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“We cool from back in the day. And we did a few county runs together. But I ain’t tryna talk about him.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, what you wanna talk about?”
“You. Me. I wanna fuck, and I want my dick sucked.”
“Then you need to pay, boo. Or get the fuck off my phone. I got bills to pay, niggah. And I got kids to feed. So if you wastin’ my time, then you cuttin’ into my money. Or in ya case, my goddamn sleep.” I take two deep pulls, hold the weed smoke in, then push it outta my lungs. This niggah is startin’ to bore me, but I wanna see his ass.
“Listen, ma. Real shit, you right. My paper ain’t right like that. I gotta lotta fines ’n shit suckin’ my pockets dry. But, I’m diggin’ you. And I wanna get at you.”
“You gotta lil dick, don’t you? Keep it real, niggah.”
“Hell naw, my shit ain’t lil’. I gotta fat-ass dick, ma, and I know how’ta use it.”
I laugh. “In other words, that’s code for my dingaling is short ’n stumpy.”
He laughs with me. “Yo, you funny as hell. Yo, c’mon. Let me get at you.”
I finish smokin’ my blunt down to the gristle, then toss it in the toilet and flush. “You got ya own spot?”
“Nah, I live wit’ my peoples.”
“Oh, yeah? Where at?” He tells me over in a new development off Martin Luther King Blvd. in downtown Newark. Not too far from Essex County College. “So, how we gonna do this then ’cause I got kids and you ain’t comin’ up in here?”
I wash my hands and start brushin’ my teeth. He tells me we can roll over to his man’s spot and chill there. That he has a room that he can use. This niggah is suckin’ horse shit if he thinks I’ma be stretched out somewhere knowin’ another niggah’s up in there.
I frown, walkin’ back into the bedroom, then crawlin’ back in bed. “Niggah, boom. You must think I’m some kinda crazy. I don’t know you like that. You won’t have me somewhere bein’ tag-teamed.”
“Nah, ma. I wouldn’t do you like that.”
I laugh. “Niggah, I know you won’t. ’Cause you ain’t gettin’ the opportunity to. So look”—I glance over at the clock—“it’s almost three o’clock in the mornin’ and I gotta be up at six to get my kids ready for school. So call me when you can afford a room at the Marriott or Sheraton, and you got some paper to spend.”
“Yo, what you doin’ tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Meet me down at the club. I owe you some drinks.”
I laugh again. “Drinks ain’t gonna get you no pussy, boo. But I tell you what. You pull ya dick out and let me see what you workin’ with and if I like what I see, I might give you a sampler.”
“Oh, word? And what’s that?” I tell him I might straddle up on it and ride down on the head and milk his nut out. Now he laughs. “You shot da fuck out. But know this, if you ride the tip of my dick, you gonna wanna slide down on all of it. It’s that good, ma.”
“Mmmph. Whatever.” We talka few minutes more, poppin’ shit about his dick work, then make plans to meet down at The Crack House for drinks. “Niggah, I think you all mouth, but we gonna see. I’ma guzzle ya wallet up at the bar, so make sure you got ya money right to keep the drinks flowin’.”
He laughs. “Aiight, ma. I got you. And hopefully you’ll be swallowin’ this dick by da end of da night.”
Nine P.M., I’m lookin’ right in my black, short knit, scoop neck dress. I slip my manicured feet into adobe-colored five-inch Stuart Weitzman platform, peep-toe pumps. It’s my first time wearin’ the three-hundred-and-eighty-five-dollar heels and I’m hopin’ these bitches don’t hurt my feet. I don’t usually like wearin’ heels under four-hundred dollars. But these were cute. Do me right, goddammit!
I spray a few squirts of Signorina between my titties, then along my wrists and crotch area, then grab my twelve-hundred-dollar Clara Kasavina clutch. These ghetto bitches around here ain’t ready for Miss Kasavina’s pieces. But I am. And I serve ’em well. I open it and toss in a small tube of anal lube, a mini-remote butt plug and some lip gloss, then snap it shut.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror, then hit the lights off and swing outta the room toward the livin’ room. I stop dead in my tracks when I see Clitina’s ass sittin’ on the sofa in a leopard print catsuit and a pair of black hightop Converses. Her hair is dyed cotton candy pink and she has pink lipstick slathered up over her dingaling coolers.
I frown.
“Ummm, Clitina, what the hell is you doin’ here?”
“Hi, Auntie Cass.”
“Don’t ‘hi, Auntie Cass’ me. I asked you why you here?”
