by Cairo
“Remember that baller nigga Thug Gee from Newark who gave that party at Studio 9 before the shit shut down?”
“Yeah,” I state, pullin’ out my Dutches. I lay my stash and cigars on the nightstand, then go into the bathroom. I sit on the toilet. How could I ever forget that party? That’s the night I met Grant. The night I dropped down low, popped my hips, and pressed my juicy ass up against his cock and grinded into him ’til his shit bricked up. The night I knew I’d end up fuckin’ him. It’s the same night e’ery bitch on the floor wish they coulda been me.
“Well, he’s throwin’ another one in Manhattan at Eden …” Mmmph. She’s talkin’ ’bout that spot over on Eight Ave between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It used to be the China Club back in the day. Anyway, it has a lil’ rooftop area for peeps to sit ’n chill and get they drink on wit’out all that loud music beatin’ ’em in the head when they tired of bein’ hemmed up inside. And the music’s real cute. But from what I remember, the two times I went there, the drinks weren’t hittin’ on shit and they had more bitches than niggas up in there. And most of ’em wasn’t even dimes. And the few that did look like sumthin’ they weren’t no high-end bitches. And the truth is, I ain’t have no business up in there wit’ ’em.
“If I decide to come through you need to make sure ya ass gotta back-up plan for us in case that shit is busted.”
“Oh, trust. Word has it it’s gonna be fiiiyah. You know that nigga only rolls wit’ them baller niggas.”
I roll my eyes, wipin’ my snatch, then flushin’ the toilet. This thirsty bitch stays tryna find her next trick. “Umm, what’s good wit’ Divine?” I ask sarcastically, checkin’ to see if the nigga’s still dickin’ her. I’m at the sink washin’ my hands, admirin’ my reflection in the mirror. Hmmph, even wit’ ya hair tossed all over ya head, and sleep in ya eyes you still a hot, buttery bitch!
She sucks her teeth. “He’s just dandy. Thank you, very much.”
I step back into my bedroom, sittin’ on the side of the bed while I split open a Dutch and pack it wit’ my mornin’ get right. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always liked that nigga. Is he still rabbit-fuckin’ you, or has his stroke game improved?”
Now, typically askin’ a bitch ’bout her man’s dick game is a no-no, but since she’s always put it out there in the past that his dick game was mad whack; that he be fuckin’ her mad fast and whatnot, then nuttin’ off in minutes—then it’s a fair question.
“Girl, he finally got that shit together. Took him two years to learn how’ta slow it down and not be so damn eager to nut. I mean, damn. I know I got that bomb pussy, but still.”
I suck my teeth. “Ho, please. Ain’t nobody tryna hear ’bout how ill ya snatch work is. I asked you ’bout Divine handlin’ his. I’m glad he finally got that situation together, though. I’d hate for him to get fucked over ’cause he ain’t fuckin’ you right, even though the nigga’s been damn good to you.”
“Sweetie, don’t think I don’t know what you doin’. Fuck you.”
I laugh, tightly rollin’ my blunt. I spark it, takin’ a toke. “Ho, I got nuthin’ but love for ya silly ass. But that nigga Divine needs to straight dip on ya ass ’cause you ain’t ever gonna ’preciate what you got.”
“Bitch, how you sound? That shit ain’t true. I know what I got.”
“Oh, really? And what’s that?”
“I gotta nigga in my bed,” she snapped servin’ me up a dish of ’tude. “What’a ’bout you?”
I ig the ’tude and keep pressin’. “Ho, yeah, you might gotta nigga. But ya ass is still scrapin’ the barrel tryna find ya next catch. I’m paid, bitch. I don’t need a nigga. And a bitch ain’t trickin’ no niggas to make shit pop. That’s what about me.”
“Bitch, what-da-fuck-eva. You still need some dick in ya life.”
I sigh, blowin’ weed smoke up at the ceilin’. I swear. Hoes like her make me sick. They ain’t neva satisfied wit’ what the fuck they have. Always lookin’ to chase down the next nigga wit’ the biggest dick, or thickest knot. I don’t know how the fuck that nigga don’t know what time it is wit’ her ass. Mmmph. A hot, fuckin’ mess!
“Oh, sweetie, don’t go there. How ’bout you not worry ’bout what I need, okay?”
“You need to get ya mind right, Chanel. Do sumthin’ wit’ ya’self.”
“And like I said, you need to get ya back knocked. But you don’t hear me comin’ at ya neck all sideways ’n shit.”
“Bitch, I ain’t comin’ at ya neck. I’m tryna get you to see you too damn fly to be birdin’ ya’self out. You gotta good man. Get ya’self a hobby.”
“Newsflash, boo: I gotta hobby. Checkin’ niggas ’n runnin’ they pockets. So instead of puttin’ so much energy into my situation how ’bout you focus on ya own shit.”
I let out a disgusted grunt. See. You can’t tell a bitch like her nuthin’. She’s too damn hardheaded. A Miss Know It All bitch gotta learn the hard way. Then again, maybe she won’t. She’s been fuckin’ wit’ Divine’s ass for two years and ridin’ down on a few other nigga’s dicks whenever she feels like gettin’ her creep on, and his ass ain’t peeped it yet. Either she done fucked him blind. Or the nigga just don’t give a fuck ’cause he out there doin’ him, too. Nah, that ain’t his style. That nigga’s big on Chanel’s retarded ass. Like I said, this bitch gotta good-ass man who grinds hard e’ery day; a muhfucka who’d give her anything she wants, but she’d rather be out tryna trick another muhfucka up off’a his paper. Go figure. The last time I got at this ho ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life—you know, goin’ to school or gettin’ her ass a job, she flat out told me, “Hustlin’ these niggas is a job. And a bitch like me is gonna always hustle a nigga off his paper.” So since then, I keep my dick sucka shut. Well, most of the time.
“Mmmph, do you, boo-boo. But, trust. When that nigga finally peeps ya game, you do know he’s gonna knock ya whole grill out, right?”
She sucks her teeth. “Bitch, I ain’t call ya ass for no Oprah special. All I wanna know is when you bringin’ ya stankan’ ass home. That’s it. And for the record, there ain’t shit for Divine to peep. All I’m doin’ is lookin’. There’s no harm in that.”
I laugh. “Okay, answer me this: when’s the last time you popped another nigga’s dick in ya mouth?”
“No comment.”
I keep laughin’. “Unh-hunh; just what I thought. What you get outta it? A new Louis bag and some jewels?”
“No.”
“A few stacks?”
“Nope. An iPad.”
What the fuck?! This bitch givin’ up throat and she ain’t get no paper. No ice. No wears; just a six-hunnid-dollar electronic gadget. No extras wit’ it? OhmyGod, this bitch’s fuckin’ ’n suckin’ for peanuts! Shit, she might as well fucked the nigga for free if you ask me. ’Cause six hunnid ain’t shit, especially when you fuckin’ over a muhfucka whose gonna snap and do a Chris Brown on ya ass if he ever finds out. The last time this ho gave up some charity pussy was when she fucked Cash’s cousin Coal. And even then I looked at her ass like she still had the nigga’s dick snot hangin’ from her lips.
I pull the phone from my ear, starin’ at it, then put it back to my ear. “An iPad? Are you fuckin’ serious? Let me get this shit straight. You mean to tell me you tryna fuck up ya situation by fuckin’ ’round wit’ a muhfucka for some bullshit-ass gadget? Shit, Divine woulda bought ya ass that.”
“Whaaateva,” she snaps, tryna front like she’s heated.
“Hmmph. Ya nasty ho-ass is still my girl. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya trick ass.”
“Bitch, you make me sick. I don’t know why I waste my time even fuckin’ wit ya ugly ass.”
“Oh, get ova it,” I say, crackin’ up. She gets quiet. I musta hit a nerve. “Oh, so now you wanna be on mute? Let me find out you on some sensitive shit. I’ma fuck you up myself.”
She sucks her teeth. “Kat, lick my ass. Ain’t nobody on mute nuthin’. I was doin’ sumthin’.”
I take another pull off’a my blunt. “Oh, aiight. ’Cause I was about to say.”
“Puhleeze. The only think you need to be sayin’ is when you gettin’ here so we can shut shit down. I ain’t got all day to be fuckin’ wit’ ya snotty ass.”
“Trick, I just saw ya ugly ass two months ago when you came out here. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you like that,” I tease. Although I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ back home ’til the summer, it’s been a minute since a bitch popped these hips so I might make a special appearance. “When’s this shit?”
She tells me it’s the last weekend in April. Then says I should probably stay ’til after Memorial Day weekend so we can party in Miami. “Ho, don’t be tryna plan my time.”
“Oh whaaateva. It ain’t like you punchin’ a clock where you at. Besides, ya ass misses these east coast niggas, and you know it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t miss ya ugly, yellow ass,” I say, takin’ another pull. “Look, hit me up later. You fuckin’ up my high. You know a bitch don’t like to make plans ’til after I done sparked a fatty.”
“Ooooh, save me some.”
“Bitch, take ya fiend ass somewhere and go suck a dick.”
“Fuck you, wit’ ya monkey ass.”
I choke on weed smoke. “Ho, drink bleach. You smell like you been lickin’ the back of a garbage truck.” We bust out laughin’ poppin’ mad shit back ’n forth ’til we finally hang up. I walk over to the glass doors and open them, walkin’ out onto the balcony. I take in the bangin’-ass view of Mt. Tam and the San Francisco Bay. Breathe in the crisp air. Not bad for a bitch from da hood, I think, takin’ two deep pulls off’a my blunt. Never in a million years would I think I would be someplace like here. Quiet. No drama. No stress. No bullshit-ass niggas and family. I could get use to this. But, Chanel’s right. I miss the east coast. I miss the hustle ’n bustle of the city. I miss the swagger of the streets. I miss home. I take two last tokes of my blunt, tap out what’s left, then toss it over the railin’.
For some reason, talkin’ to Chanel’s ass got me thinkin’ ’bout summertime in New York. How that shit be live ’n poppin’ wit’ mad niggas and bitches gettin’ they shine on, flossin’ and flexin’; stereos blastin’ the hot beats; muhfuckas gettin’ they smoke on; hoes stuntin’ on da dick; young cats poppin’ off, bringin’ heat to the streets. Whew, a bitch’s pussy is startin’ to overheat just thinkin’ ’bout it. Yeah, Cali is cute. This quietness and scenery is real special. But it’s time for a bitch to step back on the east coast scene ’n shake shit up a bit, then dip.
I walk back into the master bedroom, pullin’ off my wife beater, then removin’ my panties. I lift open my Louis trunk, searchin’ for the perfect toy to take the edge off. Sumthin’ that’s gonna stretch this pussy out. Sumthin’ aggressive; sumthin’ raw. I pull out the Slugger—a ten-inch, thick, jet-black dildo. Oh, yes, I’ma ride the shit outta you, I think, pullin’ out its harness. I walk over to my closet and drag out my stool, strap the harness over the seat, then attach Slugger. I position the stool in front of the wall mirror. I wanna watch myself gettin’ off. A bitch don’t even need any Wet ’cause my juicy pussy is already leakin’ wit’ anticipation. I’ma ride this shit like I’m ridin’ the streets of New York, fast ’n furious and full of power. I hit the remote for the stereo.
As soon as Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” comes on, I climb up on top of the stool, lower my hips down onto the head of my rubber companion, then slather Slugger wit’ all of my creamy juices. I match my rhythm to the beat of the music. Imagine I’m on the top floor of the Empire State buildin’ fuckin’ a nigga named New York. A nigga whose as mean and as gritty and grimy, and as rough as its streets. “…These streets will make you feel brand new…the lights will inspire you…let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York…”
“Oooooh, yes, New York … fuck me … aaaah … mmmm … beat this pussy up, nigga …” I buck my hips, slam my hips down onto Slugger; take it balls deep, rock back ’n forth. Scream out, “Newwwwwww York!” Then, just as I’m nuttin’, a bitch falls off’a the muthafuckin’ stool, bangin’ her dome. I bust out laughin’ as my juices spurt outta me. “Bitch, you done bust ya ass tryna get that nut. What’a mess.”
I get up, wipe the cream runnin’ down the inside of my thigh wit’ my hand, then lick my fingas. Pussy cream this damn good should be bottled and sold on the streets,” I think, climbin’ my ass back into bed. I pull the goose comforter up over me, closin’ my eyes wit’ thoughts of New York, where paper is made and bitches are paid. The big city of delicious dick and muthafuckin’ sweet dreams.