Shameless Hoodwives: A Bentley Manor Tale Read online

  After a good meal and a good fuck I like to blow me a blunt. Fuck it. It rests my nerves.

  I open the window next to the tub, pulling back the curtain. Thank God for the hedges between our house and our neighbor’s or Mr. Wilson’s old wrinkled white ass would get a helluva peep show on a daily basis.

  I reach for my makeup bag and dig down to the bottom for the empty lipstick case holding my Life-savers…three blunts. It’s Hawaiian marijuana wrapped in cherry-flavored blunts—my favorite blend.

  I pull up the stool from my dressing table in the corner and sit with my head stuck out the window. I make sure to blow that thick-ass smoke out into the wind.

  Reggie and I met at his small dental practice in Buckhead. I was his front-desk receptionist. First we started chitchatting during downtimes at the office, but somehow I started feeling this straitlaced cat with the glasses. Probably what was even more shot out was that his goody-two-shoes ass started feeling me, too.

  I blow another stream of smoke out the window.

  To everybody’s surprise in the office we started to go out on dates. Shit, my ass ain’t never dated nobody. Either I was fucking some dude just to get the pressure off or I had somebody who was my man straight up. I ain’t know shit about the in-between.

  He taught me shit and I taught him a few things. His lessons were usually outside the bedroom. Mine wasn’t. Fuck it. I’m good at what I do and I always make it do what it do, baby.

  Reggie ain’t even know my ass still smoke weed on the regular. Shit, there’s a lot he doesn’t know about me.

  Like Hassan.

  But that is over. I haven’t spoken to him since that night before my wedding. That was the last time I would give in to my fixation on that Negro. No matter how many times Hassan calls my cell phone and sets off the ringtone I didn’t answer. I haven’t been back to Bentley Manor or any part of that side of town since. I checks in with my peeps via the phone but I’m not going back. Temptation is a bitch I’m trying to avoid.

  In time I will forget the way Hassan makes me feel. In time I will be able to say “Fuck him.” In time this new life of mine—that doesn’t include Hassan—will fit me just fine.

  I done went from Bankhead to Buckhead. From a $9.00/hour job to being a housewife. From low-rent apartments to a four-bedroom home with a game room, an office, and a pool. From being a certified ghetto chick to a suburban lady.

  But I miss the hood. For me “so ghetto is so good.”

  These damn suburbs is boring as shit and I’m getting just as humdrum as our neighbors. I ain’t had nobody to gossip with—and God knows I used to live to keep up on everybody’s business in Bentley Manor. Me and them old chicks Cleo and Osceola used to straight battle for the gossip crown. Nobody to hang out and chill with. Nobody to blaze with. Man, what the fuck?

  I hold the blunt out the window and look over my shoulder at my reflection in the large mirror over the sink. I don’t look like my damn self no more. Who is that woman in the mirror, ’cause it damn sure ain’t look like WooWoo.

  Once Reggie proposed and offered for me to move into his house, I began to really notice how different we were. Living with someone will really let you in on the realness.

  For my wedding I had my signature braids removed and wore my own shoulder-length hair in this pretty-ass rod set. I decided to take off the bright neon airbrush designs on my nails for a simpler pink and white French manicure. My makeup was more laid back than the eye shadow I wore that always…always matched my gear. Oh, a sister used to stay coordinated.

  For Reggie it was a different WooWoo standing at the altar with him. And although he always said he loved my wild and crazy clothes, my braids, and my matchy-matchy style, he saw something at that altar that his laid-back ass liked more. Shit.

  When we on our honeymoon in Negril, Jamaica, Reggie admitted to me that he preferred my new hair, nails, and makeup. Mind you, my ass had already made an appointment with my beautician and my nail tech to get my shit back right the very day we got back to A-T-L.

  Wanting to please my husband and to fit in with my new environment, I canceled the waist-length braids and crazy nails and cut back on the makeup…for now. My marriage is new and I want it to work. Reggie’s real good to me and I want to be a good wife to him. So far so good.

  The doorknob rattles. I take one last drag off the blunt before I jump off the stool and toss the last of it into the toilet. It hisses as it hits the water.

  “Leesha…why you lock the door?”

  I roll my eyes heavenward as I shut the window. Quick as can be I drink some mouthwash. I nearly gag as some of it goes down my throat.

  “I’m coming,” I holler before I flush the toilet again.

  I spray air freshener as I walk to the door and unlock it.

  “You a’ight?” he asks as he moves past me.

  As I walk out, I turn and watch him take a long-ass piss.

  “I’m cool,” I lie, just wanting his ass out of that bathroom before he picks up on the smell of the weed. Damn, go to bed, I’m thinking as I drop my robe and climb into our king-sized bed. I keep my eyes on his ass until he flushes the toilet, turns off the bathroom light, and comes back to bed.

  Even as we settle back down for the night, I lie there with my eyes closed thinking it is way too quiet in the burbs.

  “Excuse me, baby, I’ll be right back.” We are standing in the parking lot of Reverend Yarborough’s megachurch God’s Temple chatting with Reggie’s mother, Ella, before the televised church services.

  They both excuse me and I walk inside the massive and sadditified church to head to the bathroom. I wish like hell that I could rip off these stockings, but I already learned the hard way that his mother wouldn’t approve. Not wanting another etiquette lesson I’d just have to suffer. They always make my legs itch.

  In the stall I squat over the commode. Five-million-dollar church or not, I ain’t trying to pick up shit nobody gots to give.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  That’s my cell phone vibrating in my purse. I finish up and flush before I reach for it. My heart swells the fuck up at the sight of Hassan’s number.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I pull my black Ann Taylor skirt back down and drop down on the toilet seat as the phone continues to vibrate in my hand.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I want to answer that phone so bad. I want to be with him so bad. I want to fuck him so bad.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  But being with Hassan is bad for me for so many reasons. So many fucked-up reasons that I can’t change. Not just his nasty-ass temper or slinging dope—those he can fix. There is shit I can’t accept. Shit I can’t change. Still, that doesn’t make my ass want him or crave him or need him any less.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Not once during the last month did this motherfucker give up trying to reach me. I can hear the hurt and betrayal in his messages because I went ahead and married Reggie. He feels used, and to be honest, I did take advantage of him that last night. I used him up for all the memories I would need to last me a lifetime.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  My bottom lip quivers and I bite it as I look down at my phone. Tears fill my eyes as I press the vibrating phone against my face. I almost fool myself into imagining it’s Hassan’s hands on me.

  “Hassan baby, I miss you,” I whisper aloud inside the stall.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I let my head drop back as I push my breasts forward and spread my legs wide. My heart races and I feel real emotional. Real conflicted. Confused.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Hassan has to be hanging up and calling back. Each buzz lets me know that he ain’t gave up on me. On us. Even though I have to leave him alone that shit makes me feel good.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  My breath starts coming faster and that stall gets hot as hell. My nipples ache as they rub against my gold silk Donna Karan shirt. I swallow hard and let my tears fall as I pull my panties to the side to tear a hole in the seat o
f the stockings, then push my pulsating cell phone down against my throbbing clit.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Ah,” I gasp, biting my bottom lip as I think of Hassan. His hands. His lips. His tongue. The feel of his body. The taste of his mouth. The taste of his body. Just being in his fucking arms. In his bed. In his life.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  The vibrations of the phone against my clit is nothing compared to the feel of Hassan’s hand but at that moment just knowing it’s him calling is enough to make me lift my legs and press my feet against each wall of the bathroom stall. My face twists in a mix of torture and pleasure as I circle the phone against my clit until my pussy starts smacking it up from its juices.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  My hips jerk as I cum. I have to drop one foot to the floor to keep from falling off the toilet. “Hassan,” I moan as I raise a hand to squeeze one of my nipples through my shirt.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Ah…ah…ah,” I grunt hoarsely as I let the tears fall.

  My body goes slack and I drop my shiny wet phone to the floor as I wipe the tears from my face. I just know my makeup is jacked. I’ll have to straighten it up before I go up to face my husband and my prim and proper mother-in-law. No need for them to know that I just damn near cheated on my husband inside the church. I’ll probably go to hell.

  Fuck it.

  I’m learning that living without Hassan is its own kind of goddamn hell.

  Takiah

  “Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,” Pastor Eddie Meyer roars from the Missionary Baptist church pulpit, mopping his sweaty forehead with his ever-present white handkerchief. His fevered gaze sweeps across the small congregation, and then stops and settles on me.

  Why am I surprised?

  While doing his thing, Pastor Meyer looks more like a raving pit bull with round frog-shaped eyes, a gray and white horseshoe hairline, and jiggling jowls that puts me in the mood for puddin’ pops.

  Attractive, he’s not.

  I feel joy, fear, and an overwhelming sense of nausea all at the same time. Shit. I need to pull myself together.

  “You may think it’s too late for you,” he continues, pointin’ a trembling finger. “Well, I’m here to tell you it’s not. As long as there’s breath in your body, the war for your soul rages on.”

  Tears swell in my eyes and despite our locked gazes, I know he can’t possibly be talkin’ about me. He doesn’t know about all the things I’ve done. The drugs. The men. The crimes.

  Even now as I sit next to my grandmother in the middle of Sunday’s church service, I want a hit so bad I can taste it. When I leave here I’ll probably score a G-rock from Hassan—probably offer him some pussy instead of cash. Does that sound like someone whose soul can be saved?

  “What young people have to realize is that their bodies and spirits belong to God.”

  “Amen,” someone cosigns.

  “Your soul belongs to Him. Obey and He will give you what your soul wants and needs.”

  “Hallelujah,” someone else shouts.

  I swallow hard and blink back my burning tears. A part of me wants to believe the old pastor. How silly is that? I grew up in this matchbox church and know most of these people come just to be seen, not to be saved. None of these hypocrites ever fooled me: Wife beaters, child abusers, drug dealers, dogs, and hos are all sitting together and riding the fast train to hell.

  “Proverbs 13:15 tells us: Good understanding giveth favor, but the way of the transgressor is hard,” Pastor Meyer rants, dabbing his white hankie along his double chin. “Put down those drugs and start focusing on establishing a relationship with our heavenly father. It doesn’t matter how much crack you smoked or how your man pimped you out. It doesn’t matter how much drugs you did while you were pregnant. God is waiting on you!”

  No, this Negro didn’t.

  I glance to my left and then to my right. Sure enough, more than half these hypocritical bastards’ eyes are on me. It takes everything I have not to flash these assholes the bird or flip up my dress and tell them all to kiss my ass. Pastor Eddie Meyer included. Him and his holier-than-thou sermons.

  Look at him. Standing up there like he’s Jesus Christ himself and waving his damn finger like I’m his damn child or something.

  Tanana stirs in my arms, probably because my leg is bouncing like an out-of-control jackhammer. See, I knew it was a mistake to come to this motherfucker.

  Grandma Cleo places a hand on my knee and I obligingly stop bouncing it. When I glance at her, she stares calm, cool, and collected at Pastor Meyer like she didn’t just hear his ass put all my business out on Front Street.

  And guess what. I can’t do jack shit but sit here and take it. For a brief and insane moment, I think I was better off in D.C.

  Now I know I’m trippin’.

  I’m a dead woman if Kameron ever gets his hands on me. Not only did I fuck up his money, but I torched his GQ-face pretty good during our last fight. Of course, it was self-defense, seeing how he was busy trying to choke the shit out of me.

  Just thinking back on that fight has me fightin’ tears—and not because of what you may think. I sort of miss that son of a bitch. How sick is that?

  I forget my anger at the good pastor and allow my thoughts to tumble back through time….

  “Goddammit, T,” Kameron shouted, storming butt-naked out of our bedroom; his black dick swinging fiercely between his legs. “Can’t you shut that damn baby up?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. In a minute,” I promised, breaking a piece of a Brillo pad and placing it in my glass pipe. “Let me just get a hit to calm my nerves,” I said. Tanana had been crying all damn day and if I don’t hit this shit I just knew I was gone toss her out a window or something.

  This momma shit was harder than I thought. Feedings, shitty diapers, crying, and then the whole thing starts all over again. Hell, I don’t know why I always had to do everything. He was her daddy…probably. It wouldn’t hurt him to pitch in every once in a while while I rest a bit.

  “Hell, naw.” Kameron stomped his way over piles of clothes and junk in the middle of the living room and snatched the pipe from my fingers.

  “Fuck. Give me that back,” I snapped.

  “Naw, pimpin’. You hit this and all you’re gonna do is lie around and sleep. Go see about the baby.”

  I jump to my feet and try to grab the pipe back. “She’s fine. It ain’t gonna kill her to cry every once in a while. If you’re so damn worried about her, you go check on her!” I never saw the slap, but it literally launched my ass into the air. When my head banged against the wall, no shit, I felt like one of those Saturday morning cartoons where bright yellow stars circled my head and the sound of tweeting birds filled the room.

  “Your mouth is gettin’ out of hand. When I tell your ass to do somethin’, I don’t want no damn lip,” he raged.

  My heart rattles around my rib cage as I try to push myself up off the floor. It’s no use. My damn legs won’t work.

  “Whoa, guys.” Lena, Kameron’s latest and greatest ho, raced her naked ass into the living room with Tanana screaming on her hip. “It’s okay. I got her. I think she just needs a bottle.”

  The sight of this trick with my baby enraged the fuck out me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snapped.

  “Shut the fuck up and get up,” Kameron snarled. The glassy fury in his eyes made it clear that he was as high as I wanted to be right now; of course, he was sniffing the good stuff, while I’m strung out on this cheap-ass crack. This was just his way of punishing me ’cause I’d refused to go back out on the street since having the baby. And according to him, this decision was hurting business.

  As if.

  Sure, I had a rep for giving the best damn head and pussy this side of D.C.; but damn, I was sick of this shit. I’m his wife, goddammit.

  “I said get the fuck up!” Kameron snatched a handful of my matted weave and yanked me to my feet.

  “Ow,” was all I can
manage to say.

  “You need to fall back in line. Ever since you had this damn baby, all you do is lie around and smoke up my shit. You think I’m runnin’ some kind of charity? This shit ain’t free.”

  Truth be told, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. The pain in my head was fuckin’ killin’ me and all I’m tryna do is get him to release his grip. Instead, I made a real error in judgment and swung my acrylic nails toward Kameron’s eyes.

  “Bitch!”

  I’d never dreamed of an ass-whuppin’ like this. Sure, Kameron had slapped me around before, but this time, the sheer power and the wild, almost crazed way his fists pounded against my gut and chest, I was convinced I’d die from the pain before internal bleeding. I just wanted the pain to stop. That’s all I remembered thinking. I grabbed a bottle of 151 on the table and smashed it on his head. He grunted, his grip slackened a bit, but he didn’t release me. Not until after I reached for the lighter next to my pipe and lit his ass up. Next thing I knew that motherfucker was a ball of fire….

  “Let us bow our heads and pray,” Pastor Meyer instructs and his herd of sheep obeys, although not every eye closes.

  “O Lord, we come humble before you and ask for your guidance, for wisdom and courage. As you’ve promised, we know all things done outside of Christ will be tossed into the sea of forgetfulness. Only people inside of Christ’s saving grace will survive. If there is any among us who are still enslaved to the pleasures of the flesh, touch their heart, O Lord, and let them see that you are the way and the light. For these things we pray, Amen.”

  A hundred unsynchronized “Amens” end the prayer and before you know it, it’s over.

  “Thank God Almighty. We’re free at last,” I mumble under my breath. Judging by the murderous look in my grandma’s eyes, it isn’t quiet enough. “Sorry,” I say, feeling like an errant toddler. Grandma Cleo has that way about her, whether you are her child or not.

  “Learn anything?” Miz Nosceola asks from my right.