by Styles, T.
t styles
j 2L
Copyright © 2010 by The Cartel Publications. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission
from the author, except by reviewer who may quote passages to be printed in a newspaper or magazine. PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, Organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the Author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance of Actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010928716 ISBN: 0-9823913-4-X
ISBN 13: 978-0-9823913-4-1
Cover Design: Davida Baldwin www.oddballdsgn.com Editor: Advanced Editorial Services Graphics: Davida Baldwin
www.thecartelpublications.com
First Edition
Printed in the United States of America
What’s Up Fam!! I can’t explain how boosted I am right now! So much good shit is poppin’ off for The Cartel. But first, I have to speak on this book, “Miss Wayne and the Queens of DC”! Maaaannnnnn…All I gotta say is BRAVO T. Styles! I had the pleasure and privilege, of course, to read this trailblazin’ novel before it hit the press. I could not put it down! T., has weaved, literally, a novel together that is full of passion, drama, foolishness, love and lessons so great, you will be left wanting more. Where, “Black & Ugly As Ever” leaves off, “Ms. Wayne” picks up the ball, runs with it to the end zone and scores!!!” Fam, you in for a treat with this one so get ready!
Next item of business is what’s next for us, MOVIES! The Cartel Publications is on to movies! The first movie out the gate to be filmed is, “Pitbulls in a Skirt”. Yep, the story you fell in love with will now be put on screen. So make sure you look out for that one. It’s the first of more to come, but rest assured, they are comin’!
Aight ya’ll in keeping with tradition, with every novel you all know by now we shine a spotlight on an author who is either a vet or a new comer makin’ their way in this literary world. In this novel, we recognize:
“Jessica A. Robinson”
Jessica is a new author who has already penned two novels, “Holy Seduction” and “Pretty Skeletons”. The Cartel Publications applauds Jessica for wanting to become an author and actually completing her goal. Many people want to write and may even start a novel, but it takes true dedication and determination to COMPLETE one! Congrats Jessica, you did it baby girl and we see you. Keep ‘em comin’
On that note, I’ma leave ya’ll to it! Go head, call out sick from work, go grab your favorite snack and get ready to read greatness!
Be easy!
Charisse “C. Wash” Washington VP, The Cartel Publications www.thecartelpublications.com
www.twitter.com/cartelbooks
www.facebook.com/publishercharissewashington www.myspace.com/thecartelpublications www.facebook.com/cartelcafeandbooks
Acknowledgements
I acknowledge every one of my fans who stay with me, and support me as my career grows. I truly…truly do this for you.
Dedication
I Dedicate This to A Community, Who’s Culture, Style and Influence More Often Than Not Goes without Credit.
Note to Readers
During your read of Miss Wayne & The Queens of D.C., please keep in mind that the characters often refer to themselves as women because in their heart they
are. Please don’t get confused during the duration of the storyline by the use of exchanging feminine to masculine references.
Foreword
In gay culture, a House is an organization led by a house mother or father. Each house is unique and each has its own identity. Some houses are active in the community and others can be dangerous and violent if tested. One thing is certain, not mentioning its existence is to deny one of the
biggest vehicles of self-expression within the gay community. And I don’t intend on doing that.
People always wanna know when I knew I was gay. What kind of fuckin’ question is that? I am what I am just like they are what they are. Chile…I’m not in to answerin’ questions that can’t be answered. I’ve been Miss Wayne all my damn life! This all I know. What I would like to know though, is why didn’t I get my ass on that plane when I had a chance? Why didn’t I follow my instincts and leave the bullshit behind me? Oh well, it’s too late to think about the what if’s now. All I can do is face what’s comin’ my way, and hope I live to tell my story.
- Miss Wayne
UnwantedHouseguest, UnwantedProblems
jthe presentL
The taste of salty blood and metal lingered heavily inside Miss Wayne’s mouth. His eyes were closed shut and every part of his body was riddled in pain. He couldn’t remember how he got into the situation. All he knew was that he was in danger, grave danger. And at that moment that was all that mattered.
Lifting his head slightly, he tried to pull his bloody pasted eyes open. When he realized he couldn’t, he dropped his head back on the floor as the smell of feces and urine wafted heavily within his breathing space.
“Wayne! Wayne!” The heavy whisperer called above him. “Are you still alive?”
Finding not the energy to answer, he felt as if the room was spinning. And as he had several times that day, he drifted out of consciousness.
Mercy On Your Souls Miss Wayne
jsome months earlierL
Daffany’s mom looks bad.
Really bad.
No scratch that.
Really bad is Miss Tyrone sittin’ ova here next to me lookin’ a hot ass mess. Since I’ve known him, we’ve always had a love and hate type of relationship. So even though I told him he was dead wrong, he was determined to wear those black liquid legs stretch pants despite my saying that it was the worst thing to sport at a funeral. Before we continue, let me say this…in my entire life, I’ve never met anyone more scandalous than Tyrone. Trouble follows her around wherever she goes. So why do I keep him around? Because I know he’d never try no bullshit with me. The girl knows better.
We had only been here, at Stewarts Funeral Home in Northeast D.C, for only five minutes and Miss Tyrone had already scared the hell out of the boys choir and made the preacher forget his sermon. That’s not even the worst part about this mess! On the way to her seat she knocked over Ms. Hathaway’s brand new church hat and poked Miss Parade on the side of her neck with all that extra dick she’s smugglin’ between her legs. I don’t know why she doesn’t realize that twelve inches of basket crammed in stretch pants is not feminine. I don’t care how far back you try to tuck 'em! Trust me…I know.
I swear…sometimes I know exactly why I left the DC area and other times to tell you the truth...I don’t know why I left. My gay friends are different. They’re over the top and sometimes they could give a fuck about who they hurt. It’s all about the money to buy a designer bag, wigs, gear and sometimes a sex change. For what? To walk in a ball, sugar!
Before movin’ to LA, I started the House of Dreams. A house in the gay community is like a fraternity or sorority, where membership is accepted but mainly rejected. I’m the overall Mother, which means I have to show the children of both the DC and LA chapters the way to live glamorously and get that money…but believe me when I say it’s easier said than done.
The ball circuit is the best. When I was here in the DC area, if I wasn’t hanging with Parade, Daffany and Sky before she was murdered, I was dressin’ in drag and walkin’ the walk, honey! Trust me when I say you haven’t seen anything like a gay men’s ball. Trophies are given an
d sometimes prizes awarded based on the winner for specific categories. I won many of them including the Drag Queen Realness category. Through it all I never won the one trophy I always wanted, the Legend Category. Do I feel deserving? Hell yeah! Nobody in DC has won as many balls as me, baby. So this girl is Legendary!
Oh shit, I done ran a mental marathon and forgot what I was talkin’ about. Anyway, this day is for Miss Daffany’s mother’s funeral. We’ll talk about all that other shit later. Where were we? Oh yeah! We were speakin’ about Miss Tyrone’s ape lookin’ ass.
“Girl, put this jacket on and sit down,” I tug on her silk pink shawl, which is far too thin to be wearing in the end of winter. My black insulated coat with the tiny red hearts inside the panel, swing from my hand. “You disturbin’ Ms. Stan’s goin’ away day. Don’t nobody want to see all that early this Thursday mornin’.”
This is why my DC house gets a bad name. Everybody knows the DC chapter is not as grand as the one I started in LA. We get money from throwing house parties. Here Miss Tyrone is the mother of the house of DC, which is a rank under me, yet she has no class or loot.
“Girl, move!” she says pushing the coat away. “If anything I’m bringin’ a little excitement to this gawd awful funeral.” Miss Tyrone remains standing and clapping along to the choir’s voices despite their evil stares. What she really has her eyes on is the preacher. She claims they have a thing going on and to tell you the truth, I can’t call it. I don’t put shit past nobody these days, even a man of the cloth.
“You know if my baby hears you down there,” I say pointing at the other end of the wooden row seat we share, “I’m droppin’ your ass with a left and then a right? You do understand this don’t you?”
“She can’t hear me,” Miss Tyrone whispers. “But you know I’m tellin’ the truth. That black ass thing up there don’t look nothin’ like her mother. Dead or livin’! What was she smokin’ before she died? Kerosene?”
I hated to admit it but she was right. I guess all the years of using hard drugs, selling her body and neglecting her only daughter had finally caught up with her.
And when I look to my left, on the far end, I see Miss Daffany’s face. She’s saddened and her energy cuts through me like a knife. When we got on the plane to come back home for the funeral she said she could handle it. Said she knew this day would come and had prepared for this moment most of her life. I guess she underestimated the power it took to bury your mother. This scares me because it’s so important to keep her stress at a minimum…any change in her emotions could cause her immune system to go out of whack and flare up her HIV.
“You okay?” Miss Parade grips Miss Daffany around the waist as they both look at the open casket in the front of the church. Miss Parade is pregnant again for the second time in three years. I swear every time that Jay boy puts his dick in her pussy, two legs and two arms comes out. They already gots twin boys with a baby girl on the way.
You should see those beautiful little boys. They look like little Indians with smooth black skin like their mother and silky black hair like their father.
“I’m fine.” Miss Daffany whispers. “Just wish I was somewhere else. I don’t want to go through with this.”
“She’s in a better place, sweetie you know that.” I reach over and touch her hand.
She smiles.
I smile back.
If ever I doubt what real love feels like, when I see the way Miss Parade and Miss Daffany look at me, I know that there is a God and if he’s blessed me with friends like these, then I must be worthy. I use to be able to look into my mother’s eyes and get the same feeling…but I can’t say that anymore. And no, I don’t want to talk about it right now.
We were just about to give God the praise and the glory when an usher reaches over and taps Miss Tyrone on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. We’re gonna have to ask you to put somethin’ else around your waist or remain in your seat. We’ve already gotten several complaints ‘bout your clothin’.”
I shake my head. Oh shit! Here comes the drama!
Miss Tyrone places his hands on his hips and pivots his body around to see all the church members staring in his direction. He was acting as if he was the Messiah, wanting to see which one of his disciples turned on him.
When he didn’t get the pity or the response he wanted, he gripped his collar and says, “How dare you come over here and embarrass me like this, mothafucka!”
“Hold up, Miss Tyrone…we in church!”
“Fuck that shit! This mothafucka got me all the way fucked up!” He yells. The church choir continues to sing although their voices go down a notch. “I don’t recall God sendin’ out an invitation talkin’ about a dress code.” He places his fists on his burly shiny hips. “Now since he gave me these balls,” he slaps his crotch area sending a massive CLAP sound throughout the tiny church, “then if they’re bulgin’ a little, I must be still alright in His eyes.”
The usher’s dark face turns as red as the brand new Sunday morning dress I chose to wear today.
The usher was about to say something else until I say, “Honey, this is a gay man. You done already got cussed the fuck out and called everything but Susan. So unless you want a continuation of this show, co-starrin’ you, I suggest you go on back there and pray he doesn’t read you on the way down the aisle.”
He grips his black leather bible and points it at Tyrone as if to cast out the demons.
“Trust me, them scriptures in the Good Book won’t have nothin’ on the words he’ll give you if you don’t sit on down somewhere. Go on now!”
The usher looks at Miss Tyrone’s troublemaking ass, Miss Daffany, Miss Parade’s nine-month-old belly and turns around to me and says, “God, have mercy on your souls!”
“Girl, I do believe he’s the one who been slayin’ all the drag queens in DC. Look how he tried it wit’ me.”
“Bitch, sit your dry ass down and respect this funeral.” When he doesn’t move quick enough for my taste I say, “Don’t move me to perform acts on you up in here. Sit!”
Finally he does and for the first time since we got off the plane from LA, Miss Daffany laughs. We all laugh. I guess Miss Tyrone’s hot ass mess antics came in handy after all. I love to see my friends happy.
Focusing back on the sermon, the preacher does his best to continue the funeral. But when he messes up a scripture I get angry. You see the bible is the one thing I know from front to back. My mother made sure of it.
What the scripture was supposed to say before he messed it up was, “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother— which is the first commandment with a promise – that it may go well with you and that you may have a long life. – Ephesians 6:1-3
Yeah…he had it wrong. I know that one in particular because I was conflicted as a child. Although I loved my mother, I hated my father and found it hard to obey him. To tell you the truth, I hate him to this day.
Reflecting On the Younger Years Miss Wayne
The hardwood floors in the old Southeast DC apartment carried a brilliant shine. Ten-year-old Wayne Peterson positioned himself in the hallway, a few feet from his bedroom door—his parent’s room was in the middle and the front door was on the opposite end.
Wayne loved to pretend that the hallway was a runway. Then he would dance toward the door. Once at the door, he’d pretend Prince Charming would come rushing inside to whisk him away…but he never came.
One crisp, sunny morning, he decided to open his curtains and let the sunrays shine against the hardwood floors in the hallway. He’d already placed on four pairs of his mother’s brand new stockings to make up for not having dark tights. Then he tied up the back of his white t-shirt and slid on his mother’s white nursing shoes, which were the only shoes resembling high heels in the house. With the shoes on, he ran to his room, pressed play on his tape player and allowed Whitney Houston’s voice to boom through the speakers.
“I’M EVERY WOMAN! IT’S ALL IN MEE
EEEEE!” Although his mother was home sleep, suffering from multiple sclerosis—which rendered her unable to care for herself, she didn’t mind the loud music one bit. In fact she loved it. In her mind she was thankful for her blessings and the Lord still seeing fit to allow her to hear despite her failing health.
“Okay, Miss Wayne, work that runway!” he said to himself.
Busy with his one-man show, he heard a noise. At first he thought it was his mother calling him but when he ran to his room and turned the music down for a few seconds, he heard nothing. With nothing left to do, he refocused on his trademark dance.
Stoop and walk. Right Kick.
Stoop and walk. Left kick.
Stoop and walk. Throw arms in the air.
Stoop and walk. Strike a pose.
The large white nurse shoes did not fit properly and flopped under him as he lit the hallway on fire with his moves. But the moment he reached the end of the hall, his father, Bells Peterson, who had returned home early from the war, met him with a hard jab to his tiny jaw. Wayne hadn’t seen him in over six months and this is how he chose to greet him.
“What I tell you about runnin’ ‘round here like a fuckin’ girl?” He frowned down at Wayne, unmoved by the blood that fell from his mouth…dampened his white shirt and glistened against the shiny hardwood floors. “You a boy and I ain’t raisin’ no bitches!”
Although his father had warned him about what he deemed as ‘actin’ like a girl’ he’d never…ever…hit him until that moment. His extra light-skin and eyes were just like Wayne’s and before the alcohol abuse, compliments of the Gulf war, he was very handsome. But like a lot of soldiers, when times got hard, his looks took a toll.
“I’m sorry.” Wayne whined. “I was just dancin’, daddy. I didn’t mean to act like a girl. Really.”
