Now I could feel the frenzy in my pussy, after not having felt it in a very long, long time. It was throbbing. That’s the type of heat that moved with Midnight. Just the mention or thought of him could even arouse a dead bitch! My breasts were hot and my chest was heaving, my nipples erect. I was dolo in da dark and just about to cum, so moved by his image in my memory that it made my whole body quake.
Suddenly, I felt a shot through my chest and I was being pulled. I’m a dead bitch back on the move again. I’m fast-forwarding through the dark. It felt so good. From orgasm to feeling high. This was a higher type of high though. The difference similar to on the one hand smoking straight weed, and on the other hand smoking weed with cocaine sprinkles on it. I was never a cokehead, but hey, when you drink or smoke with friends or lovers, you never know if they spike the Kool-Aid or punch or put sprinkles on your weed. Now this cocaine-blunt feeling had me enjoying the mysterious ride and feeling even lighter than a feather.
When the action stopped, I floated down softly and landed in what felt like grass. I wasn’t certain, though. I couldn’t see nothing. Then, blat dow! Bright blinding sunlight! I threw my hands over my eyes and took only short peeks until they adjusted to the shocking shine. While my eyes were still covered, I could smell a certain unrecognizable scent. I eased open my fingers. I was standing in a field of flowers, all of them green-stemmed, tall, and yellow-faced. Hold up now, I’m a city bitch. So I’m like, What the fuck? Where am I and why am I here? I dropped my hands. I could see everything clearly. There were blue-headed, red iridescent-feathered birds with long curved beaks soaring above me. There were also uniquely orange-colored birds with straight long beaks and a crown of feathers on the top of their heads. They were flying around the field. Some landing in the trees—trees that looked like a memory that I didn’t want to remember right now. It was from my eighteen-years-young trip to the Florida Keys. Yes! Palm trees, but these had sacks of strange fruit hanging from them that were not Florida coconuts. There were exotic butterflies fluttering up way too close to me. Some were several shades of orange only. Some of them were polka-dotted and multicolored and in all types of unexplainable shapes. I started laughing. I’m used to pigeons and moths and mosquitoes and cement and sidewalks and gravel!
In the far distance there was a tall, wide, and long white wall that somehow glistened as though it had been covered with diamond dust, causing the shine from it and the power of the sun to collide and my eyes to squint. I never saw a wall like that. Someone had to be hiding something behind it, I thought. Looked like money to me. So I began walking in that direction. As soon as I did, I stopped short. I got psyched that I have legs and can suddenly fully feel them. In fact, I can walk, see, hear, smell, and even taste the air. Ah shit, air! That means I can breathe. I’m alive!
After I walked for what felt like forever, I realized that fast-forwarding through darkness was a swifter mode of transportation. Walking for me now was somehow played out, a thing of the past, a tiring non-necessity. Finally reaching the white wall that had sparkled from afar, I could see the detailing of it. It was about fifty thousand square feet long. It was solid as though made from huge shiny white rocks. And every ten feet there was a parallel indentation perfectly carved into the wall. I walked to one of them and turned and stepped inside of the indentation. It was as though someone had carved out a space for a six- or seven-foot person to just stand outside but inside the wall. Crazy! I’m thinking, Why would a man be standing inside of a solid rock wall? I stepped out from it and counted twenty-one indentations before I couldn’t count any further because that was how long the wall ran. Then I thought, Maybe armed guards stay tucked in there. This wall must be protecting a mansion and each security guy stood in each indentation. But what type of hustler needed fifty security dudes outside of his crib? Maybe they were not even regular security, I suddenly thought. Maybe they were spaces for soldiers who carried M-16s. Yo! Maybe this was Pablo Escobar’s joint or Tony Montana or El Chapo or… I laughed, excited as I now walked alongside the wall looking for the entrance.
Sterling silver, that’s what the incredibly sturdy, solid, wide door that was embedded inside of the white wall was made of. I stepped back to fully check it out. I looked up. On top of the wall sat white doves. They stared at me but didn’t fly off all nervously like how birds tend to do when even being looked at by human beings. I took a good look at them and walked towards that badass door. I was glad that I don’t have that bird fear that one of the chicks on lockup had. She would have been terrified if she was here.
When I reached for the heavy metal knocker, my arm went right through the door as though it was not solid sterling silver, even though I am one hundred that it is. My body followed. Once inside I was still outside, meaning I looked up and I could still see the sky, not a ceiling or a roof. I was standing in what seemed to be the front yard. Beneath the beautiful trees were seven sterling silver outdoor chair-and-table sets with designer cushions, and two sterling silver benches. Beyond the trees at the center of the yard was a huge multiple-level fountain that seemed to be made of the same rock that the wall surrounding the house was made of. In addition to it sparkling, it was gushing water that looked clean enough to drink or bathe in. I walked towards it. I inhaled to see if it smelled any particular way. Clean water, I thought, should not have any smell whatsoever. I leaned in and stuck my hand in the flow. But when I drew my hand back there was no water or trace of wetness in my palm. I thought about it. I’m not even thirsty or hungry. I had not seen food since prison breakfast this morning, which I didn’t eat ’cause it was my release day and I was gonna be eating way better food from then on.
But hold up. That could not have been this morning. I was released into a winter storm in the winter season. Where I am standing right now it is obviously summer, not even spring. It has to be August, the hottest month. I can feel the hot breeze and everything is fully blossomed. I grabbed myself. What am I wearing? It better not be the white three-quarter hooded mink coat and the thigh high boots. It isn’t. I am wearing the, I’m rich bitch Chanel, winter-white brocade, tapered, sleeveless mini with the pleats that gently hug my hips. Of course I am. I had ordered the mini to rock beneath the mean mink and to highlight the red python boots. Wait a minute… the red boots are gone. Now I’m not wearing no shoes. No shoes! Un uh… I walked around to the backside of the fountain. About seventy-two feet away was another door, which looked like it was made of pure platinum. Super wealthy, I get it. Dripping with dough! Caked up! Nothing but cheddar, gwop to the ceiling, raining paper! Overwhelmed, I didn’t bother knocking, just breezed through, which I now know I can do. I’m thinking. If I look around, I can find a pair of shoes and make them fit. I’m not worried about them being cheap or worn shoes. Evidently I am in a wealthy place. No wealthy bitch would have a cheap shoe collection. Furthermore, every wealthy bitch would and should own tens if not hundreds of shoes that have never been worn yet. I’m not gonna be caught dead and barefoot in someone else’s mansion. I started laughing but then stopped real quick, remembering how my laughter just might start doubling, tripling, and mutating.
This is not a mansion. It’s a… palace. Has to be. It has the highest ceiling that isn’t a ceiling. It’s a dome. The design of the dome is so dope I want to fuck the architect just to congratulate him on doing what I plan to do in my fashion and decorating business. Design some shit that no one else had. That no one else has ever seen. That mostly no one could ever afford, except my clients. My clients, who needed to be filthy to afford my commission.
The sunlight poured through the dome’s platinum-framed glass skylights. It lit up the wide, long space, making for nice shading. Some spaces had natural spotlights from the sun. Other spaces had shade. Why weren’t there separate rooms, separated by walls, though? Why wasn’t there any furniture? Instead there were intricately woven carpets. Must have taken four hundred weavers to inlay the designs. It was open space, no bedrooms or kitchen. But there were sinks, on both the le
ft and right, front and backsides of the building. It’s a high-end nightclub, no, a ballroom, I thought. Then I canceled the thought right away. People can’t dance freely on carpeted floors. No owner or boss would want liquor spilling on hand-woven rugs. And I didn’t even see no Hermès flats, slippers, or shoes, so I walked right out of the back of the palace.
Crossing another yard, I reached a black wooden door. It was not just any door. It was made from ebony, and the grain was not anything that would be sold in anyone’s local furniture store or super mart or Home Depot. It had inlaid hand-carved designs. I could tell from the way there was no knob or outward handle that it slid open instead of swinging in or out. I didn’t slide or swing it, just walked through the solid wood, same as I had walked through the solid platinum and the solid sterling silver.
A premium gymnasium like a private Madison Square Garden for some boss that obviously decided to have everything on his property that most had to leave their little apartments and houses to drive outside to get to. The gym floor shined so perfectly. I bet the owner must have ’bout forty slaves he orders to get down on their knees and hand-wax it every night and buff it every morning. I laughed picturing that. This the type of gym every hood needed. Where niggas could run a full court and the bitches could watch and cheer them on and eventually call dibs on the players they liked. I know some chicks would like to run a game and handle and dribble the ball themselves. Not me! I remember Brooklyn’s infamous Hustler’s league, and even the Harlem Rucker. I lived for that excitement. I loved the fashion show that framed it. I liked that crowd that poured in from every direction and even flooded down the block and caused the cops to shut down the traffic in the surrounding streets to watch the best ballers ball, showcasing amazing moves and skills. I lusted the whips that had pulled up close and parked and double and triple parked creating a show within a show! Bitches all done up so nice, the best players played even harder.
I looked up. Seven flags were hanging from seven metal poles lodged in the walls close to the high ceiling. I only recognized the American flag. It was number six in the flag line up. I was glad to see it. I had been starting to think I was somewhere unfamiliar and too far away from where I am from.
The sound of hydraulics and the back door of the gym slid open. A bunch of bare-backed young men walked in barefooted wearing boot-cut black pants. Bare feet was starting to feel like the theme of this place, but I still wasn’t with it.
“Line up! Take your spaces.” What I am with though is the twenty-one to I’m guessing possibly twenty-three-years-young deep black-skinned fine-ass nigga leading the pack. I don’t know what they about to do. Not one of them has a basketball in their grip or kicks. The blackest one, who I have both my eyes on, positioned himself at the forefront of the rest. He called out the orders as he faced the other lined-up teen-young to maybe age twenty dudes. His eyes are serious. Not the eyes of some sheltered palace dweller or suburban sweetie. He’s muscular but lean. His jaw is etched and sketched. His teeth are as white as the sparkling wall that surrounds this palace. His hair cut is sharp and clean. Man I’m feeling him. I know he’s too young for me but he is not a child. He is a man. And I know the trend is now for these young niggas to prefer slightly older women who are still more beautiful, more refined, more sensual in the sheets and more independent than the young bitches who ain’t figured out their power the way I figured out mine at sixteen. And I can still pull dick. I know that. And to this day, no nigga can tell my true age unless I decide to tell him. I won’t.
“We all know what this is,” the leader said, his voice so ooh, it made my pussy pulse.
“Whoever wins the fight competition gets to fight the fight master tonight. I doubt y’all could take him down. I’ve tried a few times.” Everyone laughed. “It hasn’t worked out for me. But I’m confident that I can take down every one of you.”
“Ahh… yeah right… whatever man…” the young men on the line up roared.
“I like that!” the leader said in response. And when he smiled he had me so open. “Men are supposed to be trained and confident, sure and solid. Now let’s see if you can back up all that back talk. Give me two lines of ten. Partner up. After this spar, the last man standing will fight me!” He said it like a threatening invitation and challenge. He spoke so confidently I’m sure it convinced the other guys that they had had no chance of beating him.
“Ansar, I’m hoping you’re the last man standing. Heard you have designs on my girl,” the leader said, jaw locked and straight faced.
“Whoa,” the men sounded and then went silent.
“She’s not yours until you marry her,” the one who must’ve been Ansar replied. “And since you’re moving too slow and no one can touch her before marriage, I’ll take her from you, and marry her so I can touch her.” He said it like he meant his words also.
“Let’s skip the sparring and bang it out right now,” the leader said and rushed right into the ranks to face Ansar. The other nineteen men broke the line up and swiftly closed in and began circling around the twenty-one-years-young leader and Ansar. The moving circle was blocking me from seeing. But I could hear the blows and the whoas and ohs and the advice being called out by the crowd. They were fighting with their hands and feet, I realized. Not a Brooklyn confrontation that ends in one second with no muscle involved. Just the strength to pull the trigger and the eye to hit the target.
The imperfect circle would spread out as the men would step back, sideways or forward, however the action moved them. I don’t know who the bitch was they were fighting over. But I felt a strong feeling like I want niggas to fight over me just like that. I want to see muscles moving, and fists swinging and bodies dropping over me. I miss that effect that a woman like me always caused many men to have.
All of a sudden I wanted a mirror more than anything. I want to see myself and check my hair. I’d position it properly over the scar and perfect my look. I need to confirm exactly what I look like right now. I want to check every inch of my body as well. I want to recapture that baddest-bitch mojo and come back with full and pull that leader for myself for a tryst. He don’t have to marry me to give me that good feeling that I’m sure he and I both want to feel. We don’t have to waste any time. And time is not what I have going in my favor.
I dashed to the side room that I figured was the restroom for the gym. Once inside I could see that it was for men, with seven urinals and one long horizontal cement sink, with seven silver faucets, soap dispensers, paper hand towels and an automatic hand dryer. Three stalls for taking a dump and three stalls for taking a shower. A steam room and a sauna but… no… mirrors!
Angry, I dashed through the men’s room wall and ended up in another yard, filled with white roses, facing a separate house a short distance away with a gold door. A gold door, I repeated in my mind as I walked. Goddamn! How much is the owner worth that a property could be built with multiple buildings, secured behind a great wall made from a mountain. Doors all made from precious metals and rare materials as expensive as the buildings and beautiful outdoor spaces, pavilions, and furnishings. I got the feeling that here there was no regard for budget whatsoever.
Close up on the door now, I quickly dropped down. On the right side I saw a computer or flat TV screen. I was sure that the owner could see me through that security screen. I didn’t want anybody to see me before I could fully see myself. Squatted low and facing my own toes, I was relieved that I still had the pretty pedicure that I allowed one of my girls on lockup, who was the meanest in that toe art, to design the night before my release. I ran my fingers over my feet, surprised that I didn’t track in any soil or grass from that long walk through the field. I was happy that my hands and feet looked top-notch still.
I glanced to my right. In an alcove in the wall was a men’s shoe rack, three levels high. Seven velvet-lined slots on each row, for seven pairs of shoes. Maximum capacity, twenty-one. My eyeballs zoomed into each slot recognizing what only the Queen of Queens could recogniz
e. Of course, because a broke bitch would never even know what she was looking at. A connoisseur of kicks, I saw on the two bottom rows sat side by side a collection that only wealth and fame could get hands on and feet in. The red-and-black Jordan’s Banned were autographed by Michael Jordan himself. That’s big. The only kicks that could sit beside those were the autographed Kobe Bryant Mike Zoom Colby white-and-gold striped. Next in the lineup was LeBron James 8 South Beach. In the other velvet slots were men’s black Gucci kicks, Prada high-tops, and an assortment of Air Force Ones, some custom designed and unavailable at retail.
I am impressed. Were all of at least fourteen of the young men in the gym caked up, and these were their kicks? Were the remaining seven of the young guys broke bastards with no shoes? I laughed and had to say to myself, “You got some nerve! You barefoot bitch!” Or was the whole rack of twenty-one pairs of shoes all for the feet of the owner? Amazingly, in the top slot was a pair of Aubercy diamond-studded shoes, next to a pair of Louis Vuitton Richelieus, next to a pair of Berlutis, next to a pair of Isaias, next to a pair of Tom Fords.
Tom Ford! He is my fashion designer hero. For the only years that matter Ford was the creative director of Gucci. He made Gucci lingerie, clothes, eyewear, footwear, and accessories so fucking sexy that any nigga or bitch anywhere in the world wearing Gucci from head to toe fucking slayed the scene, ruled the room, rocked the party, and shocked the streets. The Santiagas, we “pulled a Gucci” plenty of times. Our whole family Gucci’d out from under, inner, and outerwear and accessories. On those days and nights we stole the light and walked above the heads of niggas who were on a budget and could only cop one Gucci piece, like a key chain, belt, wallet, or a money clip. While I was locked up, Tom Ford and his man Domenico De Sole left Gucci and opened up their own elite Tom Ford line of every fashionable thing imaginable. His designer handbags were proof of his fashion supremacy. On lock when I saw them in my mags, I thought they killed the Birkin, even though Birkin was trending. Real fashionistas recognize real. When Ford and Domenico left Gucci, they took the stitch and the style, the sense and the allure, the quality and the reign over all, with them. In fact, when they left, it was the same as when Princess Diana “left” the boring-ass royal family, or the same as when Santiaga “left” the streets he ruled. Or like when Notorious B.I.G. “left” music. Or like when Jordan and Allen Iverson and even Dennis Rodman left the court. The game just wasn’t the same no more.
Life After Death Page 4