The saying goes, "Chess, not checkers," but Princess Webster, the daughter of a seasoned ex-Marine, wants her happiness now. Checkers, not chess, bitch!
She's a ghetto hoochie that prides herself in doing what she wants...when she wants.
Even if th...
A couple weeks later, after postponing it several times (money issues), Ed had his party. He had a huge, fabulous house on Redland Road, about ten minutes from my house.
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So the two DJ’s he hired for the festivities played their music as loud as they wanted, without the neighbors calling the police every five minutes, because his house sat on eight acres of land, surrounded by monstrous trees and bushes.
The bass from the speakers nearly knocked my hairstyle out of place.
Creep paper, confetti and balloons were everywhere. I loved the “Get your Freak on” theme. This was an adult party. You had to be over 20 in age.
There were bouncers clad in black, long-sleeved (too tight) security shirts at his door.
Huge, burly Niggahs with asses bigger than horses and dicks longer than ropes pat you down like they just came back from Iraq.
Free drinks for the ladies. Five bucks for the fellahs. Since I knew the game plan I didn’t drink at all.
I had the same plastic red cup for two hours, holding the same ole beer. Looked like a prop in my hands. I needed to throw this shit away.
I remembered when a short, handsome black man with huge dread locks brought me the beer.
I wasn’t here ten minutes and already the jerk magnet on my body sent out invitations. He was too pushy, too direct.
Every fifth word was “My niggah." And his vocabulary made me sick to my stomach.
It had turned me off, so I accepted the beer (I could have gotten for free anyways, so he didn’t do me a favor) just to get his dumb ass out of my face and told him, as politely as I could, “Look. I came to party. Solo. That means without a man.”
To my dismay, he called me a stuck-up bitch and walked off. Typical.
“Your Mama’s a bitch!” I yelled behind him, tucking my chin back. He turned, grabbed his dick, wiggled it at me and stormed off.
He was very immature. I mean I had my immature days but damn, not like that!
He was too damn old to be doing junior high school shit. This was the play. Men wanted to get the ladies’ drunk so they could fuck ‘em every which way.
I knew the play all too well.
I did it plenty of times myself. Getting drunk and then I come off my pussy like it’s free.
Now, if I wound up in anybody’s bed I would know how I got there.
The party was in full swing. A blanket of lust and sensuality lay under such a glorious Miami, Florida moon. The air was cool and crisp.
There was a little wind, but nothing alarming. I got tired of carrying my red cup so I gulped the beer.
It tasted like Corona. I tossed the cup in the trash.
The women looked nice tonight. There were the usual melee of ghetto hoochies clad in their daughters shorts and skirts, shaking it through the crowd.
Talking loud, popping gum and those huge bellies wiggling over their waist lines like that shit was cute.
A few lesbians, pretty women at that, tried to get with me but they got somewhere after I told them, “I don’t do the same ocean water I came out of, you feel me?”
They respected that. I had my gun in my purse if they wanted to get rowdy.
