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Moms walked in on me jackin’ off. Her eyes popped open in shock. She quickly shut the door, leaving me with my silicone dick in my hand. I was mad spooked that she had caught me with my dick hanging out. She ain’t say shit ’bout what she saw as I eased outta the crib for school. The only thing she did say—well, actually it was a question—later that night when she got in from work is, “Is there something you wanna tell me?”
I shrugged at first, still embarrassed.
Then she added, “Regina, I’m going to always love you, no matter what.”
But she stayed looking at me all crazy-like until I said, “Mom, this is who I am.”
“And who are you, Regina?”
“Not Regina,” I answered, feeling myself getting choked up. I had tried to pretend, tried to cover up who I was, who I felt I was, behind awkward moments attempting to date boys and hang with giggling, silly-ass girls. But that wasn’t me. What she saw was. “Regina’s dead to me, Ma.”
She narrowed her eyes, absorbing the weight of what I had told her. “Well, if my daughter’s dead, then who the hell am I standing here looking at?”
“Reggie.”
Moms stood there, staring at me, hard. Then before I knew it, she broke down and cried, walking over and pulling me into her arms. And that night we cried together. In that moment, layers of shame and guilt for hiding who I was were shed. And for the first time in my young life, I felt lighter and free.
I didn’t have to hide in secrecy.
Didn’t have to live in shame.
My moms loved me. She accepted me.
Prince’s mom, on the other hand, wasn’t having it. She called her all kinda bull-dagging, dyke bitches and told her to get the fuck outta her crib ’cause she wasn’t having no gay bitch living up under her roof. She told Prince she needed prayer as she literally threw all her shit out the door. Prince ended up sleeping on the streets for almost two weeks until she swallowed her pride and asked if she could crash at my crib. She ain’t have nowhere else to turn. And there was no way I could turn my back on her. So I brought her home with me, asked my moms if it was cool if she stayed with us—which it was. And from that moment on, we’ve been mad tight, like brothers. Real shit, I got mad luv for her. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Or her for me.
Shit, we’ve fucked mad bitches together. Even ran a few trains on a few tricks. Prince is my dawg, for life, yo.
I eye her. “Yo, you know I don’t ever front on my dick game.”
“True that. I ain’t gonna front, son. You be gettin’ it in. But, yo, fuckin’ a straight bitch in a straight club, in the middle of the dance floor…sounds like a damn dream.”
“On e’erything, fam, I fucked that sexy bitch in the club. And, word is bond, yo. She had some juicy-ass pussy, son. I was fingerin’ that shit ‘n’ e’erything, yo.”
She grins, rubbing her chin. “Word? It was like that?”
“Hellz yeah. I told you she was sexy as fuck, yo. I was all up in that shit, son. I had her up on that dance floor giving her this dick real good. Afterwards, I ain’t even gonna front. I wanted to bend her over ‘n’ tongue all up in that gushy shit.” I take a pull from the blunt. She’s looking at me wide-eyed with her jaw dropped. “I tol’ you I was gonna hit that shit, yo. Didn’t I?” I blow out a cloud of thick smoke, then take another pull.
I had told Prince about her the first night I peeped her, and was dead-ass ’bout getting at her, even though she tried to tell me I should at least let her know that I was a stud and not a real niggah if I was gonna step to her and try to get her to peel them drawers off. I wasn’t tryna hear it though. My mind was already made up. I was going back to the club and was gonna holla at her. And telling her who, or what, I was wasn’t in t
he cards. I just didn’t think I’d be fucking her in the club, on the dance floor. Yo, that was some wild-ass shit. That broad’s a real live freak. I’m still trippin’ off that shit.
Prince grins, giving me a pound. “No doubt. You def said you was gonna smash that. Yo, my niggah, you a beast, yo. Word is bond. I can’t even style on you, son.” She reaches out her balled fist for another pound. “You stay baggin’ them straight hoes.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how ya ugly ass be doin’ it, though.”
I give her the finger. “Fuck outta here, muhfucka. I’m fine as fuck, yo. Front if you want. You already know what it is, niggah.”
She laughs again. “You know I’m only fuckin’ wit’ you, yo. I know ya rap game is sick. But, real shit, fam. That shit you be doin’ trickin’ them straight chicks is…”
“Yo, hol’ up, fam, be clear. I don’t be trickin’ them chicks.” She raises a brow, shooting me a “fuck outta here” look. “Aiight, so I don’t tell ’em. It’s not like they be asking me if I’m a real niggah, or not. So why should I volunteer the info. If I can get away wit’ it, why not? It ain’t like I’m hurting anyone. Shit, they see what they see, and like what they see. And nine times outta ten they want what they see.”
“Correction, fam. They want what they think they see. A real muhfucka with a real dick that can spit a real nut, not a stud muhfucka with a strap-on frontin’.”
I shrug. “Then maybe they should ask, first.”
“Niggah, you crazy. Why the fuck would they think to ask some shit like that when you look like a straight-up muhfucka wit’ ya flat-chested ass. I hate yo’ ugly ass.”
I crack up laughing at that shit. She hates the fact that she has double-D’s, and there ain’t shit she can do to hide them muhfuckas. They ain’t going nowhere. “Yo, fuck outta here, muhfucka. Don’t hate”—I run the palm of my hands over the front of my shirt—“?’cause my shit’s all chiseled up, and you”—I reach over and flick her right breast—“all flab, muhfucka.”
She punches my arm. Then flexes her biceps. “But I hit hard, niggah. And, what? Point is, you still shouldn’t play games like that, yo. You know I got nothin’ but love for you, but”—she shakes her head—“that shit you doin’ is fucked up.”
