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“Yeah, aiight,” he says, laughin’. “Lucky for you, I’m tryna be a gentleman tonight.”
“No, lucky you,” I say back.
He keeps laughin’. Laugh now, muhfuka, I think, settlin’ back in my seat. But when I’m done wit’cha ya ass I’ma have you grabbin’ da sheets like a lil’ bitch.
I hum to the beat. We pass the blunt back ’n forth, vibin’ to Erykah. I snap my fingas, and sway a bit when “Window Seat” starts to play, breakin’ the silence between us. “Did you see the video to this?” I ask.
“No doubt,” he says, keepin’ his eyes on the road. “She did her thing.”
I smirk, lookin’ at ’im. “Was you payin’ attention to the video, or to her juicy ass?”
He laughs. “Both.” He sparks another blunt. Takes a deep pull, then passes it to me. After a moment of silence, he asks outta the blue, “So what kinda niggas you into?” I choke, shiverin’. Chills go through me when he asks this. He looks over at me. “Yo, you aiight over there?”
I nod, still coughin’. “Yeah, I’m good,” I tell ’im, but I’m not. The nigga’s question got me shook. That’s the exact same question Grant had asked the night he picked me up to take me to Mr. Chow. Right outta the blue, ’exactly like this nigga did.
“Why, you puttin’ in an application,” I hear myself sayin’ as I stare’ at ’im; expectin’ to see Grant sittin’ behind the wheel instead of him. I hear myself repeatin’ word for word the same shit I had told Grant. “I’m into niggas who ain’t scared of pussy; a nigga who knows how’ta eat it up and beat it up.” I blink. See that it’s still him sittin’ there; that a bitch’s startin’ to bug. “I’m into real niggas who do real things; niggas who don’t cheat, beat or mistreat,” I decide to tell ’im. I ain’t gonna front. The haze gotta a bitch feelin’ mad frisky sittin’ next to this nigga. But I’ma keep it cute.
“I feel you.”
I stare at ’im. “How many chicks you creepin’ wit’?”
“None,” he says, smirkin’.
“Whatchu grinnin’ for?”
“’Cause I know where this is goin’.”
“Oh, really? And where’s that?”
“I’m single, ma. So, no…I don’t creep. And I don’t cheat; and I never have.”
“Okay, smart ass, then let me rephrase the question. How many hoes you fuckin’?”
“At the moment?” I suck my teeth, shootin’ him a “yeah nigga” look. He laughs. “You really wanna know?”
“Yeah, nigga. And keep it gully. How many bitches you runnin’ ya dick in?”
I can see the nigga countin’ in his head. “Six, seven, off and on; two on a regular, though.” I ask if that’s the most he’s fucked. He tells me no. Tells me he’s fucked up to twenty-seven bitches in a year. Tells me he’s had threesomes and foursomes. OhmyGod, this nigga’s real loose wit’ da dick; a nasty whore wit’ his!
“Oh, so you slingin’ da dick all over da place, huh?”
“Nah, I wouldn’t say all that. I’m doin’ me; gettin’ it in whenever, wherever.”
“Raw?” I ask, raisin’ my brow.
He takes his eyes off the road, frownin’. “Hell, naw. I ain’t that kinda nigga. I wrap it up before I tap it up; no exceptions. The chick who gets this dick naked is gonna be the chick I’m wifin’; real talk. And a muhfucka don’t see that hap
penin’ anytime soon, so I’ma keep gettin’ it in, one hole, one stroke, one nut, at’a time.”
“Mmmm,” is the only thing I say, lookin’ outta the window bobbin’ my head to Erykah’s “Love.”
He lowers the volume. “So, who you got hittin’ that?”
“What?” I question, turnin’ to face ’im, frontin’ like I don’t know what he’s talkin’ ’bout.
“You heard me the first time. Who you got knockin’ them walls?” I tell ’im no one in particular. “Oh, word? So, when’s the last time you had some dick in ya life?”
“A few weeks ago.”
