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Archive for the ‘DaShawn’ Category

5. DaSHAWN: The Finger

ick dancers were definitely not something that DaShawn was supposed to be handling. That was on Llewellyn’s list of jobs: Number one, hire the girls, a task that Llewellyn embraced full-heartedly, though it wasn’t as simple and as pleasant as everybody seemed to think, finding hot-looking non-skanky females who were both willing to grind their naked booties on stage and who could be relied upon to show up and do so.

Number two on Llewellyn’s list of duties: Fire the bitches who were chronically late or who fought with the other girls or who tweaked or shot up on the premises or who had perennial babysitter problems or psycho boyfriends or who gained too much weight or got too old or who attempted to turn tricks without giving DaShawn a cut of the action. Llewellyn had initially pussied out on the firings but after being played by enough females was now turning nicely cold.

Llewellyn job number three: Deal with the girls who fainted because they didn’t eat enough or yacked because they drank too much or who went crazy from too much crank or two many hands pawing at their pussies or who cut themselves or who passed out or nodded out because of whatever reason.

But it was DaShawn’s arms that Taryn fell into when she toppled off the stage. Girl was usually prancing around the stage, racing around, working that pole, shimmying so fast she was a golden blur. Taryn Piper was the finest child ever to wander into the Exquisite, and her talents had a lot to do with DaShawn’s success, he never denied that. It was, shit, nearly ten years ago the first time she walked through the door, claiming to be 18 and with the phony papers to prove it, but looking more like 12. Barely up to his shoulder, barely 100 pounds, with teeny little turned-up breasts tipped pink as rosebuds and hair the color of home-churned butter on her head AND below: that was one special sight. Everybody, DaShawn included, was so mesmerized by that blonde-haired pussy that Taryn still held the distinction of being the only girl never sent over to the spa to be waxed.


41. DaSHAWN: The Bitch’s Bitch

aShawn gazed in Taryn’s direction as she talked, trying to keep his face composed in what he guessed might be a posture of listening. He nodded slowly and steadily, like a fucking Emmitt Smith bobblehead, and held his mouth slightly open and relaxed, and stared with wide eyes at her pretty little white face, all juiced up like fucking Hillary Clinton or something, but much much hotter. And DaShawn kept listening, like he was fucking Obama with the TV cameras turned on.

She had big plans, this little girl. Was talking about starting a crank factory, but major league, not some little one-pot meth kitchen where you save up your piss to reclaim the one molecule that might be left that could make somebody high.

No, she was talking a proper fucking plant, like Tyson’s, so efficient they take you from egg to KFC in 18 days. She’d recruit workers, runners; she’d buy land, a farm, camouflage everything beneath bona fide crops; she’d keep horses as a cover, even race them.

Not she. We.

“What do you want me in this deal for?” DaShawn asked.

She smiled, sweet as when she was asking for another hundred dollar advance.

“Why, DaShawn,” she said. “Because you’re the only man never tried to fuck me.”

He looked away at that, the memory of what he’d done that night on the houseboat pressing down on him. More than once over the past weeks, he’d thought of that incident and wondered whether that was the cause of everything going wrong. It wasn’t like him to dwell, but he found himself waking up out of the deepest sleep and reliving that moment when he’d slipped his finger inside her, worrying it over and over in a way he didn’t replay Tiff’s murder or the cops shutting him down, moments that by all rights should have worried him more.

But he had not been responsible for those other events, he told himself. And what had happened with Taryn, that he’d done.

“What would my part be?” he asked her.

“We’d work that out as we go along,” she told him. “Security. Personnel. Community relations. Whatever I need you for, I guess.”

He’d never worked for anybody before, never mind a bitch. And now was she saying he’d be the bitch’s bitch?


54. DaSHAWN: Unwritten Agreement

his is it?”

Taryn looked skeptically around DaShawn’s apartment.

“You actually live here?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, but he had the feeling it wasn’t anything good.

“I was gonna straighten up,” he said. “But you didn’t give me a chance.”

She laughed. “I hate that defensive fucking bullshit,” she said, kicking off her heels and flopping down on the low leather beanbag chair. “Why do men do that? Why don’t you just say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m a pig, fuck you if you don’t like it.’”

“I’m sorry, I’m a pig, fuck you if you don’t like it,” DaShawn said.

“You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

They stared at each other, hate zinging back and forth, and then they both burst out laughing.

“I’m dead,” Taryn said, putting her hands behind her head, stretching out. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Beer,” he said, guessing. “Vodka.”

“Vodka tonic,” she said. “But only if you have diet tonic. If not, just give me some vodka on ice.”

And then she leaned back,  looked around, waited.

This is not the way it was supposed to go. DaShawn had not had too many women over to his place, preferring to do his business elsewhere, but Taryn had invited herself. Told him — not asked, but told – that she was going to be staying there till they took possession of the farm. And now seemed to expect him to wait on her hand and foot.

He had to lay down the law right this fucking minute.

“Glasses in the sink,” he said. “You’re gonna have to wash them. In fact, better clean up everything in there while you’re at it.”

He sank down on the sofa opposite her and stretched out his own damn legs. Closed his eyes for good measure.

She was quiet for so long he thought maybe she’d just very quietly gotten up and started cleaning. But finally she spoke.


65. DaSHAWN: Milk Moon

here WAS that girl?

DaShawn sat scrunched down in the car, like she told him, for as long as he could stand it, and then he sat up and looked around at the sorry farm. Damn, it was pathetic. How could white people live like this, way out in the middle of nowhere, everything all bare and all?

Damn, it was hot. He rolled down the window and then, after just a moment’s hesitation, stuck his head out for some air. Not like there was anybody around to see him anyway.

With the car baking in the sun in the driveway, it was STILL hot, though he could see some breeze wagging the tops of the trees out beyond the barn. What would be the harm of him waiting out there? Finding a nice shady spot to sit while she was inside doing her business?

He got out of the car and started trudging toward the barn, but then he thought, What if she came out to the car, didn’t find him there, and just drove away, leaving his sorry ass out here all alone in Honky Hollow? What if, sitting under the tree, he got chiggers in his butt?

And what if there was something wrong in there, if something terrible had happened to Baby Girl while he sat in the farmer’s shade? She said there was no one home, definitely, but what if she was wrong?

DaShawn was tired of being driver, fetcher, all-around lackey. He wanted a more active role. And that was going to start right here, right now, by his going into the house to get her. Besides, he really had to pee and he never could get a good stream going outdoors. His Ma and her standards had made sure of that.

The house was dark, cool, tidy, unpopulated. At first, all he heard was the ticking of the kitchen clock. She must be upstairs, downstairs, somewhere, searching out the articles. That’s what she insisted on calling them: the articles. When she shoulda just called them the guns.

Where was the john? Nothing on the first floor. He found the basement door and checked down there, but nothing below either. That left upstairs, for her and the toilet.



e raised his hands to the congregation.

For the brothers and sisters in need of divine intervention, let us pray!


For those, who have lost their way in the sight of the Lord, let us pray!


For the thieves, for the flesh peddlers, for those who have turned away from their families, let us pray.

And let us pray, oh Lord, for our own souls, for who among us is without sin, or without earthly hopes and heavenly dreams? Give us your aid, sweet Jesus, in achieving our goals, in purifying our intentions, and in casting out the devils who walk among us and live within.


Suitcase in hand, pockets empty, he stood before her door for a long moment, head bowed.

He never thought he would be reduced to this, not since he was 17 and left home for the last time. His fortunes had been on the rise ever since. At least until recently.

After a long moment, he lifted his hand and range the bell. He could hear her footsteps in the apartment, see her eye on the other side of the peephole. At last, she opened the door.

“Mama,” he choked out. “I want to come home.”

She didn’t move from the doorway.

“Ma, please. I have nowhere else to go.”

At this he nearly coughed out a tear, it was so close to being true. I have nowhere decent to go, was a hard fact. I have not enough money to do anything impressive and no one who loves me, including maybe you.