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“Mmmhmm, is that so?”
“Yeah, I don’t want you to think it’s always gotta be about sex.”
“Then, uh, what the hell you think it’s gonna be, boo-boo?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe we could chill out; spend some time together.”
I yawn in his ear, then pick my cuticles. Oooh, I need to get down to Pasha’s soon. “Oh, ain’t that special.”
“Yeah. What you cook?”
Is this niggah serious?
“What I cook? I made me and my kids some smothered chicken, sautéed spinach, and baked sweet potatoes.”
He makes smackin’ sounds in my ear. “Mmm-mmm, damn. That sounds good. I need to slide through with a movie and come get my grub on.”
“Niggah, you better slide your ass on over to Wendy’s or White Castle, then hop ya ass on over to CityPlex 12 if you tryna see a movie.”
He laughs. “It’s like that? I can’t eat?”
“Yeah, you can eat this pussy, then tongue fuck this ass. But that’s the only meal you can get outta me. And that ain’t for free. I don’t feed no niggah, boo. And I ain’t givin’ out no free happy meals. You got the wrong one.”
“Oh, word? So, hypothetically, if I came through and was hungry, you wouldn’t feed me?”
I frown. See. I knew it was a mistake givin’ this motherfucka my number. And it was an even bigger mistake to let him eat my ass out t
hat one time after a night of tossin’ back Toe Lickers down at the Crack House. But the niggah has a wicked tongue game. Whew! That long-ass tongue of his snaked its way into my asshole, twirled around in it, then made sparks shoot through my pussy as he strummed his fingers across my clit. Oh, yes . . . if I could cut his tongue out and carry it around in my purse I would. And although I was only able to run his wallet for five-hundred dollars, it was still enough to get my weave done, buy Marquelle those hundred-and-fifty-dollar Jordans he wanted and fill my Rover up. But for this niggah to think he could get a hot meal. Mmmph.
“Hell no,” I snap, pullin’ off my clothes, then walkin’ into the bathroom and turnin’ on the shower. “What I look like takin’ food from outta my kids’ mouths to feed some man? No, boo. That’s not what I do. I fuck, I don’t feed.”
“Damn, that’s foul.”
“No, what’s foul is you not makin’ sure ya ass ate before you got here; hypothetically speakin’, that is, since we both know you’re not steppin’ foot up in here, any-damn-way.”
Now, I like to do a lot of fuckin’ and cussin’ and drinkin’ and smokin’—and, yeah, fightin’, too. But there are two things I don’t (and won’t) do: Put a niggah before my kids, or take money or food from them to give to his ass. There’s already enough dumb bitches out there who do that stupid shit. And my name will never be added to the list. No thank you!
He laughs. “It’s cool. But, damn. How you expect to get a man if you ain’t even tryna feed ’im?”
“Boo-boo, I don’t want a man. And I ain’t lookin’ for one. I want his hard dingaling and his dollars; that’s it. All that extra shit, save it for them thirsty bitches, lonely for a man. The only thing I’m tryna do is fuck ’n shop, niggah.”
“Yo, Cass, see. That’s why I fucks with you; you straight raw with it. But, damn . . . you really wouldn’t feed me?”
“Is my ass flat?”
“Hell muthafuckin’ naw. You already know.”
“Mmmph. Then there’s your answer.”
He laughs. “For real, Cass, when you gonna stop playin’ games and let me spend some time with you?”
“I’m not playin’ games. As soon as you open your wallet and let me run through it, then we can talk. And this time I’ma need more than five-hundred bucks. You know how I do it, boo. Time is money, and money is time. If you can’t finance me, then niggah, you definitely can’t fuck me.”
“Damn, you drive a hard bargain. Don’t you get child support for all them kids you have?”
I twist my face up. This niggah can’t be serious? I know he’s not tryna clock my goddamn coins. “Niggah, don’t calculate my money. What the fuck does that have to do with you?”
“I’m sayin’. Why everything gotta always be about money with you? Why can’t we spend time together because we enjoy each other’s company?”
