Big Booty

by Cairo

  “I wanted to talk to you about the other day when you were down at the shop.”

  I purse my lips. “Uh-huh. What you wanna know, Miss Pasha?”

  “The one thing I’ve always admired about you, girl, is that you don’t give a damn about what people say about you. And you don’t bite your tongue, which is why I have a lot of respect for you. I mean, you are a little extra at times, but at the end of the day, I feel like I can trust you.”

  Well shit. Now she got me feelin’ all guilty ’n shit. And there are three, well four, things Big Booty don’t do: guilt, drama, dirty dick, and a man beatin’ my ass, okay.

  “Aww, Miss Pasha, girl, that’s sweet, boo. But you ain’t gotta spoon feed me no sugar, hon. Let’s get right to the point. You wanna know if that pretty Indian bitch you had in ya chair was tryna do Jasper, right?”

  “Well, I know you really had a strong opinion about what you saw. And, of course, he denies it.”

  I huff. “Miss Pasha, girl. Believe what you want, boo. You know I ain’t ever been one to be a messy bitch, or a lie. I don’t make shit up, boo. And you should know this. That niggah Jasper is a goddamn lie and so is that China, bitch—or whatever the fuck her name is—he was winkin’ at. The bitch slid her tongue outta her mouth at him. And I peeped the shit through the mirror. That’s why I moved over and blocked the bitch’s view. I can’t stand a messy bitch.”

  She sighs. “I know. And I’m glad you put them both on blast. I didn’t appreciate that shit from either one of them one bit. And I did tell Chanel her business was no longer needed or wanted at my salon.”

  “Well, good for you, Miss Pasha. That bitch was sneaky. And so is your man, boo. And I ain’t ever been one to be all up in ya business, Miss Pasha, boo. But, why the fuck did you marry his ass?”

  “It’s complicated,” she says. I can hear the baby in the background fussin’, half-cooin’, half-cryin’, tryna get her attention I’m sure.

  “Mmmph. Well, I don’t know how complicated it is, Miss Pasha, girl. And I ain’t one to gossip. But Miss FeFe says he beats on yo’ ass, boo.”

  “She said whaaat?”

  “You heard me, girl. She told me that the night of your weddin’ reception while her drunk-ass got all liquored up. She told me that he whoops the hot dog shit outta you, and you scared of him.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she says, soundin’ hurt.

  “Believe it, sugah-boo. That bitch can’t be trusted either. She done told me some other shit, too, about you.”

  “Other shit like what?”

  “See, now, Miss Pasha,” I say, ploppin’ down on my bed. I kick off my heels. “You tryna have me get messy. But you ain’t hear none of this shit from me ’cause, boo, if you wanna confront her about it and she steps to me, I’ma do her up real good.”

  “Oh, no, girl. Trust me. I appreciate you telling me all this. I’ve been kind of feeling like things aren’t right between us, so whatever you tell me is going to stay strictly between us.”

  “Mmmph. Well, Miss Pasha, girl. Your feelin’s are right. Miss FeFe has dragged you for filth, boo.” I tell her everything Miss FeFe done told me about her. From how she got her windows smashed out to the crazy phone calls; from that niggah walkin’ up in her salon tryna disrespect her to bein’ attacked out in her front yard and not wantin’ the police called. I let her know it all.

  “That dirty bitch,” she hisses. “All this time I thought she had my back. But something in my gut kept telling me not to trust her ass.”

  “Pasha, boo, the only thing Miss FeFe is tryna have is your man, trust me. And if she don’t want Jasper, you can trust and believe she damn sure wanna be up on his big-ass dingdong—oops, girl,” I quickly say. “I don’t know if Jasper has a big dingaling or not. I only know what the hoes out in the streets say.”

  “It’s fine, really. I already know what they say out in the streets. And Jasper’s given out more of his share of dick so the rumors ain’t a lie.”

  And you still married his no-good ass. Mmmph.

  “I still can’t get believe Felecia has told you all those things. And stands here, smiling all up in my damn face.”

  “Uh-huh, boo. That’s how them messy bitches do it. But you gotta keep this shit tucked on the low. Fish the bitch.”

  “This shit has me sick to my damn stomach.”

  “Oooh, poor thing. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, boo. But you my damn girl, Miss Pasha, and it was time I told you what was what. I ain’t been tryna feature Miss FeFe every since she told me all this shit about you. That bitch really thinks you mighta been out there suckin’ all kinda dicks behind Jasper’s back. I’m tellin’ you, Miss Pasha, girl. That bitch is scandalous, boo. And I wouldn’t put it past her if she’s been fuckin’ Jasper, too.”

  She gasps. “Oh God! I know Felecia likes to run her mouth, but I don’t think she’d stoop that low.”

  “Well, believe it. That ho will drop down in the gutter for a ride on his dingaling. The bitch talked greasy about you and I heard the shit come outta her mouth with my own two ears. And ain’t shit wrong with my hearin’. So I know she’d snake her way into ya sheets too, boo.

  “This shit is crazy. We’ve always been very close.”

  “Uh-huh. And the bitch is jealous of you. Always has been. Even when we were in elementary school the bitch was hatin’ on you. But I always kept the shit to myself ’cause I ain’t wanna be wrapped up in nobody’s family drama, girl.”

  “Oh, trust me. There’ll be no drama. Everything you’re telling me is confirmation of everything I already thought or felt. Booty, I mean Cass, you have no idea how much having this conversation means to me. It has definitely been an eye-opener.”

  “Well, in case you still have some doubts. Keep ya eyes open wide and watch that bitch.”

  “Oh, trust me. That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

  “Mmmph. And if you wanna set that bitch up, let me know. We can reel her in and do her ass up real dirty.”

  “I will. Thanks again, girl. Look, I need to get off this phone. I hear Jasper coming in.”

  “Go do you, boo. And Miss Pasha, boo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know if you were suckin’ a string of dicks or not on Jasper’s cheatin’ ass. And I don’t care. But I think it’s time we shut these niggahs’ playhouses down. One by one, boo. Niggahs gotta be taught, boo.”

  She lowers her voice. “Sadly, I think you might be right. We’ll talk soon.”

  We disconnect. I get up and shut my bedroom door, then head to my bathroom to smoke me a blunt before these damn kids get home from school and I gotta deal with their mess.

  I light the blunt, then take a long, deep pull on it, blowin’ a cloud of smoke into the air. I stand up and pull off my jeans, then step outta my lace panties. I unhook my bra and let my titties bounce free. I shimmy my shoulders and watch ’em sway. Mmmm, I want some dingaling. But of course callin’ a niggah to fuck me is outta the question since that’ll mean I’ll have to give the niggah a free round of pussy. Oh, no. Buddha’s ass was the last niggah who I’m givin’ some free pussy to. And I let that niggah fuck me real good in all three of my holes. Next round he pays for.

  I take another pull on the blunt, holdin’ my head back and closin’ my eyes, replayin’ that night with Buddha in my head. Oooh, that big dick niggah did me right, goddammit!

  Proppin’ a leg up on the toilet seat, I reach between my legs and start playin’ with my clit, surprised that my sweet juices are already seepin’ outta me.

  I take another pull off the blunt. Mmmm, long-dick motherfucka. I slip a finger into my hot, moist pussy, thrustin’ my finger in and outta me. I blow out smoke, slippin’ two fingers in now. I gasp. See what you do to my pussy, motherfucka? See how wet you got it, niggah? Oooh, you got some good dingaling . . . uhhh . . .

  I imagine standin’ up on the sofa, bent over and bracin’ myself on the back of it, shakin’ my ass in his face. I look over my shoulder. Tell him
to eat my ass; to get it wet and ready for the dick. He slaps it a few times, causin’ it to sting. I make my ass clap for him. Tell him to slap it again. And he does ’til it stings.

  I slap my ass, hard, pretendin’ it’s Buddha. Oooh yes, niggah . . .

  I slap it again, spreadin’ my legs wider. I push my fingers knuckle-deep into my pussy, thrustin’ ’n twistin’ them in and out. I moan.

  Fuck me! Fuck me, lil’ niggah!

  I imagine him pullin’ open my ass and buryin’ his face in between my cheeks. His tongue feelin’ like heaven as he flaps it up and down, swirlin’ it around and around my hole before stickin’ it in.

  Oh, yes . . . eat that ass, baby. Get it ready for that long dick . . .

  My body starts to tremble. Pussy juice squirts all over my hand. “Oooooooh, yesssss!” I hiss. Give it to me, goddammit! Do me right!

  I reach under my sink and pull out a red wooden box. I take another pull from the blunt, holdin’ the weed smoke in my lungs ’til I find what I’m lookin’ for inside the box. I slowly blow out smoke as I pull the clear, eight-inch, pink glass dildo with the ridges outta its black velvet sheath, then reach in back of me and slide it in my ass, deep.

  I gasp.

  Ooooh, yessss . . .

  My ass muscles clutch as I imagine Buddha pullin’ open my cheeks and workin’ his Mandingaling into my hot valley, slowly; easin’ me open.

  Mmmmm . . .

  I reach into the box again and pull out a seven-inch vibrator. I turn it on high, then remove my fingers from my pussy and replace ’em with the vibrator. I bend all the way over and work both holes. The half-smoked blunt danglin’ from lips. The hum of the vibrator beats up against the pressure of the dildo rammed in my ass, sendin’ waves of sensations through me.

  Oooooooh yes, dirty motherfucka. I am cummin’ and cummin’ and cummin’. Yesssss, niggah. Stuff my ass while you fuck my pussy . . .

  I shut my eyes tight. Then out of nowhere, that niggah Buddha was with down at the Crack House—the Hill Harper look alike, pops into my head. I see the niggah grinnin’. Sneaky bastard! You probably gotta little-ass four-inch dick, niggah . . .

  Mmmm . . .

  Yeah, you got one of them shorty stumpy dicks; don’t you, niggah?

  I try to remember what the fuck the niggah’s name is.

  BJ?

  CJ?

  DJ?

  Then it hits me. AJ!

  Talkin’ ’bout you like your dick . . .

  My eyes pop open.

  My mouth drops open. The burnin’ blunt hits the floor.

  Ohmymotherfuckin’gawd! I know where the fuck I remember that niggah-bitch from.

  Fifteen

  Two days later, I’m steppin’ outta my truck on my way into Dickalina’s buildin’ when I hear someone say, “Yo, ma, what’s good?”

  I hate the projects. I lived over in buildin’ four for almost sixteen years until I moved out almost two years ago. And, before then, I didn’t think I’d ever leave here, or hate comin’ back. I really thought that this was my life. That this was all I’d ever wanna know. Then somethin’ changed. I woke up one day ready to get the fuck out. I’m not sure if it was because I wanted the twins to be able to play outside and not have to worry about them gettin’ shot by a fuckin’ stray bullet that had me ready to box my shit up and bounce. If it was because the elevator had broken and I had to climb up twelve flights of pissy-ass stairs, again, for the fourth day in a row that made me say I was done with this shit. Or if it was the night I caught Day’Asia’s hot ass in the stairwell at two o’clock in the mornin’ suckin’ some fifteen-year-old niggah’s dick that I said I had enough. All I know is I knew it was time to go. Four months later, I found me a five-bedroom house with a finished basement across town that took my section-8 voucher and was out. And I don’t miss this shithole one bit.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Do I know you?”

  “Nah, but I’m tryna change that. Let me holla at you for a minute.”

  I stop and turn to face him as he’s walkin’ up on me. He’s a tall—like six-six or some shit—brown-skinned niggah with a big nose and thick lips. I don’t recognize him from any of the buildin’s here. And it’s obvious he doesn’t know me either, comin’ outta his face like this. Everyone in these projects knows me and my kids so he’s definitely new to this part of the hood if he’s steppin’ up to me like he’s King Ding Dong.

  I place a hand on my hip.

  He grins.

  “Damn, ma. You got a bangin’ body.”

  I blink. “How old are you?”

  He squares his shoulders, pops out his chest, then deepens his voice. “Seventeen, why, wassup?”

  “Ain’t shit up. Not with you bein’ seventeen. So, no, you can’t holla at me. I’m old enough to be your momma, niggah.”

  He grins, lickin’ his lips. “That’s wassup. I’m grown, ma. I’ll be eighteen in two weeks. I don’t fuck wit’ broads my age, anyway, so it’s all good. I like ’em older. What, you like twenty-five, twenty-six?”

  Okay, the lil’ niggah’s cute. But, uh . . . I glance down at his feet. Mmmph. He has on a pair of dusty-ass Timbs. I decide to not tell him that a niggah wearin’ rundown footwear will never, ever, have a chance with me, no matter what his age. Besides, talkin’ all sideways to this young niggah isn’t smart, especially since I don’t know who he is, or who he’s related to. “No, lil’ niggah. I’m old enough to be ya mammy. So why you ain’t got ya black ass in school?” He tells me school isn’t his thing. That he has all the education he needs, right here on the streets. That he’s about makin’ his paper. “Oh, so you one of them lil’ high-school dropout niggahs who wanna hug the block instead of gettin’ an education, huh?”

  “Yeah, sumthin’ like that. I’m doin’ me; that’s all.”

  “Well, you keep doin’ you, boo-boo. But, you won’t be doin’ me.”

  He laughs. “It’s all good. You still sexy as fuck. So if you ever change ya mind, holla at ya boy.”

  “Boy, puhleeze.”

  “I’m sayin’, ma.”

  “Whatever, lil’ niggah. And I ain’t ya ma. You live over here?”

  “Nah, my peoples do.” I ask him who they are and what buildin’ they’re in. I almost faint when he tells me he’s related to Knutz’s ass. That he’s his nephew.

  “Say no more. You’ll never sniff this pussy. If you related to that crazy niggah, then you must be three screws this side of retarded, too.”

  He laughs. “Oh, daaaayum; that’s foul. But, nah, I’m not as bad as him.”

  “Mmmhmm. And who are you?”

  “Killah,” he says, smirkin’.

  Yeah, okay. This lil’ niggah crazy, too. “Well, listen, Killer . . . ”

  “Nah, not Killer. It’s Killah.”

  “Okay, Killah. It was nice chattin’ with you, boo. But I’m on my way up to see the woman your uncle beats up on. You know Dickalina, right?”

  He frowns. “Yeah, she’s cool peoples. But I ain’t know my Unc beats on her.”

  I shrug. “Well, now you do. But if he ever puts his hands on her around me, I’ma have his hands chopped off; make sure you let him know that. Look. Do me a favor and keep an eye on my truck until I get back. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yeah, I got you, ma.” He says this as another young boy—well, he looks young—walks up to him and gives him a fist pound. “Yo, what’s good, Eli?”

  “Chillin’ son. I see you out here doin’ ya thing-thing.” He eyes me with his cute self. He’s dark-skinned with deep brown eyes and has his hair braided in fresh cornrows. I glance at the thick chain draped around his neck, then look down at his feet. He’s wearin’ a brand new pair of Jordans. “Recruitin’ some new cougar pussy, I see.”

  “ ‘Cougar pussy’? Lil’ niggah, puhleeze. How old are you?”

  He licks his lips. “Old enough. And, for da record, ain’t nuthin’ on me lil’. Believe that.”

  “Allllrighty then. This is my cue to leave b
efore I have to school ya young ass.”

  He laughs. “School me, baby. I’m always up for learnin’.”

  I walk off, wavin’ him on.

  “Aiight, ma, later,” Killah says.

  “Damn, son. She gotta fat ass,” Mr. Old Enough says.

  “Word is bond.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the two of them. “Make sure you watch my truck, and don’t worry about how fat my ass is, son. ’Cause ain’t either of you lil’ niggahs gonna ever get any of it.”

  “Yeah, aiight, ma,” Killah shouts. “I got you. But, as soon as I turn eighteen, I’ma be checkin’ for you again, so be ready; real shit.”

  “Not with them old-ass boots you got on,” I say, walkin’ up to the buildin’ and through the double glass doors. I throw up a peace sign, then bounce and shake my ass into the buildin’.

  Surprisin’ly the elevators are workin’. I step in, then press the button for the eleventh floor; glad the lobby isn’t packed with niggahs as it usually is. Once I get to Dickalina’s apartment, I press down on the bell. Someone is blastin’ “Rack City” by Tyga. I roll my eyes, pressin’ down, long and hard, on the buzzer.

  “Who the fuck is leanin’ on my motherfuckin’ bell like that?” someone yells, lowerin’ the music.

  “It’s Cassandra. Open the goddamn door.”

  I hear the locks click. Candylicious opens the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, smackin’ her greasy dick suckas together. “What you want?”

  I frown. See. This lil’ bitch is too damn grown. And I don’t know why she likes to try me. For the last six months or so she’s been sayin’ real slick shit and I’ve been lettin’ it slide. But I’m thinkin’ she’s not goin’ to be satisfied until I wreck her face. “Candy, don’t fuck with me. I will beat your motherfuckin’ ass and you know it. What the fuck you mean, what I want? Obviously I’m not here to see your bald-headed ass. Where’s your ugly-ass mammy at?”

  I brush past her.

  She sucks her teeth. “Damn, you don’t have to get all sensitive. I’m only playin’. She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Ho, you play in ya pussy. You don’t play with me. That’s the problem with you dumb-ass, lil’ bitches. Y’all think everything’s a damn game. I’m not your motherfuckin’ friend. Now say somethin’ else slick and see what I do to you. Anyway, shouldn’t your retarded ass be in school?”