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“Nigga, puhleeeze. You smoke weed all fucking day, but I never said shit about that. I accepted it.”
I crack the windows, takin’ another pull from the blunt. “And I’m smokin’ now. So what does that haveta do wit’ anything? You knew I smoked from the door, so if you had a problem wit’ it, then you shoulda spoke on it. But you didn’t, so that’s on you, boo.”
“And would you have stopped?”
“Hell no. I woulda fucked ya ass real good, then told you to keep it movin’. And that woulda been that.”
“So basically I was somebody you could fuck, then fuck over?”
“If that’s how you see it,” I say, pullin’ up into Pops’ driveway, “then I guess that’s how it was.”
“Is that how you saw it?”
I glance at my watch, gettin’ outta my whip. It’s gettin’ late as hell. Fuckin’ ’round wit’ her dumb ass I’ma end up not bein’ able to get at some twat and end up beatin’ my dick. I ignore the question. “Listen, I’m tryna get up in some pussy tonight, so I’m done wit’ this back ’n forth wit’ you. I’m tryna fuck; not waste energy on you or this phone call.”
“Fuck YOU!” she screams into the phone. “You are so fucked up, nigga.”
“Is that ’posed to make me feel some kinda way? ’Cause if so, I don’t.”
“You know what? Forget it. Where are my house keys?”
“Your keys? Are you fuckin’ serious?” This ho is really reachin’ now. She knows damn well she hasn’t given those damn keys a thought. She called here on some other shit, and now all of a sudden, she wants to ask ’bout some muthafuckin’ keys when she doesn’t like what she’s bein’ told. Fuck outta here! “Dig, you had more than enough time to have ya locks changed. And if you didn’t, then that shit’s on you. But I tossed ’em. Now delete my number and beat it.” Before she can open her dick sucka to say anthing else, I end the call. Then I text Carla: U feel like gettin’ ya pussy popped?
While I wait for her to respond back, I text Maleeka: U wanna ride this dick tonight?
Whoever gets at me first gets the prize. My phone rings; it’s that silly bitch callin’ back. I press Ignore. She leaves a message. I shake my head.
Carla texts back: U know I always want some of that big-ass dick. I wanna 69, 2!
I text back: I’ll be there in 30 mins. Have them drawers off and that box clean ’n ready. Big daddy’s cumin’ through to bust that ass!
She texts back: See u when u get here.
My phone rings. It’s Maleeka. “Yo, what it do, baby?”
“What time you tryna come through? I’m still doin’ heads.”
I start to tell her to forget it; that I already got plans, but quickly decide fuckin’ two hoes in one night is a much better way to celebrate Obama’s victory. “You tell me, what’s good for you?”
“I should be done this last head ’round two-thirty. If you still up, swing through then.”
“I gotta make a run, anyway. So that works out good. I’ma hit you up when I’m on my way.”
“I don’t have the kids, so you stayin’ the night, right?”
“Awww, shit. You tryna get ya back dug out ’til the sun comes up. That’s wassup.”
She sucks her teeth. “Whatever. Just make sure you come through, so I can fuck the skin off that dick.”
I laugh. “That’s what ya mouth says.”
“Don’t front, nigga. You already know.”
“Yeah, aiight,” I say, takin’ off my clothes. “I’ll holla later.” I toss the phone on the bed, goin’ into the bathroom. I turn the shower on, take a piss, then hop in the shower. I grab the Tone body wash, and wash my ass, dick ’n balls extra good. Ten minutes later, I’m out the door. I hop in my hooptie, crank the engine, then back outta the driveway. Yeah, these bitches love Daddy Long Stroke, I think, sparkin’ a blunt, makin’ my way ’cross town to slay my first round of ass for the night.
30
A week later, I’m over at Pops’ spot—up in my room chillin’, shufflin’ through mail and puffin’ on a L while flippin’ through TV channels tryna find sumthin’ to watch. Ain’t shit on this bitch, I think, tossin’ the remote over on the other side of the bed. Pay all this fuckin’ money for a buncha hot garbage. I turn on my laptop and wait for it to boot. I hear the doorbell ring, but don’t give it much thought since I know Pops is somewhere in the house. I click on Internet Explorer, then hit up my Yahoo account. The minute I log on, it chimes, alertin’ me I have new messages; eighty-seven, to be exact. As I’m goin’ through ’em, a buncha IM’s start poppin’ up. Of course I ain’t beat for any of ’em today. I don’t know why I don’t make myself invisible, knowin’ this is the kinda shit I gotta deal wit’ e’erytime I sign on. These thirsty bitches stay tryna get a taste of this chocolate stick. I ignore ’em all.
