I was holding up a khaki jumpsuit by Jordache.
Cream stood in front of me, smiling, waiting for my approval. I was in his Brooklyn loft near Atlantic Avenue.
“You like it?” he asked.
“Yeah, this is tight. What else you got?” I asked.
Cream went into his luggage, which contained nothing but stolen garments and shoes from warehouses and department stores. He had everything from Gucci to Polo on sale for me at a reasonable price. He was my connect, and a very good one. I could depend on him to boost anything for me, from any store. He was good at what he did.
Cream was a few years older than me, in his early thirties, and he’d had a crush on me since the day we met. He was shorter than me, about five feet six, but cute and lean. He sported box braids and always wore throwback jerseys and stayed with a fitted cap on his head.
“I also got this for you,” Cream said, pulling out of his suitcase a pink open-back dress by Donna Karan, with the pink Kangol to match. The outfit was tight. I wanted to keep it for myself.
I grabbed it and said, “Now this outfit, a bitch can definitely fuck wit’, Cream. I might keep this shit fo’ dolo.”
“I knew you would like this one. That’s why I saved it fo’ you, Camille,” Cream said, proud of his taste in women’s clothing.
He had dozens of women’s outfits spread out in front of me, but the good shit he kept concealed away in one of his many suitcases.
Cream had called me up yesterday and notified me of a new shipment that had just come into his possession, and since Cream has a serious crush on me and always wanted to fuck me, I’d be the first bitch he called up, so I could have first choice.
In my business, I needed top-quality shit to sell to these high-quality bitches that I call my clientele. Some live in the hood that I rest my head in, but most of my clientele stay out in Long Island, or Manhattan. And when I come through with items, these ladies know my merchandise is legit, authentic, and sometimes hard to come by. And they are willing to pay me whatever. I get everything for them—Gucci, Prada, Donna Karan, Versace, Fendi, Dolce & Gabbana, and even Louis Vuitton and Chanel. It’s always COD, cash on delivery. And in one day, I’ll make from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars easy. And I give Cream thirty percent of my earnings. We make good business together.
I met Cream a few years back when I used to dance, strip, entertain—whatever muthafuckas call it today. He always came into the club looking so nice and dressed down in the latest costly fashion, from Sean John to Versace. He was always a fly nigga. He was still short, though. But he definitely had flavor. And from the day he first laid eyes on me, I had him.
He bought me a drink and tried hard to get into my pants, but I ain’t easy, and I let him know that from jump. He respected me for that. Bitches were always turned on by his steady cash flow and his style. He’ll fuck ’em, and forget about them the next day. Me, I saw a different angle than getting myself some quick dick and hopefully having him throw some cash at me.
We would talk, and Cream became a cool-ass nigga, mad down to earth. He’d be like, “Shorty, I like your style. You’re different from these bitches up in here.”
As the days passed, Cream started hooking me up with the flyest clothes to wear. He’d bring me gifts in the club like he was my man. It came to a point where I had to quit dancing, because bitches started hating on me hard. They’d try to steal my shit in the dressing room while I was onstage, or fight me when they had the chance.
Months later, I got to know what Cream was really about, and he was definitely about his paper. He had a tight crew, and on regulars, these niggas would go out to L.I. and do a string of B&Es, grabbing lucrative shit. I went along with Cream’s crew a few nights, and Cream would be the one going up in the woman’s closet and snatching all of her shit—minks, furs, clothing, jewelry—and he’d then sell shit off in the streets like it was candy. His cousin was a professional booster, stealing shit from shoes out of Macy’s to grand theft auto and driving cars to chop shops. They had the right toys and equipment to commit such large and profitable schemes.
Cream was a hustler, and I loved that about him. He did him, and he did him lovely. He made his paper to the fullest. He pushed a Benz SL600, had a huge loft out in Brooklyn, and paraded his fortune like he was the Teflon don himself.
And I’ll admit, we did hook up for a moment. Cream was a nigga who grew on me, and all of a sudden, I began to have a crush on him. One late night, we were drinking, cracking jokes, and chilling, and the next thing, I’m butt naked in his loft, sprawled out on his bed, and fucking him. He was all right in the bed. I had had bigger, and I had had smaller, but Cream made you feel like a woman—well, at least he made me feel like one. I don’t know about these other hos out here. We continued to do us for weeks, and whatever I wanted or needed, Cream had it for me the next day. And he wasn’t hung up on me. You know, always wanting to be up under a bitch, and being pussy-whipped. The nigga kept it real with his, and admitted to me one day, “Yeah, I still fuck other bitches once in a while. But yo . . . that’s just me. We cool, Camille. Anythin’ you need, I got you, boo. But I do me.”
I couldn’t get mad at the nigga. He was honest. We were together, but it wasn’t like that—like some husband-and-wife type of shit. We had an understanding, and we took care of each other. And he was the first nigga that I had a threesome with, two women and a man. Cream was cool with it. He ain’t flip out about me being bi.
Eventually, our relationship faded, but we remained cool. And now we’ve became partners in this clothing shit, among minor things too.
So what you doin’ tonight?” Cream asked.
“Don’t know yet. Might hang out wit’ my girls. Why?” I asked.
“Nah, just askin’. You lookin’ good, Camille.” He stared at me with lust in his eyes, but it didn’t make me uncomfortable. “Why don’t you try that pink dress on for me right now?” he suggested. “I wanna see how it fits you.”
I smiled. “This one?” I flirted, holding up the pink Donna Karan dress.
“Yeah . . . that’s da one.”
“You gonna give it to me for free?” I asked.
He looked at me. “Yeah, I got you, Camille.”
I shrugged my shoulders and began getting undressed in front of him. Cream smiled, licking his lips while he stared at me. “That’s what’s up.”
I stripped down to my blue thong and nothing else. I didn’t mind getting naked in front of Cream. It ain’t like he never saw it before. I put on the dress and the matching Kangol, and started posing for him.
“Yeah, that dress looks real good on you,” Cream said.
I looked around for the nearest mirror in his loft and found a floor mirror by the closet. He was right: the dress looked really good on me.
“Oh yes . . . I’m definitely goin’ out tonight,” I said, getting hyped off myself.
I posed a few more times, gazing at myself in the mirror, until Cream came up behind me and effortlessly wrapped his arms around my waist. We both stared at our reflection in the mirror.
“You want me to help take it off now?” he asked in a calm, masculine tone.
I smiled.
He squeezed me gently in his embrace, never averting his eyes from our reflection. I felt his hand start to explore my body as his warm breath brushed against my neck.
“What you want, Cream?” I asked.
“Honestly, I want you, Camille. It’s been a long time,” he admitted.
“You ain’t got a man, right?” he asked. Like if I did, it would stop him now.
“Would it matter?”
“No.”
“So why did you ask?”
“Thought it would be the polite thing to do.”
I smiled.
He affectionately kissed me on the back of my neck, making my skin tickle. Then his hand grasped my breast, and I gasped, as his other hand slid up my dress, in between my thighs. I closed my eyes and licked my lips, feeling Cream’s warm hands glide over my soft brown skin.
Within minutes, he slipped the dress off me and had me naked. I came here to do business with him, and now this man had me longing for him to enter me. Cream could be patient, especially when it came to me. We didn’t see each other every day; sometimes weeks would go by, and then when we saw each other, it was always about business. The man never asked me any questions, especially about my personal life. But today, it was different. It was like something exploded within him, and he just had to have me. But I didn’t mind, because it’d been weeks since I had any dick. Sierra could please a sista, but sometimes you just need the real thing, a flesh-and-blood hard-on thrusting into you instead of plastic and batteries.
Around midnight, Shy, Jade, and I decided to hit up a club. You know I had to show off my new dress. And I had hooked my girls up too. Shy opted for the Baby Phat leather skirt, and Jade went for the black Fendi shoes.
Shy was looking more spirited since she’d been hearing from Roscoe and seeing him on her regular visits to Rikers. And Jade’s situation with James—that was her business. She can continue to be the fool if she wants. But I know what I saw, and if she don’t believe me, then I ain’t gonna stress it to her.
The club of choice was Club Vertigo in the city. The attire was upscale and classy, and I know we would have a good night out without worrying about any knuckleheads.
I sported my pink dress and received many compliments from my girls, as well as from complete strangers. I was the only bitch in our group with a car, so you know I had to drive. I pushed a sleek black Benz CLK500. I had had it for a minute now. Cream hooked me up. He helped with the down payment and everything. I make the payments every month, but whenever I’m short with money, Cream would buss me down with a lil’ sumthin’.
I had to park in one of those high-priced city garages that charge you like twenty dollars an hour to park your shit. But I made Jade and Shy come out their pockets for parking. Shit, I ain’t paying for gas and parking, and then buy drinks.
Vertigo was popping. The line outside was short; it took us no time to enter. They wanted twenty at the door. We paid, checked our jackets, and stepped into the dimly lit club, and the crowd was hyped, as the DJ popped off with some Fat Joe’s “Lean Back.” That’s my joint right there.
We went straight to the bar, and I ordered myself a Long Island iced tea and started moving to my bitch Remy Martin’s verse. I love her lyrics in this song. I noticed the fellows watching me, but I paid them no mind as I continued to dance by myself.
One nigga had the courage to try and dance with me. He moved a little close, swaying to the beat as he smiled at me, holding a Corona. I gave him a thin smile, but politely shook my head, denying his invitation to come closer. I wasn’t feeling him like that. And I just got to the club. I wasn’t trying to be all sweaty on a nigga already.
Shy, Jade, and myself took a seat at one of the nearest available tables and observed the scenery. It was a good mixture of revelers. You had the young and the old, black, white, Guyanese; even a few Asians were sprinkled around the place. And the DJ kept it diverse, from reggae, to pop, to rap, and even calypso.
I took a sip from my glass and peered at my girls as they sat close. We were catching so much attention that it felt like we were celebrities. We looked good, and our attire was on point.
“So Shy, what’s up wit’ Roscoe? He doin’ a’ight?” I asked.
“He a’ight. I know he gonna get through this, and he’s gonna be home soon. I’m visitin’ him every week, makin’ sure my man stay correct wit’ clothing and shit.”
“I heard he might take a plea,” Jade said.
“Take a plea?” Shy quickly replied, looking at Jade with the What the fuck you talking about? look on her face. “My man ain’t takin’ no plea. He ain’t guilty.”
“Damn—my bad, Shy. You ain’t gotta get all defensive about it,” Jade said. “I just heard it from James. Roscoe called the house the other day, and they spoke.”
“Well, you got it backwards, and why your man ain’t locked up, too, Jade? He was there, too.”
“Yo, y’all two, chill. We here to have fun, not talk about some bullshit,” I said, trying to make peace.
“Nah, it’s cool. You know, shit happens, Camille. I’m just frustrated right now. I ain’t had dick in weeks, and you know my pussy is throbbin’ right about now,” Shy said, looking like she was trying to make light of her situation.
Jade and I smiled.
“Well, you got plenty of men to choose from tonight,” I told her.
“That bitch ain’t gonna cheat on Roscoe. Roscoe would fuck her ass up. She’s in love, Camille,” Jade said.
“Who’s gonna tell?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s like that,” Shy replied.
“Listen, you love him. I know you do,” I said. “But y’all ain’t married, that’s how I see it. You can do you, and still be down for your man. He locked down right now, Shy, and I ain’t tryin’ to be negative about his situation, but ain’t no tellin’ when he’s coming home. So don’t keep stressin’ yourself about bein’ faithful, because a lot of brothas don’t even know what commitment is. I mean, Roscoe a cool dude. I like him and all, and he respects you, but look, when that time comes, and you lyin’ up in your crib, lonely, horny as hell, with a pillow clutched between your legs, listenin’ to slow jams, and thinkin’ about sex, havin’ your man in prison ain’t gonna help you none. And them collect calls are gonna get you even more frustrated. I’ve been there far too many times, Shy. Shit. So my advice is, get out there on that dance floor, and find you a quick booty call, because a bitch wit’out dick is gonna make you go crazy.”
“I hear that!” Jade hollered, slapping me a high five.
Shy smiled.
“Shit, I got mines earlier today,” I said.
“What? By who?” Jade wanted to know.
“Cream,” I said.
“You still fuckin’ wit’ him, Camille?” Jade asked.
“Not like that anymore. We cool, peoples. But he came on strong to me today, and it’s been a minute.”
“I like him. He’s mad cool,” Shy said.
“Word. Tell that nigga to keep hookin’ a sista up wit’ the clothing. Yo, fo’ real, any nigga that can hook a sista up wit’ the nicest shit he be hookin’ you up wit’, Camille, I would have his name tattooed around my pussy,” Jade joked.
We laughed.
“Yo, them shoes I got . . . you ain’t gonna find them shits in no store like that,” Jade said.
“He got connections, that’s fo’ sure,” I said.
I took another sip from my drink and peered around the club with Cream on my mind.
“I say y’all should get back together, Camille,” Jade advised.
“Yeah, y’all two did make a cute couple. I know he’s shorter than you, but he’s cute,” Shy said.
“We’re just friends,” I informed them.
Jade smiled. “Yeah, whatever. . . . Y’all weren’t friends a few hours ago.”
“He’s just some dick to call up when I need it, nuthin’ else,” I said, trying to look serious.
“Whatever, bitch!” Jade said. “I see it in your eyes; you still got a thang for him, don’t you?”
I sucked my teeth. “Jade, please.”
“Yeah . . . whatever.”
Just then, our song came into play, Destiny’s Child “Lose My Breath.” Yo, I love this song. When it blared throughout the club, me and my girls went crazy, as so did every other bitch in the club. We jumped up outta our seats like they were on fire, and started dancing to the song like it was our last.
I swear, this song is so true, Destiny’s Child be singing the truth. Can you keep up? . . . Make me lose my breath. I couldn’t even said it better myself.
The night ended so good. I danced and drank till I couldn’t hold water anymore. I had a good time, and so did Shy and Jade. We all needed a night out like tonight. Shy got a number, and he was a cutie. Jade did her thing and mingled with a few cuties too.
I was tipsy as fuck, but I still had to drive because both these bitches didn’t have a legit license, and I keep asking them, what are they waiting for? You can’t keep depending on some nigga to pick you up and drop you off all the time. Get your own shit, and go wherever the fuck you wanna go.
By the time we finally got home, it was like four in the morning and I was tired as fuck. Soon as I stepped into the apartment, I collapsed on my bed.
But before I could close my eyes and go to sleep, the phone rang. I reluctantly picked it up. I thought it was Jade or Shy on the phone ready to tell me about some more drama before I went to bed.
“You the bitch that’s fuckin’ my wife!” I heard a man’s voice say.
“What?”
“Bitch, you heard me. Stay the fuck away from Sierra!”
“Nigga, who the fuck is you?”
“I’m warnin’ you, you dyke bitch. You come near Sierra and endanger my family’s well-being again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he threatened.
I lost it. “Nigga, who you threatenin’? Don’t you ever disrespect me again!” I shouted. “Don’t call here no more, you clown-ass nigga. I ain’t fuckin’ your wife!” I lied.
“You’ve been warned, bitch!” and then he hung up.
I swear that fucked up my night. I thought Sierra was careful with our relationship, but obviously I was wrong. She had her clown-ass husband calling my crib early in the morning, beefing with me, and that pissed me off. I wanted to call the nigga back and curse him the fuck out. But I put it off as nothing. He’s probably just mad because I make his wife come better.
I thought about Cream before I went to sleep, and wished he was here tonight to hold me. Some nights, I do get lonely going to bed by myself, and Sierra rushing off to her husband every night after we have sex was kind of getting tiresome. But I’m a big girl. I moved my hand between my thighs, and started massaging myself gently while I thought about Cream. I end up getting one off before I fell asleep.