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She opens the door, leaning in and kissing me quickly on the side of the mouth. “I’ll call you.”
“Cool.” I eye her as she shuts the door and walks back toward the club. I pull off, tapping the horn, then peeling off, heading toward the parkway. I glance over and smile, grabbing the silky fabric she’s left in the passenger seat. I reach for her panties. Bring them to my nose and inhale, holding the scent of her pussy in, committing it to memory. Yeah, she most def had some good pussy.
• • •
A few days later, me and some’a my bros, Prince, Scooter, and Jack—are down at the Fish Basket, a hot lil stripper joint flooded with hot femme bitches shakin’ them moneymakers mad fast ‘n’ nasty. We’re sitting in a booth, swag on ten, laced up in our Timbs, crisp white Tees, fitted caps, and jeans—poppin’ mad shit ‘n’ tossing back shots of Rèmy XO, eyeing the action.
“Yo, this niggah right here,” Prince says, flicking his thumb over toward me, “stays missin’ in action.”
Jack laughs. “You know that niggah stays on the prowl.”
I wave ’em on. “Whatever, muhfuckas. I’m doin’ me.”
“Damn, that bitch is bad,” Prince says, pointing to a big-booty, caramel-skinned cutie with tassels dangling from her long, dark nipples. Her tits are mad small, though.
“She’s a’ight,” I comment, tossing back another shot of Yak. Glad her ass has moved onto something else other than what I’m doing. “Them titties too small for me, though.”
“She’s ‘a’ight’? Niggah, is your crazy?” She shakes her head.
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m dead-ass. She look a’ight.”
She tisks. “You stylin’, yo. That bitch is fiiyah, son.”
I shoot her a look. “Yeah, a’ight. And she still got ’lil itty-bitty titties, muhfucka.”
“I ain’t checkin’ for her boobs, niggah. You see the basket on that bitch, yo? That ass fat as shit.” She grabs at her crotch. “Word is bond, yo. I’d run this dick all up in that juicy muhfucka.”
Scooter throws a balled-up napkin at Prince, pulling out his cell. “Muhfucka, ya horny-ass stay tryna run ya dick up in sumthin’. Ya ass gonna fuck ’round and catch some shit you can’t get rid of.”
Prince gives Scooter the middle finger. “Catch that, pussy-whipped muhfucka. I ain’t catchin’ shit, bruh. I stays strapped. But you, on the other hand,”—Prince points at her—“?’bout to catch another smack down if you don’t have ya ass home by eleven.”
Jack and I laugh.
“Yo, fuck outta here, muhfucka. Smack down hell. Queesha don’t run shit over here.”
Scooter is a five-six, baldhead, Hershey chocolate, masculine muhfucka with a mad thick neck, and seven-inch scar from her left cheek to her jaw compliments of her jealous-ass wifey. Three years ago, she caught Scooter grinding up on some other broad at a party and rolled up on her with her blade in her hand and did her dirty. The crazy-ass broad got her for about eighty-stitches, that time. Another time, she cut up all her shit ‘n’ tried to set a niggah on fire in her sleep. And you’d think Scooter’s dumb ass woulda dipped on her nutty ass by now. Nope. She still with that crazy bitch.
Prince smirks. “Yeah right. Don’t answer that phone, muhfucka, and let’s see what happens. Tomorrow you’ll be comin’ out to the courts wit’ two black eyes.”
I crack up laughing. “Yo, real shit, son. Ya girl do be fuckin’ ya lil ass up, yo.”
Scooter sucks her teeth. “Fuck y’all muhfuckas.” Her phone stops ringing, then starts up again. “Fuck! Let me get this shit before this bitch start buggin’.”
We all laugh at her. “See. I tol’ y’all her ass is pussy-whipped,” Prince says, eyeing the broad with the big ass up on the stage.
Scooter gives Prince the middle finger, answering her phone. “Yo, what the fuck, Queesha…fuck! A’ight. I know, damn. Why can’t you relax, yo? I’ma be home in a few. Damn. I’m sayin’…why the fuck is you buggin’…?”
We eye Scooter as she leaves the booth beefing with her girl. Jack tells us she ’bout to go to the other side of the club to shoot a round of pool over in the pool area. She grabs her drink and dips. Prince and I stay in our seats. I pour myself another shot.
Prince nods over at the stage. “Yo, son, I bet you that bitch got some good pussy.”
“I ain’t gonna front, bruh, she def caked up in the back, yo.”
“Real shit, yo.…I’ma bag that tonight,” Prince says confidently, bobbing her head to the music and eyeing the stripper as she drops down to the floor and starts crawling on her hands and knees like a hungry panther on the hunt for her next mark.
I laugh. “Pretty muhfucka, you stay fuckin’ with them strippers, yo. And you know most of ’em ratchet as hell.”
She grins. “Shit, muhfucka. Ain’t nothing wrong wit’ a lil’ ratchet pussy e’ery now and then; that shit be good as hell, son. And them ratchet bitches suck a mean dick.”
