This fat, black, six-foot-three, three-hundred-and-thirty pound grizzly bear’s name is Cash. I met his ass at that spot the Brooklyn Café back in ’03. The nigga approached me after peepin’ me mop a bitch’s ass across the dance floor for tryna shine on me in front of some niggas. Wrong move!

He was sittin’ at the bar when I walked over to order me a drink. Fightin’ that ho had a bitch’s throat dry. “Yo, ma, I dug how you handled ya’self out there,” he had said, eyein’ me real hard, lickin’ his lips like he was tryna suck my panty liner.

“Oh word,” I responded real easy-like. But in the back of my mind I was thinkin’: Why the fuck is this crusty, black muhfucka lickin’ his lips at me? I know this beast don’t think he’s L.L. or some shit.

He smiled, showin’ a top row of big teeth and big red gums. I yanked my neck back, tryna check my frown. “Yeah. You stomped chick’s back in.”

“Next time I’ma slice the bitch’s throat,” I snapped, tossin’ my fresh-to-death wrap—compliments of this Dominican spot up in the Bronx—and lookin’ him dead in his frog eyes. “Ain’t no bitch gonna talk greasy ’n shit, then think shit’s sweet. I got somethin’ for that ass.”

I really wasn’t beat for all the chit-chat. I just wanted to wet my throat, get my dance back on, and chill with my girls. But, he insisted on tryna lean in my ear. “I hear ya, ma,” he replied, rubbin’ his chin. “I’ve been checkin’ ya all night. You seem like a real thorough chick. Where you rest?”

“Brooklyn,” I said with much ’tude. “Why?”

“How ’bout I buy you a drink, and we find us a spot to politic.”

I twisted my lips. “Nigga, I know you ain’t thinkin’ a drink is gonna get ya black ass some pussy.”

He laughed. “Chill, ma. I ain’t on it like that. Don’t get me wrong, you some real eye candy and I’d love to tap that ass inside out and all. But this is on some strictly legit shit.” I twisted my lips. He flagged the bartender. “Get this beauty whatever she’s drinkin’.”