Decatur Street Swap Meat

Rosalita never stood still behind the counter. Either she was serving a customer or she was doing tasks in the storage area behind. She'd sort incoming dry cleaning onto the carousel by number. She'd carefully write the labels for the laundry bags going out to the washing factory. Even if everything was in order, she'd find something to do like sweep the floor or wash the windows. She was a good worker.

She was also a good girl. She dressed neatly, didn't waste money on fashion fancies, and neither exposed herself to look slutty. Her jeans were cheap ones from GAP, which she tailored herself to fit well. Her t-shirt was equally cheap from Urban Outfitters, but her own tailoring made it hug her body snugly in a very appropriate and not sexual way. Her hair was freshly washed to give the hair strands that sparkle when the light hit it. Even though there was nothing fancy about her ponytail, her hair was juicy and moist because of her youth of 25 years and her healthy diet of lots of produce and fruit. She wore no makeup. Her pride where the white, plastic pearl earrings in both ear lobes. They were simple. She liked simple and elegant. It was all her jewelry.

Her overall appearance was that of a gray mouse. However, if someone would look at her closely, there was a prettiness to her face and a good proportion to her body. With the right makeup, fashion, posture, and confidence in her face, she could have been a knockout.

Jose, the other worker about her age, only two years younger, constantly hit on her. "Rosalita mami! When are you and me going to slang some Netflix at my place?" He gave her a dirty look full of excitement. She knew that he only wanted her pussy. She wanted a real man who would care for her. He was like her a first-generation immigrant, who comfortably mixed Spanish into his English. When he talked to customers and had to focus on only using English words, he had to really put himself together and at attention.

"In your dreams!" she would reply.

"Every night!" he'd reply giving her a dirty look. She knew what he meant. She thought that he'd do it as well. She blushed being uncomfortable with the conversation and stuck her head deeper into the box of freshly washed socks that she was sorting into pairs. "At least, give me some inspiration! Lift your shirt just once for a second!" he pleaded with her. She shook her head. He gave up and walked out with two bags of big laundry bags on his shoulder to make a delivery. She would never be like the other girls who gave in every once in a while.

Their laundry shop was in a pretty neighborhood in Manhattan. The building was made of picturesque red brick, fronted by a black wrought iron fence, and lined by lush London Planetrees with big loaded crowns that spawned the street all the way across. The quiet from traffic invited local residents to ride their bicycles down the street in the middle. The local residents were artsy and intellectual professionals, who liked the pretense of fancy coffee shops and hoity-toity gallery openings, where they'd stand in the street with a skinny glass of wine in their hand, yap endlessly, and barely look at the art.

Her boss handed her a laundry bag for express delivery to a VIP customer. The bag was 27.9 lbs. She was not even a hundred pounds. She was short and skinny. She never complained even when she was given unsuited work. Her attitude was to accept hardships and push herself. She lifted the gray laundry bag into a utility cart that she could push in front of herself. She hurried down the sidewalk to be a fast worker and be back for the next task quickly. She knew that VIP customers were very fickle. The afternoon sidewalk traffic was relatively light. So she could make good progress.

Getting down the stairs into the subway was a struggle. With every stair down, the heavy cart tore her forward. She had to yank back with all her body could give to keep the cart from rolling forward down the next step on its own. That would have been a calamity to see the clean laundry tumble all the way down the stairs to the bottom. It was too heavy for her, but she didn't dare ask for help. She fought on her own and pushed herself beyond what her small body could do. A few strands of smooth hair came undone and hung in her face, while she bit her lip hard during the fight. She was quietly, internally a fierce warrior.

When the yellow R train picked her up, she sat down in the only free spot next to two socialites. They were both white women about thirty years old. Their hair was done up with expensive balayage and keratin treatments. They looked like they were styled to go to a wedding. Their makeup was movie quality. The red lips gave them an air of refinement and exotic. The way the shadows on the cheeks contoured the face through visual illusion into another shape was perfect. They held themselves high with their fingers placed consciously into a pretty shape like trained by a ballerina. The clothes were thousand-dollar pieces with eye-catching patterns, stunningly soft fabric, and dramatic cuts. Their English enunciation was trained to the perfection to have the right timber and resonance.

They only gave Rosalita a quick downward glance, that signaled, "Oh, she doesn't matter. At least, no homeless will sit there now."

They continued their conversation in earshot of Rosalita. "Yes, so there is this sperm meetup way out in Brooklyn on Decatur Street. It's the new hip thing to do. You get to browse whom you want your baby daddy to be. You can see them right in person. There are handsome models, retired D1 athletes, Columbia professors, and of course, you can choose a Goldman Sachs VP. It's like a candy store. You simply check them out and pick one on the spot. Of course, there is also a lot of man trash. But it's no different from a warehouse sale."

"Yeah, I hear you," agreed the other woman with reservation. "But it'll still cost thirty thousand for artificial insemination after you get their sperm. And you never know how many of those you need until it happens."

"No, no, no!" protested the first one. "The beauty of it is that you get it right there on the spot. You wanna come in a cute skirt. You simply slip your panties off. And he slides you the sperm right in. It only takes a couple of minutes and you are done. It's all absolutely free if you are willing to go all the way out to far part of Bushwick where all the sketchy and avant-garde shit happens. The meetup happens right next to the cemetery in the basement of an abandoned factory."

"Damn!" explained the second woman, visibly stunned, playing her visual imagination forward and backward on her mind for a while. Then she added, "That's bold! That's damn bold! I have so much respect for that!"

Rosalita carefully eyed the screen of the woman near her without moving her head. Her eyes were all the way in the corner. She could barely make it out, but she got the address. She wasn't sure yet why she wanted the address. But her emotional brain had been immediately curious about anything these alpha women were into. She felt like she was a thief outside the castle, stealing the crown pearls. And then as her mind wandered while she did her delivery, the thoughts formed more clearly.

A baby! A beautiful little human being in her arms, and all hers. She thought about how delivering on American soil would give her legal papers to work a regular job. She pictured herself making more money and working extra hard to take care of the both of them. Mostly, she simply visualized the pink face and clutched little hands as she'd be mesmerized watching him.

She had always thought of herself of being in the lower class among New Yorkers. She worked hard. She had little money for simple clothes and lived far out in the Burroughs to afford a place to live. She'd pass all the rich people in the street restaurants, spending so much time sitting around and eating fancy food. None of these places were affordable and open to her. The beauty of the skyscrapers and fancy corporations were like unassailable castles to her. So close were all these prestigious things, but she could only walk the street.

Even when people looked around the subway cart, she knew that people didn't even consider her worthy to look at. And at the meetup, she'd be able to access any of those men's sperm. It was like buying into a fancy family or society. She looked at the finance guy in a suit with a hat. The suit was so expensive. He seemed to have so much power at work over so many subordinates and perhaps a billion dollars in assets. She currently at $56.33 in her wallet, which was all she had. And someone like her would simply let her have his baby! Wow!

For a whole week, she kept moving through NYC on her commute and deliveries. She'd look at the men who never looked back at her. She saw the model guy in a loud shirt with an impossible shape and fully exposed, shaved calves. She pictured that someone like him would be at the meetup and would be one of her choices to have a baby like him. She'd window shop the men she encountered:

The professor with the round glasses, and worn-through elbow area on his tweed jacket. How many degrees did he have? Three? She'd look at the bodybuilder with calves as thick as her belly. He had so much strength that he almost danced weightlessly into the cart. His muscles exploded everywhere under the shirt. Any one of them could be the type of baby daddy she could pick. She started becoming obsessed with imagining the babies that she could have and how her features and the features of the guys would blend to make the baby.

When Wednesday came around, she was feverishly ready to execute her plan. She could picture herself walking among the men like she walked through a clothing store: Slowly stroll past the racks to inspect each pair of pants, stop on what piqued her interest to feel the fabric, and then keep walking until she had carefully evaluated every option. They would do the thing. Her details on that were short and she skipped over it. She focused more on her belly slowly growing and how it would feel like to experience her body changing. While still in the womb, she'd form a bond with her baby, talking to it all the time to let it know what was up ahead. The birth was something that she skipped over quickly as well and didn't paint out with details. From there, she fast-forwarded to receiving her papers, getting her kid into a good school, and watching her do her homework. Yes, it was a very pretty dream. This Wednesday was the only date that she knew off when and where the meetup would happen. It was her only shot at that dream.

She dressed nicely for the occasion. She wanted to make a good impression on the men. She remembered to wear a skirt for easy access without exposing herself to the room. Her outfit was a smart blouse, a short skirt that barely went below her butt cheeks. There was ample bare thigh exposed above the knee-high black socks. She was dressed a bit like a high schooler and a cheerleader mix with a bit of hard rock edge from the dark colors with leather accents on her clothing. She decided to wear her skinniest thong underneath it. That way, it would be easier to take off and put into her purse. For the purse, she was wearing a backpack purse, one of these tiny pouches with giant straps. That way, her hands were free, and she didn't have to constantly worry about holding her clutch.

When she got out of the subway, the train station was dark, dirty, and abandoned. A cold gust blew through it and ruffled her clothes. The stench of an indiscernible liquid on the subway tracks stunk. A couple of rats were squealing in front of her, sniffing the air to decide if she was enough of a threat to run away. She climbed up the stairs, into a big hall, and down a corridor all alone with poor lighting. She remembered how dangerous it is for a woman to be out at night. This was East New York, which is even more dangerous. In some neighborhoods, the UPS delivery people have armed guards accompanying them to drop off Amazon toilet paper.

When she surfaced, a homeless sitting on the sidewalk in a pile of rubble with clothes so dirty that they were dark gray and so torn to be rags, eyed her with wicked eyes of someone not being fully there anymore. "Spare some change," he asked her. She froze up and quickened her pace to barely below running to get away. The guy had seized her up. He was weighing if he should get up and simply take all her money. She held her breath in panic. After a few paces, she looked over her shoulder to see if he was following her. He wasn't. He was too high on something to be able to find a way to standing.

The dark street was completely empty in the nighttime. Trash, graffiti scribble, and broken windows of dark, empty warehouse buildings were around her. The moon was the only pretty thing that kept her company as she moved through the night. Quickly, she came upon the side of Most Holy Trinity Cemetery. The specter of dead people and possibly supernatural things being near her painted the atmosphere even more spooky.

This area was abandoned by the police. Simply, it was dangerous and if something happened, no local resident would complain to their council member - or at least no resident who mattered. Thus, hidden among the dilapidations, people ran illegal medical surgeries in the back of vans for cash money. Underground artists held exhibitions that brought the young and rich from Manhattan out here. Recently, word came out that a rave party had nailed people literally to crosses with an ambulance standing by. Anything illegal and edgy thrived out here in the shadows.

Three more blocks and she'd be there. She saw a Japanese woman with her face lit up by her phone coming from the other direction. She was dressed up in fancy Versace clothes. Her makeup painted her as a soft and cool beauty in a timeless way. The woman seemed to watch Google Maps while walking. She stepped up the stairs where Rosalita was headed as well. She rang the doorbell. She was quickly invited in. So the meetup was real. And that such a refined woman would go there made it seem safe. Rosalita was ready to get off these black, deserted streets.

She rang the doorbell. The door opened as if the person had been standing behind the door already. A white woman in her forties, very heavy, very poorly washed her, terribly furrowed face, and a threadbare, oversized t-shirt opened the door. She stepped out of the way only saying "In the basement!" with a tired voice. She seemed like a community activist, who had abandoned all earthly interest for her cause.

"Thank you, ma'am," had Rosalita replied before quickly doing as she was ordered. The inside was dark. The staircase was narrow and steep. The steps felt almost as high has her knees. The steps were uneven. There was a metal railing. Everything was painted black. The staircase was long. She felt like she was descending into a cavern. She didn't think that she was afraid, but her body was tense. Every muscle on her body was a tight bundle.

Once she had made it down there, she found a big, bare room. The thick crowd and tall shoulders made it hard for her to see the ends of the room. The light was low. Only a few light bulbs were hanging from the ceiling. The space seemed like someone had painted a factory basement black to throw parties in here. But there was no party atmosphere today. There was utter silence. Everyone kept to themselves. Their faces were blank. They stood carefully stacked to avoid touching anyone but still fitting too many people into too small of a space.

She had to carefully step forward as people shuffled a couple of inches out of the way into the direction that gave them a couple of inches to move. The strongest impression was the heaviness of the atmosphere, how closed people were how everyone was anticipating. Something big was going to go down, but nobody was letting on.

She started looking at men to make her pick. She looked at a fifty-year-old man. He was twice her age. He wore a suit. His shirt sleeve didn't have buttons, but fancy cufflinks: gold, purple velvet, and a black stone. His white shirt was still freshly pressed - sharp and uncreased to an ungodly degree. His face had massive psychological weight to it like he was used to commanding many men without ever getting any backtalk. The way how his jaw set, the energy in his eyes, and the meat in his jaw spoke that he was a big and powerful boss. She was stunned that she'd be able to get his baby - from a man who wouldn't give her the time of the day. She made a mental checkmark that he was a high-value male.

She gently moved on her path. She seized up a white man who seemed to have a swimmer body. His pec muscles were so well-shaped that they lifted the shirt up. Everything around him was shaped by muscles. Yet the swimmer's body type didn't have domineering muscles. There was something sleek about him, yet through and through lean muscle mass. She pictured her son with her own eyes, but a body that could jump like a gazelle and that would have the girls ogling him. She liked that. He was definitely an option for her baby daddy.

Maybe, she wondered if she should be more concerned with the smarts of her baby. She looked around for an educated man. She quickly found one. The body wasn't as nice. There was a big belly and some flab on the arms. He seemed kind of shy. However, he seemed like he could be a writer, a professor, or a scientist. Yeah, he definitely seemed like he could change the world with his intellectual contribution. How proud she would feel if her son would cure a disease or write a famous screenplay. She could only pick one, but this guy was in the running.

The starting time drew closer. She knew that there would be a mad dash among the women to get the best men. So she positioned herself next to the swimmer guy. There was something about his blue eyes. They sparkled a little bit even in the dim lighting. His lips and eyelids were so pink like a puppy nose. Her emotions were getting carried away by his handsomeness. So she stood right next to him so that she could ask him right away. The other women seemed oblivious to how things were working, but thanks to her keen ear on the subway, she was prepared. The other women were merely standing around in random places.

The clock struck 8 PM. Nothing happened. Everyone seemed to anticipate the organizers doing something, but Rosalita knew that the organizers would stay away. They didn't want to risk prostitution and sex trafficking charges. They were merely providing the space for the semen exchanges to happen spontaneously on their own. And there'd always be some kind of bold person who would spark a mad rush. Rosalita waited. Her breath was short as every fiber in her body was ready to lurch forward as the sign like a racehorse is boxed up in the cage before the race to wait until the door opens and to bolt outside.

The minutes rang by. Rosalita's prepared tension started waning from getting exhausted to be on the edge of her seat. The atmosphere in the dark room, only a little shine to light up the shoulders of people with silhouettes but leave them chest below invisible in the darkness, grew tense, ready to explode in frustration and complaint.

Then a big, bossy-looking woman screamed out: "That one is mine." She grabbed the guy and yanked down his pants. The hapless-looking guy was shocked by the furry. She dropped her own pants to keep them around only one of her ankles. She slipped his penis into him - he had been hard - all the men had to be hard in here, ready for action even though their faces were pale and motionless - and started grinding him. The crowd was dazed.

A very domineering black woman grabbed a short, skinny-weight guy. So much ample bosom and butt flowed in her pants while wobbling with every move. Her lips were big, red, and angry. She was used to always getting her way by means of protest and intimidation. She ripped at the top of his pants so hard that everyone heard a loud rip of the pants and a bright bling as his pant button popped off and went flying into the room. The terrified, small guy was getting mauled by her pussy. Also, he was hard and ready to go.