by Cairo
“I feel you. Well, I don’t wanna get ya hopes up.”
“Trust me, you won’t. It was only an idea. Whatever you decide is fine with me. I’m giving myself five years to be pregnant, so I have more than enough time to figure it all out. Who knows, Mr. Right may find his way into my life and sweep me off my feet. In the meantime, are you available the week of February tenth, or not?”
I pause for a minute, tryna remember what day we’re leavin’ for All-Star. The twelth, I think. “Nah, I’ma be in Phoenix that week. How ’bout the week after?”
“That works for me,” she says, markin’ it in her calendar. She slips it back into her bag.
I smile, pourin’ myself some more green tea. I raise my cup. “To good times and good fuckin’.”
She raises her cup of sake. “Exaaaaaaactly.”
I glance at my watch, then lick my lips and slowly pull in my bottom lip. “So dig, baby…you think we gotta ’nough time to get another round in before my flight?”
She eyes me seductively, flaggin’ the waiter. “Check, please.”
29
“I’m soooooo sorry to hear about your grandmother, baby. And I apologize for leaving all those nasty messages. I was wrong for that. When you weren’t at the airport and then didn’t pick up when I called you, I started thinking the worst. I thought you were ducking me.”
I’ve been back from L.A. for almost three days—ten grand richer, I might add—and this is the first time I’m actually speakin’ to Vita. For some reason, hearin’ her voice is already startin’ to get on my fuckin’ nerves. I take a deep breath, slowly blowin’ it out. She’s been goin’ on and on ’bout how fucked up she feels ’bout comin’ outta her neck sideways. And of course, I make her feel even more guilty doin’ it.
“Never that, baby,” I tell her, rollin’ my eyes. “But I’ma keep it gee. I was kinda fucked up for a minute hearin’ those messages. I was like, ‘oh shit, I forgot to hit Vita up.’ I had so much on my mind wit’ my grandmother dyin’, I couldn’t think straight. We were really close so…” I pause, frontin’ like I’m tryna keep from breakin’ down. By the time I finish givin’ her my sob story of losin’ my grandmother and bein’ all fucked up over it, boo-hooin’ ’n shit, I’ma have her offerin’ to cop me another plane ticket to ATL. Listen, think what you want, but would you rather I hurt this Potato Head’s feelin’s and tell her that I wasn’t fuckin’ beat for her ass, that’s why I didn’t come through? Y’all muhfuckas need to get over it. I’ma do what I do, regardless.
“…Umm, listen, this’s been hard on my whole family, feel me?”
“I feel you, baby. I feel so bad, though. I wish there was something I could do to help you get through this.”
“You understandin’ and bein’ here for me is more than enough,” I tell her, grabbin’ my keys and headin’ for the door. I’m meetin’ Akina at the Jersey Gardens Loews over in Elizabeth to check out that flick Body of Lies—wit’ Leonardo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe—and if I’m lucky, I can get her to slide her hand down in my sweats and play wit’ my balls durin’ the show, then drop down and bob up ’n down on this dick. “I’ma hit you wit’ some paper for that ticket as soon as—”
“Oh, no,” she says, cuttin’ me off, “that’s not necessary. I called American Express and they took care of it for me. I got a full refund for the ticket. When you didn’t show up at the airport, I called them right then and told them that there had been a family emergency, even though I didn’t know there was.”
“Oh, word? So you lied to ’em? That’s wassup.”
She laughs. “Well, yeah…I guess. But it ended up being the truth, so I didn’t really lie.” If you say so, I think, wonderin’ how many other muhfuckas she’s sponsored, then had to call her credit card company and lie to ’em when the nigga didn’t come through. How many of ’em did she haveta call, screamin’ for dissin’ her. More than she’d like, I’m sure. “I still hope you can forgive me for going off the way I did. I know this is probably not the right time with you just getting back and all, but I really wanna see you. I’ve been missing you. So whenever you’re ready to get away, let me know.”
See. What I tell you? I smile. “Baby, I’m ready now. I really wanna see you, too. But my paper’s kinda low.” She cuts me off— as I knew she would, tellin’ me I don’t haveta worry ’bout money; that she’s gonna get the ticket; that she wants her box rocked bad. “Damn, you really know howta fuck a nigga’s head up, baby.”
“I really care about you. And I’m always thinking about you.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry,” she says, gigglin’ like some silly-ass bimbo. “I’m not gonna ask you to marry me or anything like that.”
“Yo, ma,” I warn, turnin’ up into the Jersey Gardens mall. “Remember what I told you. Don’t get caught up. Let shit flow.”
“I think it might be a little too late for that,” she tells me, pausin’. “I already am.”
I hear myself sayin’, “Then ya dumb ass is a fool.” But instead I say, “Listen, don’t say I—”
She cuts me off. “I know, I know. But you can’t stop me from feeling how I feel.” I sigh, knowin’ how this is gonna go down. She’s gonna get way in over her head, then end up havin’ a muthafuckin’ emotional breakdown when I dismiss her ass. “I know you haven’t made me any promises, but I love you, so I’m willing to take the risk. And whatever happens happens.”
Bitch, you don’t even fuckin’ know me. I find a parkin’ space, pullin’ in. As I’m gettin’ out the car, Akina texts me: Where are you?
“How you know it’s love, and not infatuation?”
“Because I know the difference, and what I feel for you goes way beyond infatuation. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but oh, well. I feel what I feel. And I know what’s in my heart for you. It’s love.”
“Then proceed wit’ caution,” I advise, makin’ my way toward the movie theater. “Listen, I gotta take care of sumthin’. I’ma hit you up tomorrow, aiight?” She says okay, then tells me to have a good night. “Yeah, you too, baby,” I say before disconnectin’ the call. I text Akina: I’m walkin’ in now.
When I walk up, Akina’s standin’ by the entrance wit’ her hand on her hip, lookin’ sexy as fuck in a black mohair sweater, a pair of black leggin’s and a bangin’-ass pair of black four-inch platform Gucci boots. I peep niggas tryna check for her—hard, but she’s iggin’ ’em. I grin. “Yo, what it do, pretty baby?”
She rolls her eyes, suckin’ her teeth. “Nigga, fuckin’ with you, we ’bout to miss the damn movie.”
I glance at my watch. The shit starts at seven-thirty. And it’s seven-thirty, now. What the fuck she spazzin’ ’bout when there’s gonna be fifteen minutes of fuckin’ previews? I shake my head, decidin’ to let the shit go. “Yo, you tryna lose ya teeth? What I tell you ’bout ya mouth.”
“Whatever,” she says, tryna stomp off. I watch her juicy ass shake and bounce.
I run up behind her, grab her by the arm, then pull her into me, givin’ her a tight hug. She tries to act like she ain’t beat, but she doesn’t pull away. “Yo, you ready to play wit’ these balls?” I ask, whisperin’ in her ear before lettin’ her go.
“Nope,” she says, pushin’ a movie ticket into my chest. “Play with ya own damn balls.”
I laugh, followin’ her. “Yeah, right.”
Four days later, Moms, Pops, and I were standin’ in line to vote. The energy out there was wild, word up! Old heads, young heads, families of all shapes, sizes and colors were in line eager to be a part of change. Now we’re glued in front of the TV watchin’ CNN, waitin’ to hear them announce Barack Obama as the next president of the United States. We’ve been waitin’ all day, and now the time has finally come. When the announcement is finally made, the three of us are standin’ in the middle of the livin’ room, huggin’ and shoutin’ and high-fivin’ each other. Moms starts wipin’ tears. It’s a beautiful moment watchin’ Obama come out wit’ his family, all holdin’ hands, once it’
s official. Even Pops gets tearyeyed. Aiight, aiight…I ain’t gonna front, I’m kinda emotional, too. I mean, damn…history’s been made and I was a part of it, feel me? Hell, I’m so amped that I wanna celebrate the moment by beatin’ up some pussy. I wanna slide deep up in it, then long stroke it ’til it skeets all over my dick. And that’s exactly what I plan on doin’—well, after I blaze a fat-ass blunt. I give Moms and Pops hugs and tell ’em, “I’m out.” It’s already close to midnight, and I wanna get this dick wet before it gets too late.
As I’m gettin’ in my ride, scrollin’ through my address book to see who I can hit up for a quick pump ’n dump, my cell starts goin’ off. It’s a number I’m not familiar wit’. “Yo?”
“Alley Cat?”
The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t figure out who the fuck it is. “Yeah, who’s this?” I ask, startin’ the engine. I light the rest of my blunt, then back outta the driveway, takin’ a deep puff.
“It’s Sherria.”
I frown. “Sherria?” Unfuckin’ believable! I haven’t fucked wit’ this broad in months. And the last time I heard from her is when she left that bullshit-ass message on my cell.
“Yeah.”
“Why you callin’?”
“I was hoping we could talk. I don’t like how things went down between us.”
“Bitch, what the fuck we need to talk ’bout? How I rammed this dick up in ya fat ass?” I hear myself snappin’. I sigh. “Yo, check this out. You were dismissed. There’s nuthin’ else to talk ’bout.”
“Dismissed, as you call it, without cause. I mean, damn…I thought things were going good between us. Then all of sudden, you just stop calling and returning my phone calls. I wanna know why?”
See, this is the shit I can’t get wit’. I told this ho months ago that I wasn’t beat to fuck wit’ no chick who is always tossin’ a damn bottle back. E’ery time we were together, this bitch had to have a bottle stuck down in her throat. I don’t mind a chick who gets her drink on, but gotdamn…e’ery damn time I’m wit’ you? That shit doesn’t work for me. I confronted her once ’bout it, and she said she was gonna try to not drink as much ’round me. And for a minute, she was aiight. But, then her ass started doin’ the same shit again. I’ma grown-ass man; I ain’t wastin’ time repeatin’ myself. I’ma tell ya ass one time. If you don’t take heed, then the shit’s on you. I’ma dis ya ass. “You drink too damn much. That’s why. And I got sick of it.”
“Well, how come you didn’t say something to me? I woulda cut back.”
I laugh. “So instead of drinkin’ seven days a week, you woulda cut back to what, six? Give me a break.What the fuck I look like sayin’ sumthin’ to you when I had already brought the shit to your attention from the jump? You musta banged ya damn head, if you think I’ma keep bringin’ shit to someone’s attention. I ain’t that dude.”
“Nigga, puhleeeze. You smoke weed all fucking day, but I never said shit about that. I accepted it.”
I crack the windows, takin’ another pull from the blunt. “And I’m smokin’ now. So what does that haveta do wit’ anything? You knew I smoked from the door, so if you had a problem wit’ it, then you shoulda spoke on it. But you didn’t, so that’s on you, boo.”
“And would you have stopped?”
“Hell no. I woulda fucked ya ass real good, then told you to keep it movin’. And that woulda been that.”
“So basically I was somebody you could fuck, then fuck over?”
“If that’s how you see it,” I say, pullin’ up into Pops’ driveway, “then I guess that’s how it was.”
“Is that how you saw it?”
I glance at my watch, gettin’ outta my whip. It’s gettin’ late as hell. Fuckin’ ’round wit’ her dumb ass I’ma end up not bein’ able to get at some twat and end up beatin’ my dick. I ignore the question. “Listen, I’m tryna get up in some pussy tonight, so I’m done wit’ this back ’n forth wit’ you. I’m tryna fuck; not waste energy on you or this phone call.”
“Fuck YOU!” she screams into the phone. “You are so fucked up, nigga.”
“Is that ’posed to make me feel some kinda way? ’Cause if so, I don’t.”
“You know what? Forget it. Where are my house keys?”
“Your keys? Are you fuckin’ serious?” This ho is really reachin’ now. She knows damn well she hasn’t given those damn keys a thought. She called here on some other shit, and now all of a sudden, she wants to ask ’bout some muthafuckin’ keys when she doesn’t like what she’s bein’ told. Fuck outta here! “Dig, you had more than enough time to have ya locks changed. And if you didn’t, then that shit’s on you. But I tossed ’em. Now delete my number and beat it.” Before she can open her dick sucka to say anthing else, I end the call. Then I text Carla: U feel like gettin’ ya pussy popped?
While I wait for her to respond back, I text Maleeka: U wanna ride this dick tonight?
Whoever gets at me first gets the prize. My phone rings; it’s that silly bitch callin’ back. I press Ignore. She leaves a message. I shake my head.
Carla texts back: U know I always want some of that big-ass dick. I wanna 69, 2!
I text back: I’ll be there in 30 mins. Have them drawers off and that box clean ’n ready. Big daddy’s cumin’ through to bust that ass!
She texts back: See u when u get here.
My phone rings. It’s Maleeka. “Yo, what it do, baby?”
“What time you tryna come through? I’m still doin’ heads.”
I start to tell her to forget it; that I already got plans, but quickly decide fuckin’ two hoes in one night is a much better way to celebrate Obama’s victory. “You tell me, what’s good for you?”
“I should be done this last head ’round two-thirty. If you still up, swing through then.”
“I gotta make a run, anyway. So that works out good. I’ma hit you up when I’m on my way.”
“I don’t have the kids, so you stayin’ the night, right?”
“Awww, shit. You tryna get ya back dug out ’til the sun comes up. That’s wassup.”
She sucks her teeth. “Whatever. Just make sure you come through, so I can fuck the skin off that dick.”
I laugh. “That’s what ya mouth says.”
“Don’t front, nigga. You already know.”
“Yeah, aiight,” I say, takin’ off my clothes. “I’ll holla later.” I toss the phone on the bed, goin’ into the bathroom. I turn the shower on, take a piss, then hop in the shower. I grab the Tone body wash, and wash my ass, dick ’n balls extra good. Ten minutes later, I’m out the door. I hop in my hooptie, crank the engine, then back outta the driveway. Yeah, these bitches love Daddy Long Stroke, I think, sparkin’ a blunt, makin’ my way ’cross town to slay my first round of ass for the night.
30
A week later, I’m over at Pops’ spot—up in my room chillin’, shufflin’ through mail and puffin’ on a L while flippin’ through TV channels tryna find sumthin’ to watch. Ain’t shit on this bitch, I think, tossin’ the remote over on the other side of the bed. Pay all this fuckin’ money for a buncha hot garbage. I turn on my laptop and wait for it to boot. I hear the doorbell ring, but don’t give it much thought since I know Pops is somewhere in the house. I click on Internet Explorer, then hit up my Yahoo account. The minute I log on, it chimes, alertin’ me I have new messages; eighty-seven, to be exact. As I’m goin’ through ’em, a buncha IM’s start poppin’ up. Of course I ain’t beat for any of ’em today. I don’t know why I don’t make myself invisible, knowin’ this is the kinda shit I gotta deal wit’ e’erytime I sign on. These thirsty bitches stay tryna get a taste of this chocolate stick. I ignore ’em all.
My cell rings. It’s Akina. I decide she can leave a message. She calls again. I let the call roll into voicemail, again. Five minutes later, she’s callin’ back. I pick up. “What’s good?”
“You need to check your messages,” she says, soundin’ tight. “Ya voicemail’s full.”
“Oh, aiight,” I
say, loggin’ off Yahoo. “So what’s poppin’?” I hit up my BlackPlanet page, then Myspace and Facebook pages, readin’ and deletin’ notes and ignorin’ friend requests.
“Why is it the only time I hear from you is when you want some pussy, ya dick sucked, or you need me to do something? Other than that, I’m the one always calling you.”
“Ohhhhkay, ya point?”
“Muhfucka, the point is it would be nice if you took time outta your day to hit a bitch up to say, ‘Hey, I was thinking about you. I don’t need or want nothing; just wanted to see what’s good with you.’ Hell, it’s not like I’m looking for you to come outta ya pockets ’cause we both know ain’t shit in them bitches, except lint, any-damn-way…” This bitch tryna make it sound like I’m some bum-ass nigga. I frown, but keep my mouth shut and let her go on. “…I’m sick of feeling like I’m being used.”
On some real shit, I’m kinda surprised she’s comin’ at me like this. Outta all the chicks I’ve smashed, she’s been the one I kept ’round the longest ’cause she’s never tried to stress a nigga. I mean. E’ery now and then she might get on some bullshit, tryna question me or some other shit, but she’s never come at my neck. We had an understandin’ that we do what we do and get up when we get up. At least that’s what the fuck I thought. Man, listen…I don’t know why the fuck bitches can’t stick to the muthafuckin’ script. Things would run so much smoother if they played their fuckin’ positions instead of tryna turn shit into sumthin’ extra. Damn, we only FUCKING!
I shake my head. “Yo, hol’ up,” I say, gettin’ up off the bed, “you must be PMS-in’ real bad to be comin’ at me all sideways ’n shit. But, I’ma tell you what. Take that shit somewhere else ’cause I ain’t beat for it. Not today, baby, real talk.”
“You know what, Alley Cat. Kiss my motherfucking fat ass, for real, baby. You ain’t never beat. Every time you don’t like how something’s being said to you, you wanna dismiss a bitch, like that shit’s supposed to mean something. Fuck you, nigga! All them bitches you fucking and got sucking your dick ain’t ever gonna have your black-ass back the way I’ve had it. But it’s all good ’cause I’m done with ya dumb ass.”