The D Word Blog by Jemisha Ford.
Post-August 28, 2020
What up y'all? I've been gone for a while, I know. I usually post twice but something came up with one of my boyfriends. He was in the clinic ☹. Before y'all flood me with emails. He ok, a bit sore but healing and that's what matters.
Today I want people to know about Curfluent and Pinky. Pinky has been found (thank god). Morris and Pinky are home together living lavishly. And the boutique is picking up business. Morris Black informed me that his eight works went up to thirteen last week and five more were at the shop applying. To all those that helped and visited Morris, thank you so much.
I also want to give a mention to the person that found Pinky, Kyrton Crawford. His son Dominique found Pinky stuck in a drainpipe. At the time, Chicago was catching some heavy rains and Pinky may have thought the drain would give them cover from the rain.
Shoutout to Mr. Crawford for returning and saving Pinky.
Now, a new topic.
Pimping. What is the purpose? Some would say money is the power of the pimp. Women that work for pimps willingly perform 'escort' jobs (for less of a better word). Women who are forced are sometimes sold or 'owned' by a single man. Some pimps are women, but you don't hear a lot about them.
Jemisha, if a woman was a pimp. Would she escort women or men? My honest answer would be both. I know a couple of female pimps and they mostly work with women. Does this mean that female pimps are gay? Eh, seven out of ten?
The goal is money. Pimping is dangerous, being an escort is dangerous. Men and women can seek to kill you or… do god knows what. Life is precious, everything is worth something including your very being.
My father was a pimp. Yes, my father is also on my about page. Harden Cherry, my father, escorted about eight women. I grew up with a bunch of moms. And no, nobody wanted me on the streets. My father was a hustler, but he wasn't a women beater.
My mother's name is Kishana. My father was trying to be king Solomon who, was black, and seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. And when I looked this up, I told myself, he had a thousand wives.
The definition of concubines is basically a woman who stays with her rich husband or man (pimp). And you see, this is where the explanation is funny because if King Solomon was a pimp, how much money did he get?
One could definitely say the King was rich for he lived in a huge trap house. And those concubines he had were workers. Which makes a lot of sense?
But his father was King David, who also had many wives. So, this story, which came up within my head, might be closer to the truth. King David had eight wives and supposedly eight children. But all we ever hear about is Bathsheba, who, again, was black.
People, the bible is two-faced as fuck and a damn lie.
In conclusion, they had a son who wanted to be a pimp. I'll make part two next week.
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Quillin was hutched over a trash can gritting his teeth. He grunted and whined, his trash bag near his feet.
After his… client? Was done and left both his trial and money. His ass hurt. He didn't want to admit it, but he had a good total of eight dollars plus seventy-five cents. It was something in his hands and that was enough.
Women paid more and niggas didn't want to admit to their own gayness. Quillin had more in his pocket but then a dog came, and he had to depart from the pawnshop. He pulled his pants to his hips and went around the shop to the entrance. "Zean!" he called to the cashier. "What can I get for eight dollars and seventy-five cent?"
Zean, a six feet three black male with pale brown eyes shifted his eyes in thought. He grimaced, "you like pokemon cards?"
"What the fuck is that?"
"The kids love it." Said Zean chuckling. "I'm a grown ass man!"
"And you broke, you can spend eight on cards and sell them to kids or take the eight dollars and wait for it to pile up." Quillin sucked his teeth. "You got some coupons? I'm finna go to the joint and get me something."
"Nah, what happened to the money I gave you for the junk you sold me?"
Quillin looked around the shop, "It got stolen."
Zean sucked his teeth, "Man, gone."
Quillin exited the doorway and took his trash bag with him. At the food joint, Hot Wrap. He stood in a line of three people gawking at the list of options.
· Mangetout and chili stir fry: Prince $3.80
· Game and Ham Pie: $7.40
· Gherkin and Plaice Salad: $3.50
· Tahini and egg toastie: $2.50
· Tofu and avocado toastie: $2.50
· Cheese and steak bagel: $4.00
· Roast Chicken: $14.25
· Stilton and avocado pasta: $5.40
· Apple Muffins: $2.30
· Fish sandwich: $2.80
· Lemon biscuits with Bran cookies: $3.20
· Water: $1.00
· Soda: $1.00
· Q meals: $1,400 (debt)
Quillin winced at his name tagged on the board. People in front of him placed their orders. When it came to his turn, he met eyes with the cashier. Her lips contorted in annoyance. "Hey Kala—"
"Water!" she ordered for him. "And a muffin…" she shook her head. "You getting' water."
"I want a muffin," he murmured. "All you can get is water, Quin."
"No, I got money!" he rolled his eyes. "You think you know everything! I got money and I want a fuckin' muffin!"
"You have debt with Ms. Jordan."
"and imma pay…" he pursed his lips. "One day."
Kala tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, "Really."
"I'm homeless! And I just took dick in my ass by the pawn shop. Girl, just give me a damn muffin and some water."
Kala sighed as she punched in the numbers for the order. "Water is a dollar; apple muffins are 2.30. Altogether, that's 3.30." Quillin smiled pulling the cash out of his pocket. He handed Kala three dollars and fifty cents. Kala took the cash and put it in the register, she gave him back twenty cents. Quillin looked at his hand and back at Kala. "Two dimes."
"Goddamn it Quin. This isn't a fucking bank."
"It might as well be, I eat here!"
"Nigga!" her mouth fell open. "It is a food joint; you spend money on food and eat so that you may live in peace!"
"I understand that," he clapped. "But I am homeless, and it would be Christian of you to give me something for my struggle."
Kala clapped her words as she spoke, "SUCKING DICK IS NOT STRUGGLE."
"MY MOUTH IS WORKING!" he shouted. "It is a struggle. I have to breathe through my nose. And one nigga put his dick in my mouth—"
"Quillin." She interrupted him.
"What?"
"Get the fuck out."
"Give me my muffin…" he looked at the floor and smirked. A few minutes later, he was given a cup of water and a muffin in a paper bag. Though he was homeless, there was a different kind of joy in getting a paper bag. He was excited thinking about all the change he would fill it with.
Pennies, it was amazing how many pennies were lost in Chicago. If one could count all the pennies in the world, he'd probably be rich. Change would pay his bills, buy him food, and—oh my god…
As he grabbed his water and muffin. His ass began to pucker. "Ah… Kala. Where the bathroom at?"
"You know you ain't allowed—"
"I WILL SHIT ON THE FLOOR. Where the bathroom?"
She blinked and directed to the left of the business. He hurried to the restrooms, almost mistakenly going into the women's until he saw a man depart from the men's.
Quillin dashed into the first stall to towards the entrance. Undoing his pants as quickly as possible, a foul stench escaped his bowel. "Nigga, I'm finna die." He held his stomach feeling a ball of cutting pain below his belly button.
He jerked down his pants and plopped down on the cold seat. He pushed, something oozed out of him. A fart and ripples in the toilet. It wasn't all together, where a military line flowed straight. It felt like stones, a shredding agony he likened to childbirth. He screamed, clenching his stomach. Kala ran to the bathrooms and stood by the men's door. "Quin!?" she called for him.
"Yo!" yelled a man in front of the register. "I wanna order!"
"I told you not to let him back there, now he finna die," claimed her supervisor, Wendall. Quillin yelled, tears collecting in the angles of his eyes. It felt like hours had passed, the last thing to flow through him felt as if it was burning.
He took a deep breath, sweat formed on his forehead. After Armageddon ended, he sat there breathless. His hands racked his face, what on earth caused all that? He took a moment to get himself together, he heard banging at the door. "Quillin? Quillin!" the voice howled. "Quillin I'm calling the police on you; you better not be doing drugs in my fucking bathroom!"
The worst thing in the world had to be Wendall, the second-worst thing had to be whatever came out of his ass. He rolled up toilet paper and clean the back as best he could. One more time and this time using a bit of water from his cup, thank God he ordered a fucking muffin.