3. Keep It Cute
Keep It Cute
Romi
The trick to surviving corporate Pride is understanding it's not about you, or the community, or even the music. It's about whoever's paying for the tent. Everything else is set dressing. Yours truly included.
My corporate overlords at Rich Wild Syndicate wanted in on the diversity optics, so I hitched a ride. Ignored the comments under the partnership announcement that said, y'all, she don't even go here.
The invite said queer excellence, and positioned me as some kind of champion for the cause, but it reeked of doing the most. Rainbow tents everywhere, selfie stations every twenty feet, and logos on things I didn't know could hold a sticker.
Two women in matching rainbow tees handed out branded sunscreen samples at the door, but the sun was setting.
I snagged one to watch them try to act like it mattered.
The air inside the tent was cool and reeked of money. They'd done something to the lighting, some corporate magic that made everyone's skin look retouched in real time. If you stood in the right spot, your pores vanished, and so did your sense of self.
My handler was waiting at the step-and-repeat, vibrating with tension. Her blazer had so many lapel pins it looked like she was sponsored by the concept of virtue.
The handler spotted us and beelined over, almost taking out a drag queen in five-inch heels. "Romi Dulce! There you are. Hi, I'm Jenna—she/her, Brand Activation Manager for Sparkle Holdings. Just want to make sure you're ready for your schedule?"
Jenna's energy was doing too much, but I let her run it down. Zaniyah and I exchanged a look, a silent bet on how many times this woman would say "empowered" before the night ended. My money was on seven, minimum.
"We'll do the red carpet first, then a quick hello to our Platinum sponsors, then green room, then hair touch-up," Jenna said, reading from her notes like the stakes were . "After that, it's the panel and the press line, then we're free to roam—within reason, of course!"
Of course.
I followed the blinking path of her earrings as she herded us into position.
My fit was a one-off: deep burgundy, hemmed so short it threatened to break decency laws, but with enough structure in the bodice to double as body armor.
Custom thigh-high boots, the same color.
Hair: slicked into a thirty-two-inch ponytail, so sharp it should've come with a liability waiver.
Face: beat for the gods, matte and flat and untouchable.
The carpet wasn't even carpet, just vinyl that glared back at every camera. I hit the spots I was supposed to—smile, turn, deadpan to lens—then let them drag me to the next station. Nothing here was about music, but all of it was about presence. In this arena, I was the product.
Zaniyah appeared at my side, smiling for cameras that hadn't turned yet. She wore a Nine Inch Nails crop top over something that sparkled, hair ginger red with black tips since I'd last seen her.
We were halfway to the VIP area when Jenna reappeared, already sweating. "Just a heads up," she said, lowering her voice. "We had a late rearrangement to the lineup. Cam Wolfe will be closing out the main stage. We don't anticipate overlap, but, you know, transparency!"
Zaniyah's smile froze, then rebooted even bigger. "Oh, fun. We do love a surprise."
Her people probably negotiated that last minute, too. I kept my face blank. Years of media training.
Jenna looked from me to Zaniyah, waiting for drama. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"It's a stage," I said. "We perform. That's the job. And honestly? At least King Ash made it so these new girls don't have to show up with fake boyfriends anymore. Makes the whole thing less…performative."
Jenna's relief was obvious. She vanished again, presumably to warn the next person that the volcano had not erupted.
The Queer 100 Panel was in a side tent—folding table dressed in iridescent vinyl, five microphones. Two activists, a tech CEO, a nonbinary comedian in a suit I respected, and me.
The moderator was a local radio host, very excited to be here. He asked about visibility, representation, being seen.
I sat back and gave them the perfect sound bite: "Visibility is cool. Power is better. Without power or change, it's just performance."
The comedian nodded, gave me a fist bump under the table. They got it.
The next question was about "female unity in rap," which meant the setup was about drama. They asked the whole table, but every head pivoted toward me.
"Well, there's been talk on social about certain high-profile rivalries. Some fans see it as fun, but others wonder if it sets the movement back. Especially in rap. What's your take on that?"
Oh, here we fucking go.
I was supposed to keep it cute. Stay on script, highlight the positivity. But something in the way he said "in rap" —like we were all one bad headline away from open war—made my vision go red.
"Let me ask you this," I said, slow and clear. "How come nobody ever asks this question to the men?"
He blinked, thrown.
"We rap about the same things they do. Money, status, what we're wearing, who wants us, who's pressed about it." I ticked it off, fingers loose against the armrest. "Men do that, it's just them talking their shit. We do it, suddenly it's a problem and we need to be humbled."
He opened his mouth to speak.
I didn't let him.
"You want me to sit here and say sisters gotta stick together while the guys literally drop diss tracks on each other for sport. But if I even breathe in the same room as another female rapper, it's 'Oh no, is there a catfight?'"
I leaned back, let the smile show a little teeth. "Y'all keep writing those headlines, though. Don't let me stop you."
The moderator laughed, forced, and moved on.
After the panel, there was a press line. Three local reporters and someone from a streaming platform, all primed for the same questions.
The one that mattered came from a girl with a tablet and a nervous smile. "How do you feel about sharing a bill with Cam Wolfe tonight, after all the…public discourse?"
I almost laughed. "Public discourse. That's cute. You mean the tweets? It's not real unless you see me and Cam chopping each other in the chest."
The reporter blushed. "So there's no real rivalry?"
"There's always rivalry," I said. "That's the point. That's what people come to see."
Backstage, the air was thicker. Cameras were all up in my face even when they weren't pointing at me. People whispered as I passed, because I couldn't help but make ripples for existing.
A handler I barely recognized intercepted me before the green room. "Ms. Sweet, slight change of plans. The staff moved your party to the alternate lounge. Less…foot traffic."
She meant less drama. Less chance of me getting into it with anyone the label wanted to keep un-bruised before the main event.
I gave her a slow blink and nodded.
The alternate lounge was as sad as advertised. Folding chairs instead of couches, a mirror lit with fluorescent bulbs, a warm mini-fridge, and Dixie cups. I took a seat, careful not to let my dress touch anything that looked sus.
Zaniyah hovered. "You want water? Snack?"
I shook my head. "I'm fine."
My phone buzzed. Someone had already clipped my "power is better" quote and put it over a photo of me glaring at the moderator. Viral, but not how I'd intended.
I put the phone down, closed my eyes, and counted backward from fifty.
When I opened them, I could hear movement in the hallway. Heels. Familiar rhythm.
Zaniyah caught it too. Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. "You want me to—"
"No," I said. "Give me a minute."
She hesitated, then nodded and slipped out.
I sat alone in the sad little room, listening to the muffled bass from the main stage and the click of heels getting closer, then farther, then stopping somewhere nearby.
Separate rooms. Same building. Same air.
Close enough to feel it.
It was only after a few minutes that I noticed the sound from the monitors. Not the tinny house mix they usually played for the talent, but a full stereo feed, just faint enough to pretend it wasn't for us.
On the wall, a flatscreen showed the B-stage soundcheck. I didn't have to look to know who was on it.
Cam Wolfe, live and in ultra-high-def, wearing a tank top with just enough breastplate tattoo exposed and low, baggy jeans. A tattoo peeked out from her hip. Lashes curled like they'd been applied by a NASA engineer.
That fucking haircut. Long on in the back, shaved clean on the other, like she couldn't commit to either look.
Fake-ass poseur shit. Pick a lane—give me sleek and severe or give me full Black alt-girl chaos.
But no, Cam Wolfe gets to have both. Gets to flip all that dark hair over one shoulder, flash that sharp undercut, and somehow make indecision look like a statement.
I caught myself staring when she turned her head. The clean line where clippers met scalp. Precise. Wasn't cheap. Someone took their time with that.
She moved across the stage with that careless energy people always mistook for humility (as if she was even capable of that). Like it was nothing to command a crowd, like she'd never had to work for it.
She was doing "RUN IT BACK," the last single, which everyone said was a diss track, but nobody could agree on who it was for.
She let the chorus ride out, then ad-libbed into a string of bars that weren't in the original, hitting the punchlines with a little extra.
Bars so tight you had to run them back to catch the flow and the wordplay.
The performance you only give when you know someone is watching.
She adjusted her mic, reached for a towel, and headed toward the back. My eyes did the thing they do when they want to memorize something for later. The way Cam smiled at the crowd after a line landed. The half-second pause she took, waiting for permission to go off. The hunger.