The Kat Trap

“So what kinda niggas you into?” he asked, lookin’ at me as we stopped at a red light.

I stared back at him. “Why, you puttin’ in an application?”

He chuckled. “If I want the position, I’ll just take it. So answer the question.”

I grinned. “To answer ya question, I’m into niggas who ain’t scared of pussy; a nigga who knows how to eat it up and beat it up.” He laughed. “Real talk,” I continued. “I hate a nigga who can’t fuck, and don’t eat pussy.”

“I can dig it. On some real shit, though, you talkin’ like you know how to take a dick and suck a dick.”

“I ain’t scared to put the work in, if that’s what ya askin’.”

“Okay, so what else you look for in a cat?”

“He gotta know how to keep shit real,” I stated. “I can’t stand a lyin’-ass muhfucka, or a nigga who thinks I’m some weak chick he can mind-fuck. That’s when the bitch comes out, and I gotta bring it to him. Anyway, I’m into a nigga who knows how to keep his dick in his pants and who ain’t easily impressed by a bitch tryna offer him some pussy. A nigga who ain’t beat for creepin’ with the next bitch. I’m into a nigga who knows how to hold it down in and out of the bedroom; a get-money type nigga who handles his business without bringin’ that street drama up in my space.”

He nodded, takin’ it all in. “I hear ya, baby. So why you don’t have a man?”

I thought for a minute before I spoke. Flashes of all the bitches I knew who lived and breathed a man came to mind. Bitches who couldn’t live without a man, who thought not havin’ one was the end of the world, that somehow they were nothin’ without one. Bitches who would sell their souls for a stiff dick rammed up their ass. I shook the images outta my head. The thought of ever becomin’ one of them weak bitches made me sick to my fuckin’ stomach. Ugh, how I hate weak bitches!

“’Cause a man don’t define me,” I finally said, lookin’ directly at him, “and havin’ a man isn’t something I need.”

“Sure you do,” he said, grinnin’.

I frowned. “How you figure?”

“’Cause a woman has needs, and no matter how many times she says she doesn’t need or want a man, at the end of the day, she still wants to feel loved and needed and wanted. She still wants a man to make her feel special.”

“Then she’s a damn fool,” I snapped. “A chick shouldn’t haveta have a man to make her feel special. She should already feel special. She shouldn’t have to rely on a man to be loved. She should already love herself.”

He smiled. “It’s more about companionship. Having someone she can feel connected to; someone to spend her life with.”

Humph, fuck all the extras. Just give me the dick. I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess,” I said.

“So, you don’t wanna spend ya life with someone special; have someone you can share your hurts and fears with, someone you can grow old with?”

I took a deep breath. A bitch wasn’t ready for this discussion. “I don’t think about it,” I said honestly. Hell, most niggas were too muhfuckin’ shady for my likin’. And some of ’em acted worse than bitches.

“Oh, okay. Let’s switch gears. Since you don’t seem to need anyone to handle ya emotional needs, how about having a man to handle ya sexual needs?”

I held up both hands and wiggled my fingas. “This is what these are for,” I said. “They never let me down.”

He smiled. “Okay, but what about those nights when you wanna feel something thick up in ya guts?”

“Oh, not to worry,” I said, smilin’. “That’s what my collection of dildos is for. And if I just need a quick touch-up, I have a thick mini-vibrator to take the edge off. Two double-As and it’s good to go all night long. No stress; no mess. I can just nut and go.”

He laughed as he drove toward the Lincoln Tunnel. “Oh, shit,” he said, grippin’ the steerin’ wheel and tryna keep his eyes on the road while lookin’ over at me. “You funny as hell, word up. I see you got a answer for everything.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “I’m that bitch; I thought you knew.”

“So I see,” he said, pullin’ up to the toll booth. He handed the busted chick in the booth a twenty. “Well, I guess since you don’t seem to need or want a man, there’s no sense in me tryna push up on ya.”

“That’s on you. I just know I’m not gonna expect much. Expectations open the door for disappointments, and I’m not the one.”

“I feel you,” he said, holdin’ his hand out for his change. The ho was so busy tryna check for him she had to recount the money. I rolled my eyes. The old me woulda been on some real extra shit and woulda blasted her ass.

When he pulled off and made his way through the tunnel, I looked over at him and said, “I guess you got a lotta bitches checkin’ for you.”

“Nah, not really. I mean, there’s a few. But it ain’t that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, half-believin’ him. It wasn’t like I was tryna make him my man. Hell, he could fuck whoever he wanted. I just wanted to test ride the dick for myself. But, still, a bitch wanted to know how he did him. “So, how many baby mamas you got?”

“None.”

“How many bitches you fuckin’?”

“Two.”

“Oh, and what…you tryna add me to the list?”

“Maybe,” he said, glancin’ over at me. I smiled. I was really diggin’ him. “Why you smilin’?”

I slowly shook my head. “I don’t share.”

He grinned. “Oh, so what you sayin’, you tryna have me all to yourself?”

“Maybe,” I said, lickin’ my lips and starin’ at him real sexy-like, “maybe not.”

“Yeah, aiight.” He laughed, weavin’ in and outta traffic through midtown. “You got a lotta shit with you, but it’s all good.”

I smiled, but said nothin’. The rest of the ride we were both silent, listenin’ to the music ’til he turned down Lexington. I peeped Bloomingdale’s on Fifty-Ninth, and automatically knew where we were headed: Mr. Chow’s, my all time fav Eastside spot where fashionistas, money-makers, and celebs frequented, and the food was bangin’. Yeah, it was pricey, and definitely not a spot for a penny-pincher, but it was well worth it. I smiled, thinkin’ ’bout the last time I was there, sittin’ two tables away from Beyonce and Jay-Z. And four tables over was the one and only Donald Trump, politickin’ with a group of associates. Oh, yes, it was definitely a spot for a bitch like me—rich and beautiful. “Hmmm…how’d you know I like Chinese?”

“I don’t know, educated guess. You seemed like a Peking duck kinda chick.”

I laughed. “Yeah, okay. I got ya duck, alright.”

He laughed with me. “As long as I can have it with sauce, I’ll take it however you got it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, grinnin’. “I bet you will.”

After he parked across the street, he opened the door to let me out, then grabbed my hand and held it as we walked up to the restaurant. Once we were seated and our food finally came to our table, a bitch was so fuckin’ hungry I coulda ate a horse. I had the chicken satay appetizers and shrimp toast with the bangin’ sweet brown sauce, then the spicy green shrimp. Grant had the shrimp with glazed walnuts and crunchy seaweed and chicken skewers. We ate, drank, and laughed like we had known each other for years. By the time we finished our third drink, I learned he was born in Hollis, Queens, but was raised in Newark. Played football in high school, and went to college on a football scholarship, but dropped out after his second year when he got hurt and couldn’t play ball anymore. He had three brothers and two sisters and was the middle child. He was twenty-eight and was ready to settle down.

I ain’t gonna front, the nigga made me feel real comfortable. He was smooth and sexy and so damn fuckable. And let me tell you. After three glasses of Pinot Grigio, a bitch wanted somethin’ more than that light, fruity shit. A blunt and some Remy XO woulda really set it off and had me lifted and right. But I kept it cute, and sipped on the rest of my wine, grinnin’ and flirtin’ and buildin’ with this fine-ass nigga in front of me. He grinned back and we both already knew what it was. Yeah, muhfucka, I’ma have my pussy all over ya face in no time.