Aunt Cookie held her hand out and turned me so that I could face the living room window and said, “Go outside and be a li’l girl. Go play! ’Cause if you fuck around wit’ me, cussin’ and shit, I’ma tap dat ass. It’s two li’l girls across the street. Get that jump rope over there, play and make some friends.”
Not wanting to press my luck, I gathered my attitude, grabbed the jump rope, and went out the door. That’s when I went on the block and met Shannon and Lee, bustin’ out a street dance called a step.
“Oooh, Miss Dorsey Anna said ah East, ah West, I met my boyfriend at the candy store. He brought me ice cream, he brought me cake, he brought me home with a belly ache.”
At first I was scared and didn’t want to say anything. I thought that everybody probably knew that Grandma died of dope, and that Rowanda Wright was a chickenhead, so I stood silent, and while Shannon and Lee took turns with the street dance, I sang the tune in my mind.
“Ms. Cookie yo’ mama?” Shannon asked, looking me up and down and then twisting her mouth like she already knew the truth.
“My mama? I ain’t got no mama. All I got is me and my Aunt Cookie.”
“You ain’t got no mama? Everybody has got a mama.”
“Well, I just told you that I ain’t had no mama. I’m from the Lincoln Street Projects, and if you mess with me, I will beat yo’ ass!”
“You cuss?” Lee asked, scared and shaking like she had never heard the word “ass” before.
Hell, I thought, here was another one that didn’t want me to cuss, but what was I supposed to say? I thought that everybody cussed. Cussin’ was nothing to me. Not only did I cuss, but I could tell ’em how to take the seeds out a nickel bag of weed. I could show ’em how to cook up coke with boiling water and a spoon. How to tie a belt and pull it tight around Grandma’s arm while she said, “Grandma just need this to be well. Grandma just need this.” I could show ’em anything that they needed to know, and all they could think to ask was, did I cuss?
“What the fuck you think? And furthermore, y’all don’t even know me to be steppin’ to me like that!”
“You crazy,” Shannon said, waving me off. “You crazy.”
I stood there for a moment, quiet and embarrassed, thinking about how Aunt Cookie was gonna bust my ass if she knew I was out here cussin’. So, I twisted my lips and told them that I could play double dutch.
“See, I got a rope,” I said, tilting my head down, trying not to cuss, hoping they would accept my peace offering.
“I’m goin’ first!” Lee screamed, yanking the rope from my hand.
“No you’re not!” Shannon shouted. “Because I got zero no higher!”
And from that day on, it was every day outside with Shannon and Lee. Aunt Cookie had taught me early to keep my girlfriend circle tight, “’Cause hanging around a buncha women is a surefire way,” Aunt Cookie would say, “to keep a buncha he-said-she-said bullshit going on.” Therefore, my best friends never changed, and soon me, Shannon, and Lee graduated from double dutch to double dates.
And soon after that, we became women, individual women who loved each other like sisters yet were different, with different views, different ways of dealing with life, and a thousand different ways we each handled men.
And, if I may set the record straight, now that we’re grown, Lee gets on my goddamn nerves like you wouldn’t believe. She’s an elementary school teacher, and she thinks that she has all the answers, when in actuality, she doesn’t know shit.
Lee was raised by her mother and grandmother. Her daddy died when she was a baby, which made Lee, with the exception of me, the oldest little kid on the block. The only difference was I knew Rowanda Wright was a chickenhead, but Lee’s ghost was up for grabs, which was probably why Lee cried all the time. If you looked at her wrong, she cried. If you coughed too loud, she cried. If she thought you didn’t want to be her friend, she cried again. She wasted so many tears on nonsense that by the time she became adult, there were no more tears left and she started holding shit in. Now she’s an adult with no common sense.
Now Shannon. Shannon owns a small magazine called Girlfriends, and believe me when I tell you Shannon got it goin’ on! She knows how to handle her business, and her magazine is doing quite well. That’s why she’s my main girl, because she knows how to handle her own and she’s not sitting around beggin’ no man for shit!
Shannon was, and has always been, my ace boon coon! I could tell Shannon that I have screwed half of the NYPD and she wouldn’t bat an eye. She would just say, “How big was the dick?” Shannon and I have been through it all, and I wouldn’t trade any of the pain, the heartache, the headache, and even the times we don’t get along, for nobody.
The only thing with Shannon is she can’t play the game long enough to win. Love cheats her ass every time, and no matter what I say, she keeps getting caught. I explained to her to allow a big dick to be exactly what it is: a big dick. It is not companionship or commitment; it doesn’t equate to love or even a strong like. It is what it is: plain, out-n-out dick.
Now, let me introduce Angie. Angie actually started out as Shannon’s friend that she met while they were in college at Fisk. Shannon was the only one who went out of state to college, and when she came back, she brought an innocent-looking, but loud-mouth Southern gal who talked mo’ shit than anybody I knew.
At first I was sort of reluctant to get to know her, but after me and Angie had to bust a bitch’s ass for fuckin’ with Shannon’s man, I saw that Angie was a down-ass chick, and we been fly ever since, which has been close to ten years now. Ain’t nobody like Angie, believe me. Angie is my road dawg!
I could tell Angie that I sucked a dick until the skin came off, and she would want instructions. Now, Angie may act innocent and sound sweet, but she is sneaky as hell. Don’t put nothing pass Angie, ’cause she’s got O.P.P. down to a science. She’s the chick that will steal yo’ man and have him sitting in your face with a look that said, “Now what?” That’s how she got her job at the museum.
Angie is an art director for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan, but Shannon told me that Angie has a music degree and lap-danced her way into the job. Angie was a secretary at the museum, and she started having an affair with the very married chairman of the board. The next thing we know, Miz Thing is over at the Met runnin’ shit. The fucked up part about it is that Angie used to eat lunch with his wife every day, because the wife also worked at the museum.
Don’t get it confused, though. Angie’s shit has a limit, as there are unwritten rules among true blue girlfriends. Rule number one: It doesn’t matter if the nigga had three teeth, a lopsided grin, and a dry curl; if your girlfriend at one time ever had him, wanted him, fucked him and flaunted him, then he is forever considered off limits. Therefore, Angie may steal a man, but he’s never from the girlfriends’ circle. Now, you, on the other hand, would have to watch yo’ man. Understand?
Now me, when it comes to men, I no longer have much of a problem, ’cause Vera’s got a “street-sophical” way of looking at the dating shit. Check this: When you date a man and he picks you up, make it your business to try to get to his house. Check out the scene, and if he acts suspicious, play it cool. All things fall into place. If he’s talking sweet but he shows no action, dump him right away, ’cause he’s a waste of time. If he has a job, but always has an excuse why he has no money, then he’s useless. Can his ass. If he’s flashing his money and talking about what he can do as if he’s the pimp of the United States Mint, then sock it to him. Get all up in his pockets and drain his ass, ’til he learns to shut the fuck up. By the time that happens, get rid of him, ’cause he’ll start complaining about spending too much money and needing to place you on a budget. He ain’t yo’ daddy; he just some dick, so toss him to the side. But, when the big dawg gets up in da house, starts running the game, and you find yourself submitting to his command because your heart’s beating heavy, and you starting to get all giddy and laughing at stupid shit, then nine
times out of ten, yo’ ass is in love and headed for trouble. Which is why I keep my commitment level at zero and no longer lend myself to being in love and stuck on stupid. That way, I don’t spend enough time to get to know how he thinks, how he feels, or what his dreams are. Love is not in my game plan, but gold-diggin’, on the other hand, is always up for discussion.
That’s how I hooked up with the old man, Roger. Well, sort of. Actually, he was the captain of the arresting officer when I was a criminal, on the run, and didn’t even know it.
Let me tell you. It was a routine traffic stop, one where every third car gets pulled over. Well, guess who was the third car? You got it, ole girl. Anyway, Shannon was with me, and I gave the officer my registration and insurance card. Five minutes later, the officer asked me to please step out of the car.
“Excuse me?”
“Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle. And you too, ma’am,” he said to Shannon.
This mu’fucka started reading me my rights, and Shannon started raising hell, yelling and screaming, acting like a damn fool. I could have kicked her ass! Straight up, ’cause she was making the situation worse. Next thing I knew, both of us were in handcuffs.
Now the heifer wants to cry. “But, what I do? What I do?”
Not to mention, it was a Friday, and guess what? As far as I knew, the courts didn’t open ’til Monday. And what was I arrested for? A damn parking ticket that I forgot to pay that turned into a warrant. Shannon was arrested for throwing a punch at an officer.
When we got to the station, Shannon was like Sybil and turned on me. “I’m taking a plea bargain,” she cried, with snot dripping from her nose. “I need to see the D.A.”
“Shut up!” I said to her, giving her ass the evil eye. We were handcuffed to the hard wooden bench on the side of the processing officer’s desk. “You don’t need to see the D.A.,” I said. “They should release yo’ ass on a technicality called Cry Baby!”
“Fuck you! That’s why I’m turning state’s evidence on yo’ ass! Anything they ask me, you did it. Oh, Lord Jesus!” And she started wailing again.
Then this fine-ass, distinguished older gentleman, dressed in black dress pants with a black-and-beige rayon shirt, walks over and asks Shannon does she want a tissue, and this crazy bitch starts telling him her life story. Once she’s done crying on his shoulder, he turns to me and says, “What’s up with you?”
I tried to put on the best seductive sistafied voice that I could muster up and said, “Baby, it’s really a misunderstanding. I thought I paid the ticket.”
“Ticket?” he asked.
“Yes, a ticket. Look, green, orange, brown, whatever the hell color prisoners are rocking these days, it doesn’t suit me well. Please, can’t I just pay the ticket?”
“Well, if it’s a traffic ticket,” he said, like I was the stupidest person on Earth, “then you will be going to night court. Pay the ticket and then you can leave.”
“Yeah,” I said, like I knew that all along, “but Assata Shakur over here tried to beat the officer up!”
He laughed and said, “I’ll take care of that. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Vera.”
“Roger,” he said, writing his phone number down on a piece of paper and then undoing the handcuffs that connected us to the wooden bench.
And from that point, it was on and poppin’! Now, granted, he’s a little older than the guys I normally deal with, but his ass ain’t ancient. He’s fifty-five, and he got a dick like a damn horse. The first time he hit it, I was like, What the hell is this? Turn the lights on let the freak out! So, when I saw that the old man had it going on, I let him hit it all kinda ways, front, back, side, sixty-nine, whatever! ’Cause not only was I getting my shit off, I was counting all my gifts with every move. If he wanted to hit it from the back, I knew that had to be a mortgage payment. When I let him hit it from the side, with one leg against the wall and the other touching the floor, and he had my fat ass stretched out like the hum of a Negro spiritual, I knew I had my taxes paid, a new fur coat, two pair of Manolos, and a Chanel bag. And for the bonus, if he got his dick sucked, that meant that girlfriend had a bankroll like a legalized ho on the stroll! Hot damn!
And yes, he’s married, but shit, when did his marriage become any of my concern? As long as he’s lining my pockets, and life is lovely for me, then what his wife does with him is her business and not mine.
The first married man I slept with knocked my ass up three times. I played the soft and innocent role, like I was a virgin and just didn’t know. So, every time I got pregnant and he thought about how he was the councilman of the South Ward in Newark and that it would raise a lot of concern and controversy if someone investigated why he spent so many nights in Manhattan, he would give me the money for an abortion and pay for a semester for me to go to school. Hell, I played his ass, fucked him day and day, night and day. Fucked him all the way to a 4.0 and a
B.A. And, as a side, I screwed his assistant and made him pay for cosmetology school. Hell, I’m not stupid!
I always knew that I wanted to be a hairstylist, but I never had any plans on being Boomshika, doin’ hair in the shop on the corner. Hell no! I wanted to be on Madison Avenue with the bougie-queens. I wanted to run shit. I wanted a spot so fly that when Oprah came in town, she knew my shop was the place to be.
So, I fucked for my money, and not no small-time money. I fucked the big bucks: congressmen, councilmen, CEOs, and vice presidents. If they were married, that was all the better, because then they went home at night. I didn’t have to worry about them being up in my house, up in my face, and up in my business! Hell, they could spend Christmas with the wife and the kids, and I could continue to do my thing.
Now, I had been caught. I can’t lie. Caught by the biggest player of them all—love. Love was just like life: a mu’fucka. Love had snatched my ass so fast that I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. One day I was playing the big dick, and the next thing I knew, the big dick was playing me, had me dreaming about cooking, cleaning, going to the shop and coming straight home. I had almost lost my gold-diggin’ shovel, and most recently, Taj Bennet has been the cause.
Taj is six foot even, with the blackest skin that anyone could imagine. His eyes have the persuasion of him being Asian, but his lips are full, and his nose is regal like an African royal. His hair flows with soft and whimsical dreadlocks that he wears in one ponytail pulled to the back, near the nape of his neck. The hair on his face, his mustache and beard, simply lays on his skin, and everything about him is well groomed. Taj is so fine that all I can say is “Goddamn!”
Last year, 2003, shortly after my thirtieth birthday, I was in the shop by myself, preparing to close for the evening when Taj walked in. He was dressed in mint green scrubs, running Nikes, and a white overcoat that read MD.
“Do you cater to dreads?” he asked. I had to do a double take. He was so fine that I had to pinch myself and make sure this was real. I couldn’t help but smile, and then I said to myself, Stay calm. This man is a bit too chocolate for your hormones to control.
I cleared my throat and said, “Depends on whose dreads they are.”
“What if they were mine?” he replied nicely, checking me from head to foot.
“Then,” I said, “I would tell you to have a seat and let me take care of you.”
He took off his jacket and revealed his muscular biceps. My eyes traced the bulging veins going down his arms into his hands and stopping at his manicured fingertips.
After he sat down, waiting for me to wash his hair, I went into the supply room to take out the shea butter shampoo and conditioner. I thought I had some Victoria’s Secret Vanilla Bean Body Glitter on the second shelf, but I didn’t. So, I took some of the shea butter shampoo and rubbed it into my skin. This way when I bent over to wash his hair, he could smell the mixture of coconut oil and berries rising from my cleavage.
As I began to run my hands through his soft hair, I stared at his body, starti
ng with the six pack imprint showing lightly through his shirt; then I massaged his thick thighs with my eyes, and by the time I stopped in the middle of his pants, that was all she wrote. I had to have this man.
“You like looking in my eyes, don’t you?” I said, caressing his hair with the palms of my hands.
“I’m trying to see what they say,” he replied. “My eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Why my eyes?”
“Because they let me see your heart.”
I was silent the rest of the time that I did his hair. When I was done and he was preparing to leave, he said, “I’m diggin’ you, and I have been for a while.”
“You’re diggin’ me?” I smiled.
“Hell, yeah. Look at you. You bad as hell, and you run this place all by yourself. Sure, you have your assistants, but I see you here early in the morning and late at night, handling your business. Not to mention that you’re one of the prettiest sisters that I’ve met in a long time.”
“Thank you.” I said, while trying to stop myself from blushing. “Look,” Taj said, “I work at the hospital across the street.
Why don’t we meet for latte in the morning, and after my shift, maybe we can go out. I would love to spend some time with you.”
So, I tried it, the latte and the date, but his ass was a bit too deep for me. Too much goddamn cosmic energy, which is exactly why I chose to be his friend. Okay, let me stop lying, I fucked him a few times, but this was one time girlfriend couldn’t hang. I couldn’t keep up with the emotions that were racing a thousand miles per hour, and instead of the G-spot having the orgasm, my heart was the one shooting sparks.
“Listen, Taj,” I said a year after we met, while lying in my king-sized sleigh bed with my back to his chest. “You and I can only be friends. I made myself a promise long time ago to never date my clients, and I should have stuck to it.”
He pressed his chest closer into my back. “What’s the problem, Vera?” he asked.
“Did I say there was a problem?” I said with a smirk.
Flip Side of the Game Page 2
