by Cairo
“I’m not playin’ games. As soon as you open your wallet and let me run through it, then we can talk. And this time I’ma need more than five-hundred bucks. You know how I do it, boo. Time is money, and money is time. If you can’t finance me, then niggah, you definitely can’t fuck me.”
“Damn, you drive a hard bargain. Don’t you get child support for all them kids you have?”
I twist my face up. This niggah can’t be serious? I know he’s not tryna clock my goddamn coins. “Niggah, don’t calculate my money. What the fuck does that have to do with you?”
“I’m sayin’. Why everything gotta always be about money with you? Why can’t we spend time together because we enjoy each other’s company?”
“Boo-Boo, you dialed the wrong number. I don’t enjoy you. I enjoy gettin’ what I can out of you; that’s it. If you lookin’ for a love connection you had better head on over to eHarmony or Match-dot-com. And if you lookin’ for freebies, then you better hop ya cheap ass up on Craigslist.”
I end the call, then step into the shower. I’m ready to get my drink on, dammit!
Twenty-Five
Oooh wee! I’m on my third Cum Cannon, feelin’ right, goddammit! And The Crack House is startin’ to get crowded. The drinks are flowin’ heavy. The deejay is tearin’ it up. And security is on high-alert up in this piece tonight as it is every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. And I’m lookin’ real sassy in my orange sleeveless, knit, cowl-neck mini dress. I got my brown leather, six-inch platform slingbacks on. My smooth honey-coated skin is oiled up ’n shinin’. My pussy’s floral fresh. And asshole’s Fleet-rinsed and ready. What you say? Calves, POW! Waist, POW! Booty, POW! POW! POW! Oooh, yes . . . Big Booty’s lookin’ delish!
I throw my right arm up, pumpin’ a fist into the air, then start slow humpin’ in my seat, twirlin’ my pussy up on the barstool when Grace Jones’ “Feel Up” starts playin’. I glance over toward the deejay’s booth and give Slick the middle finger for tryna crank me up tonight. He makes me sick with his long, skinny-dick self. Ooh, but that six-foot, cocoa-brown niggah with the light-brown eyes and wavy hair fucks like a savage. Hot ’n nasty ’n real sneaky with it. I fucked him twice. Once when I was sixteen, workin’ the poles. Then, again, when I was almost nineteen. I needed a couple of dollars to feed my babies, and Slick was always right there with his dick in his hand, tryna get up in this pussy. So I did what I had to do. And when shit got hectic and I needed a place to stay with my kids, Slick took me in. And I didn’t have to fuck him, although I probably woulda.
I close my eyes and slip back to my days as a stripper. I was sixteen. And I had no damn business strippin’ in no club. I was stacked like a twenty-year-old, workin’ the pole down at this gutter hole called Heart Throbs in downtown Elizabeth. The owner, Jam—who was about forty-five at the time, knew my real age but he didn’t give a damn. As long as I kept the room burstin’ at the seams, kept it rainin’ up in that motherfucka, and didn’t hit any of the back rooms to suck dick or get fucked, I could make my paper. And that’s exactly what I did. I was young and had body for days, and knew how to use ’em both to get what I needed. Makin’ sure I didn’t end up sleepin’ outside on a park bench or under a bridge somewhere with two small kids was my only concern. So I did what I had to do.
Mmmph. Heart Throbs kept me and my babies fed. And it allowed me to have a roof over my head. It’s also where I met Darryl Jennings—big dicked, dark-chocolate niggah and Baby Daddy Number Two—who ate my pussy and fucked me nonstop. I met him three months after I started workin’ there. He was twenty-two and one of the regulars, who came through three nights out of the week; specifically for me. He was a big-spender and tipped well. And, after two months of makin’ twenties rain down on me, he made it known he was diggin’ me.
The niggah started waitin’ for me after shows, makin’ sure I got home safe. Then it went to him takin’ me out for breakfast after the shows to dinners on the nights I wasn’t workin’ to buyin’ shit for me and my sons. Oh, you couldn’t tell a bitch like me shit. I had snagged me a real live baller. He hustled hard, played hard, and fucked harder. And out of all the bitches he coulda had, he wanted me.
Before I knew it, I was movin’ out of the one room I was cramped in with my two kids into a two-bedroom apartment. The niggah kept me stuffed with dick. Kept me and my sons laced in all the fly shit. And kept my handbag lined with paper. Then somehow it all went funky. I shoulda listened to my gut and kept it movin’, but I was real grown and hot in the ass. You couldn’t tell a ho like me shit. I had a thing for older niggahs. And he was checkin’ for me hard. So, I igged that little voice in my head that told me to seal my pussy up and bolt the other way. But the niggah knew my weakness. Money, big dick, and long tongue. He served all three. And served ’em well! Eventually, I got pregnant. And shortly there-after, he tried to use my face as his personal punchin’ bag. The niggah thought he owned me. And thought I owed him. In some ways, I guess I did owe him somethin’ for rescuin’ me from a fucked-up situation. But I didn’t owe him my life. And I damn sure wasn’t gonna let him tear my face up or let the niggah control me. The last time that motherfucka put his hands on me, I waited until he least expected it and slammed a knife down into his right hand, then took off runnin’. I was seventeen with three kids. And Slick was right there for me. He had my back. And ’til this day, he always has.
I open my eyes and peep his pencil-dick ass grinnin’ at me. I stick my tongue out at him. Niggah still fine as shit, mmmph!
“Feeeeeeeeeeel UP!” I sing out, throwin’ both hands up in the air. “Feel Up! Feel Up! Aaawl shit . . . Don’t start none, won’t be none, goddammit!”
Slick knows I’m about to light the bar up. He flicks his tongue back at me, laughin’. Oooh, this niggah knows how to do me right! He knows this shit right here is my goddamn jam! The bass line starts workin’ me over. I grind my pussy harder into the stool. Slick licks his lips. I roll my eyes at him, then turn my back on him. He knows the beat is about to have me bring it up in this bitch tonight. But I swear I ain’t come here to twerk it. I came to get my drink on, then take it on in. But goddamn him!
“Ooooooow!” I swing my right arm up in the air, sway to the beat a taste, then hop off the barstool. “Damn you, Slick! Yesssss! Yesssss!”
The niggahs who know me up in here all wait and watch with their drinks in their hands ’cause they know I’ma ’bout to crank up the Booty heat. “Aaah, yes!” I hop up and down, then kick my right leg up, toot my lips up and start swingin’ my head from the left to the right. My silky weave sways across my ass.
“Aaah, shit, yeah . . . do that shit, Booty!” someone yells out.
“Bounce that ass, baby . . . ”
“Goddamn, her body’s the truth . . . ”
I act like I don’t hear ’em. Shit, truth is, I ain’t payin’ these niggahs no never mind tonight. I close my eyes. Belly-roll it, hip roll it, then lean forward and booty pop it. I start feelin’ up my body, grabbin’ ’n squeezin’ my titties. I back it up from the bar. Give myself room to spin around. I run my hands through my hair and start goin’ at it hard when Slick plays Joe Budden’s “There’s Some Hoes In The House.”
“Aaaaaaah, yessssss . . . hot hoes in the house . . . you lil’ dick motherfuckas can’t handle this . . . where the big-dick niggahs at! Owwwwl!”
I dip down low, then roll it back up. The Crack House is about to come alive. Niggahs got their eyes locked on my ass. Hatin’-ass bitches ice-ballin’ me. But I don’t give a fuck. I’m in my zone. “Goddammit, Slick!” I scream over the music. “I need my throat wet! Someone get me another Cum Cannon! Owwwl . . . smoke a niggah’s dick! There’s some hoes in this house . . . Jerzee’s here, bitches!”
Big Mike comes from around the bar and brings me a drink. He’s the only niggah I’d trust to not try ’n drug a bitch. “You doin’ it up, baby,” he says into my ear as he hands me my glass.
“Big Mike, you lucky you my baby daddy’s nephew ’cause I wo
ulda been fucked you down by now, niggah. Wet that big dick right on up.”
He laughs. “Yo, Cass. You wild as hell, baby.”
“I know I am. Now back it up from outta my space and let me get my dance and drank on.”
He keeps laughin’, shakin’ his head as he walks off. He knows I love talkin’ shit to him. And the niggah knows I mean everything I say. I would cream all on his cock, then suck it clean, goddammit!
I toss back my drink, then hand my empty glass to some niggah all up in my face, starin’ me down and lickin’ his lips when Ester Dean’s “Drop It Low” starts playin’. “Aaaaah, shit . . . y’all tryna make me get my Ester on . . . ” I dip ’n bounce real low, swayin’ my head from side to side and causin’ my hair to sweep the floor. I pop back up, then bend over and grab my ankles, lettin’ my asscheeks peek out from under the hem of my dress. I start poppin’ it. Niggahs start hootin’ ’n howlin’.
By the time Pussy’s “Suck My Pussy” starts playin’ I’m all sweated out and ready to come outta my dress and drawers. But I’m so caught up in the music and moment, that I don’t really give a damn. Niggahs are winkin’, grinnin’, and lickin’ their lips as I shake up the booty heat.
After about six songs, I finally shake my ass back over to my seat where I stay perched, poppin’ shit to the niggahs who are all up in my face and tossin’ back the drinks. Tonight may be free drinks for the ladies, but I never have to pay any-damn-way so it really doesn’t matter.
Big Mike hands me another drink. “You were tearin’ it up out there.”
I reach for a napkin and pat my forehead, then the back of my neck. Sweat is just rollin’ all down my back. “You know how I do it, boo. Ooh, it’s hot as hell in here.”
He laughs. “Nah, that’s all you. You hot like fire, Cass.”
I wave him on. “And I’m ready to burn somethin’ up tonight.”
He laughs, walkin’ off to help another customer at the other end of the bar. I swivel my barstool so that I am facin’ the door as I place the straw to my lips and take slow, deliberate sips. I catch the eye of that sneaky-lookin’, Hill Harper look-alike watchin’ me from the other side of the room. He gives me a head nod. With his fine ass! I roll my eyes, then wrinkle my nose the minute I see Shuwanda and Alicia walkin’ through the door.
These nasty-freak bitches! Mmmph. I knew they’d be all up in each other’s faces, again. Images of the two of them chowin’ down on each other’s pussy’s flash in my head. Ugh! I toss back my drink, shakin’ the thought.
“Hey, girl,” Shuwanda says, walkin’ over to me with a phony-ass smile on her face.
I frown. “Bitch, don’t speak to me. You know I don’t like you. Now move along.”
She laughs. “I will when I’m good and ready. I know you don’t speak to me. That’s exactly why I fuck with you.”
I decide to ignore this bitch, lookin’ over at Alicia. “Ooh, girl. I heard how Chauncey dragged ya ass all through Pasha’s shop and busted ya face open a few months ago. A mess, boo. I’m so pissed I missed that shit.” I laugh. “Girl, what he do? He knocked out like three of your front teeth and broke ya nose, too, right? Speakin’ of which, how is that sexy-ass Mandingalo, doin’? I’m sure you missin’ all that hard cock. Oooh, Courtney is some kinda fine. Too bad you couldn’t keep him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck you, Cass. Messy bitch.”
“No, sugah-boo, you the messy one. How you gonna be on your knees suckin’ some stripper-niggah’s dick at a party, then get put on blast all up on Facebook? If you gonna be a whore, be a smart one.” I shake my head at her.
Alicia smirks. “Whatever, Cass. Say what you want, shit happens. I see you got that ugly scar off the side of ya face. KiKi really did your face real dirty when she sliced you down to the white meat.”
She’s talkin’ about the young bitch who came to my doorstep and slashed my face with a razor. And yeah, she did my face in lovely. Sliced the side of my face with a razor real good. But she got one even better. Me and five of my kids stomped that ho’s ass. Beat her face in until her head blew up like a pumpkin. We tried to beat her face off. Broke her eye sockets, nose and knocked teeth out. And, yes we posted it all up on YouTube and Facebook for all to see. And what? And yeah, we all got arrested and charged with aggravated assault. But, guess what? I didn’t give a fuck. That ho had crossed the line, comin’ to my door confrontin’ me about ridin’ down on her niggah’s dick.
And, yeah, I got ninety-seven stitches to the face. But that didn’t change shit. I still kept fuckin’ with her man’s young ass, and runnin’ his pockets. I fucked him because I wanted to. And because he had some good damn dick! And I dismissed his ass and sent him on his way when I got bored. But guess what? It was her niggah who hustled up the ten grand to get that scar removed. Plastic surgery is where it’s at, sugah-boo. And a bitch is good as new.
I pull open my handbag and take out my phone, settin’ it up on the bar. “Hahaha . . . real funny, bitch. And you see what happened to her ass. Pumpkin-head bitch got her ass stomped in. You must wanna be next. Oh, wait. You already know what it’s like to get stomped. Matter of fact, didn’t they have to carry ya ass out on a stretcher. Poor thing. Mmmph. But I’m glad to see you standin’. I know you glad you finally got all those knocked out teeth replaced.”
“Cass, you’re such a ghetto bitch. I don’t even know why I’m standin’ here wastin’ my time fuckin’ with you.”
“Ooh, Alicia, don’t do it to ya’self, boo. By the way, are you still with Courtney? Oh, wait. Not. I forgot. He dumped ya ass when he found out what a triflin’ bitch you are. I’m sure he’s happy not to be fuckin’ with your whorish-ass anymore, nasty cum-slut.”
Her mouth drops open. “The only whore here is you.”
I ignore the comment, shiftin’ my body around on the barstool. “Pussy eater, boom! I wasn’t the one who got caught suckin’ dick, sugah. You were. And then ya nasty, desperate ass done sucked down on Melvin’s ashy-ass dick. Ugh, ya ass really done fell off. ’Cause anyone who fucks a niggah after”—I flick my hand over at Shuwanda—“they done run all up in this bitch, is a straight up whore.”
Shuwanda starts neck-rollin’ it. “Bitch, how about you try spendin’ more time at home raisin’ ya bad-ass kids instead of poppin’ ya ass up and down in the bar and mindin’ everyone else’s business all the damn time? How about you do that for change, ho?”
I laugh. “Slut, boom! Both of you bitches are sickenin’. One minute the two of you bipolar hoes are airin’ each other’s business out, then the next minute you clit-lickin’ whores all coochie-crunch. You confused, dizzy bitches deserve each other. Now get the fuck outta my face.”
Shuwanda shifts her cheap handbag from one arm to the other. “Whatever, Cass. You always somewhere startin’ shit with ya miserable ass.”
I laugh, peepin’ the edges of her handles all frayed up. This ghetto, low-budget bitch is hot trash! She has the nerve to have a matchin’ scarf wrapped around her head. “The only miserable one in the room is you, sugah-boo. By the way, cute bag.”
She smirks. “Of course it is.”
This bootleg bitch really thinks I don’t know fake shit when I see it. Bitches kill me tryna pass off knock-off shit like it’s official. I shake my head. “Mmmhmm . . . downtown Newark and Chinatown specials; cheap wears and knockoff handbags. You’re real fly with it with ya Fooey Futon danglin’ in the crook of ya arm. A real Daffy’s girl; frontin’ like you’re doin’ it up. Bitch, puhleeze.”
“What?!” she snaps, plantin’ her fist up on her hip. “Cassandra, I know you don’t even wanna go there with me.”
I gulp down the rest of my drink and feel like bangin’ my glass in her face, but I’ma keep it real classy-ghetto tonight. “Boo-boo, puhleeze. I didn’t stutter. You heard what I said. We can go there all night if you want. ’Cause the truth of the matter is you can’t bring it to me, boo. No matter how hard you try. Yeah, I have a buncha kids by different men. And yeah, I live in section-8
housin’. And whaaaat, bitch? You still see me pushin’ a Range Rover, don’t you, ho? And you see my kids stay fly every damn day. And you see this thousand-dollar bag on my arm, don’t you? So where you tryna take me, huh, sweetie? No motherfuckin’ where; that’s where. But, you can take your—” My cell pings. “Saved by the bell, ho.” I grab it from off the bar.
“Whatever, bitch. Alicia, I’m gettin’ away from this ho before I have to turn it up in here.”
I laugh in her face. “Let me see you try it.” She huffs, walkin’ off.
Alicia eyes me. “You know that’s fucked up, right?”
I shrug, glancin’ at my screen. “Fuck that nasty, cum-guzzlin’ bitch. And fuck you too.”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
I crack up. “Boo, you wish you could fuck all this goodness. But guess what, bitch? Ya dick ain’t big enough. Now get the fuck away from me before you find ya’self eatin’ glass.”
She frowns, stormin’ off.
I have a text from Elijah. ASIA GOTTA BOY N HER ROOM N DOOR IS CLOSED
I blink to make sure I’m readin’ the shit right. What the fuck! I frown, textin’ back. WHERE’S DARIUS?
Elijah texts back. HE LEFT
Oh, hell motherfuckin’ no. I yank my bag off the bar. I’ma beat that lil’ ho’s ass tonight. Then I’ma cuss Darius out for leavin’ up outta there! I specifically asked his ass to keep an eye on things. And the motherfucka dips. Then he doesn’t even call me to tell me. Oh, I’m goin’ to jail tonight. WHERE R THE TWINS?
WIT DARIUS
I sigh. Somewhat relieved he didn’t leave the eight-year-olds in the house. Still, I’m pipin’-hot mad and ready to go the hell off!
I don’t waste no time racin’ up outta the bar, hoppin’ in my truck and screechin’ my tires outta the parkin’ lot. I call Elijah’s phone, then black the minute he answers. “Who the fuck does Day’Asia have up in my motherfuckin’ house?”
