an ode to bitches and hos

The first time I ever heard a woman called out of her name, I wanted to be her.

I was completely enamored at the reaction she was able to conjure from a grown ass man. I’ve seen children choreograph tantrums with more grace. He howled. Paced holes into the carpet, with smoke practically coming out of his ears, mixing swear words together like a bartender— and I was intoxicated. Whatever she did, whatever she had, whatever she was, that made him act so embarrassingly out of character—I wanted every part of it. I, too, wanted to be a bitch.

I wanted to be the big booty ho gifted to 2 Chainz on his birthday: cinched in latex, dipped in oil and on display like an expensive art piece. The kind that get songs made about them. I wanted to piss a nigga off, like the bitches and hos Dr. Dre rapped about. Or to take all a nigga’s money, leave him singing in falsetto, like the gold diggers Kanye and Jamie Foxx sang about.

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to make men cry. I watched Solange toss up Jay Z in that elevator with a smile on my face, a twinkle in my eye and a growing warmth in my hear. I grew up watching women with animal print tattoos wave their fingers in grown men’s faces like magic wands, shrinking them down into humility. Women who could turn a $20 bill into a Saturday night out and return home to give me the same $20 bill out of a brand-new stack of cash. I studied these women like scripture—highlighted hips, annotated attitudes, cross referenced confidence. Devoted to power of pussy.

I was twenty-three years old the first time I ever made a man cry, and I’ve been chasing that high ever since. Every time I’m asked to put on a smile or a bra, an angel grows a set of wings. I am fueled by the frowns of my elders and the judgment of my peers. I like long acrylics and short tempers. I wear my nipple rings like war badges: as testaments to what I am capable of.

I never want anyone to be able to brag on my kindness. I never want to be the nicest, or the most caring, or the easiest to be around. I want to be the story that takes both lungs to tell. The destination at the end of a driveway lined with eggshells, the lesson learned the hard way. I want my absence to feel like withdrawal and my presence to demand effort. If you leave me, I want you inconvenienced. If you love me, I want you changed. Regardless, you could never meet me and remain unscathed.

I light up every room I enter the way a bomb does: intense and by nature. I am not a ray of sunshine, I am a scorching hot, summer day. The kind that gives golden tans and rosy sunburns. The kind that requires gas station ice and silent car rides. The kind that makes you strip down to survive it. The kind that’s hot den a bitch.

A man can be a slut. A whore. A dog. A player. But he could never be a bitch. He could never be a ho. Those are reserved just for us.