CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s sumthin’ ’bout da nigga that got’a bitch intrigued… maybe it’s da way he licks them lips…maybe da way da nigga undresses me wit’ his eyes…gotta bitch wantin’ to know what makes ’im tick…pusssy achin’ for a quick ride on da dick…still a bitch gotta keep it on da low…take it slow…not get played like some dizzy-ass chick…
Once we’re inside the restaurant and seated, we place our orders. For appetizers, we share an order of Jumbo Lump Crab Cake and Colossal Shrimp; for dinner, I order the beefsteak tomato salad wit’ fresh bleu cheese and red onions. He gets the Chilean sea bass.
Although I ain’t wit’ all this winery bullshit, I order a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon; sum shit I ain’t eva heard of. And shit a bitch ain’t feelin’. I wait for the waiter to walk away, then ask, “So, tell me. Is this ’posed to be a date?”
“Nah,” he says, smirkin’, “it’s a cool-ass nigga chillin’ wit’ a sexy-ass dime-piece, havin’ dinner. Why, you want it to be?”
I smirk back, slowly shakin’ my head. “Nope, not at all.”
“Cool then.” The waiter returns to the table wit’ my drink, and the appetizers. He waits for ’im to bounce, then says, “So how long you plan on stayin’ in Jersey?”
“For as long as I want,” I tell ’im, placin’ a crab cake on my plate. I shrug, cuttin’ into it wit’ my knife. “I don’t answer to anyone.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
I tilt my head, raisin’ my brow. “No…I don’t.”
“Good, neither do I; so we straight.”
I roll my eyes, twistin’ my lips up. “Yeah, right; tell me anything.”
“What, you don’t believe? A muhf*cka ain’t latched down to nuthin’ or no one.”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not,” I say, placin’ a forkful of crab cake into my mouth. “I’m not tryna have you.”
“Oh, word. You not?” I tell ’im hell no. “Yeah, aiight; that’s what ya mouth says.” I roll my eyes. Tell the nigga to kiss my ass. He laughs, then stares at me, shakin’ his head. His foot brushes mine. “Well, maybe I’m tryna have you,” he says, poppin’ a shrimp in his mouth. He licks his thick, titty ’n * suckas. I shift in my seat, crossin’ my legs, then squeezin’ my thighs. I feel the pressure buildin’ up in my *. The weed we smoked gotta bitch mad horny. I wanna feel this nigga’s dick in me. My p-ssy pulses. I shift in my seat again. “Well, you can’t have me,” I tell ’im.
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight; we’ll see.”
“Nigga, are you always so cocky?”
He grins. “Yeah, somethin’ like that. I gotta lotta cock, what can I say?”
I suck my teeth. “Oh, so you one’a them niggas whose in love wit’ his dick, I see.”
“Nah, it’s the bitches who are in love wit’ this dick. I’m the muhf*cka who’s in love wit’ gettin’ it wet.” I decide to ig his ass, relieved the waiter comes back to the table wit’ our meal. By the time we’re halfway finished eatin’, I learn he’s an only child, like me. That he’s close to both his parents, particularly his moms. That he spent almost two years in college, but dropped out to do nuthin’ but hustle bitches off’a they paper. Well, he didn’t say it like that, but he might as well had. That he has no children. Burns mad trees. And f*cks a string of horny bitches.
“And no baby mommas?” I ask again, half-believin’ ’im.
“Nope.”
“Okay, so none that you claimin’.”
“Nah, none period. I told you, ma, I wrap my shit—all the time. Well, ’cept when I’m gettin’ throated.” I raise my brow. He laughs. “Word up, I’m dead ass. Unless a broad can get pregnant swallowin’ my dick batter it ain’t happenin’.”
“Alriiiiiighty then. Next.”
“What ’bout you; how many baby daddies you got?”
“None. And I ain’t tryna have one.” I’m kinda shocked when he asks if I’ve eva been pregnant. Although I coulda told the nigga no, I decide to keep shit real. “Yeah, when I was young and dumb. But I handled that situation real quick, trust.”
“I feel you.” I’m surprised when he tells me ’bout some nuttyass bitch who kept claimin’ he knocked her up. How she tried’a drag ’im into court for child support; how she kept showin’ up at his family’s spot wit’ a baby that looked nuthin’ like ’im.
“Damn. So what you’d do?”
“I got a blood test.”
“Okay, and?”
“And it wasn’t mine; just like I told the ho from the door. F*ck outta here.”
“Mmmph, that triflin’ bitch was dead wrong for that,” I say, shakin’ my head. “Tryna pin a baby on a muhf*cka. There’s a buncha scandalous bitches doin’ grimy shit like that; lettin’a buncha muhf*ckas pop off in ’em, then they gotta pull baby daddy names outta hats ’n shit.”
“Yeah, that shit was real crazy. She even had my fam comin’ at me sideways; ’specially my moms’ ’n shit. And I wasn’t feelin’ that shit at all. I kept tellin’ ’em the shit wasn’t mine. If it was, I’da manned up and handled my responsiblities.”
“Well ’least it worked out for you.”
“Oh, no doubt.” I decide to ask if he’s ever been in a relationship. He shakes his head. “Nah.”
“Are you serious? Neva?”
“True story.”
I twist my lips. “Mmmm, so I guess you one’a them niggas whose gonna spend his whole life runnin’ through a buncha bitches, hunh?”
The waiter returns to the table to see if we want dessert, or sumthin’ else. We tell ’im no, and send ’im on his way. He waits for dude to walk off, then shifts his attention back to me. He leans up in his seat, rests his forearms on the table. “Yo, check this out. I’ve smashed a buncha p-ssy, tore the frame outta a ton of ass, and coated a buncha throats and I have no regrets. So up ’til now I’ve been cool.”
“Okay, so basically you ain’t beat for a relationship?”
“Nah, I haven’t been. On some real shit, I’ve always thought relationships were whack, feel me.”
Wow, this nigga’s head is all f*cked up. “Okay and now?”
He shrugs. “The verdict is still out.” He winks at me, grinnin’. “But who knows. That might change.”
I laugh. “Oh, puhleeze don’t let it be on my account ’cause I ain’t lookin’ for a relationship. And if I were it wouldn’t be wit’ you.”
“Ouch,” he says, clutchin’ his chest. “You sure know how’ta stab a nigga in the heart.”
I laugh. “Oh, you’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll get over it. Fact is you ain’t built to be wit’ one chick. And a bitch like me ain’t willin’ly sharin’ a nigga wit’ another bitch.”
“Yeah, you right. At least that’s how it’s been. But maybe a muhf*cka’s ready to try sumthin’ different.”
“Yeah, like some new p-ssy.”
He laughs. “Nah…like tryin’ out the whole monogamy thing; you know…see if it works.”
“Trust, it works only when two muhf*ckas want it to,” I tell ’im. “Personally, I rather a muhf*cka tell me he wants to f*ck other bitches than goin’ out there gettin’ his creep on tryna play me sideways.”
“I feel you.” He takes a sip of his water, then studies me. “Do you think muhf*ckas can really change, or they just stop doin’ shit for the moment?”
I purse my lips, think ’bout my own life. Think ’bout how I stepped outta the killin’ game; how I miss it. Still ache ’n crave for it. I slowly nod. “Yeah, I guess they can. It may not be easy. But, if they really wanna, then yeah.”
“On some real shit, all my life I’ve been ’round muhf*ckas who didn’t give a damn ’bout a relationship. My pops married my moms but kept a string of jumpoffs. He even took me wit’ ’im while he went to one’a his hoes’ spots to f*ck ’em. Then he’d buy me shit to keep quiet. I never told anyone this, but a few of ’em he let top me off when I was mad young.” He chuckles. “Damn, a muhf*cka must really dig you ’cause I can’t believe I’m sittin’ here tellin’ you all this.” He pauses, shakin’ his head. “On some real shit, I see a buncha miserable muhf*ckas caught up in what they call a relationship and they still out doin’ them; lyin’ and f*ckin’ ’round on each other. I ain’t beat for that shit.”
“I feel you on that. Niggas ain’t shit.”
“Bitches, either,” he adds.
“Mmmph,” I grunt, glancin’ down at my wrist to peep the time. I can’t believe it’s almost nine o’clock. The waiter returns wit’ the check. Alex looks at the bill, then pulls out his wallet. I pull out mine as well, and toss a hunnid on the table.
“Yo, ma, put that back. I got this.”
I smirk. “I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”
“It’s not,” he says, handin’ me my money back. “But tomorrow night will be.”
“Nigga, puhleeeze, who said I wanted to see you again?”
He grins, shakin’ his head as he slides two crisp Ben Frankies in wit’ the check. “Yeah aiight. Whatever, yo. I ain’t tryna hear that shit.”
I laugh, followin’ behind ’im out the door to his whip. My Gawd, I think, peepin’ his walk, this bowlegged muhf*cka walks like he got some big-ass cow balls.
“YO, I HAD’A REAL NICE TIME WIT’ YOU TONIGHT,” HE TELLS ME as he’s pullin’ up in my driveway.
“Yeah, it was kinda aiight,” I say jokin’ly. “You ain’t a half bad muhf*cka.”
He laughs. “Yo, one some real shit, I’ma good dude. I’m glad you came to ya senses and stopped all that frontin’ like you wasn’t beat for the kid.”
“Aiight, muhf*cka, you got that. I ain’t gonna front, ya conceited ass is fine and all, but you too over ya’self. And I still think ya ass is mad trouble.”
“Baby, I’m good trouble. Good dick, good tongue, good f*ckin’, good nuttin’…I’m all ’round good, ma; true story.”
“OhhhhmiiiiiGod, you are so full of ya’self,” I say, openin’ the car door. “I’m out. Thanks for the meal.” He jumps outta his whip comin’ ova to me. “Nigga, what you doin’?” I ask, steppin’ back, placin’ a hand on my hip.
He grins. “Damn, ma. Put the claws in. I’m only walkin’ you to the door.”
I laugh, reachin’ inside my bag to get my keys. “Muhf*cka, my door’s right here in front of us,” I say, pointin’ in its direction. “You coulda sat in the car and watched me go in.”
He grins, placin’ his hand on the small of my back as we walk. “Maybe a muhf*cka’s really feelin’ you and ain’t tryna see the night end.”
“Well, maybe, all good things gotta come to an end.”
“Not all good things,” he says, steppin’ into my space. I step back, backin’ into my door. He looks down at me, slowly pullin’ in his bottom lip. “You sexy as f*ck, ma. I don’t know what it is ’bout you, but I ain’t gonna rest ’til I figure it out.” He leans in to kiss me, but a bitch shuts that shit down. Bitch, keep it cute. You know this muhf*cka ain’t shit.
Yeah, but a bitch want some dick.
Then f*ck ’im ’n keep it movin’.
No, not tonight!
“Oh, really?” I ask, stoppin’ him wit’ the palm of my hand up on his chest to hold his ass back from pressin’ all up on me. “Well, the only thing you should be tryna figure out is ya way back home; so good night.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiiight. I’ma be findin’ my way back to you tomorrow night at six so make sure you’re ready.”
“I got plans,” I tell ’im, openin’ my door tryna hide my grin. Truth is I don’t have shit planned, but I’m not ’bout to make it easy for this muhf*cka to get at me. Bein’ at a nigga’s beck ’n call ain’t what a fly bitch like me does. And, trust. A butter bitch like me won’t be home.
“Cancel ’em.”
“I don’t think so; wrong answer.”
“Then I’ma be sittin’ out this muhf*cka waitin’ for you to come home.”
I shake my head. “And ya ass’s gonna be out here lookin’ like a damn fool,” I tell ’im.
“Yo, you heard what I said. I’ma be here at six.”
“Muhf*cka, and you heard what I said. Now good night.” I shut the door in his face, makin’ my way upstairs to get outta these clothes, pull up Spartacus on On Demand, and ride the shit outta a dildo ’cause that black muhf*cka got’a bitch’s p-ssy boilin’.
SEVEN A.M. MY CELL STARTS GOIN’ OFF NONSTOP, AND A BITCH’S pissed she didn’t mute the shit. I reach for it off the nightstand, glancin’ at the screen. It’s a 347 area code number that I don’t recognize. I press IGNORE. Three seconds later, the same number calls back. “Yeah?”
“Kat, when the f*ck you bringin’ ya selfish ass back to Brooklyn to see ’bout your moms?”
The voice catches me off-guard. “Whaat? Who da f*ck is this?”
“It’s ya aunt Rosa, bitch. Don’t play stupid. You know my damn voice. Now why the f*ck nobody can get in touch wit’ ya disrespectful ass? What da f*ck you changin’ ya numbers for ’n shit?”
A bitch is too f*ckin’ through. And not in the muthaf*ckin’ mood, okay?! She’s one’a the last bitches I wanna hear from. “How the f*ck did you get my number?” I ask, swingin’ my comforter off, then sittin’ up on the side’a the bed. I realize it’s a stupid ass question, knowin’ damn well Chanel’s stupid ass gave it to ’er. I’ma f*ckin’ curse that retarded bitch out for filth!
She starts spazzin’. “Bitch, ya muthaf*ckin’ mother is in the goddamn hospital on life support and the only f*ckin’ thing you worryin’ ’bout is how the f*ck I got ya number, is you f*ckin’ serious?”
“Yeah, Rosa, I am. And what?”
“Rosa? Oh, bitch you done ran off and got real glossy callin’ me some muthaf*ckin’ Rosa. I’m ya aunt, ho.”
“Sweetie, you ain’t shit to me. And for da record, I’ve always been shinin’. So, yeah, I’m real glossy, ho. Now how can I help you? You got three minutes to say what you need’a say and then get da f*ck up off my line.”
She gasps. “Bitch, I’ma f*ck—”
“Two minutes and forty-seven seconds,” I warn, cuttin’ her off. “Say what da f*ck you called to say, and be done wit’ it.”
The crazy bitch keeps tryna bring it. “Bitch, on e’very-muthaf*ckin’-thing I love, I’ma beat the dog shit outta you. You ain’t shit for turnin’ ya back on ya family; especially ya moms. I’ma give you the beatdown she shoulda gave ya ass a long time ago, you stuck up lil’ bitch.”
I laugh. “Bitch, you must be back on crack talkin’ that whack ass shit to me. You need to grow da f*ck up; for real ho. You got da nerve to be someone’s grandmother actin’ like a certified trick-ass, gutter-rat bitch. F*ck outta here wit’ ya clown ass. Boo-boo, you got da game f*cked up if you think I’ma stand ’round and let you or any muthaf*ckin’-body else do shit to me. You got two minutes, and countin’.”
“YOU F*ckIN’ SNOTTY-ASS BITCH!” she yells into the phone. “F*ck ALL THAT DUMB SHIT YOU TALKIN’. MY F*ckIN’ SISTA IS ON MUTHAF*ckIN’ LIFE SUPPORT AND YOU NEED TO GET YA ASS DOWN TO THE GODDAMN HOSPITAL TO SEE HER!”
Interestin’ly, I keep it cute; stay calm. “Thanks for the public service announcement, Sweetie. Time’s up,” I say, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rings, again. This time it’s Chanel’s ass. “Oh, bitch, you must know you ’bout ta get cursed da f*ck out for givin’ that crazy bitch my muthaf*ckin’ number after I specifically told ya cock-washin’ ass not to give my muthaf*ckin’ number out to none of them bitches.”
“Damn,” she says, suckin’ her teeth. “I was hopin’ to get to you before she called you.”
“‘Damn hell, ho. I hate e’erything ya stankan azz stands for right now. You always doin’ dumb shit, bitch.” She laughs. “Bitch, ain’t shit funny. That ho called here tryna bring da noise. And you know a bitch wasn’t feelin’ that shit.”
“Ooops, my bad,” she says, gigglin’.
“Ho, I should slap the shit outta ya ugly-ass face.”
“I’m sorry, boo. I knew you was gonna be heated, but Patrice sounded real f*cked up when she called me early this mornin’. And I felt bad.”
“Bitch, what da f*ck you feelin’ bad for?”
“’Cause it sounded like she was cryin’ ’n shit.”
“Boo-hoo,” I say, suckin’ my teeth. “I don’t give a f*ck. You still had no muthaf*ckin’ business givin’ out my digits. You shoulda called me, first, before doin’ some corny-ass shit like that.”
“I know, I know. But ya ass woulda said hell no, anyway.”
“Exactly, ho. But you turn ’round and do what da f*ck you want. F*ck it. It’s done now. And ya ass done loss diva points for that bullshit, bitch.”
She starts laughin’. “Now you goin’ too damn far, bitch, snatchin’ my diva points ’n shit.”
“Whateva. You make me sick. I hate e’erything ya slutty ass stands for.”
“Okay, bitch, that shit’s all good ’n all, but are we still smokin’ today?”
“Hell no, I ain’t smokin’ wit’ ya crusty-ass. Go burn wit’ Rosa ’n Patrice since ya no-count ass was so quick to give them bitches my cell number.”
“Mmmmm-hmmm. And when ya crazy-ass aunts jump on that ass you make sure you remember that shit ’cause I’ma sit there ’n smoke up all they shit while they peelin’ da skin off’a that ass.”
“Bitch, you sit there and let them hoes jump on me and you don’t jump in ’n help set it off on ’em wit’ me, I’ma toss acid in ya face ’n set ya hair on fire, okay? Try it if you want. Ya ass’ll be laid up at the nearest burn center, okay. Then let’s see how many niggas gonna be checkin’ for ya bald-headed, crispy-baked, hoass.” We both bust out laughin’.
“Girl, ya ass is stoopid.”
“Yeah, okay.” She decides to ask how my phone convo went wit’ Rosa. I tell ’er.
“Damn.”
“Mmmph, girl, that crazy bitch sounded like she was back on crack.”
“So she was wildin’ like that?”
“Girl, that ho was blackin’ like someone smoked da last rock.”
“Daaaamn. That’s some shit. I think it’s really f*cked up ya’ll can’t get along, though; especially now wit’ ya moms bein’ brain dead.”
“Please, I don’t know what da problem is. The bitch calls here poppin’ a buncha rah-rah talkin’ ’bout I need to get to da hospital to see her sista ’n shit, and the bitch’s dead. How stupid is that? The bitch ain’t ever gonna know I was there, so what’s the f*ckin’ point? Not that I was goin’ up to see ’er ass, any-damn-way. Then they f*ckin’ wastin’ taxpayers’ dollars keepin’ the bitch chained to a tube. Hello, she’s dead! What da f*ck they tryna keep ’er ass alive for?”
“’Cause she’s pregnant, Kat.”
“Say, whaaat?!” My muthaf*ckin’ mouth drops open. I am certain I haven’t heard ’er right. I ask ’er to repeat what she just said. She does. And a bitch feels like she’s ’bout ready to pass the f*ck out!