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Bridal Blast Showcase 2013

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Hot new excerpt from Dapper Carter's 5 Fatale`Flaws

Long Heel Red Bottom

Cez had to giddy-up back to the suburbs because Queen Elisabeth and Princess missed their daddy and Khalil had to get back to the set. Shit like that always happens to people with children and workaholics, so anticipating this I made alternate plans to meet Sissy Cavanaugh at Capital One, the hottest spot in Manhattan on a Tuesday night. She claimed that she came back early to see me and that she was already in the City kicking it with the girls, so it made things easier for her to lie to the D.A. when she ditched them to meet up with me.

I met my dream girl in front of the club looking every bit as fine and eccentric as I expected her to.

She was white hot tonight and looked like a celebrity herself sporting a Madonna-like red and black plaid Catholic school girl mini skirt with rippedwhite fishnet stockings, and a pair of Louboutin platforms. She sported a black tuxedo jacket and blew her hair out wild like Alicia keys on a speedboat. She was drunk and high, which was what she liked to do anytime she was able to get away from the officer of the court she was living with.

I greeted her with a “Hey sexy,” and a thirst quenching smooch on her lips.

“Hi, baby. You’re looking good yourself.”

“What? This old thing.” I said, as I pirouetted showing off my Seven jeans and Polo windbreaker.

“You’re silly. I love that about you.”

“I just love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Prove it.”

She Casablanca kissed me in front of several hundreds of people waiting to get in. A resounding “whooooooo-weeeee” rose from the crowd followed by applause. I was pleasantly surprised but I wasn’t really complaining.

The club overflowed into the streets of the Meat Packing District with a line stretched around the block looking like a bag of Skittles. Luckily, I have friends in high places and Ziggy Stardust was promoting at a posh new club, Ice Cream. I had carte blanche at any venue he worked. L.A.M.E. on Monday in SoHo, Capital One on Tuesday in Meat Packing, Ice Cream on Wednesday in Union Square, Milk on Thursday back in Meat Packing, Contingency in Alphabet City on Friday, Excelsior on Saturday  in Chelsea, and TAG on Sunday in SoHo.

The place was packed. Wall to wall gold diggers and wanna be ballers were strewn about like a bomb went off. Her and I fit in perfectly.

The pronounced smell of marijuana encircled the back of the club so that’s where my muse and I headed so that we may partake in the burning bush as well.

Shorty was the belle of the ball working the room like a pro with her seductive cat like strut. Jokers were losing their fucking minds over this sexy and demure Mountaineer. I had no problem letting other motherfuckers sweat the package. In fact, I was offended if you weren’t checking for my chick because I was secure when it came to that.

I had total confidence that no other man could take any chick from me. If he could, then he could have her since as far as I was concerned she wasn’t down with me from the beginning and he just did me a favor. I used to have run-ins almost on a nightly basis with weak, possessive, insecure mothafuckas. On more than one occasion a dude stepped to me because his girl was checking for me. Ass backwards. Why don’t you check your chick? Or better yet, let her do her thing. You knew the game. Your bitch chose me.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re drinking.”

Fortunately tequila and vodka didn’t have the same sneak up ability that Long Island Ice Tea’s do so I was confident she could hold her liquor and make it back to my crib for late night festivities without any repercussions of how much she had been drinking.

We belly rubbed to Buju Banton and I took great delight in letting her know that my soldier was ready and able to go to battle. It was always exciting to me, that moment when your dancing with a girl and your becoming aroused and the decision has to be made whether or not to lay that salami up against her stomach if your belly rubbing or on her donkey if you riding it. Two things will happen, either she will pull away, letting you know that she don’t get down like that or she will nestle her ass even closer.

“I gotta pee,” she announced.

In New York it is an unwritten rule that when you’re at a club or bar and your lady goes to use the restroom, every mothafucka in the club is gonna try and kick it to her every step of the way going to the restroom and every step of the way coming back, so you had better be secure or you’re going to be getting into fights all the time.

So I went with her anyway…

“I gotta pee, too.”

We waited in the bathroom line tongue fornicating and dry humping feverishly right there up against the wall in the hallway. After a few minutes of outward pda’s (public displays of affection), we conspicuously slipped  into the unisex bathroom. She assumed her spot on the commode. She giggled profusely since I needed to relieve myself as well of the four shots and four Coronas we each had consumed. So I did what any drunk, desperate man would do and drained the snake right there in the bathroom sink. She thought it was hilarious. In fact, it turned her on.

Sissy, Miss Cavanaugh if you’re nasty, rose from the bowl and leaned back on the sink, pulling up her naughty school girl skirt, exposing her white lace thigh highs. Not even her usual thong. Her cleanly shaven kitty smiled, winked at me, then  invited me in.   But I had to taste her first.   It was my signature.   Our eyes did all of the talking that was needed like a point guard’s knowing glance to a teammate cutting back door for an alley oop.

As I dropped to my knees on the dirty bathroom floor I couldn’t help but think to myself how many public bathrooms I had been laid in.  

 “You’re so nasty!” “She said, taking both of her  index fingers and spread her labia fully exposing her spindle of nerve endings. I leaned in to give her kitty a “Hello Kitty” kiss.

The sprite tasted like a mountain dew.   Not the soda, but that chilly, early morning fresh, dewy fog that lingers at the bottom of South Mountain. Massengill’s vinegar and water. 

 I didn’t like fruity, perfumed smelling chochas.   I just want it to be clean and I didn’t mind if snapper smelled like snapper.   If they bottled it everyone would be wearing it. 

 I started out by sucking on that throbbing piece of cartilage between her legs which was already the size of a pinky but was now engorged to diameter of a thumb. I made sloppy, slurping sounds the same way she did when she performed fellatio on me.   It turned me on so I figured it would do the same for her.   I was right.   As I performed the A-B-C’s on her begging clit she erupted with a volcanic flow of fluid all over my face.   I had only gotten to the letter G.   Then the she-devil wrapped her legs around the back of my head, inviting my face deeper into her canal.

 ““Get it for me, Dapper,” she purred, while driving her heels into the gaudy, red velour wallpaper.

I peeped up with a greasy face and replied, “My pleasure.”

 I dropped my Seven’s and Calvin’s, then pushed my lovin’ in her slowly. Her pelvis waxed and waned accommodating her new daddy easily. I liked a woman who could open her spigot on command at any time or any place.

“I love fucking you…” she said.

“I fucking love you…” I said.

“I love you, too…” she said.

“And I love fucking you, too.” I said. That was our last utterance before I erupted inside of her.

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Contemporary fiction or Romance?

Now that a few reviews have trickled in since the release of my second novel one of my artistic insecurities have has come to the surface once more. I'm having a hard time deciding whether I’m a contemporary fiction writer or a romance writer. One usually doesn't want to pigeonhole oneself, but having come from a screenwriting background the only way I learned to write fiction novels was to read other authors. My cousin, Monique Gilmore-Scott, had several romance novels out so I used her books as my blueprint.

It seems like there is little room for overlap in the African American lit category so the two genres are usually clearly defined by Terry McMillan, Walter Mosley, and Eric Jerome Dickey on the contempo side and Zane and Brenda Jackson on the romance side. Although Black male authors are apparent in the urban fiction category few dared to enter the realm of romance. Clearly, a void exists in romance genre in regards to male authors, so an opportunity to distinguish myself in a wide open niche seemed optimistic. So I constantly find myself in a state of flux between “telling like it is” and lavishly and lasciviously” telling it like it is”.

The reason I’m such a fan of Iceberg Slim’s writing is because of his ability to tell the story clearly, succinctly, and honestly, while still buttering it up with the flowery street vernacular of a pimp. Hopefully readers will be able to tell the difference between gratuitous sex and the gratuitous sex Dapper participates in as a reflection of his personal demons. In others words, its deeper than what appears on the surface. So what would you consider me, contemporary fiction or romance? 

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