Wrath White - Yaccub's Curse

We were down on South Street on a Saturday night feeling roguish and hostile. It was just three nights before Halloween and about ten minutes before midnight. There were already many people out in costume. Early Halloween parties disgorged onto the street and blended in with the gaggle of freaks and weirdos that packed the dozen blocks that led from the harbor to the Broad Street subway. South Street was Philadelphia’s version of Greenwich Village or Haight Ashbury Street. Every nationality, sexual persuasion, and alternative lifestyle the city offered paraded up and down the street in outlandish regalia. From thugs to transvestites, punk rockers to pimps, there was not a single group lacking representation in some form or another. Even the suburbanites from New Jersey and the main line jammed the sidewalks snapping pictures at the urban cultural oddities.

The closer it got to Halloween the weirder South Street became. Between Seventh Street and Front Street cops occupied every corner looking nervous and tense, clearly aware that they were outnumbered and probably outgunned as well. Riots on South Street were almost a Philadelphia tradition. They were so common they hardly even made the news anymore unless someone got killed or something. From Eighth Street to Broad Street however, a short mile that took you within a few blocks of the Martin Luther King projects, there was not a police officer in sight. There the streets were dark with shattered street lights and abandoned tenements. Each alleyway you passed was a potential death trap. And if you were dumb enough to leave South Street anywhere along it’s length, even as far down as Front Street, you were just asking for pain.

The three of us stood outside the pharmacy at Fifth and South watching the hoes, hookers, and naïve young suburban bitches stroll by. The suburban girls were even easier to pick up than the hoodrat hoes. You could almost hear the rap lyrics playing in their heads when they looked at us, wide-eyed and expectant. There was a six-foot red-headed girl grinning at me from inside the store and I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was fucking gorgeous! I knew Huey would have some shit to say about me fucking with some gray bitch, but all I was thinking about was getting my dick wet. Fuck all the politics. It’s all pink on the inside.

My eyes traveled up and down her body and I shook with want. Her breasts were tremendous. I would have put her bra-size somewhere in the middle of the alphabet. Her ass was thick and full, but with as much muscle as fat and her hips were wide as well. Her waist however was small and narrow with just the slightest hint of a tummy.

“Yo, Tank.”

“Wa’sup, dog?”

“See that red-headed snowflake in the store? I bet you I can pull that before the end of the night.”

“Aw, bro, she’s fine. You think you could pull that?”

“Shit, all a Black man needs to pull a white bitch is a big dick and an attitude.”

“Yeah, and a little self hate.” Huey interrupted, scowling in disgust.

“Dog, don’t even start trippin’. Pussy is Pussy. Some just got flatter asses and straighter hair than others, but when you up in it, it all feels the same.”

“How the fuck would you know? You ain’t never been up in nothin’ except Yolanda’s fat ass!”

“Fuck you, man. I gets plenty pussy. Just watch me pull this snowflake bitch.”

Huey was right though. I’d never been with a White girl before and White people still scared me a little. That’s why I liked kickin’ their asses so much. It helped me get over my fear of windin’ up in their freezer like one of Jeffrey Dahmer’s butt buddies. But this bitch was too fine to let a little thing like getting hacked up and stored away as leftovers scare me off.

I strolled into the pharmacy and cut off any reply Huey may have wanted to make. The snowflake looked up as I walked in and smiled. She was definitely about to get fucked.

“You look like you need a thug in your life.” I said, lowering my already husky voice to a deep rumble as I stepped behind her; purposely leaning close enough to her ear so that my hot breath could be felt on her neck.

I knew that what white girls liked most about black men was our overt sexuality and straightforwardness. At least, that’s what I thought it was they liked about us. It might have just been that datin’ niggas was in fashion.

“Oh yeah? And just what makes you think that?”

“Cause here it is midnight on a Saturday night and instead of being made love to by someone who would kill or die for the treasures between your thighs, you here buying Snapple and shit.”

She laughed.

“Yeah, and what could a thug do for me that any man couldn’t?”

She was laying it on the line and since I had been so bold with her so far and it had been working I decided to play it like a pimp the whole way.

“Well, a player like myself would treat you like you need to be treated. Like a queen or a goddess,” and now for the trump card, “…and a whore.”

She stared at me disbelieving for a second like she was trying to decide if I was for real or not; waiting for me to laugh and say I was only kidding, but I stared back into her eyes like I was perfectly serious and then to further emphasize my point, I slowly looked her over from head to toe like I wanted to tear her apart right there in the store. Finally, she smiled and seemed to make up her mind.

“What’s your name, baby”

“Christina.”

“Where do you live?”

“Me and my mom live right across the street above the bookstore.”

Then, as an after-thought she added:

“My mom won’t be home all weekend.”

She was about seventeen years-old and I knew she thought I was the same age. At fourteen years-old I was already six-feet-two inches tall and had a voice like Barry White. I didn’t have much experience with girls though. The closest thing to real sex I’d ever had at that point was with Yolanda. And every time I looked at a White person I still saw Scratch’s face. Even though I didn’t really believe all that Muslim shit about white people being devils they still sort of creeped me out a little. Still, I wanted to fuck this white bitch bad.

“Give me your address. I’m coming over tonight.”

“Damn, you’re fast! How do I know you ain’t some kind of psycho or something?”

“Well, you don’t. But I give my word that you’ll enjoy anything I do to you.”

“You’re a sick mutherfucker. I like you.”

I couldn’t believe it. How dumb could a woman be? A sister would have cussed me out by now and probably pulled a box cutter on me and tried to slash my face. White girls lived in a whole different world. Violence is so foreign to them that they couldn’t even imagine being beaten up or raped by some niggas they met on South Street. Life to them was all fun and games and as much as I wanted to prove her wrong and turn her world upside down, hurting women wasn’t my thing and I wanted some pussy far more than I wanted to prove a point. I had gotten blowjobs and handjobs from Yolanda, but other than that I was still a virgin and was anxious to change that.

“My friends are waitin’ for me. We got some business to take care of. Let me get that number ’fore I leave and we’ll hook up.”

She wrote her number down along with her address and slipped it to me. When I reached for it she held on.

“Are you really gonna call? Don’t take my number if you ain’t gonna call.”

I reached over and grabbed her by the back of the head pulling her closer until our lips met. I slipped my tongue between her lips and found hers coaxing it out of her mouth where I sucked it like an erect nipple then nibbled her bottom lip. Every hair on my body was standing on end. Despite my macho show of confidence this bitch scared the hell out of me. I was almost afraid she was going to try to suck my brains out of my mouth. I was breathing hard and my heart was thundering in my chest when I slipped her number out or her hand and left.