Cairo - Deep Throat Diva

He laughs. “Awwww, let me find out, my baby, wants me all to herself. You want big daddy all to yourself, baby?”

No, what I want is an empty passenger seat. “You already know,” I say, glancing back up at the clock. It’s five minutes to nine. The shop’ll be open in another hour or so. I flip through the appointment book. I have four clients scheduled today, and will probably end up with a walk-in or two before I bounce out of here tonight.

“I feel you, sexy. Don’t sweat that shit, though. I’ma be home in a minute, feel me? Then it’s on. We nonstop fuckin’— hard , ya heard?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I moan, pressing my thighs together, remembering how good Jasper used to use his lips, his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his deliciously thick dick—to work my pussy over until it ached and throbbed and erupted. I open my mouth to tell him how much I need to feel him inside of me, but the call is abruptly disconnected.

He’ll call back, I think, watching Felecia at the door, trying to maneuver carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and her morning dose of Hazelnut coffee while digging into her Michael Kors python-trimmed leather hobo bag for the door keys. I walk over and open it for her.

“Thanks,” she says, walking in, then shutting the door with the back of her foot. “You’re here awful early this morning.”

“Yeah, I have a nine-thirty.”

“Oh, I thought your first appointment wasn’t until noon.”

“It was,” I tell her, walking over to my workstation, “but Bianca called last night and asked if she could come in this morning.”

“Oh, okay. She hasn’t been in here in a while.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure her ends are a hot-ass mess, too. She keeps cancelling her appointments.”

“I guess that baby’s been keeping her busy.”

“I guess so,” I say, glancing up at the wall clock. It’s 8:55 a.m. “I know one thing. I hope she doesn’t come waltzing up in here all late and wrong. I coulda stayed in bed a little longer.” I yawn, covering my mouth. “Oooh, ’scuse me.”

“Sounds like someone had a late night.”

I shake my head. “Not hardly,” I lie. “For some reason I couldn’t get to sleep last night. And when I finally did, it was time to get up again.”

She opens up her bag and starts digging inside. She pulls out a bottle. “Here, I have some NoDoz if you need them.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay,” she says. “Girl, I almost forgot. Did you hear about what happened to Cassandra?”

I make a face, confused. “Cassandra? Cassandra who?”

She sucks her teeth, sitting her coffee down on the counter. “You know Cassandra. Cassandra Simms.” I shake my head, still clueless. “Uh, hello…Big Booty.”

“Oh, why the hell didn’t you say that? I only know that ho by her street name.”

When Cassandra was in middle school, all the high school niggas started calling her Big Booty ’cause she had a tiny waist, peach-sized titties and this humongous, bubblicious ass that bounced and shook when she walked. Niggas would be sniffing behind her, drooling and whatnot, all mesmerized by the size of her ass. And she’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand—and crack of her ass—for a ride in it. And not a damn thing’s changed. Her body is still tight, and that ass of hers is still bouncing and shaking niggas out of their minds. The only thing is the bitch is mildly retarded. Well, I don’t know that for a fact, if she is or not. But she definitely seems a bit special. I do know, growing up, she spent a lot more time on her back and in the back seats of cars than she did in those remedial classrooms she was supposed to be in. And now all she has to show for her big, juicy ass is nine brats, six baby-daddies, an EBT card, and Section 8 housing. Oh, but she keeps her and her kids laced in all the fly shit, keeps her hair and nails done like clockwork, and is driving a new GTS Cadillac SUV. But has no savings. What a trifling mess!

“No, what happened to her? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant, again .” It was more of a statement than a question.

She laughs. “No, her hot ass ain’t pregnant, again. But she’s laid up in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“She was fucking some young, hood nigga from around her neighborhood, and his girl done went to her house to confront her, then ended up slicin’ the side of her face wit’ a razor.”

“What, are you fucking serious?” I ask, shocked. Not at the fact that Big Booty got her face slashed—although that’s fucked up, but the idea that bitches are still pulling out razors and slicin’ faces is too extra for me.

“Chile, that ain’t the half of it. Her three oldest kids jumped on the chick and beat her ass into the ground. They kicked and stomped her all up in her face and whatnot and now her head’s the size of a pumpkin.”

I give her an incredulous look. “OhmyGod, are you serious?”

“Baaaaby, serious as a damn heart attack; they dragged her ass something terrible.

“Big Booty had to get ninety-seven stitches to her face, her kids got arrested, and the girl’s in the hospital with a concussion, broken nose, and fractured eye sockets.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “I hope that dick was worth it. Is she still messing with those credit cards?”

“Yeah; and she done got buck wild wit’ ’em, too. I think she’s addicted to the shit.”

I shake my head. Her ghetto ass’s been fucking with stolen credit cards for almost four years, thanks to some scam artist-slash-hood-nigga she used to fuck with. He showed her how to make a buncha purchases, then sell the shit on the streets. Then when his ass got knocked on burglary and theft charges, she started going to his connect to make moves on her own. Unfortunately, the nigga wanted some pussy and head from her ass, so she eventually started sucking and fucking him to ensure the cards kept coming in.

I look over at the door as it opens. Bianca walks in. She looks fabulous. “Girl, motherhood must be all that,” I say as she removes her coat. She’s stylishly dressed in a pair of tight-fitting jeans that leave nothing for the imagination. She has them tucked into a banging pair of chocolate knee-high boots. And she has a cute, form-fitting brown and beige sweater that hugs her full breasts, and narrow waist. There’s not one ounce of baby fat on her. You’d never know she recently gave birth. “You look good, boo.”

She laughs, walking over toward me. “Thanks,” she says as she sits in the styling chair. “I never thought I’d be the one saying this, but motherhood is all that and some.” Her eyes light up as she speaks. “My son is my pride and joy. I am so in love with him.”

“Oh, I can tell. Girl, I’m happy for you. And your baby daddy?” I ask, teasing.

She blushes. “He’s a great father, and a wonderful man.”

“Ohhhhhkaaaay, so does this wonderful man have a name?” I ask, tying my apron on, then wrapping the shampoo cape around her neck.

“Garrett,” she tells me, smiling. She lifts her left hand and flashes me her ring finger. She’s wearing a glittering two-and-a-half carat princess cut engagement ring set in 18k white gold.

I gasp, clutching my chest. “OhmyGod, girl, your ring is gorgeous.”

To be honest, I’m still shocked over the fact that her ass had a baby, and now to learn she’s engaged. Talk about surprises. Not that we’ve ever been close friends, but when you’re someone’s hairstylist for as long as I’ve been hers, you start to develop a certain rapport. And, although Bianca has always been a very private woman, we’ve had conversations over the years about men and relationships and whatnot. And she’s shared some things to me about her personal life. Not much, though. But there were two things she was clear on: One, she had no use for men, or a serious relationship with one; and, two, she had no interest in having children.