One
“Nigga, it is way too early for this bullshit.”
It’s 7:45 on a Tuesday morning and Jalen knows I’m not even coherent. Fuck, coherent. Coherent means you actually had some coffee, and you know your bearings.
I’m dead to the world. My head wrap is half-off (like the shit really stays on during the night, any damn way), and my breath smells like broken dreams and faded hope. And this nigga really is blowing up my phone like he on that bullshit.
Boy, what you want?, I text him.
I want you, Keisha.
No, you want pussy.
That too.
Nigga, you know what time it is right now?
It’s always time for pussy.
Nigga…
No girl grows up and hopes she gets involved with the biggest fuckboy known to man. No girl plays the Pick Me game and wonders if she’s gonna be chosen on the game of ‘Which No Good Nigga Is Gonna Waste Your Time?’
Yet, here I am. I’m the lucky…ahem, “lucky” bitch who is entertaining Jalen Roberts, King of the Fuckboys at what is now 7:50.
I knew he wasn’t shit when I first met him. Any nigga with dreads and a mouth full of ice lets me know he ain’t shit and he’ll never be shit. But my sprung ass was attracted to him. He had the body of Michael B. Jordan, the swag like Diddy, and the face like Future.
My dumb ass was in trouble the moment we locked eyes.
We met at a nightclub and yeah, you already know how the story goes: danced for a bit, chilled for a bit, exchanged numbers. Went on a date, then two, then three. And I’m not ashamed to say I made Jalen wait until got into my panties.
I am ashamed to admit how much of a dick-crazed sex-fiend I became once he did.
A nigga that can lick it and dick it is why women end up on an episode of Snapped. The good girl dating the bad boy troupe. Ladies, that shit never works. Never, ever, EVER.
I told myself that despite Jalen being a dope boy, we could be good together. I can inspire him to become something better. He could give up the dope game and we can be the Bey and Jay of Inglewood.
And I’m still telling myself that wack shit though I know it won’t happen. Jalen is determined to be a drug lord and well, here I am. The dope boy’s main chick. Or a chick. Fuck, am I side piece? I’m not entirely sure what the hell is going on.
What you up to today?
I’m up to school and that’s it, I text back. I know this nigga wants to come over and get some pussy. Why else would be texting my black ass so damn early in the morning?
I got something that’ll wake you up.
I open the next text he sends and of course, it’s the obligatory grey sweatpants pic. Oh, I hate this nigga now.
Jalen can barely spell. Hell, I’m not entirely sure that nigga can read and is channeling his inner Floyd Mayweather. But one thing that nigga is good at is fucking. Lord, he can fuck. He can blow my back out, clear my skin, raise my credit score, and do it all in the same dickdown.
As I sigh and lick my lips at this glorious grey sweatpants display, I can clearly see the outline of that delicious big dick of his. My mouth waters and my punani starts to feel a tingle. Girl, you know you want that dick, I hear my punani screaming at me.
And she’s right. I do want that dick. In my mouth. Behind me. On top of me. But not my booty. No dick in my booty.
Today is an important day and I can’t be dickmatized. I need to go out and score a legitimate internship. When I graduate from community college, this will be my chance to go onto a four-year university. Colleges want to see that students are well-rounded and not into the typical bullshit.
Me telling them I put off an internship of a lifetime because my nigga had to get some pumpum isn’t going to cut it.
Later, I text him back. Now, I went from being semi-coherent to wide motherfucking awake because all I want to suck is that nigga’s big-ass dick. But no. A sista has goals and a lot of them. Dick hasn’t gotten in my way and it never will.
Later, I repeat again. After school, I also add. Hopefully, he’ll get the point.
And hopefully, I won’t think about that dick all damn day.
~*~
After I showered and got ready, I look like a million bucks. My closely-shaved head is shiny with the best Blue Magic hair grease. Of course, I can’t scare the white folks with a bald head so I’m wearing the best yaki wig that has shipped out of India. I’m wearing a nice, bouncy wig channeling my inner-Rihanna.
My pink shirt and navy slacks have my hourglass body looking like whoa. My face is blessed with everything NARS and Fenty, and my full lips are covered with a brownish red that will make niggas drop to their knees and salute a bitch. I got this.
My interview is with a legal firm. I want to become a lawyer, be legitimate, and have my own money. Be a boss bitch and do boss bitch things – have my own place, my own car, and maybe, just maybe not mess with any more fuckboys.
Here’s hoping.
I get into my Honda Civic and immediately go to the interview. I skipped breakfast and only opted to have a little coffee instead. My nerves are haywire but I know this is finally gonna take me out of Inglewood. It’s a place that sounds rich, but trust, it fucking ain’t.
At one point, it was probably a nice area and I believe it was. Every black family owned a home, kids were able to walk down the street freely, and neighbors knew each other. It was nothing but love, peace, and hair grease.
Then the crack epidemic happened. And well, we all know how that story went.
Nice homes turned into squatting places for crackheads. Good mothers became strung out on that shit and gave birth to crack-addicted babies. Fathers abandoned jobs that weren’t paying worth a goddamn so they can slang that rock to put food on the table.
I know this because I’m a product of that environment.
My mother isn’t a crackhead, but my daddy is one of the biggest drug lords Inglewood had ever seen. He was slanging before I was born and only became bigger over time. But he made it a point to not sell crack. He couldn’t destroy his own people.
So, he just dealt weed at first. And then when oxy became popular, my father had no reason to ever sell weed ever again. Eventually, the drugs he sold became the prescription kind. My daddy knew black folks don’t like to take prescriptions unless they absolutely had to.
But them white folks, though…they’ll eat up that shit like they’re a fucking McFlurry or some shit.
I’m not going to sit up here and say my daddy is some kind of fucking role model because I know he ain’t. I’m also not going to sit up here and deny my attraction to the fuckboy kind because they somehow remind me of my daddy. I don’t need someone in a fancy white coat with a couple of letters behind their name to explain that to me.
I do need someone to tell me, however, my life don’t gotta be like that.