Deep Throat Diva (11 page)

“Hey, baby,” he coolly replied, “where you at? I called the shop but Felecia said you left already.”

“Yeah,” I told him, keeping a nice distance between me and the truck. Even though I was ready to go off, I kept my tone even; kept my eye on the truck as it stopped at a home in the Vailsburg section of Newark. “I’m on my way to Livingston Mall. Why?”

“Just askin’. What time you gonna be home?”

I glanced at the clock. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. I decided to tell him I wouldn’t be home until after seven. I stopped a few houses down, turned off the engine, and watched this chick get out of
my
man’s ride—like she owned the shit! She opened
the backseat and pulled out several bags. The bitch had been shopping, probably spending his money. “Why? As a matter of fact, where are
you
?”

“Oh, uh…I’m in Maplewood wit’ Stax.”

“Oh, tell him I said hey. What, ya’ll getting into? Visiting your grandmother?”

“Yeah, she got us painting and moving shit for her.”

“Awww, how cute,” I told him. “That’s real nice of ya’ll. Are you riding with Stax?”

“Nah, I’m driving,” he lied.

“So what time are you gonna be home?”

“Uh, I’m not sure; late most likely.”

“What’s late?”

“Like ’round midnight or so.”

I peeped the house the broad went into, waited a few minutes, then got out of my car. I popped open my truck, pulled out my ice-pick, then started walking toward his truck. Yes, in broad motherfucking daylight, I dropped down low and punched up his tires.

“What are you driving?”

“My truck, why?”

“Oh really? That’s amazing.”

“Why you say that?”

“’Cause motherfucker, I’m standing outside looking at the shit as we speak.” I rattled off the license plate number.

“Say whaaat?”

“You heard me the first time, nigga. I
said
, how the fuck you driving your truck when I’m outside looking at it? I just finished ice-picking two of your motherfucking tires so you had better hurry up and get your black ass out here right now before I stab up the other two.”

“What the fuck? Say what?!”

I started counting, “Ten, nine, eight…bring your motherfucking ass…seven, six, five…out of that goddamn house…four, three, two…NOW! Or I’m gonna start busting out your motherfucking windows, nigga…one.”

I saw someone looking out an upstairs window, then heard him say, “Oh, shit.” Then I heard scrambling around; someone running down stairs, then the front door flung open. And out came Jasper’s ass, pulling his shirt over his head. His jeans were unbuttoned and his Timbs were unlaced. Clear signs that the nigga had been undressed. His eyes were wide as saucers when he looked down and saw his truck slumped over on one side.

“Motherfucker, you better explain what the fuck you’re doing over here when you’re supposed to be in Maplewood with Stax. And what the fuck was that chick doing driving your truck?”

“Damn, Pasha…what the fuck, yo?”

“Ain’t no Pasha ’what the fuck’ nothing, nigga. I wanna know what the fuck you doing over here and why the fuck you have some bitch driving your shit.”

“I ain’t have no bitch driving my shit. Yo, you buggin’ for real. Why you flatten my tires?”

“Nigga, you’re a motherfucking liar. I know what the fuck I saw. So don’t try ’n switch it up on me. I asked you a motherfucking question, but since you can’t seem to give me a straight answer, I’ll go to the source.” I started walking toward the house. Jasper ran up on me, snatching me by the arm.

“Aye, yo, you buggin’. It’s not what you think for real, yo.”

“Oh, really? Nigga, I followed some bitch driving your mother-fucking truck, you give me some bullshit-ass story about being with Stax in Maplewood, then come running out of another ho’s house trying to put your goddamn clothes back on. Nigga, the only one bugging is you!” He tried to calm me, but I wasn’t having it.
“Tell that bitch to bring her ass outside, now.” She must have been listening at the window because when the door opened she stepped out onto the porch. “Bitch,” I yelled, “how long you been fucking my man?”

Before she was able to open her mouth to respond, Jasper ordered her back into the house. And like an obedient, dick-whipped bitch she went back in. And that only pissed me off more, causing me to smack his face and punch him in the chest for not allowing her to speak.

Anyway, come to find out, he’d been fucking the chick for close to six months and lacing her with wears and money and shit. So, basically, his ass was not only creeping, but in a whole ’nother relationship. Trust and believe, I boxed and bagged all of his shit and dumped it off on that bitch’s porch. Then I went to Home Depot and bought new door locks, changed the code to the alarm system, and blocked his numbers from my cell. He begged and pleaded and made promises to cut all of his extracurricular hoes off. But I wasn’t trying to hear it. I was through! And when I got tired of him coming here to the shop, I took out a restraining order on him. Of course that shit only lasted for three months before I went back to court to have it dismissed and he was right back where he belonged—in my bed and in between these legs.

“…the only person I’ve been fuckin’ wit’ is you,” he says, bringing my attention back to the conversation. “And that’s what it is. You’re all I need and want. So don’t try ’n flip this shit on me. This is ’bout you, baby. And me comin’ home findin’ out you was lettin’ some other muhfucka bang ya back in. So you already know if you ain’t tight I’ma fuck you up. You do know that, right?”

“Nigga,” I huff, “don’t be threatening me.”

“Yeah, aiight. You already know what it is.”

I glance up at the wall clock. It’s 12:38 p.m. My next appointment
isn’t until two. I sigh. “Well, it’s apparent you don’t trust me, so I gotta wonder why we’re even together.”

“Yo, save that reverse psychology shit for them clown-ass muhfuckas. What the fuck you mean you gotta wonder why we’re together? Don’t start no dumb shit, yo. We’re together ’cause that’s how it’s fuckin’ supposed to be. You ain’t goin’ nowhere, and neither the fuck am I.”

“Hmmph.”

“Oh, you goin’ somewhere?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what the fuck I thought. So what the fuck is you gruntin’ for?”

I’m trying to understand how the hell we’ve gone from having a nice, easy-going conversation to this shit. I swear I think this nigga’s bipolar.

“Look,” I tell him, having enough of this. “I gotta go. I have an appointment coming in.”

He laughs. “Oh, now you got an appointment ’n shit. It’s all good, though. I gotta get ready for this bullshit-ass group, anyway. So I’ma let ya sexy ass off the hook for now, baby.”

“Jasper, kiss my ass, okay?”

“Yeah, aiight,” he says, laughing. “I’ma be doin’ more than that in a minute. Believe that. And you better remember what I said, yo: Don’t fuckin’ play me.”

It’s close to six o’clock and I’m so ready to get the hell home. Today, for some reason, has been a day from hell. It has been one thing after another. And just when I don’t think it can get any worse, it does. “Pasha, you have a call on line three,” Felecia says into the phone’s intercom system.

“Okay, thanks,” I tell her, pressing the third blinking light, then picking up. “Hello? This is Pasha speaking.”

“Those sexy-ass lips of yours were all I thought about when I was in county. I beat my dick every night, thinking ’bout you suckin’ my joint again,” the voice on the other end says. His voice is deep, and unfamiliar.

“Who is this?” I calmly ask.

“The nigga you dissed a few days ago,” he snaps. “I bet you didn’t think I was gonna figure out who you were, did you, you dick-sucking bitch? I almost didn’t think I would either—until now.”

I hang up, feeling my nerves starting to unravel. Less than a minute later, another call is being transferred to me. I pick up. “Hello? This is Pasha.”

“Bitch, I’ma keep calling you so don’t fuckin’ hang up on me.”

“And I’ma call the fucking cops,” I warn.

He laughs. “Yeah, right. And tell ’em what, bitch? How you tried to suck the skin off my dick? Go right ahead.”

I take a deep sigh. He’s right. There’s no way I want that to come out. OhmyGod, I’d be the laughingstock of the town. These bitches here would have a field day with that kind of dirt on me. “Look. Why are you calling me?”

“To hear that sexy-ass voice of yours. After you told me you weren’t beat to suck my dick again and blocked my emails, you had me feelin’ some kinda way. I told you my dick needed your tongue, too…” His email flashes in my mind. OhmyFuckingGod, how did this nut find me? He continues speaking as if he read my thoughts.

“…But as luck would have it. I found you without having to look very hard. All this time, you’ve been right under my nose. Nappy No More, I like. It has a nice ring to it.”

“Look, what do you want from me?”

“Don’t play stupid. Why else would I be calling ya smutty ass? I want your lips wrapped around my dick again,” he tells me. “Seeing your pretty face in the paper on Sunday got my dick on brick…”

I frown. Try to figure out what this fool on the other end of the phone is talking about seeing my face in the paper. Then it dawns on me.
Oh, shit!
I think, gasping. He’s talking about the photo of me in the local news section of
The Star Ledger
. The one taken of me at Nana’s church’s Community Day a few weeks ago. I was so caught up in the moment, overwhelmed by the number of women who had turned out, that I didn’t have a chance to think about what those photos could potentially do to me. Now I wish I could rewind back to that day. I would have told them no fucking pictures.

“…You got me wanting to bust a few rounds of nut down in that nasty-ass throat of yours. That shit feels just like a wet, gushy pussy.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck raise. “Who the fuck did you say are?”

“I didn’t. But don’t worry ya pretty lil’ head ’bout that. You’ll find out soon enough, trick. All you need to know right now is I’ma ’bout to be your worst fuckin’ nightmare. Check your mail, baby. And if you don’t do what I want, there’ll be more where that came from.”

“Listen…” the line goes dead. I try to star-sixty-nine the call, but it’s from a blocked number. I glance over at the stack of mail sitting on my desk, then start frantically sifting through it. When I come across a manila envelope with my name typed on it without a return address, I immediately know it’s from him. My stomach knots as I reach for my letter opener. I swallow hard, then slice open the back of the envelope. I pull out its contents.
Oh…my…fucking…God!
I hear myself scream in my head as I gasp, cupping a hand up over my mouth. My heart has dropped into my lap. I can literally feel the color draining from my face. I sit, staring at the sheet of paper, gripping it in my hand—
mortified. It’s a color copy of the photo from the newspaper neatly cut out, and taped in the center of white copier paper. The newspaper caption reads: B
USINESS OWNER
, P
ASHA
A
LLEN, STYLIST AND OWNER OF
N
APPY
N
O
M
ORE
H
AIR
S
ALON IN
O
RANGE
, N
EW
J
ERSEY, GIVES BACK TO THE COMMUNITY
. Underneath that, in cutout lettering, glued to the white copier paper. Reads: P
ASHA
A
LLEN
(
AKA
D
EEP
T
HROAT
D
IVA
)
IS THE COMMUNITY DICK WASHER
. D
ICK SUCKING BITCH
!

ELEVEN

I
t’s seven o’clock in the evening. I am wrapped in a chenille throw curled up on my sofa, with a glass of Chardonnay and my leg tucked beneath me, reading—well, trying to read—
Stealing Candy
by Allison Hobbs about teen girls being forced into prostitution by a malicious pimp. The book doesn’t hit the stores until July, which is another four months from now, but one of my clients at the salon belongs to a book club and was able to get a review copy for it. She raved about it and told me I should read it. So when she brought it into the salon with her the other day, I decided I would. Besides, I love all of Allison’s books. Many of her characters I can relate to on some level. They’re all nasty, uninhibited, and freaky as hell.

But two hours have passed and I am still only on the second page of
chapter three
. As interesting and disturbing as this book is, I am unable to stay focused tonight. The words are colliding into one big, blurry ball. I put the book down and toss off the throw, downing the last bit of my wine. I reach for the remote to the stereo, press play for the
CD
player. I wait for Fantasia’s latest single, “Bittersweet,” to start playing. She doesn’t even have an album out yet, but I’m glad to have this song in my collection. Someone came into the shop selling a compilation of songs on CD for five dollars. I don’t normally buy bootleg shit, but there were a few songs on the disc I wanted to hear and I couldn’t wait until the album’s release.

I lean my head back on the sofa, closing my eyes as Fantasia’s voice comes through the speakers and fills the room.

I decide I need something else besides sitting up in this house to occupy me. I have to get up out of here before I drive myself crazy, letting some psycho motherfucker rent space in my head. You always see on TV and on the internet shit about someone being harassed by some kook who has made them the object of their desires. But, geesh…all I did was top the nigga off one time, and he’s coming at me all nutty and whatnot. Shit! And I don’t even remember what the nigga looks like. I can only imagine what he’d do if I had given him some pussy.

Although it’s been two weeks since that disturbing phone call from that nut, I am still trying to block out the echoing in my head.
Have you opened your mail today? Bitch, since you won’t suck my dick, I’m gonna make ya life a living hell…

The fact that I haven’t heard from him should make me feel relieved but somehow it doesn’t. Still, it doesn’t keep me from wanting to suck down on some dick tonight. And it doesn’t prevent me from thinking irrationally, knowing damn well I have no business still thinking about cock and cum. But I am!