by Nikki Turner
The next car that drives up is a pretty red Corvette with a black ragtop. A white man in his thirties wearing a baseball cap with long stringy hair hidden underneath is driving, and a punk-rock-looking female is on the passenger side.
“Two goes for a hundred dollars straight up.” I walk over and force my head in the car. I have to get involved with them complicated-type situations. “What you want?”
“My girlfriend wants to eat her out, and I want her to suck my dick,” the man says, sure of himself.
“Okay, but no extra shit. Nessa, do you understand that this is a one-at-a-time?” I ask just to be clear, 'cause sometimes Nessa's ass be getting amnesia and shit.
“Yeah, I got it,” Nessa answers as she squeezes her way in between the couple, landing sideways on the white girl's lap.
“All right then, everybody listen up.” I squat down low so I can be at eye level with them. “This is how it's going down. Nessa, you gon’ let this white chick eat you out first, then you gone give ol’ boy the best blow job he ever had in his life.” I pause for a moment, 'cause I need to be sure they asses is listening to what the fuck I'm saying. When I realize all six eyeballs on me, I continue on like I am coaching a Little League baseball team. “Look here, gang, I'm serious as a heart attack about this one-at-a-time deal. There will be no muh-fucking double-teaming, gang banging, getting in the bed for any reason, no penetration, no titty sucking, ass licking, none of that, this here is not a mutherfucking ménage-a-trois type deal! Mato-fact, fuck it. Nessa, I want you to stand up while the bitch eats you and, player, you gon’ stand up while Nessa sucks your dick. I'm telling you now, dude,” I say, and nod my head back and forth to let 'em know I ain't playing, “if you want a fucking threesome tonight, it's two hundred dollars. If not, follow my rules, 'cause if you try to run game, I'll find your redneck ass and slit yo throat. You got it, buddy?”
“Yes, sir.” the white man salutes me like I'm a sergeant in the United States Army.
I pat the hood of the car and order, “Be gone.”
Nessa comes back in about forty-five minutes. She hands me $100 in small bills.
“Daddy, them crackers was crazy as hell. They drove me around the corner to their house on Cary Street.”
“Is that right?'’
“Yeah, and when we got inside, the chick turned on some heavy metal music and started jumping up and down like she was fucking crazy. I told her ass I didn't have all night. Daddy, that bitch dropped to her knees and said, ‘Spread 'em open, you sexy black bitch,’ ” Nessa says, walking back and forth trying to keep up her pace.
“What happened next?”
“So, I stood with my legs far apart and when that bitch starting eating me, I felt something sharp on my clit. It was her tongue ring. I was about to tell her she had to take it out if she wanted to eat me, but before I could even say ‘eat me,’ the bitch had thrown the ring across the room. She looked up at me with them dark-ass mascara eyes and said, ‘I've been waiting all my life to taste dark meat.’ Uhm, uhm, uhm. Daddy, that bitch ate me out so good, my goddamn knees buckled. I had to take a break before sucking her boyfriend's dick,” Nessa says, fanning herself 'cause the memory was just that hot.
“Did you take good care of ol’ boy?” I ask. I need to know if we have made a lifetime customer.
“Oh, yes, I did. I sucked it so good, the skin peeled off that tiny pink mutherfucker. They said they didn't have any extra money to tip tonight, but asked if I could provide services to them on a regular and said we could stop by his store on Monday if we need anything.”
Nessa hands me the man's business card; he is a general manager at Kinko's. I toss the card in my back pocket, thinking, What the fuck does he think I need a photocopy of?
The next car that rolls up is a young black cat in his early twenties. Nessa struts over to the car, makes a sharp turn to show him her rear end, then swings back around and leans, asking, “You think you could handle this, baby boy?” He's pushing a black Acura Legend, with tinted windows and chromed-out wheels. His windows are rolled down so you can hear the bass from his stereo. He's blasting
“Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” by Dr. Dre. The nigga is leaning to the side and bopping his head off track five of the Chronic. When he opens his mouth to talk, his gold teeth sparkle.
He whispers, “I want the total package.”
Nessa jumps in, and I yell, “One hour.” It is already ten P.M. and Nessa is rolling. I walk over to the Exxon Gas Station to get me a pack of Newports, a Snickers bar, and a Mountain Dew. It's gonna be a long night and I need a sugar rush to keep my ass up.
As I cross the street, I see Shanté getting out of the Honda. I'm tearing open the pack of cigarettes with my mouth, and by that time I am right up on the car. La-La's eyes meet mine, and that nigga speeds off: Screeeech. He has to be pushing eighty down Broad Street. I go back to the alley to wait for Nessa. Shanté comes over.
“Heyyy, I'm about to roll out,” Shanté says while tucking his money into his bra.
“Damn, so soon.” I try to give da nigga a blank statement so he'll keep it moving.
“Hmm, after my Saturday night special, I'm done,” he says while sounding all lisp tongue and shit.
“Oh yeah?” I shoot back. I didn't want to ask shit about La-La but I felt a story coming. One thing's for sure, if you fuck a shim, them muh-fuckers gon’ tell it sooner or later, and one thing about it, they don't ever lie on a nigga's ass.
“Hmm.” He sucks his teeth. “You see that nigga I was with? He picks me up every Saturday night at the same time, and we go to the hotel on Chamberlain across from Burger King. And trust me, I lets the nigga have it his way.” He strokes his hair and continues. “Baby, I gets four hundred dollars a whop. Oh yes, baby, that nigga fucks the shit out of me. I asked him if I could hit him one time, but he don't trade off.” Shanté rubs up and down his girlish figure, straightening up his tight-fitting body dress.
“See ya.” He waves good-bye and heads toward Feldens, where each and every Saturday night the drag queens perform. He was sashaying like Naomi Campbell on the runway. I thought about hiring him to give Nessa some touch-up lessons, but I just flat-out refuse to pay a nigga to show a bitch how to work it.
It's now eleven and Nessa's ass isn't back. Broad Street has a party atmosphere. Cars are going up and down, back and forth. I see the same cars ride by me so many times that I get dizzy as hell just from being out there. Carload after carload of muh-fuckers is making they way to Ivory's. My pager goes off with a 5-0 code. I know then that the gold tooth–wearing nigga that Nessa left with was the po-po. I jog over to Exxon to the pay phone, only to realize that there ain't a phone in the cradle. So I walk down to Mickey D's to use the phone out there. I close the door to the booth behind me and call Momma.
“Ma, what up?” I ask, knowing very damn well what time it is.
“You know, don't play games with me, Dee,” Mom says, sounding irritated and sleepy. “That girl said come get her first thing Monday morning. She said her bail is three thousand dollars, which mean you ain't got to pay but three hundred dollars to get her out.”
“Tell Nessa if she calls back that she ain't make three hundred dollars tonight, and even if she did, her commission is only twenty percent. So tell her ass I said to turn a couple tricks with some of them RoboCop guards like she did last time to get up the money to get her slew-foot ass out.”
“You don't make no damn sense. Every time that gal gets locked up, you leave her in there for days and weeks at a time when she could be out there tricking for you,” Momma says. Momma is over-stepping her boundaries by getting in my business.
“Ma, I'm gone, just tell her what I said if they let her call back.”
“All right then, and what time are you coming home?”
I hang up when Momma asks that question. I don't like it when Momma asks me about my business. My business is my business. Shit, I don't be all in her business when she's at that goddamn Purple Pit Nite Club actin
g like she's fucking sweet sixteen and shit. Wearing them short-ass miniskirts with them ugly-ass knocked knees.
I decide to go check out Ivory's to see what all the hype is about. I walk down Broad, and bitches are yelling and shit out the car at me like I'm Denzel Washington.
“Hey, Dee, Dee baby, what's up?”
I'm walking cooler than a penguin on ice. When I walk, I glide. I just know I'm the baddest mutherfucker in Richmond and nobody can tell me shit. I'm gonna take that club by storm. I tell myself on the way there that I am gonna run that mutherfucker. I'm used to going to gay clubs, but tonight is different. Every hustler, hood rat, killer, baller, skeezer, hoochie, player, nobody, and everybody from every project in Richmond is gonna be in that mutherfucker 'cause Armani's is closed, and I'm prepared to make Ivory's my own.
The line extends down the sidewalk. I notice the bouncer from the Slip at Shockoe working the door. He sees me and motions for me to come to the front of the line. I walk past the crowd, pimping and shit like I got clout. This punk nigga in the back of the line mouths some ol’ foul shit at me: “Look at that fake-ass nigga.”
I yell back at him, “Yo bitch Keisha loves this fake-ass nigga.” That nigga's mouth drops. He looks surprised that I know his girl's name. I look over to the crowd and say, “Yeah, I fucked that bitch two months ago, but she wasn't cool with Massengill, and any bitch that don't fuck with Massengill can't fuck with me.” Everybody in line falls out laughing.
I keep it moving and walk into the club. I ain't sweating that weak-ass nigga.
Ivory's isn't like any other club I've ever seen in Richmond. Them muh-fuckers have the scenery all bubbly and shit. Everybody walks around sipping on champagne, compliments of the club owner. This is the grand reopening and niggas is representing. Everybody in the joint is acting Hollywood. I notice all the ballers kicking it, and the sack-chasing girls circling around the niggas with money in hopes that they ass is gonna be the chosen one for the night. Oh yeah, Ivory's is definitely off the chain.
The DJ is kicking that old joint by Doug E. Fresh, “All the Way to Heaven,” and man, oh man, people is bout to lose their damn minds. Then that nigga starts spinning “Push It Real Good” by Salt-N-Pepa, and the girls on the dance floor start showing niggas just how hard they can push it. I'm not feeling that shit, 'cause I keep thinking bout how muh-fuckers compare me to Spinderella. I walk over to the bar to get me a straight shot of Henny, 'cause for real, that Champale and Andre shit is for bitches.
Lil Mo stands at the bar, ordering a Courvoisier and Coke. She spots me and walks over with her drink in hand, stirring the ice around with her finger.
“Where's your girl? You mean to tell me she let you off the leash tonight?’ she asks with a sarcastic smile, then sucks on her wet index finger.
“She's out working, like she 'sposed to be. And what about your man—you mean to tell me he let you out of the house in that dress?” I down my shot of Henny. I set the empty glass on the bar and grab a small napkin, not to wipe my mouth with, but for writing the numbers down that I know I'm gon’ get.
“Like I told you in the mall today, Turk is out of town on business. He will be gone all week,” she answers, moving closer to me.
“All right, I'll holler at you later,” I say in a very friendly tone. Then I walk away and make my way through the crowd.
Lil Mo looks so good, I want to drink her bathwater. Her long jet-black hair is spiral curled. She's wearing a short black spaghetti-strap, doll-baby dress that accents her small, round phat ass, and every time she moves that dress moves with her. Her dress dips low in the front, and you can see the butterfly tattoo on her breast. Her titties are sitting up nice and high. She has on these tall black sandals; looks like some shit Mary J. Blige would wear, but them shits is tight. She has a big-ass tattoo of Cookie Monster, Ernie, and Bert riding a bicycle over her left ankle and lil mo is tattooed on her right arm. From all the tattoos and shit on her body, I know her lil ass could handle pain.
I stand up against the wall nodding my head to the music and checking out the ladies. There are some bad-ass bitches in Richmond and I'm imagining myself fucking every ho in the joint. I look behind me and see Lil Mo talking to Cynthia. I know Cynthia from Colors; she's the bartender there on Wednesday nights. Cynthia is gorgeous. Asian, black, and Creole, about five feet five with big wide hips and a badunka butt. With her copper-toned complexion and light brown slanted bedroom eyes, that bitch is so muhfucking bad that I tricked with her ass one night. I thought she was fem, but she carried her shit straight butch, but I ain't know it until we got to the hotel room. Cyn ass ate me out, sucked my toes, licked my asshole, my armpits, my navel, that bitch even ate the wax out of my ears. She licked and sucked every fucking crack and crevice on my body. I was feeling so good that when the bitch told me to turn around and put my ass in the air, I did it. I had forgotten who the fuck I was, until I felt a flabby dick at the entrance of my ass. I jumped up and yelled, “What the fuck you doing?”
The DJ been throwing down so far, then his 'Bama ass plays that goddamn “Push It Real Good” again. I can't understand what the fuck is up with that shit. Then he announces, “I have a special request from Lil Mo.” I turn around and see Lil Mo's ass heading toward me. She comes up to me singing, “Ooooh, baby, baby be, baby baby be, get up on this.” Before I know it, her leg is in the air and around my waist, and her arms are hung around my neck. She wants me to get up on it, and so fuck it, I do. I start grinding back on her ass. People are looking and shit 'cause everybody know Lil Mo is Turk's girl. But sheeett, I'm saying to myself, if Lil Mo is his bitch, then it's that nigga's responsibility to keep his ho in check.
For the rest of the night, we kick it. Every time I turn around her ass is at me. I think, I'ma hit that tonight.
When the club party is over, I walk back down to McDonald's to call Yellow Cab to scoop me up. Before the cab arrives, Lil Mo pulls up with this chick name Tasha riding with her. She offers me a ride home and for the second time in one day, I accept. Tasha lives in HoneyBrook Apartments, and Lil Mo lives in Lakefield Mews. She says she'll take Tasha home first, then drop me off. That shit doesn't make sense to me since they live closer to each other. But I know what time it is, so I ain't ask no questions. On the way home, they gossip bout niggas in the club. Who's fucking who, who's snitching, who got evicted, who's getting high, which projects is beefing against the other. They know all the baby mommas baby daddies drama. They all up in everybody's business. I sit in the back-seat tripping. Lil Mo keeps looking at me through the rearview mirror, smiling and tracing her lips with her tongue.
As soon as Tasha gets out, Lil Mo drives out of the complex, turns around, looks at me, and says, “You know what I want.” She pulls over and parks on a dark deserted road. She turns off the truck and removes the key from the ignition. She gets out of the driver seat, walks to the back door, opens it, and climbs in back with me. She shuts the door behind her, straddles me, and sticks her tongue dead down my throat. She tongues me hard. I never tongue-kissed anybody except Cookie.
Then she starts sucking on my neck and humping up and down on me. I feel good, so I start humping back. She pulls my jersey over my head, then removes my white tee and starts sucking on my chest. I throw her off of me, pull up her dress, and realize she isn't wearing any panties. I stick my middle finger in her pussy, and she starts squirming around, fucking it. Then I remove my finger and slide my tongue in her pussy. It's dark and I can't see, so I reach up front and turn on the interior lights, 'cause I need to see what the fuck I am eating. Man, her pussy is pretty and pink. Looks like that has never been tapped into. I eat her out for 'bout fifteen minutes straight without raising my head. When she's about to come, she tells me to get on top of her, she wants me to hump her. I don't have my strap with me, so I get on top of her and we are straight fucking like two bitches. We kiss and grind and suck each other's necks. I can't remember the last time I felt that good. It's different from when I'm with Nessa; I am feeling so
me shit I ain't never felt before— passion. We both start coming at the same time, our bodies shaking and jerking in unison. I hold on to her tight. I never want to let go of the MoJo.
FIVE
IT'S FOUR A.M. on Sunday, and I tell Lil Mo to drop me off in front of Oakwood Cemetery. I'm feeling good but need to get high to calm my ass down 'cause, for real, Lil Mo had a nigga on cloud nine. I walk through the cut, looking for La-La's night-prowling ass. It's so quiet round the way that you can hear a pin drop. I ain't see the nigga, so I go and knock on his door.
“Yo, who is it?” he yells.
“It's Demetria, man,” I yell back, as I look around to make sure niggas ain't outside, waiting to catch a nigga out. I can hear him fucking around with the door and shit. Seems like the nigga is nervous or something 'cause it takes his ass a minute to open up.
“Fuck you want, nigga?” he asks me with bass in his voice. Its four in the morning and the nigga opens the door with a bowl of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes in his hand.
“Man, let me get a hit,” I say as I walk past him, reaching into my back pocket for my ace of spade.
“Shorty, you need to pay your tab. How the fuck you think you gon’ keep booking shit off me and don't pay up?”
“Man, you know I'm good for it, why you tripping?” I ask him like I have an open line of credit.
La-La walks back into the kitchen and sits down to finish his bowl of cereal. I look around the apartment and notice that there isn't shit in the living room except a big-screen television with a Rent-A-Center sticker attached to the side and a couple card-table folding chairs. In the kitchen is a glass table with four chairs—the type of chairs with the black-and-gold-specked seats that everybody in the fucking pj's seemed to have. They ain't got no curtains at the kitchen or living room windows. La-La continues eating his Frosted Flakes, paying my ass no attention as I stand over him with money in my pocket and credit on my mind.