Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

“Is it big, though?” Adi questioned, almost agitated that I wasn’t showering his manhood with praise. “Why does that matter? That shouldn’t matter,” I said. “So what you saying, that it’s small?!” My eyes must spend at least 50 percent of any given day rolled to the back of my head. “No, Adi. It’s huge. The hugest I have ever seen in my little life. How will it fit?” I said flatly.

“Chess-keh,” Kyazike said.

I could add rimming to another of my sexual firsts, along with sex in cars, circumcised boys, and questionable e-mails with colleagues. Temporarily, the pain was numbed by the shock.

“Well, I’ve got to do my job, Queenie,” Elspeth clucked at me. “Besides, your ethnic group puts you at a higher risk of being in an abusive relationship. No need to be so shrill. I’ll update the file.” Tap tap tap. “And a word of warning,” Elspeth said. “Being on the IUD actually makes you more likely to contract a sexually transmitted infection. Use protection if you’re going to have such varied and frequent sex.” “Is any of that science?” I asked her, putting on my coat.

Why didn’t I matter to any of the men who had run out of my life the first chance they could get? What made Cassandra so special that her dad, unlike mine, had an actual interest in her life?

just can’t do it, Kyazike. I’m scared of black guys. I’ll always, always think they hate me.”