by Cairo
When the microwave stops, she brings me my drink and plate, then pulls out a chair and sits ’cross from me. She watches me as I bite into one of the chicken breasts. Damn! I lick my fingers and lips, then shovel a mouthful of cabbage in my mouth. “Mmmmmm. This is good as hell. You really did your thing, Ma, word up.”
She playfully swats at me. “What I tell you about talking with your mouth full.” She leans forward, placin’ her elbows on the table, restin’ her chin on her closed fists. “So, tell me. Besides chasing skirts, what else have you been up to? Have you found a job yet?”
I shake my head. “I’m not lookin,” I calmly answer, takin’ a sip of my drink. I set the glass down, then finish eatin’.
“Why not? Don’t you think you should be? I know you’re not paying for all of those designer clothes, expensive shoes, and that car note and mortgage with just your looks.”
Nah, these looks get me in the door. It’s this big ole dick that gets me in them wallets.
She shakes her head as if she read my thoughts. “Hmmph. Don’t you think it’s time you grow up, and start taking life serious? The world can’t always be your playground. And whatever little money you have left in the bank isn’t gonna last you forever.”
I sigh. I knew this was comin’. She thinks a grown man should be responsible enough to find a job and keep a job. And make his own paper. I agree, if that’s ya thing. But, a nigga like me ain’t beat for slavin’ for someone else. And I ain’t interested in lettin’ the shiesty-ass government dig into my pockets tryna get their cut either, real talk. I tried that nine-to-five shit once, and it just wasn’t me. A cat like me ain’t built for takin’ orders, or havin’ someone constantly over my shoulder sweatin’ me. I don’t need no muthafuckin’ babysitter watchin’ what the fuck I do, or clockin’ my moves. Fuck that. I felt like I was bein’ chained to a desk and time clock. The only bright side of goin’ to work was gettin’ off. Oh, and fuckin’ my supervisor. She was married and miserable, and needed some young dick in her life, so I was more than happy to put in the overtime to work her pussy over.
But then she started gettin’ on her bullshit when she found out I was smashin’ another supervisor in another department, too. Shit started gettin’ real hectic, so a nigga bounced. And I haven’t worked since. Well, not in the traditional sense.
A few years back I was what they call an exotic dancer. Aiiight, aiight, shit…I shook my dick for a livin’. But a nigga made a muthafuckin’ killin’; especially doin’ the private party thing. Broads paid out the ass. And a muhfucka like me gave ’em their money’s worth. I had bitches literally beggin’ to see, feel, taste, and fuck this dick. I ain’t gonna front, slingin’ this dick and gettin’ paid to be on display was aiight for a minute. But, even that shit started gettin’ hectic. Bitches fightin’ ’n shit tryna get ya attention; hoes stalkin’ ya ass. Man, listen. Some of them chicks got real reckless when it came to ’em tryna get at this chocolate cock. Like lyin’ to their niggas ’bout where they been, spendin’ up their rent money, jumpin’ up on stage lettin’ me do any-and-e’ery-muthafuckin’ thing to ’em, bouncin’ state to state to follow this dick, neglectin’ their damn kids. They were some real live groupie bitches, straight birds. And a nigga had no problem takin’ that paper—still don’t. But at the same time, I was lookin’ at a lotta them bitches sideways for how muthafuckin’ stupid they were.
After awhile, the whole scene got really played. And I wasn’t beat for a buncha bitches pawin’ and clawin’ to get at me. So after three years of swingin’ this dick up in a buncha nameless faces, I split. But, don’t get shit twisted. I had a trail of hoes—well, I still do—in almost e’ery state from here to Cali. And e’ery last one of ’em paid to get slayed, feel me? And many of ’em still do.
Kickin’ some real shit to you, I got broads thinkin’ I don’t own my own shit—that I’m practically homeless ’n shit, and they’ll flat out tell me I can move in wit’ ’em. And I don’t have to pay for shit. They’ll keep me laced in the hottest shit, pay my bills, and keep a nigga’s pockets lined. The only thing they want is a muhfucka to come home to, someone to make ’em feel good ’bout themselves, someone to fuck ’em down real good. They’ll work all muthafuckin’ day, then come home and cook me a full-course meal, then drop down on their knees and worship this big, black dick like I’m king Ding-a-Ling. So, hell no, I ain’t lookin’ for no muthafuckin’ job! I already got one.
“Well, what can I say, Ma. The hoes got it bad for me.”
She glares at me. “What I tell you about referring to women as hoes. You really need to stop it.” I almost wanna laugh. I lost count the number of times growin’ up I heard her usin’ the word. She musta forgot that she used to refer to Pops’ jumpoffs as hoes and bitches. And how many times she ran up in one of his hoes’ spots draggin’ ’em out by the hair callin’ ’em e’ery type of bitch there is. I decide not to remind her.
“Ma, on the real, in my opinion and based on what I’ve experienced, that’s exactly what most of ’em are. And you know it.”
She shakes her head, dismissin’ my comment. “You and that fat, black dick of yours…”
I choke. “Oh, shit! Ma, you buggin’, word up.”
“Bugging, hell. I’m your mother. I changed your pissy Pampers, wiped your ass, and saw you walking around in your drawers growing up, so I know what’s hanging between your legs. You’re a Maples. And the one thing I learned, and overheard, about the Maples men, they are all holding—every last one of ’em, including your hot, sex-crazed ass. So, don’t ‘Ma’ me. Now like I was saying, that big dick of yours is going to be your downfall. You can’t keep fucking over all these women and not expect one, if not two, of ’em to snap.”
I put my fork down. “Ma, it’s not like that. These broads know what it is. I’m not tryna wife none of ’em. It’s strictly sex.”
“And you’re using them for whatever you can get out of ’em.”
I laugh at her. “Ma, I’m single. I have no kids. And I’m not lookin’ for a relationship. I’m just chillin’. I’m not hurtin’ anyone. As far as I see it, it’s a mutually satisfyin’ arrangement wit’ any broad I get wit’. They want sumthin’ from me and, nine-times-out-of-ten, I’m gonna deliver it—for a price, of course.”
“Oh, please. Any woman dumb enough to accept that damn shit is a stone-cold fool.”
“Well, most of ’em are.”
She sucks her teeth, rollin’ her eyes, knowin’ what I say is truth. “Well, that may be so. But, your ass is still asking for trouble. You’re using these women and it isn’t right.”
I take a deep breath. On some real shit, I wanna bring it to her raw. Let her know that I. Don’t. Give. A. Hot. Fuck…’bout none of these silly-ass broads out here, ’specially the ones who care ’bout dumb shit like the size of a nigga’s dick, or the size of a muhfucka’s feet and hands. And believe me. Any bitch who comes outta her grill askin’ if I gotta big dick gets dragged through the muthafuckin’ mud, real talk. These bitches will know that I’m fuckin’ other chicks and still give me the keys to their cars, their cribs, bank cards, Family First cards, and e’ery muthafuckin’ thing else. It’s all because I gotta long, thick, black dick loaded wit’ a buncha hot, creamy nut for that ass ’n throat. But keepin’ shit real, all a big dick does is make an already dumb-ass bitch dumber. So if anything, a dumb, low-self-esteem-havin’ bitch should be tryna stay far the fuck away from a nigga like me. ’Cause if she doesn’t, then her muthafuckin’ ass is gonna get slayed and played, real talk. I’ma fuck her silly-ass into a muthafuckin’ coma. And if I see any sign of weakness, I’ma take her retarded ass straight to the cleaners. And that’s what it is.
My cell rings. I pull it from offa my hip, glancin’ at the screen. Fuckin’ Tamera’s nutty-ass, again. I sigh, hittin’ Ignore. It rings again. This is that bullshit, word up. I answer. “Yo, what the fuck?!”
Mom raises her brow, squints her eyes. I shrug.
“Oh, so I see you on some fu
nny-style shit, now. But it’s all good.”
“Ain’t nuthin’ funny-style ’bout not bein’ beat for you. So what the fuck you want? ” Moms glares at me. I put my hands up, and mouth, “My bad, Ma.” She gets up and starts puttin’ the food away.
“Oh, so you ain’t beat for me now.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“You real fucked up; you know that, right?” she says, smackin’ in my ear.
“And you a real bird, so what’s ya point?”
“Fuck you, nigga!”
“Choke on my nut,” I say, snappin’ the phone shut. Fuckin’ smut!
Moms turns to look at me. “You must really want me to slap the shit outta you.”
I wanna laugh, knowin’ she’s only poppin’ shit. “My bad, Ma.”
She narrows her eyes and twists her lips, but says nuthin’. She goes back to flittin’ ’round the kitchen, finishes puttin’ e’erything in the ’fridge, then sits back down. She allows me to finish eatin’ in peace. Patiently waits for me to gulp down the last bit of my juice before she starts in on me. She folds her hands on top of the table.
“Alex, listen. You’re playing a very dangerous game messing over these women the way you do. No matter how fucked up you think a woman is, she still has feelings. And when you play with a woman’s emotions…”
“C’mon, Ma, keep it gee. Is it my fault that they play themselves?”
“No, but it’s your fault for taking advantage of ’em. No matter what a woman thinks of herself, you are still responsible for how you treat ’em.”
Oh, well. If it’s not me draggin’ ’em, then it’ll be some other muhfucka. So it might as well be me. I shrug, glancin’ down at my watch. It’s almost nine. I get up from my seat, then walk over and kiss Moms on her forehead. “I love you, Ma. But, whether it’s right or wrong, I’ma do what I do no matter what you think about it. I’ma be outta town for a minute, but I’ll hit you up when I get back.”
She gets up, takes my empty plate and places it in the sink. “And I love you, too. But that doesn’t mean I’ma stop doing what I do. And that’s being your mother, worrying about you, confronting you on your irresponsible choices, and cussing ya ass out when need be.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say, smilin’. “But just remember, they’re my choices. And I like it when you cuss.” I walk up and grab her in a big bear hug, then pick her up. “I don’t want no problems, Ma.”
She laughs. “Boy, put me down.” I do. She gives me a hug, then looks up at me. “I don’t wanna see anything happen to you that coulda been prevented by being honest.”
I kiss her on the forehead. “Ma, I am bein’ honest wit’ these chicks.” I grin, shruggin’. “Well, okay, ’bout most things. Still whatever heartache or drama they feel, it’s shit they brought on themselves, real talk.”
She shakes her head, followin’ me toward the front door. “I love you.”
I flash her my mega-watt smile, givin’ her another hug and kiss. “I love you, too, Ma.”
She closes the door behind me as I walk to my car, shakin’ my head and smilin’. I disarm the alarm, then slide behind the wheel, crankin’ the engine and sparkin’ a blunt, makin’ my way toward the parkway, headin’ south to my spot.
9
I’m tired as fuck! My muthafuckin’ flight to ATL was delayed two hours. Then they kept a muhfucka cooped up and bunched up on that biotch for almost forty minutes before finally takin’ the fuck off. A nigga needed a damn blunt bad, still do—straight to the dome. Lucky for me, I don’t fuck wit’ alcohol, otherwise, a muhfucka woulda got right. The one good thing outta the whole fucked-up flight is that I was posted up next to this bad-ass bitch from Stone Mountain. Whew…man, listen. Chick is a real beauty. Model-fine type wit’ long, sexy legs, nice bubble ass, lil’ waist and slanted gray eyes. Then she got the nerve to have a sexy-ass mole over her lip, and a muthafuckin’ Gabrielle Union smile. Man, listen. You know I had to put my thing down on her fine ass. And yeah, a nigga got the digits.
So, here I am walkin’ and talkin’, just straight kickin’ it wit’ her fine-ass. I’m diggin’ her vibe, and I can tell she’s diggin’ mine. And on some real shit, I almost forget the bitch I got waitin’ on me. I sigh when we get off the tram and make our way to baggage claim. I make a promise to get at this cutie before I bounce; not even on some fuck-type shit—well, not unless she’s tryna step outta them drawers, but on some straight chill shit.
“Make sure you do that,” she says, smilin’. She shifts her brown Dolce & Gabbana handbag from one arm to the other.
“No doubt,” I say, lickin’ my lips. “I’m definitely tryna holla.”
“You got the number. Use it or lose it.”
I laugh. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”
“So, who you out here staying with?” she asks, starin’ me in the eyes and grinnin’.
“My peoples,” I state. “But I’m tryna spend some time—”
“Alex, over here,” I hear. I cringe. Fuck! I know who it is the minute I hear that squeaky-ass voice. I turn around, lookin’ for… uh, damn, what’s this bitch’s name? Vita, yeah, that’s it. I don’t see her, so I go back to talkin’ to my Stone Mountain beauty.
“…with you, ma,” I continue. “So, make sure you pick up ya phone when you see a nine-seven-three area code comin’ through. It’s gonna be me tryna get at ya.”
She smiles. “Well, if I’m not busy, I’ll pick up. If I don’t, leave a message. Oh, there’s my bag,” she says, pointin’ to a black Louis travel bag. I reach over and grab it before it goes by, then hand it to her. “Thanks, she says.
I glance ’round, lookin’ for Vita’s stupid ass, but I still don’t see her. “So dig, baby, I’ma hit you up in a few days.”
“Well, if you don’t, that’s on you.” She grins.
I grin back. “And if I do?” I ask, lickin’ my lips, steppin’ into her space.
She locks her eyes on mine. “Then that’s on you, too.”
I smile wider. And just as I’m ’bout to scoop this beauty up in my arms, I see this lil’ bow-legged chick, wobblin’ up on me, wavin’ me down. Who the fuck is this lil’ bitch? At first I think it’s some fresh-ass, hot-in-the-pussy shorty tryna holla. But then I notice her face got some age on it, and realize she’s a grown-ass woman.
“Heeeeeeey, Alex,” she says, grinnin’ from ear to ear, showin’ the gap between her teeth, like she just hit the Lotto.
I ice-grill the bitch. “Yo, what’s good? Do I know you?”
She keeps her smile plastered on her face as she walks up to where we’re standin’. She looks up at my Stone Mountain beauty, then up at me and says, “Yeah, boo, it’s Vita.”
My jaw drops. A nigga is ready to pass the fuck out! Ole girl looks at me, then down at this chick, and smirks. I can tell she’s thinkin’, You fuckin’ that? Oh, I see your work. She looks me in the eye and says, “It was nice talking to you. Enjoy your stay in the ATL.”
“Most def. I’ma hit you up.” I watch her walk off, then return my attention to this ho. Vita? A nigga tries to keep his composure. What the fuck?! I look down at this lil’ Munchkin bitch. Vita? Oh, hell naw. The chick in those flicks is brown-skinned wit’ thick hips and lips, and has big brown eyes and a sexy-ass smile. Not some muthafuckin’ light-bright, high-yellow bitch wit’ big, pink lips and burgundy hair.
I frown, scratchin’ the side of my head. “Hol’ up,” I say, shakin’ my head in disbelief. “You’re ATL Rough Rider Cutie, Vita, from offa Myspace?”
“Yeah, boo,” she says, laughin’ “You so crazy. Who else? I was calling you for a minute, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Nah, bitch, I heard you. I just didn’t see ya ass. And now I know why. I pull in my bottom lip, and bite the fuck down on it before I blast her ass right here in the middle of the muthafuckin’ airport. Rough Rider Cutie my muthafuckin’ ass! “Nah, I didn’t hear you,” I say, grittin’ my teeth.
“You want me to w
ait here with you until your bag comes?”
I see muhfuckas eye-ballin’ us and I’m startin’ to feel some kinda way ’bout it. “Nah, I’m good,” I say not lookin’ down at her.
“Oh, okay. Well, I’ma be sitting over there waiting for you then.” She points over to a metal bench by a set of payphones.
I take a deep breath. “Aiight, you do that.” I watch this broad waddle in her tiny-ass heels, lookin’ like muthafuckin’ Minnie Mouse ’n shit. All the ho needs is a big-ass bow in her hair. I shake my head. The ho got little feet, little hands, little mouth, and little body. E’ery muthafuckin’ thing on this bitch is little, ’cept for her big-ass head—and that fat ass of hers. I lock my eyes on her phatty, shakin’ my head. I need a muthafuckin’ blunt, now! The ho said her ass was short, not some toddler-sized adult. She shoulda kept shit real wit’ me. At least prepare a nigga first; dig what I’m sayin’?
I let out a deep, disgusted sigh. All that good shit she been talkin’ over the phone ’bout how deep her pussy is, ’bout how much she loves to fuck, ’bout how she’s gonna rock this dick, had a nigga ready to beat her guts up. And this is the shit I end up wit’—a damn pint-sized, freak-nasty ho. I shoulda known the shit was too muthafuckin’ good to be true.
When my bag finally comes, I swagger over to where her ass is sittin’. She’s on her cell, but disconnects her call when she sees me comin’. I’m lookin’ at her, thinkin’ how the fuck I’ma get outta this shit. I got like two grand on me, so I know I can always cop me a hotel somewhere, and be out. Then I can maybe hook up wit’ that Stone Mountain cutie. Fuck! I forgot her name, that quick. Shit!
She looks up at me. “You mad at me?”
I frown. Am I mad? This smut is the size of a fuckin’ poodle standin’ on its hind legs, and she got the muthafuckin’ nerve to be askin’ me some dumb shit like that. Damn straight, I’m heated. But since this ho gassed me up, it’s gonna cost her extra. I smile, decidin’ to milk this situation for e’ery muhfuckin’ thing it’s worth.