Sometimes We Need A Lil Thug Loving

My usual argument is I'm not ghetto.

But I suffer and endure a love hate contrary affection to Barbadian urban men. 

In essence, I am infatuated with those thug types on the higher scale of intelligence. 

I admit it, I find them refreshingly creative, ambitious and viciously intelligent. Obviously you realize I'm not speaking about those idiots that rise at 7 am to sit on the block and watch the catties pass, who been selling 5 bags for the last 10 years and still only own the latest fashions, a few cheap hats, and a phone bought only because it can WhatsApp and share videos of sexy Bitches they dream of bulling til she ancestors weep. 

I mean the others.

 The guys who go to work. Who quick to jump in a conversation about the effect of over taxing a nation in denial about it's obvious employment dilemma (the dilemma where in the private sector, where they work, there are two options. Go to work and bust yuh ass for bosswoman peanuts, and hear how lazy black ppl are because they only putting in a 40 hour week for somebody else, at minimum wage, still got rent to pay, children to support, groceries to buy, and keep themselves looking decent, but can't start up their own lil business OR, try to start their own lil thing, but can't get legit funding because the system doesn't accommodate "niggas" with ambition, so they use what they have access to, to spring board them... Often, getting caught up in the success of the illegitimate)

Those are the men I am drawn to. So it pains me when one of the other idiots, the plebeians who so caught up in the street image, the ghetto life rhetoric, disturbs my early morning meditation with their vapid conversation starting with " u... U sexy yuh, good morning. Psssst. Psssst sexy rasta ting. Girl I would..." 

You would what, bitch?

You would what? 

Stick your dick in me the one time, in your condom filled with stone, and try to prove you're a man by moving my uterus? All the time thinking you've established something impressive? You would keep my pics to share with your boys on the block and tell them how you tore my pussy up and had me bawling? 

You would what? 

Start a conversation telling me I'm sexy, then ask me for my WhatsApp, to find out I live in convenience of you coming over and liming and getting down to putting my ankles by your ears on my own bed so you don't have to worry about the fact that you don't even own a bed? 

Where's the rest of the package? Where's the depth of character?? All you lil hebitches doing the same thing, looking just like each other, with your washcloths tied under your chins, in your tight cut off jeans, and light wife beaters, corner of the washcloth between your teeth, pulled down over your faces, hiding the insecurities of being lost little boys, struggling to find manhood. 

Yet, not realizing that your brothers, who sit on the very same block, under the very same shed, playing the very same spades at 11pm, smoking the same weed you sell, in their muted fashionable clothing, laughing as you whip out your phone to show them my picture, and tell them how you would make me hear... Not realizing those same brothers, putting in the work to undo your fucking failings. 

They hate to read just as much as you do, so they watch YouTube. The learn how to do whatever, they find documentaries, they know how to start a conversation or join one, and they know how to talk dirty just like you. 

They have all intentions of getting into a woman's panties, right after they get into her mind. 

Yet, fuckboys, every single time one of you open your fucking mouthes, you force the street men, the educated thugs, backward by 3 fucking steps. 

So I'm asking on behalf of those of us women who love the "street niggas" who know what the fucking word vapid actually means, that you little, insignificant, twat swoggling, single celled testicular mishaps ease the fuck up on the opening of your mouthes. 

Sit the fuck down, Hebitch. Shut the fuck up, fuckboy. 

I'm tryna see that smart thug behind you. With yuh loud rasshole.