“Memoirs of a Twitter Honey” by BRIA BACKWOOD$

“Take a shower, fix your hair, put on makeup, and get dressed.” It was a simple demand with few instructions, but only from a stranger. The words slid off his tongue ever so smoothly, I smelled the cigarettes through the screen.

 And on that note, I clicked the end button of our FaceTime call. The worst of me had been unveiled, so there was no going down from there. It’s not everyday that one of the most influential youth fashion members of our time asks me, an average girl to spend some time with him. All I could do was go with the flow. 

 I started getting ready to meet up with him; the only thing that went through my mind was what am I going to wear.  The infamous Ian Connor was known to be more than blunt, but I was sure that he wouldn’t be with me. Since I’m oblivious to most things, it never dawned on me who Ian actually was. I was new to the social media scene and didn’t pay that close attention. Just like any good English major would do, I did a little analyzing of his profile and made a quick phone call to some friends. They were always in tune with the fashion world, along with the latest gossip and trends. 

Despite the rumors trickling through the phone, I kept in mind one of the earliest things my grandmother said to me: “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover.” I most definitely could not judge this particular “book” when the main character was persistently deemed the giver-of-no-fucks. Ian would post pictures of his sexual relations with other girls. The pictures would mostly just be of girls with fat asses, so it never came to mind what would happen to me.

  Ian made it seem like the only things that really mattered were money and clothes. “Fuck school,” would be his mantra, claiming that he dropped out in the ninth grade. Who could really blame him for his mentality though? When being dressed in the latest gear was what most of the kids talked about.  

I couldn’t understand why the people I knew presumed Ian to be some utter asshole, when it should have dawned on me that they didn’t know him either. Our short FaceTime call displayed a character who was nothing but friendly. Besides, what New York girl doesn’t love a night out in the City, laced with opportunities of making lifelong connections? So I strutted across my hardwood floor into the bathroom and hopped my ass in the shower. 

If my shower isn’t timed, it will consume me, so I made sure to put on my favorite playlist even though the job would be done in about two songs. The typical five minutes was shortened to three. I danced the loofa along the crevices of my body, making sure the only thing left on me was the trace of cleanliness. As the soap bubbles sank onto the outdated flamingo colored tiles, my mind sorted through unrealistic fantasies and most of all, Twitter. What did I just sign up for? 

I scrolled through my Timeline earlier in search for some laughs, all to come across a tweet saying “Who’s in New York?” It never dawned on me that replying in my bored state of mind would land me some quality time with a complete stranger. To be quite honest, if given any reason to take a trip to the City, I am usually more than willing to accept the offer. I decided to shave, never knowing the unexpected, and figured if anything were to happen I would be more than prepared. The worst thing a person could do is to be caught slipping, off their guard and not prepared for action. I made sure I was prepared for the world. I caught myself in the middle of a daydream and poked my dripping arm out for a towel.  

A time check was needed; about a quarter to seven. He told me not to rush, but I knew if I didn’t I would never get there. My focus snapped back to what I planned on wearing. My mind was telling me black, mainly because of it’s simplicity and how it makes me look fabulously skinny. 

All of my clothes are black since I’m always throwing something on. My friends told me pick a new color, but I knew what was right for me. They told me “Nothing too fancy,” so I pulled out my ponte dress from American Apparel. It was a sexy little number with an open back, revealing a slight amount of provocativeness. It fit with precision and was still classy as hell. When going to the City, I always dressed a certain way, mainly because it added to the atmosphere. In New York, it’s typical to see men and women flaunting their style, whether it’s designs inspired by the past or lavish dining attire. Whenever I think of New York City, I automatically think of Sex & The City and the glamour of what surrounds me. 

My grandparents would frequently take me to Broadway plays, and the dress code was never casual. Workers would walk the streets in nothing but tailored suits and dresses. Whenever I was in the City, I owned it, so I made sure to dress the part. 

In the midst of everything, I checked my Twitter. I lurked on Ian’s page to see if he tweeted something recent, but the last thing he said was the Tweet I came across. I realized I was dawdling and picked up the pace. I climbed up one to many stairs leading to the top floor of my house and caught my grandmother in her office. 

“Can you please do me a favor and take me to the train station?” An eye roll and a sigh led her rolling chair to face me. 

Disapproving eyes glanced at my outfit. 

“Where do you think you’re going at this time of night”

“To the City.”

“Always traveling alone at night. You’re lucky you haven’t been kidnapped yet. And who are you going to see?” 

“Just a friend.” 

“Yeah, a friend you’ve never met. Keep meeting people from the Internet and see where that gets you.” I laughed and said “ok.” 

She tousled her soft black curls, the type of hair that made our family wonder how we ever got her genes. Her eyes squinted at the screen, not really looking at anything.

 “Where are my keys?” 

Of course. Her keys. The one thing she never forgot to misplace. 

“Can you help me find my pocketbook?”

She scratched her head in frustration. 

“Keep messing around and you’re gunna miss your train.”  I always loved her sass that always presented itself when I had somewhere to go. 

How do you explain to your grandmother that you are a Twitter Honey, (a popular girl on the internet) not knowingly on the rise, and are just going out for a night to meet with complete randoms with a fashion sense? I decided to keep that to myself and kissed her on the cheek, farewell. 

I click clacked up the train station stairs in my cheap Target heels, praying they wouldn’t break before my arrival. Thanks to tourists not knowing how to use the ticket machine, I was forced to wait in a slowly forming line. When they finally dispersed to the side, I rammed my fingertips into each touch screen selection as fast as the average kid with a smartphone. In a matter of minutes, the train glided across the tracks to a halt as the pleats in my dress wisped away in the breeze.  When I ask people what comes to mind when they think of Long Island, it’s usually “rich people with nice cars.” I stood along the mustard yellow caution paint with poise, keeping in mind to maintain my Long Island composure at all times.

When I entered the train, my eyes darted along the rows to spot an open seat with a window. A window seat is a constant necessity. I use this opportunity to imagine myself in a film with a camera looking at me from the outside. When I look out of the window, my imagination runs wild. I always wonder what it would be like if I grew up in the towns that we passed along the way. My stop was Westbury; where the white people lived by the horse stables, and the hispanics lived near the train. The black people had a divide of their own, where the middle class lived on the border of mansion land, and the lower class lived by bodegas. After that, we passed Carle Place, Mineola, and New Hyde Park - basic white towns - just to name a few. 

 When the train chimed that we were nearing Jamaica, my stomach began to churn. It was the last stop before Penn Station, so I had fifteen minutes to spare. The only thing that could calm my rising nerves was the view of my beloved City the train was approaching. My hands kept flattening out my dress across my lap. I couldn’t figure out why I felt the way I did, but I needed to get over it fast. It was very common for people to rush to the exit doors of the train when finally arriving to the last destination, so I made sure to be the first one out of there. We marched up the stairs in search of our separate trains and busses. 

Ian told me to text him when I arrived in the City, so I did just that. With my City attitude in place, I click clacked over to the side not daring to let a stranger brush against me. He gave me the address of my next destination. I used my handy dandy iPhone app and put it into navigation. The location was set in Harlem; I knew I had to take the 1 train which insinuated quite a journey. There was no turning back now.

As I sat on the subway, I fell in love all over again. Not with the complete stranger I was about to meet, but with the power of social media and the opportunities it may lead me to. I fell in love with the unpleasant scent of dried up urine and cigarettes, with the way everyone’s eyes were fixated on everything but each other. Just my luck, there were some musicians along for the ride. The sounds of the bongo drums provided some last minute entertainment before I made it to my stop. You can never knock a New Yorker’s hustle, so I made sure to give the musicians change in exchange for their talents. 

As I walked off the train, my nose crinkled up to the smell of old urine and murky air. I climbed up the stairs with the click clacks as my musical accompaniment. Then my nose noticed before my brain did, the delicious smell of fried chicken. Good old Harlem, there was nothing better than that. I almost forgot what I had on until the cat calls rang out from the middle aged men, crowding the corners at the local bodegas. Just like any other woman bred in the concrete jungle, I ignored them and went on about my business. About seven long city blocks later, I made it to my destination, “Atomic Wings.” 

As my feet pulled up to the chicken spot, I peered through the window and spotted at least eight other men. My mind soon began to wonder which stranger it was that I took a journey to see. The opening glass doors grabbed my attention and out came a little shorty with dark colored dreads, wearing a jean jacket, and some other ripped clothing. 

“Hey, I’m Ian,” were the next sounds I heard, laced in that familiar scent. I greeted him with my government name, with a note in mind to bring up Twitter as less as possible. He reached in to hug me and grabbed my ass, as any sexually dominated boy would do. What I didn’t expect was when he asked me to hold his cigarette while he went back inside to round up the others. Others? I couldn’t imagine having to deal with more than one of them all in the same setting. And within a couple of minutes, one by one, they strolled out of the wing shop. 

Their eyes met mine for only a second as their male gaze took into consideration my entire appearance. One of them actually said hello, but ended with “Why are you wearing a dress?” 

 “Why are you wearing ripped shorts?” I said. He explained to me that he was comfortable so I told him I felt the same. “Touche,” was the last thing that left his mouth. 

With all of them finally rounded up, we began to walk to what I hoped to be our final destination. Without much of a notice, we walked down 125th ST in a horizontal line. Soon enough, I began to hear people calling for them: “Hey, how’s it going? How’s your day?” “Much respect my brotha, stay up.” However, we didn’t stop walking. They expressed mutual respect with head nods and finger gestures. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Who the fuck am I with? I prayed I didn’t say that aloud seeing how we were close to wherever we were going. 

At last we came to our journey’s end. The building wasn’t that attractive, but my grandmother’s saying made way into my head. The group of us climbed up three flights of stairs and were greeted by their other friends already in the apartment. Just like that, they all plopped into their separate chairs and corners as if they just finished running a marathon. 

Ian, along with one other person, vanished into a bedroom. With no hint of instructions, I made it my job to make myself comfortable. I sat down on an olive green couch, eavesdropping on unfamiliar conversations with unfamiliar people. There was no doubt in mind that they noticed my lack of familiarity, so one of them asked my name. “My name is Bria, what’s yours?”  Instantly, I was hit with a look of disapproval, like how does this bitch not know who I am. He told me his name was something but people call him Nast. There was another one sitting not too far away from Fierce. Through their conversations, I learned his name was Bari. 

To me, Bari was the nicest, seeing how he was the only one to strike conversation with me in the absence of his friend who had requested my presence. Thankfully enough, my Libra qualities kicked in; I commented on his tattoo. On his skull, he has angel wings tattooed horizontally and I thought that was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. He thanked me and asked where I was from. I told him “Long Island” and he laughed with his response: “That’s why you’re so goofy.” I had no idea the context in which he used the word. I ignored him and kept quiet; I didn’t want to engage in my so-called “goofiness.” My palms began to sweat a little so I flattened out my dress again. I let my eyes wander across the living room, taking in every painting and blunt wrap I could see. 

Shortly after, Ian emerged from the mysterious bedroom. “Bria, come with me.” That was all I needed to hear and I up and left the couch. Click clacks followed him back into the hallway as he led me up another flight of stairs.

“So how long have you followed me for?”

“Ehh, for about two weeks. My friends find you interesting, so I wanted to know what the hype was about.” 

“Hah, not much of a hype. I’m just that nigga.” 

Almost immediately I could see where my friends got the ideas that they had of him, but we were just getting started so I decided to stick around. 

I needed something else to say so I wouldn’t feel awkward, but awkwardly enough I said, “I saw that you were friends with that really pretty girl. Ziloh or something.” 

“That’s my ex-girlfriend.”

“Ohhh, I see,” and on that note I shut my mouth. 

After climbing what seemed like a thousand stairs with some slight conversation, we came to a door. It just so happened to be the roof of the building. I was in awe. The simple things are what get to me and I love seeing the skyline so I thought the roof was pretty cool. At this point, I was thinking to myself, hey he’s not that bad. I may have spoken too soon. 

We stood against the wall by the door. He lit another cigarette. I had to keep the conversation going so I asked, “So what exactly is it that you do?” He took a drag and turned to me. 

“So basically, I’m Wiz Khalifa’s stylist. And the man downstairs, his name is Rocky and he signed me to the group him and the others are apart of -- for fashion and other reasons.” 

We talked some more about his life and mine, then after a while he gently pushed me against the wall. We started making out. Every tastebud on his tongue was covered in smoke. Nothing could be tasted but the Newports. He smelled like he needed a shower, but I cut him a break since he tweeted earlier in the evening he missed his flight to one of his many destinations. 

He began to put his hand up my dress, so I backed up and said what any girl might say, “What are you doing???” 

“Baby, just relax,” rolled seductively off his tongue. The scent attached to his words were so very unappealing that I was anything but seduced. He started to caress my sides and tugged at my PINK panties. He was more than likely trying to get back into makeout mood, but I just wasn’t having it. I just had to ask,“What are your intentions right now because I’m not getting them.”

Then he says:

“Bria, what’s wrong? You’re being weird, stop being weird. The whole reason London and I were together was being she moved fast paced along with me. Now I’m not gunna sit here and sell you that dream, because that’s not why we’re here, but we are here to have a good time.” 

He started to tug at my thong, even though I was struggling against it. I used every excuse in the book to stop what I dreaded was about to happen. “You don’t even have a condom. What if I have AIDS? What if YOU have AIDS?” In my mind, I knew this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo, so stalling was my only option. We kept going back and forth with my struggling words against his persistent ones. 

“Just relax.” 

“Relax? reLAX???” I was far from relaxed and close to agitated. 

The look in his eyes made me think of Genesis in the bible: “and the serpent said unto the woman, ye shall not surely die.” - Genesis 3:4

I don’t know how he managed but my panties were then down. I felt a lick in my nether regions and thought to myself what are my options.  I didn’t really have any with the position I was currently in, especially with the unwanted euphoria steadily creeping through my veins. I figured the only way he would let me go home was to get it over with. I swear to god 20 minutes passed before I finally caved, all for a minute and thirty seconds of pleasure. “Your ass is so nice, baby. Your skin is so smooth.” It wasn’t that I didn’t necessarily want to, just not under those circumstances. And what’s a 93 lb girl to do when she’s being held on to by her legs. His dick was warm, yes because of body heat, but there was something else about it. He wanted me and he wanted me right then and there. I was propped up over the edge of the roof, with the pleats of my dress spread over the top of my ass. With my face turned away from him, it was like a game of peekaboo, and when his pecker peeked, I sure said boo. I would have never imagined his package as substantial as it was, but it made me realize why the girls come around. 

While he was pounding me I thought about it. I couldn’t call it rape since I eventually consented so I just braced myself for the remainder of it. He pulled out and came on the floor, all but a drop that made way onto my dress. At this point, I had no words or feelings. I just wanted to go home. I could picture my grandmother shaking her head at me in my mind. “I warned you,” she would say.

 Ian kissed me on the cheek and we walked back down the stairs. As soon as we got into the apartment he disappeared yet again. 

“Isan just went to the store really quick,” Bari reassured me. About 10 minutes later, in came what seemed to be local girls with sweatpants and other “chill” attire. They looked at me, I looked at them, and the boys looked back and forth at both of us. I couldn’t understand why I looked cute and they looked super regular, so I knew it was time to go. 

As I collected myself and my belongings, I headed toward the door. Bari followed me asking where I was going and I told him it was time to leave. Just like that, Ian walked through the front door and asked me where I was going. I repeated to him what I just explained to Bari and he prompted me to stay. 

“I really can’t stay, I have work in the morning.” He called me on my bullshit and replied, “You’re already here, might as well have fun.”

Ian told me they were all going out and that he wanted me to tag along. He pulled out several wads of cash all bound together, at least $70,000. “I’ll send you home in a cab when you’re ready to go, on me. Just stay.” I didn’t want to be around that scene any longer so I promised him everything was fine and that I was just tired. Ian finally complied and allowed me to exit. Before I left, Bari asked me for my number but then assured me he would find my Twitter and follow me. 

When I finally left the apartment, all types of relief washed over me. At that point I wasn’t even angry, just in shock. I literally just fucked this kid, a stranger at that. To say the least, I felt dusty. Don’t get me wrong, I was pissed at the situation at hand, but I still thought Ian was cool. I didn’t need any unnecessary drama either, so I just shoved the thought out of my head. The sky was illuminated with a midnight blue shadow. By this time, I was wishing I never wore a dress. I click clacked my aching feet back to the subway to hop my ass on the LIRR back to Long Island. My eyes darted along the line of people on the escalator, wondering if they could see through me, or if they bothered to notice the cum stain on my dress. My weary feet led me to the timeboard. A rush of anxiety helped me spot my destination with the quickness: HUNTINGTON - 10:29 TRACK 17. As soon as you know what track your train it’s in your best interest to make a run for it. Thanks to those long and hard track meets, I was quicker than ever and found a window seat as soon as I climbed on board. 

On my train ride home, I called my cousin who was like a brother to me.

I said to him, “Devin, you won’t believe what just happened.”

So of course he naturally responds, “What the fuck did you do?” 

 I didn’t know how I was about to explain to my cousin how I just had sex with an infamous stranger. He told me to describe to him the people I was with and what they were doing. 

Then he said, “Bria, you were just with A$AP Mob, how did you not know? Damn it, Bria, I swear you’re oblivious to everything.” I had nothing else to say, so I told him I would call back as soon as I got off the train. 

All I thought on the train ride home was how does my life end up this way? And that was when I realized I just entered the selective world of Twitter Honeys and it was only just the beginning.

☉☉☉