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She shoots me a look, tucking a curl of hair behind her right ear. The one-carat diamond stud in her lobe twinkles. “Are you sure? ’Cause I can wait until the song is over if you’d like.”
I roll my eyes, waving her on. “Girl, go on and break down the types of men for me. I’m all ears.”
“Like I was saying, there are three types of niggas. The first type is the nigga who fucks real good. He typically likes to fuck fast, hard, and deep. He’ll dick you down rough and dirty and beat the pussy up all night long. And have you stealing your momma’s social security check to pay his bills....” I laugh. “Girl, I’m serious. Them the type of niggas you gotta fuck in small doses to keep ya ass from becoming strung out. ’Cause if not, he’ll have you kicking off your heels and getting real ghetto wanting to throw bricks through windows and shit when he doesn’t return your calls....”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Girl, I can’t...I just can’t. You are killing me right now.”
“I’m telling you. He’ll have ya ass hiding behind bushes with a can of mace waiting to bring it to a chick’s face.”
“Where in the world did you come up with this mess?”
She sips her drink, then pops her lips. “While I was on my flight here, I started thinking about all the men I’ve dated and dumped. Then the idea sorta evolved from that.”
I smile.
Angel has always had a very overactive imagination, along with an extremely high sex drive, which is probably why she has a hard time keeping men. Her mind is always going a mile-a-minute, and she tries to fuck every man she’s with to death. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s been with more men than I can keep up with. She’s been married once—a marriage that only lasted for six months before she left him, engaged three more times after that, and has never stayed in a relationship longer than two years. And she’s only thirty-one. Her explanation is, “I’m easily bored with men.”
“Oh Lawd,” I tease. “You and your imagination. I’m scared to hear the rest.”
“Whatever. Are you gonna let me finish or not?”
I raise my glass. “Carry on.” I take a sip of my drink, giving her my undivided attention. “I’m dying to hear what that mind of yours has conjured up.”
“Mmmph...Annnnnyway. The second type is the nigga who makes love real good. This is the nigga who seduces you into a trancelike state. He likes to grind up in the pussy. He knows how to wind his hips slow and deep. He gives you the dick real sexy-like. He listens to your body, explores every inch of it with his lips, mouth, tongue and hands, then dicks you down with intense, passionate strokes. He makes love to your mind, body, and soul. Making sure he gets up in every nook and cranny of your inner being. He’s gonna make sure you get yours before he gets his. This nigga aims to please you. And he makes sure you feel loved—even if he really doesn’t. And he makes you fe
el like you’re the only woman in his life, even when you’re not. Then when he’s done serving you, he avoids your calls, and ignores your pleas for more of that good dick. He’ll have you blowing up his phone like a mad woman. Or have you somewhere crouched down low in a corner wringing your damn hands, or curled up in a corner crying.”
I shake my head. “Hilarious.”
She takes another sip of her drink. “I’m telling you some good shit, girl.”
“And the third type?” I ask, picking up my Lemondrop martini. I lick the sugary rim, then take a slow sip.
She leans in, props her forearms up on the table and clasps her hands together. “Girl, the third type is the nigga who knows how to do both. Whew, his ass is double trouble, okay. He’ll have you wanting to make a mold out of his dick just so you can carry it around in your purse to pull out and use at your discretion.”
I wave her on. “Girl, your ass is crazy.”
“Crazy hell,” she says, chuckling. She pauses, to sip her drink. “Girl, I’m telling you. This is the type of nigga you’ll wake up and find yourself either locked in a padded room over, or sitting up in a jail cell ’cause you done blacked out and sliced the nigga’s dick off. Then went out and stabbed up every bitch who you thought he might have been fucking. This is the nigga who’ll make ya ass nutty for sure. And he’s definitely the one you need to try to stay away from if you know ya ass is already unstable.”
Angel has me laughing hysterically. It’s a good thing I don’t have on any eyeliner. Otherwise I’d have black streaks running down my face from laughing so hard, looking like a damn clown. “Okay, so answer me this,” I say, pausing to collect myself while dabbing my eyes with a napkin. “What do you call a man who wants you to do all the work while he just lays there like he’s king of the jungle?” I ask the question already knowing the answer—well, my answer: He’s a selfish motherfucker! But I’m curious to hear her spin on it.
“Oh, you’re talking about Mister King Ding-a-Ling, the one who thinks his dick’s been wrapped in gold and his balls dipped in honey. Girl, that’s an easy one. That’s the kinda motherfucker who’ll have you running out searching for new dick real quick.”
“Okay,” I say, snapping my fingers. I hoist my glass up in the air. She does the same. “Poof, poof...gone.” We clink our glasses. “Lazy-dick motherfucker.”
She scrunches her face, shaking her head as if in thought. “Mmmph. A lazy-dick nigga is the worst kind, if you ask me. And why does it always have to be them big-dicked motherfuckers wanting to lay back?” I tell her I don’t always think it’s hung niggas. She waves me on. “Girlfriend, you need to go back and rewind the tapes, okay. Trust me. Sit back and watch the show. Now I’m not saying all. But, it’s typically them niggas who have more dick than they know what to do with doing that dumb shit. You know like I do that the little dick motherfuckers don’t mind putting in extra work. Shit, they’re the ones who usually feel like they have something to prove to you so they’ll try to fuck and suck your pussy all night long in order to make up for what they lack in the dick department.”
The waitress comes over to us carrying a tray with two drinks on it. “These are from the gentleman at the bar,” she says, pointing toward the bar area. Angel and I look over in his direction. He nods at us, raising his drink. We do the same.
“He looks like he might be fine as hell,” Angel says to me. “But the light’s not bright enough over there to know for sure.”
I laugh. “Girl, enjoy the damn drink. Who cares what his ass looks like?”
She bucks her eyes. “Shit, I do. I might wanna get me some dick tonight.” I laugh at her ass. Mmmm, he does look like he can get it, I think, cutting my eyes in his direction on the sly. She jumps. “Oh, shit. They’re getting ready to start open mic.”
The emcee introduces the band, then opens the floor to those who wish to perform. I ask her what song she’s going to sing. She tells me she’s going to serve them Alicia Keys’ “Lesson Learned.” I smile, knowing she’s going to bring the crowd to their feet. I take a sip from drink, and wait for the show to begin.
The first performer does her rendition of Beyoncé’s “Halo.” And I must say she kills it. Right after her a tall, sexy, thuggish brown-skinned man with cornrows takes the floor and sings that old school joint “‘Cause I Love You” by Lenny Williams. Whew, the way he holds those notes starts to make my pussy pulsate. I close my eyes and take in his voice, imagining him singing this in my ear, offering me up some thug passion. Then just when I think it can’t get any better and my pussy can’t get any hotter, the next performer is the same guy who sent over drinks to Angel and me. And he’s not only sexy, he’s very fuckable. He has an exotic look about him, like he might be mixed. He takes the mic and sings Eric Benet’s “Sometimes I Cry.” He sings it with such a beautiful passion that everything in me starts to melt. I close my eyes and sway, imagining him standing in front of me butt-naked, singing this as I am down on my knees sucking his dick. By the time he finishes the last note, I feel my pussy pulling in my thong. Every woman in here is waving their hands up in the air. Some are jumping up out of their chairs, cheering him on.
