“Oh, here you go; you still on that bullshit?”

“Actually, I’m not,” I state flatly. “I’m merely making a statement.”

“Damn, baby. Listen. I was only talking out the side of my neck. You had me real heated, so I was saying shit to hurt you.”

This nigga can’t be the brightest star if he thinks calling me a ho was supposed to hurt my feelings. The word ho holds no power over me, so calling me one can’t hurt me. I embrace my ho-ism wholeheartedly, with pride and grace.

I laugh. “OhmyGod, you are so fucking hilarious.”

“Why I gotta be hilarious? I’m being dead ass.”

“I’m a ho, remember?”

“Why can’t I only wanna see you?” he asked, igging my remark. “Why I gotta be on some extra shit?”

“’Cause you are,” I answer, still laughing. “Vinnie, baby, do you really think I’m buying that ‘I only wanna see you’ mess? No, nigga,” I say. “You calling ’cause you tryna come through and get that dick wet. You don’t miss me. It’s this sweet, tight pussy being wrapped around your dick you miss.”

He laughs. “So what’s wrong with a brotha missing some good-ass pussy?”

“Nothing,” I state.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem. Not for me, that is. But, as for you, this pussy is no longer on the menu, boo-boo. So you shit outta luck.”

“Damn, so it’s like that? I remember a time when you couldn’t get enough of this long, black dick. Let me come through and remind you of how good this dick used to feel up in you.”

Despite myself, I smile—allowing my mind to travel down memory lane, remembering the first time we fucked. Baby, let me tell you. This man did me right. I had gone to Atlantic City—by myself, of course—to chill. I had rented a suite, grabbed something to eat, then went down to the casino to do a little gambling. When I tell you it was heads everywhere, Bally’s was jumping!