Page 66 of Slippery When Wet

They both speak, bouncing their asses mad hard in their tiny skirts. I stare at them asses. And they both got them fatties; word is bond.

Shit, niggah, what you stressin’ about how them hoes look for when all you gonna be doin’ is fuckin’?’em from the back? I scold in my head as I stand in the line to get in.

Chicks are free before eleven. It’s after midnight. And a few bitches in back of me are poppin’ shit about getting here late. Niggahs gotta pay twenty dollars to get in. “Bitch, you stay making us late for shit,” I hear this chick say in back of me. “I swear. I knew we shoulda left ya stank-ass.”

“Oh, bitch, please. Eat a dick. You know damn well y’all heifers wasn’t leaving me no-damn-where. So shut the fuck up with them lies.”

“Girl,” I hear another chick say, “I know you ain’t even stressing over ten-goddamn-dollars when you just sent Cedric a hundred dollars to put on his books. You stupid as hell.”

Damn, I hope this spot ain’t gonna be filled wit’ a buncha ghetto-ass hood bitches. The last thing I wanna do is be someplace where a buncha bitches get to drinking ‘n’ tearing up the club if someone looks at ’em the wrong way. Although that hood pussy is good as fuck.

“Trick, don’t worry about how much I sent Cedric. That ain’t got shit to do with this bitch here making us late.”

“Selena, shut the fuck up, okay. Damn. You stay fuckin’ complaining about dumb shit. So, we late. Big fucking deal. If you pinching pennies then maybe you shoulda kept ya cheap ass home.”

I chuckle to myself.

“Whatever, bitch. Think what you want. But watch and see what happens tomorrow night when ya ass ain’t ready. We pulling the fuck out without ya ugly gorilla-faced ass. Two hours to get fuckin’ dressed and ya ass still look like shit. Stank-ass.”

“Bitch, hush,” the other chick says. “I ain’t hearing you.”

“Damn,” someone else huffs. “I wish both you bitches would shut the fuck up. It’s ten fucking dollars. I’ll pay your way in. I wanna have a good time tonight. And if I’m lucky enough, get fucked-down real good by one’a these fine motherfuckas up in here. Not hear a buncha whiny-ass bitches. I haven’t had a hard dick in over three weeks and a bitch is real cranky. I might have to cut a bitch tonight if I don’t get laid soon.”

I chuckle, quickly glancing over my shoulder to see who’s talkin’ my kinda talk. Damn, let her be fine. All four of them look a’ight. But the broad wit’ the mocha skin and greenish-colored eyes and big-ass tits busting outta a low-cut red dress catches my eye. I glance down at her big bouncy titties, then step forward in line.

“Girl, that nigga was looking all down your dress.”

“Well, don’t hate. Obviously he liked something he saw.” She taps me on the shoulder. “Ain’t that right, boo?”

I crane my neck, clearing my throat. Thanks to years of blazin’ ‘n’ smokin’ Newports I already have a raspy voice. But I deepen it, anyway, to add enough bass without overdoing it. “No doubt.”

“Oooh, and you got the nerve to be a cutie, too. You gotta girl?”

I shake my head. “Nah. I’m good on that, ma.”

She grins. “Good. Then maybe I’ll save you a dance and let you buy me and my girls a drink once we get inside.”

Oh, you’ll let me? Really? I keep from laughing at that silly shit. These hoes got me confused. Her girls eye me, smirking. And I already know what it is. I’m fresh meat to ’em. They see me as an opportunity. They’re probably thinking they can run my pockets all night. They look ready to pounce on the chance to get free drinks all night. Fuck what ya heard. If I’m coming up from off’a my paper, you’re coming up outta them drawers, real shit.

“Maybe,” is all I say, finally stepping inside the club’s glass doors. After I’m frisked, I walk over to the glass window and hand the cashier, this sexy lil’ brown skin cutie, my paper. She slides me my change, then stamps the inside of my wrist. I wink at her, walking off.

The music’s on full-blast. Red Café’s “Gucci Everything” is pumping outta the speakers. Mad heads are everywhere. Hands up, drinks up, muhfuckas are all pressed up on chicks’ asses getting their dance on. The dance floor is in the center of the club and is mad packed. Although the lights are dim, so far, I don’t see anyone I know, or who knows me. And I’m hoping it stays that way. As I make my way over to the bar, I peep a few broads checkin’ for me. A few niggahs eye me. I give ’em all head nods and keep strolling by.

When it’s my first time at a club, I usually post up at the bar, take everything all in. And tonight is no different. I’ll hang around the bar, toss back a few drinks and hopefully catch the eye of someone worth spending my energy ‘n’ paper on. Getting some pussy is the only objective.

Two chicks eye me as they slide off their barstools. I ask ’em if they’re coming back. They say no. “Not unless you want us to,” one of ’em says to me. Her eyes all glassy ‘n’ halfway crossed. I smile. She’s a’ight-looking in the face, and her body doesn’t appear that bad judging by the way her jeans are wrapped around her hips. But I peep she gotta flat ass, which def ain’t my thing. “Nah, I’m good, ma.”

I take a seat up on one of the stools, glancing around the bar. On the opposite end of the bar, a milk chocolate cutie is eyeing me. She has a drink in her hand. Sitting on a stool next to her is a tall, dark-skinned niggah all up in her grill. And whatever he’s beating her in the head about she doesn’t seem interested in. I order a shot of Henny and a Heineken. I glance back over at Milk Chocolate and she’s still got her eyes on me. I give her a head nod and she smiles. The niggah she’s with looks over in my direction, then turns back to her. He says something else to her and I peep her rolling her eyes. The niggah’s rap game must be mad whack, I think, staring ahead at the bottles on the wall.

The bartender returns with my drink. I tell him to keep the tab open, then take a swig of my cold beer. A Meek Mill joint starts playing and I bob my head to the beat. Although I’m staring straight ahead into the mirrors along the back of the bar, I can peep Milk Chocolate glancing over at me outta the corner of my eye.

I take my shot to the head, then slide the empty shot glass to the edge of the bar, signaling for the bartender to hit me again. I concentrate on the colored lights shimmering in the mirror, steadily sipping my beer. “Yo, my bad, man,” a brown-skinned cat says to me as he bumps into me trying to get off his stool. The niggah’s lit.

I eye him, giving him a head nod. “It’s all good, yo.”

“Fuckin’ Incredible Hulks. Got me ripped, fam.”

“I feel you,” I say, fighting back a chuckle, pleased that this niggah, like most, think I’m one of them. I’ve worked hard at achieving this look. Long hours in the gym to get this chiseled body, countless hours in the mirror brushing in these spinnin’-ass waves, and years of perfecting my swag. And it’s all paying off.

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