The Punany Experience (31 page)

The subsequent threats and demands for retractions coming from the senator’s office put
The Cutting Board
on the map, giving them power to rival
The Post
and the
Times’
Lifestyle news sections.

“Stormy Talbert,” she read the placard on the door and smiled. She fished for the key and unlocked the door, closing herself
inside with her laptop and carryout container from Capitol Hill Deli and Grill.

There was nowhere to sit, not for her or anyone else, inside the tiny mom and pop restaurant that had captured the hearts and bellies of senators, congressmen, and diplomats from all over the world with what was reportedly the best French onion soup outside of Mez. So, like everyone else, she had ordered hers to go.

“Savor the Flavor! Five kinds of onions; one grown on every continent,” she read on the bag. She slid the bowl out to find her soup packed in a fancy ceramic bowl. When she removed the foil, she was greeted by a beautiful kaleidoscope of champagne colors and husky fragrances of provolone, Swiss, and parmesan cheeses, oozing over the bowl’s edge. She savored the flavors, both rich and simple; beef and chicken broth, toasted sourdough, roasted garlic, thyme, olive oil, and sugar. There were sea salt and fresh ground pepper, bay leaf and maybe even a hint of vermouth, all spilling over her spoon as she dipped again through the cheesy brim and watched it fill with the famous day-old crystallized vegetables and mouth-watering, dry sherry-infused soup.

“The line was long and the wait, practically unbearable, in my new Joan & David shoes, but as they say, anything this good is worth waiting for. And for this heart-warming experience, I would gladly stand in the soup line,” Stormy typed. She saved her article and emailed it to the copy editor’s desk, turned her laptop off, and packed it. She grabbed her coat and headed for the door. “Oh, my God,” she said out loud. Her new assistant had framed her invitation to join the Food Critics Guild and hung it next to the door. There was a little sticky note on it that read:
“Congrats! Come home.”

She missed Tisa’s call in the elevator, but she knew her lover would call her before she could reach the garage and start her car.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Tisa.”

“Are you on your way?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Hmm…you have a point. I will be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Stormy drove through the maze of lines and circles that made up the streets of downtown D.C. She wasn’t a very confident driver, so she was used to getting stuck in a circle or two nearly every day. But that day, she was full of confidence. She had everything she had ever wanted and so much more. She was a highly paid columnist and an official member of the Food Critics Guild. She was respected and she was loved by a woman who was powerful enough to have anyone in the world of journalism. So when a man tried to force her to stay within the boundaries of Dupont Circle, she honked until he let her turn in front of him. She smiled and waved at the man as she passed and reflected on her new life, spread before her like a perfectly set table. Her newfound confidence and emotional resilience were scintillating appetizers that made her mouth water for more of this good life. Tisa’s love and loyalty were the sweetest dessert. But Stormy’s career was the main course that had won her the respect of her readers and peers that nourished her soul. Her self-respect emitted a bountiful bouquet that washed all doubt away and Stormy felt just like comfort food.

Best known as founder of The Punany Poets, Jessica Holter, also known as “Ghetto Girl Blue,” is a mother, an author, a gifted orator, a talented visual artist and an activist for AIDS awareness and sexual abuse recovery. She created The Punany Poets in 1995 after the untimely death of Eric “Eazy-E” Wright of AIDS. Her theater group, The Punany Poets, has appeared on HBO’s
Real Sex
, Black Entertainment Television, Playboy TV, London’s Channel 5 and Cinemax. Her sexy stories are in rotation on Playboy Radio (XM) and she has self-published six books under The Punany Poets Entertainment, LLC. Best-selling Author/Publisher Zane compiled her most riveting poetic works into a hardback anthology,
Verbal Penetration
, in 2007.
The Punany Experience
is Holter’s first novel from Strebor Books. Holter continues to tour the country in live stage plays and cabaret performances. She actively promotes AIDS awareness and female empowerment though her growing line of public service advertisements, print media, audio/radio, video and film and novelties. Visit her at
www.punanypoets.com
.

S
NEAK
P
REVIEW!
I
F YOU ENJOYED
“T
HE
P
UNANY
E
XPERIENCE,” CHECK OUT THIS EXCERPT FROM

by Jessica Holter

C
OMING FROM
S
TREBOR
B
OOKS IN 2012

Every week they met for a game

and every time they played

their game got stronger.

Every night they watched the news,

and saw their sons’ appalling reviews,

their hearts grew harder.

It seemed to them the world had gone

to hell while the Lord was sleeping.

For in their bedrooms and their wombs

the devil himself had been creeping.

They had been waiting for the Lord to stir

while their sons were given

to rape, violence and murder

They had been waiting for the Lord to wake,

long enough to see

Jesus would not be back before

the end of the century

and neither would any man.

What is an urban maiden to do

when dealt by poverty’s hand?

“Poor” dislodges America,

in ways that cannot be comprehended

Who among the four would have amended

a mother’s love could be

so effectively deceiving?

Tonight my friend,

you would be wise to be believing that

when a woman’s fed up

there shall be no reprieving!

Like bad fruit, brought forth from the tree

so is the fruit of thy womb

To hell with the woman who does not

bury her spoiled seed inside a tomb!

So uptown and downtown

four women tally their tricks

in this story I like to call

the Ballad of Bid Whist

In my lap, lay your mane

Let me get in your left brain

I will try to explain right off the cuff

This is a story for all of the mommas

who have had enough!

Not those in love with foolish, angry thugs

but those who want their hugs

to amount to more than money on the books

and understand that a woman is

more than her cooking, her punany

and her looks

Grab that little motherfucka up in your fists

look him into those absent little

street-corner-bum eyes and say,

“Look, motherfucker,

I ain’t playing with your bitch ass

stop being an asshole today

Stop killing and raping or I will abort you

just as fast as for forgiveness I pray

“You ain’t bad, little boy, and you ain’t tough

chill on all you thought you were about

’cause, Momma brought you in this world

and Momma will take you out.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Jackson paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “I asked you that. Didn’t I?” He looked at Helen, lying on the bed. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her lips were dry and cracked and her hair smelled of sweat and dandruff. She still had on the dress she was wearing when he snatched her up out of the abortion clinic three days before. “Damn, Helen, you have been running up behind The Kin since you were ten years old, talking about how you want to be down. And now that you have the chance to do something important…to do something really meaningful, you’re going to bitch up? Damn, Helen. You know what that is? That’s fucked up. That’s what that is. It’s fucked up and it’s selfish.”

He walked to the basement window, and stared through the bars at the lawn he had played in as a child. “We had some good times back there,” Jackson said, smiling. “Remember the time Leon’s momma chased him around the lawn with that switch?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“That was some funny shit.”

“I remember when you fell out of that plum tree. You got knocked out cold. We all thought you were going to die.”

“I remember you crying.”

“I was not.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Yes, I was.” Helen looked up into his softening eyes. Jackson stepped toward her, and reached out to touch her face. “That’s the day I fell in love with you. That’s the day I knew you were going to be our queen.” He reached in his pocket for some lip balm and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He dipped his finger into the tiny jar and rubbed the oil on her mouth. “You need to take care of yourself, Helen. There’s a shower over there and my momma sent some clean towels down.” Helen looked at the neatly stack pink towels sitting on the chair by the bathroom door, and nodded. She searched his eyes for some semblance of sanity but all she found was some love, left over from back in the day when they talked for a minute. So she reached for that and held on to it tightly.

“Jackson. We can try it again. We can make it right this time.”

“Oh, but it is right. It is. It is very right. I could not be more right.”

“Jackson, I love you. Come on, man. Let me get a do-over on this one. And we can plan it and do it right. I want to be the first one to give you a son.”

“Don’t you understand?” He held her face in his hands. “This baby is the son. He will be the first. Everyone will love him. He will be born with respect. None of his fathers can say that for themselves. Don’t you see? He is a gift and this gift belongs to all of us. The baby is not yours to take away from us. So stop fucking thinking about killing him! You are so ungrateful.” He slapped her face, quickly three times with his right hand. “Why are you so ungrateful? Oh, I guess you want to have your fun and forget about it. Is that it?”

“No, Jackson, that’s not it, I…”

“I get it. You don’t want to be reminded every time you see your son, of how you got on your back for seventeen niggahs. Is that it? Helen, is that it? What, you shame of The Kin now?”

“No, Jackson. That is not it. You know I am down for The Kin. I don’t regret shit. I just…”

Helen reached out to stroke his hand and let her tears flow.

“Aw, baby, why are you crying?” He kissed her lips. “Don’t cry.” He climbed on top of her. “Are you crying because you love me now, but you’re afraid I’m going to think you are a nasty bitch?” Helen started crying louder. Jackson pulled her dress up. “You are a nasty bitch.” He freed himself from his pants and pushed quickly inside of her. He licked the tears on her cheeks and stroked deeply. “No worries, Helen. I like nasty bitches.”

“We all do,” a voice said from across the room. Helen looked up to find Leon standing in the doorway.

Helen screamed and tried to push Jackson off of her. “Hell no, Jackson, get off of me!”

“Man, niggah. I told your ass to wait in the yard.”

“Get the fuck off of me!” Helen was screaming at the top of her lungs, and pushing his shoulders away from her. She twisted her hips and kicked her legs.

“Stop moving, Helen!”

“Damn, Jackson, you know she’s tough, she’ll rip your dick off with her pussy if you ain’t careful.” Jackson grabbed Helen by the throat. “Stop moving, I said. Hold this bitch down,” he told Leon.

“No, get off of me, Jackson, get off!”

“Stop acting stupid, Helen,” Leon said, laughing, lighting up a blunt. “Lay the fuck back and do your job. We got to put work in tonight. Come on now. You see how uptight the niggah is. Let him relax one time.” Leon stuck the blunt in his mouth and grabbed Helen by the hair, and punched her in her temple with his knuckle. The numbing pain silenced her long enough for Jackson to get his groove back.

“Come on, baby, relax,” Jackson whispered in her ear as he dug deeper inside of her. “You still love me, don’t you?”

“No,” Helen said, trying not to cry.

“That’s what your mouth says, but your pussy is telling a different story.”

“Jackson, please,” Helen whispered. “It’s doesn’t have to be like this; please, let me do it right. Please don’t let Leon fuck me.”

“Too late, bitch. I already fucked you. Or were you too fucked up on Vodka and E to remember? Trust me, you liked it. And you’re going to like it again today.” Leon unzipped his pants.

“Aye, what are you doing? Jackson asked Leon. “Put that motherfuckah away until I’m done.” After a few minutes Jackson was guided easily into Helen. No matter how she fought him, he knew that eventually she would get that euphoric look in her eyes and open her well for him. They went on for a little while longer, her heart quickening its pace, her body just beginning to match his, thrust for thrust when he came suddenly inside of her. He rested his chest on hers, their hearts pounding against one another.

Leon looked curiously at them. “Alright then,” he said expectantly.

Jackson got up and walked to the bathroom. Leon unzipped again. “Naw, man, we got to go,” Jackson hollered from the bathroom.

“What? Blood, what do you mean?”

Jackson poked his head out of the bathroom door. “I mean just what I said. Leave her alone right now. We have to go.”

H
ELEN’S SCREAMS WERE JUST SMALL SOUNDS IN THE URBAN NIGHT AIR
, where they were drowned under sirens and helicopters that circled above Ivy Robinson’s modest house in Oakland, California. But inside Ivy’s home, the girls’ screams resonated like battle cries through the basement walls and floorboards, ripping Ivy’s nerves to shreds. Ivy kept telling herself that it wasn’t her place to say or do anything about it. “The girl knew the job was dangerous when she took it,” she told herself. “I can’t run around saving folks that don’t want to be saved,” she said, nervously flipping through the radio stations and trying to ignore the screaming under her feet. “I hear you, Lord, but you know as well as I do, I done already made a few attempts at rescuing girls from my son, but the damn fools keep coming back.”