by Rochelle Alers, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Brenda L. Thomas; Crystal Lacey Winslow
“Nicoli, you look fly, girl,” Stacy remarked.
“Damn sure do,” Joy cosigned.
As everyone bestowed compliments upon me, I strutted around the room, luxuriating in their praise, stopping only momentarily to assess what the others were wearing.
“Joy, I know you’re not walking outside with those coochie-cuttin’ shorts on,” I scolded. Joy had on a wife-beater T-shirt, a pair of Jean Paul Gaultier shorts cut dangerously high with her butt cheeks slightly hanging out, a navel ring, and six-inch Prada sandals. She looked a little too sexy for my approval.
“What’s wrong with my shorts?” she asked.
“They make you look cheap,” I lied. “It’s the wrong look for tonight.”
Joy scrunched up her face in bewilderment. “What y’all think?” she asked Stacy and Fertashia.
“I think you look sexy,” Stacy said.
“Me too,” Fertashia chimed in.
“You chicks don’t know shit. There’s a difference between looking sexy and looking sluttish. We’re going around an elite bunch of niggas. They not gonna wanna get wit her if they thinkanybody can get wit her,” I said.
“You hatin’ right now, Nicoli. I can feel that shit,” Joy challenged.
“Yeah, okay,” I said nonchalantly. I knew she’d never leave the house with those shorts on. She walked over to my mirror and stared at her reflection.
“Nicoli may be right,” Stacy said. “Maybe they are a little too revealing for today.”
“Yup, Joy. Now that I look at you closely, you look like a tramp,” Fertashia joked.
“Fuck y’all,” Joy said and started pulling off her shorts. “So what am I gonna wear now? Nicoli, I need to borrow something from your closet.”
“No the fuck you don’t,” I said.
“You’re a cheap bitch,” Joy retorted.
Stacy came to her rescue and let her borrow a miniskirt. Soon we were all dressed and ready to go. I thought briefly about commenting on what Stacy and Fertashia were wearing, but then I remembered that they weren’t keeping their clothes. Both of them had gone to Bloomingdale’s and purchased outfits that they would be taking back tomorrow, even down to their shoes. They taped the bottom of their shoes so as to not scuff them up too much. I thought this was rather petty. I mean, they fuck just as much as Joy and me, so why don’t they ever ask these guys for any money so they can keep the clothes?
I was wearing the latest Jimmy Choo sandals because I asked Corey, one of my beats, for the money. I call all the guys I date beats. I don’t know why…just because. I asked Corey to give me $2,500 for college tuition. He wound up giving me $1,800. That was cool, because I’m not enrolling in college anyway, and I was really only looking to get $1,000 from him. I learned a long time ago that you always ask men for more money than you actually need. The rule is, they never give you what you ask for. Don’t ask me why, but it’s true. Maybe that’s part of Murphy’s law.
Chapter 2
We stepped out into the hot summer sun in style. On the block, kids were jumping double-dutch, playing touch football in the street and running behind ice-cream trucks. Meanwhile, the adults were riding motorcycles, getting their cars washed, and looking to get a number from a potential fuck. Yeah, it was summertime, and I loved it.
Joy had a really nice Honda Accord that one of her “beats” had purchased for her. It wasn’t new, but it looked new. And, most importantly, it got us around. It was black with those Spreewell chrome rims that keep on spinning.
We piled in and put on the new 50 Cent CD and sang along to track number fourteen.“Girl…you seem to love me now…if I were down…and out…would you still have love for me?” That song was so hot, but the message was somewhat stupid. Why would a girl want a guy if he were down and out? But 50 was fine nevertheless. I made a promise to myself that the first time I saw him, we’d be fucking. And he better not try and front like he don’t want this because when I walk in a room, I have men captivated. They get lost in my blue eyes and it’s a wrap.
As we drove down the Long Island Expressway, I realized just how far the Hamptons were from Brooklyn and got annoyed. We all live in Bedford-Stuyvesant. The neighborhood is coming up now. It’s alleged that the brownstones are being purchased by Jewish people, who in turn are pushing out all the black people. Don’t get me wrong, neighborhood revitalization is a good thing, but why can’t our own community ever bring something up and turn it good?
As we approached the Hamptons, everyone got excited. They started reapplying lip gloss and checking their hair in their mirrors. I remained cool, although, I must admit, I was a little eager to see who was there.
Joy pulled her Honda in front of an exquisite mansion. It had huge columns, manicured lawns, and a waterfall in the back. All our mouths fell open. The property was so large—it looked the same size as Brooklyn.
A valet attendant took our car and parked it for us. When he lingered around for a few seconds, Joy said, “What da fuck you lookin’ at?”
I immediately interceded and pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to him. He graciously said, “Thank you,” and left. That chick has no class. I just shook my head in disapproval.
“Oh, dip. I was buggin’, yo,” she retorted.
“Aren’t you always,” I replied.
The DJ was bumping Joe Budden while mixing it down with 50 Cent. I wondered if 50 would be here.
We were led to a motorized golf cart, where we all piled in and were driven by a chauffeur to the BBQ. We drove for what seemed like miles on this guy’s property. Soon, a large crowd came into view. Everyone was dancing, eating, and mingling. We were all so happy. Not for any reason in particular, but you saw the excitement on each of our faces. The driver let us off, and of course, I had to give him the tip.
The aroma coming from the BBQ smelled delicious, but I didn’t want to eat a thing. I had on all white and didn’t want to risk getting something on my outfit and ruining my day. Plus, there were too many men out there to stop for a food break.
As the sun blazed across the sky, people played volleyball, tug-of-war, and tag. Everyone was laughing, flirting, and being friendly.
“Yo, this shit is off da hook,” Fertashia said while grooving her body to the rap beat.
“Word. Let’s go to the bar and get our drink on,” I suggested.
We all sauntered over to the bar as if we were competing in a walking contest. Once there, everyone started to order Hennessy so they could get fucked up quickly. I suggested they order apple martinis instead to show we had class.
I had taken two sips when I noticed him. This guy came riding in on a golf cart real gangster style. I recognized him immediately because his face was always splashed across thePost, Daily News, andNewsday, with stories about his private life. Who’s he fucking? How much money’s he making? And, of course, who’s he fucking? The press loved his private life. He was notorious for breaking starlets’ hearts. He’d take them away from their stable relationship, use them up, and then discard them.
His cocky smile, which women loved to hate, turned me on. This guy wasn’t just paid, he was rich. He owned a basketball team, restaurant chain, record label, upscale clothing line, and movie production company. He made the top-twenty list inForbes last year and the year before that. I know this because I followed his life thoroughly. The press dubbed him “The Renaissance Man.” This guy’s name was Black King, and instantly I knew that I had to have him.
Once Black showed up, all the players came out of their respective hiding places. Kevin, the homeowner, finally came out of the house wearing a bathrobe and slippers, just like Hugh Hefner wears. He had a cigar and all. His fat stomach oozed out of his boxers, and several platinum and diamond chains adorned his neck. He looked a little funky in my opinion, but then again, I doubt he was asking my opinion. Instantly I was turned off from Kevin and redirected my efforts on getting with Black.
There were NBA players, rappers, record producers, movie stars—white and black. I
mean, this was the place to be. I took a few more sips of my apple martini and observed. Girls were running up to the men, acting starstruck. Groupie-type bitches were leaving for a few minutes to go and get fucked in the bushes, in closets, the pool. You name it—it was being done.
My crew and I decided to converse, and I came up with a master plan to get someone famous to not only notice us, but want to call us the day after.
“You see these chicken heads?” Fertashia asked.
“Cluck-cluck. These silly chicks are actin’ so stupid,” Stacy commented, then said, “How old you think they are? Older than us, I bet.”
We were all the same age. Twenty. Our birthdays spanned a few months. I’d be twenty-one first, so they all looked up to me. And I liked that.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Y’all see how these chicks are runnin’ up to these guys and introducin’ themselves? That’s not our game plan. We gonna play it cool and let these niggas come to us. We’ll continue to get our drink on and dance seductively. Stay focused on each other. Laugh. Smile. Have a good time, as if we are enjoyin’ each other’s company so much we don’t even notice that the lawn is littered with millionaires,” I said.
“Fuck dat hard-to-get shit!” Joy exclaimed. “I’m goin’ for mines.”
“Shut up. You look just like the Garfield cartoon, with your protruding eyes. Don’t she, y’all?” I said. Joy immediately looked down to the ground. It was easy to make Joy feel self-conscious about her eyes, which were unusually big and round. But truthfully they were pretty eyes. Unique. Although I’d never tell her.
“Fertashia, you wanna come wit me or stay here wit Nicoli?” Joy said, trying to divert the attention from her eyes.
“I’ma chill,” Fertashia retorted.
“What about you, Stacy?”
“Well, Nicoli has a point about not chasing these men. I think it would be wiser to just stay put.”
Joy always had to be difficult. She walked away, and I knew why. She wanted Kevin, which was fine with me. I already had my blue eyes set on Black.
Stacy and Fertashia stayed close to me and kept things according to plan. Soon enough, it worked. Black, Duffy,and Kevin came flocking over with Joy tagging behind.
Black made eye contact with me and never let his stare waver. He extended his hand and said, “You are gorgeous, sweetheart.”
He licked his juicy pink lips, and my pussy started pulsating. His dark-chocolate skin was so smooth, I imagined him getting facials twice a week. He was groomed to perfection. He stood around six feet tall, with a sculptured body. He was the Adonis I’d been searching for all my young life. His pearly whites were inviting me to a sensual tongue-kissing session.
“Thank you,” I said politely, but let it be known I was uninterested. Soon, everyone did salutations and so began the rhetoric. When I introduced myself and said my name was Nicoli, all the guys fell out.
“Nicoli—that’s a pretty name, Shorty. What does it mean?” Kevin asked.
“It means beauty,” I lied.
“Nice. Nice. I like that,” Kevin said, shaking his head “Yes.” Then said, “You got a man?”
“None of us got men. We’re just chillin,” Joy replied.
“Shorty, I’m not askin’ ’bout your current status. I was askin’ sexy over here,” Kevin retorted, and our circle seemed to close in a little from Joy’s embarrassment. But leave it to Joy. Nothing fazed her for too long, so she said, “A’iiight, player. I hear dat.”
“To answer your question, I’m just datin’ at the moment,” I said to Kevin, but I was looking directly at Black. I think Black got pleasure from this.
“Can I date you, too?” Kevin asked, then continued, “I mean, I can certainly afford a girl like you. You know this my crib ’n shit. Out here in the Hamptons with these white mutherfuckers. I’m doin’ it, Shorty. I am the American dream!” he declared.
“You can afford my wants, but you don’t look like you canmeet my needs,” I said and walked away. My girls followed.
We left the guys over by the bar sipping Corona beers and walked deeper into the crowd. It was getting late, and I knew I’d better make my move. Black was irking my nerves a little with the distant eye contact. He’d better push up soon, or I’d have to opt for Kevin.
I drank my last apple martini and moved into action. I jumped onto the picnic table and started gyrating my body to “Summertime” by Beyoncé. Everyone in the crowd stopped what they were doing and stared. I was looking directly at Black and grinding my body as if I were fucking. I was going up and down on my heels in my most sexy movements. I thrust my hips forward while shaking my ass provocatively. The sultry music guided my motions as I opened my legs and squatted down to the ground. I came up slowly while moving my hips in a figure eight. I could see the fear in female eyes. They knew whoever they came with or wanted to leave with was wishing that they could leave with me.
Soon Duffy came up on the table with me. He moved in back of me and started grinding on my ass. His little dick was rock solid and poking me in my ass. I teased him for a moment, then jumped down. When I reached the grass, the guys let out a loud roar. They were clapping and screaming, “More…more…more!”
I blushed, went into “shy mode,” and scurried quickly away, making sure I passed Black on my way out to nowhere. As I walked past, Black grabbed me by my arm.
“Where you rushing off to, sexy?”
“It’s mad borin’ up in here. I’m ready to locate my girls and go,” I lied.
“Are you always this impatient?” he asked. I wondered briefly if he was talking about the party or my frustration with his actions.
“Depends on what I’m waitin’ for.”
“I was always told anything that’s obtained easily isn’t worth keeping.”
“Who said that dumb shit?” I joked.
“My pops,” he laughed and flashed those pearly whites again.
I looked quickly over his shoulder and could see a few groupie girls waiting for us to finish our conversation so they could get in, but I wasn’t letting it go down like that. I also saw that Joy had finally gotten into a conversation with Kevin. Stacy and Fertashia were doing well themselves. They’d hooked up with a couple of rappers. My girls were doing it.
An early-evening wind blew, and my hair shifted. I took this opportunity to do my sexy Marilyn Monroe stance, licked my lips, then yawned to reflect boredom.
“Are you really that bored in here? If you don’t want to stay, do you want to go into the city and have some fun? Maybe go to Mr. Chow’s to get something to eat? Would you like that?”
“What about my girls? We all came together. I don’t think I could just leave,” I said, still playing hard to get.
“They’re grown. They’ll make it home all right. Come on, let’s hang out and have some fun. Puh-leeze. I’m a good guy. You can trust me,” he pleaded.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with reservation. “I may have to drive back home tonight.”
“Oh no! You’re not going to finagle your way out of this. I’ve been watching you all night, and I want to go somewhere so we can be alone to talk.”
I hesitated a little, then said, “Okay. I will tell them I’m leavin’.And who I’m leavin’ with. Just in case….” I smiled.
He smiled back.
Chapter 3
Black drove the Long Island Expressway doing 100 mph in his midnight blue Bentley. I relaxed in his plush leather seats as the reality of my situation sank in. I was in a top-of-the-line Bentley with a multimillionaire, and it felt so-o-o-o-o good.
We pulled in back of Mr. Chow’s shortly after ten o’clock. We were led through the celebrity entrance and seated behind a closed-off panel so the paparazzi couldn’t get pictures of Black with his latest flame. I quickly glanced at the menu and noticed there were entrées ranging from $100 to $1,000. I allowed Black to order for me, which he enjoyed. I could tell he liked taking the initiative and being courteous because he also pulled out my chair and opened do
ors for me. He was really manly, and that was refreshing.
Before Black ordered dinner, he asked for a $1,500 bottle of Rémy Martin, and I thought about the latest Manolo Blahniks I could be purchasing with that money. Now, I’m accustomed to men ordering $300 bottles of champagne, and that’s just about right. But spending anything more than that seemed a little excessive.
As the Rémy Martin started going to my head, I loosened up and started being coquettish with Black. I let my hands linger on top of his, while underneath the table my leg tussled with his.
“So, where you from?” he asked.
“I’m from Brooklyn,” I said, real gangster-style.
“Where are you located in Brooklyn?”
“Bed-Stuy. Do or die. And you?”
“I’m from Harlem. Born and raised. I like to go back to my old neighborhood so I won’t become complacent about my new wealth. The fakeness of the business I’m in can become daunting.”
“Where do you live?” I inquired.
“Here and there. I have property almost everywhere in the world. I have a villa in Aruba, a flat in London, mansions on the East and West Coasts, an apartment in Midtown—the list goes on and on,” he lamented.
“Real estate, that’s what’s up. A good investment. If I had paper, I’d purchase empty lots and build on them. Commercial, residential, that’s what’s really good.”
Black tilted his head to one side, then asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” I said, then smiled.
Black nodded but didn’t make a comment. So I said, “Oh, I get it. You’re makin’ sure I’m legal. Just in case somethin’ goes down, you don’t want to make the newspapers—”
Black burst out into laughter. “You can never be too sure.”
“I hear that. And of course you’d make the front page of every newspaper wit the stupidest expression on your face. You have to have that dumb look on your face to be official. Talkin’ ’bout ‘I didn’t know…she looked eighteen…God, please help me.’ ”
