by Cairo
I toot my booty back up on the barstool, finger poppin’ it as Big Mike slides me my drink. I take a few sips of it, then start twirlin’ my pussy up on the stool. “Aaah, yes, goddammit! This that grown ’n sexy shit.”
I take a few more sips, then toss it all back. Shit, I’m tryna get right, quick. I order another. After my third drink, my tank still ain’t full, but them Drawz done worked their way through me and got me ready turn it up a notch. I grab my glass from the bar and hop off the barstool when the instrumental to Nas’ “Oochi Wally” starts playin’. “Oooh, yes, do me right, Chunky, goddamn you!”
I throw my right hand up in the air and start oochie-coochie-wallyin’ it up, bendin’ at the knees, pumpin’ ’n humpin’ my hips to the beat, makin’ believe I’m naked, tossin’ my pussy at the niggahs watchin’ me. Chunky plays Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up” and starts smilin’ when he catches my eye. I give him the finger again, doin’ what the song says do: back all this ass up!
By the time the instrumental to Tupac’s “I Ain’t Mad At Ya” starts playin’, I’m on my fifth drink and ready to do the ballroom hoochie-coohie up in this bitch. I grab my skirt and start snappin’ it up and down, to the left, then to the right, like I’m a bullfighter, swayin’ to the beat, showin’ the niggahs gawkin’ my toned legs and givin’ ’em a glimpse of the red lace thong I have my pussy wrapped in. “Chunky, damn you,” I yell, windin’ my hips. “Do me right, goddammit . . . ”
I toss both hands up and swoop ’em around in the air. Then Chunky flips the switch and starts playin’ “Tonight” by Fabolous and I start dippin’ down real low. “Aaaah, shiiit, goddammit! Do me right, do me right!” I’m steppin’ side to side, then swayin’ to the beat, titties bouncin’, ass snap, crackle ’n poppin’. Oooh, you can’t tell me shit. “Goddamn you, Chunky Monkey!”
Oooh, he’s tryna do me right. When he starts playin’ the Ciroc Boyz Anthem, I am sweatin’ like a race horse. Three songs later, I’m swirlin’ my ass back up on the barstool, sippin’ on my seventh drink. My tank is full. I’m in high-gear. And I’m feelin’ right, goddammit! The place is packed somethin’ fierce, drippin’ with dick, dollars and potential new sponsors. And I am lovin’ every minute of it.
I cross my legs and strike a “I’m-the-sexiest-bitch-up-in-this-piece” pose while runnin’ my tongue over my straw, wishin’ it was a hard dick. I take a slow sip of my drink, bobbin’ my head to Waka Flocka’s “No Hands.” I sit my drink up on the bar and start bouncin’ in my seat, pumpin’ my hands in the air.
“Yo, baby,” this deep, dark dreamy, panty-wettin’ voice says in my ear, causin’ me to jump.
“What the fuck?! Is you . . . ” My voice fades, lookin’ into a delicious slice of heaven, grinnin’ at me. Sweet damn ding-a-ling-a-ling! This niggah coulda been my next baby daddy if I didn’t already tie and knot up my tubes. Oooh, he’s fine dark chocolate. And Big Booty love her some dark chocolate niggahs with them heavy dingdongs. Yes, Lawdy! And he has that fresh I-just-got-outta-jail-and-wanna-fuck look which makes my pussy lips pucker a bit. But there’s somethin’ in this niggah’s eyes that makes him look extra crazy. Like he’s the kinda niggah that’ll break a ho’s jaw and punch her in the titties, then kick her pussy in right out in the streets and not give a fuck.
“Yeah, I am.”
I scrunch my face up. “You are what?”
“Tryna fuck you.” He stares me down when he says this. “Deep in that fat ass of yours.” The niggah doesn’t blink.
“And who the fuck is you?”
“Legend,” he says in his deep voice. He licks his lips, glancin’ down at my thigh while runnin’ his big hand down my back as Cassidy’s “Aim for Your Head” starts playin’. I bite down on my bottom lip. This niggah smells like trouble, looks like trouble. And I hope I don’t gotta take a bottle to his goddamn head tonight. “But niggahs out in the streets call me L.”
“Well, I don’t care what they call you out in the streets, niggah-boo, you don’t know me like that. So get ya goddamn hands off my back.” I tell him this, but I ain’t crankin’ up the noise. I keep it real calm ’n steady ’cause I done told y’all I’m tryna keep it classy tonight. But, I can already tell I’ma have to help get this niggah’s mind right in a minute.
He removes his hands. “Yeah . . . ” He pauses when Big Mike sits another drink in front of me. “Hey, Playboy, put whatever this fine, sexy thang’s drinkin’ on my tab. She drinks on me tonight, all night.” He tosses a crisp hundred-dollar bill up on the bar.
Big Mike gives him a head nod, then eyes me and winks. Dark Chocolate waits until he walks off to continue tryna crank it up. “Now back to you, sexy thang. You real feisty; just how I like ’em. I’ve been watchin’ you on the dance floor all night bouncin’ that phat, juicy ass and them melon titties, teasin’ niggahs. You got some real live moves, baby. And it looks like you know how’ta handle a dick, too.”
I lift my drink off the bar, take a sip, then eye him. “Niggah, I do. But you ain’t gonna know about it. So all that ‘she drinks on me tonight’ shit ain’t gonna earn you no pussy.”
He laughs. “I can tell you got some good-ass pussy.”
“Yeah, niggah, I do. But you won’t know about that either.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that so? And what if I told you I take what I want.”
I twist in my seat. For some reason, I believe this niggah means what he says. I can see it in his eyes. He kinda reminds me of Knutz with that glazed, empty “I’ma-walkin’-cuckoo-clock” look in his eyes. Oh, yeah. This niggah is good ’n goddamn crazy, for real! And I don’t see a goddamn thing funny about the shit he’s talkin’.
“I wanna take you outside and fuck you in the backseat of my whip and pour Hennessy down ya back and let that shit roll down into the crack of ya ass, then slurp it up. You got my dick rocked the fuck up and I wanna feel your tongue on it, then that juicy ass sittin’ down on it. My dick needs you, baby. Let me take you outside and fuck the shit outta ya freak ass.”
I blink, then gas it up on his ass straight to ghetto. “Niggah-bitch! I don’t know who the fuck you think I am, but I ain’t some hoodrat, hooker-bitch you can talk shit to! Who the fuck is you, threatenin’ to take my pussy? Niggah-bitch, puhleeze. Do you know who the fuck I am, bitch?! Obviously not. I will have you stomped up in this bitch tonight, pussy-ass coon!”
He grins, lickin’ his lips again. And that only pisses me off.
I toss my drink in his face and the next thing I know, Big Mike and three security goons pop outta nowhere and surround us. “Yo, e’erything aiight over here, Cass?” Big Mike asks, eyein’ this nutty-ass niggah. “Yo, my man, is there a problem here?”
“Nah, we good,” he says, reachin’ over the bar and grabbin’ some napkins to wipe his face and the front of his designer shirt. “Just a lil’ misunderstandin’ between me and this sexy thang.”
“Niggah, puhleeze. Misunderstandin’ my ass. You came outta ya face all wrong, bitch. Tryna play me for some low-budget hood ho. Niggah, you can’t even lick my goddamn drawers without showin’ me that cream, niggah. Tryna do me. Niggah, puhleeze. You ain’t even let me get my throat wet real good before you start comin’ at me.”
I look over and see Scooter and his boys up and on ready to set it off. Scooter makes his way over to me. “Yo, Miss Simms . . . ” He eyes Crazy Ass. “ . . . we good over here?”
“No, we ain’t good. I want this coon-bitch outta my goddamn face.” Big Mike and his goon squad tell him to bounce, or get his shit and hit the door. He puts his hands up. Tells them he wants no problems. That he only wants to have a good time. He apologizes to me. Then the crazy niggah pulls in his bottom lip and winks at me as he steps back.
As he walks off, I yell out, “And bitch, I’ma still drink on ya fuckin’ tab, all goddamn night!” I follow him with my eyes ’til he gets lost in the crowd, then tell Big Mike to fix me two more Wet Drawz. “And make it heavy on the Drawz and less wet”—meanin’ more Absolut and less goddamn Schnap
ps—“ ’cause that niggah done worked my nerves.”
Oooh, but his chocolate ass done got my drawers real juicy!
Thirty
Yo, was you poppin’ shit the other night, ma, or are you really ’bout handlin’ a dick?”
I’m half asleep when I answer my cell so my brain isn’t on alert, yet. I don’t know whose number this is, or what niggah this voice belongs to. “I glance at the clock, frownin’. It’s two in the goddamn mornin’. “Who the fuck is this?”
“It’s AJ, yo.”
I blink. “AJ? Niggah, how you get my number?”
He laughs. “You whispered that shit all sexy in my ear down at the club. Had my dick all hard’n shit da whole night.”
Oh, yeah I did give this niggah my number last week. Shit. I ain’t think he was gonna remember it. But I’m glad he did. And not because I wanna ride down on his dingaling. I want info outta this niggah. So instead of cussin’ his ass out for bein’ dead wrong for callin’ me this time of night, I bite my tongue and kick up the charm.
“Took you long enough to call, niggah. But why the fuck is you callin’ me this time of night? You must be tryna get some pussy.”
“Yo, you already know. You was talkin’ some real good shit. I’m tryna hit that deep.”
I roll my eyes, sittin’ up in bed. I reach over and flick the lamp on. “You eat pussy?”
“Nah, ma . . . I ain’t wit’ that.”
“Well, do you lick ass?” Now I already know if a niggah ain’t eatin’ pussy, he ain’t lickin’ no ass either. But I wanna hear what this coon gotta say. And if you ain’t doin’ both, you definitely ain’t gonna be freaky enough for me.
“Nah. I don’t get down wit’ that either. But I’ll fuck you in it.” Mmmph. This corny-ass niggah ain’t ready for a bitch like me. I ask him how big his dick is. He tells me he has nine thick, hard, inches.
“Niggah, if you ain’t eatin’ pussy or lickin’ out no ass, ya dick game better be bananas.”
“No doubt. I puts in that work, yo. So wassup. Can I get up in them hips and stroke up ya insides or what?”
“Niggah, you gotta stroke up that cash, first. You got that money up?”
“Yeah, no doubt. I gotta lil sumthin’. How much you tryna trick a niggah for?”
“Well, if you were eatin’ pussy ’n ass I woulda gave you a discount sampler, but since you ain’t puttin’ out no tongue work, you gonna have’ta hit me with . . . mmmm . . . ”
Louie V gotta sexy pink belt I want, then I saw a pair of aviators I also want and this cute lil’ Keep It Twice monogram bracelet they got. I start calculatin’ in my head: Six-hundred-and fifty-five plus six-hundred-forty-five plus three-hundred-seventy. I tell him I want two grand, but I really only need seventeen hundred to get my trinkets. The extra three hundred is the tax for him not eatin’ pussy or lickin’ ass. But if what Jah said about this niggah is true, then I know he ain’t gonna be able to hang ’cause his pockets light.
“Daaaaaaayum, that’s kinda steep for some pussy. I can see if you was askin’ for a few hunnid, but two gees? You buggin’ wit’ that.”
I laugh. “Niggah, if you broke, say you broke. You ain’t gotta front. But I ain’t buggin’ ’bout shit. Ain’t no shame in my game, boo. If you can’t afford me, then so be it.”
“Yo, ain’t nobody frontin’. And ain’t nobody say I couldn’t afford you. I’m sayin’ how I know you even worth that kinda paper?”
“Niggah, you don’t. But that ain’t stop you from wantin’ to fuck me. Now did it?”
“Nah, but still. I ain’t that kinda dude to be trickin’ up that kinda paper for no ass. Fuck that.”
I keep laughin’. “Okay, if you say so. But I ain’t given you none of this pussy, boo.”
“Oh word? It’s like that?” I can hear the disappointment in his voice. Niggah, boom! Like I give a fuck. “You suck dick, ma?”
“I sure do.”
“How much you tryna run a niggah for some dome? I wanna feel ya lips ’round my dick.”
I smirk, gettin’ outta bed. I walk to my closet and pull a blunt outta one of my hidin’ spots. Niggah, you ’bout to get more than these lips. I pop my bare ass into the bathroom, then shut the door. “You like gettin’ ya dick sucked?”
“Hell yeah, ma. What muhfucka you know don’t like his top spun? I’m always lookin’ for a good head doctor.”
Uh-huh, niggah. I just bet you are.
I spark the blunt and take a pull, then blow smoke up into the air. “Is that so, lil niggah?” I sit on the edge of the oversized tub with the claw-feet, crossin’ my legs. “Mmmph. You ain’t ready for no real neck work, boo. And ya paper’s light. So you tell me. How much can you afford to trick up for some of this wet throat?”
See. This niggah’s real cocky with his shit, so I know he ain’t diggin’ bein’ called out like that. But he’s either extra cheap or extra broke. And, trust. A cocky coon like him ain’t ever gonna admit to bein’ broke. “I’ll hit you wit’ like a few hunnid, but that’s all.”
I laugh. “Niggah, you must want the Walmart special for a few hunnid.”
“The what?”
“You heard me. You tryna play me cheap, boo. That means you only get a tongue lap. No mouth, just tongue over the head, then down the sides of ya shaft, and maybe over ya balls a few times. And that’s that. If you want lips ’n mouth, you gonna need to run a lil’ deeper in them pockets. You wanna push ya dingaling down in my throat, then you need to bring it right. And if you wanna get that dingaling cream slurped outta ya piss slit, then you definitely better get ya money up and do me right. Do me right, niggah or don’t get done; simple as that.”
“Damn, yo. You got my shit hard as fuck. Ya mouth’s real reckless, yo. But you a sexy bitch. And you nasty as fuck. I peeped that shit the night I first saw you all up on my niggah Buddha’s ass.”
“Uh-huh. I sure am. And I like nasty niggahs who know how’ta fuck. How you know Buddha anyway?”
“We cool from back in the day. And we did a few county runs together. But I ain’t tryna talk about him.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, what you wanna talk about?”
“You. Me. I wanna fuck, and I want my dick sucked.”
“Then you need to pay, boo. Or get the fuck off my phone. I got bills to pay, niggah. And I got kids to feed. So if you wastin’ my time, then you cuttin’ into my money. Or in ya case, my goddamn sleep.” I take two deep pulls, hold the weed smoke in, then push it outta my lungs. This niggah is startin’ to bore me, but I wanna see his ass.
“Listen, ma. Real shit, you right. My paper ain’t right like that. I gotta lotta fines ’n shit suckin’ my pockets dry. But, I’m diggin’ you. And I wanna get at you.”
“You gotta lil dick, don’t you? Keep it real, niggah.”
“Hell naw, my shit ain’t lil’. I gotta fat-ass dick, ma, and I know how’ta use it.”
I laugh. “In other words, that’s code for my dingaling is short ’n stumpy.”
He laughs with me. “Yo, you funny as hell. Yo, c’mon. Let me get at you.”
I finish smokin’ my blunt down to the gristle, then toss it in the toilet and flush. “You got ya own spot?”
“Nah, I live wit’ my peoples.”
“Oh, yeah? Where at?” He tells me over in a new development off Martin Luther King Blvd. in downtown Newark. Not too far from Essex County College. “So, how we gonna do this then ’cause I got kids and you ain’t comin’ up in here?”
I wash my hands and start brushin’ my teeth. He tells me we can roll over to his man’s spot and chill there. That he has a room that he can use. This niggah is suckin’ horse shit if he thinks I’ma be stretched out somewhere knowin’ another niggah’s up in there.
I frown, walkin’ back into the bedroom, then crawlin’ back in bed. “Niggah, boom. You must think I’m some kinda crazy. I don’t know you like that. You won’t have me somewhere bein’ tag-teamed.”
“Nah, ma. I wouldn’t do you like that.”
I laugh. “Niggah, I know you won’t. ’Cause you ain’t gettin’ the opportunity to. So look”—I glance over at the clock—“it’s almost three o’clock in the mornin’ and I gotta be up at six to get my kids ready for school. So call me when you can afford a room at the Marriott or Sheraton, and you got some paper to spend.”
“Yo, what you doin’ tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Meet me down at the club. I owe you some drinks.”
I laugh again. “Drinks ain’t gonna get you no pussy, boo. But I tell you what. You pull ya dick out and let me see what you workin’ with and if I like what I see, I might give you a sampler.”
“Oh, word? And what’s that?” I tell him I might straddle up on it and ride down on the head and milk his nut out. Now he laughs. “You shot da fuck out. But know this, if you ride the tip of my dick, you gonna wanna slide down on all of it. It’s that good, ma.”
“Mmmph. Whatever.” We talka few minutes more, poppin’ shit about his dick work, then make plans to meet down at The Crack House for drinks. “Niggah, I think you all mouth, but we gonna see. I’ma guzzle ya wallet up at the bar, so make sure you got ya money right to keep the drinks flowin’.”
He laughs. “Aiight, ma. I got you. And hopefully you’ll be swallowin’ this dick by da end of da night.”
Nine P.M., I’m lookin’ right in my black, short knit, scoop neck dress. I slip my manicured feet into adobe-colored five-inch Stuart Weitzman platform, peep-toe pumps. It’s my first time wearin’ the three-hundred-and-eighty-five-dollar heels and I’m hopin’ these bitches don’t hurt my feet. I don’t usually like wearin’ heels under four-hundred dollars. But these were cute. Do me right, goddammit!
I spray a few squirts of Signorina between my titties, then along my wrists and crotch area, then grab my twelve-hundred-dollar Clara Kasavina clutch. These ghetto bitches around here ain’t ready for Miss Kasavina’s pieces. But I am. And I serve ’em well. I open it and toss in a small tube of anal lube, a mini-remote butt plug and some lip gloss, then snap it shut.
