“Thank you, baby,” I whispered, looking into his eyes as I traced his thick lips with my tongue. He tasted like weed, Crown Royal, and promises of a good dicking down.
Maleek moved his hands up to squeeze that juicy ass of mine that he loved so much. Not that my ass was all he loved. My looks. My bomb-ass pussy. Me period. He loved me. This motherfucker was mine. My husband. My lover. My man. My baller.
And nothing or nobody was gone to take him from me.
And I believed that all the way up to the day I got the call telling me Maleek got busted. I honestly believed nothing or no one would — or could — come between us.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I turn my head to see some sucker-ass Opie-fucking-Cunningham-looking fool smiling in my face. I start to cuss him the fuck out for trying to play me but Maleek always taught me when you’re on their turf you have to chill on the type of shit you would say or do like we home in the hood. So instead of telling this cornball to roll out my face before I roll on him, I just say, “No thanks.”
“You look like you could use some company for the night,” Opie says, with a friendly smile.
What the fuck?
I give him the nastiest ghetto/country girl Bankhead stare. He disappears quicker than a yard full of hot boys when somebody hollers out 5-0.
As I watch him walk away I notice quite a few eyes on me. Shit, I look good so I’m used to the hot stares of men and the even cooler stares of women. But here in this place with these mostly pale-ass faces and without my chocolate warrior by my side I feel hella out of place.
It was stupid to come here. What made me think coming here would make me feel closer to my husband. I turn and throw on my aviator shades as I leave the hotel lobby. I quickly pay the valet and soon I am turning off Piedmont and eating up the drive to west Atlanta.
I use my thumb to work my diamond ring around my finger as Bentley Manor comes up before me. I take in the run-down buildings. Women and they badass kids with no man in sight. Old people who done gave the fuck up on life and gonna die right up in this project. The hot boys chillin’ like they ain’t have shit else to do ’cause they ain’t have shit else to do. Motherfuckers ain’t making no real money. They asses happy for enough cash to buy a new pair of kicks and a fucking jersey.
And their customers: junkies dumb enough to get hooked on that shit. The women who look like damn shadows of themselves willing to suck and fuck they way to another crack high. The men who let themselves get treated like less than men — some of they cracked-out ass willing to suck and fuck these homo-thugs on the DL. Yeah, these heads’ money keep smart businessmen like Maleek in the loot to keep smart bitches like me in the shit I love.
I don’t belong here but with Maleek on lock I ain’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I turn my gleaming Benz into the parking lot and as always all eyes are on me. I don’t even bother speaking to nobody even though some of them throw they hand up at me. Fuck ’em. I park my car and get out. I push my shades up sending my long — and 100 percent real — hair back from my face as I walk to the rear to get my shopping bags from the trunk.
I know them niggas behind me is talkin’ about me, wishing they can be my man, wishing they can afford to send me on shoppin’ sprees, wishing they can get up in all this good pussy. Yeah, okay, what the fuck ever.
I close my trunk and use the remote to activate the alarm. Beep-beep.
I turn and walk into my building, jumping back as I nearly bump into somebody coming out the building.
“Whaddup, Aisha?” Junior says around the lit blunt in his mouth.
I roll my eyes. Junior: resident male jump-off of Bentley Manor. If a woman is looking for some good dick on the low then Junior’s the trick to call. He’s worse than some skank ’round here fuckin’ like it’s going out of style. He’s a bold motherfucker though ’cause he’s the only one who even tries to step to me knowing Maleek would sing they ass to sleep with his nine. I look at him with much attitude from head to toe. His clothes: typical jeans, hoodie, and Air Force 1s. His face: cute enough — especially if he does something with them bushy-ass brows. His haircut: in need of a trim but passable. His situation: married to some low-level white bitch. Everything about this nigga says he ain’t even on my level. So why the hell he all up in my space? Like he can compete with Maleek.
“Hey, Junior.” I move past him and he steps in my path.
He reaches out to grab my hand. “Aisha, why you be trippin’? You know how much I like you.”
I pull it out his grasp and put my hand on my purse ready to reach for my box cutter if this nigga tried to flex. Not that I’m scared of him. He’s harmless. The only things on his mind is fuckin’ pussy, blazin’ trees, and faking the funk ’bout his bullshit rhymes. Still a bitch should always be prepared. “Junior, don’t play with me.”
“Check this out,” he says, wiggling them brows as he looks down at himself.
I look before I can catch myself and my eyes get big as shit when he makes his dick jump up in his pants. And that motherfucker is down by his thigh.
Okay, it has been long time since I had a Maleek special and I have to admit this nigga makes my pussy lips jump to life. My nipples got hard like pebbles and the seat of my lace panties is moist as hell. The stairwell gets hot. I’m hot up in that stairwell (shit, I’m human). I heard that motherfucker could throw that dick like a pro. But none of that ain’t have shit to do with me.
“Nigga, you stupid as hell,” I tell him, walking up the stairs slow and easy like I own the apartment complex. Junior and his big dick are already forgotten.
I walk into my apartment and drop my bags by the door. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the custom-made leather sofa. With the remote I turn on the flat screen and flip through the channels. I stop on a show about real estate and I think about the house Maleek and me will have in one of them ritzy-ass neighborhoods.
My eyes drop to our big 11 x 17 wedding photo on the coffee table. I smile and touch Maleek’s face. Our time is coming and I can’t wait for Maleek to get out so we can get the fuck up outta here.
7
Lexi
That Wednesday morning I get up early as hell excited about it being Valentine’s Day. The skies are cloudy and the news called for rain, but nothing can kill my good mood. Luther and I always go all the way out on V-Day. I can’t wait to see my gift this year. Maybe a gold charm bracelet like last year or a nice Juicy Couture outfit like the year before that.
To be honest it isn’t about the gifts for me. I know we’re saving for our house and even if he doesn’t give me nothing but a card I will be happy. Plus, I’m excited enough about my plans for him. Since I lucked up and have the day off from work, I’m going all out.
A nice T-bone steak dinner with all the works (Oh, I throw down in more places than just the bedroom), red satin sheets and candles for the bedroom, flower petals for the bath I will give him, chocolate scented massage oil, a nice piece of black lingerie for me and satin boxers for him, whipped cream (to go on the strawberries and me), champagne (it isn’t Dom or Cristal but that bottle of Andres will do just fine), and last, my old lady friend Miz Cleo from the building in the rear agreed to watch the kids for me since my sister WooWoo has her own plans for the night.
I take a quick shower and throw on my red velour sweat suit. I have a few more errands to run for tonight and I want to get an early start. I grab my short leather jacket and walk out the bedroom looking through my purse for my keys.
The sweet scent hit me before I even look up and see the glass vase filled with a dozen beautiful red roses. For me everything else in the apartment fades to black: the nice neat and warm decor of our small living room, the dozens and dozens of pictures of the kids neatly arranged on the walls, the bright white and green decor of the kitchen. All I see is flowers.
I step into the kitchen and pick up the card leaning against the vase. The smile on my face spreads like melted butter. “I will always love you,
Lexi. Luther,” I read out loud. Short. Sweet. To the point. But it speaks volumes for me. Luther is a man’s man. A southern boy. He’s not a thug but he isn’t one of those men with flowery words. For me his actions speak a whole lot more.
I open the front door to leave the apartment and find Junior standing there with his hand still raised to knock. I release a heavy breath and cross my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Junior?” I ask, sounding tired and aggravated. Humph. I am tired of his butt aggravating me.
He wiggles those crazy brows as he breezes past me to walk into the apartment. He smells of some cologne and weed. “I’m on my way to the studio and decided to stop by and holla at you first. Happy Valentine’s Day, Sexy Lexi.”
I let the front door swing closed and turn to him. “Yeah, I remember the last Valentine’s Day we shared together. Do you?”
It was 1996, and I was eighteen and living in my small one-bedroom apartment in Bentley Manor. I only have a bedroom set, a 19-inch television set, and a sofa my nana bought for me from the secondhand store, but it was good enough for me and my baby boy Trey (Calvin Jefferson III). The rent was based on my income (welfare) so I was good to go between my cheap rent, my food stamps, the Medicaid, my check, and my child support (I needed a source of income to get the apartment so I applied for welfare and the state sued Junior for child support).
I’ll never forget how pissed Junior was when he got served his papers, especially since we had started kicking it again a few months ago. With us both living in the same apartment complex it was inevitable that we hooked up again. We wasn’t living together — even though I offered — but we were definitely back on.
He said the right words. Made the right apologies. Told me he loved me more than anything. Said he wanted his family.
I gave him another chance. I believed him. I loved him.
We were good together.
So I had my own place. My son. My man.
I was in the kitchen singing along with Monica’s Miss Thang CD on my little boom box and frying some steak and onions for dinner. It was Valentine’s Day and I planned a sweet romantic dinner for me, Junior, and Trey. We were celebrating it together as a family. Later, after we put Trey to sleep we would celebrate on a whole different level.
Junior had went to the mall to get my present and I was waiting on him to get back. I looked at the cheap Dollar General clock hanging on the white wall of my kitchen. It was three o’clock.
I turned the steaks on low and slid the tossed salad into the fridge. I laid on my lumpy couch next to Trey taking a nap.
Three o’clock became four and then five and then six. No Junior. I beeped him. He didn’t call back. I called his friends and nobody seen him. I kept looking out the window to see if he was hanging out front but Junior was nowhere to be seen.
Night turned into morning and he never showed. I went from anger to worry until I felt like I was going crazy. I cried. I paced. I threw out the dinner. I regretted throwing out the dinner. I woke Trey up just to hug and love on him. I rocked Trey back to sleep because I was too aggravated to take his tears.
Around seven I pulled on some jeans and one of Junior’s hoodies before I dressed my sleepy baby. I was gonna leave Trey with Nana and borrow her Lincoln to go looking for him. I wanted answers.
And I got them. Unfortunately.
I had just turned the Lincoln out the complex when I saw a green Escort hatchback pulled to the curb up the street to my left. I was about to make a right and do a drive-by of the house of this bitch I know Junior used to mess with. I looked left again to make sure no traffic was coming and saw Junior hop out the Escort, hitch his pants up by the waist as he walked around the front of the car, and leaned down to kiss the girl sitting behind the wheel.
My nana always said when you go looking for something be ready because you might just find it.
My heart broke into a thousand pieces and I wasn’t hardly ready for that.
I found out I was pregnant for him just one month later. Seven months after that our daughter Danina was born.
So this man standing before me fathered children with me…twice, and broke my heart…twice.
“Trey wants a new pair of sneakers and Danina needs a uniform for cheerleading,” I tell him, holding out my hand. One sure way to get rid of a tired man is to ask for money.
Junior sticks his hands inside his leather racing jacket, cocking his head to the side to look at me. “Damn, you used to beg for this dick ’til you met that sucka husband of yours. Now the first thing out your mouth is to beg me for money.”
“We’re not a couple and we haven’t been a couple since I caught your ass that morning and tossed your two pairs of raggedy drawers and your CDs out my window into the parking lot. Thus the only conversation we need to have is concerning our kids, and right now we’re chitchatting about our son needing a new pair of kicks and our daughter needing a cheerleading uniform. So save your Valentine wishes for that stuck-on-stupid wife of yours. Matter of fact, tell her dumb ass to pay your child support so I can get a check.”
He laughed as he steps up and takes my hand in his. “You shoulda been my wife.”
I snatch my hand away. “And have me around looking stupid like her dumb ass? She around here watching me like a hawk like I have a ‘give me Junior’s dick when I want it’ pass, but she needs to be watching your slick behind.”
He reaches down and unzips his pants to release his snakelike dick and licks his lips. “You can get that pass fo’ sho, Sexy Lexi.”
I swallow over a lump in my throat as he begins to massage the full, thick, dark length of it before he teases the tip with his thumb. I think of the times that dick would make me cum until I thought I would pass out.
Yes, he cheated on me. Yes, he left me with two kids to support. Yes, he had other girlfriends over the years. Yes, sometimes I had a “friend” of my own. And yes, I used to still give up my drawers to him. I would sex him and make him tell me my pussy was better than his bitch of the moment. I would suck his dick while he was on the phone with his girl. I would make him eat me out while I was talking to my “friend.” There was a time I just couldn’t say no to Junior.
“That busta-ass husband of yours can’t fuck you like I can,” he says.
Sad, but so very, very true.
I can’t look away from the way he plays with himself. His dick swells in size until his finger and thumb no longer touch. The rhythm is hypnotic. I imagine it’s my pussy walls sliding up and down the length of that dick instead of his fingers and my clit jumps to life like it’s nudging me to just say, “Fuck me, Junior.”
Okay, he is turning me on.
“You know you want this dick, girl.”
I’m kind of breathless and weak and my pussy is aching so bad for the kind of pleasure I know he can give me. Sex was never our problem. Never. And I know that I can give in to him just this once and get the kind of good dicking down I’m yearning for.
I know his thrusts will be deep and hard.
I know he can twist and turn and position my body until he is hitting parts of my pussy that I don’t even know exist.
I know he can make me cum until I coat his dick with my juices until it’s slick and wet.
I know Junior will have me sweaty, climbing the walls, and shouting to the rooftops while he blows my back out.
I press myself against the wall and take deep breaths as he picks up the pace until I think he will snap his wrist.
“Come on girl, give me some of that of pussy. Don’t let all this hard dick go to waste.” He reaches out with his left hand and gropes my breast teasing the nipple the way he knows I love.
And I let him. I did. I let him tweak and twist and pluck my hard and long nipples. God, this is wrong. This is soooo wrong but it feels soooooooooooooo good.
What am I doing? It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m about five lousy feet from the bouquet of roses my husband bought for me. My loving, faithful, honest husband who doesn’t deserve me having a
freakfest with one of my baby daddies in our home.
“No,” I cry out, twisting my body away from him and breaking his hold on my breast. “No, no, no, no, no, no. No. NO. NO!”
“Shee-it, I’m gone get this motherfuckin’ nut,” Junior says, pressing his back against the opposite wall of the hall as he bit his bottom lip.
I knock his hand off his dick. “Not in here you ain’t.”
I snatch open the front door and get behind Junior to push him and his tempting erection out.
The door of the apartment up the hall from me opens and Aisha Cummings stands there taking in the sight of me, Junior, and his hard dick with a haughty-taughty roll of her eyes before she closes her door and strolls away like she’s the Queen of Egypt. That chick is forever acting like she’s better than everybody else.
I notice Junior eyeing her ghetto booty. I ain’t even mad. “Please, she don’t even think you on her level so don’t embarrass yourself.”
Junior put his now limp dick back in his pants and zipped up as he looks down at me. “I don’t want that snotty ho. Man, fuck that bitch.”
“Better her than me. Good-bye, Junior,” I say with a big fake smile. I push him out the way, slam and lock my front door and walk past him to move down the hall.
“Damn, Lex, you gone leave me hangin’,” he hollers behind me.
“Sneakers and cheerleading uniform. Don’t leave your kids hanging,” I holler back, not breaking my stride as I leave the building.
It’s the end of winter in Atlanta but the morning air is still cold as hell — well, if you consider 53 degrees cold like I do — and it won’t warm up until later this afternoon. I hop into Black Betty, the 1991 black Lincoln Continental I inherited when my precious nana passed away when I was twenty-one. Aisha the Diva is in her Benz. The car looks out of place in the projects. I don’t miss the disdainful look she shoots me and my car before she backs up and whizzes away with ease. If she thinks she put me to shame she’s wrong. My nana’s car was purchased with hard-earned money and not the cold, hard cash of killing black folks with drugs and crime.
Desperate hoodwives: an urban tale Page 5
