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I laugh with her. “Yeah, you wish.”
“Whatever. And no, he didn’t smother my face in his nut. I learned my lesson. I did let him bust that first nut on my face because I knew it wasn’t going to be that much. But, the other two...” She shakes her head. “...No thank you, boo. I let him coat my titties and stomach with it.”
I smack my lips. “And what did you do with all that creamy milk?”
“Uh, what do you think I did with it? I sucked it off my titties, then scooped the rest of it off my stomach and ate it.”
I toss back my drink, swallowing down lust and envy. “Ooooh, you nasty, bitch.”
She laughs. “Don’t hate me, boo. You know I like to share.”
“Whatever. You need to give me his number so I can have on-call access to his sexy ass, too.” I say this not certain if that’s what I really want. Since I’ve started seeing Emerson behind Persia and Paris’s backs, I’ve been giving thought to scaling back on fucking some of these niggas. Not that he’s pressured me into doing so. But I have to wonder if all of these wonderful distractions will make it difficult for me to consider giving Emerson a chance. I’m still not sure if that’s even what I want. Persia reaches for her cell, then rattles off his number. “Wait, hooker,” I say, getting up, laughing. “I don’t have my phone down here. Let me get a pen and write it down.” I walk over to the credenza, opening a drawer, then pulling out a pen and pad. She repeats the number. I write it down, then fold the paper and slip it into my bra.
She laughs. “You a damn mess.”
“Please. I gotta keep this number close by until I can get it programmed into my phone. Anyway...now, that we got that outta the way. Where is Paris?”
She shrugs. “Your guess is...” The chirping alarm alerts us that she’s opened the door. “Well, there she is.” She yells for her to hurry up and get downstairs so I can tell them all about my night with Faruq. She picks up her phone, calling Paris. “And you might want to get you a chilled glass from out of the freezer and bring two down for me and Porsha...whaaaatever, hooker...yeah, yeah, yeah...blah, blah, blah...and hurry up.” She disconnects the call. “Well, all I want to know is was he fine?”
I nod. “Fine ain’t even the word to describe his ass. That man was fucking beautiful. His body was on point. He had these gorgeous hazel eyes. He kissed good, ate pussy good...”
“But?”
I laugh. “You’ll have to wait until Paris gets down here.”
She rolls her eyes.
It takes Paris almost ten minutes before she finally saunters her way into the room. She’s taken her clothes off and is now in her panties and a Howard U tank top. “Well, it’s about damn time,” Persia huffs, feigning annoyance. “This heifer here wouldn’t tell me about her night with the mystery man she fucked last Friday until you got down here. Now hurry up and pour your drink, then sit the hell down so I can get the juice.”
Paris gives her the finger. “Ugh, bite me. This hooker is so damn bossy.”
I agree. “Always has been, always will be. You know some things will never change.”
Persia laughs. “Whatever.” Paris pours herself a drink, then takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “Okay, lights, camera, let’s rock and roll. And don’t leave a damn thing out. I want to hear every detail.” I laugh. Then for the next twenty minutes, I dish them the 4-1-1 on the Little Engine That Could.
“Girl, noooooooooooo...say it ain’t so?” Persia cackles. “All that nigga could serve you is fifteen minutes of dick?”
“Well, twenty-five minutes
, as long as I didn’t talk too dirty.”
“Mmmph,” Persia grunts. “That shit is sinful.”
Paris laughs. “Persia, your ass is a mess. Good sex doesn’t have to always be a long, drawn-out event. Everyone doesn’t need to have their pussies pounded for more than an hour.”
Persia clucks her tongue. “Says who? I don’t know about you, but—other than the times when I’m in the mood for a fifteen-minute quickie—I’m not completely satisfied unless my pussy’s being fed at least forty minutes of dick. Anything less than that leaves me with a very wet, angry pussy.”
Paris and I laugh at her. “So now I understand the world crisis,” I tease, shaking my head. “It’s full of angry, wet pussies. Mmmm, I wonder what Obama can do about that.”
She chuckles. “You can joke if you want. But I’m serious.”
“Oh, I know you are,” I tell her, knowing her appetite for sex has always been insatiable. Even as a teenager, Persia was fucking long before Paris and me. Sure, we had boyfriends or guys we liked. And, yes, we bumped and grinded—and even sucked a little dick from time to time. But we weren’t fucking. Persia, on the other hand, was a real hot box and had already sexed seven different boys by the time she was a freshman in high school, two of them being Paris and my boyfriends. Don’t ask. It’s a whole other story for another time.
Persia grunts. “I know, different strokes for different folks, blah, blah, blah. But this sister here needs to be long stroked for more than fifteen minutes.” She makes a face as if she’s inhaled something dead. “Who in the hell fucks and doesn’t talk dirty these days?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is the brotha was fine as fuck, had a gorgeous body, a nice damn dick, and could hit it right as long as you kept your mouth shut. But the minute you opened your mouth and started spewing out filth”—I snap my fingers—“he was through.”
Persia gives me a disgusted look. “Mmmph. I need me another drink.” She refills her glass. “So after all that coaching, he still couldn’t last long?”
