Page 111 of Big Booty

I frown. “Wake the fuck up, ho. You are not his priority; only an option. That niggah stay fuckin’ around on you and you know it. So don’t even try ’n put the shit on me ’cause both of you coon-bitches can eat the inside of my ass. Yeah, he’s ya bum-niggah, boo. And every other low-budget bitch on the block.”

“Bitch, what da fuck is you tryna say? I ain’t low-budget.”

“And you ain’t high-end, either. That niggah. Aint. Shit. So count ya blessin’s and be happy the niggah dipped. And if you got any goddamn sense you won’t take his shit-stained-ass back, this time. And you’ll keep ya tongue outta his ass, too. I mean, really? What kinda bitch fucks with a niggah who got shit tracks in his drawers? It’s bad enough you told me the niggah let another niggah suck his dick.”

“You ffffffuckin’, bitch! I-I-I . . . t-t-t-ttold you thaaaaaat . . . in confidence. And you throw it back in my face. You ain’t shit, Cass.”

“Bitch, you delusional. You told me that shit in drunkenness. Fuck outta here. You ain’t tell me shit in no confidence. Not sittin’ up in no goddamn bar. But do you. That niggah probably suckin’ dick, too.”

“Fuck you—”

“Maaaaaaaa,” Fuquan yells, bustin’ up in my room.

“I’m on the phone, boy. What is it?”

“There’s somebody here from the zoo for you.”

I frown. “Boy, ain’t no goddamn body from no damn zoo here. Get yo’ ass outta here with that mess.”

“Unh-huh. He is from the zoo. And he’s standin’ outside waitin’ for you to come to the door to feed him.”

I suck my teeth at his ass, gettin’ up from the bed. This boy’s always got some shit goin’. “Well, what he look like?”

“Ugly,” he says, scrunchin’ his nose and lips up. “Real ugly. And black too.”

I sigh. “Lina, I gotta go. Sorry you all distraught over that niggah Knutz, but stop with all the goddamn tears and let it go, boo. That niggah means you no good.”

“Fuck you, bitch. Motherfuck you!” She hangs up on me.

Bitch, puhleeze. What. The. Fuck. Ever. Stupid bitches cryin’ over niggahs who they know ain’t shit. Who the fuck does that? Bitches who ain’t shit, I think as I walk outta my room into the livin’ room.

I peek through the curtains and see a shiny black Benz out in the driveway. It’s one of them big boy motherfuckas so I already know it’s an S-series. But whose? And I can’t see who it is since someone left the goddamn storm door unlocked and whoever it is is holdin’ it open waitin’. All I see is a big white box. I swing open the front door. And almost pass out. It’s the niggah Cash.

I don’t know if I should be pissed at the ugly fucka for showin’ up at my doorstep, or impressed that the niggah is standin’ here on my porch holdin’ a box. I ain’t gonna curse him out, but I’ma check his ass.

“Ummm, niggah, what the fuck is you doin’ here?”

He grins, then licks his lips tryin’ not to stare at my thick nipples pokin’ through the white T-shirt I’m wearin’. I don’t have on a bra. Mmmph. This nasty niggah. I stick my titties out more. Give the niggah more to see. “Wassup, ma? You told a muhfucka if I wanna holla at you, I’ll find you. Well, I did. Now what, ma?” He hands me the box. “Yo, these are for you. A lil sumthin’ to let you know a niggah had you on the brain, hard.”

I eye him. Then step outside, closin’ the storm door behind me. He’s wearin’ black Polo sweatpants with a white Polo pullover. I glance down at the red and black Air Jordan 3 Retros on his feet—I know what the thousand-dollar kicks are since I bought Da’Quan a pair.

I eye the platinum and diamond chain hangin’ around his neck and the ice blingin’ in his ears. “Thanks,” I say, takin’ the box from him. I don’t open it, and I don’t tell the niggah that I ain’t a flowery-type bitch. “So, how’d you know how to find me?”

He chuckles. “I got my ways. Trust me. Anything I wanna know about someone I can get it, real shit. But it cost a niggah a grip to get the info. But in ya case all I had’a do was ask ’round the bar who da beauty wit’ da phat, juicy booty was and for the right price, here I am.”

I toot my lips. “Mmmph. You coulda asked one’a them niggahs to hit you with my number, niggah. You don’t just show up at somebody’s house without bein’ invited. What if I had a niggah livin’ here, or somethin’?”

He laughs. Tells me he knew I ain’t have no steady dingaling livin’ up with me. Said he ain’t wanna get my number to call me. That he wanted to get at me face to face. And he wasn’t waitin’ to run into me down at the club, since that’s not one of his regular spots.

“But, yo, if I had to post up in that muhfucka e’ery night ’til I got at you, I woulda.”

I look him over. He ain’t really all that ugly-lookin’ to me now that I know the niggah’s caked up like a bakery. I mean, I can get past that face with the right kinda incentives. He cuts his eyes over at the window, then smirks.

“Y’all get ya nosey-asses outta the goddamn window,” I snap, not needin’ to see what caught his attention. “They some bad-asses,” I tell him, shakin’ my head. “Was they makin’ faces at you?”

He laughs again. “It’s all good. They yours?” I tell him yeah. The niggah opens his big juicy pussy eatin’ lips and asks if they my onl

y ones. I kinda wanna laugh, but I don’t. The niggah ain’t do his homework; otherwise he woulda known. I tell him I have ten kids. He blinks, then gives me a look like he ain’t believin’ it. “Yo, get da fuck outta here. Ten? And ya body still looks like that?”

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