Free Man Swappers by Cairo

You got some nerve. Your ass is the East Coast dick-gulping champion.”
    I laugh. “Yeah, I like to pop a few back every now and then. Your point?”
    “The point is we’re three fly, freaky bitches,” Persia interjects, raising her drink, “turning niggas out like there’s no tomorrow.” We raise our drinks, clink our glasses.
    “To this goody-goody,” I say.
    “Dipped in crack, rolled in heroin,” Persia adds.
    Paris jumps up from her seat, starts patting her crotch area, shaking and jerking her body. Paris is a lot more fun when she’s tossed back a few drinks. “Got the niggas strung out, aching for another hit. Wishing for another injection of this hot pussy juice.”
    Persia and I laugh as she drops down, bounces and rocks on her heels, holding her glass up in the air, not spilling a drop of her drink.
    Persia waves her on. “Girl, your ass is a damn mess. If Mom were a fly on the wall she’d lose her damn mind. Speaking of her, she called me today and wants to know if we’re going to Pasha’s wedding in August.”
    “I know,” Paris and I say at the same time. “She called us, too.”
    “I figured she did. What’d y’all tell her?”
    “Probably the same thing you did,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “I told her we hadn’t really talked about it. I mean she already knows we don’t do anything without discussing it with each other, first.”
    “I told her practically the same thing,” Paris mentions.
    “I went down to the salon the other day to see Pasha,” Persia says, pouring another drink. “But she wasn’t in. Ghetto-ass Felecia was there, though, wearing this real cute blunt-cut, burgundy wig.”
    “Popping her gum as usual, right?” Paris asks, reaching for the bottle, then filling her goblet to the rim. Felecia is also a cousin of ours.
    My BlackBerry pings, letting me know I have a new text message. I pick it up off the coffee table, glancing at the screen. It’s a text message from Irwin, six-three, two-hundred pounds of milk chocolate man meat with an extra-thick, curved, eight-inch dick that hits every angle of the pussy. He hits the spot every time.
    I grin, reading his text message. “Guess who hit me up wanting to know if he can come through for a little role-playing?” I ask, glancing up from the screen. I don’t wait for them to ask. “Irwin.”
    “Do tell,” Paris states, walking back over to the sofa and plopping down. “Oooh, he has some good dick, too.”
    “What kind of role-play does he have in mind this time?” Persia wants to know.
    “He wants us to pretend we’re strippers so he can make it rain on us.”
    “And then what?”
    “And then he wants to fuck the shit out of all three of us.”
    “Well, shit. Tell him to bring his ass on,” Persia says, spreading her legs. “Let that nigga know we got all the pussy he needs to make it rain.”
    I laugh, texting him back what she said. A minute later, he texts back: A ND I HAVE ALL THE DICK Y ’ ALL NEED . L ET ’ S MAKE IT HAPPEN. I’ LL BE IN TOWN 1ST WEEK IN MAY.
    I tell them what he says, texting him back to let him know we’ll be more than happy to make it happen. I toss my phone up on the sofa. “So what we gonna do about Pasha’s wedding? Y’all want to go, or send her a gift instead?”
    “It doesn’t really matter to me,” Paris says, waving her hand dismissively. “But it would be nice to see all the family together.”
    I agree, nodding. “True. Mom says Aunt Harriett is always asking about us.”
    Paris shakes her head, laughing. “Yeah, I know. Probably so she can try to get us up in church with her so the pastor can lay hands on us. I can hear her now, telling the congregation that she has three heathen nieces in need of prayer.”
    “Oh, please,” Persia says, sucking her teeth. “The only one she needs to get hands laid on is Pasha’s ass. I don’t care what anyone says, Pasha got some shit with her, too. Okay? Hell, she’s marrying a damn drug dealer, for