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She chuckles. “Yes, I know they do. Anyway, back to you and them young boys. You stay messing with them. That sounds like too much drama.”
“Chile, yo
u know there ain’t no shame in my game. Honey, I love ’em young. Ain’t nothin’ like gettin’ you a dose of some young tender cock every now and again. Shit, why shouldn’t I? I look damn good for my age and they stay thinkin’ I’m still in my twenties, so hell yes, I’ma wear them dingalings out. And let me tell you, sugah-boo. Them niggahs can bust off a round back to back to back and still have enough energy to go out and make that money after an all-night fuckfest. Yes, boo, I love that young dingdong. And trust me. After I put it on ’em, they hustle up all their paper to get back up in these hips. And, no . . . they don’t come with any more drama than some of these no-count older niggahs. You simply have to know how to handle ’em. And know when to dismiss ’em.”
She laughs, shakin’ her head. “I heard that. And I know you don’t mind runnin’ their pockets, either; that’s for sure.”
“Nope, never have; never will. But, shit. I don’t discriminate. I like ‘em young and old. Well, not too old. The last time I had me some senior citizen dick I was fifteen tryna get my rent money up. And they didn’t have Viagra back then. So you know his old ass was servin’ me nothin’ but prune-dick; shriveled down to the damn gristle.”
Everyone in the shop laughs.
“Anyway, as long as a niggah’s dick can get hard and stay hard, then we good. Shit, I gotta keep that big-ass gas guzzler I have outside filled up. And my shoe and handbag collection up . . . ”
JT’s big-dicked self pops into my head. No good-niggah-bitch! Crazy niggahs like him, you gotta fuck in small doses. Give him tiny rations of pussy and ass and throat to keep him from gettin’ all nutty on you. Married or not, I think the niggah has a damn screw loose. No, scratch that shit. I know he does, which is why I keep a can of mace and a gun cocked and ready in case his ass ever tries to bring it to me.
“And I already got my eye on my next victim. A young, tasty niggah who I heard is reppin’ for the Mandingaling tribe.”
Pasha and the Rhodeshia chick laugh.
“Mandingaling? Girl, I can’t,” Pasha says, shakin’ her head. “I’ve done heard it all.”
“Miss Pasha Girl, what can I say? I likes ’em tree trunk big.”
Rhodeshia chimes in. “Oooh, yes. A woman after my own heart. That’s exactly how I like ’em, too.”
I wave her on. “Oooh, what you say? Yes, honey-boo. Anything under eight inches is a bore.”
“But what if he’s extra thick, but short on length?” the chick sittin’ on the left of me asks as her stylist—I think her name’s Keisha or Kendra or some shit like that—finishes up her micro-braids.
I grunt, pursin’ my lips. “Sweetness, all that is for me is a butt plug. Give me length and width. I wanna be stretched, stroked, and stabbed. I need to be gutted, boo.”
She and the two other stylists laugh.
Rusty Crusty is ear-hustlin’ real hard. I catch her eyein’ me on the low.
Yeah, bitch. I see you hatin’ on me.
When Pasha finally finishes removin’ the rest of my weave, she leans my head back in the sink, then washes and conditions my hair. “Girl, I can’t get over how long your hair is. I don’t know why you mess with all these weaves when you have a head full of beautiful hair.”
“Miss Pasha, girl. Give me body, boo. I like it long and full. Long hair and long nails to go along with long dingdong. Besides, I like lettin’ these hatin’ hoes think I’m baldheaded. And honey, the only thing bald on me is my pussy.”
Everyone laughs.
When Miss Pasha’s done she blots my hair dry with a white, fluffy towel, sittin’ me up in the chair. She wants to know what I want done. I tell her I want another sew-in; that I want her to turn me into a chocolate Pocahantas with the bangs and all.
“Do me right, boo. Don’t do me like Miss Beyoncé, though. And I love me some Miss Bee. But that shit she wears always looks tore up. Mmmph. All that goddamn money and you can’t wear you a decent damn weave. Shit, even my girl Dickalina would lay her out right.”
Pasha laughs, then asks how Lina’s doin’. “Her ass’s still retarded as ever. But whatchu gonna do? Still gotta love her. Anyway, back to my damn weave. I don’t want no games, Miss Pasha. I’m goin’ down to the CrackHouse tonight for a few drinks and hopefully some cock, so I need you to do me right, sugah-boo.”
She keeps laughin’. Tells me she has the perfect look for me. Then has Miss FeFe go to the back of the shop to the supply room and bring her out a bundle of 18-inch Indian Natural Wave.
“Girl, you will love this hair. It’s L-10 hair and it will give you just the look you want. She starts ramblin’ about how it’s virgin hair that can be colored and flat-ironed with ease. She blow-dries my hair out, then starts partin’ my hair for cornrows.
“Oooh, yes . . . do it, sugah boo. Give it to me good. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. So, Miss Pasha Girl, I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. You ever have you some young dingaling?”
She drops her comb, laughin’ and chokin’. “Chile, I’m a married woman. I’ll leave all that for you.”
“Mmmhmm,” I laugh, eyein’ her. “But you ain’t always been married.”
