8. Deja McCoy #5
“You want me to drop you back off to your car? I ain’t trying to have you on edge, thinking that I’m sitting here with thoughts of fuckin you. I can take you back to your car,” he suggested.
“It’s cool. We can stay,” I said, and he nodded his head towards that.
“What’s your real name?” he eventually asked me. That question caused a sly smile to appear on my face, as I rolled my eyes at him, as if I was annoyed.
“I’m sure you’ve done your homework on me. You know exactly what my real name is,” I voiced.
“Yeah, but I would rather you give it to me. I wasn’t trying to address you by your real name, and then you come up with another fuckin theory on the kind of nigga that you think I am.
You already accused me of wanting pussy from you.
If I had called you by your real name, you would have said I was a fuckin talker,” he said.
“Just call me Poison,” I said to him.
“I ain’t calling you Poison, man. You use that shit at work. You use that shit at the club, when you running game on niggas. We ain’t at the club right now. Give me the name that’s on your birth certificate,” his strict ass said to me.
Another rule was to never give niggas your real name.
When you were a dancer, they should only know your stage name.
When you start giving out your government name, niggas would get too comfortable.
That’s one of the number one rules. Here I was again though, getting ready to break one of my own rules.
“Deja, even though you knew that already,” I finally said to him. He nodded at that.
“What’s your real name?” I was the one to ask a question this time.
“Wolf,” he lied to me. It’s as if no one knew his real name. Whenever they spoke about him, they always referred to him as Wolf.
“I know your mama didn’t name you Wolf. What’s the name that’s on your birth certificate? It took a lot for me to tell you my real name, so offer me that same courtesy and tell me yours,” I said to him. I used that birth certificate line on him that he used on me.
“I knew your real name already. I was just being respectful by asking,” he said.
“Okay, and I’m being respectful by asking you too. What is your real name?” I pried.
“Warren,” he eventually told me. I smiled a little bit because I liked the name. It wasn’t the name that I expected though.
“Who gave you the nickname, Wolf?” I wanted to know.
“My mom nicknamed me that,” he said.
“Why Wolf? What’s the significance of the nickname?” I asked.
“She nicknamed me Wolf the day that I was born. I came out with hair everywhere. Head full of hair. Hair all on my face, back, all that shit. I guess the nickname just stuck,” he said.
Hearing that, I could only imagine how beautiful of a baby he was. There was this piece of me that wanted to so badly ask him to see a baby picture of him, but I didn’t want to look crazy, so I didn’t. Instead, I went ahead and asked a question that me, and a lot of other women wanted to know.
“What’s your background” I went ahead and asked.
“My dad is black. My mom is Ethiopian,” he responded. I’ve been wanting to know what his background was for years, and now that I know, I could say that I was surprised.
“Oh wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I blurted.
“What did you think it was?” he inquired.
“Like Trinidadian or something,” I was honest.
“Oh nah. My mom was born and raised over there. She didn’t move down to the states until she was twelve,” he said.
“You’ve been there before? To Ethiopia?” I wanted to know.
“As a kid, but that was years ago. My mom got a lot of beef with her family. They don’t approve of the nigga that she married,” he said it so casually, as he reached over in the box that was still sitting on top of the middle console, and he picked up the box of popcorn.
He sat the popcorn down in his lap and started eating it.
“What’s your background?” he wanted to know, putting the hot spot on me this time.
“Both my parents are black,” I said. The way I said it, you would think I’ve seen my dad before to know this. I’ve never seen him in person. Only from a picture that my mom used to have sitting in her room, on her dresser many years ago.
“You cool with both of your parents? What does that dynamic look like?” he asked.
“My relationship with my mom is very toxic. I don’t have a relationship with my dad. I never met him,” I was honest with him.
I think he expected a different answer from me.
Most girls were typically close with their mothers.
Hell, I wish that I was able to give him a different answer.
I wish that I could sit here and tell him that my mom was my best friend, but that wasn’t my story.
I stopped believing years ago that that would ever be my story.
“Why is your relationship toxic with your mom? She don’t like the fact that you dance?” he asked me.
“That lady could give two fucks what I do. Also, she can’t judge me on that. She used to dance too. Her and my aunt,” I let him know.
“That’s why you did it? You started dancing because your people did it?” he asked me.
“I wouldn’t say that I did it to follow in their footsteps.
I did it because I saw the kind of money that came with it.
My mom stopped dancing long before my aunt did.
When I was in high school, my aunt was in her prime with dancing.
She had nice cars, a nice home, all the fly clothes, jewelry, just all the things that I looked at as goals.
I wanted in, and I’ve been dancing for five years now,” I said.
When I finished saying that to him, he didn’t say anything for a little while.
He continued to eat the popcorn. I’m sure I turned him off.
As fine as I thought Wolf was, and as paid as I knew he was, I’m sure that nothing would ever come out of this.
I was sitting next to a nigga that came from a two-parent household.
You could smell the money on him. I knew that I was the kind of bitch that Wolf would never seek any kind of interest in.
He probably was disgusted that I’ve been stripping since I was eighteen years old.
“It bothers you that I strip? Be honest,” I went ahead and asked.
That question caused him to sit the box of popcorn back into the box, and he kept his eyes on me.
“It’s niggas out here in Miami that’s flooding the streets with drugs.
Shit, I got a couple of homeboys that I went to school with that’s living that life.
They putting the kind of drugs on the streets that’s turned women into addicts.
Having them neglect their kids, and family.
It’s other niggas out here that’s scamming for a living.
Stealing from the elderly. All the bad shit that motha fuckas out here doing, and I’m supposed to be bothered by you stripping?
I’m not sure what all you heard about me, but I can assure you that I’m the most secure nigga that you’ll ever meet in your life.
I have no problem with you dancing. Make your fuckin money man,” he went on, and I swear my pussy jumped at those beautiful words.
“Okay, so you admire the hustle. I feel like once you get with a stripper, that admiration goes out of the window. I know because I’m currently dealing with that.
I don’t have a boyfriend, but, I have someone that I deal with.
When me and him started messing around, just like you, he admired the hustle.
Now, I’m always being accused of fuckin different niggas, and he gets mad whenever I have to work.
My question to you is can you date a stripper?
” I wanted to see what his answer was going to be.
“I’m a different kind of nigga though. You gotta understand how I was raised.
My father isn’t the best husband to my mom by any means.
Aside from that part of the marriage, I was exposed to watching a man provide.
That’s the mentality that I’ve had since I was a little boy.
A man is supposed to take care of the home.
He gotta protect it, and provide for his wife, and children.
I never had to see my mom get up and slave for a job.
My dad made sure that she didn’t have to,” he started.
I was turned in my seat, with my back against the door frame, watching him. I wanted to see where he was going with this.
“I have three brothers, so it’s four of us total.
My pops provided, but I felt like it was our mom that was always there.
All the school shit, the after-school activities, doctors and dentist appointments, it was my mom that showed up for all that stuff.
I can’t imagine her having to raise four boys, be on every scene with us, and still have to punch in for work.
Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s millions of mothers around the world that gets it done, but my pops always made sure that my mom didn’t have to do both.
Her only job was to show up for her boys,” he said.
“So, what I’m getting out of this is that you wouldn’t want your girl to work?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t want my wife to work,” he corrected me.
“Hmmm. You and I won’t mesh well then. I’m only 23 years old.
Nothing sounds exciting to me about being a stay-at-home wife.
I would rather have my own hustle. Plus, I enjoy what I do.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I also feel like niggas that want their women home all day, raising kids are controlling.
You just admitted that your father isn’t the best husband.
That tells me all that I need to know right there,” I let him know, and he nodded at that.