Illegally changing lanes, I smiled to myself, thinking about New York. I haven't been home for two hours and already I was back on the road. I had the time of my life in New York, and seeing Janet Jackson on 106 and Park (and getting to hug her) was a treat.

I think that's the single most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me. To smell Janet's perfume up close and personal.

Outside of that, meeting my thug friend in a department store in Manhattan was another treat.

Putting candle wax on his dick and sucking his essence through the shaft like yogurt was the thrill of a lifetime.

I still couldn't believe he let me fuck him in the ass. He didn't have any inhibitions and that was a good
thing.

He was still a man when we both came. I was a piece of Down South Pussy in the City that Never Slept and the city will never forget Melissa Jackson.

I left my stamp of approval, and any bitch that fucked him after I left would read "Melissa's Pussy was here" on his dick when they gave him some head.

That's a good way to keep my name in their...mouths. Ho's paled in comparison to me.

Fucking him after my breathtaking performance was virtually impossible.

Part of me felt like shit because a few months ago, I turned my church into a lustful playground.

At the time I thought I was dying of Cancer and I figured hey, if I was going to die I might as well pussy pop all
over the back of the church and pussy pop was what I did.

I was clad in a robe with a golden mask on my face. It was so freaky. I could still remember the briefing from Big Daddy Good Dick.

You'd swear you were entering the matrix with all of their "rules."

Since that day I haven't been right. I stopped believing in organized religion, and I stayed away from the building. I had to change my phone number because several Golden Mask participants wanted round two and three and my pussy wasn't built to back track.

My pussy didn't do piss recalls when I squatted on the toilet so why should it do a church recall?

What's done was done and life went the hell on. It started to rain the minute I got on the Turnpike.

Realizing that I left my Sun Pass home, I had to now pay the toll.

Damn, Melissa. What were you thinking?

Money didn't grow on trees. Tolls seemed to be going up a mile a minute and with rising gas prices and George W. Bush being the bitch he was, I couldn't afford half the shit being sold in stores let alone paying the toll.

Patting my weave, I checked over my face in the rear view mirror. I looked a mess.

So I opened my knock off Chanel purse I bought from the Indoor Flea Market in Perrine and pulled out some lipstick.

Licking my lips, I held the steering wheel with my left ankle, rolling the small clip on the bottom of the tube and ran the thick red stick over my dick-sucking lips.

Rolling them together, I tossed the lipstick back into my purse, smiling, making sure I didn't have any on my teeth.

The last thing I needed was lettuce or lipstick on my teeth when I sucked a mean dick.

Good dick deserved bright teeth so I did the damn thing. Taking control of the wheel, I signaled "left," getting into the left lane.

I just passed Coral Way. I still had a ways to go before I got to the airport.
Thank God traffic wasn't the fat bitch it could be.

Some days the bitch could be eating cheesecake and drinking Twinkie juice, congesting every lane and every road on the 826, but tonight was refreshing because her fat ass was on a diet, Jenny Craig was closed and the lanes were free of vehicles...