Trust in No Man

by Cash

  “Nothing,” Inez answered. “I was asleep.”

  “You want me to leave and come back later?”

  “Naw, get in bed with me.”

  I undressed and slid in bed with Inez. Her back was against my chest and her ass craddled against me like we were two spoons. I kissed the back of her neck and reached around to play with her nipples, they were long and always hard, like root beer-colored Jolly Ranchers.

  She moaned. “Ummm,” and wiggled her ass against me.

  I pinched Inez’ nipples hard.

  She loved that shit. My tongue slid down between her shoulder blades. I felt her body quiver and heard soft moans. I rolled her over onto her stomach and continued teasing with my tongue. Her legs spreaded and her ass rotated, inviting my tongue to taste her pussy from the back.

  I’d been holding Inez down for a few months now, and I was confident she wasn’t slutting around. I hadn’t eaten her pussy before, but I most definetly get down like dat. I just tried to be selective as to who I gave the tongue to.

  Inez was doing everything a down-ass bitch was supposed to do for me, so she’d earned a little freaky deaky.

  I gave the pussy the stinky finger test before sampling it with my tongue. When my mouth sucked her wet pussy lips and my tongue found her clit, Inez’ body shook. I licked her to a hard orgasm and then turned her over onto her back so I could eat her pussy real good.

  Twenty minutes later, she was screamin’ my name, pulling me up and sucking my tongue. Tasting her pussy, I guessed. Then she wanted my dick in her mouth. Of course she got that, too.

  Inez sucked mean dick. Mad noise and a lot of spit and a lot of umms. She could make me bust real fast but this time, I held out. I wanted my joint rock hard when we got to the fucking.

  “Damn! Don’t make be bust, girl.”

  “Why not?” Inez muttered, mouthful of dick.

  “I wanna save that for another hole of yours,” I said.

  “Umm! Which one?”

  Inez liked to get fucked in the ass, hard. I was wit’ dat.

  By the time I shot mad cum up in her ass, Inez had promised me everything but eternal life.

  Afterwards, we slept like two freaky ass babies.

  Sometime later, a face full of chronic smoke awakened me from a deep, good-pussy-induced sleep.

  “You gon’ sleep your life away?” Inez smiled at me, holding a spliff.

  She had that radiant look that was on a bitch’s face when she’d been well-fucked.

  “What time is it?” I asked, accepting the spliff from Inez and sat up.

  “Why? You gotta be somewhere at a certain time?”

  “Naw, ma. What, a nigga can’t ask what time it is without having to play a thousand questions?”

  “Where that attitude coming from?” Inez shot back. “I was just fuckin’ wit’ you, nigga. Bounce if you got somewhere to go. It ain’t like I’m gonna be like Toni Braxton, wondering if I’ll ever breathe again, just ‘cause you got somewhere to go.”

  I laughed. “I just don’t want you tryin’ to check my schedule. I ain’t Fat Stan, all pussy-whipped and shit.”

  “There you go with that shit again. What does Stan have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just lettin’ you know who wear the pants, shawdy.”

  “Nigga, you a trip. Pass me the spliff.” Inez defused the potential conflict before it began.

  We laid in bed gettin’ high and kickin’ it. Inez had already told me her story, from childhood to the present. I had told her little about my childhood, but not much about my present. My steelo was to disclose very little about myself.

  This particular morning, though, the weed and Inez’ warm body loosened my tongue. I got introspective and deep, we talked about things on a level no other female I’d ever met could relate to.

  Inez didn’t agree with all of my opinions, but neither did she take me to combat over them. Instead, she gave me an opposing view to consider. She told me I shouldn’t let the drama between me and my baby mamas keep me from spending time with my kids.

  “But, really, that’s just an excuse,” Inez said. “The streets be keepin’ niggaz from their kids. They don’t have time.”

  “Not me,” I countered. But deep down I knew Inez was spittin’ the truth.

  I loved Terrence Jr. and Eryka, and I knew I’d love my third child when it came into this world, even though I was pissed at Cheryl for not having an abortion. Still, the streets demanded most of my time and my children got little of it.

  Paper chasin’ ruled a nigga’s every minute, so it seemed. And the little time that wasn’t spent chasing loot was spent inside of some pussy. A nigga like me needed forty-eight hours in a day.

  Of course, a day wasn’t but twenty-four hours long. So my seeds saw less of me than the streets and the bitches. Truthfully, though, I was living too dangerous to have my kids in tow when I whipped the streets.

  Inez had a nigga feelin’ guilty, like I needed to hit the brakes and go spend time with my young ones. Her ass had a lot of nerve giving out advice. She wasn’t raising her own child.

  I told Inez about Cheryl and the drama we were going through. “So, you broke up with her ‘cause she got fat? You ought to carry a baby for nine months. I bet you would get fat, too,” Inez defended Cheryl.

  “It ain’t just that. She went loco after she had my daughter, now she’s pregnant again!”

  “Well, you shoulda wore a condom.”

  “You got that right,” I agreed. Inez read my thoughts.

  She said, “Nigga, you don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant. I ain’t tryin’ to have no more babies.”

  I fucked Inez in the shower and then we dressed and went downstairs and ate microwave pizza.

  About five mafuckaz came to cop OZs from Inez. She was pushing that hydro weed, had a kick to it like a mule.

  I checked an OZ and a G-note from her stash and told her I’d be back later. I wasn’t gon’ lie, that shit had a young nigga feelin’ like a thug-style pimp. I was checkin’ the bitch for paper just like pimps who get their loot from the womb. But I wasn’t disillusioned, I knew that my bread and butter was jackin’ niggaz for their loot and leavin’ ‘em with their heads in their lap.

  I left Inez’ crib with a mind crowded with conflicting thoughts.

  The streets were me, no denying that.

  Was it possible to be a street nigga and a good father to my seeds?

  I didn’t want my seeds to grow up without a father, like how me, Toi and most other mafuckaz in the hood grew up. Nor did I want them growing up calling another nigga Daddy. I wanted to hustle and give my kids all of the things they wanted and deserved. And if hustling sent me to an early grave, so be it. I was born to die, anyway. Like every other mafucka. At least Lil’ T, Eryka, and my baby growing inside of Cheryl’s womb would know that pops laid his life on the line for ‘em.

  Feeling a strong urge to see my children, I dipped over to Shan’s crib to kick it with Lil’ T, but nobody was home.

  In the parking lot, one of Shan’s neighbors was all on my dick like foreskin. Honey was slim, with a gap between her legs wider than a baby’s head. I sat inside of my whip and played with her mental for a few minutes, but I wasn’t trying to get with her. Her type came a dime a dozen, I’d catch up with her or a bitch just like her when I had nothing else to do. I gave her my digits and bounced, heading to Cheryl’s crib to see Eryka.

  When I got there, Cheryl’s mom was fussin’ at her about not cleaning the house and leaving pissy pampers lying around.

  My showing up didn’t help the atmosphere at all. But Cheryl’s Ma Dukes cut the argument short and started cleaning up the house herself.

  Occasionally I’d catch her staring bullets at me.

  I didn’t like her ass, either. The feeling was mutual, but the mood inside of their crib didn’t vex me.

  I picked up Eryka out of the playpen and kissed her fat cheeks. She squirmed and smiled, showing much love for her pops.
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br />   I stayed over there long enough to play with Eryka, feed and burp her, change her pamper and then rock her to sleep. I said little to Cheryl, just watched her stuff her pig face.

  In less than a year after having Eryka, Cheryl had gone from sugar to shit. It was even crazier how we had gone from being close to being strangers. I gave Cheryl some loot and told her to spend it on my daughter.

  “Did you have that test done to find out what you’re having,” I asked her.

  “You mean the sonogram?”

  “Whatever it’s called.”

  “Yeah. I’m having another girl.

  I didn’t comment. Not that it too much mattered that she was having another girl as opposed to a son. I already had a junior to carry on my name after the streets put me in a box.

  Since Cheryl had decided to not have an abortion, another daughter was cool with me. The talk I’d had earlier that day with Inez had made me accept Cheryl’s second pregnancy. After all, why should I trip the inevitable? For as long as I breathe, I would love all of my seeds equally, regardless to the drama I had to go through with their mamas.

  When I left Cheryl’s crib, I went by my apartment and grabbed a change of clothes and whipped over to spend another night with Inez.

  Shan paged me as I was closing Inez’ front door.

  “I need to use your phone.”

  “You know where it’s at,” Inez said.

  Shan answered on the first ring. I told her I hadn’t wanted nothing important, I’d just stopped by to see Lil’ T and to drop off a little loot for her to get him a few things. Shan told me I could bring the money now that she was home.

  “I’ll drop it off tomorrow,” I promised. “Let me holla at my son.”

  “He’s spending the night with my mother,” Shan said.

  I told Shan I’d fall through there whenever Lil’ T. came home, and I ended our conversation without saying bye, just a click in her ear.

  I planned to go by Poochie’s crib early in the morning and scoop my son up from there. I hadn’t told Shan that because I knew she’d try to be at her mother’s crib when I showed up to scoop my son, instead. Whenever possible I tried to avoid seeing Shan, which was really why my spending time with Lil’ Terrence was becoming so infrequent.

  I was beginning to understand how a lesser nigga could let his kids’ mother push him to the point where he’d abandoned them totally. I hadn’t reach that point with Shan or Cheryl, ‘cause if push came to shove, I would’ve put a bullet in both of those hos’ heads. I’d leave ‘em somewhere stankin’ before I’d let ‘em push me out of my seeds’ lives.

  After disconnecting my conversation with Shan, I dialed Lonnie’s number to see what was poppin’. While talking to my dawg, Inez’ phone beeped.

  “Yo, playgirl,” I called out to her. “Your other line is ringing.”

  “You can answer it.”

  I told Lonnie to hold tight.

  “Hello?”

  The voice operator announced a collect call from Stan Montgomery. I pushed the button to accept.

  “Hello?” I repeated.

  There was a confused pause and then he said, “Uh—what number is this?”

  “You tell me, playboy, you’re the one who dialed it.”

  “Is Inez there?”

  “Yeah, she’s here.” I knew a man answering his woman’s phone was fuckin’ with Fat Stan’s mental, especially while he was in prison. I’d been in his shoes before and niggaz hadn’t showed me no mercy. I was just gettin’ some revenge.

  “Who is this?” Fat Stan finally asked. His voice sounded like it was about to crack.

  “I guess you should ask Inez that, my nigga,” I said. Then, loud enough for him to hear me: “Yo, Inez, baby. Come get the phone. It’s some nigga calling collect from the pen.”

  Inez gave me a stiff look when I handed her the phone. But not a disrespectful gesture or I would’ve slapped her in the mouth. Just to reinforce who was holding her down now.

  I wasn’t dissin’ Fat Stan. It wasn’t like we were dawgs, the way Shotgun Pete and me had rolled together before he got with Shan while I was on lock. Inez may have owed Fat Stan respect and loyalty, but I didn’t owe him shit. I sat back and listened to Inez’ end of the conversation.

  She said: “Hello?” That was followed up with, “That was a friend of mine. Call me back tomorrow, okay? I don’t feel up to arguing with you.” Then she was silent for a while. Fat Stan must’ve been snappin’ at her on the other end. Finally, she asked him, “Why you wanna know his name? What difference does it make who he is?” There was a long pause. “I’m not telling you his name, so quit asking.” Whatever Fat Stan said to that really pissed off Inez. She snapped, “I ain’t gon’ be too many more bitches and sluts! I’m trying not to disrespect you on the phone, but I’ma cuss yo’ ass out if you keep talking to me like that!” Another pause. Then she snapped, “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ him! So, what? What da fuck you want me to do, masturbate fo’ five motha-fuckin years!?” Damn.

  “So what! I didn’t put yo’ ass in jail. Yo’ ass was sellin’ dope when I met you, so don’t try to blame me for you being locked up! I didn’t tell you to shoot that boy!”

  Pause.

  “I told you I wasn’t fuckin’ with that boy, he lied!” She calmed down, adding “I’m handlin’ my bidness. I don’t know why you trippin’. I ain’t gon’ stop living ‘cause you’re locked up. No matter who I’m kickin’ it with, I’ma keep your commissary straight. I’ma do that ‘cause I ain’t no dirty bitch. You took care of me when you

  Another pause.

  Then she said it. “Naw. His name is Youngblood, since it’s killing you not to know.” Her voice was agitated.

  Pause.

  “I don’t know if he hangs with Lonnie or not. I don’t know no Lonnie.” There was hesitation in her voice when she said, “Why you wanna speak to him? Inez covered the receiver with the palm of her hand, turned to me and said, “He wanna speak to you. You wanna see what he got to say?”

  “Fuck no!” I snapped. “I ain’t got no rap for that nigga! That’s between y’all.”

  “He don’t wanna talk,” Inez said into the phone.

  Fat Stan must’ve hung up on her ass, ‘cause Inez didn’t say another word after that. She just handed me the phone and told me whoever I’d been talking to on the other line must’ve hung up. I called Lonnie back and told him I’d whip through his spot later in the week.

  Right away I could see that the conversation Inez had with Fat Stan had left her in a foul mood, probably regretting that she’d had to spit the truth and break his heart.

  I’d been on the other end of the phone before. I knew that Fat Stan was probably in his cell, madder than a mafucka, ready to fight officers and inmates. All because his baby mama was gettin’ dicked down while he was doing time. Though I knew the feeling, I still wasn’t compassionate toward the nigga. The streets was dog-eat-dog, I didn’t have no love for the other side. Mafuckaz, other than Lonnie, didn’t have no love for me when I was in Fat Stan’s predicament.

  What had me peeved, however, was Inez’ foul mood. Fuck sitting around the bitch while she was brooding over another nigga. I stood up.

  “Yo, I’m ‘bout to bounce.”

  “Why’re you leaving?” complained Inez.

  “Bitch, you think I’ma sit here while you get teary eyed, ‘bout to cry over another nigga?”

  Inez came and hugged me. “Don’t go, please. I ain’t fixin’ to cry.”

  “You a lie! Why yo’ eyes watery?”

  I didn’t hear her response. I was out of the door before she could spit it out. I went home and chilled for a few hours, bored like fuck.

  Inez was blowing up my pager.

  Fuck her. Let her ass suffer.

  I wasn’t calling her back until I was good and ready.

  There were three things I have never seen: A UFO, a mafucka I was scared of and a bitch that I couldn’t do without.

  I took a shower, threw on som
e fresh gear, some bling and whipped to the nightclub. The parking lot was packed with fly whips sitting on dubs. It was winter and too cold for mafuckaz to be hangin’ outside of the club, so only the whips were on display.

  Niggaz were showcasing like usual. Bitches, too. Mafuckaz were dressed like they were at The Source Awards.

  I was rockin’ a camel skin jacket with a fur hood, starched khakis, a wool plaid shirt and a fresh pair of Timbs. I stayed thug gin’. My neck was iced and my wrist was frozen. My khakis were saggin’, pockets laced with big head Benjamin’s.

  I bought a bottle of Alizé from the bar and took it to a table near the back of the club. Most niggas liked to floss where everybody in the club could see them. Not me. I was a robber, paranoid by my profession.

  I prefered to sit where I could observe, without being observed.

  I was drinking Alizé straight out of the bottle, just peepin’ the scene, nodding my cranium to the beat of the music. Trick Daddy was rappin’ from the speakers. The dance floor was crowded with fly honeys with phat asses, mad weaves and bling a nigga had went to prison trying to buy for ‘em. The pretty boys, playaz and bustaz were dancing with the fly hos. The real ballers and the true thugs never danced.

  Murder Mike came to my table and hollered at me. He had that hood rat, Cita, with him. She was looking like a movie star, even though her ass was project, born and raised.

  I spoke to them and turned up the Alizé. Some dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my camel’s hair jacket.

  Cita said, “Your girl, Fiona, is around here somewhere.”

  “My girl?” I asked. “Ha! Fiona ain’t my girl, she belongs to the whole hood!”

  “She’s looking good, dawg,” Murder Mike declared.

  “Shit, she always looks good. The problem is she don’t smell good once she takes her clothes off.” They cracked up.

  “You a trip,” Cita said. Her look said she wanted to get with me.

  She winked her eye, on the sly.

  “Yo, main man,” I addressed my homey, Murder Mike. “You need to check Cita. She choosin’ me with her eyes, while she on your arm.”