The D Word Blog by Jemisha Ford.
Post-September 5, 2020
Welcome back to The D Word. Continuing from where we left off, Solomon was not a King but a goddamn pimp. When I was looking up more, it showed that Solomon has a daughter named Basemath. Did he get one of his, 'wives' pregnant?
It just goes to show you pimping is a strange occupation. One of the pimp rules and never mix love and pleasure. If you don't know the difference. This blog ain't for you.
Am I the product of a hoe and a king? No, I am the daughter of a pimp and I had many moms. I could almost name all of them. Literally, I have most tattooed on my body.
Shoutout to mama Terri Fletcher. My life does go with King Solomon because of how I was raised. It was mama Terri that taught me how to fight.
As for the relationship with my father, they were constantly fighting. When I was eight years old, Terri came home after going to the grocery store. Yes, my daddy let her out of the house, that was her job. Terri was a cook in our house. Sometimes I would help, and dad let me. Another mom that helped was Deshondra Gardner. Because of her name, she often took care of the large garden around the house. Shoutout to her.
My mama turned 54 this year. I wanna mention something about my mama Deshondra. She is a breast cancer survivor.
I know I don't give a lot of myself away. But I am today as it is mama Terri's birthday. Let's finish this with a story from my childhood.
Mama Terri went to the store, and I remember sitting on the steps hoping she bought me candy from the store (she didn't). She went to the kitchen and sat a bag of groceries down on the counter. I followed her to the door a stopped as my father raced into the kitchen.
As stated before, Terri taught me how to fight. She wasn't a big woman, she stood around 5'8 and thick with large hips. My daddy gave all his 'wives' (I'm just using it for the sake of irony)—a necklace. All the women had a necklace with a cat-eye. Their nicknames were Kittens. Which I always thought was really cute until I found out it was slang for Purr, a woman moaning.
I saw my father slap Terri across the face, I was peeping beside the kitchen wall trying to understand the argument. Apparently, Mama Terri was taking money from my daddy and giving it to one of her ex's. One of my father's biggest pet peeves was having shit he owned and got taken from him.
Now, Mama Terri was a hoe that fought back. The moment he hit her, fire came out of her and she threw down hands. Scratching my father in the face and beating him in the mouth till he spat up his own blood. She took off her heels and beat him in the head with the point of the heel. I thought as a child, this woman is about to kill my father.
I yelled stop, and she did. I scurried to my father and shook him, looking at Mama Terri. She was shocked by her own actions. She called one of the girls to the kitchen. A fatter white woman, Kinsey Reed. I loved Mama Kinsey, too. Anytime I got hurt in the house, she took care of me. I remember those dinosaur band-aids or the pink ones with the flower on them. A fucked up thing about Kinsey, she had a heart murmur and sadly passed at the age of 28 in her sleep.
What happened to Terri? Well, as we said in the home, you don't fuck with a king. And when this happened, my father wasn't the disciplinarian. Instead, all of the escorts got together to jump on the disobedient female of the house.
Mama Terri wasn't strange to an ass-whoopin'. She tried her best to defend herself but understood she was outnumbered. Sadly, I must add, Terri didn't survive that jump.
Another one of my mamas, Chaundrise Lindsey was part of the jumping, and instead of stomping and punching. She had decided enough was enough and stabbed my mama Terri to death. Five other women tried to get Mama Chaundrise off Terri at the time.
Terri Fletcher was a young woman; she was my third youngest mama being nineteen. She was buried in the garden and Kinsey was buried beside after two years.
Six years had passed and one day I was sitting next to my father. I asked him why was he a pimp? I expected him to say something like, women need to learn because they don't know-how. Instead, his answer was puzzling. "They asked me."
I asked him, "Why would a woman want to be an escort?"
He said, "Your mother was getting beat by her first husband. You know you not my daughter, right?"
Yes, dear readers. I was adopted by a pimp. I'll finish this tale next week sometime. It's pretty fucking wild.
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Zean's breathing hitched. He didn't think he would bend to such a request. He had a dollar in his pocket and a gold chain. Why was this nigga experienced in sucking dick? Why?
Pretend it's a needle, he thought, trying not to release himself in Quillin's jaws. If that happened, was he gay? He was already doing the deed. This was gay. Quillin slurped him up, his hand coaxing his seven inches to reach the peak of his energy, Zean bit his lip, he could have just given him the money and went home.
"come on…"
"Shut up, nigga." Zean smacked his head. Quillin bit his shaft. He winced, telling himself what he felt was pain and not a thousand bolts of fuck me. Quillin departed from the man's manhood, licking his lips. "You know I'm five years older than you?" he smirked. Zean stared at him, "What the fuck was that for?"
"So, I could get the dollar." His hand beckon for the money in Zean's pocket. "Can I have it daddy?"
"What the fuck—I said I was gonna give it to you."
"Oh…" this was awkward. "Guess I'm a hoe."
"What the fuck Quin!" yelled Zean. "You call me to the side of the building to suck my dick when I said I'd already give it to you?" He jabbed him with his finger. "You got fucking problems!"
But the real question was why he let it go on for so long. And why did Quillin take pleasure in doing it for five minutes? If he had to be honest with himself, he loved sucking dick. "Listen, I've been off my shit for weeks."
"In what fucking way is that?"
"Like…" Quillin sucked his teeth. "I haven't had crack in a long time." His hands reached for Zean's waist. Zean instinctively pushed and hit Quillin in the face. "What is wrong with you, what is wrong with you?"
Drugs.
Quillin shook his head. "Damn."
"You need some fucking help!" retorted Zean. "Look at yo' self Quillin! You out here, sucking penis for money. Nigga, go to rehab."
"I don't know how to live!"
"Remember it's the opposite of death!" That wasn't bad advice. Zean left his ass in a random alley, snow was starting to fall. Quillin stood there with a hurt cheek and his pants around his ankles. He wasn't sure what he wanted out of that, but his dick was surely fighting the cold off.
He pulled up his pants and grabbed his trash bag and decided to go. Where? He didn't have an answer.
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Quillin must have been walking for four hours. He passed a Walmart and a park. He took a break on a bench. Snow was coming down, He put his hood over his head and aired out his trash bag to put his feet inside.
He straightened himself on the bench pulling the trash bag to his waist. This was being homeless. He was broke, cold, gay, and a crack head all at the same time. That was a lot to deal with.
Why did he set his apartment on fire?
Why did he suck dick?
Why did he have to go to the bathroom so bad at the food joint?
This was horrible. He thought about his life in Chicago, and it hit him. He had a sister in Minnesota. Forget it—he didn't even know the number. He could be outside about to freeze to death or… he could rob somebody.
Then he recalled again, he set an apartment on fire. Damn, he was still free. He hustled to stand, "I SET AN APARTMENT ON FIRE!" he screamed into the cold. A man across the street quickened his steps. "I'M A CRACK DEALER." Quillin hollered. What was the purpose? He wanted to get arrested but then he thought about the wicked happenings in jail, and he wasn't afraid of getting his booty touched but the fear of death. And then everything Zean said made sense.
"I'M RETARDED!" he shrieked into the cold nothingness. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" yelled the man across the street with his hands in his pockets. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
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The police hadn't come yet. But then again, he didn't want to go to jail, people get raped and killed in jail. And the food was gross. He liked ham sandwiches, not mysteries.
As he was walking, he looked forward at a man near an atm machine. Lowering his gaze caught sight of a broken bottle near a shop. He picked up the largest piece of glass he could. Covering the shard with his black trash bag, he walked nonchalantly.
Yep. This was happening.
Should he go with the throat or the stomach? Quillin told himself he didn't want to kill anybody. And again, he set an apartment on fire.
He marched to the man at the atm, his back to him. Quillin stood behind the stranger, he uncovered the knife. He thought to lick it, that was stupid, he didn't. He used the trash bag to put over the man's head.
As he dragged the man to the ground, money came out of the machine. He quickly snatched it and went to belting the stranger in the head. "What's yo' pin number?"
The man's screams were muffled, Quillin scanned the streets. No one insight. He took the blade of glass and pressed it against the man's neck. "I have a knife!" He kicked and yelled, "What's the fucking pin number nigga!"
He started to cry. "Tell me the goddamn number!" he stood up from the body and curved stomped him in the head. "What's the fucking number!"
"Enough!" the man pressed. "6011183700164914." He spoke quickly.
Quillin kicked him in the head. "Say it slow, nigga!"
"Help!"
He delivered a forceful kick to the head and continued to stomp him. He held himself back, what was he doing? There were no more sounds. No muffling.
All he could grasp was, he was so tired…