CHAPTER NINE
Chocolate muhf*cka likin’ what he sees…hopin’ ta get a fly, sexy bitch down on ’er knees…gotta keep brushin’ da nigga off…but da nigga stay tryna press…yeah da muhf*cka’s fine…but a bitch ain’t beat for da stress…this kind’a nigga cums wit’ a buncha bullshit-ass mess…
“Yo, it’s Alley Cat.”
“Come again,” I ask, f*ckin’ wit’ ’im. “You got da wrong number. I don’t know no nigga named Alley Cat.”
He laughs. “Well, in another six hours or so, you will. So you might as well start gettin’ ya sexy ass ready.”
“Get ready for what?” I ask, sittin’ up in bed. “I ain’t f*ckin’ wit’ you.”
Yeah, aiight, ma. Front if you want. You already know.”
“I don’t know nuthin’, muhf*cka. So what you sayin’?”
He sucks his teeth, sighin’. “Yo, here you go. We already went through this shit. I told you yesterday I was comin’ through to scoop you. Ain’t shit changed, ma. So don’t play.”
“Who said I was playin’?”
“Gimme ya address, ma.”
I smirk. “Oh, so you really here in Jersey?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way to the crib as soon as I stop past my moms to see wassup wit’ her.” This is the first time I’ve ever heard him mention his moms. It dawns on me that all the times we’ve talked on the phone, I never asked the nigga where at in Jersey he rests; never asked ’im if he had any brothas or sistas. Come to think of it, we never really talked on some real shit. I decide to ask, but the muhf*cka shuts it down. “Listen, all that social work shit you tryna get into ain’t important, right now; gettin’ ya address and snatchin’ you up is.”
“Nigga, I ain’t goin’ off wit’ a muf*cka I don’t know shit about.”
“Aye, yo, stoppin’ makin’ ’xcuses; I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know tonight, when I see you.”
“Yeah, ohhhhkaaay. And don’t be thinkin’ ya nasty ass is gettin’ any of this p-ssy, either. ’Cause I’ma hate ta shut ya ass down.”
“C’mon, ma. Give a muhf*cka more credit than that. I mean, yeah…I pop shit to you and whatnot. But, it ain’t that serious. Real talk, I might wanna get up in them hips. But, for now…I’m good, yo.”
Might? Oh, puhleeze, this nigga is frontin’ like hell. I laugh. “Yeah, right; whateva. Don’t gas me. If I threw this p-ssy up in ya face you’d be all up in it, tryna eat my ovaries out.”
He laughs. “Yo, you right, I might. But, check this. I get all the p-ssy, ass ’n throat I want. A muhf*cka ain’t ever gotta sweat you for no p-ssy, and that’s some real shit.”
“Then we good.”
“No doubt, so where you rest at?”
“I’m not available,” I tell ’im, lyin’ back in bed.
“Yo, ma, what the f*ck? Why you gotta make e’erything so f*ckin’ difficult? I wanna see you, tonight. Not tomorrow, not next week, or the week after that. Tonight, you dig? And I’m not takin’ no for an answer. So stop bullshittin’ and tell a muhf*cka where you rest…damn.”
Oh no this muhf*cka didn’t. The nigga got me gaggin’. But I ain’t gonna front, either. The muhf*cka’s aggression got’a bitch’s * to twitch.
“Difficult?”
“Yeah, difficult. Do you need me to spell it for you, too?”
Oh this muhf*cka is really pushin’ it. “Oh, hell no, nigga. You really tryna get da heat—”
“Yo’ hol’ up. Take that volume down, ma. All that ain’t necessary.”
“Muthaf*cka, you callin’ me; you pressin’ me. Don’t get it twisted, nigga.”
“You know what, you right. F*ck it. All a muhf*cka’s tryna do is chill wit’ ya stuck up ass, but you too muthaf*ckin’ retarded…”
What the f*ck? Is this muthaf*cka really tryna get it poppin’? “Muhf*cka who is you talkin’—”
“Yo, on some real shit,” he snaps, “shut ya f*ckin’ dick suckas. I’m talkin’ now. Dig this. I let you come at me all crazy ’n shit ’cause you mad sexy, and a nigga’s diggin’ you. But you not gonna keep comin’ at my neck anyway you want. All you wanna do is give a muhf*cka ya ass to kiss. You got me f*cked up, ya dig? You wanna be on some extra shit, then do you. But all that f*cked up attitude you got is gonna keep ya ass lonely and miserable.”
The line goes dead.
“Hello? Hello?” I say, pullin’ the phone from my ear, starin’ at it. The screen reads: DISCONNECTED. “Ohmyf*ckin’gaaaawd, this nigga hung up on me,” I say out loud, still holdin’ the phone ’n starin’ at it in my hand. “I don’t believe this shit.” And the nigga read ya ass for filth! This muthaf*cka actually cursed me out, then hung up on me. Now I’m pissed! “Who da f*ck that black muthaf*cka think he is? I will straight take it to his ugly-ass face,” I’m snappin’ to myself. Bitch, stop frontin’. You just got finished sayin’ how fine da nigga is, now you callin’ his ass ugly. It’s ’bout time somebody brung it to ya ass.
Ten minutes later, my cell rings. I glance at the screen. I should let da shit go into voice mail. Of course, I don’t. “Yeah?” I answer wit’ ’tude.
“Yo, ma…let’s start this shit over. I apologize for comin’ at you like that. But, yo, you really know how’ta make a muhf*cka crazy. Ya mouth is real extra, ma; for real.”
I ig the apology and the slick-ass comments. “Ummm, did we get disconnected?” I ask already knowin’ the answer, but I wanna hear the nigga say it.
“Nah, I hung up on you,” he coolly states. He sighs. “You ready to talk like you got some sense?”
“You know what, kiss my ass. You arrogant, egotistical, sonofa—”
He laughs. “Temper, temper. Why does this gotta be a big-ass production? All I wanna do is chill, blaze, and get to know you; no pressures. No bullshit. Is that too much for a muhf*cka to ask for? Shit, I ain’t even had the p-ssy, yet. Don’t even know if the shit’s worth all the damn drama you be tryna bring.”
“Then step, muhf*cka. Delete my shit, and make ya way onto da next.”
He laughs. “Yo, Kat, stop, aiight? You and I both know if you wasn’t beat for a muhf*cka you wouldn’t be givin’ me all this air time. You a grown-ass woman, and I’ma grown-ass man, so wasssup…you givin’ me ya address or what?”
Bitch, you know you diggin’ the nigga, so get ova ya’self. I blow out a frustrated sigh. “What time you wanna pick me up?” I finally ask, surprisin’ myself.
“Aaaah, that’s wassup. Finally, we’re gettin’ somewhere!”
I suck my teeth. “Whaaaaateva.”
He laughs. “Yo, you a piece’a work, for real, ma. But check this. The nastier you are, the hornier I get, so how ’bout you try bein’ nicer so a muhf*cka don’t have’ta walk around wit’ a hard dick all day.”
“Don’t press ya luck.” I give ’im my address. He tells me he’s scoopin’ me up at six. I glance at the clock. It’s already eleven in the morning. Shit, I’ma need to get my ass in gear if I plan on bein’ ready by then. “And don’t come up here ringin’ my doorbell all late ’n wrong, either. ’Cause a bitch ain’t one for waitin’ ’round for no nigga.”
“Yo, chill. You ain’t gotta stress ’bout shit like that; I’ma on time type nigga. The only thing I ever make a chick wait for is this hot, creamy nut, feel me?”
I suck my teeth. “Nigga, you are so full of ya’self.”
He laughs. “Yo, I’m keepin’ shit real.”
“Whateva,” I say, dismissin’ ’im. “Where you takin’ me?”
“Relax. I got this.”
“Relax hell. I need’a know how’ta dress.”
“All you need to know is you wit’ me.”
“That’s not—”
“See, that’s ya problem, ma,” he says, cuttin’ me off. “You don’t know how’ta go wit’ da flow.”
“Oh, so you think you got me all figured out, hunh?”
“Nah, not really; but I know what I know.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you like givin’ muhf*ckas a hard time.”
“That’s not true,” I say defensively. “I’ma cool-ass chick; I’m just not beat to be sweatin’ a nigga’s balls.”
He laughs. “You wanna see a muhf*cka beg, that’s all. But, check this. I ain’t one for beggin’, but I’ve been makin’ you an exception, for now.”
I raise my brow. “Oh, puhleeeze. And then what?”
“And then I’ma have you beggin’. See you at six.” The muhf*cka disconnects the call before I can open my mouth to say sumthin’ slick. I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve never had a nigga hang up on me! And here this muthaf*cka comes disconnectin’ me not once, but twice, in one damn day! The crazy shit is I feel like the nigga done struck a match on my * and set my p-ssy on fire. My insides have gone up in flames, and the nigga got me wantin’ some’a that dick!
AT EXACTLY SIX O’CLOCK, MY DOORBELL RINGS. I PURPOSEFULLY take my time gettin’ to the door, not wantin’ to come off lookin’ all thirsty ’n anxious ’n whatnot. On some real shit, inside I am a nervous f*ckin’ mess. The last muhf*cka who came to my spot to pick me up ’n take me out on a date was Grant. I close my eyes. Picture him standin’ at the door. Remember how fine ’n sexy the nigga was; how I straddled up on that muhf*cka, foggin’ up the windows of his whip, and let ’im slide his thick fingas deep in my p-ssy ’n f*ck me ’til he had me feelin’ like I was bein’ dug out wit’ a dick.
Therrrssp! Therrrsp! Those thoughts become replaced wit’ the nigga’s skull leakin’; blood splatterin’ up against the wall. The sound of the doorbell ringin’, followed by bangin’, snaps me back to the present. I catch myself starin’ at my reflection in the full-length wall mirror. I blink, blink again, shakin’ the shit off. I take a deep breath, peepin’ my wears; pleased wit’ my look. I decided to keep it cute in a red knee-grazin’ wrap dress and’a pair of black Manolo Blahnik six-inch, lace-up, cut-out boots. My titties pop just enough to let the nigga know what’s what. But, I ain’t pressed to be givin’ his ass too much sexiness, not all at once; only a taste.
I head downstairs. Take another deep breath, tellin’ myself to relax, to keep it cute. Bitch, get ya mind right, the nigga ain’t no-good; all he is is a hot meal and— maybe, a good f*ck! I swing open the door. He’s leanin’ up on the doorframe wit’ a huge smile plastered ’cross his face. His fitted hat is dropped down low, coverin’ his eyes. This muhf*cka,” I think, steppin’ back and invitin’ ’im in, wit’ his sexy ass.
“Damn, yo,” he says, removin’ his fitted and lettin’ his eyes roam my body. “You lookin’ good as hell, baby.” I give ’im the evil eye. He throws his hands up, grinnin’. “I know, I know. Quit callin’ you baby. For once, cut a cat some slack. You sexy, ma.”
I don’t know why bein’ alone wit’ this nigga has my nerves so rattled. I need a blunt and a shot’a sum nigga juice—Rèmy, Henny; sumthin’ dark and hard! And a taste of this chocolate nigga’s dick milk, I think, pressin’ a grin on my face. “Of course I am; I’m that bitch, thought you knew.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight.” His eyes wander ’round the living room. “Nice spot.”
“Thanks. Have a seat. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
I catch the nigga lickin’ his lips. “You look ready now,” he says wit’ sex drippin’ from his tone.
“Whaaaaat eva,” I say, poppin’ my hips outta the room goin’ into my powder room to put on a coat of lipstick—sumthin’ I rarely wear, followed by a coat of lipgloss to give my lips that juicy, I’ll-suck-a-dick-all-night-long look.
When I step back into the room, he stands up, smilin’. I scan his wears, peep the ice drippin’ from his lobes and the rose gold Brera watch strapped to his wrist. He’s rockin’ faded True Religion jeans, a thin brown True Religion thermal-type shirt, and a pair of brown Prada lace-ups.
“Why you smilin’?” I ask, grabbin’ my Bottega Veneta. I let it drop in the crook of my arm.
He shakes his head. “Same reason you are.”
I suck my teeth, grabbin’ my keys. “Nigga, I ain’t smilin’.” I tell ’im to keep still while I set my alarm, then usher ’im out the door.
“Yeah, aiight,” he says, openin’ the door. He waits for me, then shuts it. “That’s what ya mouth says.” I roll my eyes, lockin’ the top lock.
“Whateva,” I say, followin’ him to his whip. Truth is the muhf*cka’s right. A bitch was smilin’.