Rahshad gone learn that in this friendship I’m the big dog, and M Deezy don’t listen to nobody, especially no nigga.
Shad
Socialmediaisafucking disease.
A parasite, foreal. The instant and fake validation gets into your mind and corrupts you and makes you ugly as fuck.
Or maybe that’s just what happened to Sahara.
The Sahara that’s standing in front of me, hooting and hollering and yelling, isn’t the same eighteen year-old girl I met in Psych 101.
That Sahara was quiet, and snorted when she laughed, and kept her wild brown curls pulled in a haphazard bun off her face. She wore thick coke bottle glasses that hid her cerulean blue eyes and freckles. That girl wore oversized overalls, loved going to the movies, and loved books even more.
At first, Van told me to keep an eye on her. They were new to town, and Sahara was green. We became friends and study partners.
Then somewhere along the way, we became more than that.
I told her about running with Foe Dub. She told me about how Van and her ex raised her.
We connected on a spiritual level, I thought. You know, being closer to our older siblings than our parents. And even though I still never let her all the way in, I figured if I were to settle down, it would be with someone as pure as her.
Until I blew up. And muthafuckas found out she was my girl, and her follower count went from two-hundred to twenty-thousand overnight.
Now, this Sahara burned her hair out from straightening it, so she’s gotta wear a weave. She got Lasik. All her clothes are designer.
And now? She’s starring on that damn wasteland of a show,Side Pieces of Kenton.
Why be on that when you’re not even my side?
She claims she rehabbed her image because as my girl, she had to be on my level. I thought she did that shit to compete with Wyn, for whatever reason.
Now I think this is just who she wants to be. An influencer.
A bird.
But shit, I am just a man. And she knows what she’s doing, calling me over here to argue in nothing but this see-through robe.
Sahara’s always been model thin, but that skinny bbl she got last year looks as natural as those things can look, and at the right angle, the shit is fire.
“You gone keep yelling at me or you gone come get what you really called me over here for?”
She rolls her neck and folds her arms, but them pupils dilating tell on her every time.
I walk over to her, stopping right before her chest could graze mine. “Just say you miss a nigga. Maybe I’ll say it back.”
I slide her robe off her shoulders and take in her body more. When my eyes roam my favorite place, I see her thighs clench and smirk.
“Fuck you, Rahshad,” she whispers.
“That’s what I’m finna do.” I drop my basketball shorts and boxers in one go, before pulling my shirt off. I back her up to her window and turn her around so that she’s facing out into downtown. “You want muthafuckas to see what we got right? Let’s give ‘em a show.”
I separate her cheeks and slide home, feeling her clench around me. One of my hands clamps down on her neck, while the other grips her hip, and I go to work.
Sex with Sahara has always been fire. She was a virgin when we met, a blank canvas, and I molded her to my dick.
She’s wetting me up almost immediately, moaning my name, making the window foggy.
“Touch yo fuckin’ toes,” I growl, slapping her right cheek. That shit lowkey hard, but I imagine it rippling.
