Hustlin' Divas (3 page)

For six months, I thought I'd ripped my asshole for nothing and went back to playing my position on the poles and doing a little drug-muling on the side until word started circulating that Python had put his latest baby momma, Shariffa, in the hospital because he caught her ass cheating. Nigga she was cheating with was found on the side of the road in a car that had so many bullets holes it looked like black Swiss cheese.

To this day, the Memphis police still had the case open with no leads.

Of course, everybody knew who sent that nigga to the devil's door. Just like every bitch in the Queen Gs was hyphy for the number-one position even before the ambulance showed up to take Shariffa to the hospital.

I'd hoped and prayed to catch Python's attention again, but I was never in a position where I could see him, much less be alone with him. But one night after my set at the club, there he was, wanting another go with my ass. Without missing a beat, I turned it up to him and then braced myself for a rough ride.

Python didn't disappoint. He turned my asshole into a crime scene and then hosed it down with a thick, heavy load. Determined not to have him just roll up on out of there, I washed him down and then gave him a sample of my mean head game and let him know how tight my pussy could grip his meat. I candy-coated that black cock from its head to its balls. The shit was crazy explosive.

I loved it. It was like fucking a dangerous beast that was trying to pound the lining out of my pussy. I fell in love with that muthafucka that night, and I promised myself that I would do anything and everything to become the Head Bitch in Charge—and I succeeded.

That was three years ago.

 

“C'mon, baby,” Python says, pulling me out of my memories. He hands me the Hefty bag of money and then smacks me on the ass. “Get the molasses outcha ass. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute.”

“Okay, Daddy. Whatever you say.”

“Y
ou leaving today, Momma Peaches?” Bonita shouts from three cells down.

I cock a half smile. “Hell, yeah. I'm tired of looking at all these damn gray-haired pussies up in this bitch. I'm getting out of here and finding my ass a young buck to breast-feed.” I lick my fingertips and then smooth down the edges of my hair while I waited for the guards. “These slow muthafuckas need to hurry the fuck on. My nephew is going to do it up and throw his auntie a surprise welcome-home party.”

Bonita's cackle bounces off the cement walls. “It ain't a surprise if you know about the shit.”

“Maybe not, but a party is a party. And nobody throws a party like my baby Python.”

“I know that's right,” Bonita agrees. “I got hold of some shit at one of his parties some years back, and I swear to God my ass was high for six damn months. His ass be slanging the good shit for real.”

I snicker. “You going to do something, then you might as well be the best. That's what I always say.” I tap my foot, impatient. Ten months on lockdown was more than enough for me, and way too much time for the amount of shit the police found in my car. Hell, I didn't even know the shit was in the car. If I had, I would have invited my bingo girls over and had myself a party.

The only reason my innocent-grandma act didn't work was because I had a rap sheet a mile long, and everyone in the department knew my nephew. I'm getting too old to be dipping in and out of jail for bullshit. I can't remember how many times I'd told my knuckleheaded nieces and nephews not to be stashing shit at my place. One of these days, there's going to be a fuckup and I'll have to serve some real-ass time, and then I will really be pissed.

I am what most of the young kids nowadays call an old-school lady gangsta. I'd been in the game since back in the '50s when my nana Maybelle vowed not to return to the cotton fields in Mississippi. Niggas were free, but in their neck of the woods, cotton picking was still the only thing most of them knew how to do. But on Beale Street, the economic situation was a different story entirely. From the music, gambling, and drugs, black folks was coming up and pissing off a lot of white trash.

When I first started out, I helped run numbers up and down Beale Street. Nana Maybelle was a trip. She went toe-to-toe with a lot of niggas trying to hustle her out of her operation. She didn't play that shit and was known for busting a hollow point in people's ass in a hot minute.

At ten, I wasn't allowed to pack heat, but Nana Maybelle taught me how to wield a straight razor. By sixteen, I must've sliced more than a hundred niggas trying to jack my shit. They all found out the hard way that Nana Maybelle and I were cut from the same cloth.

Sixteen was also when I fell in love for the first time; he was this fine redbone named of Manny. It was also the first time I had ever seen a black man with green eyes. Manny had charm and style and could play a mean saxophone. People came from miles to hear his ass play. Men wanted to shake his hand. Women came hoping to land themselves a husband.

I wasn't really any different, especially after I ignored Nana's rule about keeping my legs closed at all times. But there was just something about that green-eyed devil that made me want to do things I didn't even understand. The fact that he was twice my age only made the situation better in my eyes. I wasn't fucking around with no boy. I had a grown man teaching me how to work the greatest prize God gave women—a pussy.

It's been more than fifty years, and I remember that first nut like it was an hour ago….

 

Manny wasn't no big nigga. He was an even six feet tall, lean and smelled like Lifebuoy soap. But what was so memorable about Manny was the way he played my body like it was his beloved saxophone. That nigga was never in a rush. Making love in his crammed apartment with just one slow, rotating fan was hot, sticky, and nasty—in a good way.

I didn't get shit past Nana Maybelle. She knew the morning after that some nigga had busted my cherry just by the way I was walking. Instead of scolding me, Nana Maybelle just shook her head and told me, “A hard head makes a soft ass.”

For months I had stars in my eyes. It was just a matter of time before Manny slipped a ring on my finger. 'Course, Manny didn't get the Western Union wire on that shit. Manny quickly educated me to the ways of a playa. He had more bitches than the Southland Park's dog tracks. I denied the truth for a while until I caught him in a back alley with his head buried beneath some chick's skirt.

Enraged, I sliced up the girl and landed in the back of a paddy wagon. Back then, the police didn't give a fuck about black-on-black crime. I stayed about a night behind bars, and the next day I was right back in Manny's arms, listening to his sweet lies about how that bitch meant nothing to him. I was the one he loved. Yet, when I pressed for a ring, he silenced me by drumming his thick tongue against my fat clit until I was practically climbing the walls.

“Damn, baby. You taste like peaches,” he moaned.

This was about the time a lot of brothers were getting angry about this white boy who had stolen the Negro sound off Beale Street and was now making mad money. Once one white boy starts stealing, then they all of them start stealing. It went over hard for a lot of musicians like Manny, who wasn't making anything more than chump change. Manny's depression and frustration led him to heroin. It was the drug of choice back in those days.

In the beginning, it really opened Manny's mind and he was creating some wonderful music. Before long, people were tossing around the words
music genius
and Manny's ego became a beast. He hooked up with a few promising bands, and he kept believing that his big break was just around the corner.

Nana Maybelle saw how much cash was being moved around with this drug craze and got into the game big-time. With the money rolling in, she bought herself a big house and a fancy car and was straight confusing white folks to just who this Negro woman thought she was. But then, just like now, money talks and bullshit walks. She slung a couple of dollars around and cops left her the fuck alone.

I benefited as well. My cheap clothes were replaced by silk dresses, fancy hats, and seamless stockings. When Manny and I stepped out, people said we gave Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte a run for their money.

But all good things must come to an end.

Manny never did get his big break. He never put a ring on my finger. And he never kicked his heroin habit.

Despite those things, I held on—until one of Manny's baby mommas called me and told me that Manny had died of an overdose while she was sucking his dick. I never knew if the latter part was true, but it didn't help that the woman who called was the same bitch I'd sliced up years ago.

Nana Maybelle did spare me the I-told-you-so speech, but I was crushed all the same. The only thing Manny left me was memories and a small heroin habit of my own.

 

“Maybelline Carver!” a female guard shouts.

I spring to my feet. “Here I go!”

“Got your walking papers, girl.”

“It's about damn time.” I stroll over to the bars just as the guard shouts for them to be opened.

Women line their cells to yell their well-wishes, and some of the haters shout that it was just a matter of time before my old ass would be back. Lord, I hope not. On the condition of my parole, I'm strapped with an electronic tag around my ankle along with a curfew. However, as the officer is fitting the device around my left ankle, it takes everything I have not to bust out laughing.

I catch a few questionable looks, but I straighten my face and thank the officer when he's done. When I stroll out of Memphis's Federal Correctional Institution, I spot a black Escalade with a driver who resembled my best friend Josie's grandbaby, Arzell. It has been a minute since I've seen him, but baby boy has developed into a fine specimen.

“Boy, look at you,” I say, approaching. “C'mon over here and give Momma Peaches a kiss.”

Arzell clearly doesn't want to engage in any PDA, but everyone knows that I'm the momma Queen G in the nest, and he does what he's told.

I hug him tight and then playfully squeeze his ass.

“There you go.” Arzell chuckles. “I've been warned about you.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Just get in the car.” He laughs, opening my door. When I turn, he pays me back by smacking me on the ass.

“Whoo!” I glance over my shoulder and receive a wink from the young buck. “Yeah. I'm going to fuck you. Watch.” I climb into the large vehicle before one of the cops gets the idea to run his face through their database and come out here and arrest his ass for any host of reasons. “A'ight. I'm ready for my party!”

Arzell frowns. “What party, Momma Peaches?”

“Boy, don't play with me,” I sass, mushing the side of his head. “Python better be throwing me a party or I'll turn that big nigga over my lap.”

“Now
that's
some shit I'd like to see.”

I grinned as I look over at him.
Damn, he's a fine young buck.
“How old are you now?”

The side of Arzell's face cocks up. “Twenty-three.”

“That's old enough.” My gaze skitters down to his lap, but with his baggy jeans, there's no way for me to know what he's packing.

“Old enough for what?”

“You'll find out,” I tease.

Despite being a “senior citizen,” I never bought the notion that at a certain age a woman is supposed to put her pussy out to pasture. If anything, good and regular sex does wonders for migraines and keeps up one's flexibility. It also helped that, over the years, I've made sure to keep my cute figure in check. In my case, black sure in the hell doesn't crack, and my skin is just as smooth as it was in my early forties. My hair is just as healthy and bouncy as ever. I keep just a small silver patch in the front and dye the rest of it back to my natural color of off black. The bottom line, I never have and never will have a problem getting a man—of any age.

As we roll through town, I'm once again struck by how my beloved Memphis is one part clean and picturesque and two parts dirty and run-down. The drug and gang wars have the city by the fucking throat, and there's no sign of it ever letting go.

I feel no guilt over my part in the drug game. All my life, I, like Nana Maybelle, have been making a way out of no way. I wear the title of Momma Queen G or Momma Peaches proudly. The men and women with the Black Gangster Disciple are my family. That's the way it is and the way it'll always be.

The minute I spot my brick house, a big ole smile stretches across half my face. I smack my lips, ready for both a drink and a fat blunt to make me feel oh so lovely. Before the Escalade even comes to a full stop, I'm already opening my car door and preparing to hop out.

“Hold up, Momma Peaches. I got you.” Arzell cuts the engine and rushes to help me out.

“Baby, don't get it twisted and start treating me like I'm some lil old lady. I got this.”

“A'ight.” Arzell tosses up his hands. “It's all you, Momma.”

“And don't you forget it.” I lift my head and stroll up to my front door, knowing full well that Arzell's big, young chocolate eyes are following each sway of my hips. As I suspect, the front door is unlocked and when I step into my house, the place is pitch black.

“Humph,” I say, playing along. “I wonder why it's so dark in here.” I flip the switch by the door. Niggas jump out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

“Surprise!”

I light up while tears burn the back of my eyes. “Now this is what I'm talking about. Somebody pass me a blunt and let's get this muthafuckin' party started!”