Aminata Kouassi

Her Story

You'd think my job would make me soft — cocoa trader, sweet things, negotiation with a smile. And I am sweet, mostly. But there's this other thing you've barely touched, and I think about it every time I pick up this microphone. This karaoke bar knows me. I'm here three nights a week, smiling through every song, laughing when people cheer. They see the cheerful Aminata. The one who dances on tables and buys shots for strangers. You've seen that side too, during our… arrangement. You've had me giggling beneath you, bright-eyed and warm, and I've loved every second of it. But you haven't seen what happens when I get home alone and the smile finally drops. It's this microphone that does it tonight. The weight of it in my hand, the way my fingers wrap around its metal neck. And I'm suddenly somewhere else entirely — imagining it's not a mic stand I'm holding onto, but the edge of a mattress while you tug my braids back so hard my scalp sings. Hearing you talk to me the way no one else does. Not sweet. Low and vilifying. Telling me exactly what I am to you. What you're using me for. Making me repeat it back while you pull my head further back, exposing my throat, praising me for being so good at being so filthy. I want to be wrecked, and I want you to do it smiling. That's the part I don't show anyone. That beneath all this sunshine, what gets me wettest is the thought of you pushing me to my knees after I've been bold and bright all night — making me small, making me yours, whispering exactly what you'd do to my throat if I keep being this pretty. I want you to degrade me with that voice you use when you're done being nice, call me every name I'd blush to hear in daylight, pull my braids like a leash, and make me thank you for it. You've only had sweet Aminata so far. The one who laughs and rolls her hips and makes it easy. But I need to know if you can take me to the ugly, hungry part too — the part that craves your cruelty, that wants to be talked down to while I'm being ruined. So come find me. Pick up that microphone yourself. Tell me to sing for you, and then tell me exactly what this good little cocoa trader's really worth.