Faith & Fortune: A Lesbian Short Story
When a natural impulse fosters a transformative love…
Jozzi, a struggling writer recently laid off from her “real” job, needs a win. She just might find one at a Juneteenth Pride party.
Vibe: Humorous, cozy, uplifting, flirty
Content Warnings: Explicit language, depictions of sex, brief mentions of depression
Word Count: 5,898
Main Character Depictions
Doja Henshaw as Jozlyn B. Childs a.k.a. Jozzi
Megan thee Stallion as Zariana Hardwick a.k.a. Zari
DJ Toppa’s voice crackles over the speakers, cutting through the rooftop’s pulsating beat. "This song is dedicated to the sista at the bar, shouting on the phone with her man!" he broadcasts. His statement echoes, mocking my predicament. The sun shines harder, its rays illuminating me. It’s a spotlight of shame, notifying everyone I’m the bitch stinking up the queer function with my relationship issues. Atlanta’s humidity suffocates me more than ever.
DJ Toppa drops the beat to “FNF” by GloRilla while pointing at me. The aggressive harmony ambushes the dancery, inducing a mix of cheers and laughter.
I’m not arguing with a man or a woman. On the other line is a non-binary, septum-pierced dreadlocked hoe named Jax, and they have me fucked up. While I down a shot of Hennessy, they continuously complain about my lack of respect for our “partnership.” Apparently, I didn’t read over the rulebook of our fling. Jax can have a hoe rotation bigger than an NFL team, but I must remain a saint in these streets.
They’re doing a lot of rah-rah, and I haven’t even fucked anyone else; yet.
“That’s why I haven’t officially bagged you!” Jax blares through the receiver. “I already know what type of time females like you are on!”
Every time a non-cis person uses “female” derogatorily, a queer angel flies its way to hell. I cringe and wave my hand at the chiseled bartender, requesting another shot.
“Then why are we having this conversation, Jax?!” I lower my tone, noticing the meddling DJ has brought interest to my argument. An assorted group of queers standing near the bar whisper, working together to piece together what I’m so upset about. I can’t blame them. My nosy ass would do the same with my friends.
“You’re territorial while not wanting a label,” I mutter, my speech tinged with irritation and a hint of embarrassment.
“Why would I put a label on a hoe?” Jax scoffs. They perform their irritating chuckle that makes a bitch wish to catch a case. If I keep fucking with this nigga, my mugshot will be on FOX 9. The world cannot perceive me without my mink lashes. I tremble at the mere thought. It’s almost as frightening as Jax’s audacity. “I saw your story. You got your titties out and your little booty, too, at that Juneteenth Pride Calabash shit.”
First of all, the function’s called “We’s Liberated, Heauxs.” But that’s not the point. Did this serial ass eater call my booty little?
“Your tongue got trapped between these cheeks last night. Don’t do that,” I check.
The gay guy beside me, rocking a blonde tapered fade, whips his head towards me, astounded by my clapback. He snaps sassily and mouths, “Ooo, I know that’s right, girl. No tea, no shade.”
I twist my lips and non-verbally tell him, “Period.”
Jax's tantrum intensifies, echoing the petulant outbursts of a disgruntled middle schooler who resents their friend's independence. I dissociate from their wimpy, non-sensical grievances and wonder: Why am I letting this bird-chested, no-stroke-having motherfucker talk to me crazy? We’ve only been talking for three months, and our situation will never lead to an altar. This Looney Toons-sounding motherfucker has brought chaos to my boring, depressing life, so I’ve been keeping them around. I’m ready to go back to being bored, chile. It’s time to reclaim my peace.
“I swear for Lord …” Jax hollers, Tennessee accent thick.
“Uh huh …” I mutter, tapping my coffin nails against my glass.
“… that you think your pussy is sooooooo good …”
“Okay …” I swirl the ice around in my Hennessey with an eye roll.
“… and that it exempts you from …”
“What’s up?”
“The fuck you mean by ‘what’s u–”
“Shut the fuck up, nigga.” I tap the large red button on my phone to disconnect the call. Then, the BLOCK button is employed.
“Yaaaasss, you told that nigga, Trina!” The gay blonde co-signs, shimmying his glittered shoulders.
My name isn’t Trina, but I get the reference since I just stole a legendary line from “Here We Go Again.” I thank my new gay friend, shimmying my shoulders with him. As we kiki, I finish my second shot of Hennessey. It goes down smoother now that I’m fuck nigga free. I guess I owe DJ Toppa’s messy ass my gratitude.
“Girl, I don’t know who was on the other side of that phone, but they’re stupid for fucking it up with a goddess bitch like yourself,” my new gay friend says, squeezing a lime into his margarita. “I’m Lior, by the way. Like Dior, but with an L. Though, I never take an L.”
I giggle as I cover my mouth, adoring his pizzazz. Lior’s tall and chubby, and he’s flawlessly rocking a see-through shirt, the mesh pressing against his pierced nipples. His dark skin perfectly complements the kind twinkle in his hazel eyes. Without knowing his story, I perceive he’s the life of any party. But why is he sitting at a bar alone?
“I love your name,” I gush. “It fits your liveliness.” He flicks his imaginary butt-length Brazilian bundles out of his face with a flattered smile. “I’m Jozzi,” I giggle out.
“Jozzi? You look more like Beyoncé!”
Okay, now he’s lying.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m a pretty girl. With deep, dark skin, a few shades away from midnight, my naturally thick physique boasts an athletic foundation. Wherever I go, my bountiful, kinky afro demands attention. Adding to my unique aesthetic, a golden hoop adorns my nose, and a captivating dragon tattoo graces my right shoulder. My splendor is unmistakable on the inside and the outside. However, likening me to the Creole banshee queen of this universe is far from accurate.
“May I ask your pronouns?” I ask Lior.
“He/him, doll. But I’m a girl’s girl. So, you can call me ‘girl’ as well.”
“In that case, girl, bye! I do not look like Beyoncé!”
He snorts as he sips from his little straw. “Well, you are beautiful. That’s my point.”
“Thank you,” I say, patting my shea-butter-doused cleavage. “You are, too, boo. Are you here alone?”
He rolls his eyes playfully and opens his mouth. Just by observing how he fans out his perfectly manicured hand, I can sense that I'm in for a thrilling story. Before he can utter a word, a slurred voice surfaces from behind.
“Bitch, you still mad?!” A Southern twang barks, husky yet feminine. I swing my neck to the left and lose my breath.
Who is this Amazonian woman?
“Yes, bitch, I’m still mad!” Lior shouts back. “I was just about to tell my new friend how you no-daddy-having bastards did me dirty!”
“Hoe, you always stoop low! It's not our fault we didn't grow up with a traditional, two-parent family!” His anonymous friend smacks her lips, but I’m focused on her physique.
It should be a crime the way she’s designed. With a graphic UGK cropped tank top, she bares her sculpted abdomen, and her jeans struggle to detain her curves. She’s wearing faux locs, tied up high, showcasing her faultless mug to the world. The only blemishes on her warm, copper skin are her tattoos, most gracing her right arm in an aesthetically pleasing sleeve.
“Zari, bitch, why you come over here with mess,” Lior asks, his voice becoming sweeter. He sends me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. My friends are ratchet.”
I breathe out a nervous laugh. The alcohol circulating through my system invites an arousing heat, triggered by Mrs. I Can Choke A Nigga Out. I’m two seconds away from waving the bartender down for some ice.
“I’m sorry you met Lior first,” Zari says, staring down at me, arms folded, biceps bulging. “Whatever he told you, his dramatic ass was lying.”
“I only told the girl that she was pretty!” Lior defends.
“Well, I guess he tells the truth sometimes,” Zari says, her stare unwavering from me. Half of her face lifts in a humored smile. “You’re the girl the DJ called out, right? I’m Zari, short for Zariana. What’s your name?”
I take her smooth, extended hand, hoping she doesn’t sense the clamminess of mine. “Jozzi, short for Jozlyn.”
“Oh, so she gets the government name and not me,” Lior mutters before sipping down the rest of his margarita.
“Well, Jozzi, I hope you dumped whoever was stressing you out,” Zari says, squeezing my hand before she lets go.
“Oh, well, we weren’t dating,” I say sheepishly. I can’t hold her gaze, her gorgeousness intensifying by the second. I focus on the millennials as they fuck up the Cupid Shuffle on the dancefloor. “It was a fling. They were like … a distraction.”
“From what?” The question shocks me. She regains my attention. Intrigue plays in her mahogany eyes, hypnotizing me to display vulnerability.
“Life. I got laid off a while back. Thankfully, I had backup savings, but it’s hard out here right now,” I admit. “That person was the wildcard in my life that made me forget about my real stressors.”
“Honey, it’s like walking on nails when no money’s coming in your pocket,” Lior empathizes. “Did you come here with anyone?”
“No, my homegirl was supposed to meet me here. She backed out at the last minute,” I say. I admittedly would’ve left by now if Lior’s infectious personality hadn’t grappled me. I’m a social butterfly when I have someone to guide me. When flying solo, I find the bar or a refreshments table and scroll on my phone, looking up and smiling awkwardly every few minutes.
“Well, you can come chill with us,” Zari says, nodding to one of the V.I.P. sections. Two friends are shoulder to shoulder in a C-shaped, shaded sitting area, cackling as they watch a video on a phone. “We have some connections. Maybe we can get acclimated and help you land a new opportunity.” A grin lights up my face as a slither of hope restores itself within me.
Zari lifts an eyebrow at Lior. “That’s if this one is done being a drama king.”
Lior shoos Zari with his hand as he scoots off his barstool. I follow suit. My new buddies tower over my 5’3” frame.
“Zari, stop acting like y’all didn’t cross a line!” Lior blurts. “Y’all said I couldn’t dance!”
“You can’t!” Zari says, followed by an ascending laugh. She nudges my shoulder. “Lior dances to every song like he’s conducting a choir! He can’t even shake all that ass he got!”
Lior lunges at Zari, and she flinches. “I’ll shake your ass,” he threatens. “Tall ass bitch. Need to place your ass in the WNBA draft!”
I bust a gut, amused by how extra Lior truly is. Zari is tall, but not that tall. She might be 5’10.
I trail behind them, giggling while they keep arguing. They have a brother-sister dynamic. Whenever Lior seems close to letting the topic go, Zari mischievously riles him again.
They introduce me to Solana, an Afro-Latina transwoman with a looser ‘fro than my own, and Bones, a bisexual masc-leaning woman with cornrows and face tattoos. They joke that they have an L (Zari), B (Bones), G (Lior), and T (Solana), so I better be one of the other alphabets if I wish to join their crew. Luckily, I identify as P, a pansexual woman.
It could be their genuine nature or my adaptability, but I fit in well with their dynamics. The warmth in our little section makes the rest of the party seem like it’s in another atmosphere. We’s Liberated, Heaux’s guest list involves mostly drama-free, Black queers, but something within this little friend group feels like … home or destiny.
Bones works from home as a senior software engineer, comfortably making six figures a year. Solana’s an event planner and co-owner of EVERLAST Events, the same agency that orchestrated the very day party we’re vibing at. I wonder why I've never seen her around since I’m constantly popping up at an EVERLAST shindig. She answers my curiosity, saying she’s not really a party girl, even if she plans them.
“Wait, so what do you do again?” Bones asks. I have totally skipped over my issues with unemployment, too invested in their intriguing, money-making lives.
“She’s looking for work right now,” Zari answers for me, meticulously rolling a blunt.
“Oh, well, what did you do previously?” Bones rephrases.
“Well,” I sigh shakily, not even wanting to repeat the bullshit I experienced. “My last job was as a Customer Success Manager at Excite Tech.”
Bones whistles before I can mention the part about me being laid off. “Yikes,” she says, dark eyes offering sympathy. “They did y’all dirty.”
“Yup,” I affirm, trying not to sound too bitter. “We walked in for work one Tuesday morning, and they told us to walk our asses back out. It was supposed to be my dream job, if there is one. I had been stuck in customer service call center jobs since I graduated.”
One unique aspect of having an English degree is its versatility in job opportunities. You can correlate your skill set to high-paying positions if you're a phenomenal writer and intellectual. But just because you can doesn’t mean it’s easy. Most of us end up getting stuck in shitty fields. I thought I had strayed away from the typical call center job, getting cursed out about bills and situations I had no control over. Now, here I am, reapplying to unfavorable positions because no other career path will award me a shot. And even call centers don’t want me. If I participate in another hopeful interview and fail to get selected, I might surrender my life to the gods.
“Well, what are your interests outside of customer service?” Solana asks, playing with the ruffles on her gorgeous yellow sundress. It complements her deep, bronzed skin.
“I’m a jack of all trades,” I say honestly. “I have the professional skill sets of research analysis, hospitality, and quality assurance. But I adore creating. I can write, dance, sing, photograph, and create marketing strategies. It’s hard to find your footing in a creative field, though. There’s always that one person ahead of you with the award-winning portfolio and groundbreaking connections.” I consciously stop myself from venting and instead choose to keep my frustrations and discouragement inside.
Zari licks her lips after successfully sealing the blunt, inadvertently sexy. “There will always be competition better than you,” she agrees, her voice mellow compared to earlier. “But if you present yourself as the supreme candidate in every opportunity, you’ll eventually make it. What do you want to do, Jozzi?”
“I want to write books,” I admit, downcast. “Possibly, a TV show.”
“So, you want to be a novelist? Like fiction?”
I nod, sucking my bottom lip. Shrugging, I force myself to give more information. “I write queer fiction, mostly romance with thriller elements. Thousands read my books as I post them online, but I don’t monetarily profit from it. Which, I don’t care because I love creating stories that much. I only wish I could make a livable wage while doing it. I could set up a Patreon or put my books under a paywall, but I feel it’s a disservice to my community and myself.”
“Have you tried publishing?” The question I always get asked comes from Lior.
“I could self-publish,” I answer. “But marketing your own work, especially a book, is hard and expensive.”
“But you have readers. How many?” Lior questions.
“I don’t know. I have 10,000 followers, but who knows how many ghost followers there are? I’ve been writing on the same site for years. I have 300 consistent readers. But as I said, they read for free. I doubt any of them would buy my work, except maybe ten. I’ve considered self-publishing and traditional publishing, but both take time. It’s hard to invest time when I’m either depressed because I’m broke or working a job that drains my energy and creativity.” I shrug my shoulders, laughing softly. “It’s confusing. But yes. I’m aware of the avenues I could take. It’s just challenging to embark on them.”
Bones nods as if she understands. “Where can I find your books?”
“Owlpad.” Usually, I don’t give my username out, but fuck it. Either they love it or hate it. “My username’s JozziWrites.”
My stomach turns as the four of them take out their phones, searching for my fiction, riddled with vulgar jokes, wild plot twists, and pornographic sex scenes.
“Oh shit! I’ve read you!” Bones shouts, grinning emphatically. “‘Til Dusk’ was my shit. You’re incredibly talented.”
“My favorite is ‘Up in Smoke,’” Zari says, charmingly smirking. “I knew your name sounded familiar.”
My heart’s about to skip out of my chest and go “Cha Cha Slide” on the dancefloor with the elderly gays. I’ve never met a reader in real life, never. But here are two, laughing with me at the astonishing coincidence.
“You’re gonna publish a book, officially,” Zari affirms as if I have no say in it. She digs into her wallet and presents me with a business card. “And I’ll be your first literary agent.”
Zari’s three years older than me, and she acts like it. She’s been on my ass for the past three months, checking on the status of my manuscript. My biggest Owlpad hit, “Up in Smoke,” has received a full edit with more fluid dialogue, cleaner descriptions, and deeper character arcs. I assumed I knew my main characters before, lesbian detectives Keri and Naomi, but Zari has challenged me and made me realize I wasn’t as knowledgeable as I thought. With Zari’s encouragement and Solana’s employment at EVERLAST Events, I’m close to finishing the project of my lifetime.
Zariana Hardwick, a Black lesbian literary agent, has connections to leading publishers in the industry. She’s frequently busy weightlifting, assisting her other clients, or hanging with her friends (who have become my own). But occasionally, we find ourselves alone in our apartments, conversing over wine. Her friendly and charming nature makes it difficult to gauge if she gets warm and fuzzy inside when we're together. But I know I get goosebumps whenever our hands brush against each other.
“How does it feel to finally be on your way to publication, JZ?” Zari asks, hands in the pockets of her fitted two-piece suit. Earlier today, she deemed my manuscript eligible to be shopped around. Even if a publisher accepts my book tomorrow, it could take at least a year before my book is announced and slated to hit shelves.
Due to my impatience, I used to be uninterested in the traditional publishing method, but Zari has helped me embrace it. Not only did I create an exhilarating Black lesbian romance thriller, but it has the potential to be read by millions. This could open dozens of doors, from finance to branching off into the TV writing world. And it’s all thanks to Zari for taking a shot on me, something she claims (and I believe) she never does. She believed in me and helped me manifest the aspirations I’ve had since high school. I’m thirty now, but my life is finally taking form.
“I feel lit as fuck!” I say, pouring her a glass of wine. Zari’s hilarious in more ways than one. She has a professional side and a personal one. Her uptight, strict business persona sometimes seeps out during our friendly moments. Meaning, I have to be as extra as Lior to remind her we’re in a laidback setting. “I know you didn’t come to my crib to stand with your hands in your pockets! Drink with me, bitch!”
Zari shrugs off her blazer and hangs it on the nearest barstool. She accepts a flute of red wine. I grab the bottle and a glass and lead her to the couch, my strut infused with a purposeful, irresistible swivel. I have no clue if Zari wants me, but she’s attracted. She thinks I don’t see her staring at my spandex shorts, trying to figure out the circumference of my ass. Is it a good idea to sleep with your literary agent? I doubt it. But I desire to do more than tango in the sheets.
I could listen to Zari talk all day, analyzing every Toni Morrison novel in her smooth, intellectual tone. I could also rap lyrics back and forth with her for hours, smitten by her Houston drawl. Sometimes, she’s a sweetheart, texting me encouraging messages throughout the day. Other times, she’s an annoying dick head, teasing me about my taste in sex partners. Little does she comprehend that those people are merely vessels that fail to fulfill my desire for her.
“Do you actually like the people you get with?” Zari asks after a few glasses of wine, a lazy smile playing on their delicious lips.
I snicker at the random question and rest my head against her shoulder, my feet curled up on the couch. As she casually wraps her arm around me, I peek at her. “Why are you asking me that, Z-Ari?”
“Cause I’m curious, JZ.”
“Do you actually like the people you fuck in your bachelorette pad?” I pry. She’s always in someone else’s business but private as hell about hers. I’m getting some tea tonight.
Zari sucks her teeth, her eyeballs glancing at the ceiling. “I don’t fuck like that. I’m too busy trying to get painstakingly perfectionist authors like yourself published.”
I curl my lips with doubt. “Yeah, you must take me as a fool.”
“I’m for real, love.” The statement emits naturally, but it sounds so peculiar, so affectionate, so entrancing. It leaves me frozen. My heart thumps needily with so much momentum that I sense it in my throat. “I’m not attracted to women enough to bed them. Not until I’m sure they check all my boxes.”
“For real?” I ask, still a bit skeptical.
She chuckles and places her glass next to mine on the coffee table. “For real. You know I only lie to Lior.”
I shift my eyes around the room as the new information settles on me. “Wait. So, when’s the last time you had sex?”
“Six months ago.”
“Got damn!”
“Jozlyn.”
Her sternness elicits an apologetic giggle from me. “Well, sorry, it’s such a shock.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re … hot. Sexy. Smoking. Sizzling. S—”
“You’re so obsessed with alliteration,” she says as if she’s exhausted with me.
“I am not!” I defend so hard that my voice squeaks. Zari finds amusement in my offense, her eyes crinkling as I scowl. “Maybe if you weren’t an asshole, you’d attract a—” I stop myself, noticing another alliteration incoming. “Hmph.”
“Hmph.” Zari mocks. “The fuck?”
“Zariana, you’re giving me a headache more than the wine,” I pout, leaning deeper into her brawny frame. My arms wrap around her as I get cozy. “Why don’t you fuck people?”
“I do fuck people,” she laughs. “Just special people.”
“When’s the last time you met a special person?”
Zari’s hand strokes my shoulder. It’s the most intimate we’ve been, but I don’t say anything. I love having her close. “Three months ago,” she says slowly.
“So, you met someone three months ago that you really like but haven’t fucked them yet?” I ask, trying to process it.
“Nah, it’s complicated.”
“How?”
“Business.”
A pang of jealousy strikes me in the chest. “Is it Jordin?” She’s another literary agent at Zari’s agency. She's absolutely gorgeous, with caramel skin and green eyes. Our only common trait is beauty.
“Hell no,” Zari says as if she’s offended.
“Well, who is it? Gimme a hint.”
Zari chuckles so deeply that her body vibrates against me. “She’s a writer.”
I suck in a breath, my adrenaline pumping so fast you’d think I’m about to jump out of a plane. “Oh …?”
“She’s hilarious and attracts people to her without doing too much. Though she’s talented and knows it, she second-guesses her abilities. It frustrates me sometimes, and we fight about it, but it’s always in a respectful way.”
A soft smile graces my lips. “Tell me more.”
“She’s the prettiest woman I’ve laid eyes on. She has these kittenish eyes, equally feisty and playful. They invite you inside and make you want to learn more about her.”
“Is her body tea?” I ask facetiously.
“Her body’s scolding hot tea,” Zari emphasizes, her voice adopting an animated tone. “From head to toe, she has all the proportions that satisfy my needs.”
“Especially her ass, though, right? It’s fat?”
“Fatter than pork rinds.”
The laughter I've been stifling finally bursts out, snorting from my nostrils. “You’re so stupid!” I screech.
“You asked me!”
“I didn’t expect you to say that.” I fan myself as I get my cackles out, teardrops sticking to my eyelids. Wiping delicately at my lashes, I pull back from Zari. “Wait, so you really like me? I’m the mystery bitch, right?”
“You are indeed the mystery bitch,” she confirms with a humored grin. “How do you feel about that?” She slowly licks her lips as she awaits my answer.
“Relieved,” I say. “Because I have feelings for you, too.” When I say those words, it's as if I’ve been set free from invisible shackles. I breathe stronger, my lungs working at maximum capacity.
Zari tips my chin with their fingertips and takes my breath away with her lips. The combination of cheap Moscato and the minty flavor of her chapstick is the most delightful taste I’ve ever experienced. I crave more and go for it. I straddle her waist, wrapping arms around her neck, deepening the kiss, introducing her to my tongue and the gyrations of my hips. She cradles my back, hands soothingly moving up and down until the kiss gets so good to her that she clutches my ass. I moan softly into her mouth, telling her how much I yearn for her without uttering a word.
Our clothes slowly decorate my living room floor until I’m laid bare, and only designer boxer briefs adorn Zari’s godly figure. I want to suck on her brown nipples, nip at the flesh until she claws into my back. But instead, I find myself on my spine.
“Are you sure?” Zari whispers, her breath coolly hitting the saliva she has left on my neck.
“Hell yes,” I mutter hotly.
“Not ‘hell yes,’” she teases, kissing towards my breasts.
She gives me a sample of what her mouth and tongue can do, cupping and pleasuring my breasts until my back arches off the cushions. I’m so wet that I sense the puddle forming down low, building and building, begging to be sopped up. My body shivers needily as if I’m having withdrawals for something I’ve never had. Zari’s lips trail my tummy, not caring about the love handles I’ve gained while writing my book.
“So perfect,” she whispers against my belly button. My thighs are spread wide open, waiting for her arrival. “Oh, look at you,” she says, mesmerized, stroking her thumb against the moistness on my inner thighs. “You really do like me, huh?”
A giggly, anxious laugh responds. “Yes, I do.”
Her thumb glides against my sensitive clit. I squeeze her shoulder blade, my breath hitching. “Will you allow me to treat you and this pretty pussy on a date after this?” she asks.
“Yes,” I whimper. “We can go anywhere.” She can take me to Atlantis or the gotdamn moon. I don’t care. Just put your face in it, got dammit.
A laugh grazes my pussy, hitting it with a writhing coolness. Zari wraps her arms around my thighs and dives deep. Taking in a sharp breath, my mouth drops open in wonderous pleasure. I can’t stay still to say my life, fidgeting as Zari demonstrates how to properly eat a pussy.
Tongue flicking.
Clit sucking.
Alternating pressures.
This divine woman even has the breathwork down pact.
“Oooo,” I cry, my climax incoming. The experience is so overwhelmingly delightful and pleasurable that I fear reaching the point of no return, petrified of what will happen when I lose control.
My ass lifts from the couch, but no matter how much I buck, Zari upholds control. Her eye contact commands me to settle the fuck down and cum. I listen.
God, do I listen. I don’t even know what I’m saying outside of her name. It sounds like a fucking spell.
My heartbeat accelerates until I’m only able to gasp for air. I reach the edge of glory, tumbling down from my climax, seeing stars behind my eyelids. Even in the aftermath, my body trembles in intervals.
No matter how much I hone my pen game, I could never write an oral sex scene that phenomenal. I could never arrange words on a page to depict the sensations I’m experiencing.
With a soft touch, Zari presses her lips against my pouted mouth, her thumb tracing circles along my quivering jawline. “Shhh, everything’s okay, love,” she mutters. “Did I make you feel good?”
I might nut again solely from the sweetness of her tone. “Mhm.” I awake to see her beautifully angled features before me. “I want you.”
It could mean multiple things, but she understands me immediately. “You already got me, love.”
18 Months Later
Standing to my right, Zari crosses her arms, exuding an air of authority that makes her resemble more of a bodyguard than my literary agent. We’re in a small Black-owned library, the comforting scent of books and coffee shielding us from the winter. I’m sitting behind a large white table, copies of my bestseller “Up in Smoke” stacked, ready to be signed and gifted to my fans.
God, that’s weird to say.
They’re my faithful readers to me, but they claim themselves as avid fans of Jozlyn B. Childs. Or, as they like to call themselves, Jozzi’s Children. Most of them are lesbians, ranging from young adults to seniors, but they all show me love the same. With a line forming outside the library, fans eagerly step up to congratulate me on my breakthrough, gushing about my lovable characters, and complimenting my stunning girlfriend. Zari gifts them a friendly smile sporadically, but she’s on alert.
What can I say? The woman is protective, adorably so. No one has ever tried anything with me, and I doubt they will with her always within arm’s reach.
Like an unexpected rose in a garden of vegetables, our love has bloomed. When I spotted her at the We’s Liberated, Heaux party, which is a wild ass name in hindsight, I figured I could fuck her. But a flourishing business relationship partnered with an earthshaking love? Man, who would’ve thought?
I barely recognize the person I was over a year ago—depressed, confident in my talents, but uncertain about how I’d transform them into success. Zari took a leap of faith on me. To this day, she doesn’t know why.
“I just had an instinct, my love, that you were worth everything I could offer,” she always says when I ask her, smiling gently.
A young Black girl with owlish glasses approaches, her silk press falling dramatically down her petite frame. She says I’m an inspiration. At age 25, she is muddling through discouragement despite winning a few short story competitions. Her name’s Tori.
“I understand making money solely from your writing is rare,” Tori confesses. “But I just want to make something. I’m starting to feel like I live in a fairytale world, and my dreams may never see reality. I hate my job, but it’s what keeps me fed.”
“Girl, you’re out here winning competitions?! You have a leg up on me,” I joke, tapping my pin against her signed book. I lean forward, lowering my voice so that only she can hear. “When I was your age, I was just writing. I knew I loved it and dreamed of publishing to the world, but I didn’t employ much effort. Work and personal life shackled my energy, and insecurities piled up. I read the negative comments from other authors about how it’s hard to succeed, and once you do, it’s not sustainable. I researched how long the process takes to publish traditionally and how many rejections I’ll likely face. I swear, once you find something you wish to achieve, it’s easier to find hopeless narratives than inspiring ones.” I sigh, remembering how everything tried to drown me and my faith. “I was beaten up, discouraged, and felt unappreciated, much like yourself.”
“How’d you get out of the rut?” Tori asks, dismissing a tear before it can trail her cheek.
“I held on to hope,” I say. “Even when I wasn’t actively writing, I refused to let go of my dream. I knew it’d come to pass someday. Maybe it’d be when I was 40, 50, or 60, but it’d happen. My faith repeatedly renewed itself until it received assistance.” I glance over at Zari. She’s smiling tenderly. I knew her nosy self would be all up in my business.
“You may not be blessed with a literary agent falling from heaven,” I admit to Tori. “But, I firmly believe that those who put their intentions out in the universe and hone their craft will reap the success they deserve. It’ll come to you, Tori. Don’t let yourself or anyone else persuade you differently.”
She nods, gratitude stretching her oval-shaped face. I open the book and add nine digits to my original signature. Handing the book to her, I say, “Send me what you’re writing. I’ll be happy to be your mentor.”
She keeps questioning me, asking if I'm absolutely sure while trying to hold back her excitement. “Because I will call you and text until you’re sick of me,” she warns.
“I may not always be available because someone has work restrictions on me.” I shift my eyes to Zari, who has been growing more stringent during this press rollout. Along with doing a victory lap across the globe, I’m also in stressful negotiations regarding adapting 'Up in Smoke' into a film. “But even if I’m unavailable, I’ll find time to respond right when you need me.”
Tori clutches my bestseller to her chest as if it might vanish. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
She prances off, keeping her head down as everyone wonders what the hell she’s so excited about. Before my next reader approaches, Zari walks over and leans down towards my ear. “Only one mentee at a time, JZ. Don’t offer anyone else your number, or you’ll have to see me in my office.”
I recoil, positioning myself to catch a glimpse of her mischievous smirk. She gets on my nerves sometimes, always trying to be my boss.
I should stop lying. I love that shit.
“You hear me?” she asks.
“Yeah, uh huh, okay—"
“Shut up,” she finishes, kissing my lips. “I love you.”
I pout, clutching her hand. “I love you, too.”
“Finish your book signing, superstar.”
She steps back into her guardian position, and I wave the next fan over obediently.
Will I have another bestseller? I don’t know. But with Zariana Hardwick on my arm, I’ll never fail or feel unaccomplished. She's the cherished jewel of my heart, her inspiring presence igniting hope and love within me. Now, and forever more.
The End…
Author’s Note
This short story is my absolute favorite, and I consider it one of my best writing pieces. Everything just flowed. I hope y’all enjoyed it. It came from a personal place. I never write author characters because I feel like it’s “too easy.” But I’ve been going through a tough period in my life financially and have been without a stable job for some months now. It seems like every time I get discouraged about my writing, one of you messages me something positive that warms my heart. Thank you so much for that. You’ll never know how much your support means to me. This chapter was honestly mostly written for myself. I need a win so bad right now, so I gave Jozzi one. I’ll get mine in divine time.
Thank you for reading, and here’s to more short stories as beautiful as this one.
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Taylen (he/him)
if you only had 10 people buy your books (which is impossible btw your writings are magnificent and there’s a need for the rawness that you have imbedded in all of your work.) trust im one of the 10!!
taylen you’ve done it again 🙏🏽