“So you sayin’ DJ Crush walkin’ around with a micro, you’d bounce?”
She grins.
“I’d dab ‘im up for tryin’, then ghost his ass.”
Then adds, all city-bred and brutal:
“I’m Bronx, baby.
“I ain’t blind. And I ain’t brain-dead.”
I throw a grape at her. “Y’know there’s more than one way to fall apart with a man. Penile penetration isn’t even in the top three. And if DJ Crush’s packin’ a micro, I’d put money on his oral and finger game being fuckin’ fire from spinnin’ those records all night…”
I glance at her phone
as if I’m done with the convo,
though I’m obviously not.
“And keep my man's name out'a your mouth before I start swingin’,” I mutter under my breath. “Teddy Vale’s not even a man. He’s a goddamn sepia-toned watercolor painting of heartbreak. A six-string romantic. With a vintage soul. And feelings. And probably a journal full of sad poems about women who said no to anal.”
The laugh breaks out of me the second my words hit air?—
Then hers.
“Anyway. We are women of taste and restraint, Celie. I respect him too much to talk about sitting on his face again. We don’t reduce musicians to their sex appeal anymore.”
I clear my throat,
sitting up straighter, behaving.
“We internalize our objectification of men like ladies.”
Celie’s laughing.
“You disrespectful in the politest fuckin’ way.”
I shrug. “Yeah… well. I’m nothin’ if not consistent in my contradictions.”
I sip the cucumber water. “Bitch got me ready to throw hands over a man who don’t even know I breathe,” I mutter into the glass, shaking my head.
She takes the opportunity to go in for the kill—“So how do you know Jersey boy’s dick is six-and-a-half? You bust out a ruler? Measuring tape? Keep one in your purse or somethin’?”
I point to my hand,
swipin’ from wrist to tip of my middle finger.
“I know this is six and a half inches. Exactly.”
Then I swipe diagonal across my palm,
from the base of thumb to base of pinky.
“I know this is four and a half inches. Exactly. Don’t play.”
She watches me,
a slow smirk pulling at her mouth.
