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“Yo, her drinks on me,” I hear over my shoulder. I look the niggah up and down. I can’t lie on the lil’ niggah. He’s lookin’ real tasty in his baggy jeans and white Polo pullover. A thick 18kt white gold chain hangs from his neck. I glance at the diamond encrusted dog tags, then up at him. “I ain’t think you were gonna show up.”
“Niggah, I’m real with mine. I told you I was gonna drink ya wallet up.”
He laughs. “Yo, I got us a booth. C’mon.”
I toot my lips. “Well, all right now. Do me right, goddammit.” He tells Big Mike to bring my drink over to the table, then leads the way. I finger pop, then drop it one time when Jadakiss’s “Respect It” starts playin’. “Yesssss, goddammit! Oooh, they shittin’ on this! Owwww!”
He waits for me to finish my booty pop, then steps back for me to slide in the booth. I let the niggah know I ain’t interested in bein’ blocked in. I tell him to slide in, let me sit on the end. He does. There’s already two bottles of Veuve Cliquot already on the table. “Yo, you sexy as hell.”
“I know I am, boo. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
He laughs as the cocktail ho—some big titty boo with a cute face and small waist—brings me my drink. He eyes her as walks off, then says, “Yo, why you ain’t bagged up?”
I raise a brow. “Niggah, the only thing baggin’ me up is Gucci, Louie, Prada, and my damn kids.”
He pours himself a drink “I heard that. So, what was all that good shit you was talkin’ last night?”
I lift my drink to my lips, eyein’ him over the rim. “I already told you what it is, niggah. Pull ya dick out. If I like what I see and feel in my hand, then I might top you off. But that’s it ’cause you ain’t gettin’ no pussy unless you comin’ at me with that paper.”
He laughs. “Yo, I ain’t worried about t
hat.” He says this, but the niggah don’t budge with unzippin’ his pants and pullin’ out the dingaling. So I take it as a red flag that the motherfucka is only talk. But I’ma keep it classy and keep the shit to myself.
He tosses back his drink, then pours himself another round. I toss mine back as well, then tell him to top my glass off with some of the bubbly. We bug out ’n bullshit and toss back four rounds of drinks, and now I’ma feelin’ extra frisky. But not enough to wanna toss this niggah some free pussy. I run my hand up in his lap, and start feelin’ for his dingaling.
He pours himself another drink, then leans back and spreads his legs. He tries to reach for my titties, but I slap his hand away. Tell the niggah that unless my pussy gets wet and starts poppin’ while I’m playin’ with his dingaling, then he ain’t touchin’ up on me unless he’s payin’ for it.
“Yo, fuck all that, baby,” he says. “I wanna fuck.”
I unbuckle his belt, unfasten and upzip his jeans, then snake my hand down in his pants and massage his dick over his boxers. He closes his eyes. So far I ain’t impressed with what I’m feelin’. But I’m thinkin’ maybe he’s a grower so I keep workin’ him in my soft hand. It finally starts to thicken and stretch. And now I wanna see it.
“Yo, I wanna fuck.”
“Yeah, and you like this dick sucked, too. Don’t you, boo?” I squeeze it. Run my fingertips over the head, smearin’ the precum into his skin.
“Hell yeah. You gonna let me fuck you?”
I pull my hand outta his jeans, then place my fingers to his lips. “Lick my fingers, niggah.” He frowns. Tells me he ain’t into tastin’ his own dingdong. I’m done. “Then you can zip that shit right on up. And while you’re at it, why don’t you go back and find the rest of ya dick.” He gives me a confused look. “Ummm, apparently you done lost about three inches off ya dick somewhere.”
He starts laughin’. “Yo, get da fuck outta here. What you mean, I done lost about three inches?”
I eye him as I lift my glass to my lips, then sip. I hate a niggah who lies on his goddamn dick. I mean, really. Niggah, boom! Don’t give me no imagined shit, or tell me shit you fantasize about havin’. Give it to me real. If you gotta small dick, then say it, shit.
I set my glass down, then lean into him. “Listen. I hate to bust ya bubble, and I don’t mean no harm, niggah-boo. But . . . this just in: ya dingaling ain’t nine-inches, boo. So whatever instrument you used to measure ya shit was defective.” I reach for it, again, and start rubbin’ it. It’s still extra hard and very thick . . . beer can thick. The kinda thick that can rip the seams down the middle, but won’t gut the floors. “It’s real fat, niggah. But nine inches it definitely ain’t.”
I know most niggahs get real sensitive when a bitch starts goin’ in about their dick strokes and sizes can but, oh well. Niggahs gotta know. And I can tell I done bruised the niggah’s ego, and now he’s feelin’ some kinda way. Whatever. Truth is, I don’t give a fuck. He ain’t my man. And we ain’t fuckin’. Shit, the niggah ain’t even pulled out no paper.
He frowns. Then tosses back his drink.
“So how big you think my shit is?” he asks, soundin’ all fucked about the news.
“I’ve handled a lotta dicks over the years, boo. So if I had to guess, I’d give you six-and-a-half tops. And that’s what you need to be proud of. Embrace ya fat-ass dingaling, niggah. And stop with the lies.”
He reaches for the bottle, puts it to his lips, and tosses it back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands. I can tell the niggah’s feelin’ right. “So, you sayin’ I gotta lil’ ass dick; is that what you sayin’? Shit, I ain’t ever have no complaints.”
I shrug. “I ain’t complainin’ either, boo. Like I said, it’s real fat. I just don’t like it when niggahs lie on their shit, that’s all. But, anyway, niggah . . . I figured out where I seen you before.”
He raises his brow. “Oh, word? Where?”
