I have never willingly given myself to a man. I used to sit back in high school and watch the boys pick out vulnerable girls and fuck them and their reputations to hell.

I didn’t want to be one of them so I never put myself in the position to become victimized by boys with testosterone problems.

My girlfriends didn’t have an ounce of class. They gave away free pussy like the boys paid for it. Where was their self-esteem? Where was the self-confidence?

I remember, during high school, I stayed over to Sasha’s house. We were about fifteen and she told me her parents were out of town.

Initially she told me it was going to be me and her chilling and eating popcorn and lusting over Denzel Washington movie posters.

I especially loved Ricochet.

I had told my parents I would be staying the night with Sasha, since her parents grew up with my Mama.

Hesitantly, Daddy told me to make sure I had the dishes washed. Tommy, who was sitting at the table drinking a cold brew, looked at me and smiled and I melted.

It took a while for him to look away and I couldn’t stop lusting over his gorgeous smile. Once I was done with the dishes and cleaning my room
Tommy drove me over to Sasha’s.

When I got out of the car and grabbed my night sack, I kissed Tommy’s
cheek and he left.

The instant I knocked on the door Sasha whipped it open and snatched me inside.

“Why are you pulling on me like that?” I asked, confused.

She closed the door, hugging me.

“I have my reasons. Glad you could make it, Girl.”

I looked around. I saw her clothing thrown everywhere. Her shoes were all over the place.

The TV was on an old episode of Good Times and the sound was muted. I smelled something cooking from the
kitchen.

I sniffed. Chitterlings? Maybe, but I did know that it smelled like shit. Sasha was picking up her clothing in a hurry and stuffing them in the hall closet.

“Help, Girl.”

“Hell, no.”

I looked at her like she was crazy. I still didn’t know what was going on and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know.

“I’m your house guest. Not house
keeping.”

Shaking my head in disgust, I tossed my bag on the couch. A roach ran from by the pillow and I jumped behind the end-table, making shrieking noises...

She laughed at me. “They probably came from outside. It rained earlier and they seek shelter in the living room.”

Right, bitch. You had roaches for years. And don’t blame it on the neighbors, either because you haven’t had a neighbor in three years.

Why do black people blame the climate for their roach problems?

I threw some salt in the game. “It looks dry as hell to me outside.”

She kicked three pair of her shoes in the closet. Then she tried to push the door closed but she had too much stuff in there.

She was struggling. “Help me, Girl.”

Like hell. “I’m cool. I’ll watch.”

Didn't we just have that conversation?