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“Look, what do you want from me?”
“Don’t play stupid. Why else would I be calling ya smutty ass? I want your lips wrapped around my dick again,” he tells me. “Seeing your pretty face in the paper on Sunday got my dick on brick…”
I frown. Try to figure out what this fool on the other end of the phone is talking about seeing my face in the paper. Then it dawns on me. Oh, shit! I think, gasping. He’s talking about the photo of me in the local news section of The Star Ledger. The one taken of me at Nana’s church’s Community Day a few weeks ago. I was so caught up in the moment, overwhelmed by the number of women who had turned out, that I didn’t have a chance to think about what those photos could potentially do to me. Now I wish I could rewind back to that day. I would have told them no fucking pictures.
“…You got me wanting to bust a few rounds of nut down in that nasty-ass throat of yours. That shit feels just like a wet, gushy pussy.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck raise. “Who the fuck did you say are?”
“I didn’t. But don’t worry ya pretty lil’ head ’bout that. You’ll find out soon enough, trick. All you need to know right now is I’ma ’bout to be your worst fuckin’ nightmare. Check your mail, baby. And if you don’t do what I want, there’ll be more where that came from.”
“Listen…” the line goes dead. I try to star-sixty-nine the call, but it’s from a blocked number. I glance over at the stack of mail sitting on my desk, then start frantically sifting through it. When I come across a manila envelope with my name typed on it without a return address, I immediately know it’s from him. My stomach knots as I reach for my letter opener. I swallow hard, then slice open the back of the envelope. I pull out its contents. Oh…my…fucking…God! I hear myself scream in my head as I gasp, cupping a hand up over my mouth. My heart has dropped into my lap. I can literally feel the color draining from my face. I sit, staring at the sheet of paper, gripping it in my hand—mortified. It’s a color copy of the photo from the newspaper neatly cut out, and taped in the center of white copier paper. The newspaper caption reads: BUSINESS OWNER, PASHA ALLEN, STYLIST AND OWNER OF NAPPY NO MORE HAIR SALON IN ORANGE, NEW JERSEY, GIVES BACK TO THE COMMUNITY. Underneath that, in cutout lettering, glued to the white copier paper. Reads: PASHA ALLEN (AKA DEEP THROAT DIVA) IS THE COMMUNITY DICK WASHER. DICK SUCKING BITCH!
ELEVEN
It’s seven o’clock in the evening. I am wrapped in a chenille throw curled up on my sofa, with a glass of Chardonnay and my leg tucked beneath me, reading—well, trying to read—Stealing Candy by Allison Hobbs about teen girls being forced into prostitution by a malicious pimp. The book doesn’t hit the stores until July, which is another four months from now, but one of my clients at the salon belongs to a book club and was able to get a review copy for it. She raved about it and told me I should read it. So when she brought it into the salon with her the other day, I decided I would. Besides, I love all of Allison’s books. Many of her characters I can relate to on some level. They’re all nasty, uninhibited, and freaky as hell.
But two hours have passed and I am still only on the second page of chapter three. As interesting and disturbing as this book is, I am unable to stay focused tonight. The words are colliding into one big, blurry ball. I put the book down and toss off the throw, downing the last bit of my wine. I reach for the remote to the stereo, press play for the CD player. I wait for Fantasia’s latest single, “Bittersweet,” to start playing. She doesn’t even have an album out yet, but I’m glad to have this song in my collection. Someone came into the shop selling a compilation of songs on CD for five dollars. I don’t normally buy bootleg shit, but there were a few songs on the disc I wanted to hear and I couldn’t wait until the album’s release.
I lean my head back on the sofa, closing my eyes as Fantasia’s voice comes through the speakers and fills the room.
I decide I need something else besides sitting up in this house to occupy me. I have to get up out of here before I drive myself crazy, letting some psycho motherfucker rent space in my head. You always see on TV and on the internet shit about someone being harassed by some kook who has made them the object of their desires. But, geesh…all I did was top the nigga off one time, and he’s coming at me all nutty and whatnot. Shit! And I don’t even remember what the nigga looks like. I can only imagine what he’d do if I had given him some pussy.
Although it’s been two weeks since that disturbing phone call from that nut, I am still trying to block out the echoing in my head. Have you opened your mail today? Bitch, since you won’t suck my dick, I’m gonna make ya life a living hell…
The fact that I haven’t heard from him should make me feel relieved but somehow it doesn’t. Still, it doesn’t keep me from wanting to suck down on some dick tonight. And it doesn’t prevent me from thinking irrationally, knowing damn well I have no business still thinking about cock and cum. But I am!
“I’m not going to let this nigga control me,” I say aloud as I attempt to convince myself that I have nothing more to be concerned about. I get up and make my way upstairs to my laptop. I turn it on, then wait for it to boot up.
As soon as I click into my browser to pull up the Nastyfreaks4u website, my cell rings. I get up and walk over to my nightstand to retrieve it. I glance at the screen. It’s Felecia.
“Hey, girl, what’s up?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed. I glance down at my toes, and notice chipped polish on my left pinkie toe. I frown, inspecting all of them. Oh, hell no, I think, getting up to get my nail polisher remover, this is not acceptable.
“Nothing much. You feel like going into the city for drinks later tonight?”
“Where?” I ask, contemplating if I should go onto the NastyFreaks4u website or not. I know, I know. I’m still playing with fire. I try to let this shit go, but something keeps enticing me. “Bitch, don’t,” the voice in my head warns. I take a deep breath, deciding to log onto AOL to check my email messages instead; it’s been a few days since I’ve last checked them.
“The Katra Lounge,” she says.
“Where’s that?” I ask, waiting for the page to open. The place she’s talking about sounds vaguely familiar.
“In SoHo.”
“Oh yeah; that’s right. I heard that was a nice spot.” A slight smile forms my lips when I am alerted that I have new messages.
“It’s a bangin’ spot.”
I laugh. “I already know what that means. They have good drinks.”
She laughs with me. “Yep.”
She goes onto rave about how delicious the mojitos with champagne in them are and how great the martinis are; how delicious the appetizers are. “Girl, it has a real sexy atmosphere. Only problem it gets extremely crowded. Oh, and the drinks are sooooo overpriced. Other than that, it’s a cute setup.” Overpriced drinks; extremely crowded. Tho
se two things are enough to turn me off from going.
“Well, let me sleep on it,” I say, stopping her before she goes into a full review of the place. “Call me in an hour or so and I’ll let you know. I need to take a quick nap.”
“Alright. Talk to you later.” We hang up. Needless to say, a nap is the last thing on my mind. I open my first email. Hey there. Are u still looking to suck dick? 6’1, black hair, dark brown eyes, African American male with a really big and thick dick that loves to be sucked. I’m 185 pounds all cut and toned muscle. Located in New Brunswick. Can travel to you, or meet up somewhere. I reply back: Hello. Let me be the judge. Send me a pic of that really big dick. Let’s see if it’s fact or fiction.
