Champagne’s Conflict

Champagne woke up wanting somebody. It had been a minute since she’d had that touch that said,” You’re special,you’re sexy, you’re woman”. Had been a minute since she had even heard the words despite a rather robust sexual life. She assumed the position of easy to please and adjustable for any pose or position. The men were just happy she didn’t have her hand out and took the dick and sucked it and sucked their assholes and kissed too. How she’d let them pull her hair till the wig clips relented , snatched off bald. How they could choke her even throw in some smacks. Champagne loved it all, the more he did , the hotter she got for them.Didn’t make a difference how disrespectful or vile it was ” supposed to be , Champagne didn’t give a fuck.It turned her on to be used and in turn to use these men for requited lustful fun. For them it was a nut , future jack off material. For her it was validation, it hit somewhere spiritually, it was proof of her womanhood, to be fucked like a nasty bitch. So this morning, when the sky is that icy blue, not quite sky and gleaming with sun, when the brightness pierced her cunt cave, she vowed to get some. To get that touch.

She got up went to her bathroom, took a shit , lit a blunt and turned on the shower to steam up her thoughts. Decrying the vapid predictability of her venue or venues depending on the desperation. It had been about a week since her last validation and that itch assuaged by nightly or sometimes twice a day visits to Pornhub. It all made the mens so enticing . ” She loved some “mens”, laughing at her grandmother’s word. The mens with their bestial energy and all that ferocious sexiness capped by a hard point.

It did something to her to bless those points, to make them spit out happy juice to allow them to beat out the frustration and sickness and ego strokes and freakiness and fantasy . All of it was a go for Champagne. She’d lost count of how many points sh’e had the pleasure of blessing. It made her no nother mind, she owned her crown as a whore.

It was an ownership that was constantly changing , that became harder to act out with her rise in living standards.She wasn’t rich by any means but she had transcended the broke days of her past. She had a few dollars now, she took trips and she delighted in excess, food, clothes, alcohol and jewelry. She had some things going for her and that elevation from her past made it harder to justify the deviance of her present. Things like the walks that led to pull ups , that led to convos. that led to dick in her mouth and /or ass no questions or names exchanged or asked. It made it harder to consider the bummy dudes with big bulges, the desire in passing motorist eyes, the entertainment through that culturally endemic stare of the Latin papis. The kind she once was putty for but now avoided like the plague. Nah her hoe-ing, her searching, her flirtations became mainstream like everyone else’s and she used them apps religiously.It was a socially misplaced idea of safety for she was a Black transgender woman. One who depending on the day , the audience, the outfit seemed to pass enough. Or at least enough to not be called man to her face

So what was up? She just had to admit that she was a hoe. And she had feelings. Hoes had feelings too and it was a shame that it went against the rules to admit that, to own that , to still push forward as an oxymoron. A hardened bitch nursing some soft shit for a dick that never would. It brought to mine all those talk shows and all those life coaches and posts on Instagram or Twitter with some bitch talking about the key to happiness and love is within you. Or her favorite ,” When I stopped looking or I started to take care of me, my Mr. Right just appeared.” Privileged Pussy holders. She wasn’t consciously a hater, just envious in how oblivious they were to the world, who was chosen, who gets passed over, who literally disappears in the world if she doesn’t yell ,” I’m a woman too.”

The hot water kissed then burned Champagne’s skin. She let herself take the heat, need it , consume it although in truth she liked her water lukewarm. She soaped up and scooped up her penis making sure to catch the cracks of her pelvic area, under her belly , between her thighs. All the cracks and all the juicy fatness was covered in white suds. Let her mind drift to her type. She went for hard men. You know that uncouth, tough, hood educated shaggy pubes, holes in boxers types with rocky meats. She didn’t know what it was but that type usually gravitated to her and they usually were anatomically blessed. Bovine tools with big hands that delighted in her hot fudge and Entemmans body, a body fed by fried chicken, greens, a body built to be beat on. A body that reminded them of their momma and grandmomma minus the penis. The body type these new men ran from in favor of Kim Kardashian and Nicki Minaj prototypes. Champagne always a Black man apologist, someone who put their pain and pleasure over her own attempted to borrow from the desirables; a lightness, a compliance, even down to her wigs that were always light colored. That was a recent switch up. She’d lost count of how many guys had started calling her ‘exotic’ or interesting for the many styled lighter tresses. Even her own natural hair was dyed blond. Skin bleaching was too extreme for her but she made sure that Sephora foundation was at least two shades lighter than suggested. It was always bout moderation.

Of course the mind fuck of it all was that secretly she still had thoughts of more. Still pined for her King, her boo, for a friend. It’s something that she had obsessed over time in the world and socially , how folks became lovers and lost or destroyed the friend part of it. In her mind, the two should be one in the same. And if one didn’t love their friends, what was the bond based on that held them together? It was her private, unwinnable struggle exploited on national tv and reality shows with caricatured puppets looking for “real” love. It was the source of sermons of preachers, hoteps, church ladies and around the way girls. What was love and how to get as close to a version as reality would allow. The onus on one to prove their loveability by any number of socially sanctioned edicts regardless of the pain incurred or the lack of’s and trauma and rationalizations and simply how love amongst oppressed people never quite lives up to that picket fence ideal. Champagne understood that plus all the baggage she wore, owned and inherited. She wasn’t high on anyone’s relationship goals. Her acceptance of this social norm and configuration and normalization of being a whore kept her friend list short. Bitches was critics period was her mind state. They spent their life seeing themselves as Cinderella woke and for sure marketing and rating their glass slippers as something worth attaining. The fallacy really in how precious and easily glass breaks. Love was something else she thought as she toweled off her body, the sun now out gleaming into her cunt cave. She reached for a blunt and signed onto her tinder account. ” Time to play”, she said aloud to herself filled with the familiar anxiety and resignation that searching for comfort with strangers produced.

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