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Okay, now the bitch was tryna shine like she was a rock star or some shit. “Well, maybe it’s the company you keep. Obviously them niggas you gettin’ it in with don’t give a fuck ’bout you. They got you soundin’ real loose ’n shit. Maybe you should chill out for a minute.”
“Bitch,” she snapped, “don’t judge me. I’m doin’ me. And whoever don’t like it can eat my big, black ass.”
“Trick, ain’t nobody judgin’ ya dumb ass. If anything, I’m tryna come at ya ass on some real shit. I don’t like what the fuck I’m hearin’ ’bout you. And if we girls ’n shit, then I should be able to confront you about it. You should know I’m a real bitch. I ain’t gonna grin all up in ya grill, then kick ya back in. I’ma come at you on some woman-to-woman-type shit. Now, do you have the herpes or not?” The bitch got quiet. For a hot minute, I thought the ho hung up on me. “Hello, you still there?”
“Yeah, bitch.”
“Well?”
“I’m not answerin’ that,” she said. “That’s none of ya muhfuckin’ business.”
“Sweetie,” I said, gettin’ up from the sofa and walkin’ into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and took out the cranberry juice, then poured some into a glass. “You just did.” I gulped it down, tryna ease the dryness in my throat from talkin’ to this chick. For some reason, I almost felt bad for her ass. Why, I don’t know. ’Cause at the end of the day, the bitch deserved whateva the fuck her hand called for. “You betta be careful ’cause niggas is really sayin’ you burnin’ ’em.”
“Oh, well,” she said.
I screamed on her ass. “Oh, well?!? Bitch, is you fuckin’ crazy? What kinda shit is that? If your ass got that shit, you need to be gettin’ ya ass treated, then chalk it up as a lesson learned, instead of tryna spread that shit, fuckin’ up people’s lives ’n shit.”
“Kat,” she said, sighin’. “You do you, and let me do me. I’m not puttin’ a gun to a nigga’s head. If he wanna fuck raw, then we fuckin’ raw; if he wanna wrap up, cool. If not, then the shit’s on him. Fuck at ya own risk. If he doesn’t give a fuck, why should I?”
Needless to say, a bitch was through. “You know what,” I said, rollin’ a blunt, “that’s some real grimy shit you doin’, real talk.”
“Well, right now, that’s how I’m livin’. I’m like whateva. Muhfuckas didn’t give a fuck ’bout me—”
“So you turn around and do the same shit. Bitch, if you don’t give a fuck ’bout you, then what the fuck makes you think a nigga should? You gotta look out for you first. And that means protectin’ ya’self and makin’ a muhfucka strap up. Fuck all the extras. You playin’ Russian roulette. Next time you might end up with somethin’ worse.”
“Obviously, I didn’t get that memo. And it’s a bit late. So yeah, if the mood hits me, I’m suckin’ and fuckin’ and poppin’ E’s. We all gotta die someday.”
Let me tell you. I knew right then and there that this chick was turnin’ into a real live cum-guzzlin’, junkie bitch. Okay, okay, maybe she wasn’t a junkie yet, but with the way her reckless ass was movin’, it was only a matter of time.
“Well, are you at least on some kinda medication or somethin’?”
“Kat, listen. I don’t wanna talk ’bout this. It is what it is. So don’t be askin’ me a bunch of questions. I don’t need ya tryna air my business out.”
Oh, my fuckin’ God, this hoodrat bitch was actin’ like she was a damn victim; she’s the one makin’ choices to be loose in the ass, fuckin’ e’erything movin’, and she wanna act like somebody raped her ass or somethin’ and gave her the shit.
“Me, air ya business out? Bitch, is you suckin’ on paint chips or somethin’? I don’t gotta air shit out. Niggas got ya stank ass all over the front page of the street news. You a walkin’ billboard, ho. So, get real.” I grunted. “Uh. You know what…forget it. Like you said, you a grown woman, so do you. But I think ya ass is playin’ with fire.”
“That’s ya opinion.”
“You right, it is.”
“Well, when I ask for it, then it’ll matter. Until then, I don’t give a fuck ’bout ya opinions ’n shit. So do me a favor and keep ’em to ya’self.”
“Oh, trust. You ain’t gotta worry,” I said, takin’ two pulls on my blunt. “I’m done. From this moment on, I’ma keep my mouth shut. Just have your sister call me. I need to speak to her.”
“Whenever I talk to her, I’ll let her know.”
“Do that,” I stated. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“What?”
“Grown-ass women don’t still live in the projects with they mammies, sneakin’ niggas into they bedrooms.”
“Fuck—”
I ended the call on her ass. Silly bitch!
Two days later, Tameka’s monkey ass finally hit me up. And the bitch came at me with major ’tude. But instead of blastin’ her ass like I wanted to, I kept it cute. “Hey, girl,” I said. “What’s good?”
