Cairo - Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

As soon as Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” comes on, I climb up on top of the stool, lower my hips down onto the head of my rubber companion, then slather Slugger wit’ all of my creamy juices. I match my rhythm to the beat of the music. Imagine I’m on the top floor of the Empire State Buildin’ fuckin’ a nigga named New York. A nigga whose as mean and as gritty and grimy, and as rough as its streets. “…These streets will make you feel brand new…the lights will inspire you…let’s here it for New York, New York, New York…”

“Oooooh, yes, New York…fuck me…aaaah…mmmm…beat this pussy up, nigga…” I buck my hips, slam my hips down onto Slugger; take it balls deep, rock back ’n forth. Scream out, “Newwwwwww York!” Then, just as I’m nuttin’, a bitch falls off’a the muthafuckin’ stool, bangin’ her dome. I bust out laughin’ as my juices spurt outta me. “Bitch, you done bust ya ass tryna get that nut. What’a mess.”

I get up, wipe the cream runnin’ down the inside of my thighs wit’ my hand, then lick my fingas. Pussy cream this damn good should be bottled and sold on the streets , I think, climbin’ my ass back into bed. I pull the goose comforter up over me, closin’ my eyes wit’ thoughts of New York, where paper is made and bitches are paid. The big city of delicious dick and muthafuckin’ sweet dreams.

Smilin’ faces…changin’ places…things ain’t always what they seem to be…sumtimes life becomes a charade…a mask of disguises… dippin’ outta sight…eliminatin’ da fakes…flushin’ out da snakes… clown-ass bitches can’t eva keep a butta chick down…fuck what ya heard…cream always rises…

The next day, I’m on’a ferry goin’ over into downtown San Francisco to get it in. It’s mid-afternoon and packed on this shit for a Wednesday from all’a the tourists and what-not tryna make their way back to Fog City ’cause that’s exactly what the fuck it is. The shit can be so thick that it’s almost spooky. But I ain’t gonna front; a few times I wished I was stuck in the middle of the bay on a boat late at night or earlier in the mornin’ bein’ fucked down lovely in it.

I guess some’a you nosey asses wanna know how I ended up here. Well, on some real shit, I stumbled on Sausalito while I was out here in San Francisco, handlin’ a target three years ago—this big, burly, light-skinned, Magilla Gorilla-type nigga wit’ freckles. Ugh, he made my fuckin’ eyeballs ache lookin’ at ’im. Anyway, I thought Sausalito was cute ’n cozy wit’ all’a its cafés and pricey boutique shops. Although they ain’t really servin’ shit I wanna buy, I was lovin’ the vibe. So here I am.

After pickin’ up a few cute pieces at Bloomingdales and Louis Vuitton, for some reason, I feel like playin’ tourist today. I’ve been chillin’ in the Bay Area for almost a year and have never done any of the touristy shit, ’cept go down to Fisherman’s Wharf, which is a buncha shops, restaurants, and tourist attractions.

I decide to take a cable car ride. Sumthin’ I’ve never done. Probably ’cause any time I’m downtown over on Powell or Hyde Streets, the muthafuckin’ lines are long as hell. And a bitch ain’t beat to be standin’ in heels waitin’ to be on some damn trolley. But, today…the lines aren’t bad. Probably ’cause I hop on at California Street line at Van Ness. So I dare to be adventurous. Yes, this is what a bitch’s social life has come to, shoppin’ and sightseein’. I find myself laughin’ to myself as we go through the financial district. Ugh! Borrrrrrin’!

By the time we make it to Chinatown, a bitch is ready to hop the fuck off’a this contraption. I’ve had enough of this shit, I think, glancin’ at my timepiece.

WHILE I’M SITTIN’ UP ON THIS TROLLEY, MY THOUGHTS DRIFT TO Grant—again. I try to blink the nigga’s face outta my head. Usually I can. But, right now—for some reason, I can’t. I ain’t gonna sit here ’n front wit’ ya asses. That nigga Grant haunted me. His eyes were filled with hate when he asked me if I was gonna smoke him, too. I had’a look that nigga dead in his grill, knowin’ I was gonna slump ’im. And it made me so fuckin’ sick to my stomach. And for the first time in my life, regret did creep up on me. But I had’a shake that shit off. I had’a remind myself that there was no muthafuckin’ time for it. I had’a remember my rule. I had’a repeat that shit in my head a thousand times before I raised my gun and aimed it at him.

“It’s what I do,” I had’a tell him, shiftin’ my eyes from his hurtful stare. The nigga had love and hate all wrapped up in his eyes. They were pleadin’ with me. Even though he knew I was gonna blast him, he didn’t blink. He was a real nigga. And that’s what I dug ’bout him. But, at that moment, killin’ was my life. And I wasn’t goin’ down on some soft shit for some dick—for you, or any-fuckin’-body else. Maybe if he hadn’t tried to reach for his piece, maybe things woulda turned out different. Maybe it wouldn’t have. I don’t know. But what I do know is the nigga moved after I told him, warned him, not to. So, I took his head off. And his vacant brown eyes starin’ up at the ceilin’, his blood seepin’ outta his skull, his lifeless body sprawled out on the mattress next to his people’s—all those images had a bitch spooked for a minute. I stayed lifted for weeks, tryna keep that shit outta my head. But e’erytime I closed my eyes, he was there fuckin’ wit’ a bitch.

And when I stepped up in his funeral like I was the black Jackie O—the real Jackie O. Mrs. Kennedy, that is. Not that busted-ass rapper broad—laid out in my Chanel wears and bling, for one hot minute, all eyes were on me as I swayed my hips up to the double caskets. I touched the side of Grant’s face, then leaned in and kissed his forehead; the same spot my bullet hit when I shut his lights. Then I walked over and took his grievin’ mother’s hand, slidin’ her a card wit’ ten crisp Ben Franklins in it while expressin’ my condolences. She dabbed at her eyes, thankin’ me. Then I took my seat in the back of the room among the sea of mourners and scanned the room, takin’ in the faces of e’eryone. Oh, it was terrible listenin’ to the family and some’a his man’ ’n ’em scream and sob and fall out over the loss of two of their loved ones. I shifted in my seat a few times, dabbin’ at my eyes. But sittin’ through that ordeal was more torturous than B-Love’s funeral ever was. It ripped a hole in my heart to sit through the whole service starin’ at that nigga stuffed in a casket. Oh, it was terrible! But I survived it. And got over it!

And on some crazy shit, if I inhale deep enough, I can sometimes smell the muhfucka. His cologne and his sweaty, musky, I-just-finished-fuckin’-the-shit-outta-ya-ass scent is stamped in a bitch’s head. Other times, I can hear him whisperin’ in my ear, tellin’ me how good and deep and juicy this pussy is. Or I can taste his dick ’n balls on my tongue. Then there are times when I am in bed and I snap up, feelin’ the nigga’s hands runnin’ up ’n down and along the dangerous curves of my body.

For three months straight, the shit had’a bitch jumpin’ up outta bed and flickin’ lights on ’n shit. And that’s exactly why—well, one of the reasons, I bounced the hell up outta Jersey when I did. It felt like the walls were closin’ in on me. And it was rattlin’ my fuckin’ nerves. The other reason I dipped was if I had stayed I knew I would still be bangin’ niggas’ brains out. I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away; that a bitch wasn’t controlled by the shit.

On some real shit, I’ve bodied a buncha muhfuckas and none of ’em ever fucked me up like what went down in AC. Shit. Even when I took B-Love’s head off after I caught him fuckin’ Patrice, I didn’t feel any kind’a way ’bout it. Probably ’cause I plotted on that nigga. I knew what it was. But Grant…nah, there wasn’t a bullet wit’ his name on it, not from me. That shit was different. I was diggin’ him. Wanted to build wit’ him. Bottom line, the nigga wasn’t supposed to be there. But he was. So the nigga had’a take one for the team. And that’s what it is.