velvet paradise (ftm x fem)

Track 1

ALAIA

My thumb traces along the straight base of a rifle's shell casing until it reaches the tapered bottleneck. Scratches on the empty brass cartridge scrape my fingertip. The sweat of my palm coats the casing as I clutch it. The warmth from the cartridge emits energy that pierces through my soul, knocking me against the backseat. My granpè's voice resounds in my ears. His voice rumbles as he speaks in Kreyòl. "Fè mwen konfyans." ("Trust me.")

My eyes spring open. The blond Uber driver crooning to a throwback Maroon 5 tune is a humbling welcome to reality. He attempts to hit an Adam Levine-level note. Baby, that is not your range. I need you to accept that.

Despite his tragic tone, he'll receive a five-star rating and a generous tip for navigating Los Angeles' traffic madness. Downtown LA vibrates with the vitality of street performers. Mouthwatering aromas from food trucks seep into the car's cabin.

LA may be a melting pot of cultures, but authentic southern cuisine is a missing piece of the fascinating puzzle. The city can barely get fried chicken and biscuits right. Sometimes I long to charge into a restaurant's kitchen, don an apron, and prepare the food myself. Don't get me started on sweet tea. Either it's nowhere to be found, or it's not...sweet. How hard is it to brew tea and add sugar to it?

My cousin Amor has lived in LA for a few years. She used to call me every day during her first year at UCLA, complaining of being homesick. She grieved the loss of home-cooked Haitian meals and New Orleans delicacies. Once she fell in love with LA, her cravings stopped. She assured me mine will, too.

I have been in LA for three months, and nope, they haven't. I've found average Haitian spots, but never a quality deep south meal. A hot southern meal is unmatched, whether it hails from the swamps of Louisiana or the coasts of North Carolina.

The Uber driver comes to a halt. Granpè's cartridge finds a safe place in my Chanel bag. The bag is a black and gold classic, but it's a recent addition to my collection. My designer bag collection has increased from zero to ten since I've been in the City of Angels. Luxurious items have been piling in my room in Amor's apartment. She's generous enough to let me stay with her rent-free, but she makes sure to "borrow a bag" for "compensation."

The income I generate from TikTok and Instagram suffices to support me in So-Cal's pricey region. The designer attire and lavish jewelry are...gifts. Rome Hudson is the third person I've fooled around with in La-La Land in three months. My flings are meant to be nothing but...well, flings. Rome, however, has been prolonging his stay.

He's a recently retired NFL quarterback with cannons for arms and a water hose for a d-ck. He thanks me with presents instead of "Damn, that p-ssy's good" compliments. He's attractive and respectful. Whenever I need a 'forget everything' pill, he medicates me with ease. There's no rush to sweep him out of my life. Butttt...

He's not the one. Trust me. He has seven babymamas. I'm not trying to be the eighth. I'm damn sure not trying to be someone's wicked ass stepmother. Nope. When Rome and I have sex, condoms, and a Plan B are always on deck. You can never be too safe.

I thank the Uber driver. "No problem, gorgeous." He isn't my type at all. He's one of those surfer white boys, but not the cute and mysterious ones.

With a bat of my eyelashes and a giggle, I say, "Drive safe, handsome." His cheeks rise and turn a rosy pink. He reaches for his phone. I shut the door. He's not getting my number.

He'll text all his surfer bros about the foreign Black chick he almost bagged. I'll move on with my day. No harm, no foul, if the conversation ends on time. Refusing his number or never calling him, there's a risk Amor will report my murder on LA's top news station.