Butterfly Bitch!

by Wahida Clark

  He headed straight to the restroom, and Butterfly saw him as she entered the yard. He was waiting for her in the handicap stall when she entered. She melted in his arms, and for a minute, she didn't say anything.

  “Missed me?” Atwater smiled.

  She looked up and kissed him. “Yes, I've missed you. And I've missed this.” She brushed his dick. “I'm going to make this mine and mine only.”

  “You wouldn't know what to do with all that,” Atwater teased.

  “I'm sure I could put it to use.” They laughed, and Butterfly slipped her note in his pocket.

  “I'm going to read it before I go to bed. And here's your ID.”

  “You had my ID? I was looking all over the place for it.”

  “You dropped it.”

  She kissed him again. “I'll see you later.”

  “All right.”

  Atwater left the bathroom first this time, and Butterfly followed closely behind him.

  Butterfly went to the entranceway where Buffy and Britney were waiting for her.

  Atwater was about to leave, but he held Butterfly's gaze for seconds, until he heard his name called. He turned and Old School was sitting in the basketball bleachers, unbeknownst to him, checking out the exchange between him and Butterfly.

  “Atwater, one second. Hit a couple of laps with me on the basketball court,” Old School said. The gym was empty and they'd be alone. “I'm not interrupting you, am I?”

  And that's when Atwater knew that Old School's suspecting-self would have seen anything going on between him and Butterfly.

  “No, I was about to get my stuff. I was over in the band room listening to Jeffrey Bey and his group.”

  They started to make their laps, and Old School set out on a brisk pace. He was never one to beat around the bush.

  “The Greeks used to say: women are for child-bearing, and boys are for fun.”

  Atwater was aghast! Old School just couldn't have known about him and Butterfly. This was a perfect time to tell Old School how he appreciated the guidance he had given him and how his family was reaping the benefits.

  “Come again?” Atwater said wanly.

  “The deaf and foolish shout and scream because they don't understand that signs and symbols are for the conscience mind. Riddle me that. A wise man could decipher dark sayings, break down enigmas, put the pieces of puzzles together.

  “Have you heard about King David and Prince Jonathan from the Bible?”

  Atwater didn't dare answer that question. Even if he had known the answer, he wouldn't have said anything. Old School was on a spiel. “King David wrote the dead Prince a eulogy. He said: The love I had for him surpassed the love of any woman.”

  “Islam Moor. What are you trying to imply?” Atwater was a bit offended, and he didn't like the fact that Old School could read him so easy, bare him so shamefully.

  But Old School kept digging. “You ever read the book of Psalms about King David getting persecuted? They say it's a prophesy for Jesus Christ. But I say King David got persecuted because of his affair with Prince Jonathan.”

  “Old School, I don't know where you're going with this.”

  “You haven't read about Alexander and Hephaestion, or Set and Heru, or the Sacred Band, or Sulla of Rome, or at least 80% of Hollywood's major actors?” Atwater shook his head and was about to drop his head to the ground, but Old School brought Atwater's attention to Butterfly, who was still standing in the entranceway, laughing with Britney and Buffy. “Look at him. He has the silhouette of a woman. His whole body, spirit, and manner is that of a woman. He's far prettier than any lady CO on this compound, or any I've ever been to.

  “You think I'm judging you?” Old School leveled the question at him, and it was then that Atwater looked up at him. But that was it! He felt that Old School, who had been his counselor, his mentor, in short, a father to him had judged him, and it was more than he could take. But the more he looked at Old School, the more Old School's eyes had shone with understanding, sympathy, and empathy even.

  “No, I don't think you're judging me.” Atwater was certain of it now, and he had to come clean. “I fell into my low. I've been down eighteen years without the merest touch of a woman. I've missed the banter of a woman's laughter, her frailty, the lyric of her walk, and the taste between her sweet thighs. And when I saw Butterfly, she gave me some of that and some. I knew I was too far gone when I used to take her image back to the unit with me, and I didn't have anybody to talk to about it. I let Butterfly get into my head, and I started feeling like one of those tricks you were talking about the other day.

  “She has the softest lips, and her ass feels soft, and she gives the best head I've ever had. But I ain’t trying to be another Lazy Eyes, and I most definitely ain’t trying to take nothing home to wifey.”

  Old School was the perfect listener, and it was as if he understood what Atwater was going through. “Did you kiss him?” Old School asked.

  Atwater had just told him she had the softest lips in the world. He just shook his head.

  “You got it bad. What's your ulterior motive with him? You ain’t tender-dick, are you?”

  “Hell no!” Atwater said emphatically. Of course he had ulterior motives that would help him and Old School. “I'm most definitely going to get some money.”

  “What's your angle?”

  “I'm putting that pretty thing on the Internet. Get a couple of tricks to contribute to his legal aid. When I was at Terre Haute, a cat from Atlanta was getting plenty of money like that.” But Atwater couldn't tell Old School his real plan. It was to be kept a surprise.

  “What's plenty of money?”

  “How much a high profile attorney cost? What $60k to $90k, and they were getting a lot of different Johns,” Atwater answered.

  “Strategizing success,” Old School added.

  When Old School said that, Atwater told him about his son and his daughter and the good tidings they had brought him. Old School truly felt a part of Atwater's family.

  At that minute, the ten minute move was called over the loud speaker. To that, Old School said, “Young Blood, I'm going to always trust and roll with your judgment-call. But remember, amongst all the emotions you'll have with him/her, keep the presence of your mind.”

  Atwater looked at Old School as if he knew that already. “Come on now, this is me you're talking to. That's why I like this chase, because I have to struggle with temptation. I like living on the edge a little bit.”

  Old School laughed. “What happens when he gets possessive and starts demanding more and more of your time? Young Blood, don't get emotionally attached. Don't be like Lazy Eyes. You have too much to lose.”

  “Never that,” Atwater said as they headed toward the exit. “You're like a father to me. I'm hearing you on everything you're saying, but I have to take this ride and see where it leads.”

  “You better. How else would a man test his mettle and wits? Iron sharpens iron and man sharpens man—no homo.” They laughed.

  Atwater went straight to the unit. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and got his clothes out for tomorrow.

  His cell mate jumped on his bunk, and once he saw that his cell mate was occupied reading a book, he hopped on his bunk and read Butterfly's letter.

  Aries,

  I'm trying my hardest to be patient. I know you're on the down-low, but how down-low do you have to be? You have me waiting outside, walking the yard trying to get your attention, and sometimes you don't even go to meet me. I just be giving you a hard time when I talk about you and your shadow, because I know y’all don't have nothing going on. But I hate the way he looks at me. My brother and my father used to look at me the same way. It's a long story.

  If this is too much for you, please let me know because I wouldn't play you like this. What's worse is you keep kissing me and holding me tight as if this is something that you want. I'm confused! Let me know what's on your mind.

  Distant whisper . . .

  Atwater
just smiled. She was too much.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I’m Tired Of Prison

  Mrs. Mires was the wicked bitch of the prison. If she could be nasty, she'd spite herself to be even nastier. She had no sense of being cordial. Being decent could never have crossed her mind. And it made her little stump legs and fat body seem grotesque. She wore her blue CO uniform, and it became her personality, as if her blue uniform and badge could compensate for her foul mouth, nasty manners, and her ugly and shapeless body. With her short hairstyle, she looked like a short-stop who should be spitting Chew with a shit-dribbling horse stuck between her legs and a straw in her mouth.

  That morning, Mrs. Mires called Butterfly to her office that was in a hallway between two units. Butterfly did as told. There was nobody back there with Mrs. Mires except the secretary and an orderly, who was emptying the trashcans.

  “Princess, go to the chapel when you hear the call for the ten-minute move,” Mrs. Mires told Butterfly.

  “For what?” Butterfly asked. She didn't like the sneer in Mrs. Mire's eyes.

  “Because I said so. And also, put on your boots and take off those tight pants. And if I see that you've altered another shirt, I'm going to write you an incident report.”

  “What's that?”

  “You'll find out when I write one. Now get out of my office and go and put your uniform and boots on.”

  Butterfly padded out of her office and went to change her clothes as she was told. When she put on the two-piece uniform and the gangly boots, she felt like the horse-bitch Mrs. Mires truly was.

  They called the ten-minute move, and Butterfly marshaled out with the other inmates. She went to the chapel and it was quiet and empty inside, nothing like how she had remembered the last time she was there.

  When she went in to the Chaplain's office, there was nobody there except a sharply dressed white lady in her early forties, clad in D&G transitional frames, with a body of rigorous and hard-fought for curves, shape, and a unique type of definition. And Butterfly knew that this must be the lady that inmates would line up outside of her office to ask her a meaningless question just to get a sneak-preview of her jazzy attire worn over her flawless body.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Hoover said, a stark difference from Mrs. Mires. She seemed urbane and cordial.

  “My counselor Mrs. Mires told me to come down here,” Butterfly said, using her kitten voice, because she liked the lady at first sight.

  “Hello again, Butterfly.” She smiled and winked an eye. “You'll be taking over Lonny's old job as a library clerk. He sent me a kite and told me to give you his old job and to look out for you.” She squeezed Butterfly's hand over the counter that was between them.

  “He told me a lot about you too.” She shook her head. “And you are every bit as pretty as he said. “Wow!”

  The phone rang. She told Butterfly to give her a second, and she would show her around. So Butterfly stepped out of her office and started to prowl around the chapel. She walked by the bathroom and remembered that was the first time she had made out with Lazy Eyes and then she thought of the other times. Yes, the library had a wealth of memories with him, and if she sniffed the air, she could still smell his musk, his cologne scent, and feel his thrust in her lubricated bend. It was a pleasing thought that she was suddenly pulled from when the lady emerged from the office, whose name was Mrs. Hoover.

  “Sorry about that.” She giggled.

  “You're going to basically do everything Lonny was doing. Your job is very simple, and I'm sure we're going to get along just fine. You'll hand out books, CDs, DVDs, and any other religious apparel needed.

  “Those lockers are where we keep everything, and I'll unlock it as need be.

  “You have the Sunnis locker there, the FOI there, and the Rastafarians over there too. On the other side are the Hebrew Israelites who share the same locker with the Jews, Wicca, and Santamaria. The Jehovah Witness and Protestant's lockers are there. And of course, the last locker in the corner is for the Catholics.”

  Butterfly laughed because it was a lot to remember. “I'll try to get it remembered.”

  “You will. I'll show you the library where you'll spend most of your time undisturbed.”

  They walked to the room that Lazy Eyes came out of the night when Butterfly had met him. It was diagonal to the main chapel.

  When they walked in, it was just as Mrs. Hoover had said, spacious, relaxing, and it did offer privacy because there was a door that could be shut and locked!

  “We have books on every religion, no matter what it is. Here's a religious catalogue.” Mrs. Hoover held up a Yellow Pages sized book. “The CDs and DVDs are in that drawer. They have to fill out this sheet and give you their ID to rent them.

  “Now that, that is all done, I want you to tell me about you and Lonny. He's already told me so much about you.”

  Butterfly smiled sheepishly, but she still hadn't warmed to Mrs. Hoover yet.

  “I understand. I want you to call me Kathy, okay? You don't have to call me Mrs. Hoover and be all official.” She laughed. “I'm not all gung ho. I'm only a secretary. I collect my check and that's it. I'm here to be your friend, you understand? And I was friends with Lonny. That boy is crazy!” She laughed. “He talked so much about you. I feel like I know you already.”

  And that loosened Butterfly's tongue, and as first sight impressions went, Butterfly knew she'd like her.

  “What did he used to say?” Butterfly asked. And that's how their friendship began.

  Love's Like A Rollercoaster...

  Atwater and Craze-zo listened intently to the music Jeffrey Bey and his band played in the band room, but Atwater’s mind was on Butterfly. He needed to see her tonight just to ease his mind. He had been uptight lately about getting out. It wasn't easy for a person to have done eighteen years and then get released, and responsibility hit him all at once. He had been holding everything down from jail and that was simply his comfort zone, and he knew it would be different. Everything would be different. Don't fret, he told himself.

  He saw Butterfly sauntering those juicy thighs up the walkway and her disheveled hair. It was obvious she didn't know what to do with her hair, and he thought she probably was the type that figured beauty and body overcompensated for anything as trivial as a hot comb and some hair-gel. He just laughed.

  She saw him and headed to their honeycomb hideout, and he appeared instantly into her arms.

  “What kind of letter was that?” he asked as she kissed him.

  “A 'truth be told' letter.”

  Butterfly wanted to suck his fruit dry of its succulent juice, but he pulled away and handed her a letter. “Read this. I'll meet you tonight at pill line. I have to get back to the music room.”

  “Is that it?” Butterfly said. She wanted much more. “You ain’t gonna let me get any nourishment.”

  “If you keep drinking this bull's milk, you're going to lose that pretty figure of yours.” They laughed.

  “Do you like me, Aries?”

  He laughed. Up till that point, she had never called him by his name.

  “Hell yeah! Let me feel that ass. Damn!” he said as she brushed her ass against his dick and pushed it against his mid-section.

  “What?” she asked skeptically. “Let me guess—feels like a woman's ass is what you're thinking?” she asked sarcastically, shameful that she had to go through this with him. But how was he to know?

  He just shook his head affirmatively.

  “When will you accept the fact that I'm a 100 percent Black woman?”

  “I'm a 100 percent convinced now. That's on the prophet!” Atwater added, exasperated.

  “I'll see you at the pill line. I'm gonna read the letter right now.”

  Testing The Water…

  The moon cast a pale silvery glow over the night, and Atwater had to put his jacket on against the chill in the wind as he made his way to the pill line. He saw Butterfly walking up the walkway at a fast pace, and he had to damn nea
r trot to catch up with her.

  She slowed down when she saw him coming, and when he saw her face, she seemed as if she had been crying.

  “What's up with you?” he asked.

  “I've never been more insulted in all my life! I don't need a pimp. Everything you put in that letter just says that you want to use me like my manager did. I'm already on the Internet. Here's my Facebook picture.” She gave him her profile picture that was on the Internet, and damn was she even prettier! “That's how I look when I have a stylist and a make-up artist.”

  “Why are you surprised? I hope you didn't think I walked around the streets with my hair like this. I'm a model.”

  “Calm down,” Atwater bid her. At least till they were able to walk to the automated machine, where everything wouldn't be put on front-street. But he couldn't keep his eyes off the picture she had handed him. She was ever more gorgeous!

  “I have plenty of money,” she continued to fuss in her hushed manner. “I don't need a pimp. Here's my commissary receipt. I always keep three zeroes on my account. If I love somebody, Aries, I'll give them whatever they want. But those were hurtful things you said in that letter. Asking me why I go to pill line. I'm bipolar! But you don't listen to me.” Butterfly disappeared into the night.

  Atwater smiled. He had done what he had wanted to—shaken up her foundation. And now she had given him the key he needed to get her to do what he needed her to do. What did she say: 'If I love somebody, Aries, I'll give them whatever they want.' How relishing. The key to unlock her had come to him so easy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Make Up To . . . Busted

  As had been different from the past few weeks that Butterfly had been seeing Atwater, she had woke up from the bed sluggish and feeling heavy with slumber.