Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“Ohhhh no, trick, don’t try ’n flip this shit on me. You’re a real fucked-up, selfish bitch for this shit. And if you ask me, you ain’t no different from ya moms.”

“Excuuuuuuuuuuuse you?! What da fuck you say?”

“You heard me, ho. For years you been callin’ ya moms all kinda heartless, selfish-ass neglectful bitches. And here you soundin’ just like ’er.”

“Bitch, fuuuuuuck you,” I say, gettin’ up off’a my bed. “I ain’t nuthin’ like that woman.”

“No, fuuuuck you. And yes, you are. You just too damn blind to see it.”

“Uhhhhhh, nooooooooooo, sweetness. You got it fucked up.”

“Yeah, okay. Denial looks real fucked-up on you, boo.”

“Whateva,” I say, pacin’ the floor.

“Annnnnyway, if I was Rosa ’n ’em, I woulda jumped on ya ass, too. Keep shit real, boo. Is this about you or ya fuckin’ hate for ya moms? And da only bitch you need to be real wit’ ’bout it is you.”

The bitch bangs on me, but I’m not fazed ’cause my mind is made up. And there ain’t shit she or anyone else is gonna say to me to change it.

I take off my bra ’n panties, then head to the bathroom to fill the tub. A bitch need’s a real Calgon moment. I pour in bath crystals, let the water fill to the rim, then step into the steamy water. Chanel’s voice rings in my head. Bitch, on some real shit, you’ve done and said some fucked up shit before, but this right here goes waaaaay beyond fucked up. It’s some vicious, nasty, psycho bullshit.

“Ho, that bitch read ya ass for filth,” I say, layin’ my head back. I close my eyes, inhalin’. Am I bein’ selfish? Is this really ’bout me, or my hate for Juanita? Why da fuck should I let ’er baby live? Who’s gonna care for the thing? Rosa…Elise…ho-ass Patrice?

Before I start slippin’ down memory lane gettin’ all depressed ’n shit ’bout shit a bitch can’t change, I open my eyes, decide there’s nuthin’ to think ’bout. It is what it is. Right now, I need sumthin’ to relax me; to take my mind off’a all this craziness. I play wit’ my nipples, slide my right hand down into the water, and massage the front of my pussy. I need to be fucked nice ’n deep, I think, reachin’ for my cell. I scroll through the call log, then press TALK. As soon as it rings, I hang up, punkin’ out.

What da fuck is you doin’, ho?

Tryna get this pussy rocked?

Then why da fuck ya silly-ass hang up?

’Cause I don’t need da drama.”

Yeah, but ya dumb-ass needs sum dick.

My ringin’ cell disrupts the mini conversation in my head. I glance at the screen. Fuck! “Hello.”

“Yo, you call me?”

“Yeah, but it was a mistake. I dialed da wrong number.”

He laughs. “Yeah right. Stop frontin’. You know you was thinkin’ ’bout me. It’s cool, ma. You can say it.”

I suck my teeth. “Nigga, get real.”

Bitch, fuck all this back ’n forth shit. Tell da nigga ta cum rock ya box. “Whatchu doin’?”

“Chillin’. Why, wasssup? You tryna get into sumthin’?”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah, come fuck me.”

I hear the nigga chokin’ on the other end of the phone. “Hol’ up…what you just say?”

“Muhfucka, don’t play stupid, you heard me. Come. Fuck. Me.”

“Oh, shiiiit…now?”

“Yeah, now, nigga,” I huff, steppin’ outta the tub, then dryin’ myself off. “And you need’a hurry up ’fore I change my mind.”

“Nah, fuck that,” he says, soundin’ real amped. “Change ya mind hell. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, and be clear. The offer expires if you’re not here in ’xactly twenty minutes.” I disconnect the call, swingin’ my naked hips into the bedroom to slip on sumthin’ sexy in case the nigga shows up before his time’s up. I go into my walk-in closet and open up my cedar chest filled wit’ toys. If he doesn’t, then I’ma have’ta take matters into my own hands, I think, pullin’ out my my vibratin’ Long Dong and Zing vibratin’ butt plug. Let the nigga not get here, I’ma slip this plug in my ass, then slide down on the dildo and put ’em both on high speed, then make this nut pop. Fightin’ them roaches today really got a bitch horny!

FOUR HOURS LATER, I WAKE UP WIT’ MY PANTIES DOWN ’ROUND my ankles and the scent of my sweet pussy dried up on my fingas. I get up, grabbin’ my toys and head to the bathroom to wash my hands and my lil’ fuck buddies, then strut back into the bedroom, dryin’ ’em off before puttin’ ’em back in my chest. I glance at the clock. It’s already eleven o’clock, and noooooo…Nut didn’t come through…okay, scratch that. The nigga didn’t get in. He pulled up late, so I let the nigga keep ringin’ the bell ’n blowin’ up my cell ’til he got the hint. You ain’t gettin’ no pussy; you ain’t gettin’ no brain. So take ya late ass on.

I scoop my cell up off’a da dresser, checkin’ my missed calls ’n text messages. There’s two missed calls and’a text from Alex; one missed call from Chanel; and three calls from a three-four seven area code. Right off the bat, I already know it’s from one’a my nutty-ass aunts. I text Alex back; tell the nigga next time to get his ass here on time, then retrieve my voice messages. There’s three.

“Bitch, I’ma fuck you up! You hear me, trick?! Don’t let me catch ya ass anywhere in Brooklyn, ho. Capiche? Don’t! I’ma bring it to ya muthafuckin’ face for puttin’ out a restrainin’ order on me and have me banned from da goddamn hospital…” Save.

I laugh. This bitch is outta muthafuckin’ control, but I promise you this. Let da bitch try ’n serve me again, and they gonna be dumpin’ ’er ass in a box next to ’er sista. And I mean that shit. I listen to the next message.

“Puta, que me de mi hermana. Tienes un asno ferina con su nombre para ello, esta bien?” OhhhhhmiGaaawd, now this crazy bitch is poppin’ shit in Spanish talkin’ ’bout how she gotta ass whippin’ wit’ my name on it for keepin’ her from ’er sista. Bitch, puuuhleeeze! Save. The third message I don’t even listen to. I delete the shit.

Alex texts back. It’s all good. Pussy ain’t ever gonna be sumthin’ I can’t get.

I text back. Good for u, muhfucka!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bitches stay tryna talk slick…but they don’t really want it… junkie-ass tricks…gulpin’ a buncha dicks…eatin’ asses… smellin’ like shit…maggots stuck to them sheets…e’erytime bitches open they mouths…flies flyin’ outta they grills…but I ain’t pressed…a bitch’s ready to step outta da heels…and take it to da streets…

Three days later, I’m at Chanel’s spot in Brooklyn, like e’erything’s e’erything. She and I ’posed to be chillin’ ’n gettin’ lifted, then doin’ some shoppin’ today, but her fat-ass, big-faced cousin Peaches—who looks more like a muthafuckin’ pumkin than some goddamn peach—done tossed shit up in the game by showin’ up. So instead of Chanel’s ass tellin’ me she was expectin’ this bitch, before I drove all the way over here ’cause she knows I don’t like the ho, she waits ’til I walk through the door to mention the shit. Now I’m sittin’ here at the dinin’ room table—disgusted, lookin’ at this fat, Hungry-Jack bitch practically chew the ends off’a the goddamn blunt. And you know a bitch ain’t diggin’ this bitch wastin’ no smoke.

I glare at her. “Bitch, is you gonna smoke da shit, or eat it?” I shoot a look over at Chanel. “Bitch, where da fuck you find Fiona? Someone needs to teach her ass how’ta hit a blunt.”

Chanel bursts out laughin’ ’n chokin’ at the same time. “Ooooh, bitch, you wrong for that. Be nice.”

“‘Be nice’, hell.”