Cover 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."...
I dropped the dress on the floor. Some white woman sneered at me, whisking around the rack, picking up the dress. She put it back on the hanger and hanging it on the clothing rack with the other dresses.
She had an attitude. I ignored her. I was on fire. He kissed my forehead. "Does he treat you the way you need to be treated? Cook for you, cut your toe nails, caters to you?"
The woman stood on the side of me, her hands on her hips. I watched her from my peripheral vision.
"He's all right."
"Ma'am," said the store employee. We ignored her and didn't break eye contact. But home girl got bold.
"Ma'am! I am talking to you."
Not letting my new flame go, I happily looked at her. I wouldn't let her break my funk.
"Yes?" It was getting cold in here.
My Dude lowered his head, suppressing a laugh.
"You can't drop our expensive clothing on the floor."
"I got arthritis. My fingers locked up and I dropped it."
He started laughing, chocking on his saliva. I chuckled, too. White people were so uptight.
"That's before or after you and your fling here bumped pelvises in the aisle around little children?"
My mouth falling open I turned into her face and said, "For one bitch you watch your goddamned tone! I'm not these New York bitches! I'ma Miami bitch and I'll fuck you up with my razor under my tongue, Ho! And I don't see any kids around here."
"Whatever, listen I'm gonna call security—"
"Call Ghostbusters too, bitch, I don't care."
"Listen, you Flee Market Outfit wearing tramp..."I stunned and excited shoppers when I, without warning, snatched the bitch by her airbrushed-looking hair and she fell on her face.
Homeboy took me by the arm when I tried to dig my heel into her ear.
"Nah, Ma. I got this."
Helping the shockingly disgruntled bitch off the floor, he pulled three hundred dollars from his wallet and handed it to the woman. "That should pay for the dress. Keep the change. Gift wrap it, please."
Taking the money, the white lady with "Bertha" on her tag said, "I will do. And when you want a real woman, drop this Miami Trash," and she and her blonde hair spun on her heel and waltzed to the register with the dress.
I was burning up.
"Lemme whip that Ho's ass."
He was trying to hold me. "Ma. Calm down. I definitely like your fire."
I rolled my eyes. "Whatever." He held me again, tightly, kissing my lips. "I'm not your Mama. Stop calling me that."
"Let's cut to it, Ma. When can a Niggah get the pussy?"
What's with the Ma bullshit? "Damn, and he's direct,"
"Life is too short to fuck around."
"No, some dick is too short to fuck around. You shoulda been on the plane with me."
We laughed easily. The chemistry building in us was breathtaking. I felt like a magnet. I was naturally drawn to him.
"So can we get out of here?" he asked, matter-of-factly.
"You live in the Bronx, right?" I was a little scared, I didn't know if he was a rapist, had AIDS or was a good boy next door type of man. I'd soon find out.
"I'm from the Bronx. I live here in Manhattan."
I loved the way he talked, his arrogance, his confidence was refreshing.
He had a lot of class, rarely seen in a thug Niggah...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
