Invitation

Page 31 of Scarlet's Diary

I’d be standing on an uneven marble stone somewhere. The sun riding my honey crisp complexion, while the breeze made puppets out of my long strings of pecan tanned hair.

I’d be naked of course, and preferably in the heart of Town Square.  Rednecks would gawk in utter dismay, scratching their hairy testicles, chomping on the gristle of stale barbeque pork rinds, or spitting out the shells of boiled peanuts. 

Right, as if I could be so lucky.

I swallowed the last few pieces of granulated peppermint on my scented tongue. Luck had already come once this month, and I doubted if I could unearth another insane bastard by the end of it. 

How did I know this? I hadn’t been leather-whipped or gagged since Male Number One, and that was almost five months ago.  Male Number Two was only interested in having me sit on cream pies—literally, which resulted in two unwarranted yeast infections and twenty dollars spent on a one day Monistat application that I just plain right did not have the money to buy in the first place.

 So when I stumbled upon Male Number Three, who sounded halfway normal, I figured luck and I were once again wartime allies.

I was reading the Mississippi Times Help Wanted section and came across Number Three’s personal ad.

He drove over yesterday and knocked on my door around 6:00 in the morning.  I didn’t have time to fully brush my teeth after my shower, so I gargled with citrus mouthwash and called it a day.

I opened the door with my bright smile stitched ear to ear, but when Number Three saw how pretty I was, he told me just that. “Gal, you’re just too damn pretty.  I’m not sure about all this,” he said, twirling a toothpick between the gaps in his beige front teeth.

Damn it! Had I misread him? And worse, was he senile? 

Granted, I was the psychopath who invited a complete stranger to her parents’ house, while they were away renewing their wedding vows for the sixth time in two years. But that was different.  I responded to the ad that he placed and he was the one backing out.

I did not care how unsure he was. I wanted to be bent over backwards with someone’s sock or shoe in the pit of my mouth.  Had I read it wrong? The paper? No I couldn’t have.

The advertisement read:  Single White Male seeking a Pretty Colored Woman for EXTREME S&M.

Sure I was part Cherokee, Irish, and a quarter Haitian, but ask any farmer living in South Mississippi my race, and they’ll all agree—I’m black.

Number Three, Vincent Kelly—at least that what he told me his name was last night after we climaxed via iPhones—was a rather round Caucasian senior citizen.  He was bald at the top of his skull and wore a spare tire proudly around his chubby waist. The buttons that trailed down his 70’s mob suit would have fastened, if it were not for his Santa Clause potbelly.

He exhaled. “Now, I just don’t feel right about it. Now lookie here, you’re younger than I thought. You can’t be no older than seventeen,” He paused licking his perverted lips.

“Why, you’re lighter than a brown paper bag, gal, and that just won’t do,” Vincent gave me a twice over, as if he were having second thoughts about his all-of-a-sudden moral decision. He reached out and grabbed my small breasts over my red tee shirt, before he turned around and left me standing in the doorway like an African Irish Princess of an idiot.  

I gave my girl next door look a once over, took several steps back into my house, and closed the door behind me. My mind convinced me that I should’ve opened the door wearing a dog collar and trench coat. Maybe then I would have been perfect for Master Vincent.

After I closed the door, I locked the five bolts from the inside. When it came to locks and bolts, a girl could never have too many.