Nervous

I didn’t leave, though. The thought of walking into a place full of “good ole boys” enticed me. Whether they wanted to acknowledge it or not, all of them had probably fantasized about fucking a sister at least once.

An inebriated couple stumbled out the front door and started making out in the middle of the parking lot. My voyeuristic side surfaced and I watched them get more and more into it. My eyes followed them as they made their way over to an older model Pontiac on the side of the building. I could still see them from my vantage point.

The girl went down on him with the speed of a bullet and he came just as fast.

“Amateurs,” I said aloud. “This town sucks.”

I waited for them to get into their car and drive off before I got out of Henry’s truck, put on my fuck-with- me-and-I’ll-fuck-youup face, and stormed toward the entrance.

“Something Like That” by Tim McGraw was playing when I went in. The place was off the fucking chain. People were on the dance floor line dancing and a couple of scrawny white girls were on the bar swinging tits and ass they didn’t even possess.

It wasn’t long before all eyes were on me. No big surprise. I knew there wouldn’t be any other black people in the place before I went in. No one else was bold as shit like me to walk into a club full of rednecks. If I had been male, a brotha, an instant ass-kicking would have been in order, but since I was female, they didn’t know what to do except stare.

I went over to the bar and waved the bartender over. She acted like she didn’t want to be bothered with the likes of me, but I smacked my lips and she came over taking her little sweet time. I asked for a blow job but her dumb ass didn’t know what it was, so I asked her, “Are you sharp enough to make a rum and Coke? That means you put some ice, rum, and Coke in a glass. Got it?”

She rolled her eyes and then skulked away to get my drink. I watched her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t try any shady shit, like spitting in my glass or being skimpy with the rum.

After she came back with it and told me it was four-fifty, I slammed a five on the bar and told her to keep the change.

The music suddenly stopped and I thought, Aw hell, they’re about to lynch me up in here, female or not.

I was wrong. Some drunken bastard got up on their little makeshift stage and broadcasted that is was time for the karaoke contest. Now I was really laughing at their country asses. I searched the place for some bingo tables but found none. I was convinced there was a bingo hall in Trinity someplace, though.

The first bitch that took the stage was ghastly. She couldn’t hold a tune if her life depended on it. I was amazed someone didn’t swing a beer bottle at her head. If Dolly Parton had been in the house, she would’ve been justified in doing it since it was her song that was murdered. Someone needed to tell that whore to sit down, so I did. I yelled out, “Sit down, whore! Sit down, whore!” just like the people on Jerry Springer.

Everyone swung around to look at me. One fat motherfucker at the bar, whose head was bigger than a watermelon, leered at me and said, “Why don’t you shut up? That girl can sing.”

I poked his arm, which was thicker than a country ham, and replied, “If that whore can sing, I’m Halle Berry.”

“Who the hell is Halle Berry?” he asked.

“Never mind,” I said, after smacking my lips in disgust. Then I got curious and started acting straight-up indignant. “Have you ever heard of any famous African Americans? Martin Luther King Jr.? Malcolm X?”

He got cynical with me. “No, but I’ve heard of that colored boy out in California that sliced up his wife and her buddy.”

I rolled my eyes. “He never got convicted.”

He took a swig of his beer and said, “Just shut up and let me enjoy the show.” He must not have been able to resist being nosy because five seconds later, he was asking me, “What you doing in here anyway? You can’t be from around here.”

“What makes you think I ain’t from around here?” I responded in a countrified accent and pretended like I had chewing tobacco in my mouth.

“’Cause you ain’t,” he said. “The coloreds around here know better than to come in here.”

“The coloreds?” I chuckled. “Why’s that? I didn’t see any ‘For Whites Only’ signs on the front door.”

He sneered at me. “Some things don’t have to be said for people to know them.”

“I feel you. I mean, no one has to tell me that you’re a fat fuck for me to know it.”

His friend beside him, who was a complete contrast, and as skinny as the bar rail asked, “What did she just say to you?”

I responded by yelling over the music and horrible singing of the next contestant who was murdering another artist’s song. “I said, no one has to tell me that he’s a fat fuck for me to know it!” The scrawny one just stared at me like he was sizing me up. “You think you can take me? Jump, motherfucker, jump!”

“Leroy, let me handle this,” the fat fuck said, holding his palm up in front of the undernourished one’s face. “Missy, if I were a lesser man, I’d do something mighty ugly to you, but my daddy raised me better than to hit a woman. So I’m just gonna let this one slide.”

I laughed in his face and mocked him with my country accent. “Well, I sure do appreciate it.”

I was growing bored. The karaoke was giving me a headache and the drink was weak because most of the ice had melted. I was about to leave when they announced the next contestant.

“Umph, look at him!” I said aloud.

Fat Fuck turned to me and chuckled. “So you got a thing for white meat, huh? No wonder you’re up in here.” He nudged his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, Leroy, this one over here has that ‘jungle fever’ in her blood.”

“I have a thing for dick period,” I said bluntly.

“Boys have dicks. Real men have cocks,” he said.

I shook my head. “A cock is a chicken. A dick is a dick.”

“Well, since you put it like that, I happen to have a dick,” he said, licking his lips. “So does my buddy over here. How about you take the two of us on a little adventure tonight? I got a pickup right outside with a comfy bed on it.”

“Let me guess. Yours is the one that says ‘Redneck’s Toy’ on the back?”

“How’d you know that?”

I scowled. “Figures.”

“So how ’bout it?”

Fat Fuck was distracting me from the hunk on the stage who was the first decent contestant, both in looks and talent. He was singing “These Boots Were Made for Walking.”

“So how ’bout it, Missy?” he asked again.

“First off, you redneck fuck, your stomach is so big that I probably couldn’t even get to your dick and your friend’s so skinny that I’d probably need a magnifying glass to find his. I’m gonna have to pass.”

Leroy leaned in closer and asked, “What did she say?”

I yelled out at him, “Get a hearing aid, pencil dick!”

I stayed for another half-hour until the contest was over. Mr. Boots Were Made for Walking lost to the first whore, who must have been sucking major dick in the men’s room to win because the bitch straight-up couldn’t sing. I decided to be his consolation prize and followed him outside. He was the one driving the Monte Carlo.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” I asked him when he was about to unlock his ride.

He lifted his wrist close to his face so he could make out the dial. “It’s two-thirty.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” I climbed up on the hood of his car, spread my legs, and lifted my skirt to give him a good visual. His eyes almost came out of his head. “I want to know if you have the time to tap this ass.”

By three, we were parked side by side in the middle of a field and I was lying on his trunk with his dick inside me getting the much-needed release I craved after Jon’s fucking ass decided to come to Trinity in search of resolutions she would never find.

25