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“Are you serious, bitch? Fuck you, Cass; you a real funny-style bitch. Go do you.”
The line goes dead.
Dickalina is a lil’ off, but that’s still my damn girl.
So, anyway . . . My guilty pleasures—besides what I’ve already told you—are designer handbags, stilettos, jewels—and not that costume shit, either, good smoke, dark liquor, and young boys huggin’ the block. Yes, you heard what I said. I also love fuckin’ the young boys who get that paper. Shit, them get-money niggahs know how to get this pussy cracklin’. And as long as they eighteen and I ain’t gotta worry ’bout DYFS comin’ up in here tryna lock a bitch up for underage fuckin’, then we good. There’s nothin’ like a super-sized order of some young, hard dick on the side. They can’t ever be my men. But they can always pop a cork in this ass and chow down on this pussy.
Shit, fuck what you heard. I don’t make no excuses and I don’t live with regrets. That young dangalang can handle an all night-long, good fuckin’. I don’t need ’em to pay these bills. That’s what four of my baby daddies do with them child support checks I collect every month from ’em. Although, now that I’m standin’ here thinkin’ ’bout it. All seven, I mean eight, of them no-good, big-dicked muthafuckas should be payin’ child support. Yes, you heard me correct. I have eight baby daddies. And ten kids. My two oldest sons—Darius, 23, and Jah’Mel, 21—have the same no-count niggah for a fahver. And my eight-year-old twins—Fuquan and Tyquan—have the same fahver as well. Then, of course, my other six kids have different fahvers.
But, uh, be clear. I had my kids when I was real hot in the ass and very young—when I didn’t really know any better. And I was poppin’babies outta me back to back, like nobody’s damn business. But, trust. I shut shit down and stopped lettin’ niggahs knock me up when I was twenty-eight, okay. Shit, after havin’ al
l them kids—and they all got pushed outta this pussy, I know I gotta big juicy coochie. That’s why I only fucks when them big-dick-type niggahs. ’Cause any other type of niggah swears they be beatin’ somethin’ up. They be just a sweatin’ ’n choo-chooin’ it up. Swish-swishin’ all ’round this pussy, like lil’-ass guppies tryna fuck a beached whale, okay. All they fuckin’ is a buncha air. Shit, my pussy eats the dick like it’s a snack, okay. So a little-dick niggah can’t do shit for me, except eat my ass—and, maybe, fuck me in it. That’s if I’m feelin’ generous. And after he’s dug in his pockets and sponsored me.
My phone rings again. I grin. Speakin’ of sponsors, it’s one of them now. Mmmph. Gawd may not come when you call Him, but He’s always right on time. ’Cause Lawd knows I been down on my knees prayin’ for a new handbag and now it looks like my prayer is bein’ answered. I’ma fuck the skin off this niggah, and get me that new bag.
“Heeeeeeeey, sexy niggah,” I coo into the phone as the muscles in my asshole spasm.
“Yo, wassup. You free?”
“Ooh, you must know I wanna be fucked.”
He laughs. “Yo, you stay tryna fuck; that’s why I fucks wit’ you.”
I laugh with him. “Niggah, you fucks with me ’cause I know how to handle that dick right. And you love how it feels stuffed in my ass, with your big-dicked, nasty self.”
He keeps laughin’. “Yo, you shot out, for real.”
“Whatever, niggah. What you want pussy, ass, throat?”
“You already know what time it is. I want all three.”
I grin. “Huh-uh; just what I thought. You got some paper for me? Momma wants a new handbag I done seen.”
“What you need?” I tell him two grand. “No, doubt; I got you. But, damn, I’m sayin’ . . . when you gonna let me start hittin’ that shit for free?”
“Never, niggah. So scratch that shit from your head.” I tell him I’m goin’ down to the salon to get my hair done, then can meet him afterwards. He thinks that shit’s a waste of time and money since all he’s gonna do is sweat it out. I let the niggah know, stayin’ sexy and fly is never a waste of my time or money, especially when it’s his money I’ma be spendin’.
“Yeah, aiight. Whatever. What time you gonna be done?” I tell him I should be finished by noon. That I need to be done fuckin’ him by two, so I can get home to my kids. “Aiight, cool. All I need is an hour wit’ ya sexy-ass, anyway. I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout fuckin you all up in that fat ass for the last few days. On some real shit, yo, I’ma beat that asshole up for you poppin’ so much shit all the time.”
“Uh-huh, promises, promises. That’s what ya mouth says, niggah. Now let’s see what the dick does.”
Before he can open his cheatin’-ass mouth to say anything else, I disconnect the call. Not tryin’ to hear shit else he has to say. Show me, niggah! Anyway, niggahs like him ain’t shit any-damn-way. And they’re only good for two things: givin’ me the dick and givin’ me the dollars. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less!
Two
“Hey, Cassandra,” Felecia says, smilin’ at me as soon as I walk through the glass door of Nappy No More hair salon to get my hair and nails done up right. I’ve been comin’ to Nappy No More for years and can’t a bitch on the East Coast fuck with my girl Pasha when it comes to servin’ up the hair, hands, and feet. “Wasssup, girl? Long time no see, boo. You haven’t been here in ages. What’chu been up to?”
“Heeeeeey, Miss FeFe,” I say, pullin’ my Chanels up over my eyes and restin’ them on top of my head. “Yes, girl. It’s been a while. But I’m here now, sugah-boo. You know how I do it; ready to get this wig did, boo.”
Shit, the last time I saw Felecia was at Pasha’s weddin’ over the summer. And, oh, what a spectacular event it was! A real five-star, red-carpet affair with loads of dollars, dick, diamonds, drinks, and hot drama! Whew! It was everything a girl could ask for. And I served ’em like no other in a white silk dress that wrapped around this body like gauze, leaving nothin’ to the imagination. If I have nothin’ else, body is it! I gave ’em ass, titties, and a tiny waist! Yes, boo, if you gonna do it, do it right! Steal the goddamn show! Serve ’em heat! And keep ’em all talkin’. Big Booty, baby!
Mmmph. Anyway, I had ’em all doing double-takes and snappin’ necks to get a look, okay? But the real showstopper was the drama that kicked up with her cousins—these three hoes, identical triplets—no less, who share the same dick. Baby, I’m all for sharin’ another ho’s man. Shit, I do it all the time. But, those hoes took dick sharin’ to a whole other level. And one of ’em was real scandalous with it. Pretendin’ to be one of her sisters, then fuckin’ her sister’s secret sidepiece like it wasn’t nothin’. From what I heard that night, Miss Messy almost got away with it. But the niggah she was fuckin’ behind her other sister’s back was in the weddin’ party and is related to Jasper, Pasha’s husband. Baaaaaaby, do I need to say more? Explosive! Whew! And I saw firsthand, along with Felecia, all the messy fireworks. Boom! That bitch was scandalous!
“I know that’s right,” she says, pullin’ out her BlackBerry. She scrolls through it, responds to somethin’ and then slips it back inside her front pocket.
I glance around the shop. There are only about eight or nine chicks waitin’ and four sittin’ under dryers. There are four new stylists here that I am not familiar with. Usually on Thursdays it’s practically wall-to-wall hoes tryna get it right for the upcomin’ weekend.
“Mmph, it’s real quiet up in here this mornin’, boo. I see Miss Pasha got some new workers up in here, too.”
