I really wanted it to snow. I know it’s really too early for snow, but it’d be nice, you know. Snow. Light flakes resting on my curly hair. The club tonight is Winter Wonderland so just imagine all those queens dressed to kill, waiting in line as a light little fluffy white blanket wrapped them up all tight and snuggly…
I think he has the wrong person.
I mean. Me.
It’s not me you want.
I was gonna put lipstick on but that’s it. I told him that.
They weren’t about to have me out there looking a fool, stumbling around in no heels. RaShawn said, “Girl, you gon look beat if you just pull these tights over that ass. I’d kill to have a ass like that. Ain’t gotta wear no pads or nothing. I liveeeee!” He slapped my ass and laughed. Pulled joint out of his purse.
“RaShawn! Y’all know my Hall Director be tripping.”
“Don’t nobody be studying them hall directors,” RaShawn lit it anyway. I was nervous. I eyed the heels. Women size 13. I could squeeze into those…But no. First night here. RaShawn and nem were used to this. The make-up. The heels. The dresses. The duct tape. The duct tape?
“Yes, girl. A real one don’t go nowhere if her purse ain’t got three things in it.” And they all said in unison: “Duct tape, emergency fleet, and somebody else’s credit card. Can the church say, ‘Amen’? Amen!”
I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. Tape? Fleet? Credit cards? Oh my! I was Dorthy and all those munchins were swarming around me talking gibberish. Ooh, ooh, ooh. Or better. Like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves teaching me about life in the woods. You got Bitchy, Sneaky, Chubby, Shady, Sexy, Witty, and RaShawn leader of them all was “loud as hell”-y or “all eyes on me”-y. Or something like that. Chubby taught me
Lesson 1: Duct tape!
makes the sound of duct tape
He put it EVERYWHERE. By the time he was ready for Bitchy and Sneaky to shimmy that tight dress up over all them curves, Chubby was the shape of Beyonce and there was no way on earth anyone could tell inside that hour glass figure, a big ass man was cocooned.
Lesson 2: Fleet
“Ooooh, Trade just texted me. Fine ass trade, too!” RaShawn damn near threw the phone at me. Witty whispered, “Girls stay picking up fools of the faggot app.”
“You just mad ain’t nobody checking for you,” Rashawn grabbed his backpack. “I’ll be out in twenty minutes. S & S. Shit and shower. My babydaddy coming tonight!”
“Trade gonna take one look at you and boop!”
“Why are you hating, LaTavia. Everybody can’t be a butterfly; somebody gotta be a moth.”
He has the wrong person.
I was gonna put lipstick on but that’s it. I told them that.
But he didn’t listen.
Listen to me! Please, stop!
It’s not me..
He covered my mouth.
“Shut up, faggot. I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”
Lesson 3: Bumping Credit Cards
My attention returned to the heels thrown askew on the floor. Prada. Prada? How the hell is RaShawn affording those? Here I am on academic scholarship and full meal plan and RaShawn pushing Prada shoes. Since he was in the shower, I snuck and tried them on. Slick. White leather. Smooth heels, lifting me up. The mirror looked like it was swallowing me up. Gulping me whole. Sopping me up like it liked what it saw. And I hate to admit it but I liked what I saw, too. I liked the red lipstick and Cinderella slippers making my calves pop and back arch. The height it gave me. The queen it made me.
Well RaShawn snapped me right out of that trance in 2.5 seconds flat. “Mirror mirror on the wall—Dymon, who you think you are, stepping around in my Prada shoes!?!”
I flipped, “I’m sorry, RaShawn! I just wanted to try them on, I’m so—”
And then Witty hopped in, “Bitch, leave that baby alone. He trying to serve Madonna tease!”
“Not in my Prada pumps!”
“Those ain’t your shoes! Those shoes belong to Howard Garey and his credit card expires in four months so those probably the last Prada shoes you gon see for a minute.”
“Shady bitches ain’t worth shit.”
Howard Garey might not be buying any more shoes, but he bought a hell of a time for eight underage queens and bottle service for the whole night. VIP. RaShawn didn’t roll any kind other way. I felt lucky. In a dream. Rubbing my eyes to make sure it’s real…then rubbing my eyes so I could see straight.
“You drunk already?” RaShawn said, dragging me across the dance floor. Trade been eyeing you all night. And pointed. And trade was finnnnneeeeee. Big Daddy had a chest on him and lips for days. Days! Lips smacking hard like they just wanted to sop me up. I looked up at him. Gave puppy dog eyes like RaShawn taught me. (“Serve face; work!”) and Big Daddy looked me up and down. A long long look. I tried to crack a lipstick lined smile. He just looked. Looked right through me. I stiffened. Hard in both senses if you catch my drift. I felt a shove. RaShawn’s crazy ass. (“Twerk some, chile.”) My ass against his thighs—Big Daddy was tallllllll. Dick all up on the small of my back. Big dick, too. Hard hands on my waist. Shit, Big Daddy is eager.
“Come with me,” he growled in my ear. Big Bad Wolf. I look to RaShawn. Is this normal? RaShawn winked. (“Gone get you one.”) I let Big Daddy pull me through the crowd. All the loud music, glitter, and fairies falling behind for the dark parking lot. This handsome stranger sweeping me off my feet.
My nerves hit me. I’ve never done this before. Do you have, you know, protection?
My name’s Dymon. What’s yours?
I go to the College, do you?
Big Daddy, the Big Bad Wolf fell quiet.
Hey, I think I left my—I really gotta go—my friends, my friends are gonna be looking for me.
The grip on my hand tightened. Body slammed on the hood of the car.
One palm on my ass following the crease to my hole; one palm on the back of my head, fingers pulling my hair, force pressing my cheek to the windshield.
Lipstick smeared. Across my face. Across the windshield. Across the Big Bad Wolf’s paw.
I saw stars.
Stars bigger than the ones in town for the celebration.
Bigger than my crew walking in the door ready to take the night.
Bigger than the confetti falling like snow flakes on fairies refusing to let anything get in the way of their pride.
Note: A Pilgrimage was orginally published in the 2014 issue of The Tenth Zine. TEOP is publishing this piece with the author's consent.