Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

“This is Trey, Big Will, Taj, and Mike D. Keisha works at the movies.”

“’Sup?” all of them said.

“Can you get us some passes, shawty?” Mike D asked.

“Damn, you always tryin’ to get somethin’ free.” Trey grinned.

“Come by the theater. I’ll hook you up.”

Mike D was one of the cuter ones in the bunch, wearing jeans and a black muscle T-shirt. He had full, kissable lips and short hair combed in waves. He didn’t have anything on Brandon, though.

When I followed him inside, it wasn’t like I thought, but it wasn’t that clean, either. There were a few men, but none of them were half-naked. There were hardly any men around. It was Saturday, so I figured they were out at the clubs.

“That’s the entertainment room where we watch games, study, whatever. That’s the kitchen, and right there is like our romper room.”

As Brandon and I started upstairs, he kept yanking his shorts up over his booty, covering plaid boxers. “These are more rooms and bathrooms and this is my room.” Brandon’s was fairly clean. I looked at the bed and thought of all the women that were probably fucked in its sheets. “Sit anywhere you want. I gotta piss.”

I sat in the chair at his desk where an open math book lay. Posters of shiny, pricey cars and sports figures plastered the wall. A Rihanna calendar was thumb-nailed above Brandon’s desk. I heard the thick sound of piss splashing in toilet water.

“Oh, hey, you still with what’shername?”

“Who?”

“That girl you used to bring to the movies.”

“Janiece? Yeah, we on and off. Mostly off.”

“What do you mean?” I heard a flush and Brandon walked out with the clasp of his shorts undone.

“She trippin’, talkin’ about how I don’t spend enough time

with her and shit. All she does is nag me. I love her, but damn.”

I could see the frustration in his face. The first time I met Janiece, I could tell she was crazy, one of them clingy type chicks. Poor Brandon. Poor fine-ass, Rick Ross–loving Brandon.

“You want something to drink?” He walked over to the mini-refrigerator in the corner of the room.

“Does everyone have one of those?” I asked.

“No, my daddy brought this up from Miami.”

He opened it and took out two beers. Brandon twisted off the tops and handed me a bottle. I’m more of a martini girl, but whatever. We both took a drink. I veered the conversation back to the Alpha Omega Greek letter on his arm. “What made you want to do that to yourself?”

“I’m a member for life. I wanted something to show my loyalty.”

“Yeah, but damn, why not a T-shirt or something?”

“It’s just a part of who I am.”

“I read somewhere that branding was a form of ownership during slavery.”

“It goes further back than that. In Africa, some tribes would brand a boy as he entered into adulthood.”

“Well, you’re braver than me. I would have freaked out.”

“When I’m like, eighty years old, I want to look at it.”

Brandon sat his beer down at the foot of the bed and took off his shirt. Sweet baby Jesus, I thought. I tried not to stare. It was like my whole body had gone numb. Roll your tongue back in your head, girl. You could bounce a penny off that chest. Hell, fuck a penny, more like a wrecking ball. Once he took his T-shirt off, exposing his smooth chest, abs, and pecs, my pussy was aching for some attention. I don’t know what stopped me from reaching over and laying my hands on this delicious specimen of a man. I would be lying if I said I’ve never thought about Brandon’s dick size.