SYNOPSIS
Cream, an androgynous beauty, knows what it’s like to be abandoned, broke, and used. Left to the state by her parents and taken under the wing of her selfish foster mother, Cream sets her focus on one thing: money. She dives head first into the exotic lifestyle of stripping. Starting out in gentlemen clubs, drama seems to follow her wherever she goes. Instead of facing the turmoil, she moves on to the next city, causing more chaos than what she left behind.She thinks she has life all figured out until she crosses paths with Payton, a daddy’s girl with lots of cash and a lust for women. Payton makes her learn things about herself that she never saw possible and with her new discovery comes a big change in her look and personality.Cream is at the top of her game, surrounded by money and beautiful women. Then, one wild night forces her to discover yet another truth about herself and face the reality of her lifestyle. Will she continue to dwell in her unstable comfort zone? Or, will she finally open her eyes?
Only broke people say money isn’t everything. I’d never let that lie cross my lips. I needed money; needed it in the worst way and there were no limits on what I’d do to get it. I didn’t grow up with much. Bouncing from foster home to foster home, I called no woman mother and no man father. I couldn’t believe in God because I had never been introduced to him.
I had very few possessions to my name; a name I only recognized as my own because someone told me it was mine. I owned one, oversized, nameless duffle bag that I selected from a box of donations when I was twelve. I felt safer when my few belongings were inside of something and that was the only reason, I took it. It had a little rip on the side, but I didn’t care because anything that was handed down was expected to have cosmetic issues. I was just excited that the zipper worked, and it belonged to me. I filled it with shirts from the thrift store, a pair of whitewashed jeans, and one pair of dusty, red and white Chuck Taylors that I cherished—the only name brand thing that I owned.
The first fight that I ever had was over those dirty old tennis shoes. I’ll never forget it. I was fourteen years old and had just been transferred to a new home because of my bad temper. As I slept in one of the bunk beds, I knew there would be a day when the other girls would try me. It never failed. Foster homes were no different from jails or detention centers. Somebody always had to “pull your hoe card” to see if they could run you or not. I wasn’t anybody’s bitch. I guess that’s just the way it was when you filled a house with a bunch of problematic children and teens. There were six of us in Ms. Weston’s place and lucky me, I got to share a room with Tanisha.
Ms. Weston’s house was a pale, yellow, one-story living space. There was one window in every room, and she made sure every window had bars on it. She’d had runaways before. It was the only house on the street with bars over the windows. It made everybody look at us funny. For the most part, it was a decent house: five bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, and a washroom. Ms. Weston kept it pretty clean considering there were seven people living there.
Tanisha Watkins was a slob and she always got us into trouble. When she cleaned, she simply pushed everything under her bed. She always left water bottles and plates of food lying around on the floor. Between her trash and funky shoes, our room smelled like ass and onions every night.
She was the ugliest girl I’d ever seen in my life. She was a mixed chick but, whatever combination of nationalities led to her existence had gotten it all wrong. She was nineties-jokes ugly: you so ugly, yo’ mama had to feed you with a slingshot; you so ugly, you gotta sneak up to the mirror. I was convinced that being ugly had to be the reason her parents gave her up. I definitely wouldn’t want the responsibility of building the confidence of that broad for the next eighteen years. Her skin was light and covered in red bumps and freckles; sometimes you couldn’t tell the difference between the two.
On top of being ugly, she was always noticeable. She was so knocked-kneed that you could spot her walking in a crowd because she looked as if she was walking in circles around herself. On top of the waddling walk, at least 190 pounds sat on her five-foot-three frame and her head was covered in frizzy hair.
Everything about her annoyed me and she had the nerve to further aggravate me with her constant gum popping.
Like most bullies, Tanisha had an entourage. Those must have been the cardinal rules to being a badass: be ugly and have at least two flunkies.
Alexa DeWolfe and Marion Warlow were those two idiots. They followed her everywhere she went. Alexa was Canadian and, in my opinion, she only nipped at Tanisha’s heels because her and Tanisha were the only girls of another race in the house. She’d much rather be a “yes girl” than get her ass kicked every day. Marion was just an idiot. She did all of Tanisha’s homework and met every demand like Tanisha was her lover.
If Tanisha yelled for water, Marion would be the first one up to get it and ask if she wanted ice too.
I was about to give everybody in that house a reason to think for themselves.
Tanisha crept beside my little, twin bed one night—the same type of bed that was in every room throughout the house—and tugged at my duffle bag. She wasn’t as quiet as she thought she was. I opened one eye and watched her as she rummaged through it and pulled out my red and white sneakers. She smiled, showing crooked teeth. I balled my fist beneath the blanket and socked her ass with a right hook before she could stand. That one lick echoed through all of Junction City, Kansas and soon, four other girls were in our room to watch the fight.
I jumped out of my bed to give her the ass whipping she’d never gotten from a parent. Somebody had to teach this heifer a life lesson—thou shalt not steal. She tried her best to swing her flabby arms at me, but everybody knows that once your back is on the ground and someone is on top of you, your chances of winning are slim to none. I kicked her ass good. I knocked a lot more than some sense into her. Our foster mother rushed into the room when she heard the girls cheering me on. I didn’t even feel the need to talk to her as I whipped her ass—each low to her head spoke clearly enough: “I bet. Not catch. You touching. My stuff. Again!” My fists let her and everyone else know that I was off limits.
Ms. Weston lifted me from the floor as I continued to swing. I bit down on my bottom lip as she carried me to the little office she had in her extra room and tossed me into a big leather chair.
“Calm your little ass down!” She screamed. Stress lines wrinkled her forehead.
Ms. Weston looked a bit young to be a foster mother, but I knew she wasn’t since she had a grown son. He didn’t come around often, but his face was plastered in the frames on the walls and mantels throughout the house.
Ms. Weston was well kept. She was always dressed well, wore very little make-up, and got regular manicures. She had a pretty coconut complexion, and her weight was due to age not laziness. She was always up and moving about, even when she thought everyone was sleeping.
I would watch her from the window as she crept out of the house on the weekends with her purse dangling from her shoulder. Her heels click clacking down the walkway.
As I slumped into the chair in her office, she rambled through my history of foster homes and all of the reasons nobody ever wanted me. Her words went in one ear and out the other. I was still fuming about my shoes.
When you don’t have much, you cherish the little you receive and anything in that duffle bag was mine; I appreciated it. That duffle bag was my motivation and, to this day, I think about it every night as I slide my ass down a pussy-recycled pole for drooling men.
I had very few possessions to my name; a name I only recognized as my own because someone told me it was mine. I owned one, oversized, nameless duffle bag that I selected from a box of donations when I was twelve. I felt safer when my few belongings were inside of something and that was the only reason, I took it. It had a little rip on the side, but I didn’t care because anything that was handed down was expected to have cosmetic issues. I was just excited that the zipper worked, and it belonged to me. I filled it with shirts from the thrift store, a pair of whitewashed jeans, and one pair of dusty, red and white Chuck Taylors that I cherished—the only name brand thing that I owned.
The first fight that I ever had was over those dirty old tennis shoes. I’ll never forget it. I was fourteen years old and had just been transferred to a new home because of my bad temper. As I slept in one of the bunk beds, I knew there would be a day when the other girls would try me. It never failed. Foster homes were no different from jails or detention centers. Somebody always had to “pull your hoe card” to see if they could run you or not. I wasn’t anybody’s bitch. I guess that’s just the way it was when you filled a house with a bunch of problematic children and teens. There were six of us in Ms. Weston’s place and lucky me, I got to share a room with Tanisha.
Ms. Weston’s house was a pale, yellow, one-story living space. There was one window in every room, and she made sure every window had bars on it. She’d had runaways before. It was the only house on the street with bars over the windows. It made everybody look at us funny. For the most part, it was a decent house: five bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, and a washroom. Ms. Weston kept it pretty clean considering there were seven people living there.
Tanisha Watkins was a slob and she always got us into trouble. When she cleaned, she simply pushed everything under her bed. She always left water bottles and plates of food lying around on the floor. Between her trash and funky shoes, our room smelled like ass and onions every night.
She was the ugliest girl I’d ever seen in my life. She was a mixed chick but, whatever combination of nationalities led to her existence had gotten it all wrong. She was nineties-jokes ugly: you so ugly, yo’ mama had to feed you with a slingshot; you so ugly, you gotta sneak up to the mirror. I was convinced that being ugly had to be the reason her parents gave her up. I definitely wouldn’t want the responsibility of building the confidence of that broad for the next eighteen years. Her skin was light and covered in red bumps and freckles; sometimes you couldn’t tell the difference between the two.
On top of being ugly, she was always noticeable. She was so knocked-kneed that you could spot her walking in a crowd because she looked as if she was walking in circles around herself. On top of the waddling walk, at least 190 pounds sat on her five-foot-three frame and her head was covered in frizzy hair.
Everything about her annoyed me and she had the nerve to further aggravate me with her constant gum popping.
Like most bullies, Tanisha had an entourage. Those must have been the cardinal rules to being a badass: be ugly and have at least two flunkies.
Alexa DeWolfe and Marion Warlow were those two idiots. They followed her everywhere she went. Alexa was Canadian and, in my opinion, she only nipped at Tanisha’s heels because her and Tanisha were the only girls of another race in the house. She’d much rather be a “yes girl” than get her ass kicked every day. Marion was just an idiot. She did all of Tanisha’s homework and met every demand like Tanisha was her lover.
If Tanisha yelled for water, Marion would be the first one up to get it and ask if she wanted ice too.
I was about to give everybody in that house a reason to think for themselves.
Tanisha crept beside my little, twin bed one night—the same type of bed that was in every room throughout the house—and tugged at my duffle bag. She wasn’t as quiet as she thought she was. I opened one eye and watched her as she rummaged through it and pulled out my red and white sneakers. She smiled, showing crooked teeth. I balled my fist beneath the blanket and socked her ass with a right hook before she could stand. That one lick echoed through all of Junction City, Kansas and soon, four other girls were in our room to watch the fight.
I jumped out of my bed to give her the ass whipping she’d never gotten from a parent. Somebody had to teach this heifer a life lesson—thou shalt not steal. She tried her best to swing her flabby arms at me, but everybody knows that once your back is on the ground and someone is on top of you, your chances of winning are slim to none. I kicked her ass good. I knocked a lot more than some sense into her. Our foster mother rushed into the room when she heard the girls cheering me on. I didn’t even feel the need to talk to her as I whipped her ass—each low to her head spoke clearly enough: “I bet. Not catch. You touching. My stuff. Again!” My fists let her and everyone else know that I was off limits.
Ms. Weston lifted me from the floor as I continued to swing. I bit down on my bottom lip as she carried me to the little office she had in her extra room and tossed me into a big leather chair.
“Calm your little ass down!” She screamed. Stress lines wrinkled her forehead.
Ms. Weston looked a bit young to be a foster mother, but I knew she wasn’t since she had a grown son. He didn’t come around often, but his face was plastered in the frames on the walls and mantels throughout the house.
Ms. Weston was well kept. She was always dressed well, wore very little make-up, and got regular manicures. She had a pretty coconut complexion, and her weight was due to age not laziness. She was always up and moving about, even when she thought everyone was sleeping.
I would watch her from the window as she crept out of the house on the weekends with her purse dangling from her shoulder. Her heels click clacking down the walkway.
As I slumped into the chair in her office, she rambled through my history of foster homes and all of the reasons nobody ever wanted me. Her words went in one ear and out the other. I was still fuming about my shoes.
When you don’t have much, you cherish the little you receive and anything in that duffle bag was mine; I appreciated it. That duffle bag was my motivation and, to this day, I think about it every night as I slide my ass down a pussy-recycled pole for drooling men.
