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Lipsweet of Cheyenne

Zeke and Buck was posted by the door — not the swinging half-door that connected the saloon Lipsweet to the dusty streets of Cheyenne, Wyoming — no sah, they stood by the door that led to the ladies’ dressing rooms and hideaways. The rough-knuckled and rumblehouse b’hoys with bricks in their hats was sure to push back there to seduce the angelicas if they could.
But as long as Zeke and Buck remained by the door like box herders, nobody tried nothing.
When the girls went onstage though, strutting the thangs they got, men often turnt rowdy. Either Buck or Zeke must gotta leave the door to settle the scene down. They done learnt that there better be two men by the door, so one could go knock some sense into these moppy men without leaving the door unattended. There was rapscallions who’d slip in there if they sniffed a chance.
Tonight though, the menfolk was subduent. A gaggle of sallow cowboys played cards in one corner. They all looked up from their card game only when one of the ladies came out into the saloon with a tray of food, and then the card game stopped so the men could gaze upon her lacy unmentionables.

From Zeke the Cowboy

Lipsweet of Brooklyn

Rocky the Ex-Con

The Studebaker sputtered with stops and starts through the slum-scattered streets of afternoon Brooklyn. The poky pace was caused less by cars and more by the squawking New Yawkers who darted like peepy pigeons through Little Italy. They was a mixture of men with melon-rind mustaches selling fruit ice and ladies laden with groceries, swatting at the hobos and urchins who plied their beggary along the street. Some of ’em shouted at the Studebaker and the powerful man riding in the backseat, Mister Gregarian, who eyed them with a classy-pitying gaze.

From Rocky the Ex-Con

Lipsweet was a crowded nightclub owned by Mister Gregarian. It was one of the few bars in Brooklyn that was a neutral meeting space, you know, it weren’t no Italian bar, nor a Cuban one. It was neither Hebrew nor Greek, neither Polish nor Russian nor Serbian nor Puerto Rican. It welcomed one and all.
That was only possible cuz there was few Armenians in Brooklyn. Mister Gregarian was not seen as wedded to one side or another. He hired men of many nationalities to be his muscle, like Rocky, and his club featured women who were just as varied ethnic-wise.

From Rocky the Ex-Con

Lipsweet of Birmingham

It was a low and long building stanking of cigars and spiritual corruption. The windows was dark with posters — another rule required by the county, so passersby couldn’t peep in accidental-like — advertising the club and its many events. The club was on the outskirts of Birmingham, surrounded by dilapidated shopping centers and a few odd-knob mansions subdivided into myriad ratty apartments.
The club was fulla loose women in looser clothes, flashing they loose-as-booze eyes at any man who mighta carried a loose dollar or two — they was prostitution-whores, and all them in attendance knew that obvious as cherry pie. They served food like waitresses, and they dressed like volleyball players, and they batted eyelashes like sirens, but they went home with big spenders like prostitution-whores.
And the worst part was, everybody knew it. Ain’t no other reason to come to Lipsweet. Weren’t cuz they got great chicken wings, that was for goshdarn sure.

From Malcolm Don’t Take No for an Answer

Lipsweet of Bangor

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

This whole jawn, the Gregarian building, was a ratmaze of renovated hallways and uncomprehendable architecture, hallways to nowhere, lor tumor-like spaces that done pop up in corridors, scatterings of solitary steps and three-stair staircases. It prolly started off as a mansion. But it done got scrambled and scattered since then, and Thumper got lost when he went looking for the laundry room or Rajesh’s office (Rajesh was the computer man for the club, and he fixed Thumper’s phone when he got a undismissable storm about a missing Spanish girl named Kia Sorento).

From Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Lipsweet of Baton Rouge

The airs in the stuffy bar were achingly thick, stultifying but liberatory. They made the bar, Lipsweet, feel like a warm, inviting bed, though it was only a grimy bar on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The spit of land on which Lipsweet abided was on the north side of Jolais Road, but the rest of this side of the road was owned by the Prêteur famille. He ain’t say a peep as Simon’s hands caressed over his chest under the shirt and the bar filled up with men. Like Beau, they were Cajuns from the Prêteur sugar refinery and they wore clothes a-caked with soot and grease. Their bodies were clean though, bathed at the refinery after their shift ended, their puckeringly tanned pink and pert muscles bulging against their clothes.
La nuit outside was quiet once the men entréed and their drunken-footed chattery faded when the door slammed shut behind them. Inside Suzette the brunette nightingale sang a chanson triste about a sailor named Claude who lost his lady.

From The Alphas of Louisiana

Lipsweet of Baltimore

Baltimore was a harsh and gray city early in the morn. Everyway smelled of concrete and stale coffee. Sprawling hobos lay like strays along the street and snored the dawn away. The day stayed cold despite rays of creeping sun, and a even colder spray of wind blew in bitter off the Bay.

From Thumper the Mover

The sun was baking the boulevards of Baltimore early this morn. It was gonna be a scorcher today, and the humidity already hung about in the air like a sauna of spiderwebs. But it felt good to be exposed to the weather and the heat and the Chesapeake wind blowing the day’s haze astride the sky. Moisture done condense on Thumper’s skin, and that felt right as rum.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

On the walk to Burger Barn, Tyrell checked out his old city and everything that done changed in Cherry Hill. The hood was more rundown, with rubble and burnt husks left and right, shambling bums bumbling in the alleys and yet, even among all that ghetto-living honsense, there was whole buildings full of white hipsters too. They ain’t live in Cherry Hill back when Tyrell got arrested.
He ain’t like living in a neighborhood full of honkies. They ain’t even proper Bawlmer honkies.

From Tyrell the Mandingo

To a lazy beat with a hazy melody, a couple dozen niggas watched the dancers as if none them mattered, sneaking peeks at they phones like beepy crack-pipes. Droopy-eyed black girls be dancing like they was tired of it. Prolly wishing they was back on they phones. One them females looked at Thumper with a fraction of a smile and a beckonsome finger.
The bar was smoky and lush tonight. Bundles of blunted niggas mumbled luscious words on the underhush as womens juggled they abundant stuff on the stage. Thumper wanna watch too, but he gotsta man the front door, collecting cover charges and checking IDs. He couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of girlbits now and then. He was hoping to peep that Sherry girl again, but she weren’t dancing tonight.
Midway through the evening, he got to crack slaps at a couple skulls, after some suited honkies stayed groping upon one of the females. That felt damn good. Thumper ain’t never get to punch a white man in a suit. He could get used to that.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

Lipsweet of Atlantic City

Desmond Seeks Alphas

Lipsweet was a shadow-strewn nook near, but not adjacent to, the Boardwalk. When it was quiet outside, which was rare, Desmond Talley could hear the waves lapping at the beach. Lipsweet was not an inviting bar, and it was in a tucked-off corner of Atlantic City. There was no signage.
That was deliberate. It was a dive bar, and it was one of the few bars in Atlantic City that was just for locals. Supposedly, it wasn’t legal to make that official — racist, somehow — but tourists would never stumble across an unadvertised bar with no sign and whose door wasn’t visible from the street and didn’t look like a commercial entrance.
So tourists never came in. Desmond liked that, even now that Atlantic City was a down-market tourist city. It still attracted lots of spring breakers, poor New Yorkers on a discount holiday and deadbeat gamblers. That had led to a lot of crime and hand-wringing articles in the local press about how to turn the city around. The answer was to vote for some jackass or another. Desmond stayed outta politics.

From Desmond Seeks Alphas

For most of the men of Allentown, Pennsylvania, the main attraction at Lipsweet was the women — the waitresses, reputed to be easy to bed and hard to wed. They wore skimpy dresses and often cut out early because a man offered them money.

From Arthur the Hero

The dull roar of the rambunctious crowd at Lipsweet again dominated his senses. The restaurant was dimly elbowy and stank of sawdust. The clientele were workers, mainly, at the factories nearby.

From Graham the Lover

Lipsweet of Abilene

Buck on the Oil Rig

The Alpha Male Isekai Adventure II

Kayden continues his magical adventure through the worlds of fantasy fiction, with the aid of the machine he invented so he could service all the macho alpha males on the covers of the fantasy novels he’s long read! He again manages to seduce legions of fighters, paladins, princes, stableboys and pirates, and he even manages to hook up with legends like Long John Silver!

Read it now!