Free Hustlin' Divas by De'nesha Diamond Page A

asks, laughing. “Earlier, you were all scared they might come in here and put a cap in my ass. Now that you got your nut, it’s fuck me, is that it?”
    I laugh. That’s something I love doing with Profit as much as having sex. He’s funny and goofy and then can flip the script and can be serious and no-nonsense.
    â€œAh, I see how you do a nigga with your selfish ass.” He tickles my sides, but when I start wiggling around, his dick gets harder.
    I smile at the feel of his dick thickening and throbbing. “Oooh. What’s that?” I ask, rolling my hips and watching my man’s face twist with pleasure. “You like that, baby?”
    His mouth sags open. “Damn, baby. Hold up.” He struggles to catch his breath.
    â€œNah, nigga.” I pick up the speed. “You were talking all that shit. The truth is you can’t handle this sweet pussy, can you?”
    He tries to laugh it off, but then I hit a particular sweet spot and instead he starts sounding like a man who just caught the Holy Ghost.
    â€œUh-huh. I didn’t think so.” I roll him over and take the top position. “You like how I work this dick, baby?” My hips whine, bounce and then roll some more.
    â€œI fuckin’ love it.” Profit pulls my body close so he can pop an erect nipple into his warm mouth. “I fuckin’ love you, baby,” he rasps.
    I stop. “What?”
    â€œI don’t stutter and your ears don’t flap.” Profit smiles and rolls me back over. “I said I love you and I mean that shit.” His hips start moving again. This time his strokes are so deep I think his dick is banging against my heart.
    â€œI love you, too,” I confess. My heart pounds in double time.
    Our eyes lock.
    â€œThen that’s all the fuck that matters.” Profit cups my face in his hands while he continues his deep stroking. “Promise me that you’ll always remember that, baby.”
    â€œI…I promise.”
    Pop! Pop! Pop!

8
Momma Peaches
    E very time I open my eyes in the morning, I thank the good Lord for blessing me to see another day. As far as I’m concerned, there are a lot of muthafuckas who don’t make it this far in life. For whatever reason, the man upstairs sees it fit for my old ass to still be roaming around in these streets just like he sees it fit to deliver the fine buck snoring next to me to really give me the proper homecoming I needed.
    Now that the cobwebs have been knocked off my pussy and the sun is shining on my new chocolate boy toy, I’m in the mood for some flapjacks. I smile and peel back the white cotton sheets on my big ole cherry poster bed and swing my legs over the side—well, my one good leg and my one half a leg. I reach down and rub the bottom nub of my left leg and then have to remind myself that the ache I feel isn’t real and that I’m still suffering from what the doctors called phantom limb—the sensation that a missing limb is still attached—but it never really works.
    Â 
    I had lost the leg in ’73, fucking around with Leroy, a small-time hustler who thought his ass was Priest from Super Fly. Hell, everybody blew his head up about that shit, just because he was lightskinned and could rock out a hot-comb press better than most. I don’t know why I was attracted to bad boys. I just was. Their swagger, their danger, their fuck-the-world attitude would get me and keep me wet better than any nigga working a nine-to-five with full benefits.
    It was the same summer my baby sister, Alice, was sent up to Nana Maybelle’s place since our momma kept spitting out babies every nine months like clockwork. When Alice showed up, the whole Manny affair was six years in my rearview mirror, and I was trying to trick niggas before they could trick me. What love had to do with shit was my anthem long before Tina Turner got some sense knocked into her screaming ass.
    Momma Maybelle