Trap House: After the Strip Club
This is like a prequel to the snippet featured in episode 12 of Tales From the Kink. A convoluted web, perhaps, but I like sharing samples … even if people don’t read ‘em or Amazon gives half the damn book away for free any way.
Time flew by, and before they knew, a meeting had been arranged. Donna picked him up just after 1 am — official late night hype hours. But that was never mentioned. Honestly, he didn’t know if he had the balls to suggest it. She just got the notion it was the best way to handle the situation. Kam certainly wouldn’t protest.
Donna lived just outside of the city in a quaint townhouse community. Kam didn’t know what to expect. An unabashed girly décor with bright colors and potpourri in the air? A glorified man cave exposing those hidden birth traits? What he stumbled upon was a clean, modestly designed interior that was about as gender neutral as they come. Whether he could truly feel comfortable in this setting was debatable. That said, Donna went out of her way to make him feel as such.
“Are you sure, cause I don’t wanna be responsible for ruining nobody, okay.” Donna reasoned with the stuffed cigarillo in hand.
“Na, you good,” Kam reassured. “I don’t believe that second-hand contact shit any way.”
“Shoot, who you tellin’. You know who else don’t believe in that mess … your parole officer. They ain’t that damn stupid.”
So far so good. The two mature adults passed the time on the living room sofa, leaving a free cushion between them. That second beer didn’t lubricate Kam altogether, but it did allow him to unwind just enough. The mood screamed platonic with Adult Swim playing on the picture window-sized 4K TV and old school hip hop jamming in the background. While the light in the living room had been dimmed, the fully-lit kitchen provided ample illumination for the setting at hand. Maybe he was giving her too much credit, but Kam had a feeling that Donna made a concerted effort to nail every last detail.
Donna put flame to the reefer and inhaled deeply. How did I not see it? He could never explain it, but while under the influence of alcohol, Kam felt his senses being elevated. Climbing higher as Donna continued to puff. And like a pot buzz, his mind began to descend down the path of insensible. For a brief time, he found himself overly focused on Donna’s features. And there it was. Staring him in the face all this time — that damn Adam’s Apple. Sure, it wasn’t anything abnormal, but the shit was noticeably more prominent than what you’d see on a female. Then, those big ass hands. Yeah, they were well kept and manicured to the tee, but could easily palm a basketball with plenty leverage to spare.
As if under the gripping spell of cannabis intoxication, his thoughts suddenly shifted into another direction, the focus just as intense. Other than the false lashes, eye shadow and glossy lipstick, Donna was a natural beauty. She had these unforgettable eyes. Shaped like almonds with a greenish-brown hue and ever so enchanting. Then those lips. Supposedly fuller and more fleshly on people of color, but damn; Kam had never seen a man with such a lush set of kissers. Then again, he wasn’t really looking for them, either. Donna kept her hair simple in a ponytail and bun combo, and her eye-popping breasts wrapped beneath a football jersey that didn’t reveal the slightest bit of cleavage. The details.
Kam was fortunate to find his nerves before his thoughts spiraled too far off the beaten path. “I used to love weed, but I’m tight with this brew. Me and alcohol gotta make up for lost time.” Kam took a big swig, followed by one final gulp that put the bottle on empty.
“I see,” Donna commented, “you was knockin’ ’em back at the club.”
“Yeah, that first real drank after all them years of sobriety … shit’ll have you feeling like you can take down the whole bar. So that’s like a regular thang for ya’ll?”
“What’s that?” Donna blew smoke from both nostrils while smothering the spiked cigarillo out in a miniature ash tray, which she moved from her lap to the coffee table in front of them.
For some reason, gentlemen’s club sounded offensive in his mind, so Kam retorted with, “The titty bar. I know that nigga Rel probably spend his whole check up in there but I don’t know … you don’t strike me as the type.”
“Ohh, the scrrip club,” Donna laughed. “Yeah, well I’m sorry to disappoint, but it’s kinda my thing. Or better yet … that’s more like my spot.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, my uncle is the manager. Cousin do scurity on Saturday nights, and I know half the girls from the block, school, or just round and about.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. It’s a cool lil place, though. Only been one fight that I know of. Nobody got shot … yet.”
“Yet,” Kam followed up with a laugh. “Cause you know yo people crazy.”
“Right. And as you can see … shit be lit. Always something exciting going down.”
Innuendo is all-encompassing for the super sexually aware. When you’re vastly horny or just an outright perv, nearly every other spoken word can be twisted into something perverse. Kam found himself traveling back to that night at The Booty Asparagus. The haunting image of two strippers going down on Donna — one eating her out, the other, sucking her off. Fuck! Hell, simply thinking it, let alone saying it, was ten degrees of awkward.
“I wanna say something.” Donna added to the building suspense. “I’m just gon’ be one hundred wit you. Not tryna brag, cause it definitely ain’t nothin’ to brag about, but I have a lot of guys coming at me. Believe it or not … fetishes for people like me are in demand. Sometimes … I like to be that fetishized candy. That’s fun sometimes. But I’m more than just a fantasy. Come down to it … I’m just me. A regular person who like regular shit like err body else. Just want you to know, there is no pressure from me to do or be anything. Talk. Drank. Have a friend. I do the whole Netflix and chill thang on the fa real fa real.”
“That’s what up,” was all Kam could muster. Though at a loss for words, he did find something admirable in Donna’s candor, for it dripped with a brutal honesty he ventured was a large part of her character.
Donna took a moment to analyze the subject before her. A so-called transsexual, she found men and women equally insatiable. As time went on, however, the one formerly known as Donnie developed a much healthier appetite for men folk. And in more than ten years of sexual activity, she’d run the gamut of the gender pallet. Well groomed studs, who unbeknownst to them, did a horrible job at masking their femininity. There were also quite a few down-low brothers, quote unquote ‘men’s men’. Guys who you’d never expect to roll with a quart of sugar in their tank. Accomplished athletes, aspiring rappers, fearless thugs — yeah, she’d seen them all. Up close and in person. Kam, she figured, was a more complex example of the latter.
Perhaps she was swayed by insight into his criminal past, but Kam certainly had the roughneck vibe going. The type who commanded respect and didn’t take the slightest bit of shit. He was more than a little gruffy with his short, uncombed hair that bordered on curly and nappy. Kam’s patchy facial hair and shaggy goatee resembled a rough identity patch amid puberty, but somehow, he rocked it. The overly long black T-shirt. The baggy black jeans that hadn’t been in vogue since 1999 — he managed to pull it all off with a cool charm that tickled her most throbbing fancies.
“Lemme go grab another brew. You want one?” Donna glanced over her shoulder en route to the kitchen, pleased to obtain both the answer and physical response she wished for.
After what felt like an extended pause, Kam replied, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
If you were judging this picture from the back, chances were, you’d be good and fooled. Donna owned a big, bodacious booty that filled out the bottom of her jeans like a juicy apple. The type of ass “the brothas” killed over and the Caucasian boys increasingly cashed out for. But this was more than lust and obsession, right? There was much more to this Adonis of an amazon than tasty sex glands.
The open book flipped deeper into its intriguing back pages after Donna relit her weed and twisted the cap off another beer. She didn’t delve too deep into the serious stuff, but did share a light-hearted expose’ on ‘hatin’ hoe nation’, as she termed it. Much of it she chocked up to the jealousy and malice that commonly ran a muck in self-destructive communities. Some of it was blatantly tied to how she chose to identify. Donna was rather animated in describing the ego-smashing butthurt she dished out to these tough guys. Men who had no choice other than to embrace the fact that they were dealing with a bitch who could physically overpower them, and do so while holding a much bigger dick. Pretty tough pill to swallow.
Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.
