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.
CHAPTER TWO
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.