Von

I realized what a spectacular blunder I had made as soon as I stepped foot inside the corner store.

 

Ah, yes, the corner store. A staple of any inner-city community.
Where folks can purchase a wide range of convenience items, from twenty-five cent bags of Doritos—to marijuana filters and fifths of Hennessy.

 

What more could one ask for?
Unfortunately, the downside is that it often attracts a criminal element. Many an innocent person has been shot or robbed on the block—with a corner store as the backdrop.

Therefore, it’d seem like common sense to avoid using an ATM there. Sadly, this basic logic escaped me—until I was in the lion’s den, pulling out my debit card in the midst of a pack of rabid wolves.

Which begs the question: the hell was I thinking?
I don’t have a good answer. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
——————————————-

It was Saturday morning. Almost noon.
After my workout, I needed to get trimmed up before my company’s Christmas party. The Yelp application on my phone said that the nearest barber shop was 1.4 miles away. In Bellwood. Although a lot of it is nice—a large portion of Bellwood is grimy and impoverished. And Yelp was taking me directly into the heart of it.

Now, I ain’t no punk. So, I have no qualms about going into the hood. Beforehand, however, I needed to find an ATM to get some cash. Luckily, I passed a corner store with a sign saying they had an ATM inside.

I pulled up. All was quiet on the outside. Any anxieties I had were put to rest.
I stepped inside to find an older, cracked-out woman loitering in the hallway.
She glanced at me, with my designer jacket and shades, and gave me a look that all but said, “Dude, you don’t belong here.”

Despite that ominous warning, I proceeded into the store, which was packed with a bunch of strange-lookin’ people.

The cashier and products were sealed off by a thick bullet-proof window. It ain’t hard to imagine why such security measures were put in place.

Not behind bullet-proof glass, however, was the ATM. It was in the middle of the store.

I passed two thugged-out dudes to get to it. One gentleman said, “We got that weed, big homie.”

They slang in the corner store now? Is nothing sacred?
I probably stood out like a sore thumb, surrounded by pushers and fiends. I may as well have worn a shirt that said, “Rob Me!”

 

At that point, for my own safety I should’ve found another ATM not surrounded by drug dealers and random crackheads.

But something weird happened: my ego kicked in. See, I too was born and raised in the hood. Because I live in a quiet suburb nowadays don’t mean that I ain’t from the streets. Furthermore, I’m bad ass. I’m really supposed to be intimidated by some punk ass thugs?

On the other hand, it don’t matter how “hard” I am— they ain’t gon’ fight me one-on-one like in the Jason Bourne flicks. Also, last time I checked, bullets don’t bounce off my chest. Many a brave soul has met his untimely demise trying to outmuscle an armed robbery.

I was completely at their mercy.

I extracted my cash as quickly as possible before turning around to find that the dope boys were gone. But I caught an older dude monitoring me before exiting the store.

Was he there to alert the dope boys when I was leaving?
Were they outside waiting with guns blazing?
Would I make it out alive?
Was I the biggest dumbass walking God’s green earth?

Bracing for anything, I finally exited the store to find the parking lot was full of folks who weren’t there before. The dope boys were talking to someone in a car.

Here was my chance to escape. My pride wouldn’t allow me to sprint to my car like a craven dog. Instead, I decided to play it cool—I’d just have to keep my head on a swivel.

In a state of paranoia, I kept looking over my shoulders for someone to approach me or a gun to be thrust into my back—but it didn’t happen.
Instead, I safely made it to my vehicle and sped the hell off—NEVER to return.

I verbally chastised myself in the car for being such a moron.
Hopefully, because of my blunder, others can learn an invaluable lesson: NEVER use the ATM at a corner store in the hood.

She grabbed my hand and led me to the “champagne room.”

 

One could only imagine what glory awaited once we reached our final destination.

This particularly aggressive sista was thick and curvy. Her bikini top barely contained her medium-sized breasts, while her thong showcased her round, shapely ass.

Ol’ girl was born to administer a fierce lap dance.

 

Why should I resist? Even though it was my future brother-in-law’s bachelor party—why couldn’t I have a little fun too?

 

Speaking of my brother-in-law, I’d last seen him moments earlier—slumped in a bar stool, inebriated from the the prior drinking session.

 
Yeah, it was gon’ be a wild night.

 

Funny thing is: we weren’t even supposed to be there. My brother-in-law was marrying my sister the following weekend.

He vowed to her that he would, under NO circumstances, have any adult entertainment at his bachelor party.

Yet, here we were. At a strip club.
We’d originally planned to celebrate the end of his bachelorhood at a plush bowling alley.

 
However, my brother came into town and scrapped everything at the last minute.
He insisted on a titty bar—and none of us protested.
I guess, deep down, we all really wanted to go. He simply provided an opportunity.

 

Our destination? A seedy suburban strip club, once featured on the news for being raided by cops. Apparently the dancers were “a little too friendly” with the clientele and engaged in illegal acts.

We arrived at the establishment with our 6-man entourage, which included me, my comrade, my brother, my brother-in-law, and his best man and best friend.

Upon entering, I noticed several lingerie-clad women mingling with the patrons.

My brother, a strip club vet, was impressed: “This is my kinda place, bro.”

Later, my comrade was informed by a dancer that, for the low price of $300, he could take her home at night’s end.

 

Yeah, this wasn’t no ordinary gentleman’s club.

Soon the dancers mingled with our group. I noticed my brother-in-law, already destroyed from the pregame drinking festivities, slumped in his chair from drunkenness—it was time for his lap dance. I paid the dancer, who led him to “the champagne room.”

Soon I was being escorted to a separate room by the aforementioned dancer…

 

After some small talk, she got down to business: A lap dance would be $20.
However, “upgrades” were $40 or $60.

She wasn’t explicit in defining these upgrades, but she hinted that the $40 dance would include “oral satisfaction.” It wasn’t difficult to decode what the final upgrade entailed.

It’ll be A COLD DAY IN HELL before I pay for some sex; a simple lap dance would suffice.
She removed her top and thrusted her ass into my crotch, gyrating and bouncing to the music. She insisted that I upgrade the dance, but I declined.

Soon it was over. I returned to the group trying to conceal my huge boner.

Between the overpriced drinks, lap dances, and cover—my funds were drying up spectacularly.
My last singles were spent on a stage dancer with the prettiest, roundest ass known to man.

I was so distracted by ol’ girl that I barely noticed my drunken brother-in-law being pulled into the champagne room yet again. The dancer returned shortly thereafter; she wanted to give him a $40 dance. Obviously, I couldn’t allow that to happen. I paid for a lap dance.

However, in a shocking turn of events—my brother overheard us and insisted that he get the upgrade.

Dude was adamant that our brother-in-law get some head. And even pulled out his money to pay for it.

I had to calmly remind him: “Dude, he’s marrying OUR SISTER next weekend.”

He got the point.

 

Moments later, in the parking lot, everyone agreed that no one could know about the debauchery and sin that took place that night—the results would be catastrophic!

If anyone asked—we were at the bowling alley.

 

So, imagine my bewilderment when I got a voicemail from my distraught sister the next day—she knew EVERYTHING!

Apparently, my brother told a family member—who proceeded to tell her.
Upon hearing the news, she completely lost it!

The aftermath:
My brother-in-law was in the doghouse for a few days.
The best man was almost kicked out of his own home by his enraged wife.
And my brother was attacked by both my sisters for orchestrating the whole thing.

I’ll be damned.

After a few days of damage control, everything’s back to normal.

However, this entire fiasco could’ve been prevented had my brother obeyed the sacred man law: what happens at the gentleman’s club—STAYS there.

 

It’s hard to fathom that anyone could mistake Maxwell for anything other than a heterosexual male.

 

And yeah, I’m referring to that Maxwell.

The multiplatinum recording artist who’s released some of the most soulful music of our generation.
The heartthrob/sex symbol who once sang about making sweet, passionate love to a woman until law enforcement came to intervene.

 

But now, because of a little misunderstanding with an autographed poster—my lady friend now thinks Maxwell, the man she’s admired for years, is gay.

Worst of all—she thinks I’m the object of his affections.

So, what shocking turn of events could lead her to such an outlandish conclusion?

 

This disturbing tale began about a week ago.
Maxwell, after an 8-year hiatus, was in town to promote his new album BLACKsummers’night.

The event was billed as The Maxwell Experience—an affair that completely sold out in less than a day. Luckily ol’ girl was able to secure two tickets and invited me along.

We were given Maxwell posters upon entering the venue, which he’d sign at the event’s conclusion.

I gave her mine; I enjoy dude’s music and all—but what the hell am I gon’ do with signed Maxwell memorabilia?

Make no mistake: this was an event for the ladies. Yeah, a few gentlemen were in attendance—but most of ’em accompanied women (is there anything more demoralizing than witnessing yo’ woman act a damn fool at the sight of another man?).

 

Soon Maxwell took the stage to a raucous ovation. For the next hour he talked about his life and music.

However, it was a miracle that dude could complete a sentence, ’cause he was constantly being interrupted by rabid fans.

“We LOVE you, Maxwell!”

“WOOOOO! MaxWELLLLLLLLL!”

 

At one point, the host asked about his favorite meal. When Maxwell hinted that his favorite thing to eat wasn’t food…the women went absolutely apeshit! COMPLETE AND UTTER PANDEMONIUM!

At the height of the madness, a young lady threw her panties onto the stage.

It got me to thinking: I wonder how it feels to wield such power—to have a woman so worked up that she feels the need to throw her panties at you (hopefully not Target panties though).

Must be nice, Maxwell.

 

Soon the Q&A session ended. And Maxwell’s security team rushed him to the area where he’d be signing the aforementioned posters.

The autograph line was long, moving at a snail’s pace. Thirty minutes later we were finally close to reaching Maxwell. As I exited the line, Maxwell’s label people objected to her getting both posters signed. Apparently, I’d have to get mine signed for her.

No big deal.

 

Seconds later, I was face-to-face with Maxwell himself.

He shook my hand. I gave him my poster.

Earlier I noticed that he was wearing the hottest wingtips I’d ever seen. While I had the opportunity, I told him: “Your shoes are killer!”

 

He seemed genuinely moved by the compliment. I know I would be. Stylish men like to know that someone’s paying attention. He scribbled something on my poster and gave it back to me—which I promptly gave to her. And we were on our way.

After inspecting the poster, she asked why Maxwell signed mine with a heart.

 

What? I looked at it; she was right.

It had to be a misunderstanding.
Maybe he couldn’t think of anything else to write. Maybe he knew I was giving it to her.

 

I tried to explain—but she was having none of it: “He didn’t sign a heart on mine?!”

In this era of the rampant DL brotha phenomenon, she could only come to an unspeakable conclusion: Maxwell is gay.

And that the heart he signed on my poster was a sign of his interest—in me!

 

I tried to convince her that such a suggestion was crazy talk.
It’s Maxwell.
MAXWELL!

The guy can have ANY woman he wants. At any time.
I’ve encountered DL men before, and trust me, this wasn’t the same.

 

However, despite my protestations to the contrary, I couldn’t change her mind. And her girlfriends, who were told about what happened, now refer to me as “Maxwell’s honey.”

 

Who knew the Maxwell experience would turn out like this?