Around the Way Girls 9

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

by
Ms. Michel Moore

 

“Um, excuse the hell outta me, but since when did you start giving a fuck about me and my well-being, Ma?” Rolling my eyes with intensity, everything about this out-of-the-blue conversation was starting to aggravate me in the worst type of way known to mankind. “You know we ain't even like that with each other now don't you?”

“Shannon, enough is enough. You really need to let go of the past, sweetheart. If you haven't noticed from all your destructive behavior, look around, it's practically eating you alive. I've been telling you for years now I'm a changed person. For God's sake, can't you see that? I'm not that woman anymore.”

Shannon knew her mother. She knew right about now her mom was tightly clutching her blue spiral notebook of handwritten faith prayers she kept nearby. It was common knowledge Fly Shawntay, as she'd once nicknamed herself in a former life, prayed her daughter would at least give their relationship a chance to heal. Wanting to try anything to make things right, Shannon knew, her mother figured that having her estranged daughter's cell phone number was at least a start.

“Oh, please stop it, Ma. For once try to keep it real with me and get off your soapbox. It's not enough days in the week or weeks in the years in the entire world to undo what the woman you allegedly are now,” she snidely mocked, sucking her teeth, “used to do to me. So you can do me a favor and fall all the way back with that ‘get over it and move on' routine you running. Me, trust, I'm straight on all that. Save your sob story of redemption for the Lord you all of sudden love so damn much more than the bottle, or some random stray-ass man you picked up from the gutter the night before; I've gotta go. I got real shit to do with real motherfuckers who care about me!” Hanging up the phone in her ear without so much as a second thought, I could only shake my head in regret of my childhood. See, there wasn't nothing Ms. Fly Shawntay could tell me about being a Christian woman that I'd go for. In my eyes, flat out, she'd always be that over-the-top alcoholic I learned my addictive behavior from, so for that, among a thousand or so countless other reasons I could easily name, she wasn't about to get treated with nothing more than a swift “Fuck you long and hard and good-the-hell-bye.”

Taking a long look in the floor-length mirror propped in the far corner of my room, I hated myself more each passing day. Seeing a small but ever-present reflection of my mother in my eyes and my father in my skin tone, I pawed at my natural hair down the middle of my back. “Damn!” I fumed, angry at what most weave-wearing females walking the streets prayed for. “Why'd I have to be born like this? Why couldn't I just be as black as her or white as him? Not some ‘stuck in the middle,' out-of-place mute everyone hates on!”

Taking a few sips of the Avión on ice I'd been slow nursing all morning, I was ready to guzzle the entire bottle down after listening to my mother front like she gave two sweet fucks about the way my life was turning out. That rotten-intentions bitch had figured out long ago how to get inside my head and mess it up. But after a few stiff drinks and a couple of “get right” pills, I'd be right back on track as if she'd never called. I ain't never been Shawntay's prized possession like most daughters would be to their mothers, so I knew the Clair Huxtable game she was trying to run on me was for the birds. As usual, Shawntay wanted something; that much was crystal clear. She might've been saved, or so she said, but I was still Butter, baby, and my shit was too smooth to fall for her old tricks.

Walking into the bathroom, I ignored my ringing cell knowing it was only her trying to recite some scripture or beg for forgiveness; all part of the scam she was probably running.
Damn, leave me alone and drop dead!
Making a mental note to get my number changed, I rolled my eyes with disgust over who'd given it to her from jump. I couldn't control how she was acting and I hated it. This was nothing more than her dose of drama for the month. Taking another sip of the eighty-proof liquor that was getting my mind right for work, I popped the rubber band from my long, wavy hair, letting it cascade down my back.
Damn, I wish I could catch a break in this cold-hearted-ass world. Ain't shit ever been easy for me. Nothing like these bitter hoes think.
Rubbing my temples trying to relieve the throbbing and pressure, I couldn't wait to totally transform from Shannon into Butter and get my night started. Dancing had become more than my crutch for living my upscale lifestyle, but my escape as well.

With a lust for relaxation, I slid my pink robe off. In a daze, I watched the floating mist rise from the heated water. Letting my garment fall onto the cold marble floor, I took another sip of my drink before setting the long-stemmed glass down on the window's edge. Taking a deep breath, I dipped my freshly manicured toes into the Jacuzzi tub of water, testing the temperature before happily easing my entire down body inside. Turning the jets on high, the bubbles started to engulf me as the warmth soothed my aching muscles.
Oh yeah, this is exactly what a bitch like me needs!

As much self-hate as I had stored up in me for this half-breed, moneymaking body of mine, men, young and old, black and white, completely adored it. They couldn't get enough of their mulatto baby doll. So, by nature of loving that almighty dollar I worked long hours to fulfill their every, sometimes extremely perverted, desire; every lap dance was a quick twenty a song. Not interested in the desperate life I once led, I wasn't trying to go back to broke. I'd made up my mind, long ago, that bullshit wasn't an option. I was true to the game of my craft and played my role to the fullest. There wasn't a center-stage pole I couldn't climb to the top of and do a few of my signature twist-and-turn moves on without being guaranteed a pile of money at the bottom once I seductively slid back down. As most men remarked, I had the total package. If it wasn't my green cat eyes inherited from my sperm donor father that lured them in, it was my curved black-girl body I most certainly got from Shawntay that kept them blessing me with tips. I might've ultimately hated her and James for my creation but if it weren't for them giving me the perfect blend of black and white, I wouldn't have the exotic look that kept the nameless cake customers consistently throwing cash my way.

I'd been headlining at Bare Faxxx for almost a solid two years, seeing both up and down days inside the dimly lit palace of seduction. But never before had it been cranking like this past weekend. The owner had been promising better days to come and it seemed like his half-good-ass word actually had some truth to it. The drinks were flowing and the dollars were raining. Stan Dilbert and his puppet-master mayor were in the midst of transforming downtown Detroit from a dilapidated, crack-infested haven into a white-businessman-money Mecca. Low-key, they'd been buying up property, successfully evicting the crud out of the heart of the city, taking it over one block at a time. The housing of heroin pushers and junkies that the area was notoriously known for had been replaced by the working class, suit and tie briefcase carriers, who were once afraid to drive into the D from suburbia let alone party after dark. Where did I fit in? Let's just say me and my girls were just good-looking trinkets to fulfill their freaking fantasies.

Grabbing the vanilla body wash, I poured a generous amount into the loofa before rubbing all over the top half of my body. As much as I tried to get lost in the soft, lingering scent, I couldn't push the echo of harsh voices and cruel images out of my mind that were starting to play out.

“Scrub harder 'til that black comes off your little monkey body! Schultz genes gotta be stronger than that nigger blood.”
As far back as I could remember, my so-called grandmother, my dad's mother, had been nothing but callous and cold to me my entire life. As a youth, on some days, I felt like she took pride in punishing me for my own conception. It was like living in pure hell on God's green earth. Come to think of it, that's why I have little faith and hope now in people. While seemingly forced, giving me baths as a child, Sally Schultz would put damn near a whole gallon of milk into the scalding water, hoping the mixture would miraculously soak into my skin to lighten my complexion up more. From bleaching creams shipped from third world countries to consulting every dermatologist her money could buy, she was on a mission to make me appear not such an embarrassment to her uppity, judgmental, prejudiced friends.

“I can't believe he done made me a colored grandbaby. Your father is just downright disgraceful to our race, Shannon; well, mines anyway.”
Grandmother Sally used to shake her head as I stared up at her with six-year-old innocent doe eyes. Confused, but eager to please, I'd sit in the same ice-cold tub of milk for hours waiting on it to “make a miracle” as she'd call it. But never once was I pure white enough to fully be her precious, unconditionally loved grandbaby.

Emotionally scarred from my trip back down memory lane, I shook off the constant flashback coming back to reality. Standing up, I shivered. Glancing into the steam-filled mirror, I instantly gasped. Seeing my body had turned beet red from me trying to scrub away the slight tan I'd gotten in the mild summer heat, I dropped the loofa, immediately jumping out of the water cooling down. “Shit, I am fucked up in the head. Maybe that bitch Shawntay is right for once and my past is eating me alive!”

 

 

Running through the house spraying the cheap can of aerosol spray trying to mask the pungent smell of marijuana, the last thing I needed was for James to come up in here complaining about the way I lived. I didn't owe him much of nothing but this sweet black juice he loved to drink two times a week on the regular; but for some reason, like all white people, James felt entitled to run my life. As much as he claimed he was bored with Beth, running over here to me two to three times a week, James still wanted me to be just as dainty, prissy, and stiff as his white wife while being his black fetish freak in the bedroom.

The year was 1996 and BET was just premiering its music-oriented talk show
Planet Groove.
I was dancing through the unkempt, junky living room, tripping over trash, snack bags, and liquor bottles, trying to be just as sexy if not sexier than Foxy Brown. Her video with Blackstreet, “Get Me Home,” was blasting through the television as I watched her hard, wishing I had at least a quarter of the confidence she was displaying for the world to see. Foxy was flossing in luxury cars with flamboyant clothes while I was stuck driving a beat-up Ford Tempo struggle buggy, rocking Dots' fanciest clearance sale apparel. Females like Foxy were my idols; I just could never get on their level. It damn sure wasn't from lack of trying though. Men found me attractive but I never made it further than the bed or sofa they were making me orgasm on. I finally came to the conclusion that's just how it was in Fly Shawntay Jenkins's life: I was the foolish forever dreamer.

Sounds of a horn rang out. Back to reality. Running to my dingy curtains, I peeked through them, seeing James's shiny white Mercedes-Benz pulling into the broken concrete driveway of my rented flat. He might've hated the hood, so he said, but he loved getting the attention poor black folks were known to give if they saw “the man” flossing. My neighbors were no different from the norm. They stayed gossiping about the blond-haired, green-eyed devil I welcomed into my home every time they'd blink.

“Hey, lover boy, long day golfing?” I swung the door open, cooing softly while smiling.

“As a matter of fact I did have a long day at the course. It was nothing but a relief to get a breather from that stuffy conference room to cater to some potential clients over tee time.” Enunciating every single syllable with exactness and clarity, James properness matched his swag: 100 percent straight-gate nerdish.

He was dressed in a pair of pleated khaki shorts that came right above his knees, a hard-pressed white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and matching Polo boat shoes with no socks. I laughed on the inside because he was the perfect prototype for Barbie's Ken, only I wasn't Barbie. Ken was talking a walk on the dark side fucking Chrissy. “I guess I don't have to ask what you've been doing with your day.” He snobbishly turned his nose up, waving away the smell I had tried to hide from his Inspector Gadget nostrils.

“Nope, you don't. I ain't trying to hear that shit today, James, so don't.”

“Stop.” He threw his hand up in front of my face as if he was a school crossing guard. “You know I'm not a fan of your bitching. So I won't say another word on the subject, I swear!” Sitting down onto my taped-together leather furniture, I could tell by his square jaw being locked tight that he was fighting off coming at me with another smart comment or insult, but held it back. “Here, make use of yourself. Fix me a stiff drink.” He handed me the brown paper bag.

I didn't bother peeking inside. My Caucasian meal ticket stayed consistent. Every Monday, Wednesday, and sometimes on a good week Friday he'd come here with an unopened fifth of Absolut vodka, a half gallon of orange juice, and a tiny blue pill to get him just right. After about an hour of us drinking and me seductively dancing for him, I'd be posted down on my knees getting them bitches dirty or twisted in some crazed porno position, getting his less-than-meaty dick roughly rammed inside me. Jimmy wasn't the best fuck I'd ever experienced, but he no doubt was the most consistent. Besides him hitting it on the regular, I couldn't keep the black-ass weed man out of my hot pocket either.

After getting him comfortable with a drink and a hard on, I disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed for my hustle, which paid my bills. My everyday street-ready wardrobe might've been meager to say the least, but my silk, lace, and satin lingerie collection could easily shut any one department store's selection down. Once a week for sure I always knew James was going to walk through the door with a sexy pair of panties for me to model for him. That was “his thang.” Now I wasn't judging him, because we all got some shit with us, and that sexy lingerie plastered on a hot black female body was his. Now I didn't know if he treated his wife like a sex kitten; but if he wasn't concerned about his supposed sacred marriage vows why should I have been? As for me, I played whatever role my “big daddy” wanted me to play, including his sex slave, because his dollars spent long and at the end of the day money was all that mattered.