sweatin the small stuff..........from the archives
Disclaimer: the below post doesn’t advocate prostitution or the slapping around of whores. The below post doesn’t advocate the use of whores as material objects or the use of said whores as money making devices.
The author of the post even though he has been known to hang out with the whores doesn’t encourage “pimping” or “big pimpin” or “player” as a lucrative job skill.
The author of the below post does want to you to be aware that pimpin ain’t easy, and the term “bitch better have my money” should never be used around your mother, wife, girlfriend, or any other woman without knowledge of the serious repercussions that may befall you.
Such as getting your cock kicked in till it pokes out your ass, getting snatched up in here, and the infamous, slapped around till you cry like the little bitches you are.
The other night I watched the movie “American Pimps”. It was cool putting faces with some of the names that I’d been hearing about for years. Back in the day when hookers ran heavy thru Westport I used to be on speaking terms with some of the pimps that worked the midtown area and as a kid I was on and off employed by a pimp named Ray that worked near my old block.
He was a cool old guy if kind’a nefarious and shit, had himself a fish market out south in Swope Park that he ran with two of his brothers. I helped keep the place clean and did the odd errand every so often. Ray always kept his shit to the nines and after the store closed I’d sit around as him and his brothers got all cleaned up to go out. Or as Ray would say, “get cleaner then a room full of big city clap doctors.”
They would always tell me that they were going to check the string and shake out their bitches. Ray was from the Mississippi Delta and spoke this strange mush mouth English.
He was tall and slender and had four or five gold teeth with the diamonds insets and always wore his hair slicked back looking like James Brown. Every time he saw a good looking women he’d always say that he either had her on his string or was gonna put her on his string.
I’d ask him what his string was and he’d tell me that what he called his working bitches. During the week he’d work his third and second string and on the weekends he’d put out what he called his first string. Myself, I couldn’t tell the difference. I thought they all were gorilla ugly but then again I was young and most of em seemed to be damn near my mother’s age.
Whenever they came into the store old Ray would holler out for me to get his bitch a catfish sammich and a cold soda pop. He actually had a sky blue Caddie with the rear window all vinyl’ed out in the shape of a diamond.
He had to be the only cat I’d ever seen with a fuzzy steering wheel that made it look cool. But every Sunday Ray would gather up all his bitches and head off to church. “Have to keep the bitches grounded” he’d say. I just think old Ray believed in working the long stroke. Here’s up to all the old Pimps.
"and the monkey flipped the switch"