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“Yeah, aiight. You just make sure you remember that.”
She flips me the finger as she walks out, switchin’ her juicy ass. “Whatever!” I watch her get into her whip and back outta the driveway before closin’ the door.
5
“Okay, so which one outta your harem is she?” the deep voice in back of me asks, spookin’ the fuck outta me. It almost makes a nigga jump outta his skin.
“Oh, shit,” I say, quickly turnin’ ’round to face my pops, an older version of me—tall, bow-legged, worked-out, and dark chocolate. No, homo…but the nigga’s got real flava. And at fifty-two, Pops looks like he’s still in his early forties, hands down. A nigga can’t front. I’m glad he gave up all that drinkin’ and feelin’ sorry for his ass. It was startin’ to make him look real weak ’n shit. And it got way outta hand when he started wakin’ up and hittin’ the bottle first thing in the muthafuckin’ mornin’. Man, listen. All he did was drink, curse, complain and keep an army of bitches runnin’ in and outta here when he wasn’t passed the fuck out. It’s surprisin’ he held down a job wit’ all that drinkn’ ’n shit. But he got his ass up and went to work e’ery damn day, hung over or not. And get this. He worked as a plant foreman for the Budweiser distillery in Newark. Ain’t that some shit? A muthafuckin’ alcoholic workin’ at a damn beer company! And his ass didn’t even drink the shit.
I guess livin’ in a house wit’ a drunk wasn’t all bad, though. For one, Pops didn’t stress me ’bout no bullshit-ass rules like my moms did. As long as I followed my curfew and took my ass to school, it was all gravy. I could bring chicks to the house and crack this nut up in ’em anytime I wanted. I played varsity ball in high school—all four years, which kept the bitches on my dick. And I even got offered scholarships to play at St. John’s, Syracuse, Howard, Norfolk State, and Hampton. Of course a nigga went to Hampton, and flunked out after two years ’cause I was too busy tryna major in pussy, instead of takin’ my ass to class. But don’t get it fucked up; a nigga ain’t stupid.
“When’d you get in?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the alarm chirp.”
He’s standin’ in front of me wearin’ a white Norfolk State University T-shirt with the green and gold emblem on the front, faded blue jeans and a crisp pair of white-on-white Air Force Ones. I can tell he’s been to the barber today. He’s sportin’ a fresh shape-up, and his mustache and goatee are neatly trimmed. The one carat in his left ear is blingin’. He even got on some smell-good. I bet he got some pussy lined up for tonight.
“Of course you didn’t. You were too busy up there tryna rip that gal’s guts out. I’m surprised she didn’t shatter all my windows with all that damn yelling and screaming she was doing.” He stares at me, shakin’ his head. “I thought you were up there playing opera at first with all that damn ear-splitting screeching going on.”
I laugh, ploppin’ down onto the leather sofa. “Pops, you crazy.”
“Boy, I ain’t laughin’. You gonna have to stop bringing all them screeching-ass women up in my house, like this is some damn cathouse.”
“But what ’bout all them broads you used to have runnin’ through here?”
He tilts his head, raisin’ a brow. “Nigga, the last time I checked, I paid the bills here, so I can have as much pussy as I want comin’ in and outta here. But, you, on the other hand, can’t. Besides, that was then. And this is now. And right now, I’m not on it like that. At some point, a man needs to grow up, get anchored, and decide what he wants outta life, then live by it.”
I scratch my head, lookin’ at Pops like he has three heads or some shit. He’s soundin’ like a black Doctor Phil. “Pops, you sound like you ready to turn in ya playa card.”
“The day your mother put me out, my card had already expired. I was just holding on to it to keep from crying.”
“I hear you. But you were the one always tellin’ me that a man should always have more than one bit…uh, woman on his team.”
“Yeah, fool,” he says, walkin’ over to me and playfully poppin’ me upside the head, “but I didn’t say bring ’em up in here. You got your own place; fuck ’em there. Besides, that was my belief back then when I was young, dumb and ignorant.”
I pretend like I’m hurt, rubbin’ the side of my head. “Owww,” I say, jokin’. “You know I ain’t down for havin’ none of these broads knowin’ where I rest.” And that was on some real shit. I’m not beat for havin’ a bunch of bitches bringin’ drama to my doorstep. And I ain’t wit’ that cop shit either. I copped me a slick two-bedroom condo in Pier Village down by the beach in Monmouth County. And since I only fuck wit’ chicks from up the way, I don’t havta worry ’bout none of ’em drivin’ way down there tryna bring the bullshit. I can sit out on my balcony at night, smoke a blunt, stroke my dick—if I want, and sta
re out into the ocean on some chill-out shit wit’out a bitch all up in my ear. Dig what I’m sayin’?
“Well, you need to make some other kinda arrangements ’cause all that sticking and moving gotta stop. I don’t want another repeat of what happened over at your mother’s happenin’ here, and at the rate you going…”
I nod, knowin’ exactly what he’s talkin’ ’bout. I was fifteen—a young hard-headed cat wit’ a hard, hot, horny dick, and was constantly sneakin’ bitches up in my room when my moms wasn’t home. Moms was cool ’n all, but she didn’t play that fuckin’-in-her-house shit. But a nigga like me wasn’t beat to follow house rules, so I was gettin’ it in e’ery chance I got, havin’ them dick-hungry hoes climb through my window ’n shit. So, dig, I’m up in my room diggin’ this eighteen-year-old Spanish mami’s guts out when this bitch, Jasmine—who was like twenty, comes ’round to the back of my house, and lifts up my bedroom window for a dose of this dick.
Had a muhfucka been on point I woulda heard her ass openin’ the window and climbin’ in, but I had my eyes closed enjoyin’ my lil’ hot tamale ridin’ my dick. And her horny ass was makin’ so much fuckin’ noise that I didn’t even know the chick was in my room ’til I popped open my eyes. She had the Spanish chick’s hair wrapped around her hand, and was yankin’ her offa my dick, swingin’ her ’round the room. The next thing I know, they tearin’ shit up, knockin’ my TV and stereo to the floor, swingin’ each other into walls ’n shit. Then when I tried to break ’em up, Jasmine’s retarded ass jumped on me, and started fuckin’ me up. I had to manhandle her lil’ ass, and drag her ass through the house, then shove her out the door, slammin’ the shit in her face. I went back to finish bustin’ my nut, thinkin’ that was the end of it.
Twenty minutes later, this crazy smut comes back and starts bustin’ my mom’s front windows out with a baseball bat. Now, you know a nigga was wrecked when I heard glass smashin’ ’n shit. I slipped on my boxers and ran through the house, swingin’ open the door, goin’ outside to see what the fuck was goin’ on. This nutty bitch started chasin’ me around the yard with the bat, tryna swing off on me, word up. She had my dick bouncin’ and swingin’ all ’round the yard tryna keep her ass from smashin’ my lights out. And the Spanish bitch snuck outta the bedroom window, then climbed over our backyard fence, bouncin’ on a nigga. A neighbor called the cops. And Jasmine’s psycho ass got locked the fuck up.
Needless to say, when Moms pulled up and saw her shit all busted out, she went noodles on a nigga, cursin’ and screamin’. She beat my ass so bad I thought she was gonna peel the skin offa me.
“I told your black ass about bringing all them nasty, trampy, hot-in-the-ass bitches up in my motherfucking house, didn’t I?…” Slash! Slash! Slash! She had a nigga runnin’ ’round yellin’ and screamin’ like a lil’ bitch. “…I told your motherfucking ass… No”—Slash—“bitches”—Slash—“in”—Slash—“my”—Slash— “mother”—Slash—“fucking”—Slash—“house…”
“Aaaaaah, Ma…I’m sorry…aaah …owww…”
“You just like your goddamn father, sneaky…” Slash!
“Owwww…I won’t do it again, I promise…ooooow.”
Seems like the more I apologized, and promised to not let it happen again, the angrier she got. She wasn’t tryna hear nothin’ a nigga had to say. For some reason, it felt like Moms was beatin’ my ass on the strength of all her anger toward Pops. She just snapped, it seems like. For e’ery wrong thing he ever did, it felt like she took that shit out on my ass. I know she was hurt. Hell, I would hear her cryin’ in her room sometimes. And that used to fuck me up, for real. Moms had married Pops when she was like eighteen, then had me three years later. They had been fuckin’ all through high school, and thought they were in love. They probably were. But Pops loved fuckin’ other bitches. I guess I got that shit honest. Anyway, moms knew how Pops got down before she married him. But like so many other broads, she thought she could change him, or that maybe he would change on his own. Well, he didn’t. And eventually, she got tired of beggin’, and cryin’ and arguin’ ’bout his cheatin’. She just gave up, and started creepin’ on his ass, too. They woulda probably still been together, fuckin’ behind each other’s backs if one of Pops’ hoes didn’t come to the house tryna get shit poppin’. That’s when Moms flipped the script and lit chick’s ass up, then packed Pops’ shit and put his ass out. I was thirteen.
Slash! “Nigga, ‘don’t oww, Ma’ me. You wanna fuck. You wanna get that black dick of yours sucked; then, nigga, you can’t stay up in this house. Anything your black ass wants, I get. I work two motherfucking jobs to make sure your black ass has a roof over your head, food in your stomach and high-priced clothes on your motherfucking, ungrateful-ass back, and you can’t even follow my rules. Instead, you FUCK in my house. SNEAK bitches through your window. LET one of your dizzy, whorish, hot-in-the-ass little bitches bust out SIX of my motherfucking windows.”
