Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

Brandon kept grabbing his dick. I tried not to look, but it’s like I’m programmed to zero in on dick, especially when somebody like Brandon gave attention to it. The symbol on his arm, though, was enough to keep my eyes off what he had in those baggy shorts.

“I’ve wanted to ask you about that right there forever,” I said, pointing to it. “That must have hurt.”

“Hell yeah, but only for a bit. Alpha Omega for life, baby!” Brandon hollered, as he formed a symbol of his frat with his skinny fingers.

“How long you been a member?”

“Pledged my sophomore year.”

“What made you wanna pledge?”

“Had to keep it in the family, baby girl. All my brothers are Alphas. My daddy’s an Omega and my granddaddy. Omegas for life.”

“You oughta have that tattooed on your chest somewhere.”

“What? Omega for life?”

“F-o-u-r life. You know, a number instead of the letter, like Tupac.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Um, jokin’, damn.”

“No, for real. I might do that shit.”

Dudes and the crazy shit ya’ll do, I thought.

“So what do ya’ll do, like sit around drinkin’, hazin’ brothas?”

“That’s what people think, but no. We do throw parties and socials and stuff, but we don’t let shit get out of hand. We don’t haze people. I know frats that do that, but we don’t. People have a lot of misconceptions about us. A good frat brother is a gentleman; you know what I’m sayin’? Leaders in the community.”

“I think people have that idea based on what they see in the movies,” I said.

“Some dudes only pledge ’cause they think all frats do is drink and party, but we—and I speak for all fraternities—we are more than that. Omegas have gone on to be doctors, lawyers, teachers, guys givin’ back.”

I could see that Brandon was passionate about what he was saying, and sounded hell-bent on squashing the stereotypes that were always a stigma on fraternities.

“You know what? I respect that.”

“That’s what we try to do. Educate.”

Brandon grabbed his dick again as if it was as common as batting an eyelash, pulling at it as if he sought to make room in his shorts due to its length. I wanted him to pull it out so I could go down on him right there in the car. Sleep was no longer on my mind, and neither was food. I wanted Brandon’s dick. I wanted him to fuck me.

We had reached the campus, slowly cruising past big, brick buildings named after historical black scholars. “It’s right up here,” he said, veering off our conversation.

I pulled into a lot and parked in front of a huge brick house. Big Greek letters were posted above the entrance of the frat house. I thought of all the hot black men that lived under its roof that pranced around half-naked behind those windows. Four men were sitting out front, looking at us suspiciously like hungry buzzards, wondering who it was that had driven up.

“Damn, this place is huge.”

“Wait ’til you see inside.”

I had never been in a frat house before. I expected the place to be in shambles—dirty clothes, beer cans, empty pizza boxes, like in the movies about frat guys.

“It’s late. I gotta be at the theater at eleven.”

“Girl, stop trippin’. Come meet some of the brothers.”

The men that were sitting studied me. They were of assorted tones: brown, dark chocolate, butterscotch, high yellow. There were men with braids, fades, and others with low haircuts, or bald to the scalp.