Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite: Blog

My first night on the street was difficult, not it was harder than that. I found Robinson Ave. and the place was shithole. Old dilapidated buildings, nasty looking convenience stores, bars, all kinds of women, and of course men. I was asked for a 'date' by young guys, old guys, middle aged guys, and guys not quite in any category. There were rough looking men in rundown auto's, respectable looking fellows in more expensive cars, then there were the other ones - the ones that gave me the willies. All in all, there must have fifty offers of which, I accepted exactly two.

One was a kindly looking Black grandpa type. That one was my big mistake, he fucked me, then put me over his knee and spanked me raw, took my money, tossed me out of his car and yelled at me to get my nigger ass back home. At midnight, without a penny to my name, I sat on the grimy ground of the park with my back to the locked door of a restroom balling my eyes out.

"What you doing out here child?" a soft voice asked me, I looked up at a woman that wasn't all that old, or all that big. Her chocolate milk skin was a light splotchy mocha color, her hair was nappy, she was dressed in a slinky red dress and stood with one hand on a hip. She scowled down at me. I just sat there looking at her, "You deaf?" she asked me, I shook my head.

"Then open you little mouth and motherfucking answer me, what the fuck you doing out of you house at midnight in this neighbor hood?" She tapped her toe as she spoke, it was obvious she was getting perturbed with me.

"I got no where to go," I said. "I did what they wanted but the last one took my money."

"Runaway huh? Well alright then, they call me little momma, you can just call me momma. Okay I got me a room tonight let's go there, we'll get you some McDonalds on the way - you like happy meals?" I nodded my head. "What's your name child?"

"My name's Lakeisha," I said.

"You like that name?" I shook my head, "Don't worry we will find one you do like."

That night watching TV a movie was on called Thoroughly Modern Millie and said, "I like her name."

"That's a nigger slave name," she told me.

"She ain't no nigger or a slave," I protested.

"But Tilly and Millie were the most common slave names for house nigger women," she said.

"I don't care I like that name."

I've been Millie since that day.

After a month of little tidbits about black people's contribution to white peoples lives I just had to speak out about this.


What I mean is, I just have to put my two cents in on this motherfucking subject. Black history month? Black motherfucking history month? Give me a fucking break, what is more, racist than black history month? Thought up by bleeding heart, white elitist, liberal motherfucking, privileged, cocksuckers to give me a month to be proud in while they get the other fucking eleven months. Shortest damn month of the year at that.


No way, no motherfucking way, HELL NO, shit on a shingle NO. Are you getting all this or do I need to slow down? This shit is divisive and an insidious, indecent way to say - you ain't good enough. Oh, you had these few folks that done good the rest of you belong back in the motherfucking jungle. You'd all starve to death without white asses helping you so here's your month - vote for Hillary and the rest of our black protecting, here's your welfare check handing, keep you in your proper place - ass fucking democratic party. By the way, Millie have you picked up your food stamps? You know you need our help get back to hooking it's a great profession.


I mean just think about it, can you do that? Can you wrap your mind around what I'm saying? You give me a month and talk about the significant contributions of black folk. Get all excited about Garrett Augustus Morgan inventing the goddamn traffic light. This black and white thing is stupid as stupid can be. Judge me by who I am, where I came from and what I made of myself in spite of where I started. Do not judge me by the color of my skin or give me shit because you feel sorry that slavery was a bad thing. Motherfucking inbreeding is a bad thing but no one is a chopping down the branchless family trees in Arkansas or Alabama are they?


This shit has to end people - when will get to a time when skin color has no more meaning than hair or eye color? Stop this shit, in the words of the great TV lawman genius Barney Fife, "Nip it, nip it in the bud." And I mean right now - boy!

Brad is a cross-dressing friend of mine, when he is all dolled up we call him Brandy. Well one night at the bar where Jo works Brad got pretty wound up and told me a fantasy he had when he was twenty-one-years-old. When he got done he asked me, "Can you write me a story like that?"

So that is what I did - before warned this has male on male rape. For goodness sake if you are offended by homosexual themes don't read the story. Warning this story has the rape of one man by another - if that isn't your cup tea give it a pass. Hey guys have you ever wondered what it would be like to be forced to be the girl? Have a bigger stronger man take you - humiliate you - use you? I had a friend that asked me to write him a story that way - watch out we are entering Millie's Vast Expanse, one more time. Written by request "Just a Friendly Drink." This story contains male raping male if you don't like that don't read this.

Brad is a small man, small hands, small feet, short in stature and a timid soul. He has deep-seated fears; fears he doesn't even know about - not yet that is. Then there is the desire, he doesn't know about that either. He just turned off at Normal Street on to a winding avenue called Fate. Being lonely and thirst he spied a bar and thought he would have a few beers and relax. Unfortunately, or is fortunately, he has wondered into the Millie's vast expanse and his world is about to expand from the finite to the infinite.

"The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead, the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling." George R.R. Martin

http://storiesonline.net/s/13456/just-a-friendly-drink

I hope you enjoy the story
Millie

For some time now I have wanted to make a few post about me - yes, it is self-centered and just a bit egocentric. I just wanted those that enjoy my writing, and even more importantly those that hate it but continue to read my stories, to know a little about me. Maybe get an idea why I write the things I write. So here goes.


Let me begin by saying, while Millie is now my legal name it is not the name my mother and father gave me. They named me Lakeisha and I suppose it was some African inspired name. I can still hear my fathers voice calling me, "Lakeisha, come here girl." Perhaps that is one reason I hate the name so much. The thought of him grunting my name out while he jabbed his cock in me over and over, all the while telling me to be his, "good girl - Lakeisha."


I was born on September 10, 1989 and was raped by father the first time on my birthday. The following morning, a Monday, my mother tells me my father is just showing his love to me. She further explains that it is his right and I have a duty to keep my mouth shut about this. She let me stay home from school that day - to heal up a bit - so while she explains all this to me, I watch the news on TV. Why the news - it is all that is on. No cartoons, no talk shows, no soap operas, just the news. The buildings fall. The plains crash. My life tumbles down around my head and I feel - unimportant, insignificant, unworthy, and very much unloved.


There is no love in the act my father preformed on me - this is not normal family behavior - it is cruel, selfish, and destructive. No, I do not like incest stories - especially the lovey dovey, bullshit ones where everyone is happy and all is right with the world.


My fascination with horror, violence, and murder began in the aftermath of that terrible birthday gift from my father. Eight months to day after the rape I ran away from home - ruined by my father turning to prostitution was not a difficult thing. I remember May 10th, 2002 hitch hiking from Huston Texas heading to nowhere. I remember an old fat trucker picking me up. He had big muscled up arms, a big chest and this enormous beer belly. In no time he calculated I was a child, running away from a terrible situation and desperate to put miles between me and whatever I was running away from, he looked me up and down almost licking his lips.


When I crawled in the cab he had the friendliest smile I had ever seen. I thought to myself, "Great a nice person." In less than mile on the highway he told me to move next to him. I asked why his friendly face changed in twinkling, "Because I told you to, fucking nigger child, get your ass over here." That giant friendly face twisted into the most hateful grimace, as soon as slid next to him he unzipped his pants and fished out his cock. His big powerful hand clutched my neck forcing my face down to his prick.


"You got pay for your ride," he said. He made frequent long stops off the highway and did what he wanted to do to me. I had traded one hell for another. Late the next day we made Oklahoma City and he parked in a big truck stop. He fucked me several times then asked if I had any money.


"No," I said as he shoved a wad of bills in my hand.


"Good luck to you, not get the fuck out. This street is 28th, walk down that way until you get to a street called Robinson. You can make your living on that street," he said. His voice was odd, not angry, not mean almost sorrowful.


"What will I do?" I asked him confused that he was throwing me out.


"You'll do your whoreing there. Now get out I got to get home to my wife," he sat there with this look on his face, I can't describe it to you. I don't know what he was feeling but I think he was conflicted. "You be careful," he said, as I climbed down to the street. "Some men ain't kind and gentle like me."


I thought he was making some kind of joke, but he was telling me the truth. I looked at the bills in my hand - twenty-five dollars. I had 3 bras', two pair of panties, 4 tops and one pair of jeans to my name and twenty-five dollars. I was four feet and six inches tall and weighed less than 80 pounds, and I seriously I doubt I looked even old as I was. I had no idea what was to become of me and kept telling myself, "Well, this is better than what I had at home."


If you kind folks will indulge me I may make more posting on me from time to time.


Love y'all

Millie

Recently I received an email from an individual that read one of my stories. He liked, in general, the story but hated the violence in the story. He explored some of my other stories and found that violence is a common theme in my stories. His suggestion to me was to turn off the option for voting, so I don't get discouraged by the low scores and explained to me that certain people read the stories despite the warnings and codes indicating that there is violence, death, and murder and vote it low because of that fact.

I have received this suggestion on several occasions; I should turn off the score option. Usually, from a fan worried I will change my style, moderate the violence, or stop writing altogether. I'm not going to do turn off the score option - everyone can express their opinion that way. If they really like it or really hate the story, they are welcome and encouraged to email me. Would like higher scores? Sure, but I'm not cutting out the violence - the stories are reflections of what I have seen, they are a way for me to get my demons out in a non-destructive way, therapy for my soul.

I know I'm not a great writer, I'm not even a very good writer. I will try to become a better writer, but the subject matter stays for it is what it is. I will attempt to tell a story when I write. I will strive to have a beginning a middle and an end. The stories I write should have more than just sex or just violence, perhaps sometimes they don't.

I love y'all and appreciate all of your ever so kind, and not so kind, comments. Keep them coming!

Millie