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       SHANA

      Damn, I wish he would hurry up and be done wit’ it down there already. I should’ve never agreed to let this niggah eat my pussy. He’s wack! Done talked all that shit in the club last night. He got this, he got that, he can do this. I was feeling him for a minute, but now I’m at the point where I need to get the fuck outta here and go home. There ain’t nothin’ worse than a niggah that lies on himself, especially when it comes to his dick game. And if he got a small dick, he better know how to eat some pussy.

      His first fuck-up was lying about his talents in the bedroom. He doesn’t have any, and probably never will. His second fuck-up was lying about his penis size. His dick is small and all shriveled up. He’s hung like a light switch—three fuckin’ inches, I swear. On top of that, he’s weak. He couldn’t keep his game strong for twenty-four hours. He ain’t no real playa; even his boys be dissin’ him. Now I’m starting to wonder if he really works for Def Jam; he couldn’t even afford to fill his tank up at the gas station. He put in ten dollars worth of gas for an SUV—and a Lincoln Navigator at that. It probably ain’t even his. His wack ass probably rented or borrowed it from one of his friends.

      I should smack myself for falling for this stupid muthafucka last night. And right now I’m doing him a favor, being that he couldn’t even afford a hotel. Shit, he got me downstairs in his man’s basement apartment—talkin’ ‘bout he don’t like hotels; they ain’t his thing. If the niggah was really a baller and wanted some pussy, then he would’ve put money up for a hotel and not have me chilling in his man’s basement. When I asked to go back to his crib, he denied. He said it’s under renovation. He probably still lives at home with his mama.

      I wonder why he keeps stopping and looking up at me? Now I’m starting to think he’s scared of the pussy, with his goofy fuckin’ smile. He is one huge fuckin’ turn-off.

      I lay my head back down on the bed and decide to give him a few more minutes. After that I’m leaving. I know he’s gonna want to fuck, but it ain’t happening—not tonight and definitely not with him. I must have been tipsy to leave the club wit’ this niggah.

      He’s finally stopped. I rest myself on my elbows and look down at him. This clown-ass niggah already has his jeans off and a condom in his hand. I quickly get up and pull my dress down. He looks baffled when he sees me reaching for my stuff.

      “What…we’re not gonna do this?” he asks.

      “No, we’re not gonna do this,” I sarcastically reply.

      “I’m sayin’…I done went down on you and shit....”

      “And…what? You were expecting some pussy just because you put your tongue between my legs?”

      “Yeah, I mean, you got yours; can a brotha get his? I thought you were feeling me?”

      “Please, niggah, I didn’t get mine; you’re wack! You can’t even eat my pussy right, so what makes you think you can fuck me right?”

      Now he looks really hostile. The condom is crushed between his fist and he’s staring hard at me. But I wish he would try to come over here and assault me; my older cousins taught me how to box and handle anybody who might try to force himself on me. I’ll fuck this fool up, like I’m Ike and he’s Tina. But he does nothing but cuss.

      “That’s fucked up. Then leave, you stupid bitch. Your pussy was stink anyway!”

      “Yeah, well, you must’ve liked it, because it’s all over your fuckin’ face...and you were enjoying this stink pussy for a few minutes there, right?” I say with a smirk. “Don’t hate on my shit just ‘cause you ain’t stickin’ it. And many niggahs done already appreciated it.”

      I collect my things and leave. I’ll take a cab back home; this trip wasn’t worth my time.

      My name is Shana, and I’m tired of brothas who claim to be all that but turn out to be totally wack. People say I’m too promiscuous, conceited and sometimes too rude. But I keep it real and like to be straight up with brothas and sistas. If I think you’re ugly, then I’m gonna tell you to your face—not behind your back. And if you’re cute, that’s what’s up; I’m definitely gonna let you know. I don’t keep secrets, and I’m honest with myself and others. I know what I want, and that’s a sexy, wealthy, well endowed, successful black man. Sometimes I slip into other races, but it’s all good.

      I like to have fun and enjoy life. I’m only nineteen, and I live like a nineteen-year-old partying, meeting guys, admiring the cute ones and dissin’ the ugly ones, having sex, roaming the streets and being cool. I’ve already graduated high school, and I’m in no rush to go to college. Whatever I own or have, I get it from guys who willingly buy it for me. They offer, I accept. I’m not going to turn nothing down; everything I get goes to good use.

      I live with my mother and aunt, who are just as promiscuous and conceited as me; that’s where I get it from. My mother’s only thirty-five and my aunt is only twenty- eight. They’re still young and doing their thing. We all go clubbing and hang out sometimes. Most of the men think we’re all the same age, but when I tell ‘em that one of them is my moms and the other one is my aunt, they freak out. “For real?” they always ask.

      I don’t have any sisters or brothers, but I have a shitload of cousins. My grandmother gave birth to seven children. My Aunt Tina is the youngest. She’s the one who lives with us. The oldest is my Uncle Tommy, who’s forty-nine. He lives out in Seattle, Washington. I haven’t seen him in years. I get along with my family overall, even though we often argue and fight and want to sometimes kill each other, but that’s a regular black family for you. And we all grew up in the projects.

      My mother always told me that I was born to be a model. I don’t argue; I get compliments wherever I go. I got guys wanting to take me away on vacation—Jamaica, Bermuda, Barbados, you name it—all expenses paid. But so far, I’ve always turned ‘em down. I really don’t know why. Maybe it’s the type of men who ask me. I’m not really feeling them like that. And you know if they’re paying to take you to some tropical island, they’re going to want some pussy in return. I’m not at all for fucking a niggah just because he paid for my plane ride so I can lie on a beach in the sun. Don’t get me wrong, I do like to fuck. But I just don’t give my pussy up to any niggah with fat pockets and a cute face. I can be a bitch, but I’m no ho or slut—don’t get it twisted!

      I arrive home and quickly jump in the shower, pissed the fuck off. That niggah wasn’t worth my precious time. My friends tell me that I’m very picky, but I have the right to be. I feel that my body is my temple and my time is precious, so a brotha must be about something. He must be honest, funny and smart. And also, one of the most

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