by Amir Abrams
I’m that hot boy wit’ the spinnin’ waves.
Antonio Lopez.
Dominican and Black.
Six-four, rock-hard body.
Smooth, suave, pretty boy wit’ that mad swag.
A chick magnet.
The most popular dude at McPherson High.
Voted best lookin’, best dressed, and homecoming king three years in a row. All-star basketball champion.
Need I say more?
Not to pop my own collar or sound cocky wit’ it or anything. But, real rap. I’m that dude, yo. Front if you want. Eight pack on deck. Nice chest, arms, legs, ’n’ back. The chicks go crazy when they see this body. And I gotta mad assortment of colorful panties, text messages, photos, and phone numbers from thirsty broads who stay tryna get a piece of the kid to prove it.
Oh, you still don’t know?
Let me put you on then.
I’m checkin’ for them sexy dime-pieces who know how to handle a man like me. And oh yeah, I’ll even holla at the ooga-booga as long as she gotta nice phatty, a whip, and a j-o-b. But I ain’t ever gonna be seen wit’ her out in public, givin’ her no daytime airplay. Nah, them kinda broads gotta get it at night—late at night wit’ the lights down real low. Better yet, they get the black light special. Once I’m bored wit’ ’em, chop! It’s on to the next.
So the moral of the story is, proceed wit’ caution. And don’t ever catch feelin’s. And don’t get too comfy, either, ’cause all good things gotta come to an end. And just like with tires and oil changes, chicks gotta be rotated and changed every three thousand miles—or in my case, every three weeks, otherwise they start gettin’ real nutty, actin’ like they own you. And after seein’ the latest Facebook status I’ve been tagged on To all you birds cluckin’ ’round Tone. Back up or get ya feathers plucked! Get ya own man and leave mine alone or i’m snatchin lace fronts n slashin faces!, I’m more convinced than ever before that most of ’em are straight-up psycho, like this chick Quandaleesha. My stalker. My worst nightmare.
I sigh, shakin’ my head when I peep she has ninety-two likes to her ignorant post and seventy-eight comments. All birds, I bet.
My pops peeped how triflin’ Quanda was the minute he met her. And although he’s never told me who to rock wit’ ’cause he believes some things a man needs to learn on his own, he warned me about her. He said, “Tone, that girl’s trouble. Don’t give her too much of that Lopez lovin’, boy. You hear? She ain’t ready for it. Her mind’s too weak. Give her one round, then get rid of her. And make sure you double-wrap.”
“I got you, Pops,” I assured him. “I’ma beat it down, then give ’er the boot.”
He laughed. “Just like your pops. Give ’er just enough so that she’ll never forget ya. But not enough for her to get crazy.”
“No doubt,” I said, givin’ him a pound. See, Pops is mad chill like that. He stays schoolin’ me ’bout life ’n’ the honeys. So he’s cool wit’ me sexin’ chicks and havin’ ’em over as long as they bounce up outta here before eleven on weeknights, and by 1 AM on weekends. And for the most part, he’s hardly ever home ’cause he’s a contracted truck driver—he owns his own truck company—and spends most of his time on the road, goin’ ’cross the country. And when he’s not on the road, he’s usually gettin’ it in over at his main chick’s crib or at one of his jump-offs’ cribs puttin’ in that work. Or he’s here locked up in his room goin’ at it.
I’ve had mad chicks up in here, over forty, and I’ve been havin’ sex since I was thirteen. Pops made sure to it. It was the night before my thirteenth birthday. Pops walked up in my room and flat-out said, “Get showered and dressed. Tonight you become a man.” I had no idea what to expect. The only thing I knew is, it was goin’ to be my rite of passage into manhood. And that, no matter what happened, nothin’ would ever be the same for me.
An hour later, we were at his flavor-of-the-moment’s crib—this thick-in-the-hips Dominican mami wit’ big boobs and a real big booty. They were upstairs, doin’ what they do. And I was down in the basement wit’ her nineteen-year-old daughter, who was mad sexy, bein’ welcomed into manhood. I smoked my first blunt, tossed back the yak, and then. . . she did all kinds of things to me that had my toes curlin’, my eyes crossin’, and my heart racin’ so hard I thought I was gonna die. I was mad nervous as I fumbled around tryna find my groove, but that night I learned e’erything I needed to know about handlin’ my business as a man. Then on our way home, Pops looked over at me as he drove, and said, “You a man now. You hear me? And a real man ain’t meant to be chained to the hip of one woman. Men need variety. And it’s in a man’s nature to have lots of sex. And lots of women. That’s what they’re put here on earth for, to keep a man sexed and satisfied. They’re not good for nothin’ else. You understand me?”
I nodded, still floatin’ from the weed, the drinks, and the memory of losin’ my virginity to an older chick. But I was well aware of e’erything Pops was sayin’ to me. That chicks are strictly for hit ’n’ runs.
Now, I’m standin’ here kickin’ myself for not gettin’ rid of Quanda sooner than later. Like I said, Pops had warned me. After all, he’s had more than his share of nutty broads. So the one thing Pops knows is females. He’s Mr. Playa-Playa, the original don. The Dominican panty dropper. And the egg donor—well, for a lack of a better title, the broad who gave birth to me—is Black. And ghost! But whatever! It is what it is. Anyway, back to Pops.
Truth is, Pops’s a real smooth dude when it comes to the ladies. And he’s been schoolin’ me since I was seven years old, preparin’ me for manhood. E’erything I know about broads—that they can’t be trusted, that you can’t give ’em too much of ya time, that you can’t ever let ’em into ya heart, and the list goes on—I’ve learned from him. “I’ma give you what you need to be a man,” Pops always told me. “And hopefully protect you from a buncha heartache ’n’ disappointment. But there are some things you gonna hafta go through and learn for ya’self.”
Like this ish wit’ Quanda. Ever since I hit her wit’ them discharge papers, like, just before the end of the summer, she’s been runnin’ around actin’ like she’s stuck on psycho. No lie, I dumped this broad three weeks ago and here it is the first week of September and this cuckoo bird is still cluckin’ all up in my space, tryna block my flow. Talkin’ ’bout I’m hers and she ain’t lettin’ me go. Real talk, she’s outta control!
I get another Facebook alert. Now Quanda’s tagged me wit’ some more of her craziness. I click back onto my page, shakin’ my head. It’s a picture of her blowin’ a kiss into the camera. Stop playin, boo. u know u miss these sweet kisses! can’t wait to see u in school!
It’s really too early in the mornin’ for this nuttiness. I scroll through my FB settings and finally do what I shoulda done three weeks ago—I block her!
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Amir Abrams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-9480-7
ISBN-10: 0-7582-9480-8
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9481-4
eISBN-10: 0-7582-9491-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2015
