Deep Throat Diva

“I love you, girl.”

“I love you, too.”

He gives Stax another hug, then gives me another long, deep kiss before walking off to go back to his life behind the wall.

SEVEN

Flashback. Friday, October, 6, 2000. Shyne’s “Bad Boyz” was the song blaring through the speakers. I was in the middle of the dance floor in my own zone. Eyes closed, hips gyrating, hands and fingers running through my shoulder-length hair. I was a bad bitch wrapped in a pair of skin-tight jeans, a beige poncho and a sexy pair of six-inch Manolo Blahniks on my feet. All eyes on were on me. Several niggas kept trying to get their mack on while dancing with me, but I wasn’t interested. The only thing I wanted to do was mix, mingle, and shake. Not get caught up in some nigga’s dream of getting between my thighs. I hated it when motherfuckers disrupted my groove by trying to have a conversation with me while I’m on the dance floor, yelling in my goddamn ear over the music. It was a major turn off, and grounds for walking off and leaving a nigga standing in the middle of the floor, looking like a fool.

And this particular night was no different when I clicked on my spiked heels and attempted to strut off the dance floor to get away from this annoying peanut head dude who kept trying to spit whack game in my ear. He reminded me of a damn beetle in his Emporio Armani glasses.

I was disgusted and ready to go. And was kicking myself for allowing Mona—a girlfriend of mine, to drag me out that night. The only reason I decided to go is because she had bugged the shit out of me for almost three weeks until I finally agreed. It was a birthday party her family was throwing for one of her cousins. And she had insisted I go. She had this grand idea about fixing me up with one of her cousins who had recently moved down to Jersey from New Haven, Connecticut.

“Pasha, I’m going to keep bugging you until you say yes,” she stated, sucking her teeth. “You need to meet my cousin, girl. So you might as well get your mind right and figure out what the hell you’re going to wear.”

I huffed, eyeing her suspiciously. “Bitch, why are you so interested in me meeting him?” I finally asked, exasperated.

“’Cause he’s a real good dude,” she smirked, pausing. Then she added, “And he’s your type.”

“And what’s my type, Miss Know It All?”

She snickered. “Dark, chiseled, and hood.”

I grinned, feigning insult. “Fuck you. If he’s such a good dude, then why isn’t he already dealing with someone?”

She clucked her teeth. “He was dealing with someone. But the bitch is a bird. She doesn’t want anything outta life. And he does. All she wants to do is drink and smoke and hang out with her girls. And he wasn’t havin’ it. So he gave her ass the boot. Now he’s lookin’ for somebody he can chill wit’. He asked me if I had any single friends who were about somethin’. And I immediately thought about you.”

“Mmm-hmm, why?”

“’Cause you’re exactly what he’s lookin’ for.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“Bitch, you fly—which is why I hangout wit’ ya stuck-up ass…” She laughed. “…You’re sexy, you have a fat ass, and I know underneath all them designer clothes is an undercover freak.”

I laughed with her. “OhmyGod, you’re so damn stupid. Let me find out you like it both ways,” I joked.

“Bitch, please,” she said, cracking up, “wrong answer. That was his request—a fine, fly bitch with a fat ass who wants somethin’ more outta life than runnin’ the streets. And that’s you.”

“Hmmph. And he wants all that wrapped up in a freak?”

She chuckled. “Well, no. I mean, maybe.”

I raised my brow. “Bitch, which is it?”

“Neither.” She smirked. “I added the last part as a bonus ’cause I know how nasty he is. And you know how nasty you like it.”

I shot her a look and gave her the finger. “And that makes me a freak? Whatever, ho.”

She laughed.

“Ohhhkaaay. So what’s his name?”

“Don’t worry ’bout all that. Make sure you bring ya ass to the party, and you’ll find out everything you need to know then.”

“I’ll think about it,” I finally told her, sucking my teeth. But, in truth, there wasn’t anything that needed to be thought about. It wasn’t like I had a social life or anything. I hadn’t been fucking anyone since my breakup with Glenn—the man who I invested close to three years of my life in. To only find out that the nigga had a wife stationed over in Kuwait. While she was overseas risking her life to serve and protect our country, his black ass was here serving me his thick, pulsing cock. But, trust. The minute I found out, along with getting his face slapped, I abruptly ended it with his lying ass, then sealed my pussy up. I had officially banned myself from men. So meeting someone who might eventually turn out to be another lying ass, no-count nigga was the last thing on my mind. And it definitely wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

So when I turned on my seven-hundred-dollar heels to strut toward the bar, and over to where Mona was— perched up on a barstool with a frosty drink in her hand, like I wanted to be—I was slightly annoyed when some nigga grabbed me gently by the forearm, pulling me back to the floor. “Dance with me,” he said over the music. There was something in the way he pulled me that made my pussy muscles shiver. It was strong, yet firm and gentle. In that brief moment, electricity shot through my arm. Not too mention he was fine; no, fine isn’t the right word. He was D-I-V-I-N-E. Still, his touch was unwanted and unacceptable.

I frowned; stared him down, yanking my arm out of his grasp. “No thanks.”

“C’mon, pretty baby, one dance.” He pulled in his bottom lip, real sexy-like, then added, “Please.”

I sighed. “One dance,” I flatly stated. He flashed me a crooked smile, taking me by the hand. Surprisingly, I didn’t pull back. I allowed him to lead the way. Erick Sermon’s “Music,” featuring Marvin Gaye, started playing. And we started dancing. I checked out dude’s two-step, peeped his swagger. There was a street edge to him; a rugged sexiness that was beginning to make me dizzy. A few times he flashed me a smile, moved into my space, brushed his body against mine, then pulled away; almost teasing me. And I allowed it. We both seemed to be quietly enjoying the other. He focused on me. I kept my eyes on him. And the few times I’d closed my eyes and gave into the music, I’d open them to see him gazing at me, smiling.

I hated to admit it, but I was starting to have a good time. We partied, hard. And by the time “Ante Up” by MOP finished playing, I was drenched. I politely leaned in and told him I’d had enough when the DJ slid on Ludacris’s “Area Codes.”

“So how ’bout you hit me wit’ ya area code?” he asked, following behind me as I walked toward the bar. By this time the dance floor was packed, and we had to maneuver our way over to the other side of the room.

I smiled, shaking my head. “It was only a dance.”

“Try four dances,” he stated, grinning.

“Okay, four. And I enjoyed them. But I’m not interested in anything else.”

“Oh, what…you got a man?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Oh, aiight. Then what’s the problem wit’ you hookin’ a nigga up wit’ them digits? You’se a real, sexy-ass dime I’d like to spend some time wit’.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I said, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, aiight, I got you, ma. I ain’t the type of cat to sweat no broad. So I’m out. You enjoy the rest of ya night, pretty baby.” And with that said, the nigga bounced on me. I stood there, thinking: Bitch, you dumb as hell. You shoulda took his number. I watched his fine ass get lost in the throes of bodies bouncing and swaying to the music before walking off toward the ladies room. On my way to take a damn piss, I must have