Sierra Rogers

"A closed mouth doesn't get fed." That's the motto which I lived by daily. A chick like me was hungry for the glamour life that regular bitches only dreamed of. I knew I was from a different caliber the second I, Sierra Rogers, entered this wicked world.

I was born and raised in Creighton Court Projects in Richmond, Virginia. My hood was known as one of the grimiest hoods on the city's East End. The niggas that repped Creighton were known for wreaking havoc all over the city of Richmond.

There were three types of folks that were eating well in my hood: the hustlers slinging them rocks, the stickup kids that were robbing the drug dealers, and the whores that were selling their pussy.

Life was hard from the get-go; I had to fend for myself at a young age. I got hip to the fact that Momma was a certified crackhead from the terrible things the kids would say to me on the playground and also hearing the dope boys cussing her out for their money.

I was a little over seventeen years old when Momma decided she'd had enough of being a sorry-ass parent. I remembered coming home from school and seeing two garbage bags packed with all the clothing she owned. I didn't bother to ask no question; this had become a regular stunt. She'd disappear for a few days, and then pop right back up without explanation. I winched as she planted a kiss on my forehead.

Somehow, tears welled up in my eyes, and I opened my mouth to say, "Momma, don't go," but the sounds never came out. Who was I fooling but my damn self? I couldn't wait for that no-good bitch to get on about her business. Then I could finally get some peace and quiet in my tumultuous life.

As I think back on how much I hated that bitch, it made my stomach turn. Lately, she was getting on my damn nerves with all that pacing back and forth that she did when she was geeking off that crack. And I was definitely sick of all the different tricks she'd brought home every night. I'd put my head underneath the pillow, trying my best to block out the disturbing sounds. The thin wall that separated our bedrooms wasn't enough to shield my tender ears from being exposed to hearing all the fucking and sucking that was taking place in the next room. That goes to show the little respect that Jeanette Rogers had for her teenage daughter.

* * *

This time was different though, 'cause it's been five years and four months, and Momma was still MIA. I couldn't help but wonder what the fuck happened to her. Then again, the bitch didn't give a flying fuck about her only seed, so fuck her!

I became a sole survivor; didn't have the guidance and structure that a young female growing up in the project needed. I made a mental note that I was going to get mines at any means necessary. I was blessed with a banging body. Five foot five, 143 pounds, proportioned out in all the right angles, skin as smooth as a newborn baby's ass, and a cute face. People say I resemble Nia Long, the actress. I believe my most valuable asset is my apple bottom ass. It's like a Bam! in your face kind of booty. Hmm ... I hate to sound conceited, but I'll be the first one to tell you, I'm every nigga's dream and every bitch's nightmare.

I wasn't attracted to the younger heads. I've been around them long enough to know their MO. All they wanted was to hit and run and tell their boys. I skipped over the flunkies and headed straight to the top niggas in charge; they had nice rides and long pockets. With my sexy body and my sharp mouthpiece, I had no trouble reeling them into my life. This popping pussy got me not one, not two, but three high-paid sugar daddies taking care of me financially.

See, the thing with an older hustler, if you are a chick with a tight pussy and you are fucking and sucking him the right way, he has no limit on how much money he spends on you. That's just a way of securing the pussy so you won't fuck the next baller that's trying to get in.

* * *

As I got older, I knew that even with a nice body like mines, I would need something to back it up. See, pussy was like an elastic band; after a little wear and tear, it loses its grip. Plus, I didn't want to become a statistic — young, black female knocked up having four or five different baby daddies. Hell, nah! I was striving for the top spot — wifey — it was that simple.

I enrolled in Johnson's Beauty School on Second Street, and eighteen months later, I got my beautician's license. It didn't take long to secure me a chair at one of Richmond's most elite spots, International House of Beauty. It was a full-line salon. I knew the owner, Charley. He was also from Creighton, so he happily took me under his wing.

I took my skills to the shop and started killing it, from finger waves to Chinese buns and quick weaves. I even had something for the guys too. Living in the projects had its upside because bitches stayed broke all week, but always managed to trick the money up to get their wig fixed on the weekend, just in time for the club.

Alijah Jackson

I was born a hustler. Since the age of two, I was hustlin' Mom-dukes for five dollars to takin' bottles to the shop for the refund money. I even hustled the old heads for ice-cream money.

I knew that I had unique skills growing up, 'cause when boys my age were out playing soccer or baseball, I'd be pushing a handcart filled with mangoes to the nearby market. I'd get my grind on. It didn't matter that I was missing out on hanging with my homies, 'cause after a long day at the market, I headed home with a pocket filled with money. I'd hit Mom-dukes off, then placed the rest underneath my mattress.

* * *

I was born and raised in Tivoli Gardens in Kingston, Jamaica. Most refer to this area as "Tha Garden." Don't be fooled. This name didn't come about because all the flowers that were planted there; it's more like all the bodies that were droppin' due to the brutal murders that were taking place.

Crime became part of our everyday living. Murders and robberies became regular news in the community. A lot of people lost hope a long time ago; some turned into bums, while others turned to drugs and alcohol. The younger heads turned to selling drugs or slinging guns.

* * *

My mom happened to be one of the lucky ones that didn't become a victim of her environment. See, Mom-dukes ain't no slouch. She wanted more outta life for us, so with the help of family, we moved to the land of freedom — the Great USA. We moved to Mount Vernon, New York. Life was a lot different from back home. My mom got her a job which allowed us to keep a roof over our head and save a little for a rainy day.

However, crime was the same. The corners were crowded with the thugs tryin'a get their hustle on, and I became fascinated with the niggas that were slinging dope and driving flashy rides and getting all the bitches. I knew that'd be me one day. I dropped out of school and started working on my illegal mentality. I saved my allowance up, and at sixteen, I copped my first eight ball of crack for a buck twenty-five. I got cool with Darryl, an older cat that lived in my building. He was already a vet in the game, so he schooled me on how to cut and bag up dimes of crack. It didn't take long for me to get the hang of things. I went from copping eight balls to ozes in no time.

I was shocked at how much paper we were making in that small-ass town. We became partners and had...