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“Yeah, okay, ma. Think that shit if you want. A nigga like me was born ready.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” I say, headin’ downstairs to the kitchen. I decide to fix myself some sautéed spinach wit’ sundried tomatoes ’n garlic.
“And it is what it is. All you gotta do is say the word and it’s on.”
“Hmmmmm, that’s what ya mouth says. If you was really tryna get at me you woulda made it pop by now.”
“Shiiiiit, how can I when you keep shuttin’ a muhfucka down at e’ery turn? A muhfucka comes at you right, you go left. I come at you from the left, you snap to the right. It’s like you want me to say ‘fuck it’ or sumthin’. Yo, is that what you want? I mean, on some real shit, if you want me to stop fuckn’ wit’ you I will.”
The phone goes silent.
I know this muhfucka didn’t just hang up on me. “Hello?”
“I’m still here, yo. I’m waitin’ on an answer. You keep tryna play a muhfucka like I’m some duck-ass nigga. All bullshit aside, what’s good wit’ you?”
I sigh. Okay, I ain’t gonna sit here ’n front wit’ ya’ll, there’s sumthin’ ’bout this nigga that gotta bitch curious. He’s so fuckin’ rude. He’s nasty. He’s a womanizer. And he ain’t no muthafuckin’ good. But, he’s oh sooooo damn chocolate and chiseled and muthafuckin’ fine that a bitch wanna have a lil’ taste. I wanna see the nigga buck-naked; see if he’s swingin’ one’a them juicy Mandingo cocks. But, fuck that. I ain’t ’bout to make shit easy for the nigga, either.
“Look, impress me. You wanna get in these drawers; you wanna taste this pussy, then you gonna need to come hard, or get the fuck on.”
He laughs. “Yo, I stay hard and I can fuck hard so all that shit you sayin’ ain’t nuthin’ but a thang, baby.”
I huff. “Nigga, what the fuck I tell you ’bout callin’ me baby?”
“Yo, chill,” he says, laughin’. “I’ll call you what the fuck I want, ya heard?”
“Oh, noooo, nigga, you got the wrong one. Hear this…” I disconnect his ass. A few seconds later, he sends me a text. LMAO. U mad funny, yo. U got that off. But know this, all dat shit did was get my dik hard.
I text back. Fuuuuuuuuck u!
Two minutes later, there’s another text from this nut. I’m tryn but u keep runnin’ from da dik. I text back: lol, whateva
Once my food is finished cookin’, I place e’erything on a plate, then sit at the table, flippin’ through the latest issue of Urban Ink. I’ve been givin’ some thought to gettin’ a cute lil’ tattoo on my right hip, but I don’t know exactly what I want. I know I don’t want paw prints or hearts or some other cheesy shit. It’s gotta be sexy. I continue thumbin’ through the pages, readin’ articles on the goings-on in the tat world. Just as I’m ’bout to lift my fork up to my mouth, my cell rings. I glance at the screen and see that it’s the nigga Tone, then answer.
“Yo, whaddup, ma?” he asks.
I close my magazine. “Chillin’. Whats good wit’ you?”
“I can’t call it. Yo, ma, I just wanna give you heads-up.”
“Bout what?” I ask, frownin’.
“The chick you slid the other day is all fucked up. You broke ole girl’s jaw and nose, and knocked three of her front teeth loose.”
“Oh, that’s all? Well, shit. She should be countin’ her blessin’s then.”
He chuckles. “They said somethin’ about her eye socket, too.”
“Oh well. The bitch shoulda kept it movin’ instead of tryin’ it on my time. She wouldna got lumped up. Next time, the bitch’ll get her face dug out.”
“Damn, you really go in hard.”
“That’s the only way to do it,” I tell ’im, washin’ my dishes. “The bitch brought it on herself. Fuck all that dilly-dallyin’. I’m not that kinda chick.”
“I hear you, ma. But, check it. Her peoples been poppin’ mad shit about how they gonna get at you when they catch you.”
I suck my teeth. “Please, I’m not pressed. I don’t give a fuck ’bout that bitch or ’er peoples. Give ’em my number and tell them hoodbooga bitches to call me.”
He laughs. “Yo, you wild for real, ma. Got any peoples out here?”
