by Cairo
“Wow, congratulations,” I say, smiling. “You sound really happy. She must be a really special woman.”
“Thanks, cuz. She is. And I am happy, very. She’s a good woman, Paris, and a great mother to our son. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” I tell him I’m looking forward to it. I hear Porsha coming through the door. I reach for the bottle of Joy by Jean Patou from my perfume shelf, dabbing a little—because at five hundred dollars a bottle, that’s all you need—behind my ears, then on my wrists. I rub it in. Inhale in its peachy and leafy green scent. Delicious!
“What about you? Seeing anyone special?” I tell him no. Tell him that work keeps me too busy; that I don’t have time for anyone special. “You’re too beautiful not to. You have to make time for love, babe. Life is too short not to allow someone special into your life.”
“Well, before that happens,” I tell him as a glide a coat of Berry Bling lipstick across my lips, “He’s going to have to find me, first.” I pop my lips together, pleased with my succulence. Way to go, CoverGirl! The Queen Collection never lets me down. “And right at this moment, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon.” He tells me he wants to introduce me to one of his boys, a state trooper. That he thinks I’d like him. I laugh. “Uhh, no thank you. The last time I let you fix me up with someone he was cross-eyed and had a serious overbite. He looked like something from out of Star Wars.”
He laughs. “But he was a nice guy.”
“And he was ugly.”
He keeps laughing. “And he really dug you.”
“Mmmph, I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s because you didn’t give him a chance,” he says, still laughing.
“I’m so glad you find that funny.”
“I’m sorry, babe. You crack me up; still witty as ever. I wish you woulda gave him a chance. He looks nothing like that now.” “I couldn’t. It hurt my eyes looking at him....”
“Hooker, why aren’t you ready?” Porsha snaps, walking into my bedroom. “You know I’m tryna get my shop on and you up in here bullshitting. Let’s go.” I tell her I am ready. Let her know who I’m on the phone with. She grabs the phone from me, practically snatching my ear along with it. “Ohmygod, Garrett, how the hell have you been?...No, it’s Porsha...”
While the two of them are talking, I open my Valentino handbag, dumping everything out onto my bed. I decide to change bags, placing everything into a denim, crinkled leather Prada bag.
Porsha cuts her eye over at my bag, squinting. Fact is it’s hers. I’ve simply claimed it as mine. I ignore her stare... “Ohmygod, you’re getting married? When? Congratulations...Boy, now you know we’ll be there with bells on. Wouldn’t miss it for the world... okay...well, when are we gonna meet her?...Oh really? Oh, then we’ll see her there...cool. I look forward to meeting her...I will... Promise...Okay...Love you, too.” She presses the END button, then hands me back my phone. “Bitch,” she snaps, pointing at her handbag. “I was looking for that.”
I laugh, grabbing my shades and walking out the bedroom. “Oh, girl, get over it. You couldn’t have been looking too hard. I’ve had it for the last six months.”
“Whatever,” she snaps, following behind me. “I’m gonna start locking my shit up. That’ll keep your thieving ass outta my closets.”
I slip my sunglasses on the minute I step outside. “Yeah, right; picture that. How you gonna lock me out of anything when, nine times outta ten, I’ll end up being the one with the spare key?”
She laughs, disarming her car. “Hooker, get in.”
I slip into the passenger seat of her convertible Jag, fastening my seatbelt, laughing at her as she speeds around the circular driveway, like a nut, toward our destination.
Porsha
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“There are three types of niggas, okay,” Angel says, eyeing me over the rim of her chocolate martini. She’s in town from California for the weekend and we’re playing catchup. Friends since freshman year of high school, Angel’s the one person outside of my sisters I trust, and share almost everything with. Being that she now lives in L.A., we only see each other four times a year. She flies out every April for her mother’s birthday, and, again, during the Thanksgiving holiday. Then the other two times I fly out there. Tonight we’re at Jacksonville Restaurant & Lounge—a cozy spot for the grown and sexy—in Paterson. The atmosphere, scrumptious food, and live band make this a great spot to mix and mingle. Tonight is their Friday night Open Mic series, and of course she convinced me to meet her here so she can tear the spot up. Why she doesn’t get serious about her vocals and get into the studio is beyond me—the girl can blow, but she enjoys performing at open mics instead, and will serve them every time.
I sway a bit to the band’s rendition of Sade’s “I’m A Soldier of Love.” “Oooh, this is my shit,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I can’t wait to see her ass in June.”
“Bitch, are you listening to me?” she snaps, feigning annoyance that I’ve slipped from the conversation; no matter how brief the moment.
I laugh. “Girl, I heard you. Now go ’head and finish what you were saying.”
She shoots me a look, tucking a curl of hair behind her right ear. The one-carat diamond stud in her lobe twinkles. “Are you sure? ’Cause I can wait until the song is over if you’d like.”
I roll my eyes, waving her on. “Girl, go on and break down the types of men for me. I’m all ears.”
“Like I was saying, there are three types of niggas. The first type is the nigga who fucks real good. He typically likes to fuck fast, hard, and deep. He’ll dick you down rough and dirty and beat the pussy up all night long. And have you stealing your momma’s social security check to pay his bills....” I laugh. “Girl, I’m serious. Them the type of niggas you gotta fuck in small doses to keep ya ass from becoming strung out. ’Cause if not, he’ll have you kicking off your heels and getting real ghetto wanting to throw bricks through windows and shit when he doesn’t return your calls....”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Girl, I can’t...I just can’t. You are killing me right now.”
“I’m telling you. He’ll have ya ass hiding behind bushes with a can of mace waiting to bring it to a chick’s face.”
“Where in the world did you come up with this mess?”
She sips her drink, then pops her lips. “While I was on my flight here, I started thinking about all the men I’ve dated and dumped. Then the idea sorta evolved from that.”
I smile.
Angel has always had a very overactive imagination, along with an extremely high sex drive, which is probably why she has a hard time keeping men. Her mind is always going a mile-a-minute, and she tries to fuck every man she’s with to death. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s been with more men than I can keep up with. She’s been married once—a marriage that only lasted for six months before she left him, engaged three more times after that, and has never stayed in a relationship longer than two years. And she’s only thirty-one. Her explanation is, “I’m easily bored with men.”
“Oh Lawd,” I tease. “You and your imagination. I’m scared to hear the rest.”
“Whatever. Are you gonna let me finish or not?”
I raise my glass. “Carry on.” I take a sip of my drink, giving her my undivided attention. “I’m dying to hear what that mind of yours has conjured up.”
“Mmmph...Annnnnyway. The second type is the nigga who makes love real good. This is the nigga who seduces you into a trancelike state. He likes to grind up in the pussy. He knows how to wind his hips slow and deep. He gives you the dick real sexy-like. He listens to your body, explores every inch of it with his lips, mouth, tongue and hands, then dicks you down with intense, passionate strokes. He makes love to your mind, body, and soul. Making sure he gets up in every nook and cranny of your inner being. He’s gonna make sure you get yours before he gets his. This nigga aims to please you. And he makes sure you feel loved—even if he really doesn’t. And he makes you fe
el like you’re the only woman in his life, even when you’re not. Then when he’s done serving you, he avoids your calls, and ignores your pleas for more of that good dick. He’ll have you blowing up his phone like a mad woman. Or have you somewhere crouched down low in a corner wringing your damn hands, or curled up in a corner crying.”
I shake my head. “Hilarious.”
She takes another sip of her drink. “I’m telling you some good shit, girl.”
“And the third type?” I ask, picking up my Lemondrop martini. I lick the sugary rim, then take a slow sip.
She leans in, props her forearms up on the table and clasps her hands together. “Girl, the third type is the nigga who knows how to do both. Whew, his ass is double trouble, okay. He’ll have you wanting to make a mold out of his dick just so you can carry it around in your purse to pull out and use at your discretion.”
I wave her on. “Girl, your ass is crazy.”
“Crazy hell,” she says, chuckling. She pauses, to sip her drink. “Girl, I’m telling you. This is the type of nigga you’ll wake up and find yourself either locked in a padded room over, or sitting up in a jail cell ’cause you done blacked out and sliced the nigga’s dick off. Then went out and stabbed up every bitch who you thought he might have been fucking. This is the nigga who’ll make ya ass nutty for sure. And he’s definitely the one you need to try to stay away from if you know ya ass is already unstable.”
Angel has me laughing hysterically. It’s a good thing I don’t have on any eyeliner. Otherwise I’d have black streaks running down my face from laughing so hard, looking like a damn clown. “Okay, so answer me this,” I say, pausing to collect myself while dabbing my eyes with a napkin. “What do you call a man who wants you to do all the work while he just lays there like he’s king of the jungle?” I ask the question already knowing the answer—well, my answer: He’s a selfish motherfucker! But I’m curious to hear her spin on it.
“Oh, you’re talking about Mister King Ding-a-Ling, the one who thinks his dick’s been wrapped in gold and his balls dipped in honey. Girl, that’s an easy one. That’s the kinda motherfucker who’ll have you running out searching for new dick real quick.”
“Okay,” I say, snapping my fingers. I hoist my glass up in the air. She does the same. “Poof, poof...gone.” We clink our glasses. “Lazy-dick motherfucker.”
She scrunches her face, shaking her head as if in thought. “Mmmph. A lazy-dick nigga is the worst kind, if you ask me. And why does it always have to be them big-dicked motherfuckers wanting to lay back?” I tell her I don’t always think it’s hung niggas. She waves me on. “Girlfriend, you need to go back and rewind the tapes, okay. Trust me. Sit back and watch the show. Now I’m not saying all. But, it’s typically them niggas who have more dick than they know what to do with doing that dumb shit. You know like I do that the little dick motherfuckers don’t mind putting in extra work. Shit, they’re the ones who usually feel like they have something to prove to you so they’ll try to fuck and suck your pussy all night long in order to make up for what they lack in the dick department.”
The waitress comes over to us carrying a tray with two drinks on it. “These are from the gentleman at the bar,” she says, pointing toward the bar area. Angel and I look over in his direction. He nods at us, raising his drink. We do the same.
“He looks like he might be fine as hell,” Angel says to me. “But the light’s not bright enough over there to know for sure.”
I laugh. “Girl, enjoy the damn drink. Who cares what his ass looks like?”
She bucks her eyes. “Shit, I do. I might wanna get me some dick tonight.” I laugh at her ass. Mmmm, he does look like he can get it, I think, cutting my eyes in his direction on the sly. She jumps. “Oh, shit. They’re getting ready to start open mic.”
The emcee introduces the band, then opens the floor to those who wish to perform. I ask her what song she’s going to sing. She tells me she’s going to serve them Alicia Keys’ “Lesson Learned.” I smile, knowing she’s going to bring the crowd to their feet. I take a sip from drink, and wait for the show to begin.
The first performer does her rendition of Beyoncé’s “Halo.” And I must say she kills it. Right after her a tall, sexy, thuggish brown-skinned man with cornrows takes the floor and sings that old school joint “‘Cause I Love You” by Lenny Williams. Whew, the way he holds those notes starts to make my pussy pulsate. I close my eyes and take in his voice, imagining him singing this in my ear, offering me up some thug passion. Then just when I think it can’t get any better and my pussy can’t get any hotter, the next performer is the same guy who sent over drinks to Angel and me. And he’s not only sexy, he’s very fuckable. He has an exotic look about him, like he might be mixed. He takes the mic and sings Eric Benet’s “Sometimes I Cry.” He sings it with such a beautiful passion that everything in me starts to melt. I close my eyes and sway, imagining him standing in front of me butt-naked, singing this as I am down on my knees sucking his dick. By the time he finishes the last note, I feel my pussy pulling in my thong. Every woman in here is waving their hands up in the air. Some are jumping up out of their chairs, cheering him on.
As the waitress brings me over another drink, Angel is taking the mic. The minute she belts out the first note, I spot Mr. Sometimes I Cry walking in my direction. I catch his eye as he approaches my table. I smile. Decide to not let him get away without saying something to him. “You can sing to me anytime. You really killed it.”
He smiles back at me. “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it. I ’preciate that. I was on my way back to the bar and saw you sitting over here by yourself so I decided to come over and holla at you. You mind if I sit?”
Hell no, I don’t mind if your sexy-ass sits, I say in my head. I extend him the chair. “Sure. I’d like that.” He glances over toward Angel, who is belting out one note after another.
“Yo, your girl can blow.”
I smile. “Yes, she can.” Not that I’ve paid attention. But, I’d damn sure like to blow you. Dirty thoughts of crawling under the table and caressing his cock with my lips and tongue start invading my mind. I press my legs together. “So what motivated you to sing that particular song?” He looks away for a moment, then brings his attention back to me. Tells me he had lost someone special in his life and although it’s been two years since her death, it still hurts. And sometimes he cries over the loss.
For some reason I feel endeared to him. Without thinking, I reach over and place my hand over his. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened to her?” He tells me she was serving in the military. That she was killed over in Iraq. I can see the love and hurt in his eyes as he tells me this. “Oh, wow,” I say, feeling myself getting choked up. “So sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” he says, placing his other hand over mine. “I’m good, though.”
I get tingly all over. “Ohmygod, you have some soft hands for a man.”
He laughs. “I hear that a lot.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say coyly. “I bet you give great massages, too.”
He grins. “Yeah, I can do a lil’ sumthin’. So, is it aiiight if I buy you another drink?”
I glance over at Angel when I hear the thunderous applause. “How about I get this round, and you get the next?”
“Cool.” He flags over the waitress, motions for another round. “I’m Faruq, by the way.” I tell him mine. He nods his head, approvingly. “Nice name. I saw you when you and your girl walked in and was hoping I’d get a chance to holla at you.”
“Well, I’m glad the opportunity presented itself.” I lean forward in my seat. “So, Faruq...I like that, by the way. Are you Muslim?” He tells me his family is, but that he doesn’t follow its doctrine. That he’s originally from Egypt, but has lived in the States since he was ten; that his name means one who distinguishes truth from falsehood.
“Oh, wow, interesting. I’ve always wanted to visit Egypt. It looks like it’s a beautiful place.” He tells me it is; suggests that I
visit. That he thinks I’d love it there. “Maybe when I go, you’ll come along to be my tour guide.”
He smiles. “Oh, cool. I’d like that.” After a few stops along the way from patrons telling her how great she sounded, Angel finally makes it back over to the table as the waitress returns with our drinks. Since Faruq’s back is toward her, he doesn’t see her raising her brow at me and mouthing, “Bitch.”
I smile. “Faruq, this is my girl, Angel. Angel, Faruq.” She comes around and faces him.
He stands up and extends his hand. “Nice meeting you.”
She takes him in, extending her hand. “Likewise,” she says, allowing her hand to linger in his a little longer than she should. He’s the first to let go. She takes a seat next to me, then pinches me under the table. I flinch.
“Oww.”
“You alright, boo?” she asks, feigning concern. I ignore her, taking a sip of my drink.
“Yo, you have a beautiful voice.”
She grins, tilting her head. “Oh, you heard me sing?” She cuts her eyes over at me. “’Cause I know this one here didn’t hear a word of it with you being such a beautiful distraction. But, thanks. You definitely have it going on yourself.”