Big Juicy Lips

by Allison Hobbs

  “The next time? I’m never going back to prison. Are you trying to jinx me or something?” Weary, Misty raked her fingers through her hair. “Are you finished, Mom?”

  “No, I’m not finished.” Her mother began to wag the finger that was already pointed at her daughter. “Let me tell you something, little lady…if you get knocked up by that scuggly, ugly bear, you better march your tail right to one of those abortion clinics because there ain’t a chance in hell that I’m gonna associate myself with a grandchild that’s guaranteed to be butt-ugly and retarded. I’d bet good money that Brick can’t father nothing but a slew of artistic kids.”

  “What?” Misty scowled in bafflement.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Those artistic kids who won’t talk or smile or nothing; they just sit around screaming their heads off if their parents touch ’em or try to show ’em any type of affection.”

  “You mean autistic,” Misty corrected.

  “Artistic!” Thomasina insisted. “I saw ’em on a daytime talk show. Those artistic kids can paint and draw; some of ’em can play the hell out of musical instruments—without ever taking a lesson. Trouble is—they don’t know when to stop. Them kind of kids can paint and play music for hours on end, if you let ’em. One parent tried to take the paint brush out of her child’s hand and the little girl starting screaming like somebody had set her on fire. Now, is that the kind of child you want to bring into this world? Because as sure as my name is Thomasina Bernard, I can guarantee you that any child fathered by Brick is gonna be pitiful looking and it ain’t gonna be right in the head.” Thomasina tapped her temple for emphasis. “So, I’m letting you know in advance, I’m not babysitting. Don’t bring your artistic child over here.”

  “Rest your mind, Mom. I’m not built to deal with crumb snatchers.”

  “You don’t ever want to have kids? Not even by a good-looking man?” Thomasina’s eyes widened as if Misty’s admission was unholy. “It’s only natural for a woman to want to have at least one child.”

  “Well, I don’t.” She smiled at her mother. “Let me help you with those bags,” she offered, looking over at the bags sitting on the pavement. Her assistance, however, wasn’t an act of goodwill. She desperately wanted her mother to shut up and get out of her whip. Her coochie was throbbing for Shane Batista-type dick.

  CHAPTER 4

  Aggravation formed in tiny lines across Misty’s forehead. Her mother had really worked her nerves. Misty pressed down hard on the gas pedal, fleeing the vicinity of her mother’s house. Stressful times like this required a shopping spree or a good fuck. Or both.

  She glanced at the time. Too late for shopping; local malls closed at seven. She zoomed down Girard Avenue and made a sharp right onto Parkside Avenue. She zipped past Microsoft’s School of the Future with such speed that the ultramodern building became a quick blur. A minute later, she ran a red light and crossed the intersection at Fifty-Second and Parkside Avenue.

  Her ring tone blared. Acting like a straight nut, Brick had been making back-to-back calls. She turned off her cell and tossed it inside her purse. Winding the bend on Parkside Avenue, she slowed when she noticed a large crowd and a festive atmosphere outside a city recreation center. The area bustled with activity. It looked like two or three hundred people—men, women, kids—spectators at a late-night, outdoor basketball game.

  This special tournament was hosted by the son of an old school baller, some dude who used to play for the Philadelphia 76ers, long before Misty was born. Rumor had it that the son of the old baller had plenty of cheddar and a special affection for Philly. He ran basketball tournaments to show love for the hood rats who weren’t getting no brotherly love from the grimy niggas who ran the city—not the black mayor, black congressmen, black city council members, black police commissioner—nobody—none of them niggas gave a shit about anything except getting elected and upgrading their own lifestyles.

  From her tinted window, Misty surveyed the situation. On the parameter of the brightly lit basketball court, there was an ice cream truck, bootleg DVD vendors, dudes selling Philly pretzels, young bucks hustling sodas, spring water, Vitamin Water, and cans of brew chilled on ice and stored inside a bright red cooler on wheels. In the midst of the sea of oversized white T-shirts, niggas were hustling an assortment of pharmaceuticals—anything and everything from pills to heroin.

  Personally, Misty didn’t get down with anything stronger than weed. There’d been a weed drought in Philly lately and the price of the good grade of green stuff was crazy expensive. She did most of her business with a white dude—a college geek. Her connect went to Temple University. The geek had his hustle poppin’. He handled high-grade bud, made deliveries, and his shit came packaged with jokes printed on a label that was sealed on the outside of the cellophane wrapper. The jokes were corny, but they got funny after Misty was sufficiently blunted-up and surrounded by a smoky cloud of the mind-altering drug.

  But tonight, after dealing with her mother, she needed some quick, anonymous sex and some weed to help calm her down. No way she could drive all the way to the Northeast to pick up Brick—not the way she was feenin’ to get high and get fucked.

  She assessed the situation and could tell that these grimy niggas weren’t about nothing. The weed and available dick were most likely low-grade.

  Misty scanned the crowd. Niggas were out thick. Cars, trucks, scooters, motorcycles, and dirt bikes were everywhere—no-where to park. Damn! Feeling more agitated by the minute, she drove around in circles, searching for a parking spot. Irritated, she swerved down a sidestreet and parked crookedly in front of a fire hydrant. Fuck it!

  Petite and slim and possessing soft features, Misty looked younger than her years. Niggas who didn’t know her, always played themselves, thinking she was young and dumb, an easy target—a vulnerable mark. Sheeet, better think again, mufuckas!

  She pranced across the street, wearing the hell out a tight, denim skirt with ruffles around the bottom and a pink logo Juicy Couture T-shirt that had just hit the stores. Throwing her tiny hips with a vengeance, and holding her face set in a don’t-fuck-with-me scowl, Misty stood on the outer circumference of the crowd.

  In a matter of seconds, she was surrounded by three young dudes, who looked to be around seventeen…eighteen…nineteen years old at the most. None of the three had been in the game long; she could tell by the look of uncertainty in their eyes. At the end of the night, the three inexperienced foot soldiers would split a meager profit, three ways. Dumb assholes!

  “Yo, Ma. What’s good? My name is Cash Money; you can call me C. Whatchu need?” he asked, gesturing with his hands.

  Cash Money was an ashy-looking dude, attempting to appear grown, as he drank from a can of brew covered by a brown paper bag.

  Misty disliked him on sight. He needed to rub some shea butter on his mug, his arms, and his ashy elbows. His wrinkled T-shirt was a dingy shade of gray. She felt such disdain for him, she refused to insult her sensitive eyes by shifting her focus to his feet. Against her better judgment, her eyes traveled down to his feet. She sucked her teeth at his trifling sneakers, badly worn down and tilted on a hazardous lean. Misty turned her nose up at Cash Money. “Yo, Ashy Cashy…I don’t want nothing you selling!”

  “Ashy Cashy!” the other two dope boys repeated, unable to stifle their laughter.

  Cash Money gave a shaky laugh, and then looked at his partners. “What I do?” he asked. His arms were outstretched, his facial expression confused and offended.

  “You’re too grungy-looking for me to deal with,” Misty informed him, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Look at your dingy shirt,” Misty said with contempt. “You can buy a bundle of those jawns from the Muslim store for twenty dollars or less. I came through to cop some weed, but if you can’t keep your gear up no better than you doing, then you must be slinging garbage.”

  “Dayum, shawty—chill. Don’t hurt ’im,” a tall, lanky teen said. His limber body bucked and dipped by strong rip
ples of laughter that he couldn’t hold. “You comin’ straight at Troy’s neck.”

  “I can’t believe she called Troy, Ashy Cashy,” the third member of the trio added.

  “Don’t be throwing no slurs at me; I don’t hustle in my good clothes,” C-Money explained. The lack of fire in his tone told Misty he was soft. She sneered at him until he backed up, eyeing Misty warily as if she were an unpredictable pit bull that might get a sudden urge to take a bite out of one of his ashy arms.

  “Yo, shawty, go easy on my man. Troy’s aiight; he ain’t been in the game that long. But fuck all that; I gotchu. Whatchu want—a nic—a dime?”

  Licking his wounds, Troy faded farther into the background until he blended in with the masses. The third dude, whose name Misty wasn’t interested in knowing, was muscular with a medium build. Definitely not her type, so she ignored him and gave the lanky, handsome, young hustler her undivided attention.

  “What’s your name?” Misty asked the cute teenager.

  “Monroe.” He appraised her; interest gleamed in his eyes.

  He was a lighter complexion than Shane, but had his height and build. His face was boyish and cute. He didn’t have Shane’s angular features, his smug attitude, or his dangerous good looks. But, he would have to do. “Let me holla at you in private, Monroe.” She turned her back toward muscle boy, indicating that his presence was no longer necessary. But muscle boy stayed posted-up with his bulky arms folded, as if Misty might change her mind and give him some business.

  “You wanna get high with me and get in a quick fuck?” Misty posed the question nonchalantly.

  Monroe held a straight face. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  Misty looked the young buck up and down. His baggy pants hid the size of his jewels, but she sensed by the way he was standing that he knew how to work his back.

  Ever since Shane kicked it, Misty had been searching for a replacement. Shane was special and so far, no one had measured up.

  Before he lost his damn mind, Shane was her man. He willingly shared her with Brick because he was smooth like that. Brick was leasing the pussy, Shane owned it all: pussy, mouth, titties. And when asked for access to her asshole, she gave up the booty—in the name of love.

  Shane used a ton of lubricant, but his inserted hardness hurt like hell. Pain soon turned to pleasure and she began to enjoy it. She had fantasized about having Shane’s long, thick dick up her ass while Brick dug out her pussy with his giant dick.

  But that fantasy was never realized.

  CHAPTER 5

  Leaving Muscle Boy and Ashy Cashy behind, Monroe followed Misty across the street. Unhurriedly, Monroe dragged his feet, fronting as if it were an everyday event to be picked up and offered a quick fuck by a fly-ass dimepiece like Misty.

  “That’s my whip over there.” Misty pointed to the small street where her X5 was parked—zigzagged, with two big tires cranked up on the curb and two down on the asphalt street.

  Monroe checked out her truck. His mouth relaxed into an easy smile and then stretched into an ear-to-ear grin.

  “Yo, this jawn is tight! That was you behind the wheel?” he exclaimed, awestruck. “Me and my boys saw you spin by the court a couple of times. Couldn’t see through the tinted windows. We thought the whip was piled up with a bunch of out-of-town niggas, coming through, trying to cut into our business. I had my hand on my heat, ready to spray the windshield with slugs.” He laughed.

  “Yeah, that’s my whip.” Her voice held a matter-of-fact tone, but inside she was beaming with pride. “I was driving in circles, trying to find a place to park.” She was quiet for a moment. “Yo, there woulda been some serious consequences if one y’all corny niggas shot at me. Shit, all of y’all would be getting bagged up right now, if you woulda put as much as a scratch on my whip.”

  “You talkin’ real gangsta to be such a tiny lil’ chick.”

  “Don’t let my looks fool you.” She noticed his crew of two, craning their necks, trying to see what she was wheeling. “Too many nosey people around; let’s take a ride.” Smirking, she dangled her BMW keychain.

  “We can stay here. It’s cool. Can’t nobody see through the tinted windows.” Monroe looked over his shoulder, obviously hesitant about putting too much distance between him and his comrades.

  Misty ignored him and got inside her truck. Monroe looked over his shoulder, gave the basketball court a lingering look and then got in the passenger seat. Misty reached inside her Juicy Couture bag, took out a bundle. She laughed to herself, as she observed Monroe trying to keep a straight face when he knew he was lusting for some of her paper. “I hope you realize your two boys over there are feelin’ some kind of way for being left out. They’re feeling jealous enough to turn snitch over a couple bags of weed,” she said as she peeled a bill off the top of the stack.

  “Naw, they straight; it ain’t even that type of party.” Monroe darted an eye at the one-hundred-dollar bill. She handed him the money. “Give me five dimes.”

  “Uh…” He motioned as if he were about to check his pockets, but dismissed the notion. “I don’t have change for that,” he admitted, embarrassed. “You got anything smaller?”

  Sighing, Misty replaced the bill on top of the pile, and then fanned out the money. She located a fifty, passed it to Monroe. She turned the key, revved the engine.

  “Aiight, shawty; I’m riding with you. It’s your world,” Monroe happily conceded.

  “You got that shit right.” She pressed on the gas pedal. “Roll the blunt while I look for a secluded spot.”

  “Stop being so bossy!” Monroe tried to frown as he split open the cigar, but feeling pleased with his present circumstances and plush surroundings, his pleasant expression remained in place. He adjusted his seat, reclining it to a position that comfortably accommodated his long legs.

  Misty drove a few blocks and then pulled into a deserted street. “You legal?” she asked Monroe, arching her brow.

  He scowled and nodded. Insulted, his lips scrunched together as he fired up the blunt.

  “You got ID?”

  Monroe’s scowl deepened. “Who you—5-0 or somebody?”

  “I’m not trying to be on Action News for molesting a minor.”

  “You shoulda thought about that before you picked my young ass up.” He pulled hard on the blunt. “How old is you?”

  “I’m old enough to push this whip.” Misty held up her arm in a way that displayed her newly purchased tennis bracelet. “I got five gees draped around my wrist,” she boasted. “What else do you wanna know about me?”

  “Um…” Monroe paused, looked up, stroking the fine hairs on his chin. “Um…will you marry me?” Both Monroe and Misty burst into laughter. The high was starting to kick in.

  “Yeah, we can work something out…” Misty nodded. “When you start ballin’ hard enough to put a giant rock on my finger, then we can talk marriage.”

  Monroe passed the blunt to Misty. “You must think you talkin’ to a sucka. I’m the man, shawty,” he bragged. “My game is professional. My crew is up in these streets, slinging packs, twenty-four seven. I’m runnin’ blocks.”

  “You got a crew?” Misty asked. Her lungs filled with smoke, her voice sounded croaky. She slowly released a cloud of smoke. “Who? Ashy Cashy and Muscle Boy?” Misty laughed sarcastically. “Aw, shit. I’m impressed,” she teased. “Nigga, you broke and you know it,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “You ready to hit it?”

  “What?”

  She tugged up her skirt, revealing a yellow lacey thong. “Backseat or outside—up against that big-ass tree,” she said, pointing.

  “Outside! You trying to get us both arrested for indecent exposure?”

  “I thought you said you was all gangsta and shit.”

  “In training,” he admitted with laughter. “I might need some schoolin.’ For real, though…how old are you? ’Bout twenty-three…twenty-four?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Monroe nodded. “I though
t you were about my age, but I should have known by the way you carry yourself, that you were an older woman.”

  Misty yanked her skirt back down. “You make it sound like I’m pushing thirty or something. You must be underage. Show me some damn ID, or you can walk your ass back to the court.”

  Smiling embarrassingly, Monroe dug in his pocket and pulled out a Pennsylvania State ID. Misty switched on the interior lights. “Oh, aiight, nineteen—you’re legal.” Satisfied, she slid into the backseat, fumbled around in one of the rear seat compartments. “Can you fit a Magnum or do you need something smaller?” she asked, after locating a condom.

  “A Magnum? Oh, for sure. I can work with that.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t right now. You playin’ twenty questions; made my jawn go down.”

  Misty hitched up her skirt again and pulled her thong to the side. “Kiss my coochie. I guarantee you’ll get a nice hard-on.” Monroe placed a quick peck on Misty’s vagina.

  “Nigga, use some tongue. Make it wet, so you can get up in it.”

  Monroe timidly flicked his tongue against Misty’s pussy.

  Misty sucked her teeth. “Aiight, you starting to get on my nerves.” She pushed his head away.

  “Yo, I’m not into that. I ain’t come out here to grub on no pussy, y’ah mean?”

  “After you get me in the mood, I’ll do you,” Misty cooed.

  “Oh, word?”

  She nodded. “I know you’re inexperienced…”