King’s Dead, But This Head Is Very Much Alive: A Memorial Day Misadventure
Memorial Day weekend in the Bronx hits different when you’re trapped here with a dead car, a drained bank account, and nothing but time. I’ve been blasting Kendrick’s “King’s Dead” on repeat because the irony isn’t lost on me—a former freelance journalist turned full-time fuckdoll, holed up in a cheap Airbnb with my 40G rack and a skill set that pays way better than writing ever did.
The irony? I’m stuck in the same borough where I started, Harlem girl through and through, but now I’m the one tourists call when they want the “authentic NYC experience.” Usually that means Manhattan hotel rooms, not some off-brand lodging near Yankee Stadium with suspicious stains and thinner walls.
But here’s what nobody expects from the nerdy Black bimbo with the big tits and the comic book references: I give head like it’s my fucking religion. The first time a client called me “surprisingly good,” I laughed so hard I nearly choked on him. Surprising? Bitch, I studied. I treat every dick like I’m investigating a story again, finding every angle, every sensitive spot, every rhythm that makes them stupid. My tongue’s got a master’s degree in making men forget their own names.
Jay Rock’s verse hits—“sit down, be humble”—and I’m cackling because humility’s never been my thing. I’m loud about what I do. Proud of it. Forty-five years old, escorting full-time, traveling from city to city while these younger girls still think shame pays better than confidence.
Being stranded means no new bookings, no fresh content for the clip stores, just me and my toys and the memory of every cock I’ve worshipped. I should be frustrated. Instead, I’m planning. Shooting solo. Teasing my subs with JOI audio where I describe exactly how I’d ruin them, Kendrick’s production vibrating through my cheap speakers while I edge myself stupid.
The Bronx doesn’t feel like home anymore. Nothing really does when you’re always moving, always performing, always on. But stuck here, I’m reminded why I left journalism in the first place. Too many editors telling me to tone it down. To be smaller. Quieter. Less much.
Now I get paid for being too much. For the huge tits and the filthy mouth and the blowjob technique that leaves married men shaking. King’s dead, long live the queen of this particular hustle.
My car gets fixed Tuesday. Until then? I’ll be here, unapologetically filthy, devastatingly nerdy, and counting every dollar this “surprising” mouth earns me.
What’s your favorite unexpected skill that shocks your clients? Drop it below—I need entertainment while I wait for my mechanic to stop ghosting me.
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