Read it and Freak: Sweet Sensation by Gwyneth Bolton

Hi, it’s been a while.

Jo: By which he means like three days or so.

And no, I’m not working myself too hard.

Jo: His intern is another story.

It’s back at the night shift at the Library of Agony, and you know what night shift means… actually, I don’t think it means anything. Did I assign something to night shift, Fangzor?

Fangzor: I assigned snake porn to myself for the night and day shifts. Other than that, no.

Whatever. Here’s a Read it and Freak, and this time, it’s an urban romance novel.

Fangzor: And “urban” is the lit world’s word for black people.

Jo: Don’t be racist, Fangzor.

Fangzor: No, really. How successful can you be if you make a novel about a bunch of black people on a farm? Name one, that actually did well.

Jo: …I got nothin’. H?

I gotcha covered, Jo.

POW!

Fangzor: Yeah, well… name one book that did wellabout Black People that ride domesticated cheeseburgers on a toilet farm in space.

I can’t, because that would be stupid.

Fangzor: Stupid? …you racist.

It’s not the black people that are the problem in that pitch. But you know what, I’m not gonna even argue with someone who brushes his teeth with happy meal toys covered in Tang powder.

Fangzor: It’s my ma’s home remedy, and if you don’t like it, you can use all the fucks I give as dental floss.

…let’s just skim through Sweet Sensations by Gweneth Bolton and post my reactions.

(And a bit of a disclaimer: Some of these quotes contain a rather nasty word that begins with N, and it’s not numquam or nematode. But they’re the book’s words, not mine.)

“Dedication:

…To all the b-girls, femcees, hip-hop feminists…

Whoever said women didn’t contribute anything to hip-hop lied! This book is for all the women who love hip-hop and try to create spaces for women within the culture.”

“Prologue: ‘Superwoman’

That’s right, I turn ’em out

You know my style

Rack ’em, stack ’em

Watch my money pile

Turn ’em out, that’s the name of this tune

chick so fly, make all the dudes swoon

Gear so fresh, all the girls throw shade

They mad and stuff ’cause they know that I’m paid…”

“Deidre stared blankly into space. She felt as if she had to be in some parallel universe, the Twilight Zone or something, because there was no way she could have seen what she thought she’d just seen. Is it that easy to change the course of someone’s life? It can’t be, can it?”

“‘That’s all fine and well, but I don’t know why you all have to call yourselves niggers,’ she mumbled, fiddling her fingers.

‘It’s not niggers. It’s niggas. We’re taking that shit and defining it for ourselves.’

‘You’re defining yourselves as niggers?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘No, N-I-G-G-A-S, New Improve Gangsters Going After Society,’ Flex stated in a voice that suggested finality.”

“The irony of it didn’t escape him, as he figured Deidre must have had the same feeling about him when he spent so much time with Stacks trying to bring him down after Sasha was killed.

At the time Deidre had taken to pleading with him not to spend so much time with Stacks. She’d even voiced what everyone else had been thinking, that Stacks had something to do with Sasha’s death. When her pleading didn’t work, she’d started coming around when he was with Stacks and showing up at clubs when they were out. Flex couldn’t allow that to happen, so he’d had to stop her. Stopping her had made her leave him.”

“He desired her in ways he’d thought were long gone. Feelings he’d thought were buried came bubbling up when he least expected them. Even more he found himself wishing and hoping that she was experiencing the same wellspring of emotions– that he wasn’t alone. He needed Deidre to trust him and their relationship more than he wanted to admit.”

“Flex couldn’t contain the sharp breath that came with the hope that started to overflow his heart.”

*Thump*

Jo: Crap, he’s got alcohol poisoning again. Get the first aid.

Fangzor: Eh, let him die this time. Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.

Jo: But if he dies, he won’t.

Fangzor: …sometimes my bullshit even amazes myself.

Next up: A ghostwritten celebrity book.

(Editor’s note: No, I didn’t *actually* get alcohol poisoning. God, people. Get a grip.)

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