Those familiar with Abdu Ali’s performance can attest to overt sexuality he exudes on stage. Still, Ali’s stage persona pales in comparison to Slapped Up, the short fictional story he wrote for Baltimore’s City Paper. In the story, Ali gives us a first-hand account of a street-walker dressed in women’s clothing who is looking to score her first trick. While it opens reading like a cautionary tale (“Why? Ask my scabs. My punctuation marks on my skin. They cover my left arm like leprosy, following my vein lineage like cobblestone.”), Slapped Up eventually indulges us in our voyeuristic predatory leanings. Ali gives us a peek at what we all secretly want to see before pulling the curtain shut. It’s a short burst of sexually-charged writing that should open doors to more of this kind from the prolific Baltimore artist:
He’s already turnt with just a look and I know it cause I feel real cute tonight. I’m giving Kim Kardashian looks. My mom is from Venezuela and my dad is black. So it works. My hair is in goddess braids and hurled into a bun. I’m wearing a heavy eyeliner, with a rouge cheek, and a Ruby Woo lip. I was just in Hampden the other day, where the white people live, and just got this vintage leather dress that stops at mid thigh, and the sleeves stop perfectly at the wrist and beacons my figure. It gives me body on top of body although a bitch naturally got plenty of body. No need to pad.
Let me get this nigga. This pill I took earlier to add a little extra push, is stomping the fuck through and got me feeling like forever. Perfect timing. I push my hips closer to him, so he can grab it. I tilt my bun down, smizing my eyes devilishly, and whisper, “Twenty five for a twenty minutes. Safety first.” I like to do quickies, there’s less chance of bullshit. I like to make sure that my purpose is blunt. He’s my first for the night. I do about three hits a night. I’m not greedy.