Clout Chasin'

Sister’s on speed dial, preachin’ ’bout my ways,

Callin’ ’em “porch dudes” cause we have a lil' foreplay

But I skip the apps, yeah, I skip the bars,

Caught a whole husband right under these stars.

My sister finds my dating habits infuriating.

"Please stop dating porch dudes," she’ll say, as if it's a sickness.

"Porch dudes" is her scornful label for men who slow down and flirt when they see me. I don’t do dating apps, skip the bars.

My method is simple. I sit on this porch on a rush-hour-clogged street; men slow down to flirt; I flirt back, depending. That’s the blueprint.

I’ve met lovers here. A husband. And one mistake that ended with a restraining order.

I top off my wine and grin into the glass. My needs aren’t complicated. Company on the porch, that’s all I want. Tonight, I hope to get lucky.

I drain the wine, my laugh loud and raw. Sis has some nerve! This is our childhood home. She met her high school boyfriend, her own porch dude, when he followed her to these steps.

I laugh, shaking my head at the irony.

My laugh died at the sound of screeching tires.

A car skidded to a halt. A girl tumbled out, bracing herself against the door as she rolled softly on the curb.

The car stayed. Engine idling.

The driver gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead. Crisp white T-shirt. Thick chain. Short buzz cut. Round face. Familiar somehow.

Wait. Is that—

I filed the license plate away in my head. JEF1234.

I dropped to my knees beside the girl, spread out like a rag doll. I placed a hand on her shoulder.

She was breathing hard. Her blonde wig clung for dear life, exposing braids matted with dark, wet blood.

She lifted her face. One eye swollen shut. A tooth is missing.

“Can you get up?” I asked.

She nodded. I helped her to the porch. She was steadier than I would have thought.

I didn’t know her story, so I wrote one. Another messy lovers’ quarrel of the young and foolish.

I guided her into the wicker chair beside my Queen Chair, the seat everyone knows better than to touch.

My fingers moved fast. "Salt," I texted my sister.

“Salt” was our emergency code. One word to tell my sister to pull up the porch camera from her phone.

I'd insisted she have access because she’s always worried. She denies it, of course. Likes to say, “If you gotta worry, don’t pray. And if you pray, don’t worry.”

When I walked her through the camera setup, she reminded me I wasn’t a toddler. If I chose to live on the edge, that was my choice. She would not be babysitting me.

I made pretend baby-cry noises, and she simply turned her back. My laugh chased her all the way to the door.

LIVE LIFE ON THE EDGE. Laugh F-ing Out Loud.

I never understood why she considered that the edge. A man slows down to flirt with me on my porch, and maybe, depending, we hook up.

Okay, Sis, you don’t worry because you pray. I don’t worry because I carry a Glock.

I took a pull of my blunt and offered it to the girl.

She took a shaky hit. That’s when I noticed the “missing tooth” was actually a small black cover.

“That’s really good,” she whispered.

“Be right back.”

I shut the bathroom door and hiked up my dress, wine running through me. Washing my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, and wild hair. 29 and still young and fabulous.

Was 29 still young? I used to think so anyway.

A boy flirted with me last week and told me middle age starts at 35. I nearly spat my drink on him. But when he explained his reasoning, it made sense. He said if the average predicted age for someone to live is 76, then thirty-five is middle age.

Damn, seven more years before I’m middle-aged.

​

“Hey, sis,” I say, phone tucked between my ear, as I grab wig glue and a comb from the drawer. I ran a washcloth under hot water.

“Get that girl an Uber and send her home.”

"Sis is watching on camera," I trilled, heading into the kitchen.

I pulled the cork on an open bottle, drank straight from it, making loud gulping sounds. Sis let out a deep breath. I set the phone face down.

Her prayers echo off my bottle of wine. “Heavenly Lord Father, please protect my sister. Heal that young lady who arrived on her step. Restore her—”

I snatch the phone.

"I gotta go," I say, tray balanced on my knee. Keep the camera on, if you want.

“I Pray…” she said.

“Bye.”

Knowing Sis, she prayed, then went to bed. God notified.

Still laughing, I headed back outside.

I stopped cold.

The girl was perfect. Wig fixed. Face clean. No swollen eye. No missing tooth.

She sat in my Queen Chair, smoking my blunt.

I set the tray down and yanked her up by the arm.

“Only one pretty girl gets that seat, honey,” I said, “and she’s standing right here.”

She moaned.

“Cut it.”

“It was makeup,” she said. “I’m on a reality show. USA Baddy’s.” I took a slow, angry breath.

“I was in a real fight,” she added. “With the girl whose car I rolled out of.”

She grabbed her back, whining. I handed her the warm towel, one minute away from giving her a real black eye.

“Wynter punched me,” she groaned. “Said I was boring.”

“Who’s Wynter?”

“The girl whose car I jumped out of. She hit me first.”

She hit the blunt again, doubled over.

I poured myself a glass of wine. She grabbed the bottle, drank from it, and swallowed a pill.

“That better not be drugs,” I said. “No drugs on this porch.”

“Over-the-counter.”

“Did you at least kick her ass?”

She nodded. “But then her twin Autumn came outta nowhere. Security grabbed me like I weighed nothing. That’s when Wynter snatched my wig and kicked me.”

She studied my face.

“You’re pretty. Ever think about reality TV?”

“Nope. I don’t fight. I love.”

She grinned. “Not even if the money was right, Tommie?”

I flinched. “Who’s Tommie?”

“My bad. You just remind me of one of the girls.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “Nature calls.”

I rushed inside and collapsed on the toilet. I’d hit my wine limit. This wasn’t the exciting evening I manifested. I was going to put her in an Uber and call it a night.

Something itched.

I pulled up the porch camera.

On the screen, Wynter was reclining in my Queen Chair, legs spread, puffing on my blunt. Rag Doll filmed on her phone.

“The bitch dared us to pull up, and we pulled up. She ran inside.”

My mouth went slack. Did they plan to make me a part of their reality show skit?

I pressed my lips together and frowned.

I punched Ray’s number.

“You home?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can you come down?”

“Oooh,” Ray said, his voice low and sexy. “Tell me more.”

I pressed the phone to my cheek and inhaled. Ray—my first porch dude. Years of circling each other. The kind of man you don’t mean to love, but somehow do.

“Raaay,” I said, pulling seriously from deep in my heart. “I got some wild teens on my porch.”

A pause. “You want me in uniform?”

“Oooh,” I said, playful at first and then serious. “Not necessary. Just your presence. Stand by on Mrs. Johnson’s porch till I call your name.”

I reached for my pepper spray on the shelf.

I rushed to the door, yanking it open. The girls jumped, eyes wide, stunned teens caught trespassing, their courage evaporating.

I grabbed the driver’s arm and hauled her clear of my chair.

“Whatever story y’all rehearsed,” I said, my voice steady now, “it ends here.”

“Ray,” I called.

Ray was tall and bow-legged; his walk carried authority and attraction. The block recognized him.

The girls froze.

“Y’all wanna go viral?” Ray said, waving the girls off the porch.

The girls froze like deer in headlights.

Rag doll tried to put her phone away.

“No, do put your phone away now, Ray said. “Apologize into the camera.

Rag Doll whispered, "I'm sorry."

They dashed off, and Ray and I laughed.

He stood close to me, and his presence and cologne made my insides tingle.

“Up for a nightcap?” Ray asked, his voice casual, his hand already finding my arm.

I hesitated just long enough to pretend I was deciding, “Sure.”

He smiled, slow and knowing, wrapping his arm around my waist.

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