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“Who?”
“Kanika,” she repeats, chucklin’. “You forgot who I am that quick. You called me a couple of months ago, and left a message. We were on the same flight to Atlanta.”
“Oh yeah,” I reply, surprised to hear from her. Took ya fine-ass long ’nough to hit a muhfucka back. “What’s good, baby girl?”
My stomach growls. As bad as I wanna fuck this burger up, I don’t wanna start smackin’ up in her ear ’cause this shit right here calls for usin’ two hands, then gettin’ down ’n dirty. I dip a few fries into some honey mustard sauce, then shove ’em into my mouth, chewin’.
“Sorry for not calling you sooner. The minute I got back, I had to hit the ground running. It’s been nonstop.”
“It’s all good, baby,” I say, swallowin’, then takin’ a sip of grape juice. “Yo, sorry ’bout that. You caught me in the middle of gettin’ ready to eat.”
“Oh, don’t let me disrupt your meal. I can call you back later.”
“Nah, you good. So what’s good wit’ you?”
“Nothing much; just working a lot. This is actually the first time in weeks I’ve had a real moment to sit and chill. So I figured now would be a good time to finally return your call.”
“I can dig it. I thought I was gonna haveta ring all the doorbells in Stone Mountain to get at ya sexy-ass.”
She laughs. “Annnnywaaay, before this conversation goes any further, please let the record state that I will not be added to your little fan club list.”
“Dig, you don’t have to be. I got a special spot reserved ’specially for you, pretty baby—real talk.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“No doubt. So, dig, baby, you gotta man?”
“No, not at the moment,” she answers. “What about you?”
“Hell muthafuckin’ no, I ain’t got no man,” I snap, laughin’. “I am the man, baby. All six-feet-four, two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of me. I ain’t wit’ that dick-grindin’ shit.”
She laughs wit’ me. “You’re a mess. I wasn’t asking if you had a man. I would hope not. But I’m glad you cleared that up. Then again, you never know these—”
“‘Then again’ nuthin’. I’m strictly ’bout the clit ’n tits attached to a beautiful chick wit’ a sweet, wet kitty. So, to answer ya question, I’m solo, baby, but I got a buncha friends.”
“Mmmph. I bet you do.”
I get up from the sofa and go upstairs to my bedroom. I remove my T-shirt and boxers, then stand in the mirror, flexin’ my chest muscles. I pull at my dick and make a note to hit the gym—after I get some pussy today.
“Mmmmm. So, tell me, Mr. Single Man with a Bunch of Friends, what is your belief about relationships and monogamy?”
Shit! That relationships are overrated and monogamy is practically extinct. I pull a half-smoked blunt from outta the ashtray on my nightstand, light it, then take a deep pull, slowly blowin’ it out. “Why, you tryna marry me, or sumthin’?”
“Not hardly,” she replies, laughin’. “I’m asking to see where your head is, that’s all.”
I’m hopin’ between ya pretty-ass legs—big head, lil’ head; either one makes me no never mind. “Oh, I feel you, baby,” I say, pausin’. I wanna keep shit real wit’ her, but I know if I tell her what I really feel ’bout relationships—that they require too much fuckin’ work, that they come wit’ too much stress and aggravation for a muhfucka like me—it’ll most likely ruin any chance of me pushin’ this dick all the way into the back of her pussy. And I already know if I tell her that I’ll take whoremongerin’ over monogamy on any given day, hands down, it’s a wrap. I take another pull from my blunt.
“Are you smoking?”
“Yeah,” I answer, blowin’ a cloud of smoke out. “Why, you gotta problem wit’ that?”
“Depends on what you’re smoking,” she says.
“Trees,” I tell her. There’s a moment of silence, then she starts firin’ off a buncha muthafuckin’ questions, like she’s doin’ research for the American Council on Weed Control—not that that shit exists, but hell, it might as well the way she’s comin’ at my neck. She asks: How often you smoke? Whenever the fuck I feel like it. How long you been smoking? ’Bout as long as I been fuckin’. Why you smoke? Uh, duh…I like smokin’ the shit. Why you so muthafuckin’ nosey? Do you think you’re addicted to it? Hell no! The only thing I’m addicted to is good pussy and wet head. But, on some real shit, I’ma probably keep burnin’ trees ’til the day I die. Fuck what ya heard. You ain’t never heard of a muhfucka catchin’ lung cancer from blazin’, or a muhfucka dyin’ from an overdose. Have you? Exactly!
I keep my answers to myself, changin’ the subject. “So, what’s good? Can a cat holla or what?”
“Mmmph. Well, if you’re trying to see me, then I suggest you answer my question.”
