I spent the last hour with ice on my swollen lips. I lookted like I just came out a the ring with a boxer. And I'm laying here on my back with a heatin' pad on my slopin' walnut colored belly, watchin' the results come in from this contry's most historic election in some time. There he is up there at that podium, holdin' the fate of our nation in his yella hands -- hands flashin' like a yella warnin' light at a dangerous intersection in any small town U.S.A.
If I'd a knowed then what I know now, I never would a talked politiks at bingo. First off, my black whore ass had no bizness inside a church no how. Least of all in the most prominent church of Upthasse, my rural town. Fuck, last time I was in a church, I was givin' the good rev a bj under his black robe during the benedikshun while the choir sang, "What a friend we have in Jesus."
My lips was creatin' so much frikshun on that blessed dick a his, all my dammed pineapple lip gloss got rubbed right off. And I spent two hole dollars on that tube of gloss when I should a bawt a tube a what they call intimet moisturizer cuz that preachin' so-and-so fucked my pussy good after he aksed me to follow him into his office. I was so stupid, too, my neecaps stingin' from trying to keep steady on the carpeted platform a hour earlier. Me neelin' like that underneath his musty black robe and suckin' his dick all desprit like a overgrown baby needin' a bottle.
When the good rev shouted from the sex shocks I was deliverin' unto him, he throwed his arms out to his sides and did a bounce on the platform. He dammed near broke my tooths. I heared some skreeks and poked my head out of his fonky robe long enough to see about two rows a wimmens in a side pew fall out with the Holy Ghost. All I could think was, These wimmens don't get enuff fuckin'. That's where all that "Woo!" and "Holleylooyah!" was comin' from.
But there I was again in a house of wershup, enjoyin' a hot game a bingo like all a God's chillen. It figgers when I had all but a "I" and a "O," some chick with a mustash -- name's Fonetta or somethin' whorish like that -- gwan start talkin' to me about politiks.
"Oooh, chile, I can't get enuff a that Amabo," she said to those a us seated nearby. She couldn't stop gushin' about her favorite politikal candidate. "With his fine ass up for the runnin', this country's gwan have a REAL bush whackin', huh-huh-huh," she had the nerve to add.
"Huh-huh-huh, my ass!" I shot back at that brownnosin' bitch. I pulled down my skirt and showed her my fat, thonged ass. "If Sen. Amabo becomes Prezident Amabo, what? You think you gwan be sittin' up in his Cabinet like some low class Cuntaleeza Rice, when all you gwan have is some Carolina rice in yo' cabinet."
The wimmens, well, except for Fonetta, started laffin' their asses off. I glared back at Fonetta, who was bearin' her canine incisors, so I tried to divert from gettin' a beat down by tellin' her, "Look suga, your preshuss Amabo ain't even full white, now, okay?"
"Wait, hole up, hole up, Ureesha!" cryed Pam, who I thawt was my home girl, even tho we is way too old to be no girls. "Now you dammed crossed the line, talkin' about Amabo's incestry."
"The word is 'ancestry,' hello?" I corrected her. "Damm, Pam!"
"Whatever," Pam said. "He made it this damm far, and he just might beat out that fellaysheeo and cuntalinguss forgivin' , Fleetwood Mac lovin' wrinkled up ho."
"You got a point there, Pam," I said sheepish like. I thawt for a moment about the good rev's heavy meated dick slidin' in and out of my mouth and bangin' my tonsils up on the church platform. Then I let out a cohf like all that dick juice done slipped past the thresshold and got cawt up in my throte like a ball a flem. "I shud support mines. It's time for me to give back to my community in a way that don't make my ass sore afterwoods."
To that, the wimmens laffed hard in that husky way that conjoored up the black southern ghosts from trampled tobakko fields vibratin' from the last bar of a nigra spiritral sung throo a day's sweat.
Fonetta and Pam talked me a good hour after the bingo game about the merit of volunteerin' and specifikally joinin' the Amabo Campaign for Real Change. I just prayed, as much as a sinnin' black woman could, that if I voted for this high yella guy, that I would be left with more than change in my already shallow pockets. On the way home, I kept hearin' Fonetta's words in my head: "This is the real way to get into heaven, makin' substanshall changes in your community." I was still mullin' over her words when I couldn't count no more sheeps from my pillow that night.
Fast forward, and in our tiny town of Upthasse, the day came for Amabo's rally. I was just as proud as my bingo sistuhs about gettin' as many campaign flyers and buttons around to the denuzens. Fonetta and me came close to bein' friends too, till she got a little too nozy wondrin' how I ran out of flyers so fast at the end of each day leading up to the rally. So I satisfied her cureeocity and flashed a rainbow assortment of condoms in my handbag. "Lord Jesus, help her!" was her last words on that subject. Hmph. That shut her tight ass up.
Town Hall was jampacked with all kinds of colors of people. Brown people, beige people, pink people, ivory people, ebony people, mustard people, redboned people, etsetra. Some folks forgot to pile on the antepersprant cuz we was havin' a fonky good time in the wrong way. Unh, unh, unh. With my picket in hand and a valeeant smile marchin' across my tooths, I counted myself among the beleevers. I stood as close to the podium as possible, slicin' the air with my sign and jumpin' till I could hear the milk jump in my tits. "Amabo! Amabo!" I shouted, but just like every dammed body else.
Mista High Yella came out talkin' about, "Now, now, you all are too kind" with his Five Oh aksent and whatnot. I could a sworn he done nodded or bowed in my direkshun, but I ain't sho. All I knowed was six funky armpit hours later, I would a beleeved everythang and anythang the sun king an was sayin' to us. Just so we could go home.
But I got a late nite supprize. From a dark corner stairwell, I heard a wisprin' of my name, like it was Fred Williamson in one a those bonin' movies of my teenage years. I got spooked when I seen nothin' but darkness at first. Then I saw that yella mellon head and them bright teeth and let out a "Sheee-yit, you scared the fuck out of me, Jimmy, uh, Senator Amabo." I rolled my eyes at him like he was Jimmy Jenkins poppin' out from the shadows of one of them briar patches of my yewth.
But Duroc Amabo was no briar patch. He was a smooth muthafucka. He had tricky looks that could make a chick forget to close her legs tight. Beady eyes hidin' behind bananuh yella cheekbones -- and them dammed Osmond Family tooths. I seemed to float towards all that gleemin', and in the process lost track of time.
They say politicians got some deep pockets and slippery tongs. Judgin' by the arm that seemed to be growin' out from his crotch, and by the way his tong was burrowed all democratic like in my pussy, I'd say his supporters made the right projekshun.
"Oh, Amabo! Oh, lawwwd, oh yella, oh!" I knowed not what the fuck I was shreekin' with my big brown thighs nearly givin' his neck a python chokehold. He just kept hummin' "Mmmm" into my runny twat and every now and then sneekin' his tongue out to lick my clit till it lookted like a little dick.
