“If only they could see me now!,” she thought proudly, remembring no one in particular from the orphanage, as she lowered her small, pale, trembling body onto the lumpy, purple dickhead of one of the most famous athletes in the world. She couldn’t stop her tears of joy.
“Mufucka!,” the rich famous athlete thought to himself, “ya nigga gots a white bitch crying on a nigga dick! BLACK POWER! Take this black dick, you white whore! BLACK POWER!,” the celebrity mascot thought proudly.
As her panting client’s massive six-foot-nine frame shuddered atop her, she saw sweat drip into his eyes, and she imagined that he too could not control his tears. She lost herself in the fantasy — and, for the first time in her life, she felt special.
She had gone from abandonment, poverty, desperation, and addiction to this? She could have died from happiness right there in that moment.
Months later, she was in the clinic, dying of AIDS. Hanging on the wall, a television broadcasted the love of her life — Erving “Magic” Johnson — announcing his benevolent plans: “something something AIDS awareness,” he muttered, flanked by a few of his supportive white baby mommas. “What a hero,” she whispered to herself, scratching her several open sores, in the throes of her death-sentence but completely unwilling to hold a grudge against the toxic celebrity who had loved her during their time together.
She had mattered, she thought triumphantly: if only for a moment, someone who mattered had loved her — while vigorously injecting her with his venomous semen. She looked one last time at her handsome prince on the TV, and then closed her eyes. “I would have made such an excellent trophy-wife for him,” she whispered through a smile — her heart monitor flatlining, as she died of happiness (and AIDS).