Big Booty

25

Oooh wee! I'm on my third Cum Cannon, feelin' right, goddammit! And The Crack House is startin' to get crowded. The drinks are flowin' heavy. The deejay is tearin' it up. And security is on high-alert up in this piece tonight as it is every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. And I'm lookin' real sassy in my orange sleeveless, knit, cowl-neck mini dress. I got my brown leather, six-inch platform slingbacks on. My smooth honey-coated skin is oiled up 'n shinin'. My pussy's floral fresh. And asshole's Fleet-rinsed and ready. What you say? Calves, POW! Waist, POW! Booty, POW! POW! POW! Oooh, yes . . . Big Booty's lookin' delish!

I throw my right arm up, pumpin' a fist into the air, then start slow humpin' in my seat, twirlin' my pussy up on the barstool when Grace Jones' "Feel Up" starts playin'. I glance over toward the deejay's booth and give Slick the middle finger for tryna crank me up tonight. He makes me sick with his long, skinny-dick self. Ooh, but that six-foot, cocoa-brown niggah with the light-brown eyes and wavy hair fucks like a savage. Hot 'n nasty 'n real sneaky with it. I fucked him twice. Once when I was sixteen, workin' the poles. Then, again, when I was almost nineteen. I needed a couple of dollars to feed my babies, and Slick was always right there with his dick in his hand, tryna get up in this pussy. So I did what I had to do. And when shit got hectic and I needed a place to stay with my kids, Slick took me in. And I didn't have to fuck him, although I probably woulda.

I close my eyes and slip back to my days as a stripper. I was sixteen. And I had no damn business strippin' in no club. I was stacked like a twenty-year-old, workin' the pole down at this gutter hole called Heart Throbs in downtown Elizabeth. The owner, Jam—who was about forty-five at the time, knew my real age but he didn't give a damn. As long as I kept the room burstin' at the seams, kept it rainin' up in that motherfucka, and didn't hit any of the back rooms to suck dick or get fucked, I could make my paper. And that's exactly what I did. I was young and had body for days, and knew how to use 'em both to get what I needed. Makin' sure I didn't end up sleepin' outside on a park bench or under a bridge somewhere with two small kids was my only concern. So I did what I had to do.

Mmmph. Heart Throbs kept me and my babies fed. And it allowed me to have a roof over my head. It's also where I met Darryl Jennings—big dicked, dark-chocolate niggah and Baby Daddy Number Two—who ate my pussy and fucked me nonstop. I met him three months after I started workin' there. He was twenty-two and one of the regulars, who came through three nights out of the week; specifically for me. He was a big-spender and tipped well. And, after two months of makin' twenties rain down on me, he made it known he was diggin' me.

The niggah started waitin' for me after shows, makin' sure I got home safe. Then it went to him takin' me out for breakfast after the shows to dinners on the nights I wasn't workin' to buyin' shit for me and my sons. Oh, you couldn't tell a bitch like me shit. I had snagged me a real live baller. He hustled hard, played hard, and fucked harder. And out of all the bitches he coulda had, he wanted me.

Before I knew it, I was movin' out of the one room I was cramped in with my two kids into a two-bedroom apartment. The niggah kept me stuffed with dick. Kept me and my sons laced in all the fly shit. And kept my handbag lined with paper. Then somehow it all went funky. I shoulda listened to my gut and kept it movin', but I was real grown and hot in the ass. You couldn't tell a ho like me shit. I had a thing for older niggahs. And he was checkin' for me hard. So, I igged that little voice in my head that told me to seal my pussy up and bolt the other way. But the niggah knew my weakness. Money, big dick, and long tongue. He served all three. And served 'em well! Eventually, I got pregnant. And shortly there-after, he tried to use my face as his personal punchin' bag. The niggah thought he owned me. And thought I owed him. In some ways, I guess I did owe him somethin' for rescuin' me from a fucked-up situation. But I didn't owe him my life. And I damn sure wasn't gonna let him tear my face up or let the niggah control me. The last time that motherfucka put his hands on me, I waited until he least expected it and slammed a knife down into his right hand, then took off runnin'. I was seventeen with three kids. And Slick was right there for me. He had my back. And 'til this day, he always has.