Not That Girl

I’ve had four relationships in my life. Started at fourteen, ended sometime in my thirties.

First, there was Earl. Then the two-year guy before Chet—his name was Bobby. Straight-up Scotian. Like, Uniacke Square Scotian—the projects.

Scotia might sound soft to you ’cause it’s in Canada and known for its beauty—but believe you me, that place ain’t no fucking joke. Some serious roughnecks, killers, and gangsters came outta there—born and raised. Sadly, I happen to know more than a few.

Kayla’s godmother had moved back to Nova Scotia, and that’s when I met him. It started out as a money-making thing. We had a mutual friend in the same line of work. It ended up being the four of us out there back in those days: Annissa, Bobby, Dougie, and me.

We’d grab food, have a few drinks after work, and I’d end up hanging out with Bobby. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was very charismatic—and he made me laugh. That alone can get a man through the front door. And it did.

Bobby and I ended up getting a place together above the convenience store at Main and Gerrard. They had apartments up there back in the early 90s and we lived there for a while. When I say a while I mean, maybe four to six months, but it felt like fucking years.

One day, he and Dougie were coming to pick us up. As they walked up, I turned to Annissa and said, “Those fucking socks! Oh my god—what am I doing with this guy?” She tried to say something nice in his defense, but come on… the fucking socks, man. Long-ass white sport socks pulled all the way up like he was about to run drills or some shit. That was his thing and I fucking hated it.

Bobby loved Kayla, right away—they were buds. He wanted this three people thing to work. I truthfully don’t think Bobby had ever been with an attractive woman before because the way he acted with me was fucking insane. And I was just average.

Bobby, very quickly became jealous—super possessive—and if he didn’t get sex when he wanted or expected it, he took it as an insult. And because I knew he would react the way he did, I wouldn’t wanna fuck him. I’d keep Kayla in the bed, and we’d cuddle and watch TV—keeping him at bay. Come morning—he’d be fucking miserable and make it known.

I went from being ignored by Earl to being accused of fucking the crosswalk guy if I took too long going to the store. I went from one extreme to the next. Both fucking mentally and emotionally abusive.

While he never hit me, Bobby scared the fuck out of me, like nobody else. He would grab me up. He would corner me. He would smash the walls. He would scream in my face. He was ten times uglier when he was like that.

I mean, he wasn’t ugly per se—tall, dark-skinned and skinny—with the long, white socks. Definitely not my usual type. He did have nice eyes, though—sexy even—and he was good in bed. So there was that.

He also had that charisma going on, but once the monster came out—he was fucking ugly. I was more afraid of him than I ever was of Chet—and Chet put his fucking hands on me.

My homegirl from Nova Scotia—Kayla’s godmother—was visiting one weekend. She came through after Bobby and I had a bad night of drinking—no sex. He also didn’t like that she was coming. Bobby was losing it, he wasn’t happy she was coming at all. I’m pretty sure he was intimidated by her, just like many others were—and jealous. He took off, all pissed off. I filled her in on what the fuck had been going on. She was like, “What!!! Fuck that shit, let’s go!”

We literally packed up that entire fucking apartment and put everything in storage. We evacuated—within five to six hours max. Gone before he got fucking home. The whole two-bedroom apartment—cleared out. Surprise, motherfucker! He had his mother and sisters coming from Nova Scotia to stay with us, the next day and I—along with all the furniture—was gone. Fucking see ya!

I wasn’t trying to get any deeper with his family than I already was. His family was all gossipy and two-faced with their hands out—that’s who they were, 100%. If you can read between these lines—it’s an if you know, you know type situation.

Kayla’s godmother went back to Nova Scotia—she was only in town for a few days, and that happened. Kayla and I really had nowhere to go. I didn’t wanna go back to Bobby or even talk to him.

I was introduced to Annissa in the early Booby days maybe even before him through a mutual friend, Stacy—a girl who used to babysit for me. Ironically, Annissa at that time was living in our old house—the three-bedroom on Oak Park. I stayed there briefly. Maybe a night or two, I can’t even remember. Bobby found out where I was and came to the house one night, making all kinds of fucking noise in the streets, talking about everything he gave me—yappa, yappa, yappa.

I took off the diamond rings, along with everything else he gave me—things I planned on pawning—and threw it all at him, right there in the fucking street. I told him to fuck off and went back inside.

Kayla and I ultimately ended up going to a shelter. We were in that shelter in Scarborough for a good few months—like six—before we got Housing. I could be swimming in money one day, fuck-all the next. That’s how hustling goes—easy come, easy go.

My girl Annissa had her own domestic shit going on. There came a time when her man went away for a bit, and she needed a place to stay—so they moved in with us. Her and her daughter, Seana. She’s the same age as Kayla. It was a great combination. Seana and Kayla became besties. Annissa and I were always cool, still to this day. Taurus–Virgo compatibility is exactly what you read about in the horoscopes. Solid. Annissa was no stranger to the hustle—making money.

I actually had a similar type of connection with the other Taurus I had in my life—Chet. The difference was, I was fucking him. And he was a piece-of-shit, just in general. Otherwise, Taurus–Virgo—earth people—we share multiple qualities.

I can truly say we’ve never had a rift. She’s always been there. She’s also been with the same man since she was 15. They’ve been through it all and are still going strong to this day. Not many people can say that.

Annissa and I hung out pretty tough in those days. Outside of Kayla’s godmother, she’s the only girlfriend in Toronto I ever made moves with. I remember it felt so weird connecting with her on that level. I was always with my homegirl. She had eyes in the back of her fucking head. We just had to look at each other and know what the other one meant. Annissa knew what time it was though, we flowed.

We also clubbed a lot. It was PWD’s in Yorkville and the after-hours, Kasey’s in Kensington, back then. Even though we were a hell of a lot younger than the pimp and hoe crowd that was up in there, we moved quite smoothly, I must say, amongst some serious fucking pimps and gangsters without getting snatched. We were pretty unsnatchable. We were 20–21, and as cute and pretty as we may have looked, there was a lot of fucking nuts going on under the pretty.

Somehow, it always ended up being me who would go to the front of the line, talk to the doorman, shoot him a few bucks, and we’d walk right in. Fuck the line-up.

Check it—all the way back to Club Z, I never had to stand in a line-up. Ever! That shit—Nope. I always knew someone or had an in. That carried on throughout my entire life. Including Vancouver—there was only one DJ that was poppin’ in those days, and I knew him from T.O. He was Earl’s homeboy. My name, plus one or two was always on the list. When I say I know people—I know a lot of fucking people.

I see line-ups these days and people standing in them and think to myself—holy fuck, wouldn’t be me! It’s almost like I have a phobia. These are not those days.

If we pulled up to a new club for the first time, and there was a line-up with some asshole bouncer or doorman being a fucking goof and we couldn’t get in the usual way—it was always a fucking scene. I went toe-to-toe with many bouncers in my day. If it wasn’t physical, I’d end up lifting up my skirt or pulling down my pants in the nastiest, rudest way possible telling them to kiss my fucking ass.

It was either smooth sailing or ugly.

I couldn’t even count how many cabs I got kicked out of back in the day—faaaak! That shit went on for years, decades even. In Vancouver, I’m pretty sure I got kicked out of every single Royal Cab in New West. There was only one company in that hood at the time. You ain’t taking me on no fucking joyride—I knew the streets. Why the fuck you going that way?! I wasn’t having it. If you’ve ever been in a cab with me, you know.

Seriously, I vividly remember a time in B.C. when I got in a cab, I told the driver which way to go while giving him directions, and he pulled over before we even went a block and said, “Get out!”

Still to this day, I struggle with my Uber rating—old habits die hard.

I was somewhat of a menace in the streets ever since I left home—not even gonna lie. I wanted to knock out whoever Earl was fucking and anyone else who might’ve stepped on my toe or was in my fucking way. I was mean, angry and had a huge chip on my shoulder. I was also a mean drunk, to say the least.

I’m certainly not proud of the way I was—not in the least. It was disgusting behavior for a young girl, no way around it. But the truth is, I was hurting. Deeply. Broken in ways I didn’t even understand at the time.

All that chaos, the fighting, the drinking, the rage—it didn’t come from nowhere. It came from pain. It came from never feeling safe, from not being seen, from having to grow up too fast in a world that didn’t give a shit about how I felt. So I lashed out. I wore the tough exterior like armor, but inside—I was a mess. I was just trying to survive.

I’ve always spoken my mind—drunk or sober. Still do. The difference now? I’m capable of considering people’s feelings before I blurt something out. Imma keep it real—if I do say something sharp, it’s intentional. It’s a jab, no need to second guess that shit. And nine times out of ten, trust—it was deserved.

That said, these days I find it easier to just remove myself from people who earn those jabs rather than lower myself to their level. Growth looks a lot like silence sometimes.

I’m not two-faced. Never was. Best believe—if I said some shit about you behind your back, it’s nothing I wouldn’t say straight to your face. I grew up in the streets—literally. Learned how to run my mouth young, and I took my beats for it too.

After living in the new apartment for a while, Bobby was back on the scene. It started with making money again—for fuck’s sake, always about the money with him. And the laughs. The sex was also there along with the familiarity.

The three of us started hustling together: just Annissa, Bobby, and me. We were making moves.

That shit didn’t last long. Annissa and I would end up with the same count every day. We were like… this motherfucker is skimming off the top. Not even just a little bit. And stupidly, too—because there’s no fucking way we’d end up with exactly and only $200 at the end of every day. Not $220 or $250—it was always $200.

I could spot a fat stack of twenties from across the room and tell you how much was in it within a bill or two. There’s no fucking way the take was only $600 every damn day.

Not sure if he was doing it to fuck me over, to be a spiteful prick, or to keep my ass at home. That shit came to an end—fuck that. We were like, nah, no thanks. Find someone else.

I ended up staying home. Bobby made all the money—exactly what he wanted. Holly-fucking-Hobby housewife.

He wanted to provide and he did. Fucking Aquarius—it would be never before I’d fuck with another.

It was in those days I learned how to cook. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when my mom was cooking growing up—I was never taught. Living with Bobby—we had food for days, months, years. Every fucking ingredient you could think of. I’d just play around in the kitchen all day long, making all sorts of different things, getting dinner ready. I’d start drinking and playing solitaire until he came home. And in the evenings, we’d drink, smoke, and fuck. That was the routine.

That shit didn’t last long either—that mundane lifestyle wasn’t for me. I’d been hustling for a long while by then. It was part of me. I was too independent. I couldn’t just sit in the fucking house.

Bobby went right back to his old ways again—or should I say same ways—jealous. But in the meantime, he was bringing me gold chains, diamond rings, perfume—lots of perfume. Leather outfits from Danier, gloves, sunglasses. Giving me a fucking allowance. Whatever he could to keep me there—he was lavishing me with gifts. But not without a hook.

He’d also take Kay’s shopping and get her whatever she wanted. He called her Kay’s—and that name stuck. All those things turned into tools for him. When he’d get mad—and it was always about the same thing—we didn’t have sex when he fucking wanted it—he’d say: "But look what I bought you… look at everything I gave you." That shit would make my skin crawl.

Listen—I love sex. Back in those days, I was a borderline sex fiend if I’m being honest—and he could fuck. That attitude though—turned me right the fuck off.

It was the weekend again—holy fuck, my weekends back then were wild. Chock-full of unwanted excitement. I almost didn’t want Kayla to go with her dad, because Bobby would never show that side when she was around. 

He said to me one night—pointing at my dresser, all the perfume bottles, my jewelry box: “Look at all the shit I’ve given you—and that’s how you do me?”

That was it. My patience with that motherfucker—and all my anger—was 100% pent up.

I slammed my arm down on the dresser, sweeping it straight across from one end to the next—I smashed everything off onto the floor. Broken glass, wet perfume everywhere—jewelry all fucking mixed in. He just stared at me with his mouth open.

Then I went over to the closet. Said, “Here—you want this shit too?” As I was throwing it all at him—”Take it all, motherfucker. I don’t want shit from you! Go fuck yourself. Take your fucking shit and get the fuck out!” He was actually shook. He left. He was definitely more scared than I was at that moment.

I never cared about that shit—clothes, maybe. But the rings? The gold? The fucking perfume? I couldn’t give two fucks. I wasn’t that girl. No man could—or would—ever control me with things.

Bobby ended up going to jail for a while. And we played that tired-ass game: “I miss you.” “Oh, I miss you too.” He got out, came back and stayed with me for a little bit. Wasn’t long before we were a fucking mess again.

Kayla’s godmother came back again from Nova Scotia for a visit. I couldn’t wait to see her. I missed my girl. I was also kind of rubbing it in his face.

Truthfully, I didn’t really have any friends while I was with Bobby—other than Annissa. And her man was back on the street, so she was off doing her own thing.

My homegirl came over, and we were catching up, laughing, just vibing. Bobby took off for a bit—but I could see the hate in his eyes when he looked at her, us together. He was jealous—straight up. She paid Bobby no mind.

Bobby came home drunk—brazen. Came at me all wild—banging on the walls, yelling, threatening me. He lost control, I say that because I know he tried fucking hard not to, he just couldn’t help it. 

I had just finished telling my homegirl what the fuck had been going on, and then he came through the door—proving every word.

He started smashing shit, blocking me between his arms on the wall, screaming in my face, spit flying everywhere. I just wanted him to go. I was done. Somehow we ended up in the bedroom. 

My homegirl was still in the living room. She was actually standing at the front door, cool as a cucumber—holding it open, letting the ruckus trickle out into the hall. Time to go. But he wasn’t leaving. 

All that racket—somebody, a neighbor I guess—called the cops. Sure as fuck wasn’t me or my homegirl. I’d take a beating before I ever called the cops. They showed up, and just like that—he calmed right the fuck down. Suddenly, he was ready to go. He wasn’t fucking with the police. He left. And that was all I wanted.

That was it for me and Bobby. Buh-bye. Good fucking riddance.

Chet was seven years older than me and in a different league—A pimp from time, though he’d somewhat hung up his belt. Well… to a degree I guess... Once a pimp, always a pimp. They’re always on the take.

I knew exactly what triggered Chet’s interest. Bobby went to Chet’s after he left my place that night, crying the blues, spilling all the beans. I’m pretty sure sex came up—something piqued Chet’s interest. Because not long after Bobby was out of the picture, I ended up with Chet that one random night… and it became a regular thing.

I know Bobby spilled—Chet fucking told me. Bobby was running his mouth and Chet just had to find out what was good. I fucking know that shit made Bobby sick. 

He went to the Godfather, crying looking for advice… And I ended up with the Godfather—Chet.

Bobby was no match for Chet. Moral of the story? Watch who you’re spilling the beans to—might just be the one who eats 'em.