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“Oh, here you go. What, you jealous?”
I laughed. “Nigga, get a grip. That bum bitch ain’t in my league.”
“Maybe not. But she’s holdin’ a nigga down; more than what I can say ’bout you. You bounced on a nigga, so what was I supposed to do?”
I decided to ig that shit he was talkin’ ’bout me bouncin’ on his ass. As far as I was concerned he needed to get over it. “Do you,” I said. “I ain’t hatin’. I’m just sayin’…ya girl’s a pigeon, that’s all.”
“But she’s keepin’ my dick wet, and my commissary up.”
I knew all too well ’bout them hoes suckin’ dick and a nigga finga-poppin’ her pussy up in the visits whenever they could get it off. Yeah, them some real straight hood rat and rabbit bitches fuckin’ a nigga in a damn visitin’ hall.
“I bet she is. But she ain’t wettin’ it like I wet it. Ho can’t even mind fuck ya right. And I know she ain’t slayin’ the dick like I slayed it, ’cause if she was you wouldn’t be tryna phone-bone me. Bitch probably can’t even stretch her neck. Yeah, you got ya’self a real door prize,” I said, laughin’.
“Fuck so funny?” he snapped, gettin’ agitated. He hated when I reminded him of how good this pussy and head game were. “I’m doin’ what I gotta do to get through this shit, know what I’m sayin’? But a nigga tryna come home to you, real talk.”
Wrong answer, I thought. For a second, I considered how he used to be dipped and paid, and how he used to have a bitch screamin’ out his name and ready to climb walls every time he slammed that big, black dick in me. Oh, well. That shit was old news! His ass was locked the hell down, dead broke from spendin’ hundreds of thousands of chips on lawyers ’n shit, and havin’ a bunch of fiends and backward niggas on his team who either smoked up or hustled up his ends. He couldn’t do shit for a bitch like me. Ain’t no way in hell I’d give him any rhythm when he got out.
Keepin’ shit real, I still had feelings for him, so I didn’t have the heart to bust his bubble and remind him that shit was really over for us; that my love for him wasn’t the kinda love a bitch had for a nigga she was tryna ride or die with. But a nigga behind the wall got enough shit to deal with; I figured ain’t no use givin’ him somethin’ else to stress about. He’d find out soon enough.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, gettin’ off my bed to remove my jewelry. I stripped out of my clothes, then switched my naked, juicy ass into the bathroom to turn on the jets to my Jacuzzi. I decided to soak and unwind before I called Tamia and Iris. Better yet, I thought, I’ma wait ’til I see them bitches, then I’ma see what’s really good.
“Aiight, baby. It’s almost count. I’ma hit you next week.”
“True,” I said. We said our good-byes, then hung up. I went downstairs to my bar and poured myself some Hennessy, then rolled a blunt. For some reason, talkin’ to Naheem had a bitch stressed the hell out. I came back upstairs with my things and went into the bathroom. I lit my candles, put in my Corinne Bailey Rae CD, then stepped into the tub. I slid my ass down into the bubbles, sipped my drink, lit my blunt and took two long pulls, leaned my head back, then closed my eyes, thinkin’, rememberin’…
See, growin’ up, all a bitch like me had to do was walk in a room and niggas would be tryna check for me the minute they spotted me. I didn’t have to floss in front of no nigga tryna get his attention, poppin’ my ass and titties. Hair, face, and wears, always on point! I stayed turnin’ heads.
My moms not bein’ able—or maybe not wantin’—to buy me the flavas didn’t stop my flow. At eleven, I learned how to get the shit I needed and wanted, and by the time I was thirteen, I was a pro, makin’ my own ends. There were a few boosters ’n shit who taught me how to lift shit—from jewelry to high-end pieces—so a bitch stayed laced in all the hot shit. And I kept my pockets lined. Anyway, the way my wears clung to my bangin’ body, niggas knew what time it was. I was a real grade-A, top-shelf bitch. Like I told ya from gate, I was that bitch all the niggas wanted to fuck with. But I gave ’em no play.
Other than the young nigga I fucked for that burner to slump my mom’s crab-ass nigga, there were only two cats back then who could ever say that they had fucked me. ’Cause unlike the rest of them young bitches, I wasn’t hot in the ass. I wasn’t lookin’ for trouble and drama like a lot of them fast asses. I wasn’t beat for chasin’ bottom-of-the-barrel niggas hustlin’ backward. You know. The niggas who hugged the block all day and all night, who stayed gettin’ high but were always broke as hell, pullin’ in enough peanuts to buy them a pair of constructs or a fresh pair of Jordans. I wasn’t that kinda bitch. And I didn’t stay runnin’ the streets seven days a week like a lot of them hoes either. I took my ass to school every damn day instead of dippin’ out, and did my shit right after school and on the weekends, feel me?
Goin’ to school was one thing, but the minute that bell rang, I was tryna do me. And my moms didn’t say shit. She let me do whatever I wanted and stay out as late as I wanted as long as my ass went to school. She didn’t give a fuck if I got As or Ds, as long as I passed, and graduated, which I did.
Tamia’s and Iris’s dumb asses were too busy gettin’ smoked out and fuckin’ to be bothered with school. Not tryna dis them bitches and whatnot, but I understand why they fucked every nigga that came at ’em. A chick with low self-esteem will let a nigga do anything he wanna do to ’em ’cause he already knows she’s all fucked up in the head. By the time they were fourteen, they had been through half the niggas from around the way, and had already been down to the clinic at least three times for some shit that some dirty nigga passed off. After a while, niggas knew to double-wrap ’cause they pussies stayed burnin’. Humph. Maybe that shit ’bout her havin’ herpes was really true, who knows.
Anyway, Chanel was fuckin’, too, but she had only one nigga she was lettin’ smash. So she was straight. But them other two, forget it, they were straight hood rats with theirs; suckin’ and fuckin’ wherever and whenever they could get it in. But I’ll keep it real—hoes or not, let some beef pop off and they were down for whatever. Like the time these bitches from Fort Greene tried to come through to get at Chanel and me over these two rusty niggas two of them bitches thought we was fuckin’. They came like six deep to fight us. Now, how the fuck you gonna try ’n come to someone else’s hood and bring it? That’s a no-no. I straight tic-tac-toed two of them hoes in the face with my razor. And Chanel stabbed two more with an
ice pick. And when Tamia and Iris heard we were out there fightin’ they ran ’round with hammers and put work in. We fucked them bitches up real good, then went back up to Tamia’s buildin’ and sparked up, laughin’ all night at how we wrecked shop on they asses.
A lot of times, we’d rotate goin’ to each other’s spots, and sit up in each other’s rooms gettin’ blazed and gossipin’ ’bout all the goings-on in the hood. Or we’d parlay with these niggas over in Bushwick. Other times, we’d get it poppin’ over in Red Hook. Or we’d sneak uptown and chill with these older cats from Harlem and smoke and drink with them. But most of the time we’d squat over Tamia’s ’cause her moms didn’t give a fuck, and half the time she wasn’t never there anyway.
Chanel and I would sit around and listen to Tamia and Iris swap stories about who they had fucked, how little or big the nigga’s dick was, how they sucked dick, and what little trinket they had gotten for fuckin’. Although Iris was messy, fuckin’ her mother’s boyfriend and his son, Tamia was the real dirty type to fuck a nigga in the stairwell of his building if they couldn’t get it in at his or her mother’s spots. Or she’d sneak some young nigga up in her room and fuck him on her twin bed, then not change her cum-stained sheets for a week or two. I would sit ’n listen, like I do now. And a few times Tamia’s nasty-assed sister, Tameka, would leave her bedroom door cracked and a light on so we could watch her fuck. They were straight nasty like that.
Chanel and I were always the hottest bitches out of the clique. And we still are. But, back then, a few times I would catch Tamia or Iris clockin’ one of us outta the corner of her eye. Hate and envy seemed to always be wrapped up in their smiles. But I never checked ’em on it. Busted or not, they were still our girls, and they always had our backs. And we had theirs.
I’ma keep shit real and say Tamia and Iris really went from ugly-ass moths growin’ up to some real live butterfly bitches. It’s like them hoes transformed overnight. Too bad they could change everythin’ else except their reps. A ho is always gonna be known as a ho. Real talk. That’s one thing my moms made sure I knew. She’d beat me in the head nonstop ’bout keepin’ my legs shut and not fuckin’ none of them nasty no-count niggas, or not bringin’ her no babies to take care of. Little did she know, fuckin’ was the last thing on my mind. I was too busy lookin’ for ways to make paper. Anyway, I don’t really think me fuckin’ was her issue—ending up like her was.
Shit. I didn’t have my first boyfriend until I was sixteen. Yeah, that’s right. Naheem. Oooh, my pussy used to get real wet thinkin’ ’bout how good he used to dick me down. He stamped his name all up in this pussy, real talk. That fine black muhfucka was my heart. And I know I was his, which is why I didn’t feel the need to let him know that I wasn’t a virgin, that another nigga had already inched his dick up in me. See, in my head, since the young nigga had nutted in like ten minutes that shit didn’t really count. So I didn’t think it was necessary to bust Naheem’s bubble. Besides, my pussy was still tighter than a muhfucka, and the fact that he had one of them long, thick, juicy dicks that stretched and pulled my pussy open made it that much easier to fake the funk with him. That nigga served me the dick Brooklyn-style, just how I liked it—rough, rugged, and real gully.
So as far as I was concerned, Naheem was my first. He was the first nigga who ate my pussy, the first nigga who fucked me in my ass, the first nigga who made me nut, the first nigga who splashed his dick milk down my throat, the first nigga I ever cried over, and the first—and only—nigga to ever get me pregnant. Yeah, a bitch got knocked when I was seventeen and a senior in high school. I had missed three periods so I already knew what time it was. I kept that shit on the low for real for real. My moms would have snapped. There was no way I was gonna be able to tell her without catchin’ a real beat down. So Tamia got her cousin, Natalie, to take me to a clinic over in Queens where she and Tamia had gone and I got that shit sucked out with a quickness. And I never said anything ’bout it to Naheem. Please. The last thing I needed, or wanted, was a cryin’-ass baby holdin’ me down, and I already know if I woulda told him that a bitch was pregnant, he woulda been tryna get me to keep it. And then my ass woulda been stuck raisin’ it by my damn self, and luggin’ it up and down the interstate to see a nigga in prison. Thanks, but no thanks. A bitch ain’t beat for none of that shit.
Anyway, at nineteen Naheem was a grown-ass man to me. His swagger was so fuckin’ official that every bitch on the scene wanted to fuck with him. The nigga’s body was sick. His dick game was ridiculous. His knuckle game was tight. And he had the streets on lock. What I loved most about him was the respect he got. He wasn’t some hand-to-hand nigga huggin’ a block ’round the clock. He was the cat who made shit move. And when that nigga came through it was strictly to collect his paper; nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Muhfuckas knew what time it was when he rolled up. He either had niggas shook, or ridin’ his nuts.
And I bagged him. That’s right. The hottest bitch in the hood had his nose wide open. The nigga only had eyes for me. Yeah, muhfuckas, the chick with the fat ass, smooth, pretty brown thighs, and sexy-ass eyes. We’d chill, get blazed, pop a few bottles and fuck like two rabbits every damn day. I fucked with that nigga for almost two years until he got caught up in some dumb shit and got sent upstate. When that nigga caught a case for drug and weapons possession and got sentenced, I almost passed out. I ain’t gonna front. E’erything in my fuckin’ body went numb. It was like the air around me stopped movin’. I damn near suffocated.
On some real shit, I tried to hold the nigga down. But, hell…what was a fly bitch like me gonna do for ten years? Seal up my pussy, sit by the phone and wait for collect calls, chase the mailman down for letters, cry and have my stomach in knots after every visit ’cause it hurt leavin’ him, spend my life bein’ a prisoner’s wife?
Well, I tried that. I really wanted to keep shit real and ride it out with him. What I felt for Naheem was probably the closest thing to love, ’cause everything in me ached without him. But the streets were callin’ me. Time was testin’ me. And almost two years into his bid, I told him I had to bounce. I was too young to have to put my life on hold for him. I didn’t have it in me to hold my breath waitin’ on appeals ’n shit. I couldn’t hang on to empty promises that shit was gonna be right between us. I wanted to. I tried to. But shit was hectic.
