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I sigh, blowin’ weed smoke up at the ceilin’. I swear. Hoes like her make me sick. They ain’t neva satisfied wit’ what the fuck they have. Always lookin’ to chase down the next nigga wit’ the biggest dick, or thickest knot. I don’t know how the fuck that nigga don’t know what time it is wit’ her ass. Mmmph. A hot, fuckin’ mess!
“Oh, sweetie, don’t go there. How ’bout you not worry ’bout what I need, okay?”
“You need to get ya mind right, Chanel. Do sumthin’ wit’ ya’self.”
“And like I said, you need to get ya back knocked. But you don’t hear me comin’ at ya neck all sideways ’n shit.”
“Bitch, I ain’t comin’ at ya neck. I’m tryna get you to see you too damn fly to be birdin’ ya’self out. You gotta good man. Get ya’self a hobby.”
“Newsflash, boo: I gotta hobby. Checkin’ niggas ’n runnin’ they pockets. So instead of puttin’ so much energy into my situation how ’bout you focus on ya own shit.”
I let out a disgusted grunt. See. You can’t tell a bitch like her nuthin’. She’s too damn hardheaded. A Miss Know It All bitch gotta learn the hard way. Then again, maybe she won’t. She’s been fuckin’ wit’ Divine’s ass for two years and ridin’ down on a few other nigga’s dicks whenever she feels like gettin’ her creep on, and his ass ain’t peeped it yet. Either she done fucked him blind. Or the nigga just don’t give a fuck ’cause he out there doin’ him, too. Nah, that ain’t his style. That nigga’s big on Chanel’s retarded ass. Like I said, this bitch gotta good-ass man who grinds hard e’ery day; a muhfucka who’d give her anything she wants, but she’d rather be out tryna trick another muhfucka up off’a his paper. Go figure. The last time I got at this ho ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life—you know, goin’ to school or gettin’ her ass a job, she flat out told me, “Hustlin’ these niggas is a job. And a bitch like me is gonna always hustle a nigga off his paper.” So since then, I keep my dick sucka shut. Well, most of the time.
“Mmmph, do you, boo-boo. But, trust. When that nigga finally peeps ya game, you do know he’s gonna knock ya whole grill out, right?”
She sucks her teeth. “Bitch, I ain’t call ya ass for no Oprah special. All I wanna know is when you bringin’ ya stankan’ ass home. That’s it. And for the record, there ain’t shit for Divine to peep. All I’m doin’ is lookin’. There’s no harm in that.”
I laugh. “Okay, answer me this: when’s the last time you popped another nigga’s dick in ya mouth?”
“No comment.”
I keep laughin’. “Unh-hunh; just what I thought. What you get outta it? A new Louis bag and some jewels?”
“No.”
“A few stacks?”
“Nope. An iPad.”
What the fuck?! This bitch givin’ up throat and she ain’t get no paper. No ice. No wears; just a six-hunnid-dollar electronic gadget. No extras wit’ it? OhmyGod, this bitch’s fuckin’ ’n suckin’ for peanuts! Shit, she might as well fucked the nigga for free if you ask me. ’Cause six hunnid ain’t shit, especially when you fuckin’ over a muhfucka whose gonna snap and do a Chris Brown on ya ass if he ever finds out. The last time this ho gave up some charity pussy was when she fucked Cash’s cousin Coal. And even then I looked at her ass like she still had the nigga’s dick snot hangin’ from her lips.
I pull the phone from my ear, starin’ at it, then put it back to my ear. “An iPad? Are you fuckin’ serious? Let me get this shit straight. You mean to tell me you tryna fuck up ya situation by fuckin’ ’round wit’ a muhfucka for some bullshit-ass gadget? Shit, Divine woulda bought ya ass that.”
“Whaaateva,” she snaps, tryna front like she’s heated.
“Hmmph. Ya nasty ho-ass is still my girl. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya trick ass.”
“Bitch, you make me sick. I don’t know why I waste my time even fuckin’ wit ya ugly ass.”
“Oh, get ova it,” I say, crackin’ up. She gets quiet. I musta hit a nerve. “Oh, so now you wanna be on mute? Let me find out you on some sensitive shit. I’ma fuck you up myself.”
She sucks her teeth. “Kat, lick my ass. Ain’t nobody on mute nuthin’. I was doin’ sumthin’.”
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I take another pull off’a my blunt. “Oh, aiight. ’Cause I was about to say.”
“Puhleeze. The only think you need to be sayin’ is when you gettin’ here so we can shut shit down. I ain’t got all day to be fuckin’ wit’ ya snotty ass.”
“Trick, I just saw ya ugly ass two months ago when you came out here. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you like that,” I tease. Although I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ back home ’til the summer, it’s been a minute since a bitch popped these hips so I might make a special appearance. “When’s this shit?”
She tells me it’s the last weekend in April. Then says I should probably stay ’til after Memorial Day weekend so we can party in Miami. “Ho, don’t be tryna plan my time.”
“Oh whaaateva. It ain’t like you punchin’ a clock where you at. Besides, ya ass misses these east coast niggas, and you know it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t miss ya ugly, yellow ass,” I say, takin’ another pull. “Look, hit me up later. You fuckin’ up my high. You know a bitch don’t like to make plans ’til after I done sparked a fatty.”
“Ooooh, save me some.”
