Cairo - Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“Yo, chill,” he says, laughin’. “I’ll call you what the fuck I want, ya heard?”

“Oh, noooo, nigga, you got the wrong one. Hear this…” I disconnect his ass. A few seconds later, he sends me a text. LMAO. U mad funny, yo. U got that off. But know this, all dat shit did was get my dik hard.

I text back. Fuuuuuuuuck u!

Two minutes later, there’s another text from this nut. I’m tryn but u keep runnin’ from da dik . I text back: lol, whateva

Once my food is finished cookin’, I place e’erything on a plate, then sit at the table, flippin’ through the latest issue of Urban Ink . I’ve been givin’ some thought to gettin’ a cute lil’ tattoo on my right hip, but I don’t know exactly what I want. I know I don’t want paw prints or hearts or some other cheesy shit. It’s gotta be sexy. I continue thumbin’ through the pages, readin’ articles on the goings-on in the tat world. Just as I’m ’bout to lift my fork up to my mouth, my cell rings. I glance at the screen and see that it’s the nigga Tone, then answer.

“Yo, whaddup, ma?” he asks.

I close my magazine. “Chillin’. Whats good wit’ you?”

“I can’t call it. Yo, ma, I just wanna give you heads-up.”

“Bout what?” I ask, frownin’.

“The chick you slid the other day is all fucked up. You broke ole girl’s jaw and nose, and knocked three of her front teeth loose.”

“Oh, that’s all? Well, shit. She should be countin’ her blessin’s then.”

He chuckles. “They said somethin’ about her eye socket, too.”

“Oh well. The bitch shoulda kept it movin’ instead of tryin’ it on my time. She wouldna got lumped up. Next time, the bitch’ll get her face dug out.”

“Damn, you really go in hard.”

“That’s the only way to do it,” I tell ’im, washin’ my dishes. “The bitch brought it on herself. Fuck all that dilly-dallyin’. I’m not that kinda chick.”

“I hear you, ma. But, check it. Her peoples been poppin’ mad shit about how they gonna get at you when they catch you.”

I suck my teeth. “Please, I’m not pressed. I don’t give a fuck ’bout that bitch or ’er peoples. Give ’em my number and tell them hoodbooga bitches to call me.”

He laughs. “Yo, you wild for real, ma. Got any peoples out here?”

“No,” I tell ’im, pickin’ at my cuticles. “I do my dirt solo.”

“On some real shit, them broads will put that work in on you if they catch up to you.”

“You mean they’ll try . My name ain’t pussy. Ain’t no bitch gonna just do me and think shit’s gonna be all sweet. So let ’em bring it if they want; I got sumthin’ for that ass, trust.”

“I hear you. I know you can handle ya own, ma. I want you to be safe out there, that’s all.”

“Well I ’preciate the concern.”

“Don’t sweat it, though. I got you, ma.”

Please, I think, gettin’ up from the table, if them bitches wanna get at me, they betta bring it soon ’cause in two weeks I’ma be back on the east coast. So fuck ’em! “Awww, how sweet. But, trust, I ain’t sweatin’ that shit.”

“I feel you.” He pauses, then busts out laughin’. “Yo, I’m only fuckin’ wit’ you, ma. Since you whooped that ass, shit’s been real quiet. I thought she’d be blowin’ up my shit tryna get at me, but nah…nothin’. Obviously it’s what she needed ’cause she’s always somewhere poppin’ shit.”

“And that’s exactly what she got. But, you was ’bout to get that bitch bodied, for real, callin’ here wit’ that shit.”

He tries to get serious. “My bad, ma. I couldn’t resist. But, on some real shit, I meant what I said, I got you if sumthin’ pops off. You real cool peoples, Kat.”

I smile. “Thanks. You ain’t so bad ya’self. But, nigga, you still ain’t gettin’ no more of this pussy heat.”

He laughs. “Nah, I ain’t on it like that. But, if you offerin’, I’m damn sure takin’.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I bet you are. But, not happenin’. And as far as them booga bears go, they pump no fear in me. So it is what it is.”

“Ouch, that hurt. You sure know how to shoot a cat in the heart.”

I laugh. “Yup, I suuure do; and in his head, too.” I dry my hands, then walk into the living room, ploppin’ down on the sofa. “So what you gettin’ into today?” I ask, changin’ the subject.

“Not much; probably study for the exam we got comin’ up this week. I need to pass this shit this time. You ready for it?”

Hell no, I think, proppin’ my feet up on the table. Shit, I’m tryna keep myself from thinkin’ ’bout it ’cause I don’t wanna start stressin’. The property management course was some extra shit I took ’til it was time to take the exam. I’ve already passed the state and federal background checks. Mmmph, as if I didn’t think I would. And, as far as they know, a bitch is of good moral character. Now, that shit kinda cracks me up; if they only knew. Annnyway, the only thing standin’ between me and gettin’ that paper is takin’ the exam ’n passin’ it. I swear I don’t wanna be like this nigga, takin’ it over. He mentions how he failed it the first time by four points, then the second time by one. I shake my head. Although the fee is light to take the actual exam, who has another five hours to be sittin’ on they ass tryna retake a two hundred multiple question test—twice, no less? Not a bitch like me, that’s for sure. All I need is a score of 75 percent, and it’s a wrap. I already know what I’ma do the day of. I’ma spark me a blunt to relax my mind, then go in and slay that shit.

“Not really, but I will be.” He asks if I wanna meet up to study together. “As long as you plan on not wearin’ any of that Bora, Bora and you keep ya hands to ya’self, we good,” I say, laughin’.

He joins in my laughter. “Nah, I got you, ma. I’ma be on my best behavior. The only thing on my mind right now is acin’ that exam on Wednesday. Now, afterward, I might be sayin’ some-thin’ different.” I glance at the clock. 2:35 p.m.

“Nigga, the only thing you gonna be sayin’ afterward is congrats.”

“Yeah, that, too.” I tell ’im to hit me up ’round six; that I’d let ’im know then if I’m feelin’ it. Shit, I don’t know if I want the nigga up in my spot. The last thing I’m beat for is a muhfucka bein’ followed, then havin’ a buncha bitches kickin’ in my doors tryna bring it. We talk a few minutes more, then hang up.

I grab the remotes to both my Sony flat-screen and DVD player, turnin’ them on. I press PLAY, then wait for Dexter , season three, episode five to come on. However, I change my mind. I mean. As much as Dexter’s pyschopathic antics make my pussy moist, right now I need sumthin’ a lil more gritty. I scroll through my On Demand, then select what I’m lookin’ for.

Spartacus: Blood & Sand comes to life on the screen. I live for the wickedly deliciousness of each episode. Whew, the house of Batiatus…mmmph, a mess! A bitch can’t wait ’til September when the series comes out on DVD. Keepin’ shit real, I would love to say it’s all those sweaty gladiators that make a bitch’s pussy hot, but it’s not. It’s the blood; the splittin’ of skulls, decapitatin’ of heads that makes my steamy hole sizzle.

I replay episode nine, “Whore,” where Ilithyia is fuckin’ sexy-ass Spartacus, not knowin’ it’s him ’cause their faces are hidden behind masks. I lie back on my bed, reach for my clit stroker and spread open my thighs. I smack my pussy, then dip a finga in, stirrin’ my slit before layin’ the barrel of my gun along the center of my snatch. I stick the tip of it in me, coat it wit’ my juice, then suck it clean.