Cairo - The Kat Trap

Although me and Chanel were restin’ across the dirty-ass Hudson here in Jersey while Tamia and Iris still parlayed in Brooklyn, it had been a minute since me and my girls all chilled together. Although Tamia and Iris were my girls, Chanel and I had been friends since second grade and I’d only been friends with Tamia and Iris since junior high. So my history with them bitches was a little different from the one with Chanel. Granted, Chanel was much tighter with them than I was, but I must say, for the last six or seven years, the four of us were thick as thieves and had a rep of rockin’ the hottest wears, pushin’ the slick-ass whips, fuckin’ the finest niggas, and turnin’ a club out. However, on some real shit, it was all an illusion ’cause along with that rep came some extra shit for a few of these hoes. But I ain’t gonna pull any cards right now. So, I’ma keep it cute, and keep it movin’.

Anyway, after thinkin’ ’bout it, it was a Friday night, and I really did feel like poppin’ and droppin’ it a bit. What the fuck, I thought. “Okay, trick, what time we rollin’?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Tamia and Iris are already here chillin’ at my spot. You want us to come through and scoop you?”

I looked down at my diamond bezel timepiece. It was ten after nine. “Nah, I’m drivin’,” I replied, shiftin’ the cordless phone from one ear to the other, walkin’ into my elaborate walk-in closet laced with all the illest shit from Chanel, Emilio Pucci, Vera Wang, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Hèrmes. “I’ll be there quarter of. Make sure you hoes are ready.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… whatever!”

“And you cock suckas ain’t smokin’ in my shit either.”

“Love you, too,” she said, laughin’.

“See ya asses in a minute,” I said, laughin’ to myself before hangin’ up. I stared at my enormous designer collection, then, after ten minutes of shufflin’ and rustlin’ through shit, I decided to rock a black, knee-grazin’ Gucci wrap dress and a pair of Gucci stilettos. Yeah, give them broke bitches somethin’ to hate, my mind snapped as I headed toward my bathroom, thinkin’ about gettin’ my two-step on.

An hour later, I was standin’ in my full-length mirror, fully dressed, puttin’ my two-carat studs in my ears and makin’ sure my hair and face were on point. “This is why I’m hot, dammit,” I said, admirin’ the way my fifteen-hundred-dollar dress clung to my curves, lettin’ muhfuckas know just what I was workin’ with and revealin’ an ample amount of cleavage—just enough to let ’em know my titty game was right. I grabbed my black Gucci hobo bag and made my way to my garage, then opened the door to my metallic silver S550. I slid inside the butter-soft gray leather interior, pressed the garage door button, then turned on the CD player. Lil’ Kim’s “Kitty Box” blared from the speakers as I made my way to pick up my crew.

When we finally pulled into the parkin’ area, it was packed. The niggas and bitches were pilin’ outta luxury cars in droves. The thought of grindin’ my ass up against a nigga’s dick made my pussy twitch. I pulled into a parkin’ space next to a sweet-ass bronze-colored Bentley. The shit was bangin’. I wonder who’s pushin’ that whip? I thought, flippin’ down my visor. We all checked our faces and hair to make sure shit was regulated.

“What I tell ya’ll bitches?” Chanel announced all excited ’n shit in between pulls of her blunt. “I told ya’ll hoes this shit was gonna be live tonight. We ’bout to work the hell outta this spot.”

“I don’t know ’bout the rest of ya’ll, but I’m tryna run deep in a nigga’s pockets tonight. Drinks all night on his ass,” Iris replied, applyin’ a fresh coat of lip liner to her neatly painted lips.

“I heard that,” Tamia said, chucklin’. “And not that cheap shit either.”

I rolled my eyes. “I have my own paper,” I said, tossin’ my hair to the side. Bitches hated the fact that I didn’t need a weave or extensions or a perm. My shit was all natural, and I shitted on these chicks every time I let ’em know that with the toss of my head.

“And?” Iris asked, tiltin’ her head as if I’d said somethin’ foreign to her.

“And,” I said with much ’tude, “I can buy my own drinks. I’m not one of you hard-pressed bitches, lookin’ for a nigga to buy me drinks ’cause your asses are pinchin’ pennies.”

“Fuck you, trick,” Chanel said, takin’ another deep toke from the blunt, then passin’ it to Iris. She exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Iris took two pulls, then offered it to Tamia.

“Nah, bitch, I’m good,” Tamia said. Iris handed it back to Chanel who took another hard pull, holdin’ the smoke in her lungs.

“No, tramp,” I said, closin’ my sunroof, then openin’ the door. “I’ma fuck you if you burn my seats back there, trick-ass hoes. Now, let’s roll.” Tamia and Chanel started laughin’ and chokin’, but I was serious as hell. That’s my girl and all, but I’d ram a blade in her ass real quick if need be.

There were three lines to get into the club, and each one was practically wrapped around the damn building. Around the back there was some sort of tent that led into another entrance, and that was overflowin’ and packed with niggas and bitches. Ain’t no way a bitch like me was standin’ in some busted-ass line.

“I hope one of you bitches is fuckin’ one of the bouncers ’cause I ain’t beat to be standin’ out here all night,” I said, scannin’ the area. I spotted a few thugged cuties, but nothin’ to write home ’bout. I peeped a group of low-budget bitches cuttin’ their eyes over at us, tryna take in our wears. Humph.

“No,” Iris said, grinnin’. “But I am fuckin’ one of the deejays.”

The rest of us looked at her, dumbfounded. “Bitch, then why is we standin’ out in this crab-ass line?” Chanel snapped, suckin’ her teeth.

“You know this ho gets brain-dead after she smokes a few trees,” I said, rollin’ my eyes at her simple ass. Iris had already found her first prey of the night and was standin’ to the side of us, spittin’ game to this nigga who was gazin’ into her eyes like a star-struck junkie. Hell, why wouldn’t he? On the outside lookin’ in, we were four fly bitches laced in the hottest shit, and didn’t fuck with no broke niggas, so it is what it is. I knew if his paper was long and he was spendin’, she would probably fuck him after the club, unless someone else came along with deeper pockets or a bigger dick.

Say what ya want. But, personally, I ain’t fuckin’ no nigga on the first or second night. Well, not a nigga who’s gonna live to tell about it. Let’s be clear. Yeah, I gets it in like the next bitch, but the niggas I waste don’t count ’cause ain’t none of ’em alive to kiss ’n tell shit about fuckin’ me. So I can fuck and suck and do whatever I want with ’em and never have to worry ’bout some chump-ass muhfucka tryna play me close. But if I’m straight fuckin’ a nigga on the bricks, it damn sure ain’t gonna be on the first night. I don’t care how wet my pussy gets, or how thick his dick gets. It ain’t gonna happen.

I glanced back over at Iris, then rolled my eyes. If a bitch wanna play herself, then…oh well.

“Fuck ya’ll,” Iris said, catchin’ the eye of one of the bouncers, a tall, caramel-coated nigga with a bald head and thick arms, lips, and what looked like big hands. He smiled over at her. “Hey, Len,” she said, wavin’. “Is my name on the guest list?”

“You already know,” he said, wavin’ us to come up to the front of the line. We followed Iris up the ramp, and heard teeth suckin’ and agitated grumblin’s. I looked back and smirked at the common bitches, then stepped inside the club where the beats were rockin’.