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“Mmmm, let’s see,” Paris states, counting on her fingers, “One, two, three...” She shakes her head. “It just do
esn’t add up. You said the baby was full-term, but he was born a month earlier. So how is that full-term if it’s supposed to be your hubby’s?”
“Y’all can sit here and think and speculate what the hell you want. All of my kids have the same daddy, and it’s Aaron—my husband,” she adds for emphasis, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You know what. I’m not even doing this with you bitches today.”
Persia tosses her hand up at her, flicking her wrist, dismissing her. “Then don’t. See ya.”
Persia and I laugh as Zena walks off to join her low-budget-ass friend. It really pisses me off how bitches like her are so quick to judge us for doing what we do when they’re worse than us. Shit, we aren’t doing anything you and any other bitch hasn’t been doing, or known to do—passing the dick around.
“I can’t stand that bitch,” Persia sneers as the waiter finally comes back over to see if we want, or need, anything else. Persia shifts her attention back to him, smiling. Her frown is immediately replaced with a warm, inviting smile. She tells him he can bring us our check, then watches him walk off. “I bet you his young-ass got some good dick.”
“He might,” I say, watching Paris ruffle through her bag, then pulling out a pack of Cobalt chewing gum. She offers us some, then tosses it back into her bag.
Persia continues, “But I bet you he can’t handle one of us, let alone all three of us. We’d have that poor boy strung the hell out, and you know it. The last thing we need is a damn junkie on our hands.”
“Yeah, girl,” I agree, nodding. “We definitely don’t need that.”
In spite of her mood, Paris chuckles, rolling the stick of gum into her mouth. “My treat,” she says, pulling out her AMEX card. “Y’all heifers are too much.”
“But am I lying?” Persia asks, laughing.
Paris and I shake our heads and say at the same time, “Nope, not at all.”
When he returns to our table with the check, Persia pulls out her wallet and tosses a ten on the table. I do the same. And as if on cue, the young Caribbean stud slides Persia his number written on the back of a card as she slides out of the booth.
She leans into his ear and whispers, “I hope you have a big dick,” then heads for the door.
Persia
CHAPTER THREE
I’m not sure what the hell was going on with Paris and her moody ass this morning, but I was three seconds from screaming on her. Sometimes she can be such a fucking stick in the mud when she gets on her bullshit. Luckily, we’re sisters and we’re extremely close and, no matter what, I’m going to love her. But, damn it, sometimes she can be a real bitch! Well, shit, on second thought...so can I. So I guess we’re even.
But that hooker Zena. She’s a waste of space. If she wants to live in lies, then that’s on her, but this sista here is going to always be true. And the truth is I enjoy fucking the same men as my sisters. I realize that a woman who doesn’t understand our thinking is going to think it’s nasty. That it’s trifling. That it’s downright despicable and repulsive. I get it. All the holier-than-thou-self-righteous hoes think sharing a man is sinful. Why? Because my sisters and I are open about doing it? Mmmph. Well, answer me this: Would it be better if we randomly shared a man, acting as if it wasn’t happening, like so many other women do? Should we play dumb, and stupid, and settle for a man knowing he has other women on the side? Mmmph. No, I don’t think so! What we women should do is take back our power. Hold them accountable for their behaviors, and stop making excuses for why they do what they do. Shit, it’s obvious why they do what they do—because they can. So we have to stop letting them get all up in our heads, stressing about what (or who) the fuck they’re doing. Because truth of the matter is a man’s going to do what he wants no matter how hard we try to stop him, or control him. And cheating is one of those things that most men are going to do at least once.
Although having more than one woman is something most men only dream of, yearn for, there are plenty more men who actually do live it. So knowing this, my sisters and I have empowered ourselves to give men the opportunity to have more than one woman. So what’s so wrong with that? Is it the fact that we’re sisters connected by genetics and blood that makes it dirty? Or would it be more acceptable if we were simply three women fucking and sucking and fighting over the same man, acting as if we didn’t know about the other?
Well, understand this. The difference between what my sisters and I do from what any other woman who has ever shared her man has done is this: we willingly and openly accept it for what it is. We allow men to indulge their animalistic need to mount and mate with more than one woman—closely monitored, of course.
Yes, we are the scandalous triplets in our family. And our own mother has the nerve to still be very appalled, as she called it, when she learned of what we were doing. And, even now—to this very day, she’s not able to let it go.
“Girls,” she had said, sitting down at the head of the dining room table with her arms resting on the table and her hands clasped in front of her. We were in our senior years at Howard University, almost twenty-one; and, in our minds, grown. “I’m hearing some very disturbing rumors...”
“What kind of rumors?” Paris asked, shifting in her seat.
“Things that I dare not believe about you girls. I didn’t raise y’all to be no loose girls. So I’m hoping they’re not true...”
My sisters and I looked at each other, already knowing where the conversation was headed. “You hope what isn’t true?” Porsha asked, getting impatient. Our mother, love her dearly, has a way with dragging shit out instead of getting to the point.
“Well...” she paused, trying to find her words. A practice she rehearsed over and over to keep our father from storming up out of the house when she said something he didn’t like. Out of the three of us, my patience level is the shortest. And when it comes to nonsense I am much more vocal about it than they are.
I huffed, glancing down at my watch. “Mom, will you please spill it already? Geesh. Say what you have to say and stop beating around the bush.”
She ignored my irritation, squinting her eyes at me. “Persia, don’t get mouthy with me. Now, like I was saying, I hope these rumors being spread about y’all are nothing but the devil and his lies.”
“MOM!” I yelled, getting up from my seat. “This is ridiculous. Will you, please. Get. To. The Damn. Point.”
“The point is your Aunt Lucky called here, then your Aunt Fanny, to tell me they heard the three of you have been sleeping with each other’s boyfriends.” Lucky and Fanny are two of her gossiping-ass sisters, Lucille and Francine, who enjoy rattling off everyone else’s business, except their own. They are always somewhere meddling. The only aunt who had any sense was my Aunt Penny—my mother’s youngest sister. She packed up and moved to Arizona, far away from all of their asses.
