Hip hop has a vagina. - Brown University

Herma Winegarten
8
One morning Herma Winegarten woke up deformed. She didn’t realize it at first because the day
started normal. Routine. Like clockwork. The blinds that hung in the bedroom cut the beam of sunshine
that came through the window. Bold, bright lines of shine warmed her skin.
Slowly she turned over in the bed to face her man. Her long fingers traced his face circling around his
almond shaped eyes, down his aquiline nose, through the swirls in his ear, and between his thin lips.
Herma laughed to herself. Imagine her ending up with this light, bright man –with his gray eyes and
wavy hair. Imagine. Herma admitted to herself that they must look strange together. A dark black
woman with long thick black hair courtesy of the Koreans on Richmond and this white looking black
man. But they worked. And after awhile she wasn’t as conscious of how they appeared to others.
Lost in her thoughts, it took Herma awhile to notice his lips encasing her finger sucking the blood to the
very tip.
“You bad”
Megan A. Smith
He laughed a deep grunting sound with subtle changes in pitch. His laugh reminded her of the cello
so much so that the first time she heard his laugh she imagined playing the cello, fiercely, furiously and
impassioned.
In unison as if reading each other’s mind, they moved into a hug. Thigh against thigh. Stomachs
touching. Arms over back. Forehead against forehead
.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Two days.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I love you, too.”
He smiled at her, and then slowly detangled himself from her. Hurriedly he pushed on his pants and
shoes. And while running around Herma’s small apartment gathering his things, he spoke excitedly
about what this trip to Chicago would do for his career. People will know his work. Feel his work.
“Especially the piece I did of you baby. That one will really get them talking.”
Herma hated that painting. No wait. She didn’t hate it. Just hated that everyone would see it. Her
exposed and vulnerable to the designs of his mind and the will of his paintbrush.
“Do you have to show that one?”
“Yea, baby. You know its my best one…my strongest. You see how you inspire me?” He laughed. That
deep laugh. And she turned over on her stomach.
With her eyes closed and her head facedown against the pillow, Herma refused to watch him leave.
She just listened. The water running over his toothbrush. The woosh of clothes being stuffed into a bag.