Daddy Long Stroke (20 page)

I need a fuckin' blunt.
I snatch up the half-smoked blunt in the ashtray, and spark up. I yell at her through the door. “I said I'll be out in a minute. So stop bangin' on my muthafuckin' door.”

“Well, hurry up.”

I finish gettin' my smoke on. Then when I'm done, I open the door—ten minutes later—and this pigeon is still standin' in the same spot wit' her arms folded. I lock the door, closin' it behind me. “Aiight, let's talk,” I say to her, brushin' past her goin' toward the stairs. She follows behind me. Now, had I been thinkin', I woulda had her go down the stairs—first, just in case she had a weapon and tried to stab or shoot me in the back, feel me? The bitch is one screw from crazy so anything is possible wit' her. But I'm so pressed to get this ho outta the house in case she goes off and starts bustin' up shit that I jump dead in front of her and race down the stairs.

I open the front door. “Let's sit outside and talk.”

“Why can't we talk in here?” she questions, stoppin' in the middle of the livin' room and puttin' her hand up on her hip.

'Cause I wanna talk to ya unstable ass outside on the muthafuckin'
porch in front of witnesses, that's why.
“'Cause I need some fresh air,” I tell her, double-checkin' my front pocket to make sure I have my cell on me. I stand wit' the door open, waitin' for her ass to walk out. I'm relieved when she does.

I step down from offa the porch, then take a seat. She decides to stand in front of me wit' her arms folded tight 'round her chest, like she's scared to let sumthin' go.

“Okay, so talk,” I say, ice-grillin' her.

“I wanna know why you stopped calling and returning my calls?”

Umm, you dizzy-ass ding bat that should be obvious: 'Cause ya ass is muthafuckin' craaaaazy!
I sigh. “It wasn't workin' out.”

“Oh really, since when?”

What the fuck?!
Uh, duh, since I stopped callin' ya dumb, lazy, dick-suckin' ass.
“Look, like I said, it wasn't workin' out.”

“Humph. Mighty funny it was workin' out when I was lettin' you ride around in my car and come in and outta my apartment, but the minute I check you on something, it's not ‘working out.'”

“No, the minute you tried to get at me on some rah-rah type shit, throwin' ashtrays 'n shit. That's when it was no longer workin'. I ain't wit' all that extra ghetto bullshit.”

“So, you just stop fucking with me, instead of talking it out.”

I tilt my head. Stare at this fuckin' broad long and hard. “Are you serious? Talk what out? A muhfucka who's tryna build wit' ya ass is talkin' it out, not a nigga who is straight smashin' you.”

I feel my cell vibratin' and pull it outta my pocket. Lahney texts me: Cum through and ram that big, black cock up in me.

“I let you into my heart and this is how you fucking treat me…”

I text back: LOL, you don't really want it. This dick'll have ya ass cryin' again.

She sucks her teeth. “I can't believe you'd pull out your fucking phone and start texting while I'm standing here trying to talk to you. How fucked up is that?”

Lahney texts: Whateva, punk! U cumming to beat this pussy up or what.

I shrug. “You tell me. You the one actin' like a desperate housewife, huntin' a nigga down 'n shit.”

She tsks me. “Desperate? Nigga, puhleeeze. I'm coming to you like a grown woman, trying to resolve whatever has gone wrong between us.”

I text Lahney back: Yeah, I got ya punk, aiight. 11.5-inches worth. What time u want it?

I look at Sherria. “Yo, check this out. There's nuthin' to resolve. How many times I gotta tell you, there was no
us
. We was
fuckin
', that's it. You wasn't my girl. I wasn't ya man. And I never promised you a future wit' a rose garden. It was straight dickin' you down. If you allowed ya'self to catch feelin's, then that shit's on you. So don't come at me wit' all the extras. If you wanna come at me like a woman, then take it for what it was, a fuck. And…step.”

Lahney texts: NOW!

“I know all that. But still, I thought you were different.”

I look out into the street, let what she's said linger in the air, while she's standin' in front of me lookin' all pathetic 'n shit.
I thought you were different.
I almost wanna laugh at her ass. Hell yeah, I'm muthafuckin' different! Let's see. I ain't ever spit on her, smack her up, or use her face and body as an ashtray, puttin' cigarettes 'n shit out on her. I ain't ever fuck her sister—not that I would 'cause the bitch looks handicapped to me. I know, I know, you think a muhfucka like me will fuck anything. Well, news-flash: A nigga got standards. I might fuck a buncha hoes, but a bitch who looks like she belongs in the Special Olympics ain't my flava, feel me?

So what if I took her whip and dipped off to get my dick piped out? The first time I did the shit and didn't come back 'til two hours later, she shoulda made it her business to not give me her
keys again. And that goes for the three other times. But she didn't. And so what if I ran her wallet? She bought what she wanted to buy. I never pressed her for shit. She tried to buy my attention and she wanted to have this dick at whatever costs. No chick wit' an ounce of common sense is gonna keep lettin' a muhfucka keep takin' from her. But she did, so it is what it is.

I text back: Give me an hour. Then bring my attention back to Sherria. I can tell she's strugglin' to keep herself from blowin' her top. And, on some real shit, I'm glad as hell that I got her ass outside in broad daylight wit' neighbors 'n shit 'round to be witness to anything she might try 'n do. Don't get shit twisted. I'm not scared of
her,
but I am scared of what the fuck I'ma do if she does try to set it off.

Lahney texts: See u then. Oh, and bring da Magnums. I'm all out.

This trick-ass,
I think, placin' my phone back in my pocket.
I'm not fuckin' wit' her today.

I look her dead in her eyes, then finally say, “Well, I'm not.”

She looks hurt, shiftin' from one foot to the other. “I hope you know you're real fucked up.”

I stand up. Brush the back of my sweats off. “Okay, so now that you know that, there's no need to keep wastin' my time or yours.” I reach into my pants pocket, pull out my keys, remove her house-key from 'round my key ring, then hand it to her. She stares at my hand before snatchin' it from my hand. I frown. “Is there sumthin' else?”

She glares at me. Starts breathin' heavy, fightin' back what looks to be tears in her eyes. Or a rageful fit. “Yeah, motherfucker,” she snarls through clenched teeth, “You ain't shit, you arrogant bastard!”

Before I can catch myself, I snap, “Bitch, you snore, and you leave your muthafuckin' raggedy-ass panties in the middle of the fuckin' floor, but you tryna come at my neck. Fuck outta here.”

“Fuck you! I hate your ass!”

I shrug, walkin' back inside the house. “You don't hate me, baby. You hate yourself,” I say, shuttin' the door behind me, leavin' her standin' there lookin' wounded and lost.

Two hours later, I get back from smashin' Lahney out. Yeah, I know I said I wasn't fuckin' wit' her today, but a hard-ass dick will change a muhfucka's mind in a heartbeat. So I went over and served her up some dick, then dipped. Fuck all that layin' 'round, cuddlin' up shit wit' her ass. She wasn't hittin' a nigga wit' no paper, so there was definitely no need for any extended stays. Feel me? But, as I was leavin', she caught me off guard when she slid me a key to her spot.

“What's this for?” I asked her as she handed them to me.

“It's for here. I want you to be able to come through anytime you want.”

“Oh, word? Why?”

“Because I'm hoping one day I walk through the door and you'll be standing here in the middle of the living room butt naked, holding your hard dick in your hand waiting for me.”

I grinned, unzippin' my jeans and slippin' my hand down in my underwear. “Is that so?”—I pull out my dick and stroke it—“Well, how 'bout we get started now.” Needless to say, she dropped down low and let it do what it do, milkin' my dick wit' her mouth, then finally gulpin' down a rich, creamy nut.

Anyway, I'm up in my room loungin' in a pair of black boxer briefs and a black wife beater, gettin' ready to watch
Alphabet Killer
when my cell rings. I think to ignore the shit, but decide to grab it off the nightstand and check to see who's tryna get at me.

“Oh, shit!” I snap, peepin' the caller ID, “I ain't heard from this cat in a minute.” It's my boy, Red. Yo, this nigga right here's
been my muthafuckin' dude since eighth grade, word up. Dude is one of the coolest cats I know. And the nigga bags almost as much pussy as me. That's 'cause he's one of them light, pretty-boy muhfuckas wit' all that wavy hair them bitches be fallin' over. And the nigga be pimpin' the shit outta 'em. He got bitches takin' numbers, and standin' in line, to get at his dick. Well, he used to. I'm not sure how the nigga's movin' now that he's all hugged up wit' his shorty.

Growin' up we'd blaze trees, and I'd watch him get bent offa forties 'n shit while we puffed L's. We'd call up a few hot-in-the-ass hoes and sneak 'em down into his basement, then fuck 'em all night. He'd be diggin' one bitch's back out on the plaid sofa, and I'd be on the other side of the room dickin' down the other on the twin mattress he'd pull out and put down on the floor. Then we'd switch hoes and start rockin' 'em all over again. Or we'd bang the same bitch after she sucked both our dicks. And the wild shit is, we'd go up in them hoes straight raw. Man, listen… we was like fourteen and was some wild, reckless, horny-ass muhfuckas back then. But, after we both got burned and crabbed out by this dirty bitch, LaTonya, we started strappin' up. And bein' more selective. That ho had the whole block on fire. Good pussy or not, that syphilis and crab scare was all we needed to fuck more responsibly, feel me? Fuck what ya heard. A drippin', itchy-ass dick ain't a good look!

“Yo, what's good wit' ya punk ass?”

“This dick in ya mom's throat, nigga,” he says, laughin'. “What's poppin' wit' you?”

“My nut in ya aunt's eye, muhfucka,” I joke back.

“Yo,” he says, laughin'. “You stupid-as-hell nigga, word up. So, what's good? How you?”

“Chillin', chillin'. You know how I do. What's good wit' you? You still kickin' it wit' that honey down in Maryland?”

“Yeah, man. We still doin' the damn thang. Ole girl done got a nigga hangin' up his pimp shoes 'n shit.”

“Get the fuck outta here. She got you on lock like that?”

“Word is bond. I tossed out my booty-call book and the bat phone for this one.”

I almost drop my cell. I can't believe what the fuck I'm hearin'. Like me, this nigga has never been a one pussy-type of nigga. “Get the fuck outta here! Say word.”

“On e'erything I love,” he tells me.

“Awwww, damn,” I say, pausin'. I'm still tryna absorb what he's said. “Nigga, you serious?”

“You heard me. I had my other phone line disconnected, shut down my BlackPlanet and Myspace pages, and closed all my porn site accounts.”

“Damn, dude. Sounds like she put that cock clamper down on ya.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I can't front. My baby shut shit down, son. Gotta nigga thinkin' 'bout the future 'n shit, something I never did before. Real talk, it's a wrap, son. A nigga's done fuckin' wit' all that pussy chasin'.”

“Yo, son, you talkin' 'bout givin' up a smorgasbord of hot pussy at ya disposal. You sure you wanna walk away from it?”

“Yo, most def. On some real shit, man. I'd be thrashin' that ass and bustin' shit down and after I finished nuttin', I'd still want something more.”

I laugh. “Like what, nigga, more pussy?”

“Nah, my dude,” he says, pausin'. “Well, at first, yeah. I thought that's what it was. But, once a muhfucka took a hard look at himself and got honest, I realized it wasn't the pussy I wanted more of. It was more of someone; maybe not that particular someone. But definitely someone I could vibe with, and one day build with, feel me?”

Keepin' shit real, I couldn't relate to shit he was sayin'. Not that I didn't want to, I just wasn't able to. Wantin' sumthin' other than pussy, head and a ho's paper wasn't ever anything I gave thought to. Nor has it ever been sumthin' that consumed me. Fuckin' a broad, yeah; buildin' wit' her ass, nope!

I say, “I hear you. But, yo, man…I'm shocked as hell hearin' this shit come from outta ya mouth, for real, yo.”

He chuckles. “Man, listen…I'm shocked my damn self. On some real shit, I never thought I'd ever feel this way 'bout a chick. But, Coletta's different. She holds a nigga down. She's loyal, and the best part is, I
know
she loves a nigga.”

The way he talks, he sounds happy as hell. And on some real shit, I find myself smilin'—happy for my nigga, too. “That's wassup,” I tell him. “I'm happy for you, man.”

“'Preciate that, playa. Don't worry, your turns comin', dawg.”

“Not if I can help it,” I tell 'im. “I like my freedom too much.”

“Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. Talk that shit now. You just haven't run up on the right one, yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever, nigga. So what's next?” I ask, changin' the subject.

“Actually, that's the reason I was callin' you. I'ma ask my girl to marry me on Christmas Eve. And I want you as my best man when we tie the knot.”

My mouth drops open. “Say word, nigga!”