Page 79 of Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

Ain’t gonna front…bitch loves ridin’ down on da nigga’s dick…nigga wanna be my daaaaddy…wanna eat it up ’n beat it up…pussy like crack…one hit…got da nigga cummin’ back…got ’im wantin’ this sticky nut-nut…got ’im whisperin’ my name…fly, buttery bitch got ’em all fucked up in da game…nigga, what?

“Aye, yo, what’s good wit’ you?” Allstar asks, soundin’ kinda tight. Truth is the muhfucka probably is since I’ve been playin’ ’im to the left for the last two weeks. On some real shit, I just ain’t been feelin’ it. This whole baby situation gotta ho’s cage rattled. I’m startin’ to feel like I’m gettin’ into some shit way ova my head. And a bitch don’t like feelin’ like she ain’t in control of shit. Still, I don’t wanna see ’im in the system. And damn sure don’t want ’im bein’ placed wit’ Elise or Patrice. But I keep askin’ myself ova and ova, “what da fuck am I gonna do wit’ a baby? One voice in my head says: “Love it.” The otha is tellin’ me: “Fuck up its life.”

Real shit, that’s the last thing I eva wanna do. Give ’im a fucked up life, or mistreat ’im. Still, I don’t know if I really got it in me to love—someone else, that is. I thought I did. Howeva, now a bitch gotta wonder. Not blazin’ the last two weeks hasn’t helped shit, either. It gotta ho on edge. And it has me thinkin’ ’bout shit. Like love and life and niggas. I’ma young, fly, beautiful bitch, got paper for days, good puss

y, a sick throat game and muhfuckas tryna get at’a chick, hard. Muhfuckas sweatin’ to rock a bitch on their arms, but I ain’t beat.

When I was fuckin’ Naheem, I thought he was the muhfucka I was in love wit’. He wasn’t. I cared for that nigga, true. But I realize it wasn’t shit more than a crush, and me lovin’ the fact that the nigga helped a bitch get outta a fucked up situation. When the nigga got knocked, I really thought the achin’ I felt was from a broken heart. It wasn’t. All it was was a bitch stressed ’bout how she was gonna keep from endin’ up back in the projects—stuck and miserable.

But a bitch was able to snatch up the nigga B-Love and bubble-up lovely. But I know I neva gave a fuck ’bout his ass. I only cared ’bout makin’ sure I didn’t end up eva bein’ one’a them bottom of the barrel bitches. All I cared ’bout was that nigga’s paper. And, keepin’ shit real, I know the nigga didn’t really care ’bout me, either. The only thing he cared ’bout was havin’ me as his. Catchin’ that nigga wit’ his naked dick up in Patrice’s fuck-box, then offin’ his ass, was the best thing I coulda did. And it gave me all the fetti I needed to get on top, and stay on top.

And Grant. Well, Grant was the nigga I thought was gonna be my savin’ grace from myself. ’Cause I knew I was gettin’ too caught up and comfortable poppin’ a muhfuckas cork. But the truth is, the only muhfucka who could really save me, is me. Grant was only anotha escape, maybe an excuse, for me.

“Shit,” I tell ’im, walkin’ into the kitchen, openin’ up a bag of Ranch Doritos. I start crunchin’ in his ear. I know, rude; whateva.

“Oh, word? I can dig it. You home?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I see you ain’t really been feelin’ a muhfucka. I’ve called and text you and you couldn’t even hit a muhfucka back. That’s some pussy-ass bullshit, Kat. And you know it.”

“Shit happens,” I say, nonchalantly.

“So, it’s like that, right?” It sounds like this muhfucka is strugglin’ to keep it together.

“I’ve been busy. Nuthin’ personal.” I place a handful of chips on a napkin, then fold the bag closed.

“Nuthin’ personal? Oh, aiight. So, you play a muhfucka to da left like I’m sum kinda duck muhfucka and I’m not ’posed to take that shit personal. On some real shit, I thought we was vibin’.”

“Nigga, we was. But, shit. I got otha pressin’ shit goin’ on. So I don’t really have no time for niggas.”

“Oh, so that’s what I am, just some nigga, yo?”

“Well…uh, yeah. You ain’t my man.”

“Yo, ain’t nobody sayin’ I am. But I’ve kept shit a hunnid wit’ you; told you what it is, and what I want.”

“And I told you what it is, too. I’m not beat.”

“So fuck me, right?”

The doorbell rings. I ignore the shit since I don’t remember sendin’ out no invitations for guests. I sigh. “You know what I mean.”

“Nah, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me.”

I feel myself ’bout to spazz out on this muhfucka. But it really has nuthin’ to do wit’ ’im. A bitch is aggravated that she missed hearin’ this nigga’s voice; that his smooth baritone voice is makin’ my clit pulse. I need a fuckin’ blunt! And a dose’a some dick, bitch!

“Look, nigga. Don’t try ’n make this out to be no more than what it’s been. We been fuck buddies; that’s it. I ain’t gonna sit here ’n front like a bitch don’t dig you ’cause I do. But at da end of da day, we both know that shit ain’t gonna be no more than what it’s been—us fuckin’. You ain’t ready for nuthin’ more. And I don’t know if I am either. So before shit gets too hectic, it’s best if we squash this.”

“Yo, it’s best for who?”

The doorbell rings again. This time whoeva’s ringin’ it, keeps pressin’ down on my shit like they fuckin’ crazy. I glance ova at the clock on the time. 7:41 P.M. I suck my teeth, pissed. What da fuck! Who da fuck is comin’ here unannounced—and fuckin’ uninvited! I think gettin’ up from the kitchen table.

“For both of us.”

“Oh, so basically you punkin’ out on me, right? You not even gonna take a chance on a muhfucka, right?”

I roll my eyes up in my head, makin’ my way to the door. “Nigga, you ain’t ready to roll da dice wit’ a chick like me, aiight? So, let’s leave it be. Go get ya gamble on sumwhere else. I told you I ain’t beat for da bullshit.” I’m so caught up in gettin’ ready to bring it to this nigga that I swing open the door wit’out checkin’ the peephole.

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