There’s Something About Brandon

As I drove, my eyes caught the sight of someone I knew. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, but the closer I got, the more of him I could make out, and sure enough… Brandon Mathis.

“Muthafucka!” A smile stretched like taffy across this round, brown face of mine. He was clearly drunk off that fine, bubble-booty of his, stumbling down the street like some inebriated wino. I started to just leave him alone, thinking that he would eventually get to wherever he was headed. But then I thought, what if he gets hit by some kid drunk behind the wheel? Or a bunch of rednecks wanted to mess with him, beat his ass just for the hell of it?

Either way, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. I drove alongside him and let down the passenger side window. “Wassup, boy!”

He looked into the car at me. “‘Sup beeiatch?” His white teeth juxtaposed nicely against his black velvety skin. The peach-hued sheen from the street lights bounced off his bald head.

“You want a ride?”

“If you don’t mind.” He opened the door and got in. I noticed the large blistered symbol on the upper part of his left arm. I had seen the same painful looking sign branded before on another brotha’s skin. I recognized it as a symbol from one of the local black fraternities on the campus of Florida Southern University. Alpha Omega I think. I had always wanted to ask Brandon about it when he worked at the theatre, but we hardly said so much as boo to each other.

“Where you comin’ from?” I asked.

“I walked my ass all the way from Chubby’s. They had that Rick Ross concert over there.”

“I know. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t get anybody to cover my shift. How was it?”

“That shit was off the chain.”

“Whaaat?”

“He blew it up. RICKY RO-ZAY!” He yelled out of the window.

“I knew I should have called in sick.”

“You missed a good ass show.”

“That’s why I need to quit that shit. No social life.”

“That’s why I left, working every damn weekend. Is that where you comin’ from?”

“Yeah, I just got off.

“You smell like popcorn.” I tugged at my shirt and took a whiff. Brandon started laughing. “I’m playin’, man.” The smell of liquor and cologne filled my silver Charger.

“So, I heard you quit because of that pencil-dick Chris.”

“That was part of it, but mostly ‘cause my grades were taking an ass-kickin’ ‘cause of the late hours.”

“So you don’t miss it?”

“Hell no! I mean, I miss the free movies, yeah, but not gettin’ home late and on top of that, tryin’ to study.”

I knew Brandon’s type. A player, a butch brand type of brotha. To say that Brandon is fine as hell would be the understatement of 2009. I was always checking him out, swiping glances at his sinewy muscles, his firm booty. He would come to the theatre when he was off looking much like he looked that night in my car: muscles tight under a Hollister T-shirt, a pair of baggy jean shorts hanging just so, showing a little booty under his boxers. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was doing it on purpose, teasing me with the shit so I would walk around work the rest of my shift with a wet pussy. If that was the case, that shit was working. A day doesn’t go by when I’m not fantasizing about him butt-naked, fucking me silly over the snack bar...