Miss America Woke Up With Blackface and Redface Stains On Her Breasts, And Was Like, Whatever

Zaron Burnett III
66 min readApr 6, 2019
[photo by the author]

The paler boy stood in the center of the room and pulled his shoes off, one at a time, and as he bent over he worried he was showing his ass to Miss America. He’d picked the worst boxer briefs to wear that night, his laundry day pair. The elastic had lost its will to live and gapped badly across the top of his buttocks. He never expected to take off his costume in front of anyone, let alone strip down for a threesome. When he pulled off the second shoe he said a silent prayer he wasn’t making an ass of himself.

He’d already ripped-off his NBA warm-up pants, tugged the snaps apart with a sudden jerk of both arms. They’d all laughed at how the lower half of his costume tore away from his body. But he hadn’t really thought it through past that. The move left him standing there in his saggy old boxers with his shoes still on. Lucky for his pride, when he glanced back to check, Miss America wasn’t watching him take off his Jordans. She was busy making out with his frat bro. He still couldn’t believe their luck.

Somehow they’d found a hot girl who wasn’t intoxicated to the point she was too drunk to consent. She’d actually and fully consented in front of witnesses that she was down to have a threesome with them, wanted to, that night. And now, here she was. Here they all were. And she was going through with it. What astounding luck for a pair of frat bros to come-up like that. Especially, these days. What luck, indeed. As he lifted his shirt up over his head he wondered if he looked silly in his deconstructed Young Michael Jordan blackface costume.

He looked at the way smeared redface makeup segmented his frat bro’s body, it made him look like a toy doll with mismatched head, limbs and torso. He was also wearing a feathered headdress. Neither of them had applied their makeup beyond where their bare white skin was covered by their costumes. Before, they just looked racist. But now, half-painted and naked, they looked both racist and ridiculous.

He looked down at his own arms, painted black with the blackest face paint he could find. But his chest and abs were still pale. The difference looked funny to him. Judging by how his frat bro looked, he knew he definitely no longer resembled a Young Michael…

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Zaron Burnett III

writer, story editor, essays & short stories at Medium, and always in the mood for donuts