CHAPTER TEN
Puff, puff, pass…Blazin’ wit’ a sexy nigga…Gotta bitch feelin’ right…got ’er shiftin’ in ’er seat…pressin’ dem thighs… roamin’ ’er eyes…thinkin’ ’bout givin’ up da ass…f*ckin’ ’im all night…then doin’ ’im dirty…like a real bitch should…toss da nigga out…’cause a bitch know he ain’t no f*ckin’ good…
“So, where we goin’?” I ask, slidin’ into the passenger seat of his Range, then fastenin’ my seatbelt.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he says, flippin’ through his CD collection. “Tonight, I’m in charge.”
I laugh. “Nigga, trust, you only in charge ’cause I’m lettin’ you think you are.”
He turns his head in my direction, raisin’ his brow. “Like I said, tonight, I’m in charge. So sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, baby.”
I turn my head, lookin’ outta the window, actin’ like I ain’t beat for that shit he’s talkin’.
He laughs. “Oh, what? You poutin’ now?” He backs outta my driveway, then heads for the highway.
“Nope. I’m chillin’.”
“Oh, aiiight. That’s more like it, baby. Daddy got you.”
I cut my eyes at ’im, sittin’ back and foldin’ my arms ’cross my chest. “Oh, nigga, puhleeeze. Don’t even start. I told you ’bout that baby shit.”
He laughs. “Yo, chill. I’m tryna make you my baby, but you ain’t tryna act right.”
“Oh, trust. You can’t make me nuthin’ I ain’t tryna be,” I state, shootin’ ’im a look.
He grins. Damn, this sexy muhf*cka kinda reminds me of Grant, I think, shiftin’ in my seat. True, he’s more aggressive and ’xtra cocky wit’ his, still the nigga’s swagger is right. “Yeah, aiight. You love talkin’ slick ’n shit, but it’s all good. I know what you need to get ya mind right, ma.”
Yeah, a stiff, thick dick. “Ohhh realllllly? Do tell,” I say, shiftin’ in my seat to face ’im.
He pulls out a fat blunt, then sparks it. “Some’a this,” he takes two pulls, then passes it off. I take it straight to the head, leanin’ my head back on the headrest. I hold the weed smoke in my lungs, then slowly blow it out. “And this,” he adds, slidin’ a CD into the dashboard CD changer. He cracks the windows and sunroof.
A few seconds later, I hear Erykah Badu’s voice comin’ through the speakers. “20 Feet Tall” plays.
I turn my head toward ’im, grinnin’ as I pass ’im back the blunt. “Oh, shit, let me find out. What you know ’bout Erykah?”
“Don’t sleep, ma,” he says, glancin’ over at me. “I ain’t ya average type cat.”
“Mmmm, if you say so.”
“Nah, it’s what I know.”
“Well, since you know so much, is there anything else I need?”
He laughs, glancin’ over at me. “Yeah, but you ain’t gettin’ any of it ’til you start actin’ right.”
I laugh, chokin’ back weed smoke. “Keep it, nigga.”
“Yeah, aiight,” he says, laughin’. “Lucky for you, I’m tryna be a gentleman tonight.”
“No, lucky you,” I say back.
He keeps laughin’. Laugh now, muhfuka, I think, settlin’ back in my seat. But when I’m done wit’cha ya ass I’ma have you grabbin’ da sheets like a lil’ bitch.
I hum to the beat. We pass the blunt back ’n forth, vibin’ to Erykah. I snap my fingas, and sway a bit when “Window Seat” starts to play, breakin’ the silence between us. “Did you see the video to this?” I ask.
“No doubt,” he says, keepin’ his eyes on the road. “She did her thing.”
I smirk, lookin’ at ’im. “Was you payin’ attention to the video, or to her juicy ass?”
He laughs. “Both.” He sparks another blunt. Takes a deep pull, then passes it to me. After a moment of silence, he asks outta the blue, “So what kinda niggas you into?” I choke, shiverin’. Chills go through me when he asks this. He looks over at me. “Yo, you aiight over there?”
I nod, still coughin’. “Yeah, I’m good,” I tell ’im, but I’m not. The nigga’s question got me shook. That’s the exact same question Grant had asked the night he picked me up to take me to Mr. Chow. Right outta the blue, ’exactly like this nigga did.
“Why, you puttin’ in an application,” I hear myself sayin’ as I stare’ at ’im; expectin’ to see Grant sittin’ behind the wheel instead of him. I hear myself repeatin’ word for word the same shit I had told Grant. “I’m into niggas who ain’t scared of p-ssy; a nigga who knows how’ta eat it up and beat it up.” I blink. See that it’s still him sittin’ there; that a bitch’s startin’ to bug. “I’m into real niggas who do real things; niggas who don’t cheat, beat or mistreat,” I decide to tell ’im. I ain’t gonna front. The haze gotta a bitch feelin’ mad frisky sittin’ next to this nigga. But I’ma keep it cute.
“I feel you.”
I stare at ’im. “How many chicks you creepin’ wit’?”
“None,” he says, smirkin’.
“Whatchu grinnin’ for?”
“’Cause I know where this is goin’.”
“Oh, really? And where’s that?”
“I’m single, ma. So, no…I don’t creep. And I don’t cheat; and I never have.”
“Okay, smart ass, then let me rephrase the question. How many hoes you f*ckin’?”
“At the moment?” I suck my teeth, shootin’ him a “yeah nigga” look. He laughs. “You really wanna know?”
“Yeah, nigga. And keep it gully. How many bitches you runnin’ ya dick in?”
I can see the nigga countin’ in his head. “Six, seven, off and on; two on a regular, though.” I ask if that’s the most he’s f*cked. He tells me no. Tells me he’s f*cked up to twenty-seven bitches in a year. Tells me he’s had threesomes and foursomes. OhmyGod, this nigga’s real loose wit’ da dick; a nasty whore wit’ his!
“Oh, so you slingin’ da dick all over da place, huh?”
“Nah, I wouldn’t say all that. I’m doin’ me; gettin’ it in whenever, wherever.”
“Raw?” I ask, raisin’ my brow.
He takes his eyes off the road, frownin’. “Hell, naw. I ain’t that kinda nigga. I wrap it up before I tap it up; no exceptions. The chick who gets this dick naked is gonna be the chick I’m wifin’; real talk. And a muhf*cka don’t see that happenin’ anytime soon, so I’ma keep gettin’ it in, one hole, one stroke, one nut, at’a time.”
“Mmmm,” is the only thing I say, lookin’ outta the window bobbin’ my head to Erykah’s “Love.”
He lowers the volume. “So, who you got hittin’ that?”
“What?” I question, turnin’ to face ’im, frontin’ like I don’t know what he’s talkin’ ’bout.
“You heard me the first time. Who you got knockin’ them walls?” I tell ’im no one in particular. “Oh, word? So, when’s the last time you had some dick in ya life?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Did the nigga dick you right?”
I replay the afternoon of f*ckin’ Tone out in my head, remember how I dug the nigga’s neck out wit’ my nails. How I couldn’t get my nut wit’out thinkin’ ’bout blood. Although it wasn’t the greatest f*ck, f*ckin’ the muhf*cka definitely made a bitch realize how badly I missed havin’ a nigga to crawl up on; how much I’ve missed havin’ this p-ssy stroked. How I’ve missed the touch of a real nigga who knows how’ta handle a real bitch. And keepin’ shit real, it forced a bitch to realize ’xactly how bad I miss f*ckin’ a nigga, then snatchin’ the muhf*cka’s last breath right before he nutted.
For some reason, images of Grant’s thick dick flash through my head. Flashes of sweaty, knee-bucklin’, all-night-long, f*ckin’ take over and a bitch can almost feel him bangin’ this p-ssy from the back; tip-drillin’ and slammin’ his thick dick in ’n outta my hot, sticky snatch; slow f*ckin’ it, deep f*ckin’ it; runaway train f*ckin’ it; my hips grindin’ ’n windin’; feelin’ his warm, gooey cream, slide down into my a*shole, drippn’ along the back of my p-ssy. The memory gotta bitch in heat. I cross my legs, try ’n pinch off the stirrin’ in my *.
I clear my throat, take this nigga in. Dark dreamy chocolate muhf*cka wit’ deep spinnin’ waves that can make a bitch sea sick. Dark brown eyes…thick full lips, thick nose, and big-ass hands. And the nigga’s bow-legged! Yeah, but the muhf*cka’s a dog!
“Yo,” he says, tappin’ me on the leg, “you aiight over there? Let me find out that smoke got you zonin’.”
“Nigga, puhleeeze…I’m good. This shit you got is a tease.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight. Well, answer the question. Did the muhf*cka beat them walls up?”
“It was aiight. I mean, it wasn’t nuthin’ to write home about, but the nigga wasn’t no slouch, either. I f*cked ’im once and knew he wasn’t gettin’ da p-ssy again, so I wasn’t keepin’ a scorecard on his stroke game. He did what I needed ’im to do for that moment, and there you have it.”
“Oh, aiight. I feel you. So who you got lined up to hit that the next go round?”
I laugh. “Don’t be tryna monitor how I dish out my p-ssy, muhf*cka. But to answer ya question, no one. Why?”
He laughs. “Maybe I’m tryna get next. You gotta problem wit’ that?”
I roll my eyes, suckin’ my teeth. “Next question.”
“Yeah, aiight. Why you don’t have a man?”
’Cause da nigga’s dead, I think, runnin’ my hand through the back of my hair, keepin’ my stare locked on ’im. “Nigga, why you think?”
He laughs. “’Cause ya fine-ass is evil as hell.”
“Whateva…wrong answer. ’Cause a nigga don’t define me; next.”
“You lookin’ for a man?”
“Nope; now what?”
He hits me wit’ a sexy grin, passin’ me the blunt. “Aiight, next question. How many niggas have you let run up in you?”
I tilt my head. Tellin’ this muhf*cka the truth ain’t an option. The nigga would think I’ma bona-fide slut-bucket if I did. F*ck what ya heard. I was a cock slayer; and yeah a bitch slutted for the dick. But my name ain’t out there in the streets; one’a the advantages of shuttin’ a muhf*cka’s lights out. Almost e’ery muhf*cka I bodied; too many to count. And plenty more who lapped at this * and gobbled up this sweet, juicy p-ssy. I decide to spit a buncha half-truths. “With da exception of the muhf*cka I f*cked recently, da niggas I let run up in me are the same niggas who I was f*ckin’ wit’ on da regular.”
“Okay, so how many?”
Not countin’ the young nigga who I let pop this p-ssy when I needed a burner, I think, count, in my head. Naheem…B-Love… Grant…Tone. “Four.”
“Daaaaamn, that’s wassup. That p-ssy must be mad tight.”
I smirk. “Yup, it’ll suck da skin off a dick.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight. Question is can you handle a dick?”
I stare at ’im for a few seconds. “Who says I’m tryna handle one?”
He keeps laughin’. “It’s all in ya eyes, ma.”
I roll the window down, take two more pulls off’a what’s left of the blunt, then toss the shit out. He frowns. “Yo, ma, why you throw that shit out?”
“Nigga, this shit we smokin’ must be laced ’cause yo’ ass is seein’ shit.”
He cracks the f*ck up. “Yo, ma, you funny bad. Front if you want.”
“And ya narcissistic ass is delusional.”
“Yeah, that’s what ya mouth says.”
“Nigga, that’s what I know.”
He shakes his head, smilin’. For the rest of the ride up the Turnpike headin’ north, we keep it light, smokin’, laughin’ ’n listenin’ to music ’n shit. I stare outta the window, takin’ the ride in. It’s not ’til after he takes the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, takes the exit for Leonia/Teaneck, then takes the ramp for Route 4 West that I know ’xactly where he’s takin’ me—Morton’s Steakhouse in Hackensack, a high-end, over-priced steak spot. The minute we turn onto Riverside Square, my mouth waters. And it has nuthin’ to do wit’ the restaurant, and e’erythin’ to do wit’ The Shops at Riverside Mall. One’a my hot spot fashion stops!
I turn my attention to ’im. “Umm, sweetie,” I say, shakin’ my head, “You takin’ me to Morton’s?”
“Yeah, you aiight wit’ that?”
I nod. “It’s cool. But you really shoulda did ya homework before bringin’ me way up here.”
“Why?”
I smirk. “’Cause the last nigga who brought me here ended up diggin’ in his pockets forty-two hunnid deep.”
He laughs. “Yo, if the cat let you do his pockets, then good for you. But, know this, I ain’t that nigga.”
Nigga, not yet you ain’t. “Oh, please be clear. I don’t need you to be. I have my own paper.”
He smiles. “That’s nice to know.”
“Yup, it suuuuure is. Now pass da blunt.”