CHAPTER ONE
Fly, exotic bitch wit’ the long lashes and slanted eyes…smooth, buttery thighs…fat ass…soft lips…got niggas ’n they bitches tryna get up in these hips…got ’em turnin’ tricks…beggin’ to lick the *…while I’m ridin’ down on a nigga’s dick…got muhf*ckas lined up to get glazed wit’ my cream…niggas tossin’ ’n turnin’…can’t get me outta they dreams…
’Scuse me, bitches! Can I have ya attention, please? In case some of you hatin’-ass Tricks and Hoes forgot who I am, let me reintroduce myself. I’m that cinnamon-colored beauty with that sexy swagger and straight-up bangin’ body that keeps the bitches rollin’ they eyes—and niggas recklessly eyeballin’ me, undressin’ and tryna mentally f*ck me. I’m that chick rockin’ all the fly wears and pushin’ the hot-ass whip that all the other bitches wanna be like. I’m the chick bitches still wanna hate, but love to grin up in her face, always wantin’ to be up in her space ’cause I’m e’erything they’ll never be. Rich, fly and muthaf*ckin’ F-I-N-E! Not braggin’; just keepin’ shit real. Bitch, whaaaat?
Call me shallow, call me superficial; call me whatever the f*ck floats ya boat, but know this: You’ll never call a bitch broke, busted, or beat down. So keep hatin’. Keep poppin’ shit. Keep pickin’ ya face up. ’Cause a bitch like me feeds you dust. So, poof!
Annnnnnnywho, for my bitches and niggahs who I f*cks wit’, I was on hiatus for a hot minute. I had’a step outta the game to get my mind right. ’Cause on some real shit, after how shit went down in Atlantic City, it had a bitch’s dome all jacked. Oh, trust. I heard how some’a them corny-ass broads were tryna come at my neck for puttin’ a bullet in Grant’s bucket. Predictable, they say? Uh, what the f*ck them birds thought I was gonna do? Let the nigga walk after he done popped up in the room and saw I done bodied his fam? Bitch, puhleeze. You must be smokin’ that shit if you thought I was gonna let that nigga get a free pass. Yeah, he had that bomb-ass dick. And yeah, the nigga’s head game was sick. He knew how’ta tongue-f*ck this p-ssy ’til a bitch shook. But, f*ck what ya heard. Good dick, slammin’ tongue, or not. My number one rule is: No witnesses, no evidence. Period! So say what the hell you want. I’ma paid bitch, not a dumb one.
Still, I’ma keep it raw wit’cha. For a hot minute, my soul ached. It ripped a bitch’s heart to have’ta lay that fine, sexy nigga down. And yeah…I dropped a few tears. But there was no other option. Well, none that was gonna work for me. Prison, not! Him puttin’ lead in me, not! Me stressin’, wonderin’ if the nigga’s gonna be on some revenge-type shit, not! So, he had’a go. And for a bitch like me, it was for the best.
Like I told ya’ll from the dip, I f*cked for sport. But I murdered for business. Yes, you heard me. I said f*cked and murdered as in past tense. Well, for now, that is. It’s been almost two years since a bitch rode down on sum dick, then took the nigga’s head off. Shit, a bitch ain’t had no dick since…neva mind. I ain’t in the mood to get into it right now.
My cell rings. I grab it off the nightstand, peepin’ the digits.
“Bitch,” Chanel snaps in my ear the minute I answer. “What took ya ass so long to answer?”
“Slut,” I snap back, “the last time I checked I wasn’t suckin’ ya *, so pump ya raggedy brakes ’fore you get ya fronts knocked.”
She laughs. “Trick, puhleeze. Ya ass ’posed to pick up on da first ring. You know what it is, boo. Don’t have ma-ma spank that ass.” She laughs harder. Oh, I see this ho is in rare form this mornin’, I think as I try ’n hold back a yawn.
“Yeah, I know you better fall back wit’ all that boo ’n ma-ma shit. I done warned ya ass ’bout that lesbo shit. It’s too early in the f*ckin’ mornin’ for that *-lickin’ bullshit.”
She continues laughin’. This bitch is my girl ’n all, but I swear sometimes she be on some real extra shit. Not that I give a f*ck if she’s poppin’ tits ’n *s in her mouth, ’cause she’s gonna be my girl, regardless. But a bitch like me is only takin’ a dick that’s attached to a real nigga in the back of her throat and deep in her fat p-ssy. “Hahaha, hell, bitch. I can’t stand nuthin’ yo’ cum-guzzlin’ ass stand for.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, crackin’ up. “That’s what ya mouth says.”
“Whaaat eva. Why the f*ck is you callin’ me, tramp?”
“F*ck all that you talkin’,” she says, chucklin’. “Oh, before I forget, guess who I ran into the other night and was askin’ ’bout you?”
“Who?”
“Patrice. And as usual ya aunt was dipped in some ill shit.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, I’ll give it to her ass, though. The ho definitely knows how’ta throw it on. But, she still ain’t as bad as me. And she damn sure ain’t servin’ me. I bet her ass is still livin’ up in da projects wit’ Nana, triflin’ bitch! “Mmmph, where you see that roach at?” She tells me she ran into her at the Ledisi concert at BB King Blues Club and Grill in Times Square. “Well, I don’t know why the f*ck she was tryna check for me.”
“She wanted to know what you were up to, then started talkin’ ’bout how you done got all brand-new on e’eryone, changin’ ya numbers ’n shit.”
“Yup, f*ck all’a them hoes. And I hope you didn’t tell that bitch shit, either.”
“Oh, she was tryna fish me, but trust…you already know. I got you. I kept it real cute.”
“Good. They all dead to me.”
“I hear you, girl. But, damn…that’s kinda harsh.”
“Harsh my ass. It is what it is.”
“Kat, you know I usually keep my mouth shut, but this craziness between ya’ll has been goin’ on for too long. That’s still ya family, girl. Don’t you think it’s time ya’ll try ’n peace shit up?”
“Yeah, when that bitch’s in a box and I spit on her grave. Then it’s peace. Until then, that bitch is invisible to me.”
“Well, alrighty then. Movin’ right along. The reeeeal reason I was callin’ ya ass is to find out when you bringin’ ya dusty-ass back to the East Coast. There’s this bangin’-ass party comin’ up the end of next month and you need to have ya ass here for it.”
“Umm, Sweetie, you know I ain’t beat to be ’round a buncha played-out, dick-thirsty Wal-mart bitches.”
“Trick, don’t clown me. You know I wouldn’t be callin’ ya ass for no low-budget showdowns. This is all top-of-da-line dick and dollas, boo.”
“Hmmph. Who’s givin’ it?” I ask, tryna decide if I wanna blaze. I glance at the clock. 8:45 A.M. I get outta bed and walk over to my armoire and open it. I pull out a bag of purple haze. Open it, then take a deep whiff, closin’ my eyes. Yeah, this that good shit right here, but I ain’t feelin’ it. I reseal the bag, then toss it back in the drawer, pullin’ out the chocolate thai. Yeah, this is what’a bitch needs to jumpstart the mornin’.
“Remember that baller nigga Thug Gee from Newark who gave that party at Studio 9 before the shit shut down?”
“Yeah,” I state, pullin’ out my Dutches. I lay my stash and cigars on the nightstand, then go into the bathroom. I sit on the toilet. How could I ever forget that party? That’s the night I met Grant. The night I dropped down low, popped my hips, and pressed my juicy ass up against his cock and grinded into him ’til his shit bricked up. The night I knew I’d end up f*ckin’ him. It’s the same night e’ery bitch on the floor wished they coulda been me.
“Well, he’s throwin’ another one in Manhattan at Eden….” Mmmph. She’s talkin’ ’bout that spot over on Eight Ave between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It used to be the China Club back in the day. Anyway, it has a lil’ rooftop area for peeps to sit ’n chill and get they drink on wit’out all that loud music beatin’ ’em in the head when they tired of bein’ hemmed up inside. And the music’s real cute. But from what I remember, the two times I went there, the drinks weren’t hittin’ on shit and they had more bitches than niggas up in there. And most of ’em wasn’t even dimes. And the few that did look like sumthin’, they weren’t no high-end bitches. And the truth is, I ain’t have no business up in there wit’ ’em.
“If I decide to come through, you need to make sure ya ass gotta back-up plan for us in case that shit is busted.”
“Oh, trust. Word has it’s gonna be fiiiyah. You know that nigga only rolls wit’ them balla niggas.”
I roll my eyes, wipin’ my snatch, then flushin’ the toilet. This thirsty bitch stays tryna find her next trick. “Umm, what’s good wit’ Divine?” I ask sarcastically, checkin’ to see if the nigga’s still dickin’ her. I’m at the sink washin’ my hands, admirin’ my reflection in the mirror. Hmmph, even wit’ ya hair tossed all over ya head, and sleep in ya eyes, you still a hot, buttery bitch!
She sucks her teeth. “He’s just dandy. Thank you very much.”
I step back into my bedroom, sittin’ on the side of the bed while I split open a Dutch and pack it wit’ my mornin’ get right. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always liked that nigga. Is he still rabbit-f*ckin’ you, or has his stroke game improved?”
Now, typically askin’ a bitch ’bout her man’s dick game is a no-no, but since she’s always put it out there in the past that his dick game was mad whack; that he be f*ckin’ her mad fast and whatnot, then nuttin’ off in minutes—then it’s a fair question.
“OhmyGod, I can’t believe I told you that, and you remembered. Girl, he finally got that shit together. Took him two years to learn how’ta slow it down and not be so damn eager to nut. I mean, damn. I know I got that bomb p-ssy, but still.”
I suck my teeth. “Ho, please. Ain’t nobody tryna hear ’bout how ill ya snatch work is. I asked you ’bout Divine handlin’ his. I’m glad he finally got that situation together, though. I’d hate for him to get f*cked over ’cause he ain’t f*ckin’ you right, even though the nigga’s been damn good to you.”
“Sweetie, don’t think I don’t know what you doin’. F*ck you.”
I laugh, tightly rollin’ my blunt. I spark it, takin’ a toke. “Ho, I got nuthin’ but love for ya silly ass. But that nigga Divine needs to straight dip on ya ass ’cause you ain’t ever gonna ’preciate what you got.”
“Bitch, how you sound? That shit ain’t true. I know what I got.”
“Oh, really? And what’s that?”
“I gotta nigga in my bed,” she snapped, servin’ me up a dish of ’tude. “What’a ’bout you?”
I ig the ’tude and keep pressin’. “Ho, yeah, you might gotta nigga. But ya ass is still scrapin’ the barrel tryna find ya next catch. I’m paid, bitch. I don’t need a nigga. And a bitch ain’t trickin’ no niggas to make shit pop. That’s what about me.”
“Bitch, what-da-f*ck-eva. You still need some dick in ya life.”
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 f*ck they have. Always lookin’ to chase down the next nigga wit’ the biggest dick, or thickest knot. I don’t know how the f*ck that nigga don’t know what time it is wit’ her ass. Mmmph. A hot, f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ wit’ Divine’s ass for two years and ridin’ down on a few other niggas’ dicks whenever she feels like gettin’ her creep on, and his ass ain’t peeped it yet. Either she done f*cked him blind or the nigga just don’t give a f*ck ’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 muhf*cka who’d give her anything she wants, but she’d rather be out tryna trick another muhf*cka 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 f*ck?! 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 f*ckin’ ’n suckin’ for peanuts! Shit, she might as well f*cked the nigga for free if you ask me. ’Cause six hunnid ain’t shit, especially when you f*ckin’ over a muhf*cka 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 p-ssy was when she f*cked 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 f*ckin’ serious? Let me get this shit straight. You mean to tell me you tryna f*ck up ya situation by f*ckin’ ’round wit’ a muhf*cka for some bullshit-ass gadget? Some shit Divine woulda bought ya ass.”
“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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ck you up myself.”
She sucks her teeth. “Kat, lick my ass. Ain’t nobody on mute nuthin’. I was doin’ sumthin’.”
I take another pull off’a my blunt. “Oh, aiight. ’Cause I was about to say.”
“Puhleeze. The only thing you need to be sayin’ is when you gettin’ here so we can shut shit down. I ain’t got all day to be f*ckin’ wit’ ya snotty ass.”
“Trick, I just saw ya ugly ass two months ago when you came out here. I ain’t f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ up my high. You know a bitch don’t like to make plans ’til after I done sparked a fatty.”
“Ooooh, save me some.”
“Bitch, take ya fiend ass somewhere and go suck a dick.”
“F*ck you, wit’ ya monkey ass.”
I choke on weed smoke. “Ho, drink bleach. You smell like you been lickin’ the back of a garbage truck.” We bust out laughin’, poppin’ mad shit back ’n forth ’til we finally hang up. I walk over to the glass doors and open them, walkin’ out onto the balcony. I take in the bangin’-ass view of Mt. Tam and the San Francisco Bay. Breathe in the crisp air. Not bad for a bitch from da hood, I thought, takin’ two deep pulls off’a my blunt. Never in a million years would I think I would be someplace like here. Quiet. No drama. No stress. No bullshit-ass niggas and family. I could get used to this. But, Chanel’s right. I miss the East Coast. I miss the hustle ’n bustle of the city. I miss the swagger of the streets. I miss home. I take two last tokes of my blunt, tap out what’s left, then toss it over the railin’.
For some reason, talkin’ to Chanel’s ass got me thinkin’ ’bout summertime in New York. How that shit be live ’n poppin’ wit’ mad niggas and bitches gettin’ they shine on, flossin’ and flexin’; stereos blastin’ the hot beats; muhf*ckas gettin’ they smoke on; hoes stuntin’ on da dick; young cats poppin’ off, bringin’ heat to the streets. Whew, a bitch’s p-ssy is startin’ to overheat just thinkin’ ’bout it. Yeah, Cali is cute. This quietness and scenery is real special. But it’s time for a bitch to step back on the East Coast scene ’n shake shit up a bit.
I walk back into the master bedroom, pullin’ off my wife beater, then removin’ my panties. I lift open my Louis trunk, searchin’ for the perfect toy to take the edge off. Sumthin’ that’s gonna stretch this p-ssy out. Sumthin’ aggressive; sumthin’ raw. I pull out the Slugger—a ten-inch, thick, jet-black dildo. Oh, yes, I’ma ride the shit outta you, I think, pullin’ out its harness. I walk over to my closet and drag out my stool, strap the harness over the seat, then attach Slugger. I position the stool in front of the wall mirror. I wanna watch myself gettin’ off. A bitch don’t even need any Wet ’cause my juicy p-ssy is already leakin’ wit’ anticipation. I’ma ride this shit like I’m ridin’ the streets of New York, fast ’n furious and full of power. I hit the remote for the stereo.
As soon as Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” comes on, I climb up on top of the stool, lower my hips down onto the head of my rubber companion, then slather Slugger wit’ all of my creamy juices. I match my rhythm to the beat of the music. Imagine I’m on the top floor of the Empire State Buildin’ f*ckin’ a nigga named New York. A nigga whose as mean and as gritty and grimy, and as rough as its streets. “…These streets will make you feel brand new…the lights will inspire you…let’s here it for New York, New York, New York…”
“Oooooh, yes, New York…f*ck me…aaaah…mmmm…beat this p-ssy up, nigga…” I buck my hips, slam my hips down onto Slugger; take it balls deep, rock back ’n forth. Scream out, “Newwwwwww York!” Then, just as I’m nuttin’, a bitch falls off’a the muthaf*ckin’ stool, bangin’ her dome. I bust out laughin’ as my juices spurt outta me. “Bitch, you done bust ya ass tryna get that nut. What’a mess.”
I get up, wipe the cream runnin’ down the inside of my thighs wit’ my hand, then lick my fingas. p-ssy cream this damn good should be bottled and sold on the streets, I think, climbin’ my ass back into bed. I pull the goose comforter up over me, closin’ my eyes wit’ thoughts of New York, where paper is made and bitches are paid. The big city of delicious dick and muthaf*ckin’ sweet dreams.