The Candy Lady

They allowed themselves to search how far and wide their black boyhood could stretch if they pulled and stuffed it with numerous images, sounds, curse words, and feelings. Innocently trespassing and losing sight of one another in the forbidden grow-up territory.

Trying on clothes and shoes that didn’t fit — wearing his old kangols, Cuban links, and big rings that he’d kept from the late 80s to mid-90s era. The era when hip-hop was pure and flashy. They coughed as they sprayed on his pungent grown-man-cologne. Occasionally they would play old records and get ahold of his big cigars, holding them in their little mouths and between two fingers as though they knew what they were doing.

Outkast and Marvin Gaye records were stashed away, they’d found all of them. Old porn tapes, with black bodies on the cover, showing themselves and all of their parts. Parts that would make little boys question, “why don’t I have that?” and explore their bodies until they discover every secret meant to be hidden from them until later.

​They didn’t know what these pictures were, but their eyes took permanent photos. These images would rest in the dark backroom of their minds until exposed to the light of life as they accumulated experiences to remind them of all they saw when they went through Amir’s uncle’s things.

​Manhood was in their mind, and bodies reach, whenever his uncle left.

Told By: Kwon