As the saying goes, I love women, hate bitches and hoes. And I think that’s pretty accurate. It’s not a woman-focused thing; most of the bitches I know are guys. I totally get the “all women aren’t bitches or hoes” thing, although I slip sometimes. It’s just a name, but names can mean a lot of ill shit. I try not to say “nigga” as much as I used to, but that shit slips, too.
Anyway, Christine is a woman. No getting around it, no arguing, no need to question. I don’t remember right off when her birthday was, but she just acted older. She was a bigger chick, but carried it well. She knew how big she was, and didn’t seem to mind it. She and I had been friends since she showed up in the middle of freshman year.
I don’t remember details, but I think we were assigned to group projects on some busywork the teacher had wanted us to do just to shut the hell up, and we just hit it off. Her mom had moved there from wherever they were from, just getting away from the place where her grandma had died down South. She had ruled the roost, she remembered, and to have to move so quick was a shock, especially to where they had settled up here, where people talked funny and said “cold” when they meant good and called everyone “joe.” And her accent didn’t help. Dark and rich with Southern red clay and moonshine and cotton picking and all of the rest of that stereotypical shit.
Every couple of years, we’d go visit Mom’s people in Alabama or Pops’ in Georgia, and their accents KILLED me. They talked slow, dropped Gs...I mean, the shit was comedy. And here comes a big girl from down there who has that same attitude, the same accent, and she’s cool as hell. We got along immediately, even without the usual sexual tension, because we weren’t each other’s type. She said she liked her dudes more dangerous; I liked my women skinnier. Nothing personal on either level; just what we liked. And no, I wasn’t scared to like her because of how big she was. She wasn’t sloppy or anything, like those chicks you see on the internet or in them bargain bin porn joints with fat everywhere, thinking they sexy to SOMEONE. Not that I’ve seen those, of course, but B, the perv of us two, told me about them.
Dude, shit just hangin EVERYWHERE. And these dudes are LOVING it, my nigga! BANG BANG BANG...cats aint even no good strokes in, and she just fuckin lying there. Shit is COMEDY, dog. And they buss one off on titties too big to even hold up. B is choking laughing, and I’m laughing mostly because not only is shit funny, but he has a laugh that you can laugh at.
Me and Chris grew to be tight, and, to be honest, me and B had to reach an understanding. We were fucking around, throwing the ball around in the street in front of his house. We had set up the route running drill - do a five yard out, give me a post from the right hash, et-cetera - and he treaded very non-lightly into sensitive territory.
“You like Christine, right?” he asked over overthrowing me yet again.
Sure, why? I asked.
I mean, do you LIKE her like her? He seemed pensive, like I was gonna smack him or something.
I don’t think I LIKE her like her, no. I was confused. Where is this going?
Because y’all be chillin a lot together and shit, and I was trying to figure out what to tell people when they asked me. B had assumed the ready position to the left for the deep out.
As he ran, my mind raced. Why in the fuck was he asking me this? Was he jealous? Was he trying to try to step to Chris? Was he mad? Did I leave him hanging sometime? Is he gonna pull out the Bros before Hoes bullshit?
I put the ball on the numbers and he showed off the hands that got the football coaches drooling. A kid who could move, with size and soft hands was a weapon. He trotted back, looking worried.
Why do you ask? I had to know. I wanted this all in the open. My man was not going to be forward with it, though.
Folks been asking, that’s all. He palmed the ball and signaled he was ready to throw it to me. I wasn’t having it.
Folks? As in, you? Then the thought of his stocky ass and Chrtistine’s ampleness in confined space made me queasy and laugh in quick succession.
Nah, it ain’t even like that, nigga. He sounded defensive. You be chillin with her a lot, that’s all. And I’m ya boy; just wanna know what’s up. I aint trying to get with her or nothing; I’m cool with her and shit, but I mean, that’s yo homegirl. But, you know. He seemed lost, or trying to get out some shit, so I assumed my ready position on the right and went out for the pass. I’d give him some time to think on shit.
Now, I’m not the fastest muthafucka in the world, but I can motor, and the deep post I ran was perfection. Thing is, as soon as I got out of my break towards the middle of the street, he had anticipated me being a bit faster than I actually was and the ball was where I was going to be in about two seconds, just two seconds too early. I glanced back at B, who looked disgusted with his throw. I collected the ball and jogged back.
I’m just saying, he started, as he lined up for a hitch route, that y’all spend an awful lot of time together. Folks get ideas, and not me, nigga, so get that out ya head. Y’all so tight that dudes who may wanna get up on it think they gotta go through you or something.
B was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid, so I pressed him on what he meant.
Y’all do so much together that folks notice more when you’re not together than when you are, nahmean? And I aint trying to be third wheel and shit. That shit ain’t cool. He said that, looking me dead in my eye.
He had me there. Chris and I had formed a devastating creative duo. She had rhyme skills, which was surprising for a Southerner that didn’t tend towards bounce songs. She wrote a journal every day, and showed me a couple of pages from when she was moving and what she was feeling. Ang didn’t keep a journal, else I probably would have gone to any length to try to peep in that motherfucker. You mean, women write about feelings and shit? With girls the mysterious, illogical ones, any clue as to what the fuck they were thinking was welcome to me, fuck privacy. Ang was only logical NOW; I figured that it was only a matter of time before she became
Cmon, yo. I tried to say exactly what I meant, and it was hard to do. You my dog. Chris is my homegirl, no doubt. But she and me got this thing where we’re thinking the same thing sometimes. It’s weird how that shit works - I paused to get out of the way of an oncoming car, B following me to the curb with a wrinkled forehead - but it works. You aint no third wheel. We all cool, right? I mean, you and me chillin now, right? It’s not like I got a girl and me and her just kickin it ALL the damn time. I still check for your dumb ass.
The car gone, we resumed our pitch and catch. Before he got set, he looked at me.
“Don’t know what I was thinking. Chris wouldn’t wanna fuck you anyway.” He smirked.
I yelled “HIKE!” and threw the ball into his solid middle as he ran out four or five steps and turned around. A sure three yard pickup, as long as no one was sitting between the QB and him. All he had to do was to absorb it. On my end, though, it didn’t help that I had absolutely GUNNED the thing. I don’t really know why; I just did.
“Fuck you.” I said, smiling as the ball bounced away.