When I first arrived to New York five years ago, I put my Freaky Deaky ego on the back burner. I was ecstatic about being there. This was a place I said I would never go.
When I went to Times Square I took some pictures of the buildings and passing cars.
I went to the Statue of Liberty. It was so beautiful. Why couldn't Miami have something this breathtaking, besides the huge hand statue dedicated to the
Holocaust victims down the street from South Beach?
I asked a few strangers to take my one-time use Kodak camera and take some solo snap shots of me in my Apple Bottom outfit. My ass was big.
Men drooled at the booty. They couldn't touch the booty. If they had a little dick and was fruity no can touch the booty. Period. Fuck you if you didn't like it.
I was a real bitch and real bitches did
real things. I was all about the name brand.
With my Sony CD Walkman in my pouch with my wallet, and my ear phones pumping Case, R&B singer, into my ears, I was definitely into the groove like Madonna minus the "Hung Up" bathing suit.
In contrast to Miami, New York was just too much. Too many goddamn people. Too many men. Too many cars. Too much cursing.
There were so many people smoking I thought I was in the middle of the California fires.
There were fine, sexy men everywhere I looked.
I like. I like.
YOU ARE READING
ARE YOU FREAKY DEAKY BOOK II
ChickLitCover picture from Pinterest. Model isn't affiliated with story We were the same height. Five feet eleven inches. He took my bejeweled-with-flea-market-gold-hand and kissed it, making my panties wet and my nipples hard. "I'm Melvin. From the Bronx."...
