Page 2 of Her Savior
Later, I text him back. Now, I went from being semi-coherent to wide motherfucking awake because all I want to suck is that nigga’s big-ass dick. But no. A sista has goals and a lot of them. Dick hasn’t gotten in my way and it never will.
Later, I repeat again. After school, I also add. Hopefully, he’ll get the point.
And hopefully, I won’t think about that dick all damn day.
~*~
After I showered and got ready, I look like a million bucks. My closely-shaved head is shiny with the best Blue Magic hair grease. Of course, I can’t scare the white folks with a bald head so I’m wearing the best yaki wig that has shipped out of India. I’m wearing a nice, bouncy wig channeling my inner-Rihanna.
My pink shirt and navy slacks have my hourglass body looking like whoa. My face is blessed with everything NARS and Fenty, and my full lips are covered with a brownish red that will make niggas drop to their knees and salute a bitch. I got this.
My interview is with a legal firm. I want to become a lawyer, be legitimate, and have my own money. Be a boss bitch and do boss bitch things – have my own place, my own car, and maybe, just maybe not mess with any more fuckboys.
Here’s hoping.
I get into my Honda Civic and immediately go to the interview. I skipped breakfast and only opted to have a little coffee instead. My nerves are haywire but I know this is finally gonna take me out of Inglewood. It’s a place that sounds rich, but trust, it fucking ain’t.
At one point, it was probably a nice area and I believe it was. Every black family owned a home, kids were able to walk down the street freely, and neighbors knew each other. It was nothing but love, peace, and hair grease.
Then the crack epidemic happened. And well, we all know how that story went.
Nice homes turned into squatting places for crackheads. Good mothers became strung out on that shit and gave birth to crack-addicted babies. Fathers abandoned jobs that weren’t paying worth a goddamn so they can slang that rock to put food on the table.
I know this because I’m a product of that environment.
My mother isn’t a crackhead, but my daddy is one of the biggest drug lords Inglewood had ever seen. He was slanging before I was born and only became bigger over time. But he made it a point to not sell crack. He couldn’t destroy his own people.
So, he just dealt weed at first. And then when oxy became popular, my father had no reason to ever sell weed ever again. Eventually, the drugs he sold became the prescription kind. My daddy knew black folks don’t like to take prescriptions unless they absolutely had to.
But them white folks, though…they’ll eat up that shit like they’re a fucking McFlurry or some shit.
I’m not going to sit up here and say my daddy is some kind of fucking role model because I know he ain’t. I’m also not going to sit up here and deny my attraction to the fuckboy kind because they somehow remind me of my daddy. I don’t need someone in a fancy white coat with a couple of letters behind their name to explain that to me.
I do need someone to tell me, however, my life don’t gotta be like that.
