Faith & Fortune: A Transmasc 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. Meanwhile, battling with their identity, Zari, a transmasculine person, finds validation in a destined encounter.
Vibe: Humorous, cozy, uplifting, flirty, informative, conversational
Content Warnings: Explicit language, depictions of sex, brief mentions of depression
Word Count: 7,373
Main Character Depictions
Doja Henshaw as Jozlyn B. Childs a.k.a. Jozz
Ebby Brown as Zarien Hardwick a.k.a. Zari
DJ Down-Lo'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 Down-Lo 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 bantu-knotted head hoe named Kai, and they have me misconstrued. 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. Kai can have an All-Star roster team of hoes, but I can’t shoot one shot 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!” Kai 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 pretty stud bartender, requesting another shot.
“Then why are we having this conversation, Kai?!” 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?” Kai 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 Kai’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 Queers Unchained. But that’s not the point. Did this serial ass eater call my booty little?
“Your tongue got trapped between these cheeks last night. Stop playing with me,” 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.”
Kai'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 skinny-necked, no-stroke-having, can’t-find-the-clit ass demon talk to me crazy? We’ve only talked for three months, and our situation will never lead to jumping the broom.
I've held onto this chaotic, Looney Tunes-sounding loser, seeking to add excitement to my otherwise depressing days. I'm ready to embrace being bored and blue again, chile. It’s time to reclaim the little peace that I have.
“I swear for Lord …” Kai 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 Down-Lo’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! And boy, you know you’re lying! 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.
“Dawg, don’t tell me you’re still mad!” A Southern twang roars, husky and masculine. I swing my neck to the left and lose my breath.
Who is this?! He can only be a stripper or an athlete with this body.
“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!”
“Yo, why do you always have to stoop low?! It's not our fault we didn't grow up with a traditional, two-parent family!” Lior’s anonymous friend smacks his lips, but I’m focused on his physique.
His design should be considered a crime. Usually, I like my partners darker, but his rich caramel skin looks more delicious than any macchiato I’ve ever tasted. The Cuban shirt he’s donning hangs open, offering an alluring glimpse of his taut, carved abdomen. His jogger shorts stop a few inches before his knees, promoting the powerful lines of his tattooed legs. Aesthetically pleasing tattoos decorate his limbs, chest, and neck. I can’t make out every intricate detail, but I sense his body art tells a story. Maybe I can undress him and learn what it is.
“Zari, negro, why you come over here with mess,” Lior asks. Lior launches an apologetic smile my way and adds some sugar to his voice. “I’m so sorry, honey. My friends are ratchet.”
I respond with a nervous titter, suddenly unable to form words. The Hennessey is developing an arousing heat—triggered by Mr. Guns and Tattoos. 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, his stare unwavering from me. Half of his flawless face lifts in a humored smile. With his symmetrical hairline and polished aesthetic, he could be a model. I’ve never seen a beardless man appear so enchanting, at least not in reality. I thought men customized like him were only princes in Disney films.
“You’re the girl the DJ called out, right?” Prince Zari asks. “I’m Zari, short for Zarien. May I have your name?”
I take his smooth, extended hand, hoping he doesn’t sense the clamminess of mine. “Jozzi, short for Jozlyn.”
“Oh, so he gets the government name, and not me,” Lior mutters before sipping down the rest of his margarita.
“Well, Jozzi, I hope you dumped whoever had you stressed out,” Zari says, tenderly squeezing my hand before he lets go.
“Oh, well, we weren’t dating,” I say sheepishly. I can’t hold his gaze, his charm 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. He regains my attention. Intrigue plays in his 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 trying to swim with weights tied around your ankles when the money isn’t flowing,” 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. Both of my new buddies tower over my 5’3” frame, but staring up at Zari is like gazing at a mountain’s summit.
“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 a humorous, ascending laugh. It sounds like a wolf’s howl. He nudges my shoulder to hold my attention. “Lior dances to every song two beats behind. He throws me off my rhythm.”
Lior lunges at Zari, and he flinches. “I’ll shake your tall ass like a coconut tree,” he threatens. “Gigantic ass neanderthal! You need to take your freak-ass to the Atlanta Hawks!”
I bust a gut at how real Lior is. Zari has to be at least 6’3. He could be a good backup guard for Trae Young if he has the basketball skills.
I trail behind them, giggling while they keep arguing. They have a little brother-big brother dynamic. Whenever Lior (big brother) seems close to letting the topic go, Zari (little brother) mischievously riles him again.
They introduce me to Solana, an Afro-Latina lesbian 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 (Solana), B (Bones), G (Lior), and T (Zari), 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. Queers Unchained’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 his lips after successfully sealing the blunt, inadvertently sexy. “Wherever you go, there will be competition. And most times, someone’s gonna be better than you,” he agrees, his 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.
Bone’s reading my novels makes sense since she identifies as lesbian, but I glance at Zari skeptically. I mean, men can read lesbian books. But he doesn’t seem like the type that would.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he chuckles. “I am trans, remember,” he says, fully opening his shirt. His finger traces a scar below his glorious pecs, barely visible behind his tattoos. “I wasn’t always a guy, but I always loved women. So, I read you quite a bit before I transitioned.” He shrugs and adds, “After, too.”
He sparks up the blunt with confidence despite no one else smoking in the vicinity. “I don’t feel like a straight transman or like a cis-man. I consider myself a non-binary trans-masculine person. Not necessarily male or female, but I align with society’s standards of a male or masculine person. I was a masculine-presenting lesbian for over a decade before I started hormone therapy and received top surgery. If it were up to me, I’d identify as a ‘non-binary lesbian,’ but people would call me ‘confused’ due to my appearance. Labels are fun until they get complex.”
I never thought of someone having his specified experience, but I bet it’s more common than not. Zari blows smoke through his nostrils, appearing like a slightly aggravated dragon who has mastered inner peace. He offers me the blunt, and I accept.
“I tell him all the time, ‘fuck what people say.’ If you consider yourself a lesbian, then you’re a fucking lesbian,” Bones says as if it’s simple. “It’s not a hard concept to grasp, but some of us in the LGBT community like to punch down and judge others. It’s 2024. Anyone still aligning appearance with gender identity is being ignorant or disingenuous.”
“This gay shit is hard enough,” Solana co-signs. “Labels are personal and shouldn’t be determined by a grand jury of people who have no romantic interest in you. I don’t get why people care so much.” I pass the blunt to Solana. She says, “Thank you,” politely.
Aw, she’s one of those ‘thank you’ smoke sessions bitches. I giggle and cough a little, rubbing my chest. Zari has that Jennifer Hudson pack: super loud.
“I agree,” I state, nodding affirmingly in Zari’s direction. “I don’t see the issue in you identifying as a non-binary lesbian. I wouldn’t even care if you identified as a trans-man lesbian. It’s your label, not mine. The only issue I can see is if other people use your identity to assume heterosexual transmen are lesbians, but that’s not your cross to carry. Your personal identity is solely yours, and you are not responsible for others' ignorance or lack of knowledge on nuanced, queer subjects.” The silly, annoying topic induces a genuine laugh from me. “Like, what the fuck? If a lesbian isn’t attracted to you, they just aren’t. And if you identify as lesbian, it doesn’t mean you only date lesbians. There are bisexuals, pansexuals, genderqueer people, and other open-minded folks who align with the feminine identity that would date, fuck, and marry you.” I certainly would. “It doesn’t matter. People love to politick to fit their narratives, but queerness is messy. Be a lesbian. It’s your right.”
“Perrioood!” Lior says, slashing his nails near his neck as if there’s nothing else to say. “#BeALesbian, brought to you by our new favorite, writing ass bitch, Jozzi Morrison!”
I throw my head back with a cackle, absentmindedly leaning against Zari, who’s laughing too. “Not Jozzi Morrison!” I squeal. “First, you compare me to Beyoncé, and now Toni Morrison! You’re disrespecting all of my idols!”
“Nah, your writing has substance and life, just like Toni,” Zari says, receiving the blunt from Bones.
“Bay-bee, Toni was out here writing and publishing. I could never relate.”
Zari inhales from the blunt, his jawline becoming increasingly rigid. He shakes his head sweetly, and then a smile forms on his lips. “Toni was 39 years old when her first novel, The Bluest Eye, was published. How old are you?”
I take the blunt from him, smiling mischievously. “28.”
Zari holds up a small card in front of me, its writing obscured by the smoke I just exhaled. Once the smoke clears, I pass the blunt to Solana, who says, “Thank you” again. Taking the card from Zari, who wears a smug smirk, I squint at it.
Zarien Hardwick
Literary Agent
zarienhardwick@hardwickagency.com
Specializing in uplifting queer and Black voices
I gaze at him as if he has performed magic and created the card. You shouldn’t judge someone by their looks, but I’d never guess he was a literary agent. And from the accolades listed on the back of the card, he’s a damn good one, too.
“So, if the literary icon Toni Morrison published her first book at 39,” he says, cocking his head slightly. “I think I can get you published by 30, depending on your work ethic.”
“Wh-what are you saying?” My heart drums, beating faster than the KAYTRANADA song the DJ’s blasting.
“I’m saying you’re going to publish a book officially,” Zari says, his smirk becoming sweeter and more genuine. “And I’ll be your first literary agent.”
Zari’s three years older than me, and he acts like it. He’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 while making money.
Zarien Hardwick, a Black, trans-masculine lesbian literary agent, has connections to leading publishers in the industry. He’s frequently busy weightlifting, assisting his other clients, or hanging with his friends (who have become my own). But occasionally, we find ourselves alone in our apartments, conversing over wine. His friendly and charming nature makes it difficult to gauge if he 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 his fitted two-piece suit. Earlier today, he 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 he claims (and I believe) he never does. He believed in me and helped me manifest the aspirations I’ve had since high school. I’m 28 now, but my life is finally taking form.
“I feel lit as fuck!” I say, pouring him a glass of wine. Zari’s hilarious in more ways than one. He has a professional side and a personal one. His uptight, strict business persona sometimes seeps out during our friendly moments. Meaning, I have to be as extra as Lior to remind him 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, nigga!”
Zari shrugs off his blazer and hangs it on the nearest barstool. The seams of his dress shirt seem like they're about to tear from his swollen muscles. I won’t object if it happens.
He accepts a flute of red wine. I grab the bottle and a glass and lead him to the couch, my strut infused with a purposeful, irresistible swivel. I have no clue if Zari wants me, but he’s attracted. He thinks I don’t see him 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 his smooth, intellectual tone. I could also rap lyrics back and forth with him for hours, smitten by his Houston drawl. Sometimes, he’s a sweetheart, texting me encouraging messages throughout the day. Other times, he’s an annoying dick head, teasing me about my taste in sex partners. Little does he comprehend that those people are merely vessels that fail to fulfill my desire for him.
“Do you actually like the people you get with?” Zari asks after a few glasses of wine, a lazy smile playing on his delicious lips.
I snicker at the random question and rest my head against his shoulder, my feet curled up on the couch. As he casually wraps his arm around me, I peek at him. “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. He’s always in someone else’s business but private as hell about his. I’m getting some tea tonight.
Zari sucks his teeth, his 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 people enough to bed them. Not until I’m sure they check all my boxes.”
“For real?” I ask, still a bit skeptical.
He chuckles and places his 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.”
“Gaaahhh-leeee!”
“Jozlyn.”
His sternness elicits a repentant 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,” he says as if he’s exhausted with me.
“I am not!” I defend so hard that my voice squeaks. Zari finds amusement in my offense, his eyes crinkling as I scowl. “Maybe if you weren’t an asshole, you’d attract an awesome—” I stop myself, noticing another alliteration incoming. “Hmph.”
“Hmph.” Zari mocks. “The fuck?” He giggles boyishly, annoyingly, attractively.
“Zarien, you’re giving me a headache more than the wine,” I pout, leaning deeper into his strapping frame. My arms wrap around him as I get cozy. “Why don’t you fuck people?”
“I do fuck people,” he 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 him close. “Three months ago,” he 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 supermodel gorgeous, with caramel skin and green eyes. Our only common trait is beauty.
“Hell no,” Zari says as if he’s offended.
“Well, who is it? Gimme a hint.”
Zari chuckles so deeply that his 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, his 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 redonkously fat?”
“Fatter than a bloated possum lying dead in the middle of the road.”
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. That’s so disgusting!” 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,” he confirms with a humored grin. “How do you feel about that?” He slowly licks his lips as he 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 his fingertips and takes my breath away with his lips. The combination of cheap Moscato and the cocoa flavor of his chapstick is the most delightful taste I’ve ever experienced. I crave more and go for it.
I straddle his waist, wrapping arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, introducing him to my tongue and the gyrations of my hips. He cradles my back, hands soothingly moving up and down until the kiss gets so good to him that he clutches my ass. I moan softly into his mouth, telling him how much I yearn for him 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 his nipples, nip at the flesh until he claws into my back, and give him head until his eyes roll into oblivion. I kiss down his neck, sucking at his woodsy-scented flesh, his cologne turning me on with every whiff. A deep moan slips once I hit his sweet spot. I focus on my target, my hands exploring his sculpted body as I rock my hips against his.
He gently squeezes my shoulder as my kisses travel down to his abdomen. “Wait …” I can tell from his gaze alone that he’s trying to figure out how to tell me something. I feel like I know exactly what it is.
My knees plant on the hardwood floor, and my fingertips slip under the waistband of his boxers. “I don’t care,” I mumble, kissing up his hairy thigh. “I want you. Any shape. Any form.” I lick my lips, hungry to pleasure whatever he’s packing. “Can I?” He nods and lifts upward so I can tug down his underwear.
“Oh …,” I say, my eyes ogling the glacéed masterpiece between his legs. “Well, hey, daddy.” I massage the muscles of his upper thighs and shift my gaze to his dreamy eyes. “Do you only want me to suck you, or do you want more?”
There are as many options to pleasure his sex as there are for mine, except his bundle of nerves is larger and thicker. He looks tastier, too.
“Just suck, love,” he replies. His tongue slips between his lips. I sense his anticipation and desire. It awakens a whole new freak in me.
With a hungry appetite, I bury my face between his legs. As I take him in my mouth, his taste overwhelms my senses, a delectable nectar that leaves me craving more. He hums me a low, sensual tune, his hand sinking into my kinky afro. His fingers caress my kinks with care as his hums transform into sweet bellows. I squeeze his mighty thighs, his muscles tightening between my touch. If he’d let me, I’d exalt him all night until I’ve savored every drop of his divine ambrosia.
“God, Jozzi. You’re gonna make me nut.”
I moan against him, letting him know I yearn for him to unravel for me. His flesh feels as if it’s becoming bigger and harder the more that I suck.
“Oh, fu-fuck,” he stutters, his body jolting in abrupt motions. “I’m coming … I’m coming.” He sounds so peaceful, so gentle, so vulnerable. A sense of pride blasts through my loins as he gently pushes my shoulder backward. “Damn,” he mumbles, his broad chest heaving. “A++.”
I lick his arousal off my lips and climb onto his lap. I straddle his waist again, cradling my arm around his neck. His eyelids hide his precious eyes from me as he smiles adorably.
“Not you grading my head game,” I giggle, cupping his jaw and caressing his faultless skin.
“You know I’m a believer in constructive feedback,” he replies, his smile widening. His eyes flicker open, and his thumbs soothingly rub my waistline. “I’ll let you grade me next.”
I find myself on my spine with a glorious specimen on top of me, leaving marks of his desire on my breasts, neck, and tummy. He fondles my body tenderly, not caring about the pounds I’ve added on while working on my book. He adores every flab and praises my thickness, regardless of where it resides on my body.
His cool breath brushes against the warm puddle formed between my legs. “You’re so pretty, even in the parts no one ever sees.” He strokes his thumbs against the moistness on my inner thighs. “You really do like me, huh?”
A giggly, anxious laugh responds. “Yes, I do.”
His thumb glides against my sensitive clit. I squeeze his shoulder blade, my breath hitching. “Will you allow me to treat you and this pretty pussy on a date after this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whimper. “We can go anywhere.” He can take me to Atlantis or the gotdamn moon. I don’t care. Just put your face in it, got dammit.
Zari smoothly chuckles. His amusement fades as he wraps his arms around my thighs and dives deep. Taking in a sharp breath, my mouth drops open in wondrous pleasure. I can’t stay still to save my life, fidgeting as Zari demonstrates how to properly eat a pussy.
Tongue flicking.
Clit sucking.
Alternating pressures.
This divine god even has the breathwork down pat.
“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. His 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 his 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 his lips against my pouted mouth, his thumb tracing circles along my quivering chin. “Shhh, everything’s okay, love,” he mutters. “Did I make you feel good?”
I might nut again solely from the sweetness of his tone. “Mhm.” I awake to see his beautifully angled features before me. “I want you.”
It could mean multiple things, but he understands me immediately. “You already got me, love.
18 Months Later
Standing to my right, Zari crosses his arms, exuding an air of authority that makes him 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 boyfriend. Zari gifts them a friendly smile sporadically, but he’s on alert.
What can I say? The dude is protective, adorably so. No one has ever tried anything with me, and I doubt they will with him always within arm’s reach.
Like an unexpected rose in a garden of vegetables, our love has bloomed. When I spotted him at the Queers Unchained party, which is a wild ass name in hindsight, I figured I could fuck him. 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, he doesn’t know why.
“I just had an instinct, my love, that you were worth everything I could offer,” he always says when I ask him, 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 pen 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. He’s smiling tenderly. I knew his 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 his mischievous smirk. He gets on my nerves sometimes, always trying to be my boss.
I should stop lying. I love that shit.
“You hear me?” he asks.
“Yeah, uh huh, okay—"
“Shut up,” he finishes, kissing my lips. “I love you.”
I pout, clutching his hand. “I love you, too.”
“Finish your book signing, superstar.”
He steps back into his guardian position, and I wave the next fan over obediently.
Will I have another bestseller? I don’t know. But with Zarien Hardwick on my arm, I’ll never fail or feel unaccomplished. He's the cherished jewel of my heart, his inspiring presence igniting hope and love within me. Now, and forever more.
Author’s Note: Thank you for reading. Like, restack, and/or comment if you enjoyed the story!
In regards to the transmasc and transmen lesbian conversation:
In general, binary men cannot be lesbians. However, while being trans makes them no less of men in any way, some binary trans men may choose to still identify with the label/community if they identified as such before realizing they were men and still feel some form of connection to the term and community despite realizing they were men. This is up to the individual trans man, as they may feel more safe continuing to identify as lesbian/be part of lesbian spaces, either due to personal history, discomfort with male spaces due to trauma from cis men, or other personal reasons.
The idea that trans men can be lesbians is based purely in a respect for the autonomy of individual trans men who previously identified as such and due to complexity in their identity, trauma, comfort levels, or other personal reasons, still choose to identify as such- but that being said, trans men are absolutely 100% real men. While identifying as a lesbian in no way makes a trans man less of a man, a common form of transandrophobia holds that trans men are actually just lesbians because lesbians often feel some sense of detatchment from their gender. The label lesbian shouldn't be applied to trans men as a whole in any way, but individual trans men who feel comfortable with it should be respected. Identity is complex. While a large amount of trans men may be completely uncomfortable identifying as lesbian, and they should never be treated like they're "just confused lesbians" and should have their identities fully respected, individual trans men who do are no less of men for doing so and should be respected as well.
Let’s stay informed and spread some love and understanding.
Until next time.
Zavan (he/him)
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