Ghetto-Opoly: pt. 9 (What's better than sex is writing about it)
What's better than sex is writing about it (was: Ghetto-Opoly: How It Really Went Down pt. 9)


As you can imagine, the sex I eventually had with Petey Pedrito Stretchito was mostly propelled by a certain fantasy of loyalty -the prostitute and the pimp- that wasn't really enough to buoy a romance for very long. It took longer to dissipate in my mind than in his -I think he thought I was a bore after about the second date, when I refused to tell him exactly what I'd written about his rap skills in my previous reviews of the Friendly Low Region. He did, however, concede that I give good head when I want to, and that it's impressive for a girl my size to pin down a guy his size with my knees pressed against his thighs, and my hands gripping his wrists against the bedpost.

But, anyway, Petey Pedrito Stretchito has enough groupies to keep him busy for a while. And it's pretty much understood that if Ghetto Sublime engaged in wild sex with her own horde of groupies, she'd quickly find herself stuck with:

1) VD

2) a lot of annoying, hangin' on-ass motherfuckers.

And there's no way she's gonna risk gettin' knocked up by any of them, so there you have it.

But, anyway. On that particular night the game ended around 2, and by that time, Paul Smith couldn't stand up without gripping the edge of the table. Ghetto Sublime scurried around sweeping up the cigar ashes and spilled beer from the floor, rinsing out the empty bottles, scrubbing her roomate's IKEA table, and herding everyone outside. And then she sidled up to Petey Pedrito and asked wouldn't he like to have her phone number, so they could resume this at some other date.

Bazooka Tooth Joe was the first to drive off in his old Toyota, and Petey Pedrito offered Paul Smith a ride home, which Paul Smith refused, saying he could use the walk to clear out his system.

Of course, Ghetto Sublime knew his real intentions. And she said nothing. And as Petey Pedrito cranked up his engine and sped off, she wasn't surprised to feel the cold hand slide around her waist, all over again.

So now you understand why, when I eventually related the story to Rosa, she re-christened me "Miss Dick-In-Her-Face." The next thing I remember was being chased back into my bedroom, and as I'm curled up on the bed with my knees drawn up, Paul Smith unzips his pants and then there's this long unappetizing schlong just kind of hanging out in space like a big corn cob. Fortunately, he's drunk and it's easy to trade positions; I get him in a half-nelson and push him on the bed. He gets up, shakes my shoulders, tries to push me down again, I yelp and run to a corner of the room until I hear him panting and breathing heavily.

I lean against the wall and watch the hour hand inch from 2 to 3 while he crumples on the bed, and starts to snoar. And then I open the door quietly and look again, and think there's something kind of peaceful about him just sleeping there --it helps dissolve my anger. I'm reminded of something Tony Morrison said --that there's a loneliness that can be rocked.

I saunter over to Fifi's room and knock tentatively on the door. There's a Sade song playing low on the stereo and she's stretched out on the massage table, with the tennis balls digging into the small of her back. Like a minx, I think.

"Mmmmmm Ghetto Sublime, you should really try this." She uncurls an arm and yawns. "But I don't think you can handle it, yet."

I tiptoe over to the table and lean over to kiss her. She whispers something, and moves a little, and I sit down and curl me knees up again. She asks how the game was and I'm silent for a spell, and I want to cry. And then she sits up and starts kneading my shoulders and whispers that it might be fun one of these days if we tried fucking in the garden, in the dried leaves and the weeds and the witchgrass, and I'll bet you a dollar nobody would see.

And then there's a hand pressing into my thighs and I moan a little and she says relax, spread your legs. And my heart starts beating faster as she's unbuttoning my fly and pushing my legs apart, and her finger traces the lining on my panties, and then she's in me, and I'm moaning again and she says sssth, hush, people will hear us. And I'm panting and trying to talk to her and say yeah, what really made me angry was --

but I can't talk because I'm breathing too fast, and she pushes me up on the table and sticks a knee between my legs to open them, and she says "open your legs wider" as she's kissing on my neck, and I say put the pillow over me, I want to scream, I'm gonna scream, and she slides into my thighs and I curl my back and make a shadow-sillouette against the window.

Outside a freight rattles by and I hear the howl of a stray cat. The limp penants of a used car dealership glow under the light of a gibbous moon, and I think somebody's shirts are flapping on the line. And my thighs are slick and wet, and I curl my head back to peer through the eye-like windows.

Then we hear it. A knock. And somebody's voice bellowing from outside.