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It was November 11, 1975 and The Transnational Playas Ball was tomorrow. I couldn't believe that I had only been pimping for a little under three years and I’m already going to The Transnational Player s’ Ball in Chicago, Illinois. Most popcorn pimps around Akron, Ohio never ever came close or dreamed of going to the highly-coveted, instant street recognition Transnational Playas Ball because they were too busy being on some local shit. I had come from crawling on all fours like a limp lamb to running around preying on whores like a lethal lion. This was the windy city where big-pimping was an everyday episode.
If a pimp weren’t careful and skillful, he stood to lose every hoe he had. A motherfucka had to be and stay sharp. I was anxious yet fearful. I knew the big city aura could lure bitches like a rat to a trap, but I was so thirsty for recognition that I had to take that chance. Recognition meant street credibility and credibility meant access to more bitches; more bitches meant more money. The more money I had, the more distance I put between me and those lonely streets, those empty trashcans, and an empty stomach. I had to get my ‘propers’ out here in this jungle—at all cost.
On the other hand, Retally8 had some double flam-flam action jumping off with his huge suburban; however, he didn’t want anybody to see it until the last minute before we hit the road in route to Chicago. He wanted it to have that last minute, jaw-drop effect on the bitches. Retally8 was designed for this type of shit and I was confident that he would get the desired results. He had a gift for both gab and flare.
As for my flare, I had recently recruited a new whore named Israeli in my stable within the last six months. I admit that when it came to turning women out or flipping them, this was not my strength because I was used to dealing with pre-turns, women who were already turned out and familiar with the pimp code. Due that fact combined with her strong morals and religious background, being a preacher’s daughter and all, Israeli was a hard flip. However, Israeli had a commercial potential that was incomparable. Israeli was short, caramel colored, curvy, and thick. Oddly, she reminded me of Grandma Betty. In my mind, this is what Grandma Betty might look like in her younger days. Israeli was like vision to a blind man. She was like a fine crystal from the crown of her head down to the bottom of her soft, bare, beautiful feet. Gifted with a perfect set of succulent lips, high cheek bones, and rust colored eyes that look like they were stolen from an Egyptian Museum; they sparkled like dazzling stars in the night. Israeli was a total knockout, not only in looks, but also in demeanor.
From the time I met her when she was a runaway at the Grey Hound Bus Station, I felt alive plus she was the ultimate pimp trophy. She was every tricks’ wet dream. She fed a hunger that sat deep inside of me, a hunger greater than the desire for recognition and money. She fed my soul that something that made me feel emotionally full. Our similar backgrounds united us in a strange twisted kind of way. She ran away to escape her father’s verbal and physical abuse. Israeli’s religious father was tremendously strict with her whereas my street-bound mother was the sole source of my childhood misery. Israeli ran to streets in search of affection that her daddy never gave her. I understood Israeli and she understood a part of me, a part of me that I didn’t want or didn’t let bitches understand. Israeli owned a quality that kind of made me want to make all of the bullshit that I told her, and the other bitches, actually come true. Falling in love was a distant reality, so pimping would have to do.
I reflected on my empty childhood, remembered the old weathered woman in front of my old house, and wondered to myself, how could I ever be totally hard hearted toward the homeless? Homelessness was a place that I wanted to forget but could never forget. I knew the humiliation of homelessness and because of that very fact I knew what Israeli had suffered. Although I identified with her plight, I’m still gonna be nice enough to let her use what she was born with to benefit the both us. Regardless of what kind of connection we have, I’m master of my emotions and she’ll never get wind of the slightest of what I’m truly feeling inside. Israeli was grateful that I came to her rescue, so was I.
Anxiety danced within as I envisioned showing her thick ass off at the playas ball. Israeli, after all, was my hoe, a most envious commodity. I enjoyed seeing how well she cleaned up. I wondered how many people had passed her by, ignored her, and mistreated her. I couldn’t help but to think back on all of the bitches that had ignored and overlooked me. Now, I couldn’t help but to smile knowing that some of the same suckers that didn’t noticed Israeli‘s grungy existence at the bus stop, were now her number one clients, consuming moments of her beauty with their hard earned dollars. Israeli was a natural sales genius, an ultra-fine servile hoe. She made them niggas want to love her; she sold them sucka ass niggas whatever they were willing to pay for. There was something unique about Israeli; she hasn’t ever got out the pocket. It was weird; it was lovely.
Nonetheless, I remained highly weary of anything that bleeds monthly and lives to talk about it. Bitches were the modern slaves, property not people. Israeli was no different. She had a product and without that product she was worthless. She was a pink flesh mine where tricks dug inside for her warm wet gold, and to get to that gold, they had to pay the almighty—me. We were in business and we would continue to be as long as business was good. Long as the pussy was good and she turned over the good profits, business was good.
Speaking of good, I reflected back on when Bay's cute chunky ass tested me on her second day out on the track. Bay was one of those bi-polar, big mouthed bitches, loving and praising you one minute with same lips she cursed you with seconds later. Of course, it was the fight/fuck cycle that draws flesh-monger-whores to hard-core python pimps like me. She was the type that likes to fight hard then fuck even harder afterwards. Bay was always tipping around testing me for any type weakness. She liked to be pushed, and she wanted to be punished. Well, I love to push and punish. I had absolutely no problem punching or choking a loud reckless ass bitch. I enjoyed making these bitches feel the way mom made me feel. It was a twisted psychology but just like the more I tried to make mom love me, the more she dogged me; the more she dogged me, the more I tried to make her love me. It was a hard taught lesson that I employed with great personal pleasure on these whores.
Bay was an animated wide-hipped hooker. This particular night, she noisily complained, "Shit, I'm tired C-Note, give a bitch a break, my motherfuckin feet and ankles hurt, my bunions are burning. I've been working in rain, sleet and snow. Shit, fuck this, I’m going somewhere to sit my wide ass down.”
Did this bitch think she could whip me? I snatched her by the back of her nappy head then slammed her face into the icy red-brick wall. "Shut, the fuck up! Be a good hoe or be a dead hoe. Keep your wide ass on that strip and get my grip," I growled. I meant it. Needless to say, she took some snow and balled it into a little ice pack then put it on her face and immediately went back to work. My blood boiled with joy as I pushed them flat-backers to their limit. I wouldn’t even give the bitches a holiday off because every day that they tricked for me was a holiday—for me.
It was every bit as hard staying on the track collecting the money as them hooking for it; at least they had heat from their tricks’ body momentarily. I quickly learned that only someone insane would attempt to track several whores at all times and wait for the profits of each date. I learned who was hoeing hard according to her bank role and if someone was slipping off the track, her money would reflect that too. I learned each of the bitch’s grip cycle and I had a good idea of what a bitch should bring home even on a bad day.
However, keeping an eye on police and local traffic also affected my income. Lots of trick traffic was good; lots of police traffic was bad. In addition, I made them quadruple-crossing bitches spy on each other to curry favor with me. Since hoes were often jealous of each other, I used their jealousy to keep them eyeing each other. I taught them about loyalty and the sky-high price that had to be paid for being treacherous. See, I drove my hoes hard like Alaskan Huskies. It was never too hot or too cold to push beyond the elements.
However, hoes loved the process, the thrill, and the danger of turning tricks. It was their way of getting even with men. It was a sickness. It was their warped way of making us pay, of having a type of power over us. In addition, I knew that grimy ghetto-bound whores like mine would grow bored in some musty flesh factory where tricks just paid a flat fee and picked one of them out of a line up. My bitches needed to feel alive, the rush of hustle. Bitches wanted to see the desperation in their tricks eyes, wanted to negotiate fees, and just enjoyed being desired to a point where men were willing to break the law and cheat on their wives to be inside of them for a very brief period. Some call it tricking, but to my girls, they consider it skiing, using their mountainous curves as bait for some chump to take a bite. To bait and trap a trick brought the ladies a sensational joy. Nonetheless, Israeli was an absolute diamond that out sparked all of my other hoes. I made a point to be hard on her just because I could.
Still, Israeli drained each john out of every dime she could. She would suck, fuck, and even steal. Her bedside manner was incredible. She would get a warm clothe and slowly wash their balls afterwards. She would tell them how good their stiff dicks felt inside her little pussy, how good they tasted, smelled, etc. Israeli had a long list of chumps that considered her their favorite. I loved the way she suckered the box-frames into thinking that they were special. She went above and beyond the call of duty. Lucky for me, tricks put their money where her mouth was. Having Israeli under my wing was a wonderful thing.
One Friday night, Israeli walked in and broke bread. She had a pretty good seven hundred dollar night. Actually seven hundred was really good, but I was so used to being hard on my hoes that no matter what brought, I expected more out of them. However, she wasn’t as bright in spirit as normal. She avoided direct eye contact and talked even less than usual. I noticed her mood, but didn’t give a fuck enough to say anything. After fifteen minutes of silence, she finally spoke.
“Do you believe in heaven and hell Daddy?” she sat and fidgeted with her fingers.
Coming from a recently converted street bitch, it shouldn’t have caught me off guard but it did. I replied, “Nah, that’s for them box-frames—those square niggas not macks. I believe it’s hell right here on earth and the only heaven is getting out here and making your own way. I believe in me and getting my grip, that’s what the fuck I believe in.”
“Daddy,” she dropped her head and played with her fingers even more nervously. “I don’t want to burn in hell’s eternal fire. You know my father is a minister and I believe in God. I can’t continue to live like this. I can’t be out here fornicating with these men that I don’t even know. I only want to be with you Daddy.”
I thought, what’s with this God stuff?
“Bitch, I suggest that you continue to live like this or don’t live at all. Believe in me dammit. Does God bail you out of jail? Baby, your daddy got your head all messed up. All he does is steal in the name of the Lord. He tells you to give up tithes and offerings now so he can live the good life in this life but tell all of the members to wait for their goods in the next life. I want to enjoy this life because their no guarantee of an after-life. Does God protect you from these beasts in the street?” I pulled her firmly by the arm and pressed her firm soft breast against my chest. I looked her directly in her eyes. “Does God make you feel like a real woman like I do?”
As I looked in her eyes, her flesh cried out with weakness. She was pathetically brittle, but I didn’t want to break her, yet. She was my root hoe. She held the tree of my pimping in place. The other bitches were mere leaves just waiting for their season to change so that they could fade away and be replaced by a new spring generation.
Israeli leaned against my chest. She answered, “No one makes me feel the way that you do C-and I’m blessed to have you in my life. C, tell me that I don’t have to whore forever. Tell me that you’ll marry me and love me, truly love me. I want a family C. I want to have children. I want to be a respectful decent woman but I’m willing to do what you want me to.”
I seldom ever wore anything, but a frown around my bitches, that way they took every syllable that I said super serious. I stared dead in her eyes. I professed, “I don’t have time to barter bitch. Get married? Have kids? Bitch I’m married to the streets, I’m married to the life. This is our life, this is our family. You bitches are my kids! You want a box-frame motherfucka that you can possess and call your own. We’ll I suggest you frame up because no woman can ever possess me. I’m never going to be a square motherfucka. I’m a million percent pimp, period.” She just picked up her empty purse and asked to be excused.
As much as I enjoyed Israeli’s company, she was still a hoe and I had to be hard with her just like the rest of the whores. If she sensed weakness, she would jump ship also. Even though in truth, the bitches had the upper hand, they wanted a man determined to portray that he had the upper hand. Whores were a confuse group of people who constantly tested their pimps for sucker tendencies, if a pimp ever let the sucker out, that’s what he would become—a sucker, a typical box frame sitting on the sideline with one broken heart and two empty pockets.
Even with my ironfisted pimping, I hated that I couldn't get past the three-woman stable. I felt like I was definitely slipping, doing something wrong. Some pimps had more hoes than they could handle, and other pimps ran game on square brothers playing craps with loaded dice or craftily marked cards. The night life was filled with every type of parasite possible. Those brothers who couldn’t hustle whores or fast talk squares, strong armed those closest to them. Niggas killing niggas: the poor taking from the poor and actually expecting to get richer.
But not me, I didn’t expect to get rich but I did expect to survive. I was letting hoes do what they were gonna do anyway. They wanted to car hop and I wanted to eat. I knew what it felt like to suffer and to be on the bottom. Whores knew how it felt to be on the bottom also and I knew how to profit from them being and staying on the bottom. I had a reusable product to promote, the gift that keeps on giving—to me.
Then again, I had become just as much gangsta as pimp because even the up and coming drug dealers respected me. Killing Spook was like a double-headed bonus because it granted me credibility to both men and women alike. Thugs respected my high strung gangsta. I was a local living legend. Part of the price of being loved, was to be hated by many as well, but my number one nigga Retally8 had helped me establish a strong street network from his personal ties. Being a revered gangsta himself, we controlled the primary prostitution ring on north side of Akron. Pussy had a way of corrupting judges, lawyers, doctors, officers, and you name it. We loved it.
Speaking of corruption, I saw an unlikely associate—Chappie Johnson. He was filthy and dirty. I watched as he did a zombie shuffle across the street and mumbled to himself. He looked terrible. Not one to forget his kindness, I walked over and discreetly handed him a couple hundred dollars. I asked, “Here Chappie, remember me? Thanks for looking out for me when I was down. What happen to you and your store?”
His eyes were sad and heavy as he lifted his head shamefully and barely had the strength to clench the fresh dollar bills. “Bless your heart young man,” he weakly replied. “Thank God. Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, thank god for bitches and the pussy they peddle,” I chuckled.
“Son, this road you walk is the road of definite destruction. Please consider....”
“Hey, Mr. Chappie, no disrespect but you serve your god,” I held up a roll of cold cash. “And I’ll serve mine. Look at me, I aint homeless and hungry no more and I certainly don’t think your god helped me rise in these ranks. It would be a little hypocritical considering my fortune is built on fornication”
“Son please listen, I’m just a nobody trying to tell everybody,” he feebly pointed to the darkened sky. “that Jesus can....”
I interrupted him for the last time, “We have to catch up some other time Chappie. Get a nice room and something to eat okay. Don’t worry about me man, I’m C-Note. I’m gonna make it in this world.” I took a few extra twenty dollars bills and shoved into his frayed pockets. Seeing Chappie like that made me want to cry, made me remember when I was less than a man, less than the rats I slept next to. I was no longer a part of this grimy secluded world filled with pity and poverty. I was now part of the elite pussy-pushing promoters. I paved the way for paying tricks’ ecstasy by way of hoes’ agony. As a result, The Transnational Playas Ball awaited me.
At long last, it was time to pack up and leave for the windy city. I gathered my three hoes and stepped into my newly purchased deep burgundy colored Mercedes with a chrome grill and customized head lights; it was so clean it looked like it just rolled of the assembly line. The twankle would sparkle so bright in the sunlight that the gleam hurt your eyes. I enjoyed the envy embossed on everyone’s face as I drove happily through the hood while playing the popular song Do The Hustle on my radio. I was the latest hate-product for pimps and that’s why I kept an eye on them and a finger on my trigger at all times. I had the whitest leather interior and the fattest bright white walls money could buy. My fuzzy dice dangled over the dashboard as I stopped at the red lights and scouted for new hoes to cop.
To top shit off, I was wearing a burgundy and pussy-pink pinstripe suit with matching burgundy snake skin shoes as well as the other matching accessories. My numero uno hoe, Israeli, had on a matching pussy-pink halter-top trimmed in burgundy with the matching go-go boots. My former number one hoe, China, also had on an off pink but she was wearing some skin tight, all-wedged-up-in-the-pussy, leather pants. Although those tight pants looked astounding, I knew those were the making of a very musty monkey inside of them. China also donned a transparent pink blouse with the burgundy braw and matching scarf. She also donned some matching high-heeled platform leather boots. I had to admit, if only to myself, the bitch looked mighty good. Lastly, there was Bay's pudgy doped-out ass, even she was crammed into a skin-tight pink leather skirt with a matching leather purse. These hoes were representing the best, so they had to look outstanding. I decided to follow Retally8 up to Chicago since he had been there before. Sadly, I had never been outside of Akron my entire life but I was too ashamed to share that information.
It was unbearable trying to restrain my undeniable joy until we arrived over Retally8's pad. My hookers were anxious to see his latest ploy, but they knew better than to express even the slightest bit excitement, especially after what happened to China at their first and last Teddy Pendergrass concert. Shall we say she went on a sudden soup diet for a few weeks; food was a lot friendlier coming out of her ass than coming in through that thin straw with a fractured jaw. Finally the moment of truth had arrived, Retally8 leaned on his suburban, but it was still covered up in a tarp. He glanced over at his ladies and said, "Are yawl ready to see what poppa has got in his new bag?"
All five of his hoes clapped in chorus and replied in unison, "Yeah."
I always enjoyed seeing his bitches speak at once. He very slowly uncovered his suburban in order to build the suspense. Seeing the excitement in their eyes was joyfully confusing, it was as if he was un-wrapping a gift for them. But I guess when a whore loves her pimp, she wants to see him happy, so she’s happy for him. She lives vicariously through her pimp. As pimps we act like we love our whores, but we really do love our automobiles. I was just as anxious to see him unveil his new shit as these professional cum-catchers were. I could see off the rip that he had a flam ass paint job on that bitch. Then all of their eyes were impregnated with amusement as he finally removed the tarp. Okay, I’ll admit it, so was mine. Being the control junkie that I am, I shot back a cold hard look at my bitches to let them know that daddy was still running the show. And they better act like they know it.
"What do you think C?" Retally8 asked gleefully.
"To be honest, I'm a little jealous." I whispered. “Look at this big clean super roomy motherfucka. I love it.”
He smiled and his pudgy face lit up with laughter, "Shit don't be. We are representing Akron C together. Team Akron my nigga." He nudged me with his elbow and winked. “I see you rocking that pussy-pink pin stripe you was thinking about huh?”
I overheard my bitches whispering. "Did I tell you bitches to whisper? Hell, did I tell you bitches to breathe? Get in the fucking car!" They scurried back into my car.
I smiled, stepped back, and admired Retally8's impressively air brushed version of the last supper, only he was sitting where Jesus was supposed to be seated and everyone else were females dressed in Egyptian designed teddies. It was painted with great detail. He called it The Last Up-hers. He was taking a stack of money off of the tray being passed to him. What really caught my eye was that one of the happy harlots had a dagger palmed in her hand beneath the table. This dagger holding hooker looked just as happy as every other female sitting at the table. I presumed she represented the Judah in the midst of loyal hoes. Retally8 was a genius about detail from the Egyptian and Sudanese artifacts on the table, to the luxuriant print on the table cloth, to the voluptuous shapes of the harlots, to the various brown shades of their skin, to the subtle arches of the women’s cheeks, and underneath his money tray, he even had a pistol pointed in the direction of dagger bearing harlot. The colors were truly amazing, the blood red teddies, the aged bronze, the glimmering silver of the harlot’s dagger, and lastly, Retally8’s blue satin sharkskin suit all seemed to jump out of the depiction.
As always with Retally8, he pushed the envelope and did what many wouldn't do or was just too scared to do. He knew that he would get some out the pocket stares, but that's what he thrived on. He figured what are the critics and religious fanatics gone say that his view is wrong or that's hypocrisy? Hell, aren't we all hypocritical about something? Didn’t so-called religious fanatics crucify Jesus in the first place? Then again preachers are the biggest pimps of them all because they pimp from the pulpit—the no tale-hotel, where women are not selling their flesh, but pastors are selling both men and women ‘pie in the sky’ dreams of this wonderful afterlife.
In fact, as pimps, we often used passages of the bible to back up our clever bullshit. Both pimps and pastors were selling an illusion of success to their followers. If you ask me, pastors are some of the craftiest pimps of all. Pastors and ministers living good in suburban neighborhoods meanwhile most of the members live in shabby homes in the hood. The pastors are living in nice homes and driving nice cars today telling of the members not to worry because they’ll get their glory tomorrow when they are dead and gone. The only difference between those pastors and the average pimp was that pastors were stealing in the name of God. Pimps were just dealing the devil’s dirt at face value.
Retally8 and I decided that we’d relax and let the girls do most of the driving. After all, we were professional gentleman of leisure just like most pastors. Since none of my girls knew how to drive, they sat in the backseat of my car while one of his girls, Candy, drove my Mercedes. Candy was tall, slightly curvy with light blemish free skin. Her shoestring figure didn’t hurt her profession because she was a certified brain surgeon with her super-sloppy, deep throat technique. She was known for suppressing her gag reflex and taking even the longest dick all the way down to the balls. When Candy gives a blowjob, every man is a minute man, not a second longer, talk about making men weak at the knees.
Tisha, one of Retally8’s other top-notch streetwalkers, drove along with Candy in the front seat of my car. Tisha was five-foot even had a tiny waistline and a globe of an ass. The only body part more impressive than her big ass was her fabulous pretty ass feet. If I could stick my dick in those sexy ass feet of hers, I would. Tisha was dark chocolate and impossibly cute. In fact, her nickname was Hot Chocolate because rumor has it that she has some of the hottest, sweetest, and wettest pussy on the track. One of her favorite dates declared that if she didn’t get so wet, they’d have blisters, and another regular said that her pussy keeps an elevated fever and the pussy feels phenomenal.
On the other hand, Ashley drove Retally8's flamboyant suburban; she was his numero uno. She’s blonde, green eyes, 6’ feet tall, naturally sun tanned, huge perky titties, and strikingly beautiful for a white girl. This sexy ass white bitch sold more pussy than Motown sold records. At times, she was a little mouthy but overall, she was a class act. I still haven't found out how he pulled this one off because Ashley’s dad is a highly successful banker. What dream could a mere hood-nigga sell her? Maybe, it’s just the excitement of being in that underbelly ‘niggerized’ type of society that sanitized upper-class America didn’t provide. Few young bitches were exempt from the intoxicating environment of pimping. Lastly, his other two whores were twin sisters and that within itself is a specialized-market: Malaysia and Asia were two fine ass perverted chicks willing to do mouth to ass acts at a moment’s notice. They were into shit that I couldn’t even imagine. Thus, I decided to sit back and suck up some ‘mack’ moves from him while we headed for the windy city, a nice long six hour drive.
Here's a story for you C-Note, "My son is two years old. He’s a smart little fella too. You know how my girls be wearing skin tight clothes and shit. Anyway one day he walks up and asks his momma, why do women have two booties?”
I hunched my shoulders." I don’t know, what did he say?"
Retaly8 answered, “His momma said, women only have one booty.” Retaly8 sat up laughing as he continued to tell his story. “My son said, uh uh, mommy you got two booties. One big one in the back and that small fat front booty too.”
“So he called her camel-toe a front booty,” I laughed so hard that I almost choked.
"This is show business not hoe business. Show me some money bitch, keep that conversation shit," he paused. “Everyone fucks or none of us would be here, but these hoes put on a show for these tricks. The way they walk, dress, talk, and smile at these tricks, presents a fantasy for fee for these trick ass niggas. See, niggas got wives and girlfriends, so, they have some in-house pussy at home but these niggas want to be part of something dark, part of something underhanded, part of something that they shouldn’t be doing. Think about it C, have you ever had some pussy that was amazingly better than the next piece of pussy? Pussy is pussy, if you ask me. Any pussy can make any dick nutt, period.”
I sat there and thought about it. Young juicy-wet-pussy having bitches had a definite edge over old, worn-out, must-lube ragtag pussy having bitches, so I replied, “Well, my nigga that young, super wet, they-don’t even-know-how-good-the-pussy-is, is certainly the best in the business, but it’s not so good that a nigga like me would purchase it. I mean I totally agree, a nigga can bust a nutt in practically any pussy, but not any dick can make any pussy orgasm. Although pussy are different sizes, have different smells, and different shaped pussy lips, it’s all universal when it comes to getting a nigga off.”
He smiled, “C that’s what I like about you. There’s no fake shit with you. Youth does has it treasures especially with pussy considering you’re average hoe is burnt out by the time she’s 25 if she’s not careful. See older whores learn to do shit that young bitches won’t do to compensate for their lost of youth but younger ones can get that shit off because they are leaning solely on their physical beauty and youth. That young smooth skin, that breathtaking shape, those firm titties, those lean legs, that snap-back pussy, and that natural, long, thick, pretty hair. Think about Malaysia and Asia for instance. That’s why we have to push our whores so hard, because they don’t have time to sit around and become an aged, useless product. Old whores have to be on some straight fetish shit, doing threesomes, double anal entry or some serious sick twisted shit for tricks to prefer their services or trick with some super old half dead men. Aint nobody running to the front of the line to buy some old ass raggedy pussy.”
His theory on aging whores flowed like magic. I looked over at this huge man that kept his finger waves flawless and pressed down with precision. Retally8 was the brother that I never had. He mentored me in many ways that I’m sure he never imagined. He instructed, "Remember C, the down fall of too many men is the up keep of too many bitches. That's why you have to press these hoes with your mind, make them keep you up; make them love seeing their man look good. These hoes see us as their man. When we take them out on the town, we are their motherfuckin man,” he looks me squarely in the eyes, and holds up his left index finger. “Exploit them or they will exploit you! Nice guys pump pussy and pay bills but pimps get money for their thrills. Good guys respect their women as equals, but seldom do these flat-backing tramps ever give squares respect. I don’t ask for respect, I take it. The only thing I respect is seeing them work hard, work constantly. Never give them a day off, not Christmas, not Thanksgiving, not even Mother’s Day because aint shit to celebrate till we are filthy rich."
Although I already practiced this tactic, maybe I hadn't applied myself to the fullest. Part of me, wanted to feel normal, but normalcy was a long way from home. I had to constantly reinvent myself, push my intellectual limits to stay in the pimp game. Any man can beat a woman with his hands, overpower her physically, but isn’t it better to beat a woman down with his mind? If you beat a bitch down with your mind, you only leave bruises on her heart but only she can see that. How could I improve my mental prowess without seeming like I’m getting soft?
Retally8 wore a black and canary yellow silk outfit plus all of his hoes wore outfits matching his on a daily basis. He wore the finest diamonds and medieval medallions; he was the fine piece art that inspired me to push my pimping to the next level. I was young, but felt that I learnt so much of the game so soon. The goal was to get rich off these sorry ass worthless women just as the white establishment became established off the backs of blacks in slavery.
For a few of us to be on top, there has to be a lot of dumb motherfuckas on the bottom to use as steps on our way up the latter of success. Our forefathers sweated and toiled, but their masters ate and profited. At least these women do what they love: fuck and please men. Where would I be without pimping? If my mother wasn't a dope-fiend would things have turned out differently? My momma was a whore, so why shouldn’t every pussy-bearing bitch be one? The only thing I knew how to do was pimp, pimp hard. It was the only thing I was willing to die doing, the only thing that I ever wanted to. Whatever it takes to keep pimping that’s what I intend to do.
