Short Story: Flying BAV

Photo by Sacha Verheij on Unsplash

Flying BAV

Hi. My name is Angela Simón and I’m a born again virgin. Now, before you go and judge my sanctify-ness you should know that this wasn’t a faith-based decision. Sure, I’m a child of God and I want to do my best to walk down the righteous path but that’s not why I’m a BAV.

I’ve joined the select group of BAVs who have decided to take control of their relationships by limiting physical interactions. Plus it just helps to keep things simple. And I’m not a BAV that waits until he’s all up on me, breathing down my neck, reaching up my thigh expecting for a fun time. No. I let every man who decides to look my way know what’s up immediately.

He’s either going to get the point or get away and I’m totally ok with either choice.

But when I met Raheem on a red eye to L.A., I damn near turned a corner and went down hoe-dom lane. Shit!

Raheem wore black and red glasses, a “You can call me King” shirt with a black, green and red book bag. He stood about 5 feet 10 inches or maybe even 6 feet tall, with Mahogany skin, you know the kind with a little hint of Red Cherokee in it.

It had been a while since I saw someone that made me stare, but this brother, made me want to climb over seats, stepping on bitches head just to say hello. But I contained myself and just prayed that he would sit next to me.

The only problem with that was the plane was damn near empty and we all could have a seat to ourselves. I look out the window to question God on why he would test my instincts like this.

I shake off the desire and look back up the aisle. Now only three rows from me, I wait for him to plop in the row in front of me, which was completely empty.

I catch a glance from him and see his beautiful hazel eyes shining back at me. Shit! I love men with all eye colors but there is just something so damn alluring when a man, especially a black man, has those exotic hazel and green eyes. It’s like being mesmerized by an 18-carat diamond—just fucking beautiful.

He smiles. I smile. He looks at the row in front of me then lifts his carry-on in the ben above. I grimace from the lost opportunity but then he shocks me.

He sits in the aisle seat in my row.


I smile at him. He smiles back. Then another smile grows between my legs. I cross them tight, hoping to make her chill out.

Hey, bitch we are BAVs now. Stop it.

I must have suffocated her enough because she calmed down enough for me to be able to reach under the seat in front of me to grab my water and Starburst. I really should’ve gone to sleep, but my imagination was ready to play.

I watched him out of my peripheral, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of his personality. He definitely wasn’t scared to show his pro-blackness because if you weren’t paying attention to his shirt or bookbag, you could have gauged it from his Africa medallion and in-flight reading, The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual by Harold Cruise.

I love an aware black man. Fuck woke. I like them soaked in black pride.

Reminds me of my love for a good protest at my alma mater. It was a PWC (predominately white college) that like to have blacks on their team but not teaching in their classrooms or sitting in the administration. It took us four dedicated years, but we got the first black dean placed. Damn, I miss those days.

“Are you okay?” He asks. I don’t know what face I was making but I couldn’t imagine it being anything but of pride and power.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like you were about to be sick?”

Word, I make the gage face when I’m prideful. I’ve got to do better.

“No, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” I wonder if it is my turn to ask a question or two but he beats me.

“My name is Raheem.” He reaches out his hand and I gladly shake it.

“I’m Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you, Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you to Raheem.” We turn back to look for the stewardess, but I had other questions I wanted to ask.

“Hey,” I yell, trying to grab his attention again. He turns back to me and I enjoy the stubble growing on his chin. “That’s a good book. I read it in college.”

“Oh yay. It’s my second time reading it.” Yas, to his continuous dedication to re-education. “I just wanted to scan it one more time. You know, keep my head in the right space.”

“No, I get it. Because ‘Either all groups image speak for themselves,’” he joins in “’ and for the nation, or American nationality will never be determined.’” We laugh and smile once more.

“I love that quote.”

“I love it too,” He responds.

The stewardess finally announces that the doors are closing, and we are preparing to take off. Now it’s time for their educational but dull showing of safety around the plan.

I hear the engine on my side rev up and the plan jolt back from the terminal. Somehow the exhausts creep through my window and I want to move to the middle seat. At least I’ll be closer to him.

But we’re all supposed to be seated, except he stands up and then takes the seat next to me.

Like minds, I see.

Once he has repositioned his things under the seat he leans into me.

“They are too loud and I would love to continue our conversation.”

I’d be lying if I said that he wasn’t making me glow, but he was. He was also making me question if I was going to still be a BAV by the end of this flight.

One then two hours pass and we were still talking about blackness. We’ve touched on college, now we’re talking about discrepancies plaguing the corporate arena. Soon the conversation shifts again, and this time to relationships. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to but I could feel that it was time for me to drop the “coochie is on lock” bomb.

“So, do you have a man?”

Right before I can respond, he stops me. “Wait, I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t want to be disappointed.”

“Well,” I continue anyway, “no I don’t have a man.”


“But I am a BAV and that’s probably why.”

He sits back in his seat for a second, looking toward the front.

See I knew it. Well, it was nice talking with him while it lasted.

Then without looking at me, he leans in close and whispers, “No disrespect, but what’s a BAV?”

A high-pitch squeal slips out of me but his confused looked reminded me that I had some explaining to do.

“I’m a born again virgin.”

“Oh, shit. Word. Cool. I thought that was some new African religion I hadn’t learned about yet. I was about to Google that shit without you seeing.”

“Sorry, I forget that not everyone is verse in BAVism.”

“So, that’s why you think you’re single?”

“Yeah, you know guys, especially black men, just don’t understand it.”

“I hate to fall into that category myself but what does it really mean.”

“Well,” I take a sip before releasing the next missile. “It means that I won’t have sex before I’m married. I’ve had sex before and it has only complicated my relationships, then left me yearning for love. I mean I don’t blame myself, but I want to know that someone loves me for me and not because of the tricks I can do in the bedroom.”

“Oh, so you do tricks?”

See what happens with Carmen and Raheem on Pateron. Subscribe the Passionate Addict tier to read this full story, other short stories and view exclusive video.



My Baby is Out!

Finally, my short story that is featured in Z Publishing’s Anthology Georgia’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Fiction, is now out! It’s available through their site and also on Amazon.


And don’t forget to grab your passion-fy pieces from my store (now on sale) — Like. Love. Lust.: A Collection of Passion-Fy Prose and Poetry and Untraditional: A Collection of Passion-Fy Short Stories.



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[Writing Prompt] 600-Word Short Story

This weekend, I met with a fellow author who just completed an amazing 500-word short story. And I wanted to try and do the same, but haven’t nailed it yet. So, enjoy this under 600-word short story tapping into my response to a comment made recently.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved so don’t go and still my stuff, and think that I won’t come after you! Enjoy!

Locker Room Talk: What He Didn’t Know

Sunrise Zumba exhausted even the fittest athlete, and today would’ve felt the same if the ladies hadn’t encountered something more draining and deplorable.

“Was Roxanne on one today or nah?” Jamie spouted as she fell over the bench.

“I have no clue but, I tell ya, my ass hurts! I think I’ll crawl those 10 miles to work, rather than riding on this thang.” Claire looked at her tender tush.

“Still the same sagging sac.” The others felt her disappointment.

Jamie to rescue!

“Hey, I could have sworn Amber Rose walked in here before you turned around.”
Laughter filled the air.

They were all on a mission to get rid of the baby fat, therapeutic calories and years of inconsistent dieting. A community of women who knew that uniting was the fastest way over any obstacle.

Group chatter continued until a sobbing echo drifted through the room. They stopped and listened. Someone was broken, hurting, lost and looking to be found.

With each step toward the roaring shower, the crying grew louder. Down on the floor sat a cradled Lauren, drowning in her own tears.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong,” several ladies blurted out. Lauren’s swollen eyes and sobbing speech keep her story buried. Surrounding her, they covered her, lifting her up to walk back to the locker room, hoping to console and uncover the mysterious crisis.

Magnetized to her pain, the women wrapped their arms around her. The warm embrace slowed her rapid pulse and calmed her hyperventilating lungs. Words finally came out.

“I just let him do whatever he wanted.” Her broken voice spoke of her most recent visit with her millionaire boyfriend.

“It was my fault. I couldn’t save enough money to furnish my apartment. I didn’t say no when he said he would pay for the couch. Then out of nowhere, he grabbed me.”

“Grabbed you, like put his hands on you?” Jamie began, already devising a payback trip to wherever he was now.

“No. He put his hands between my legs saying that he now ‘owned’ me.”

The loving crowd turned into a ravenous mob spewing “What the fuck” and “I’ll kick his ass”. They wouldn’t let their sister remain draped in his disgust.

“And I did absolutely nothing to stop him.” New tears began to form, but then Jaime began her sermon.

“Listen to me: Never allow any man to take your most precious gift from God – your essence. You didn’t see it coming but you always have a choice. Get out the car, punch him in the balls, or better yet, tell him to take that couch and shove it right where his soon-to-be cellmate would enjoy, after charges were filed. You have rights, my young sister.” She pulled her chin up high.

“Rights to defend yourself at all times. Rights to protect your temple, no matter the circumstances. You’re the sole owner of its glory. NO ONE ELSE!”
The church yelled “Amen”.

“Oh and if you’re still seeing or talking to him, stop! Don’t waste your energy. Save it for someone who doesn’t have the audacity to feel good about ‘owning’ something or someone. Stay strong. We’ll be here, day after day, to build you back up until you find a King worthy of your temple. Remember, we got you and YOU got you too! You don’t have to take shit from anyone”

Tears dried. Confidence grew. Lauren stood up, gazing at the new self-aware woman looking back at her in the mirror. It was time for her new day.


Join today’s writing prompt and share your 600-word short story!


Writing Prompt: My First Horror Story

Today,  I listened to a great podcast on Writing Excuses where the hosts spoke with Alyssa Wong — Nebula-Award winning Hapa writer of tiny horrors. After they dissected the woes of the “impostor syndrome”, Alyssa gave us listeners a writing prompt: Step outside of your genre and write in a new one. One that maybe you’ve always wanted to.

All of my friends know that I am a horror addict. And I’ve been one since I saw Child’s Play at 6 and learned about the origins of the Omen at 7. I was the “Goosebumps” junkie and an avid “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” reader.

So here is my answer to that challenge: The beginning of a horror tale entitled:


Ancestors-horror story

Big Momma’s house stood against the darkening sky, peering at us as we pull into the circle driveway. Small flecks of lights shined through the large windows, causing a light glow to emanate from the hallways. The once welcoming bright red door was now a deep crimson with years of cracks and blemishes covering it’s surface. The dark wrap-around porch was no longer brimming with lively clematis and knockout roses. Only their remains hung from the columns and gutter. Death hands it’s hand on every brick, every flower, every once of the once immaculate home.

“Momma is this Big Momma’s house?” Anaya asked looking completely shocked at it’s dark demeanor.

“Yes it is baby.” I answered back but I wished I was lying. This wasn’t the house that I wanted her to see. I wanted her to see the jubilant summer home that me and my parents visited annually. The family home that was continuously joy, laughter and tons of fun with my cousins. This wasn’t that house. Her liveliness and bountiful spirit was gone, and so were those feelings. Everything about it’s current state made me want to drive back those wonderful memories to help cope with the new sullen reality.

“I’ll get the bags,” Canden stated, heading to the trunk. “You guys can head inside.”

I took in a deep breath of this new reality and mustered up the courage to head inside. But before I could step one foot in the door, something told me to have Anaya wait with her dad. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was a feeling I refused to ignore.

I whispered to her that it looked like Daddy need some help with the bags and asked her to be his little helper. She gladly nodded and raced back to him. I turned back to the door and slowly opened it.

As the door squealed open, I got a whiff of Big Momma’s homemade cornbread. It smelled like a fresh batch had been just pulled right out of the oven. The darkness began to give way to the light of my beautiful memories coming back, so I explored more.

I continued through the house and noticed that nothing was different. The photos of my parents, prior to me, were still standing on her fireplace mantel. The painted portrait of Papa Gram was hanging at the top of the stairs. The broom and dusk pan which she used everyday to clean up the grass that we brought in was neatly placed against the downstairs door as usual. She kept it there to discourage us from going downstairs. We wouldn’t dare touch the broom because she would make us sweep the entire house.

I laughed at that memory. I could remember Big Momma sending us her warning.

“Alright now. If you ain’t trying to be in dis house all day, don’t try to go downstairs. Cause if you touch my broom, I swear yous cleaning this whole damn house.”

I took a moment to relive that childish memory. Such a witty and caring woman. I missed her so much. And even as the warning ran through my head, I couldn’t help but want to reach out to the broom. It was as if I wanted to hear her yell at me just one last time.

I grabbed the broom and just like the rest of the house, it was cold. then I felt a breeze move between me and the downstairs door. The breeze was strong, so strong that it shook the door. I reached for the knob and to my surprise it was warm. Almost as if someone had just let it go. I turned the knob.

Suddenly the front door swung open, and Canden and Anaya came flying in with the suitcases. It scared the shit out of me but I quickly went over to them and helped them take them up the stairs. The basement would have to wait.

A few hours later we were settling in for the night. After I cooked a quick meal in the kitchen, still brimming with the wonderful scents of cornmeal, we talked about some of the adventures of the house. It felt good to tell stories about Big Momma and her boisterous but loving ways. She was our matriarch. The stone that held the wall together. She was who I wanted to be but could never live up to.

I tucked Anaya in her bed, kissing her softly before my nightly prayer over her. She didn’t know the verse yet but she mouthed what words she could understand. I turned on her monitor sitting on the dresser and turned off the room light as I headed back to the room we were staying in.

Canden met me at the door with a questions.

“Did she die in this house?”

“Soooo that’s a horrible questions to ask.” I responded as I pulled back the sheets.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole, just wondering. If she did, she could be lingering around this place.” He jokingly searched the room. I rolled every bit of my eyes at him. He was his own personal stand-up comedian, but this time his jokes were coming from the wrong place at the wrong time. His timing was worse than a squirrel deciding to cross the road right after the light turned green.

“To be honest, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No,” I yelled at him now aggravated with the conversation.”I didn’t and don’t care. Not having her here is enough in itself.” I could feel tears swelling in my eyes.

“Look, we just need to stay here long enough for the attorney to tell us about the will and then we can get out of here. I got in the bed and turned my back toward him. I wasn’t in the mood for his dumb questions nor did I want to have any discussion about losing the one woman who had been there for every important life event. She loved me as if I was her very own child.

“I’m sorry babe.” He crawled under the sheets and held me tight. I imagine his arms were her loving embrace and I lost it. That night I sobbed myself to sleep. Truly hoping that it was all a dream. A dream I was dying to wake up from.
That night I did dream.

It was the summer I turned 12, and me and my cousins were running up to the house. We were excited to see Big Momma but then I glance to the top window and saw a woman’s face. A face that was sunken and pale. A face I hadn’t seen before. Her thin, fire-red hair draped over her shoulders, covering her dingy lace blouse. Then my attention moved back to my cousin who called my name. But when I looked back up at the window she was gone.

I stopped running up to the house and started a slow walk. Then everyone started moving in slow motion around me. The brilliant sun that was shining soon blackened as I watch it set behind us. I turned my gaze back to the door and the tight grasp of cold holds ran up my arms and over my shoulders. The mysterious red hair woman now stood in front of me with glowing red eyes. She never said a word but slowly shook her head yes.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I yelled at her. My speech was slow and low. The woman open her mouth and I saw a light crawling up her throat. My heart began to race. I tried to break free but her cold grip was strong and steady.
Suddenly I woke up. My chest and back were damp from sweat but a chill raced up my arms, as if she was still touching me.

With my heart now racing, as if it was trying to climb out of my chest, I sat up in bed trying to shake the dream. After a few deep breaths I was calm. I laid back in bed and looked over at Anaya’s monitor anticipating that she was quietly sleeping in her bed. But she wasn’t, she was standing up next to her bed. I picked up the monitor and peered closer to the screen. She was leaning over the bed, as if she was hugging someone or something. Between her embrace floated two red glowing eyes. The same eyes from my dream.

I jumped up from my bed ready to race down the hall. I opened the door and ran into the darkness but was violently thrown back on the floor of the room. Canden immediately jumped up and ran over to me. Before he could lift me up, I hopped up and ran back over to the monitor to see Anaya now back in bed.

But there was someone now very visible in the room. A woman who looked exactly like me. She was embracing my first and only child in disguise as me. Wearing my face to allure my child into her arms. Her fire eyes glared back at me through the screen — daring me to come in.

“What’s wrong?” Canden asked me.

“There’s someone in Anaya’s room.” I yelled and threw him the monitor.

I ran full speed down the shadowy hall, seemingly on an endless plight to save my child from this mysterious being. I finally made it to her door and put my hand on the knob. As if it was a flashback to earlier in the day, the knob was warm and a breeze was blowing from under the door. I didn’t know what the being wanted but at that point, I knew I needed to save my daughter. I opened the door.

Sooooo…what do you think? Feedback is encourage as this is my VERY FIRST SHOT at horror. I would love to hear your thoughts.