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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."...
He had a very deep voice, like Busta Rhymes. I liked that. He looked me deep in the eyes, never wavering. I felt like the only woman in the store.
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"Cool. Well, I don't just give up the pussy when I first meet somebody and I'm going back to Miami tomorrow. I'm only here to attend 106 and Park so I could see Janet."
He smiled. "Cool, that's straight. How about I buy you that dress you're holding, and wine and dine you, and make sure you get to your Janet thing. Would that be cool?"
"Yea. That's straight, gangster. But remember, you ain't getting no pussy."
"I promise to behave."
Walking towards the unprofessional Bertha, who was explaining the situation to her co-workers, who were all white, I paused in front of her when she was about to put the money in the register.
She grimaced and I stared her down, seething. I wanted to beat her ass.
Goddamn it.
Whoop her ass, MELISSA! NOW
WHOOP HER MOTHERFUCKING ASS! YOU'RE A DADE COUNTY BITCH!
Exploding, I snatched his money out of her hand, spitting at her. It hit her dead in the face. I slapped her so hard store cameras caught visuals of her falling on her elite circle of friends.
"You aren't getting me or his business. He's nice. I'm not, Ho!" And we left the store in silence.
"Damn, you Miami Girls are the shit," he said, taking his money back.
"Nah, we're gentle creatures. Until you piss us off," I went on, snatching the money. He gave it to the whore. It's mine now. You can't reclaim money.
Not with me you wouldn't!
Hugging me he led me up the crowded block, making small talk. I shoved the money in my bra. I know it was a little played out to put money in your cleavage but hell I didn't feel like opening my purse.
He wined and dined me at four o'clock in the evening. I felt special. He drove me all over New York in a Lincoln Navigator, all paid for, with the spinning Spreewell rims. He had a killer booming system.
He smoked his "Hydro (weed)" with the windows down to spare me. I used to smoke weed.
But I haven't touched the shit in ages. He bought me Letoya Lucket's new CD.
"Torn" was one song I wouldn't be listening to because I was tired of it.
Home girl definitely was positioned to give Beyonce's scream-singing ass a run for her money because "Déjà Poo" wasn't hitting on shit.
When I got to his apartment, I was surprised to find it very spacious and clean.
It looked more likea Bachelor Pad with all the technology to go with it— PS2, stereo with DJ speakers, Ella Fitzgerald and Fabulous on his wall.
Being courteous, he poured me some Dom in a skinny flute glass shaped like a dick. How nasty! I loved it! I had never had Dom Perignon. He put on Letoya Luckett.
We listened with open minds and very horny souls. Her CD was marvelously crafted, liked it a lot.
