“Nigga, quit all that hollering. You’re embarrassing yourself—and me.”
To Datwon’s credit, he does attempt to quiet down, but then he starts snotting up.
“Lookie here, cuz. I’m going to be brutally honest with your ass. I don’t think this is the business for you. You sloppy with your shit. Word is you bumping your gums to anybody who’ll stand still long enough, and now you got Momma Peaches on my ass twenty-four/seven. A nigga like me don’t need the extra stress. You feel me?”
Datwon whimpers.
“Now, I’m going to cut your ass a break, and in return I want you to keep your punk ass out of my face. If not … the next bullet"—he places the gun against Datwon’s chest—"is going to hit where it counts. We clear?”
Datwon meets his cousin’s black stare to see what most niggas usually saw: death.
“We clear?” Python presses.
“Clear.” Datwon swallows the knot clogging his throat and damn near chokes to death.
Python nods and stands. “One of y’all niggas take this punk muthafucka to get fixed up. And the rest of y’all get this shit cleaned up. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute, and she’s going to be pissed if she sees blood and shit.”
Niggas get busy as Python dumps his cash into a Hefty bag and then sweeps the shit over his shoulder.
I have to admit I’m turned on, watching my man do his thing. Nobody comes harder or keeps it more real than my thuggish boo. Every nigga up in this joint knows that shit—just as they know that it takes the baddest chick in the 901 to handle his ass. And there’s no doubt about it: I’m that chick with the tightest pussy, the meanest head game, and the quickest trigger finger.
From the moment I’d laid eyes on Python, I wanted to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Real talk there’s something dangerous and sexy as hell about his ugliness. I ain’t the only one. My nigga has five different seeds running around by five different bitches; all of them just as ugly as they daddy.
But none of that shit fazes me. Those little niggas were all on the scene before I claimed the throne as head bitch of the Queen Gs—the female gang that keeps the Disciples, or what most around here called 6 poppin': Sexed up and stress free.
I have only one true responsibility in life: looking out for my sixteen-year-old sister, Ta’Shara. We came up in the foster system. Nobody seems to know shit about what happened to our parents. Guess we’re supposed to believe that we just sprouted out from under a rock or some shit. So for most of our lives, we moved from one home to another, watching people collect checks for taking us in. Shit changed when my booty rounded and my titties sat up. Suddenly I had to endure a few foster daddies and uncles who liked to play with my pussy and stuff my mouth with a different kind of lollipop in the middle of the night.
None of those muthafuckas paid attention to my tears or gave a shit that I’d gone to bed with my asshole bleeding. In fact, no one gave a shit until I saw one of them seriously eyeballing my little sister. I finally took action by slicing up one of those child-molesting muthafuckas while his ass was sleeping. Then suddenly I was the crazy one and had to be locked up in a group home.
For two years, I was separated from my sister. The hardest part was always wondering how Ta’Shara was or what she was doing. Would some doped-up muthafucka put her through the same hell I went through? Those couple of years was when I realized that I had seriously fucked up and had failed my sister.
How could I do my job looking after her from a damn group home?
However, that was where I had gotten my education in street politics. Drugs and boosted loot floated in and out of that group home like it was a fucking flea market. Despite all the heavy shit I could get my hands on, my drug of choice was weed—purple haze, to be exact. That shit made everything better: food, sex—just fucking life.
I first heard about the Queen Gs while lying in bed at that place. This dyke bitch, Sameka, just straight raped this chick Lovey with some metal dildo because she thought the girl jacked one of her chains. Nobody helped the girl because no one liked her big-boned ass. The next day, Sameka found her chain and realized the shit wasn’t missing after all. When someone suggested she apologize to Lovey, Sameka smirked and claimed the bitch enjoyed the shit.
And she must’ve, because to this day, Lovey is still Sameka’s main bitch. But back then, seeing the power that Sameka wielded was mind-blowing to me. Bitches jumped when Sameka said jump, and they jacked who she said needed to be jacked.
The only thing was, I didn’t know how to go about asking to join the Queen Gs. At first, I worried that I would have to let that mean bitch rape or beat my ass. Turned out, I had great reason to worry because that was exactly what happened. Four chicks held me down and took turns beating my ass. Shit. I had to stay in bed for damn near two weeks after that shit, but it was a small price to pay for the kind of world that opened up to me after that.
Next thing I knew, I was flying high, boosting shit from Hickory Ridge Mall for Momma Peaches’s network and jacking cars headed out to the Tunica casinos. It wasn’t great money, but it was enough to make sure I kept decent clothes on my back and something other than chicken in my belly.
When I finally left the group home and was placed with my sister at the Douglases in midtown, I felt like I’d been sent to another planet. The biggest change was in Ta’Shara. She thought she was good and grown and didn’t have to listen to me anymore.
Where I had been hard and jaded, Ta’Shara believed her shit didn’t stink, with her straight As and being a star on the track team. What really hurt was Ta’Shara thinking that I was crazy whenever I tried teaching her slow ass about how to navigate through the politics of the streets.
Ta’Shara just acted like she was above it all, not recognizing that it was my status that kept her safe—not only from the other Queen Gs but also from the Flowers and the Crippettes. But that was cool with me, seeing how my sister might actually have a chance of escaping Memphis’s rat hole and actually making something of herself. If that happened, then maybe—just maybe—it would make some of the bullshit I’ve gone through worth it.
When I was rising up the ranks, I was a good foot solider, but I wanted more and set my sights higher. In order to do that, I needed to do something that would catch the HNIC’s attention. That meant locking down Python, a nigga who got his name for all the damn snakes he has slithering around his house. Python’s kryptonite is pussy—the tighter the better. He especially likes girls who have a different look. Ever since I can remember, people have told me I look like Chilli from TLC. Who knows, maybe I really had Indian in my family.
At sixteen, I got a fake ID so I could strip at Python’s club, the Pink Monkey. From the moment I stepped out on the floor, I made sure I put niggas in a trance: winding my hips and popping my oil-slick booty like my damn life depended on it. But the Benjamins didn’t start raining until I showed that I could swallow a big, long banana whole. That night, Python gave the order to bring me to his office….
I was so excited. At the time, this was nothing more than a power move, if all went right. Of course, there was no guarantee that Python wouldn’t just fuck me and then put me back out in the stable, so somehow I had to make that first meeting memorable.
When I stepped into his office, it was smoky as hell. My weedology degree told me that Python was puffing on some blueberry AK-47. I was high before I even got to the center of the room. Up until that moment, I’d seen Python around the way, but never close enough to actually get a good look at him. But standing there in that room, staring into that face, I knew my life would never be the same.
I must’ve stood there forever while he inspected me in my string thong and white flower pasties. While he looked at me, I kept an eye on the red and silver corn snakes that swirled around his meaty arms and hands.
I knew then what I had to do. None of the girls liked Python’s snakes, and to be honest, I wasn’t too keen about them either. But on that day, I pushed all that bullshit to the bac
k of my head and walked over to his chair unbidden.
“Can I play with your snake?” I asked in a schoolgirl voice that caused the side of his lip to curl. I’d never seen a smile that made someone even uglier, but for some reason the shit turned me on so hard that my pussy started swelling right before his eyes.
Python stretched out one hand and allowed one of his friends to slither up the center of my belly and then up between my breasts.
I smiled and locked gazes with Python, letting him know that I wasn’t scared of a damn thing.
His lips spread wide as if recognizing that he’d finally found his ride-or-die chick. When he licked his fat lips, I saw that the nigga had had his tongue surgically forked to look like that of a snake. I couldn’t wait to feel that shit smacking my clit. No doubt, he knew how to work it.
The corn snake slid up over one shoulder and then looped around my neck. Still, I didn’t flinch. Python stood up, yanked down his baggy jeans, and showed me a cock that was long, veiny, and black as coal—all except the head. The head was more milk chocolate and looked like an overbaked muffin top. As he stared at me, precum started to drip from the tip.
“You got a pretty pussy, “ he said flatly. “But I want some ass. ”
That shit threw a monkey wrench in my plans. I was already wondering how I was going to stuff that fat head into my pussy, but my ass? Suddenly I remembered all those nights when I’d gone to bed crying, bleeding in my panties. I seriously didn’t think I could do it.
But this was a chance of a lifetime. Becoming Python’s girl meant no more menial carjacking and drug-muling shit.
“Whatever you want, Daddy, “ I said, wiggling my ass as if I couldn’t wait for him to split me wide open. And that was just what the fuck he did—rammed into me raw and fucked me with no remorse.
If I’m proud of anything, it was of my ability to not shed a single tear. Instead, I should have won an Oscar for all the panting and moaning I did. Lucky for me, he had a quick nut that night and blasted off all over my back.
“You a good little soldier, Ma,” he praised. But seconds later, I was shown the door.
For six months, I thought I’d ripped my asshole for nothing and went back to playing my position on the poles and doing a little drug-muling on the side until word started circulating that Python had put his latest baby momma, Shariffa, in the hospital because he caught her ass cheating. Nigga she was cheating with was found on the side of the road in a car that had so many bullets holes it looked like black Swiss cheese.
To this day, the Memphis police still had the case open with no leads.
Of course, everybody knew who sent that nigga to the devil’s door. Just like every bitch in the Queen Gs was hyphy for the number-one position even before the ambulance showed up to take Shariffa to the hospital.
I’d hoped and prayed to catch Python’s attention again, but I was never in a position where I could see him, much less be alone with him. But one night after my set at the club, there he was, wanting another go with my ass. Without missing a beat, I turned it up to him and then braced myself for a rough ride.
Python didn’t disappoint. He turned my asshole into a crime scene and then hosed it down with a thick, heavy load. Determined not to have him just roll up on out of there, I washed him down and then gave him a sample of my mean head game and let him know how tight my pussy could grip his meat. I candy-coated that black cock from its head to its balls. The shit was crazy explosive.
I loved it. It was like fucking a dangerous beast that was trying to pound the lining out of my pussy. I fell in love with that muthafucka that night, and I promised myself that I would do anything and everything to become the Head Bitch in Charge—and I succeeded.
That was three years ago.
“C’mon, baby,” Python says, pulling me out of my memories. He hands me the Hefty bag of money and then smacks me on the ass. “Get the molasses outcha ass. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute.”
“Okay, Daddy. Whatever you say.”
From Confessions
Nikki
“It’s ten o’clock and you’re listening to Nikki Truth, the host of the most talked about radio show in the Midwest, Truth Hurts. As my listeners know, I don’t believe in holding your hand. If you want my advice, then you better have the balls to accept the truth … even if it hurts. Caller, you’re on the air.”
“Hi, Ms. Nikki. My name is Kimberly. ”
Obviously, Kimberly had been listening to my show, because everyone knows if I’m not referred to as Ms. Nikki, I have straight attitude. “Hello, Kimberly. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a little bit of a problem. ”
I leaned forward on my seat, ready to hear what crazy drama was about to unfold. “I’m all ears.”
“Well, Ms. Nikki, I’ve been married to my husband for thirteen years, but for the last year our relationship has grown distant. I tried talking to him about it, even suggested maybe we get counseling, but he refused, saying nothing was wrong with our marriage. But I knew something wasn’t right, because we haven’t had sex in four months. ”
“Yep, that would do it. So what did you do?” I asked while adjusting my microphone.
“Well, something told me my husband was messing around.”
“Something like what?”
“Like locking his cell phone, coming home at all hours of the night. ”
“Hmmm, those are definitely some signs.”
“Well, yesterday I waited for him to get off work and followed him to this house. When I knocked on the door, guess who answered?”
“I hope for your sake it was a woman and not a man,” I said with slight laughter, trying to make light of the situation.
“Oh, it was definitely a female. He came up behind her in his underwear. I confronted him. He screamed at me and acted like we’ve been separated for years instead of still living in the same house!”
“Okay, wait a minute. The brotha tried to pretend the two of you weren’t even together?”
“Oh, yeah, and I went off!”
“Good for you, Kimberly.”
“I finally asked him to choose, and he told me on her front porch in holey draws and a dingy wifebeater, he was in love with the other woman. ”
“Ouch! Girlfriend, say it ain’t so.”
Kimberly breathed heavily into the phone. “Yep, I’m afraid it’s true. I was devastated. I got back in my car and drove home. ”
“Daaayum, girl! I wouldn’t wish that kind of drama on anyone. So tell me, what did you do when he got home?”
There was a noticeable pause. “Nothing. ”
“Nothing?” This female was stuck on stupid.
“Ms. Nikki, that’s the problem. I love my husband and I’m willing to do whatever I can to save our marriage. That’s why I called. Because I need someone out there to tell me what I need to do to bring him back to me. ”
I shook my head and glanced through the glass at my producer, Tristan, who was shaking his head as well. There are some women out there who allow a man to get away with just about anything.
“Kimberly, honey, obviously you don’t know anything about respecting yourself, ‘cause if you did, instead of calling me, you would be packing his shit and burning it in the nearest Dumpster. Why in the world would you want a man who obviously doesn’t want you?”
“He’s the father of my kids. ” Don’t you know she had the nerve to sound defensive?
“And that’s supposed to make it right? Men can only get away with what women allow them to. He disrespected and played you in front of another woman. That’s more than enough reason to dump his sorry ass.” Tristan was going to have to do a whole lot of bleeping tonight.
“Hold up, Nikki. I love him, and I don’t appreciate you talking negatively about my husband!”
“Excuse me, but it’s Ms. Nikki to you, and if you love him that much, then why you even call my show? Next caller.” I ended the call. Damn! I hate to say it, but women like her d
eserve what they get.
“Hi, Ms. Nikki. My name is Tasha, and my family thinks I need to leave my man. ”
Oh, Lord, not another. “Why is that?”
“Well… uh … a couple of weeks ago we were at my cousin Boo-Man’s birthday party, and one thing led to another and my man hit me. I know he didn’t mean it, and he swears he won’t do it again. ”
It must be something in the air, because that night everybody was acting cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. “Let me tell you something, Tasha. Any woman who takes a man back after he hits her, all she’s doing is telling him it’s okay to do it again.”
“But he’s going to counseling!”
“Good, he needs to. And what you need to do is find a man who respects you.”
“He can’t help it. His father used to abuse him. ”
“And that makes it right? Girlfriend, you have to respect yourself first before you can expect a man to show you respect.”
“I know, but I’ve prayed on it and God wants me to take him back. I’m certain of it. ”
“Nooo, the Lord helps those who help themselves. If you go back to a man that hits you, that means you don’t feel worthy of a man who won’t.”
“I believe everyone deserves a chance to change!”
What was up with these defensive women? “True, but are you willing to risk your life on it? What if he really hurts you next time?”
“That ain’t gonna happen, I’m certain of this. He’s been trying real hard to work on our relationship. In fact, last week he asked me to marry him and I accepted. So there’s no way I’m letting my family or anyone else stand in the way. I just wanted to go on the air and say that, ‘cause I know my cousins Alizé and Lingerie listen to yo show. ”
“If you’re adamant about staying with him, then all I can do is wish you the best of luck. In the meantime, do me a favor … take some boxing classes.” I ended the call, and the phone lines lit up with callers anxious to put in their two cents. “This is Nikki and you’re on the air.”
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