“Hey, sexy man, it’s Lydia. I’m hopin’ to get some private time with you real soon. You know Falani’s feelin’ some kinda way that you haven’t called her since the other night, and she’s been actin’ kinda shady toward me”—she laughs—“I think she knows I slid you my number. Oh, well. She’ll get over it. Call me. By the way, I still would love to bend you over and fuck your tight, muscular ass with my strap-on. All you gotta do is say the word.”—she laughs, again—“There’s nothing like turning a masculine man into my little whore-bitch, baby.”
I crack the hell up laughin’. Yo, think what you like, but after that ep wit’ her and Falani, I was tryna figure out how I could get at her wit’out straight up dissin’ Falani. So, when she slid me her digits on the low, I already knew what it was. And damn straight, the minute I get a chance to, I’ma give her all the private time she needs. But the freak-nasty bitch’ll never run anythin’ up in my ass ’cept her muthafuckin’ long-ass tongue, real talk.
“Alley Cat, where are you? I’m at the airport waiting on you. Did something happen? Call me.” Oh, shit, I think. I was supposed to be in Atlanta. Damn! I totally forgot to call Vita to let her know that I wasn’t gonna be comin’ out there; that there was an unexpected change of plans, resultin’ in wetter pussy and deeper pockets. Damn! She’s left eleven more messages, each one soundin’ more frantic. The last one sent thirty minutes ago sounded like she had been drinkin’ ’cause the bitch was straight wildin’. “Goddamn you, you black motherfucker! You didn’t have to dis me like that. Why the fuck did you have me pay for a goddamn plane ticket and you weren’t gonna use it?! The least you coulda done was called me, you thoughtless bastard! You ain’t shit, motherfucker! You’re just like the rest of these sorry-ass niggas.” Click.
I should be on some “fuck her”-type shit, but I won’t ’cause it was foul on my part to do her like that. And she’s right, I shoulda at least hit her up and told her what it was. I decide not to do her dirty and call—tomorrow. I delete the messages.
“Alex, it’s your mother. You know. The one who gave birth to you; the one you forget to call.” I smile, shakin’ my head. I delete the message, makin’ a mental note to hit her up later, if it’s not too late.
“Yo, what’s good, son? It’s Gee, nigga. Hit me up when you get this.”
I finish listenin’ to my other messages, watchin’ Cherry as she makes her way back over to me. She apologizes for leavin’ me hangin’. But I’m cool wit’ it. I ask her who that white dude was and she says all nonchalant, “Oh, that was Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Oh shit, dude who played in Blood Diamond.” She nods. “I knew he looked familiar.” Now a muhfucka ain’t never been starstruck, but I can’t front. I was impressed. I knew Cherry was out here doin’ it big, but I had no idea she was fuckin’ wit’ the celebrities like this. Most of the time when I’m here, we don’t go out; we’re layed up fuckin’ for three days, then I bounce.
After ’bout fifteen minutes of waitin’, we’re finally seated out on the patio, which is kinda cool ’cause the tables aren’t as bunched together like the rest of the tables in here. Man, listen, I can’t stand eatin’ somewhere feelin’ like the muhfucka next to me can reach over into my plate. When the maitre d’ comes to our table, Cherry orders a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of Bordeaux. She’s the only one drinkin’, so why the fuck she didn’t just order a glass of wine instead of a whole damn bottle is beyond me. I keep my mouth shut. Let her do her. While she’s lookin’ over the menu, I glance ’round the room, takin’ in the decor. Now I ain’t a Martha Stewart-type cat, but this spot needs a serious makeover. All the shit up in here seems outdated, like they’re scared to let go of the nineties or sumthin’.
