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“Yeah, I’ll get it,” I say, gettin’ up.
She waves me on. “Sit. What do you want? Cranberry or grape juice, Sprite or water?”
“Cranberry juice.”
She grabs a glass, then pours the juice to the rim. I smile. I don’t care how old I get, Moms still waits on me. The only thing she won’t do is my laundry. Once I started havin’ wet dreams and nuttin’ in my drawers, she said I was on my own.
When the microwave stops, she brings me my drink and plate, then pulls out a chair and sits ’cross from me. She watches me as I bite into one of the chicken breasts. Damn! I lick my fingers and lips, then shovel a mouthful of cabbage in my mouth. “Mmmmmm. This is good as hell. You really did your thing, Ma, word up.”
She playfully swats at me. “What I tell you about talking with your mouth full.” She leans forward, placin’ her elbows on the table, restin’ her chin on her closed fists. “So, tell me. Besides chasing skirts, what else have you been up to? Have you found a job yet?”
I shake my head. “I’m not lookin,” I calmly answer, takin’ a sip of my drink. I set the glass down, then finish eatin’.
“Why not? Don’t you think you should be? I know you’re not paying for all of those designer clothes, expensive shoes, and that car note and mortgage with just your looks.”
Nah, these looks get me in the door. It’s this big ole dick that gets me in them wallets.
She shakes her head as if she read my thoughts. “Hmmph. Don’t you think it’s time you grow up, and start taking life serious? The world can’t always be your playground. And whatever little money you have left in the bank isn’t gonna last you forever.”
I sigh. I knew this was comin’. She thinks a grown man should be responsible enough to find a job and keep a job. And make his own paper. I agree, if that’s ya thing. But, a nigga like me ain’t beat for slavin’ for someone else. And I ain’t interested in lettin’ the shiesty-ass government dig into my pockets tryna get their cut either, real talk. I tried that nine-to-five shit once, and it just wasn’t me. A cat like me ain’t built for takin’ orders, or havin’ someone constantly over my shoulder sweatin’ me. I don’t need no muthafuckin’ babysitter watchin’ what the fuck I do, or clockin’ my moves. Fuck that. I felt like I was bein’ chained to a desk and time clock. The only bright side of goin’ to work was gettin’ off. Oh, and fuckin’ my supervisor. She was married and miserable, and needed some young dick in her life, so I was more than happy to put in the overtime to work her pussy over.
But then she started gettin’ on her bullshit when she found out I was smashin’ another supervisor in another department, too. Shit started gettin’ real hectic, so a nigga bounced. And I haven’t worked since. Well, not in the traditional sense.
A few years back I was what they call an exotic dancer. Aiiight, aiight, shit…I shook my dick for a livin’. But a nigga made a muthafuckin’ killin’; especially doin’ the private party thing. Broads paid out the ass. And a muhfucka like me gave ’em their money’s worth. I had bitches literally beggin’ to see, feel, taste, and fuck this dick. I ain’t gonna front, slingin’ this dick and gettin’ paid to be on display was aiight for a minute. But, even that shit started gettin’ hectic. Bitches fightin’ ’n shit tryna get ya attention; hoes stalkin’ ya ass. Man, listen. Some of them chicks got real reckless when it came to ’em tryna get at this chocolate cock. Like lyin’ to their niggas ’bout where they been, spendin’ up their rent money, jumpin’ up on stage lettin’ me do any-and-e’ery-muthafuckin’ thing to ’em, bouncin’ state to state to follow this dick, neglectin’ their damn kids. They were some real live groupie bitches, straight birds. And a nigga had no problem takin’ that paper—still don’t. But at the same time, I was lookin’ at a lotta them bitches sideways for how muthafuckin’ stupid they were.
After awhile, the whole scene got really played. And I wasn’t beat for a buncha bitches pawin’ and clawin’ to get at me. So after three years of swingin’ this dick up in a buncha nameless faces, I split. But, don’t get shit twisted. I had a trail of hoes—well, I still do—in almost e’ery state from here to Cali. And e’ery last one of ’em paid to get slayed, feel me? And many of ’em still do.
Kickin’ some real shit to you, I got broads thinkin’ I don’t own my own shit—that I’m practically homeless ’n shit, and they’ll flat out tell me I can move in wit’ ’em. And I don’t have to pay for shit. They’ll keep me laced in the hottest shit, pay my bills, and keep a nigga’s pockets lined. The only thing they want is a muhfucka to come home to, someone to make ’em feel good ’bout themselves, someone to fuck ’em down real good. They’ll work all muthafuckin’ day, then come home and cook me a full-course meal, then drop down on their knees and worship this big, black dick like I’m king Ding-a-Ling. So, hell no, I ain’t lookin’ for no muthafuckin’ job! I already got one.
“Well, what can I say, Ma. The hoes got it bad for me.”
She glares at me. “What I tell you about referring to women as hoes. You really need to stop it.” I almost wanna laugh. I lost count the number of times growin’ up I heard her usin’ the word. She musta forgot that she used to refer to Pops’ jumpoffs as hoes and bitches. And how many times she ran up in one of his hoes’ spots draggin’ ’em out by the hair callin’ ’em e’ery type of bitch there is. I decide not to remind her.
“Ma, on the real, in my opinion and based on what I’ve experienced, that’s exactly what most of ’em are. And you know it.”
She shakes her head, dismissin’ my comment. “You and that fat, black dick of yours…”
I choke. “Oh, shit! Ma, you buggin’, word up.”
“Bugging, hell. I’m your mother. I changed your pissy Pampers, wiped your ass, and saw you walking around in your drawers growing up, so I know what’s hanging between your legs. You’re a Maples. And the one thing I learned, and overheard, about the Maples men, they are all holding—every last one of ’em, including your hot, sex-crazed ass. So, don’t ‘Ma’ me. Now like I was saying, that big dick of yours is going to be your downfall. You can’t keep fucking over all these women and not expect one, if not two, of ’em to snap.”
I put my fork down. “Ma, it’s not like that. These broads know what it is. I’m not tryna wife none of ’em. It’s strictly sex.”
“And you’re using them for whatever you can get out of ’em.”
I laugh at her. “Ma, I’m single. I have no kids. And I’m not lookin’ for a relationship. I’m just chillin’. I’m not hurtin’ anyone. As far as I see it, it’s a mutually satisfyin’ arrangement wit’ any broad I get wit’. They want sumthin’ from me and, nine-times-out-of-ten, I’m gonna deliver it—for a price, of course.”
“Oh, please. Any woman dumb enough to accept that damn shit is a stone-cold fool.”
“Well, most of ’em are.”
She sucks her teeth, rollin’ her eyes, knowin’ what I say is truth. “Well, that may be so. But, your ass is still asking for trouble. You’re using these women and it isn’t right.”
I take a deep breath. On some real shit, I wanna bring it to her raw. Let her know that I. Don’t. Give. A. Hot. Fuck…’bout none of these silly-ass broads out here, ’specially the ones who care ’bout dumb shit like the size of a nigga’s dick, or the size of a muhfucka’s feet and hands. And believe me. Any bitch who comes outta her grill askin’ if I gotta big dick gets dragged through the muthafuckin’ mud, real talk. These bitches will know that I’m fuckin’ other chicks and still give me the keys to their cars, their cribs, bank cards, Family First cards, and e’ery muthafuckin’ thing else. It’s all because I gotta long, thick, black dick loaded wit’ a buncha hot, creamy nut for that ass ’n throat. But keepin’ shit real, all a big dick does is make an already dumb-ass bitch dumber. So if anything, a dumb, low-self-esteem-havin’ bitch should be tryna stay far the fuck away from a nigga like me. ’Cause if she doesn’t, then her muthafuckin’ ass is gonna get slayed and played, real talk. I’ma fuck her silly-ass into a muthafuckin’ coma. And if I see any sign of weakness, I’ma take her retarded ass straight to the cleaners. And that’s what it is.
My cell rings. I pull it from offa my hip, glancin’ at the screen. Fuckin’ Tamera’s nutty-ass, again. I sigh, hittin’ Ignore. It rings again. This is that bullshit, word up. I answer. “Yo, what the fuck?!”
Mom raises her brow, squints her eyes. I shrug.
