Texts from Bennett (31 page)

“Hi, honey,” she said.

“Hi, Auntie Lillian. Get some rest, sweetheart, sorry to wake you,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” she said, as she laid down.

Bennett walked past me, through the kitchen, and to the basement door. Opening it, he took a step down before cocking his head back and motioning for me to follow.

In the basement, Leshaun was down doing push-ups and crunches, shirtless and in black withered basketball shorts. He was glistening with sweat.

“Wassup, niggas?” Leshaun said, enacting an intricate Crip handshake with Bennett and giving me a regular handshake-hug-type thing. “You been workin’ on your pimp hand, O.G.?”

“Yeah. All day. I might go meet a few friends tonight at the bar. So . . . we’ll see how it works,” I said.

At this, Bennett seemed to regain some energy. Quickly changing out of his work uniform and into a baggy T-shirt and some cutoff Tar Heels sweatpants. “Have a seat, mothafuckas. Loony, help me explain da rest of dis shit to him.”

We all powwowed on the basement floor in front of the couch Bennett slept on and proceeded to discuss the rest of Bennett’s dating tactics. Bennett’s passion for them was inspirational, but the
truly mind-blowing thing for me was how well-versed Leshaun was in them as well. Watching how fearless and unbridled the two boys were lit a fire under my ass, and soon I had an outrageous sense of self-confidence.

I just sat with my mouth closed, absorbing it all. Like performance art.

BENNETT:
Girls always roll in packs. They got friends who dey look out for, and friends who look out for dem. Girls make decisions together, homie. They go to the bathroom together. They sleep together at sleepovers until they fuckin’ ninety-two years old. They always need to ask each other opinions and shit before doin’ anythaaang. Like “Should I wear this bathing suit? Is my ass fat?” Yeah, bitch, your ass is fat ’cause you eat too many Twinkies. Bitch.

LESHAUN:
The hataz
ain’t the mark-ass dudes who talk shit on you or act like jealous ole bitches. Those niggas actually help you get pussy. If a dude talks shit on you to a girl he like, chances are, that girl gonna wonder why he hatin’ on you so hard. What does he know that she don’t? Dudes help you get pussy. Even if they say some foul-ass rumors about you (most commonly that you roofie girls drinks), don’t trip. The girl gonna think you a piece of shit. Fear not though, boss nigga. When you go talk to her and she sees how cool you is, she gonna know it was all lies. Only bitch-ass niggas roofie girls drinks. In fact, next time I get cockblocked by a bitch-ass nigga I’mma roofie his drink and let my Rottweiler, Big Dracula, fuck his mom. On Crip!

BENNETT:
Haha! You should write a book about that. Dat’s crazy smart, young Leshaun.
Da hataz
are a chick’s friends. Her chubby homegirl who don’t approve of you ’cause you took da last hot dog
on da rack at da skatin’ rink. The hot-ass snobby bitch she hang wit who sound like she got jizz in her nose and don’t want you stealin’ all of da attention from her friend. A girl’s homegirls is one of da biggest thangs you gotta deal with when mackin’. They her defensive line. But . . . there a real easy way to deal wit’ deez bitches.

LESHAUN:
Show ’em love, man. You ain’t tryin’ to fuck ’em. You don’t gotta worry about a girl’s friend thinkin’ you too nice. In fact, the nicer you are to her friends, the more her friends are gonna ride for you. When the girl you wanna fuck asks her homegirl, “What do you think of this nigga Mac?” her homegirl gonna say, “He’s so cool! Get wit’ him!” One thing I will say though. Is if one of her fat friends likes you, and you don’t gotta worry about gettin’ caught, let her give you head. Fat girls appreciate the opportunity and go above and beyond with their skills.

BENNETT:
I gotta say, y’all, my dick grew a few inches when I thought dis one up.

LESHAUN:
Do you wanna have sex with the girl? Hell yeah you do. But don’t even think about that shit for the time bein’. Girls you just met ain’t tryin’ to just give up the ass all fast and shit. They already assume you a playa. They already assume you tryin’ to fuck. And you is. But, don’t let it even be the goal. If they ask, tell ’em, “Nah. I just want a kiss.” Be like “Do I look like a asshole who treats girls bad? Bitch, my favorite movie is
Wall-E.
I’m sensitive, ho.”

BENNETT:
Not only dat, but when you kiss a girl it activates her fuck organs. So you on the right path anyways. So when you go out tonight, don’t even take no condoms. Don’t even plan on havin’ sex. And if a girl be down to have sex right away, she ain’t really dat hot anyways. Tonight, my G, aim for a kiss. A kiss and nothin’ more. Kiss sex good-bye.

LESHAUN:
Hos think sex is hella serious. But they loooove kissin’. So if you say, “Look, I would never degrade a bitch like you, like some pervert who only wants one thing. You such a bad bitch that I would wait till we got married if thats whatchu wanted. But one thing I gotta confess to you, boo, is your lips are perfect as fuck. A nigga could
have sex with any girl right now and it wouldn’t mean shit. But with you . . . I’d remember just a simple kiss witchu for tha rest of my thug-ass life.” Then lean in and kiss that bitch all romantic as fuck, like in the movie
Twilight.

BENNETT:
Hell yeah. Robert Pattinson that bitch. Make sure y’all got good chemistry and shit before you say dat doe, ’cause she might be offended if you call her Boo.

“Aiight. Let’s do number eight. The Leah one,” Bennett said.

“I don’t like this one, my nigga,” Leshaun said, leaning back against the couch, crossing his arms.

“Why?” Bennett asked.

“It’s wrong. I’m a playa for life, but damn. Ain’t the reason we do this ’cause we tryin’ to show bitches we the best dudes in the world to ride with?” Leshaun said.

“Yeah? So?” Bennett said.

“Well, I think it’s fucked up, cuz. You explain it. I need some more grape juice anyways.”

Leshaun stood up and walked upstairs with his empty glass, leaving me intrigued to know what could possibly offend his sensibilities.

BENNETT:
Man sometimes you hang out wit a girl who seems like she gonna be hard to crack. Like she ain’t really seemin’ like she wants to get with you. You runnin’ hella grade A Crip game on her. All dat shit. And she ain’t actin’ into it. Well, you gotta start talkin’ about Leah. Leah is your ex dat got hit by a ice-cream truck and killt. You still in love wit’ her so much and will never fall in love wit’ another bitch. You can fake cry a little too. Just bring up Leah a couple times a day to remind da new bitch dat you ain’t in love with her. As fucked up as it sound, da best way to make a chick jealous is by makin’ her compete wit’ a dead bitch. Dead bitches make da best wingmen.

Leshaun reentered the room. He looked enthused. Bennett began to lean back with hesitation in his confidence. This obviously wasn’t the first time the eighth commandment had been the matter of friendly controversy between the two boys.

LESHAUN:
I made this one up. This one is kinda like the one about taking a shit, mixed with the one about trying to kiss instead of fuck, so you can actually fuck, because you tried to kiss instead of fuck, but not really. Well, kinda. The whole point with this one is to always jack yo dick off before you go meet a fine-ass chick. Just empty it out. Blast until the clip is empty, homie. This way, when you hangin’ with the girl, you don’t fuck up and say hella sexual shit to her like a hornball-ass nigga. I’ve been horny as fuck when I left the crib before and almost ruined my chances like a stupid ass. A nigga was helpin’ a girl pick out art supplies and I kept sayin’ shit like, “I wanna rub yo titties with watercolors,” and “Mmm yeah, baby, let’s make folk art, girl.” She was like, “Leshaun, chill with that shit.” So I went to the bathroom and jacked off. After 6.6 seconds I was fine. Then I could see clearly and get back to mackin’ and tellin’ her how much I love paintings by Claudia Money or whatever that dude’s name is. Claude Money.

BENNETT:
Don’t ever ask for a girl’s number. Just focus on yo game, focus on makin’ her love you like a mothafucka, focus on . . . like . . .

LESHAUN:
Nigga, focus on givin’ her a experience she ain’t never gonna forget. Fuck you gonna do wit her number? Call her and say some genius shit you ain’t say when you first met the ho? If you can’t make her love you then, her number ain’t gonna help shit now. Don’t even worry ’bout her number. Too many niggas try to get a girl number so they can bail out and not put in the work. If y’all talkin’ and shit, and you runnin’ game on her for a while, tryin’ to be a supercool nigga, that’s super nice and ain’t like them other buster-ass mothafuckas, but also a G. A man. Who is ruthless with his game. If you do all that shit and she don’t make you
take
her number. Well, you done fucked up the whole shit anyway.

BENNETT:
And
never
give
yo
number to a chick. If she say some bullshit like, “Lemme get yo number.” Say what bitches have been sayin’ to us fellas for millions of years, “Sorry. I don’t give my number out.”

LESHAUN:
Yup. Most importantly. As gangsta as we are. As wrong as we are to talk about girls like this. The truth is, we love hos. And the friendship is the realest thing to us. This one is gonna be a more important one then you thank, cuz. Along the way to makin’ a girl fall in love wit you, there are gonna be some days where you just say the wrong shit. One time I had just lost to my brother Tyshaun at
Madden NFL
on Xbox and shit, and my new chick called, and I spent fifteen minutes talkin’ about how unfair the game was and how it hurt my feelings that Tyshaun got to practice
Madden
more ’cause Mama got him a Xbox and not me. Man, this bitch was like, “Nigga, is you serious? You sound like my little sister. I gots to go.” So, I had to start from the beginning. She called to have sex, heard me whinin’ about the Green Bay Packers and shit, and then didn’t wanna have sex no more. So I had to remind her I was a great friend who would never leave her side. Then she remembered my beautiful chocolate baby arm on her own, and I was right back to it.

BENNETT:
Good story. Makes you think and shit. The reason I added this one again is because like Loony said, bein’ the best friend a bitch ever had is da most important thing to her. You gotta prove that you will always be there for the bitch, through hard times and, uh. Damn, I’m kinda high, what’s the opposite of hard? Uh. Fun times. If you
fuck up, start over as friends. Unless you take a shit in her underwear drawer, a girl will always give you another chance as friends, my nigga. The more you show you wanna be friends, the more she will be like, “Damn, how come dis nigga didn’t stop talkin’ to me when I didn’t fuck him?” And, as long as you friends wit a girl, she can’t tell you not to fuck other bitches. So as much as she wanna pretend to only wanna be friends and shit, when she see you with a bad bitch with a fat booty, she gonna be like, “Damn she like him like dat? Hell nah, he mine, not hers. Fuck her.”

After hearing all their crazy, wild rules, I was itching to go out and meet some girls. Their game was so transcendent that it in all honesty wasn’t a game. As vile as they spoke, and as crude as their language was, the general principles they employed with talking to women felt flawless. I wouldn’t even be spewing out lame pickup lines or dumb routines. I’d just be being friendly. I had only one or two questions left.

“I gotta be honest. I’m twice y’all’s age and am blown away by how intricate and perfect this is. You guys are going to have some serious women trouble when you get older,” I said, shaking Bennett’s and Leshaun’s hands, in respective over.

“Go get you a new bitch, big homie,” Leshaun said. “I got a new one I’m workin’ on tonight too. She live pretty close to here. Fine as fuck.”

“Nice man. Well enjoy that!” I said.

I stood up and brushed myself off. The next stop was my shower and closet to get cleaned up and pick out the night’s attire.

I took an awesome shower. I clipped my fingernails and toenails. Trimmed my hair and face. Splashed on some Drakkar Noir cologne (wanted to get in that seventh-grade spirit). Threw on my expensive Calvin Klein boxer briefs and my nicest pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans overtop them. I slid into a dark-green Penguin button-up
collared shirt. Clasped my gorgeous ceramic Nixon watch to my wrist. I even wore some stylish, artificial glasses with wood-grain frames and a vintage baseball cap, slightly tilted to the side. I was humming “Eye of the Tiger,” trying to psych myself up. I felt attractive. I felt ready to get back out there.

I was ready to make a friend.

As I gave myself a once-over in my full-length bathroom mirror, Bennett walked in cautiously. I’d never seen him with this magnitude of innocence in his eyes. And then I realized: he was unsure of himself. After all that guruing, he was insecure about something.

“Ey, mane. I just wanted to ask you a question right quick if you don’t mind. Nothin’ major and shit.” He leaned against the vanity in my bathroom.

“Shoot.”

“Well, like, you know, I don’t for real know how to talk dat good. Which I kinda guess makes my raps not dat great and shit. You smell me?”

“I think so, sure. But what’s your question?”

“How do I learn some bigger words and shit? Just like . . . some of da shit you be sayin’ sound smart. I don’t wanna sound like an idiot-ass nigga, you know?”