The Kat Trap

by Cairo

  “Uh…mmmph…oh, yes,” I moaned. “Mmmph…mmmph…uh…”

  “Yeah, baby…this good, tight pussy’s all mine…is this hot pussy mine, baby?”

  Hell no! I screamed in my head. But the words got jumbled up in the back of my throat and came out soundin’ like a string of deep moans. He locked his arms up under mine, then slow fucked me, askin’ the question again. The nigga had my pussy poppin’ like a firecracker; sparks were shootin’ all through me. I pumped and twirled my hips, clutchin’ his dick with my pussy muscles, but a bitch never said one way or the other if this pussy was his or not. Sometimes it’s just best to let a muhfucka think what it is he wanna think, so that’s exactly what I did. I moaned and groaned and nutted all over his dick, never sayin’ a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Bitch, you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve, talkin’ reckless to Tameka,” Tamia spat into the phone.

  I rolled my eyes. I knew it was only a matter of time before this ho was gonna call tryna get at me. But on some real shit, I wasn’t in the fuckin’ mood.

  “Bitch, get over it,” I snapped. “That shit you talkin’ happened almost two weeks ago. I ain’t even thinkin’ ’bout ya trick-ass sister. If I wanted to get at that bitch I woulda been served her, trust.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she huffed, blowin’ air into the phone. “You always tryna talk slick ’n greasy, bitch. You need ya ass beat down for real, for real.”

  “Well, it won’t be that ho who does it,” I said, shiftin’ the phone from one ear to the other. “And it definitely won’t be you.”

  “Whatever. You don’t really want it.”

  “No, ho, you don’t want it.”

  “Kat, on some real shit, I ain’t beat for ya ass, okay.” She blew into the phone again. “I swear, bitch, if this wasn’t an emergency, I wouldn’t even be fuckin’ with ya stank ass.”

  “Bitch, what are you talkin’ ’bout…emergency? What the fuck happened?”

  “I know you and ya moms beefin’ ’n shit, but I thought you might wanna know she left up outta here on a stretcher. I think her and that dude she’s fuckin’ with got into it.”

  I blinked, blinked again, pullin’ the phone from my ear and lookin’ at it before puttin’ it back up to my ear. “Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief. “What did you say?”

  “Ya moms left in an ambulance. I heard she was unconscious…”

  Tamia’s voice started driftin’ as I thought about all the muhfuckas my mother let run in and outta her life; all the times I watched her balled-up, cryin’ over a nigga; saw her face all beat the fuck up, heard her beggin’ a muhfucka not to leave her. Countless times she got caught up in bullshit off-again, on-again relationships. Niggas knew she was weak, and they knew what to say to get her right where they wanted her—lost and all fucked up in the head over ’em. Muhfuckas smelled her weakness a mile away. And I hated them for usin’ her, and I hated her even more for bein’ weak and stupid enough to let ’em.

  I felt like my life was flashin’ before my eyes as I half-listened to Tamia and thought ’bout all the times I ran in tryna pull a muhfucka up offa my moms, or jumped in the middle to keep the nigga from hittin’ her, or how I’d fight him, and she’d somehow always find a way to flip the script and blame me, like it was my fault the nigga was beatin’ on her ass. Like it was my fault the nigga bounced. And she’d spend days, sometimes weeks, not fuckin’ speakin’ to me, ignorin’ me, treatin’ me like I was fuckin’ invisible, takin’ her fucked-up life out on me. This is the woman I’m ’posed to feel sorry for; the woman I’m ’posed to trust and love when she always puts a muthafuckin’ nigga before me. I’m ’posed to embrace her with open arms like she really ever gave a fuck ’bout me. Yeah, well…I tried that shit. And it got me nofuckin’-where. I’ll be damned if I get sucked back into tryna save her ass from herself.

  “…We all outside, and they takin’ her to Kings County,” she continued. “The police got the nigga all cuffed up ’n shit.”

  I sighed. “T, thanks for callin’, but she’s on her own. I ain’t breakin’ my neck for her ass, not this time. Not ever again, real talk. I’m done tryna save a ho who ain’t tryna be saved.”

  “Kat, that’s real fucked up. That’s ya moms, regardless.”

  “Oh, well. Life is fucked up, and so is she. So she gets what she gets. And that’s what it is.”

  “Bitch, is you fuckin’ nuts? You mean to tell me you can’t get over yourself for one minute to check for ya moms?”

  I sucked my teeth. “Exactly,” I said. “Let’s be clear: I don’t give a fuck. So pump ya brakes. I don’t get up in ya relationship with ya moms, so don’t try ’n serve it up in mine. That chick, moms or not, is a grown-ass woman, and she’s responsible for her own choices, not me. So, I ain’t tryna get caught up in ’em. She’s made her choices, and I’m makin’ mine. And a bitch chooses to keep my distance from her ass.”

  I didn’t give a fuck ’bout what Tamia, or anybody else, thought for that matter. I was done. At some point a bitch gotta stop lettin’ muhfuckas fuck with her head. I mean, damn…how many times a muhfucka gotta smear shit on a bitch before her ass realizes it ain’t chocolate? Give me a fuckin’ break. I don’t care how many times I try, I will never, ever, be able to wrap my mind around a chick lovin’ a nigga more than she loves herself. On some real shit, what kinda fool is she? I mean, if that’s what it takes to be loved, then I’ma be one old, lonely ass, dick-deprived bitch ’cause I’ll be damned if I ever let a nigga beat my ass, disrespect, or try ’n play me.

  “That’s real fuckin’ heartless.”

  “And on some real shit, Tamia, so is fuckin’ niggas raw when you know you got blisters on ya pussy, so don’t come at me, bitch.”

  “Bitch,” she yelled, “Fuck you!”

  “No, sweetie, fuck you,” I snapped back. “You need to check ya’self before you try ’n check me on shit, for real. I ’preciate you hittin’ me up ’n shit, but do me a favor, don’t call me again. I don’t wanna hear shit else ’bout Juanita Perez.”

  I hung up on her ass. Then found myself thinkin’ ’bout my father. I hadn’t given his nonexistent ass a thought in years. And all of a sudden he popped up in my head. I wondered if he ever beat my mom’s ass, or was he too busy dissin’ her with other bitches. On some real shit, I closed my eyes and tried to see his face, tried to remember what the nigga looked like in my head, but the shit was a big blur. He was a fuckin’ invisible man to me, a faceless stranger. At this point in my life, he wasn’t much more than a figment of my imagination.

  I took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. Tamia’s ass had stressed a bitch out. I tore through the house lookin’ for a damn blunt. When I found my stash, I opened a box of Phillies, took one out, split the shit down the middle with my razor, then packed it with trees. I rolled the shit up nice ’n tight, then sparked up. The shit was good as hell. I rolled two more ’cause I knew I was gonna need ’em before the day ended.

  Ten minutes later, my cell started ringin’. This time it was Chanel. “Hello.”

  “Kat, girl, I just got off the phone with T. Sorry to hear ’bout ya moms. She told me how you started spazzin’ out ’n shit.”

  “Don’t be sorry for her ass,” I said, walkin’ downstairs to my media room. I knew Tamia’s gossipin’ ass couldn’t wait to get off the phone so she could call Chanel. I plopped down on my butter-soft, cranberry leather sofa. “She got what she deserved. I wasn’t spazzin’ ’bout nothin’, trust. I kept shit real with the bitch, and she wasn’t tryna hear it.”

  “Kat, I don’t think anyone deserves to be beat on.”

  “Well, maybe not. But when you keep allowin’ fucked-up niggas in ya life, then you gonna keep gettin’ fucked over and fucked up. It is what it is. As far as I’m concerned, if a bitch can’t learn her lesson after the second or third time, then her dumb ass deserves to get her biscuit pushed in. I have no respect for a bitch who lets a man define her happiness—or worse, who she is as a woman
.”

  “Whether she learns or not, niggas shouldn’t be puttin’ they hands on no woman, Kat. And you know it. I don’t care how many times she chooses the wrong muhfucka.”

  “Well, guess what? We can agree to disagree. But at the end of the day, a woman needs to take responsibility for her choices in men. Period. If her ass keeps choosin’ the same type of nigga, then maybe she needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and stop makin’ excuses. A bitch’s choices are ’bout her, not ’bout what the fuck some nigga does to her silly ass. If she doesn’t love herself, then how the fuck she gonna expect a nigga to love her? And if she doesn’t know how to love herself, then guess what? You can’t expect a muhfucka to know how to either. I don’t care what you or anyone else says, muhfuckas only gonna do what you allow ’em to do to ya.”

  “Yeah, you right,” she said, sighin’. “It’s still fucked up.”

  “Well, when bitches stand up and stop makin’ fucked-up choices, then maybe it won’t be that way, but it is. And it’s always gonna be that way ’cause you and I both know that there’s always gonna be a woman out here who can’t live, think, breathe, or move without a man, or a dick stuffed in her ass. We both know there are a bunch of hard-pressed bitches out there who will put up with almost anything a muhfucka dishes out to her ass.”

  “True,” she said, pausin’. “So, I guess you dead serious ’bout not goin’ to the hospital, or at least callin’ to make sure ya moms is aiight?”

  “I’m serious as a fuckin’ heart attack,” I said.

  “Don’t you wanna know what happened to her?”

  “She got her ass beat, again,” I answered, takin’ a deep toke on my blunt. I blew the smoke up into the air. “So what else is there to know?” I paused, waitin’ for her to respond. When she didn’t, I continued. “Not a damn thing. It was only a matter of time before it happened. When she gets sick and tired of bein’ sick and tired of openin’ her legs up to fucked-up niggas, then maybe she’ll wake the fuck up and make some changes in her life. But until then, I ain’t beat. ’Cause I know like you know, the first chance she gets, she’ll be right back on her knees suckin’ that nigga’s dick. And if it’s not his, it’ll be some other muhfucka’s. So, no thank you. I’ll have no part in what the fuck she does.”

  It got real silent for a minute and I knew Chanel was thinkin’ ’bout what to say next, but she knew she’d catch it so she let it go. “I feel you,” she finally said, sighin’. “Anyway, listen…I was gettin’ ready to dial ya number before Tamia hit me up. Have you heard from Iris?”

  “No, why?” I asked, pickin’ up this book, Get Money Chicks, I had bought at Borders a few days ago, off the glass table, then flippin’ through it. “Her dumb ass is probably somewhere mulin’ for that nigga.” I shook my head, glancing at a chapter where one of the dumb-ass chicks in the book was doin’ the same shit. Humph. These stupid bitches are e’ery where! “Bitches nowadays too busy tryna do them to give a fuck ’bout pickin’ up a phone to let a bitch know they aiight, so I wouldn’t even stress ya’self.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be if her moms hadn’t called me lookin’ for her, and Tamia hasn’t heard from her either. That’s not like her. Her moms sounded real worried. She said she hadn’t heard from her in three days, and she’s not answerin’ her cell.”

  “Humph. The bitch’s probably laid up somewhere with a dick shoved down her throat,” I stated, tossin’ the book back on the table. There was no need to read shit ’bout a bunch of dumb bitches when I already knew two dumb ones up close ’n personal. I sparked another blunt, then pulled it deep into my lungs until the shit burned. I coughed.

  “What, you blazin’?” she asked.

  “Yep,” I said. “Straight to the muthafuckin’ head. I’ma get lifted all fuckin’ day.”

  She laughed. “With ya fiend ass. Save me some.”

  The call waitin’ beeped. I glanced at the number. It was my aunt Rosa. I let the shit roll into voicemail. “Why, you comin’ through?”

  “Hell yeah,” she replied, soundin’ all excited ’n shit. I could almost see the bitch droolin’. “I’m throwin’ on some clothes right now. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Who’s soundin’ like the fiend, now?” I asked, laughin’.

  “Whatever, ho,” she said, joinin’ in my laughter. “You need me to pick up anything while I’m out?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bet. I see ya in a minute.”

  “Lata, trick.” As soon as I hung up with Chanel, the Kat line rang. I answered, “Yeah?”

  “What’s good, pretty baby?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Life,” I said. “Now tell me what I gotta do to get you outta mine?”

  He laughed. “Oh, shit. That’s cold. But, if ya really wanna know, then I’ma keep shit real. Let me take ya fine ass away for the weekend so I can slide this big, black dick up in ya guts.”

  Cash was one funny muhfucka. I couldn’t even get mad at the nigga ’cause I knew he was talkin’ shit. But I still had to check his ass. “Muhfucka,” I said. “I’d take two to the head before I ever let you run ya dick up in me. I don’t give a fuck how big it is. Believe that.”

  “Then you need to let me eat that pussy.”

  I shook my head, laughin’. As ugly as his muhfuckin’ ass was, his dick and tongue game were probably wicked. On some real shit, the nigga looked like he could tear some pussy up. The imprint of his thick dick flashed in my head. What the fuck is wrong with me, I thought, shakin’ the image outta my head. My private cell started ringin’, then my house phone. I let them shits go into voicemail.

  “Wrong answer, nigga. You can’t even sniff my pantyliner.”

  “Damn, you sure know how ta crush a nigga’s spirits. Let me stop fuckin’ with you. I mean, don’t get it twisted; I’d dick and tongue you down in a heartbeat, stretch that fat ass right out the box, but I know you ain’t havin’ it. I like talkin’ shit to ya nasty ass, ma.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “I got some outta town work for ya.”

  My phones rang again.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, goin’ upstairs to put somethin’ on before Chanel got here. I had been chillin’ in my lace panties. “Where and when?”

  “Vegas. In three days.”

  Even though I’d been to Vegas in February for All-Star weekend, I hadn’t really gotten a chance to take in much of the happenin’s. Besides, it was so fuckin’ packed I couldn’t really move like I wanted. So goin’ back was all good. I figured I could hit the Fashion Show Mall on the strip to hopefully buy some bangin’ shit, check out that show Zumanity at New York-New York, and maybe even gamble it up a bit.

  “Cool. I’ll fly out a day or two early and chill.”

  He laughed. “Why the fuck I know you was gonna say that shit?”

  “’Cause that’s how I do mine. You already know.”

  “Do you, ma. Just make sure you handle ya business on time. I don’t want none of that bullshit you pulled in San Diego. Matter of fact, I shoulda docked ya ass for holdin’ shit up.”

  Against my better judgment, I decided to fuck with the nigga. “Cash, if you ever fuck with my money, you’ll never get any of this pussy, feel me? But if ya keep my paper flowin’ like ya ’posed to, then one day I might invite ya to slide ya tongue up in it. So if you ever wanna taste of this sweet pussy, don’t fuck with my paper.”

  “Yeah, aiight,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “Keep fuckin’ with me, Kat, and I’ma end up takin’ it, ya heard?”

  “And ya’ll end up with a bullet in ya skull, muhfucka.”

  “Damn, baby, you get my dick hard e’erytime you talk like that. Word up.”

  “Ugh. Send me the paperwork, along with my paper, Cash.”

  “You’ll have e’erything you need tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  “Be easy,” he said, hangin’ up. I swear he makes me fuckin’ sick sometimes. I glanced at the clock and
noticed Chanel’s ass was late as usual. It was 3:15. I figured the ho would be another hour or so, so I decided to take a quick shower.

  By the time Chanel rang my doorbell two hours later, I was already on my third blunt, and a bitch was lifted lovely.

  “Ho,” I snapped, swingin’ the door open, “I thought you said you was gonna be here in a half hour. You betta be glad I like ya yellow ass or you’d be standin’ outside.”

  “Whatever, tramp.” She laughed, walkin’ in carryin’ a bangin’-ass, white pebbled leather Prada weekend bag. She was lookin’ all fly ’n whatnot in a slick-ass white linen jumper and a pair of strappy heels.

  “I know you don’t think ya ugly ass is stayin’ the night. I ain’t runnin’ no damn ho house.”

  “I can’t tell,” she said, closin’ the door behind her and followin’ me into the kitchen. “They have ya ass listed in the Yellow Pages under ‘Hoes for Rent.’” She dropped her bag by the door, then walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.

  “Whatever, bitch,” I said, throwin’ my hand up in her face. I pressed the Bose remote and Me’Shell NdegéOcello’s “Dead Nigga Blvd., Pt. I” blared through the speakers.

  “I’m hungry as hell. What you got to eat up in this piece?”

  “Not a damn thing. You know ain’t shit domesticated ’bout me.”