COOCHIE

1

On the afternoon of October 20th, a very sunny Tuesday, Neon Ashford  shook her ass like she was trying to break it. She had on a pair of tight-fitting jeans whose relationship to her apple bottom behind was more like a second skin than a piece of fabric. Even though, at nineteen, she was well aware that black women with phat asses were part of the urban culture, she also recognized that the man eyeing her down from behind the wheel of his hoopty had probably never seen that much ass-shaking going on in one pair of jeans. She allowed herself a faint trace of a smile. The nigga had one hand on the steering wheel. She instinctively knew where the other one was and exactly what it was doing.

By the time she was two and a half steps away from the corner of Hyde Drive and Craighead Street, her strutting was strictly a “come buy this pussy”  advertisement. After all, the same way she could make her hips move in her jeans, she could move them like that between the sheets.

“You need a ride?”

Neon stopped her 5’2” body abruptly, staring casually out of her dark brown eyes at the driver of the black Ford Escort. “Depends on which way you going.” She licked her painted lips seductively. “Which way you going?”

“Get in,” the driver muttered. “I’m going your way.” Lazily reaching over to unlock the car door for her, the dark-skinned, dreadlocked driver drove down Craighead towards North Tryon Street. “What’s your name?”

“Neon.”

Boo’s friend?”

Neon took a deep breath, wondering what Boo might have said about her, hoping it wouldn’t ruin her plans. “I haven’t seen that bitch in a minute. Plus, we wasn’t all that to begin with.”

The driver smiled as he neared Mike’s, the neighborhood store run by a couple of Asians. “Want something outta there?”

“No, but I need to make me some money.”

Supreme nodded knowingly, not having to think about what the young girl meant, yet the concept of buying pussy outright was new to him. The situation at hand made him pause, knowing full well that in a matter of seconds he had reached the crossroads, where in the hood, he was about to become a trick.

In the hood, tricking was  as real as slanging dope or sticking up, but to an ol’ G like Supreme, it was not an option. At least, not while he still had trap skills.

“Where you want me to drop you off at?” Supreme cracked coolly.

“I thought I was going with you?”

“Something just came up.”

“What?”

“I ain’t no trick.”

“Then why you stop me, nigga?”

Supreme privately studied the pretty, young girl. She was tempting, almost worth tricking with. He understood that tricking wasn’t the ultimate weakness hustlers had made it out to be and as far as he could tell, tricking  hadn’t traumatized any of the niggas who participated fully in the ritual of buying pussy. In fact, it was the existence of tricking that had paved the way for strip clubs where wannabe and has-been gangstas threw money away like it grew on trees.

“Got anything that’s free?”  Supreme half-teased.

Free? Nigga, please.”

“How I know them titties real? Suppose you wearing butt pads or something?” Supreme grinned. “When I go to the store, I be squeezing shit like crazy, be feeling on them crackers’ shit so I know what the fuck I’m spending my money on.”

When Neon looked at Supreme, she wasn’t amused. “Let me off at the corner, if you don’t mind. I ain’t got no damn time to waste.”

Struggling mentally with the girl’s irrefutable sexual appeal, Supreme gave way to his desire and took the path countless men before him had taken. “Let’s go to my place.” He slowly drove towards his one-bedroom apartment in Cedar Greene.

The apartment was a refuge for Supreme and he never usually brought people where he laid his head so when he opened the door, he took a long breath and graciously invited Neon in. “Ain’t much,” he remarked casually, “but it’s home.”

Ignoring the remark, Neon expertly appraised the apartment’s impressive interior, and instantly the price for her services, whether hips, lips, or fingertips skyrocketed. This nigga could pay! She sat on the edge of the expensive Italian leather sofa. “Good pussy ain’t cheap.”

“And good money ain’t easy to come by,” Supreme argued, “but I’m willing to splurge if the price is right.”

“I need a hundred dollars,” Neon snapped. “Be the best damn money you ever spent.”

***************************************************************

 

Like her mother before her, Neon was personally opposed to giving pussy away, and she took great pride in making motherfuckas pay dearly for the privilege of fucking her.

“Good pussy is the greatest sensation known to exist,” Neon’s mother had taught her, “so don’t never ever come home with nuthin’ but a wet ass to show for it.” No lesson, either from church or from school, had had a bigger or more lasting impact on Neon than that one.

Beginning her sexual career at fifteen, Neon was determined to gain more than her rightful share of the profits that “pussy money” made available, but unlike the common ho whose career was usually ruined early, Neon planned to elevate the selling of pussy to new heights. She felt like an evil genius, but she wanted bitches in the hood to idolize her as their sex hero like young niggas looked up to Wilt Chamberlain.

Neon felt good about her chances because her sexual credentials were impeccable, and she could fuck like a bitch twice her age. Her mother had taught her well, had schooled her intensively in the fine art of making a trick out of even the hardest motherfucka on the block.

“They ain’t really tricks when you turn ‘em out yourself, girl,” Neon’s mother had proudly proclaimed on Neon’s fifteenth birthday. “They providers. A trick’s money is available to any bitch who can get his dick hard. A provider’s dick belongs to you, but always keep in mind that it ain’t the dick you after, it’s the finances.”

Neon had known that this talk was her birthday present so she had listened attentively as her mother had explained that somewhere in the world some bitch was probably getting the keys to a new car for her birthday, that some ho might even be getting the keys to a new house, but that wasn’t shit. She was giving Neon the keys to life.

“When a bitch got good pussy, she can invent the kind of motherfucka she wants. Good pussy can transform a zero into a hero, can turn a stressed motherfucka into a blessed motherfucka, and the way you do it is one nut at a time!”

So far, Neon’s career as a sexual predator was perfect. She was fine, phat, and gifted, a triple threat bitch who could get a man off with her pussy, her mouth, or her hands. Undoubtedly, being a Triple Crown ho upped her sexual value tremendously.

Neon took immense pride in being at the forefront of a new movement of young bitches who used sex not merely to make money, but to make them wealthy. What this meant  for Neon was that if she desired to possess total control, she had to get inside a man’s head before he got inside her pussy. The belief that  good pussy was the best thing in the world was so powerful and profound to Neon that when she had inherited the notion from her mother,  she had become so emotionally attached to it that it was like second nature to her. Good pussy carried its own rewards, and Neon cursed and despised silly bitches who didn’t recognize the stupendous value of what nestled between their thighs.

 

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