Breckinridge Inn was a 
mixed bar. Some of the senior male Negro servants at the 
Tylers' went there, and she'd sometimes seen Negro women 
go through the doors. They were dressed very 
extravagantly, but Edith had no real idea of what their 
profession might be. Like Tizzy, she had been brought up 
by strict parents who had inculcated her with strong 
principles of virtue and propriety, and had left her innocent 
of very much in the world.

But the bar was closed when she got there, although an 
elderly half-caste man was standing by the door smoking a 
rolled-up cigarette. She spoke to him.

"Good evening, sir. I'm looking for my sister. She was due 
to be waiting for me at this here bar."

"Your sister?" the man asked with a quizzical frown. 
"Coloured girl, like you? Yeah, she's waiting for you."

Edith smiled broadly. "That's wonderful! I've been looking 
forward to seeing her for so many months. In fact, ever 
since I last saw her on Thanksgiving at my parents' farm."

"She'll be mighty pleased to see you too, ma'am."

"So, can I get in to see her then?"

"Well. That ain't real easy now. She's being entertained by 
some of the guests. We'll just have to wait till they finish 
their entertaining."

"'Entertaining'? I don't understand."

"You will, ma'am. You will."

And indeed Edith would soon enough. The bar steward 
assiduously avoided being especially clear of what he 
meant, and carefully steered the conversation towards the 
coming and going at the Tylers'. He cussed a little, which 
Edith did not appreciate, and mysteriously referred to his 
clientele as the worst kind of scum. "They's mighty fine 
men when it comes to their business. But their souls. Well. 
They ain't going to heaven, nohow. It ain't right some times 
what they do."

Edith had no idea what the bar steward was alluding to. 
"Why don't you persuade them to behave better, then?"

"Well, that ain't easy, ma'am. They don't sees me as a real 
person. They's don't see no nigger as a real person. And if 
they's do anything, they's nothing I could do to stop them. 
Not even going to the law. That Constable Aaron. He's a 
mighty mean son of a bitch when it comes to niggers 
keeping to the law, but he ain't so particular when it comes 
to white folks."

Eventually, the door to the bar opened and a series of men 
filed out, straightening their ties and straightening their 
hats. After the last man left, the bar steward put his head 
through the door. "It's a real quiet place now, ma'am. I 
knew they'd be no custom after the entertaining. That's 
always the way. Leave the tidying up to us coloured folks."

And the 'tidying up' as Edith discovered, related to her poor 
sister Tizzy. The girl lay on the ground, drool and saliva 
slipping out of the side of a face slumped onto the ground, 
her bare legs still wide open and her bosom uncovered. 
Edith burst into tears. Almost suddenly and without 
thought. Her hands pushed against her mouth as she looked 
in concern and anxiety at her sister, who was breathing 
heavily and loudly. And, yes, there were a few blotches of 
red on her stockings and petticoat that proved her virtue 
thus far. But, as Edith prayed to the Lord in her moment of 
need, she could see that ahead of her, and of course for 
Tizzy, that the nightmare had not just finished. In truth, it 
had only just begun.



For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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