Deep Throat Diva (34 page)

KITTY-
KITTY,
BANG-BANG

C
OMING
F
ALL 2011 FROM
S
TREBOR
B
OOKS

CHAPTER ONE

Fly, exotic bitch wit’ the long lashes and slanted eyes…smooth, buttery thighs…fat ass…soft lips…got niggas ’n they bitches tryna get up in these hips…got ’em turnin’ tricks…beggin’ to lick the clit…while I’m ridin’ down on a nigga’s dick…got muhfuckas lined up to get glazed wit’ my cream…niggas tossin’ ’n turnin’…can’t get me outta they dreams…Ice on my neck, wrists and hands…Hermès Birkin bag draped on my arm…diamond stilettos on my feet…don’t be misled…I’m from the hood, baby…shit ain’t sweet…do me wrong…end up dead…

’Scuse me, bitches! Can I have ya attention, please? In case some of you hatin’-ass tricks and hoes forgot who I am, let me reintroduce myself. I’m that cinnamon-colored beauty with that sexy swagger and straight-up bangin’ body that keeps the bitches rollin’ they eyes—and niggas recklessly eyeballin’ me, undressin’ and tryna mentally fuck me. I’m that chick rockin’ all the fly wears and pushin’ the hot-ass whip
that all the other bitches wanna be like. I’m the chick bitches still wanna hate, but love to grin up in her face, always wantin’ to be up in her space ’cause I’m e’erything they’ll never be. Rich, fly and muthafuckin’ F-I-N-E! Not braggin’; just keepin’ shit real. Bitch,
whaaaat?

Call me shallow, call me superficial; call me whatever the fuck floats ya boat, but know this: you’ll never call a bitch broke, busted, or beat down. So keep hatin’. Keep poppin’ shit. Keep pickin’ ya face up. ’Cause a bitch like me feeds you dust. So, poof!

Annnnnnnywho, for my bitches and niggahs who I fucks wit’, I was on hiatus for a hot minute. I had’a step outta the game to get my mind right. ’Cause on some real shit, after how shit went down in Atlantic City it had a bitch’s dome all jacked. Oh, trust. I heard how some’a them corny-ass broads were tryna come at my neck for puttin’ a bullet in Grant’s bucket. Predictable, they say? Uh, what the fuck them birds thought I was gonna do? Let the nigga walk after he done popped up in the room and saw I done bodied his brotha? Bitch, puhleeze. You must be smokin’ that shit if you thought I was gonna let that nigga get a free pass. Yeah, he had that bomb-ass dick. And yeah, the nigga’s head game was sick. He knew how’ta tongue-fuck this pussy ’til a bitch shook. But, fuck what ya heard. Good dick, slammin’ tongue, or not. My number one rule is: No witnesses, no evidence. Period! So say what the fuck you want. I’ma paid bitch, not a dumb one.

Still, I’ma keep it raw wit’cha. For a hot minute, my soul ached. It ripped a bitch’s heart to have’ta lay that fine, sexy nigga down. And yeah … I dropped a few tears. But there was no other option. Well, none that was gonna work for me. Prison, not! Him puttin’ lead in me, not! Me stressin’, wonderin’ if the nigga’s gonna be on some revenge-type shit, not! So, he had to go. And for a bitch like me, it was for the best.

Like I told ya’ll from the dip, I fucked for sport. But I murdered for business.
Yes
, you heard me. I said
fucked
and
murdered
as in past tense. Well, for now, that is. It’s been almost two years since a bitch rode down on sum dick, then took the nigga’s head off. Shit, a bitch ain’t had no dick since … neva mind. I ain’t in the mood to get into it right now.

Annnnnywaaaayz, when I was bodyin’ muhfuckas, there was no time for compassion or sympathy. And there was definitely no time for muthafuckin’ regret. Unfortunately, Grant got caught up bein’ at the wrong place at the wrong time, and got got. The shit wasn’t personal. I couldn’t let it be. It was ’bout clockin’ that paper ’cause a bitch was gettin’ paid by the body. Not gettin’ clanked up. So fuck all that ying-yang ya’ll been poppin’. I had’a do what I had’a do. And sheddin’ a buncha tears ’bout sum shit I couldn’t change wasn’t gonna bring the nigga back. He was dead. And a bitch had’a keep pressin’. So, yes, I put back on my wig, slipped my chrome back into my bag and slid outta the hotel room, chokin’ back tears. When I got back to my rental and had to make that call to Cash that was one’a the hardest things I had’a do. I remember, takin’ a deep breath, tryna steady my voice as I told him, “I know why the caged bird sings.”

“That’s what it is,” he said to me as he always did each time I called him to let him know a mission was completed. Then after I told him that there was another body in the room, I had’a tell him that a bitch needed a break. I knew if I didn’t bounce I was gonna end up snappin’ or doin’ sum other reckless shit. Like I told ya’ll before I knew that shit was in my blood—killin’. Lookin’ into a nigga’s eyes, splatterin’ his fuckin’ brains while ridin’ down on his dick did sumthin’ to a bitch. Made my pussy hot, made it pop. The thrill of the kill turned me on. And it overshadowed the risks. But that shit down in Atlantic City cost me sumthin’. It cost me what was startin’ to feel like love—well, at least the idea of it—and the chance to finally be free.

However, a bitch had’a get the fuck over it. Heartache and cryin’ over a nigga ain’t what I do. My name ain’t Juanita, okay? Uh, duh, the neglectful bitch—yes, you heard me right. I said
bitch!
—who dropped me outta her hairy pussy for those of you who can’t remember the script. I saw enough of that shit growin’ up watchin’ her dumb ass go nutty over the dick. I swore I would never,
ever
be her. And I mean that.

Speakin’ of that bird, I haven’t seen or spoken to her ass since that night she came to my spot with her face all banged the fuck up by that young nigga she was fuckin’. Then she had the fuckin’ audacity to bring her sister Rosa wit’ her ass. And that bitch came poppin’ outta
bushes tryna bring it, callin’ me out to fight her like the ghetto-ass bird she is. Get real. I’m done wit’ all of ’em. As far as I’m concerned I ain’t got no family. And I made that very clear when I pulled my chrome out on ’em. And, hell muthafuckin’ yeah, don’t get it twisted. I woulda put a bullet in both of them bitches. E’erything Juanita stands for makes me fuckin’ sick. She’s a weak bitch in my eyes. And I don’t respect her. Nor do I have any love for her. But the crazy thing is I don’t hate her ass either. I don’t feel shit for her. I guess ’cause I learned to finally accept who she was, and is—neglectful, selfish, and straight pathetic. Which is why I had no problem lookin’ her dead in her busted-up eyes and tellin’ her flat out that I wanted nuthin’ else to do wit’ her, then slammin’ my door in her raggedy-ass face. I meant that shit on e’erything I love. And that ain’t much, trust.

My cell phone rings, snappin’ me outta my thoughts. I grab it off the nightstand, peepin’ the digits.

“Bitch,” Chanel snaps in my ear the minute I answer. “What took ya ass so long to answer?”

“Slut,” I snap back, “the last time I checked I wasn’t suckin’ ya clit so pump ya raggedy brakes ’fore you get ya fronts knocked.”

She laughs. “Trick, puhleeze. Ya ass ’posed pick up on da first ring. You know what it is, boo. Don’t have ma-ma spank that ass.” She laughs harder.
Oh, I see this ho is in rare form this mornin’,
I think as I try ’n hold back a yawn.

“Yeah, I know you better fall back wit’ all that
boo
’n
ma-ma
shit. I done warned ya ass ’bout that lesbo shit. It’s too early in the fuckin’ mornin’ for that clit-lickin’ bullshit.” She continues laughin’. This bitch is my girl ’n all, but I swear sometimes she be on some real extra shit. Not that I give a fuck if she’s poppin’ tits ’n clits in her mouth, ’cause she’s gonna be my girl, regardless. But a bitch like me is only takin’ a dick that’s attached to a real nigga in the back of her throat and deep in her fat pussy. “Hahaha, hell, bitch. I can’t stand nuthin’ yo’ cum-guzzlin’ ass stand for.”

“Yeah, right,” she says, crackin’ up. “That’s what ya mouth says.”

“
Whaaat
eva. Why the fuck is you callin’ me, tramp?”

“Fuck all that you talkin’,” she says, chucklin’. “Oh, before I forget, guess who I ran into the other night and was askin’ ’bout you?”

“Who?”

“Patrice. And as usual ya aunt was dipped in some ill shit.”

I roll my eyes. Yeah, I’ll give it to her ass, though. The ho definitely knows how’ta throw it on. But, she still ain’t as bad as me. And she damn sure ain’t servin’ me.
I bet her ass is still livin’ up in da projects wit’ Nana, triflin’ bitch!
“Mmmph, where you see that roach at?” She tells me she ran into her at the Ledisi concert at BB King Blues Club and Grill in Times Square. “Well, I don’t know why the fuck she was tryna check for me.”

“She wanted to know what you were up to, then started talkin’ ’bout how you done got all brand new on e’eryone, changin’ ya numbers ’n shit.”

“Yup, fuck all’a them hoes. And I hope you didn’t tell that bitch shit, either.”

“Oh, she was tryna fish me, but trust … you already know. I got you. I kept it real cute.”

“Good. They all dead to me.”

“I hear you, girl. But, damn … that’s kinda harsh.”

“Harsh my ass. It is what it is.”

“Kat, you know I usually keep my mouth shut, but this craziness between ya’ll has been goin’ on for too long. That’s still ya family, girl. Don’t you think it’s time ya’ll try ’n peace shit up?”

“Yeah, when that bitch’s in a box and I spit on her grave. Then it’s peace. Until then, that bitch is invisible to me.”

“Well, alrighty then. Movin’ right along. The reeeeal reason I was callin’ ya ass is to find out when you bringin’ ya dusty-ass back to the East Coast. There’s this bangin’-ass party comin’ up the end of next month and you need to have ya ass here for it.”

“Umm, Sweetie, you know I ain’t beat to be ’round a buncha played-out, dick-thirsty Wal-mart bitches.”

“Trick, don’t clown me. You know I wouldn’t be callin’ ya ass for no low-budget showdowns. This is all top-of-da-line dick and dollas, boo.”

“Hmmph. Who’s givin’ it?” I ask, tryna decide if I wanna blaze. I glance at the clock. 8:45
A.M
. I get outta bed and walk over to my armoire and open it. I pull out a bag of purple haze. Open it, then take
a deep whiff, closin’ my eyes.
Yeah, this that good shit right here, but I ain’t feelin’ it.
I reseal the bag, then toss it back in the drawer, pullin’ out the chocolate thai.
Yeah, this is what’a bitch needs to jumpstart the mornin’
.

“Remember that baller nigga Thug Gee from Newark who gave that party at Studio 9 before the shit shut down?”

“Yeah,” I state, pullin’ out my Dutches. I lay my stash and cigars on the nightstand, then go into the bathroom. I sit on the toilet. How could I ever forget that party? That’s the night I met Grant. The night I dropped down low, popped my hips, and pressed my juicy ass up against his cock and grinded into him ’til his shit bricked up. The night I knew I’d end up fuckin’ him. It’s the same night e’ery bitch on the floor wish they coulda been me.

“Well, he’s throwin’ another one in Manhattan at Eden …” Mmmph. She’s talkin’ ’bout that spot over on Eight Ave between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It used to be the China Club back in the day. Anyway, it has a lil’ rooftop area for peeps to sit ’n chill and get they drink on wit’out all that loud music beatin’ ’em in the head when they tired of bein’ hemmed up inside. And the music’s real cute. But from what I remember, the two times I went there, the drinks weren’t hittin’ on shit and they had more bitches than niggas up in there. And most of ’em wasn’t even dimes. And the few that did look like sumthin’ they weren’t no high-end bitches. And the truth is, I ain’t have no business up in there wit’ ’em.

“If I decide to come through you need to make sure ya ass gotta back-up plan for us in case that shit is busted.”

“Oh, trust. Word has it it’s gonna be fiiiyah. You know that nigga only rolls wit’ them baller niggas.”

I roll my eyes, wipin’ my snatch, then flushin’ the toilet. This thirsty bitch stays tryna find her next trick. “Umm, what’s good wit’ Divine?” I ask sarcastically, checkin’ to see if the nigga’s still dickin’ her. I’m at the sink washin’ my hands, admirin’ my reflection in the mirror.
Hmmph, even wit’ ya hair tossed all over ya head, and sleep in ya eyes you still a hot, buttery bitch!

She sucks her teeth. “He’s just dandy. Thank you, very much.”

I step back into my bedroom, sittin’ on the side of the bed while I
split open a Dutch and pack it wit’ my mornin’ get right. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always liked that nigga. Is he still rabbit-fuckin’ you, or has his stroke game improved?”

Now, typically askin’ a bitch ’bout her man’s dick game is a no-no, but since she’s always put it out there in the past that his dick game was mad whack; that he be fuckin’ her mad fast and whatnot, then nuttin’ off in minutes—then it’s a fair question.

“Girl, he finally got that shit together. Took him two years to learn how’ta slow it down and not be so damn eager to nut. I mean, damn. I know I got that bomb pussy, but still.”

I suck my teeth. “Ho, please. Ain’t nobody tryna hear ’bout how ill ya snatch work is. I asked you ’bout Divine handlin’ his. I’m glad he finally got that situation together, though. I’d hate for him to get fucked over ’cause he ain’t fuckin’ you right, even though the nigga’s been damn good to you.”

“Sweetie, don’t think I don’t know what you doin’. Fuck you.”

I laugh, tightly rollin’ my blunt. I spark it, takin’ a toke. “Ho, I got nuthin’ but love for ya silly ass. But that nigga Divine needs to straight dip on ya ass ’cause you ain’t ever gonna ’preciate what you got.”

“Bitch, how you sound? That shit ain’t true. I know what I got.”

“Oh, really? And what’s that?”

“I gotta nigga in my bed,” she snapped servin’ me up a dish of ’tude. “What’a ’bout you?”

I ig the ’tude and keep pressin’. “Ho, yeah, you might gotta nigga. But ya ass is still scrapin’ the barrel tryna find ya next catch. I’m paid, bitch. I don’t
need
a nigga. And a bitch ain’t trickin’ no niggas to make shit pop.
That’s
what about me.”