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“Hey, son,” he says, steppin’ into the house, then shuttin’ the door. “Where’s ya mom?”
Tamera texts: When am I gonna see you, nigga?
“In the kitchen,” I tell him as I’m textin back. Why, U cravin’ for some of this cock and cum? Pops walks toward the kitchen.
What u think, she responds. My cell rings. It’s my nigga Mike. “Yo?” I answer, takin’ a seat on the sofa.
“What’s poppin’, nigga?”
“Chillin’, dawg. What’s good wit’ you?”
“Shit. Sittin’ here wit’ Gee’s punk ass,” he says, laughin’. Gee’s another
one of my boys from back in the day. We actually played ball together in high school and fucked some of the same bitches.
“Ya’ll niggas smokin’?”
“Yeah, a lil’ sumthin’.”
“I shoulda known ya fiend asses would be blazin’.”
“Fuck outta here, muhfucka,” he says, laughin’. “You burn more trees than a wildfire, nigga.”
“Damn, straight,” I agree, glancin’ at my watch. It’s almost eight. “So what ya’ll niggas ’bout to get into tonight?”
“We were thinkin’ ’bout hittin’ up that titty spot Mr. Cheeks down in Mount Holly. They got some bad-ass bitches up in that piece, son.”
“Nigga, you’se a real clown if you think I’ma trick my money up on a bunch of ass-shakin’, pole-ridin’ hoes. Not the kid, muhfucka.”
Tamera sends another text. So, what’s good wit’ u, nigga?
This nut in ya throat, I reply.
He laughs. “Man, listen, them hoes is fiyah, nigga. I’m tryna get this dick wet, feel me.”
I frown. What the fuck! A nigga like me might get into a lotta things, but payin’ to get my dick wet ain’t one of ’em. I don’t give a fuck how horny a muhfucka gets. I’ll beat my shit first, real talk, before I dig in my muthafuckin’ pockets to lace a bitch for some pussy or some muthafuckin’ head. But if that’s a nigga’s shit, then do what ya do. I just ain’t that dude.”
“Ya’ll niggas go ’head. I’ma sit this one out.”
“Yo, muhfucka, ya ass is corny as hell.”
“Whatever, nigga,” I say, gettin’ up and walkin’ back into the kitchen. “I’ll be corny, but I bet you I won’t be trickin’ my paper up on no ass. I’ll leave that shit for you whack-ass cats who don’t know howta game a bitch up offa her ends.”
He laughs. “Yo, you’se a funny nigga, word up.”
Moms and Pops are sittin’ at the table. She’s drinkin’ a can of ginger ale watchin’ him shove a forkful of food into his mouth. “Funny, hell. I’m keepin’ shit real. Yo’ dawg, hol’ up…”
“Aiight,” he says.
“Aiight, ya’ll I’m out.” I walk over to the table, then lean down and kiss Moms on the forehead.
She smiles. “You remember what I said.”
“I got you, Ma.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, smirkin’. “Whatchu got is a hard-ass head.”
I laugh at her. “And you love me to death, too.”
