Read Kismet (Beyond the Bedroom Series) Online

Authors: Raynesha Pittman,Brandie Randolph

Kismet (Beyond the Bedroom Series) (2 page)

BOOK: Kismet (Beyond the Bedroom Series)
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This hoe, Keisha, was known for sexing everybody’s man. She didn’t need revenge to give your man some; she did it because she wanted to sample something new, like wine tasting. All the guys around our way wanted to sample her, too. Her mother was Mexican and her father was black, so she had bright yellow skin, light brown eyes, hair that fell to the middle of her back, and no ass at all. But, she had double-D breasts and she spoke English and Spanish fluently, so once she reached 13 years old, she became the girl every guy wanted and it seemed she wanted every guy.


If you if you had a working dick, you were Keisha’s type. The sad part about it is she was in love with Tyrone. But, like the saying goes, “You can’t make a hoe a house wife.” Due to Keisha’s hoe status in my old neighborhood, she couldn’t expect anything more than an occasional quickie from her son’s father.


I can’t stand Keisha or her two home girls, Christina and Melinda. I’ve slept with the fathers of their babies, too, but they had more to offer me than Tyrone. At least they paid a bill or wined and dined me. Tyrone’s small time dope dealing and neighborhood rap career wasn’t shit. Where I grew up, everybody raps and hustles. There wasn’t a big time dope dealer in our area because there were about 50 small time ones who shared customers and all 50 of them had gotten a piece of Keisha.


Keisha hooked up with Tyrone after I went off to college, so I don’t know all the details of their past relationship. From what Tyrone told me, they hooked up after a barbeque, had sex in the back seat of his Caprice, and three months later, she told him she was pregnant. Seven months later, DNA proved little TJ was his. Keisha’s had reached a hood rat’s dream. She was given food stamps, medical and dental, Section 8, and child support. Now that’s just his side of the story.


Too b ad Tyrone doesn’t have a real job to actually pay child support. He could have been somebody. Tyrone had a full basketball scholarship to USC. He lost it when he decided to drive around in his car while his so-called friends did the drive-bys. He was arrested and given the most time because he was the oldest and it was his car. Tyrone didn’t pull the trigger, but that didn’t mean anything to the university. They snatched up their offer without listening to his side of the story.


The youngest guy in the car, Will, was also sentenced. He was sent to a juvenile correction center for a few years while he fought his case. After two years of fighting, he was sentenced to camp where he got his mind right and got on his feet. When Will came home, he got his juvenile record sealed and went to a junior college where he took up criminal justice. He now works downtown at the criminal co urts building as a sheriff.


I wish there was a fairy tale ending for Tyrone, but he got caught up in the thug life and started selling drugs. He had the chance to close his record and get back on the right foot, but selling all that small time dope got him arrested one too many times. In my opinion, it’s never too late to get yourself together; you got to want it like Will did. I wonder if Will is still single. I have to make sure I put him on my things-to-do list next week.




As I got out of the bed to go lock myself in my bathroom with Big Jamal, my faithful vibrator, to finish up the job since the thought of Will’s sexy, ex-football playing ass had gotten me back wet, it hit me that this waste of a condom is at my hideaway spot and his sorry ass drove here. I could, therefore, kick him out and go home to get ready for my work week.


“Tyrone, wake up,” I said, sounding as nice as I could because he had drooled all over my satin sheets and didn’t deserve, nor earn, the right to go to sleep in the first place.


“Tyrone, I need you to leave now. I just remembered that I need to finish up my reports for work on Monday. So I need to head home, baby.”


He rolled over with that sexy ass smile and said, “Come here, beautiful, and let me eat that pussy.”


I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming out “HELL NO” but, once again, I let my pussy call the shots and then flew on my back.


“Okay, Tyrone, but that’s it! Then we have to go.” He agreed.


Besides my 30-second rule, I have a head rule. Never turn down an offer to receive head unless they needed visible dental work, had rotten breath or a tongue ring. A lot of people don’t take time to sanitize their mouth jewelry and I don’t want whatever bacteria that are living on it swimming around in me.


Men don’t ever turn down head and will quickly tell you to suck it. They say ‘suck my dick’ to everything. When you’re arguing, suck my… ’ When you’re trying to put them in the mood…‘Baby, just suck it; it will get hard’. So, why can’t we do the same? I know it isn’t ‘ladylike’ to walk around saying, ‘Lick me’ or ‘eat me’, but it should be an unspoken requirement.


He dragged me to the edge of the bed by my hips, spread my legs apart, and started at my ankles, sucking and licking me slowly. He seemed to know what he was doing. He made his way down to the folds of my legs, nibbling softly and licking his own lips to put on a show for me since I was watching. My pussy jumped and was instantly ready to feel his tongue on my pearl. He gripped my butt with his left hand and said softly, “Grab the back of my head, baby, and show me where you want me to put my mouth.”


As if I was scared he would withdraw his request, I grabbed the back of his head, just a few inches above his neck, closed my eyes, and lead him to the lips that protected my pearl. He kissed up and down my lips then, using his tongue to separate them, he made it to my pearl tongue. That’s when I confirmed Tyrone wasn’t shit!


He couldn’t even do the simple task of giving me head correctly. He kept coming up for air like he was drowning. I know I’m known for soaking through a mattress or two, but I didn’t know I needed to supply niggas with life jackets.


“Hell, no!” I heard the words come out of my mouth and at this point, I wasn’t going to stop them. “What the hell was that, Tyrone? How in the fuck did you expect me to find pleasure in that shit?” I was waiting on an answer, instead, he snapped.


“What the hell you mean, you uppity ass bitch? You have been complaining since we hooked up earlier. First, the damn food at your favorite expensive restaurant didn’t taste right ‘cause your favorite cook wasn’t there; I tried to be nice to your petty ass and pay for that expensive shit and never heard the words thank you come out your mouth. What did your “too good for the ‘hood” ass do next? Oh yeah, you made me drive a hour and 30 minutes from the LA to meet you up here on Pacific Coast Highway ‘cause you like to see the ocean while you’re getting fucked, instead of paying $65 and going to the Snooty Fox on Western like I had planned. Fuck your college degrees and your good ass job; you’re still Na-Na to me, the little tomboy with the jumper from the park and if you weren’t fucking all them bitches on the down low, you would know a good man when you saw one, you dyke bitch.”


See, the old me would have flipped over the bed and tried to fight him. That person died when I moved out of South Central, LA. Instead, I thought I’d give him a piece of what he gave me.


“First off, quick draw, the fastest nut shooter from the west, my name is Savannah and it’s called a chef not a cook. Secondly, I was born on the east side. That doesn’t entitle me to do what eastsiders do. I don’t have sex on 10-dollar an hour sheets, Mr. Small Time Trapper six years in a row. I know where I’m from and I’ll be dead or dying before I come back there to live, so get your tired ass out of my $600 a night timeshare air and hit the 10 Freeway back to your EBT card atmosphere. Do you need gas money? Or did your probation officer give you gate money when you got released? Your mouth still smells like an inmate named Big “D”, so don’t question my sexuality until you get yours in check.” At that moment, Tyrone jumped out of bed, threw his clothes on, grabbed his keys, said his last “Fuck you, bitch,” and left.




Chapter 2: Can I Tell My Story




On the ride back to Malibu, which was only 20 minutes away from my rental property, I kept replaying what Tyrone had said to me over and over again.


“You’re still Na-Na to me, the little tomboy with the jumper from the park.”


It wasn’t the anger in his words that was bugging me, but the fact he called and still saw me as Na-Na, the little girl who should have been a boy because of her basketball skills. I have worked hard to be the opposite of that little girl and he was too blind to see it. His broke ass opinion really didn’t mean anything to me, it’s just that those were the people who needed to see my change the most. I lost all the chubbiness I had as a child and am 165 pounds of pure thickness. My waste is a size 10. Due to having toned thighs and hips, I wear a size 12. Besides the $5700 I spent turning my A cups to DD’s, I am all natural.


Five feet seven, peanut butter complexion and my eyes are slanted like I have Asian heritage. I used to wear a 1990’s Toni Braxton short haircut, but grew it out to a shoulder-length, layered cut. I get a manicure and a pedicure once a week so my feet and hands can be as soft as my butt. I’m not a swap meet or flea market shopper. I only place designer clothes on this body. I don’t mean hip-hop designers like Fetish or Ecko Red, I’m talking about Armani and Dolce suits. I relax in DKNY. I do own a few Apple Bottom, Roca Wear and Dereon items, but that is mostly to blend in when I’m around company that wears those labels. To be honest, I love House of Dereon, Dereon, and Baby Phat clothing, but the places I shop don’t carry them and I don’t shop online because I like to try my clothing on.


How could he not see the difference? My childhood years were rough, but they made me into the successful woman that I am now. I grew up in a house with four men and my grandmother. It was my grandmother’s two bedroom house. We were very poor. We never missed a meal, but money was always funny. My father had full custody of me and my brother after he deemed my mother unfit because she would leave for weeks without notice. Daddy moved us out of her house and brought us to live with his mother.


My mother had an addiction for money and got it in all the wrong ways. To this day, I still don’t know what that meant, but everyone said it when speaking of her. She went to school to be a nurse of some sort and met my father while he was recovering from a car accident. Whenever he told the story of him and my mother meeting, he would smile and say, “Trisha nursed me back to health.”


Trisha, aka my mother, was gone before my first birthday, so I don’t have any fond memories to hold on to. If I knew more about her, I would tell more, but that’s all the information my daddy ever gave us about her besides she had a love for the south and lived down there for many years before she moved to California. That’s why I was named Savannah and my older brother, Memphis. My uncle, Steve, would joke with my daddy and say things like, “Trisha had to go back south to her real life,” and smart shit like that. I hated the fact that he knew more about my mother than I did.


Memphis had made the mistake of asking my father if our mama was a prostitute before becoming a nurse and that question got him slapped in the mouth. “Boy, don’t you ever speak poorly of your mother! She is a good damn woman. There are just some things you will never understand.” My mama must have told him that line because he used it whenever people asked him, ‘What happen to Trisha?’


He always called my mama a good woman, but what kind of good woman leaves her two small children to be raised by their daddy while she lived her dreams? It wasn’t long before I realized my mother would never come back. Whatever life she had in the south must have been better than raising her kids and being married to my daddy. I decided if I ever were to meet her, I’d kick her ass for leaving us the way she did.


I raised myself to be a woman. I didn’t have a positive black woman in my life. My grandmother was around, but she was very sick and didn’t have the energy to help my daddy raise us.


I didn’t get the period talk or the one about the birds and the bees. I learned how to be a woman by incidents that occurred. I started my period at 12 years old. I thought I was dying, like any other girl would if no one told her she was going to bleed for five days and live to see another five days of bleeding 28 days later. Lucky for me, Uncle Steve was a ladies’ man and just so happened to have one of his boy toys at the house that gave me a pad and explained it to me. I could point fingers, but I don’t blame anyone for the way I am. Maybe I would have turned out differently if I had a strong, positive black mother in my life, but I didn’t. Why should I dwell on it?


Since our mother was still alive, my daddy didn’t date. He never said it, but I think he was waiting on my mother to get herself together and come back, which never happened. In addition, there wasn’t room in that house for another adult. My daddy’s brothers, Uncle Steve and Uncle Johnny, lived with us, too. Uncle Johnny was my favorite uncle when I was a child. He was a basketball coach at the Park down the street, hence, my love for basketball.


At the age of eight, he started me as his point guard on his all boys basketball team and I kept that position or shooting guard throughout high school. My basketball talents put me on the ‘Do not Date’ list by the fellas and it kept girls from being my friends because I was too boyish. They assumed I was a lesbian and, because we were poor and I couldn’t keep up with the latest fashions, I sometimes wore my brother’s clothes. It did look like I wanted to be a boy.


With so many memories to block out, I remember telling my father that I would make it to the pros and we would never live poorly again. He looked me dead in my eyes when he told me he couldn’t afford to send me to college, whenever that time came. How in the hell can you look in your 10-year old daughter’s face and tell her she has no future? I didn’t let that hold me back and still promised to get a full scholarship and get us out of the ‘hood.

BOOK: Kismet (Beyond the Bedroom Series)
9.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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