Page 14 of Deep Throat Diva

“Yo, man, keep an eye on her,” he says to Stax.

Stax laughs. “I got you, son.”

“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Both of you can go to hell.” They laugh. Jasper grabs me by the waist and kisses me again.

“I love you, girl.”

“I love you, too.”

He gives Stax another hug, then gives me another long, deep kiss before walking off to go back to his life behind the wall.

SEVEN

Flashback. Friday, October, 6, 2000. Shyne’s “Bad Boyz” was the song blaring through the speakers. I was in the middle of the dance floor in my own zone. Eyes closed, hips gyrating, hands and fingers running through my shoulder-length hair. I was a bad bitch wrapped in a pair of skin-tight jeans, a beige poncho and a sexy pair of six-inch Manolo Blahniks on my feet. All eyes on were on me. Several niggas kept trying to get their mack on while dancing with me, but I wasn’t interested. The only thing I wanted to do was mix, mingle, and shake. Not get caught up in some nigga’s dream of getting between my thighs. I hated it when motherfuckers disrupted my groove by trying to have a conversation with me while I’m on the dance floor, yelling in my goddamn ear over the music. It was a major turn off, and grounds for walking off and leaving a nigga standing in the middle of the floor, looking like a fool.

And this particular night was no different when I clicked on my spiked heels and attempted to strut off the dance floor to get away from this annoying peanut head dude who kept trying to spit whack game in my ear. He reminded me of a damn beetle in his Emporio Armani glasses.

I was disgusted and ready to go. And was kicking myself for allowing Mona—a girlfriend of mine, to drag me out that night. The only reason I decided to go is because she had bugged the shit out of me for almost three weeks until I finally agreed. It was a birthday party her family was throwing for one of her cousins. And she had insisted I go. She had this grand idea about fixing me up with one of her cousins who had recently moved down to Jersey from New Haven, Connecticut.

“Pasha, I’m going to keep bugging you until you say yes,” she stated, sucking her teeth. “You need to meet my cousin, girl. So you might as well get your mind right and figure out what the hell you’re going to wear.”

I huffed, eyeing her suspiciously. “Bitch, why are you so interested in me meeting him?” I finally asked, exasperated.

“’Cause he’s a real good dude,” she smirked, pausing. Then she added, “And he’s your type.”

“And what’s my type, Miss Know It All?”

She snickered. “Dark, chiseled, and hood.”

I grinned, feigning insult. “Fuck you. If he’s such a good dude, then why isn’t he already dealing with someone?”

She clucked her teeth. “He was dealing with someone. But the bitch is a bird. She doesn’t want anything outta life. And he does. All she wants to do is drink and smoke and hang out with her girls. And he wasn’t havin’ it. So he gave her ass the boot. Now he’s lookin’ for somebody he can chill wit’. He asked me if I had any single friends who were about somethin’. And I immediately thought about you.”

“Mmm-hmm, why?”

“’Cause you’re exactly what he’s lookin’ for.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“Bitch, you fly—which is why I hangout wit’ ya stuck-up ass…” She laughed. “…You’re sexy, you have a fat ass, and I know underneath all them designer clothes is an undercover freak.”

I laughed with her. “OhmyGod, you’re so damn stupid. Let me find out you like it both ways,” I joked.

“Bitch, please,” she said, cracking up, “wrong answer. That was his request—a fine, fly bitch with a fat ass who wants somethin’ more outta life than runnin’ the streets. And that’s you.”

“Hmmph. And he wants all that wrapped up in a freak?”

She chuckled. “Well, no. I mean, maybe.”

I raised my brow. “Bitch, which is it?”

“Neither.” She smirked. “I added the last part as a bonus ’cause I know how nasty he is. And you know how nasty you like it.”

I shot her a look and gave her the finger. “And that makes me a freak? Whatever, ho.”

She laughed.

“Ohhhkaaay. So what’s his name?”

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