Daddy Long Stroke (31 page)

I think 'bout havin' her slumped over the railin', slidin' this dick in and outta her. I grab my shit and stroke it. Get it slightly hard.
Yeah, I'm out here nude, and? I'm on the thirty-first floor. So it is what it is. I try to imagine livin' out here on the West Coast. Try to visualize bein' thousands of miles away from Jersey and New York. Funny thing, I can't. I dig L.A. wit' all of its palm trees, glitz and beautiful weather, but it lacks the kinda fast-paced swagger I'm used to. Although I know I could bag a slew of hoes out here, a muhfucka like me would become bored and homesick real fast.

On the way here from the airport, Cherry was beatin' me in the head 'bout movin' out here, talkin' 'bout she'd give me my space and let me parlay here at this spot, and she'd move back into her crib over in Santa Monica. All she wanted from me is this dick on-call. Yeah, it sounded all good—and if I was a weak-type cat, I'd probably take her up on it, but that shit would never work for a muhfucka like me. Livin' in someone else's shit and then haveta adhere to some kinda expectations and rules, nah… never that. And I'll be damned if I ever give a ho the chance to put me out on the streets. So I told her, “Thanks, but no thanks, baby. I'll fly in as needed.”

I go back in to take a shower, but peek in on Cherry and change my mind. Seein' her lyin' in her nakedness bricks my dick. I climb back in bed. Spoon behind her, kiss her on the back of her neck, on her shoulders. She stirs, opens her eyes and cranes her head to face me. “Mmmm,” she coos. “I've missed you.”

“I've missed you, too, baby,” I say, rollin' a condom on. I lift her leg, then slowly slide my dick back into her still wet pussy. I fuck her nice 'n slow. Torture her with unhurried strokes for forty-three minutes 'til we both nut, and fall off to sleep.

“C'mon, sleepyhead,” Cherry says, gently shakin' me to get up. “Let's go grab a bite to eat.” I stretch and yawn, lookin' 'round the room. She's hoverin' over me wit' her cell in her hand. She's
already showered and dressed in a white linen wrap dress that stops to her ankles and a pair of orange strappy heels. Of course, top-of-the-line shit. Still, I'm lookin' at her like, “What the fuck?” But it dawns on me that I'm in southern California, so what she has on is what's poppin' for out here. And I can't front, she's lookin' real sexy.

“Yo, what time is it?” I ask, grabbin' and pullin' at my dick, stretchin' my legs out. She tells me it's almost five-thirty. I let out a loud groan, lyin' in bed a few more minutes before I finally sit up. Between the flight and fuckin', I'm whipped. “Damn, that pussy knocked me the hell out.”

She laughs. “Yeah, and it had you snorin', too.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, tossin' a pillow at her. “Get the fuck outta here wit' that.” She tosses the pillow back, badgerin' me to get up 'cause we have dinner reservations for seven o'clock. Her cell rings, she glances at the screen, then answers.

“'Cuse me, I gotta take this call,” she says, walkin' toward the door. “It's one of my property managers.”

I glance at the clock on her nightstand. “Oh, fuck,” I say aloud, yawnin'. “I just wanna stay in fuckin' bed.” I flop back on the pillows, pullin' the sheets up over my head. I can't front, this bed feels fuckin' good. It feels like I'm lyin' on a bed of cottonballs. And her one-thousand thread-count sheets feel good against my naked body. I yank the covers back and get outta bed before I end up fallin' back to sleep. I walk into the bathroom, take a piss, then hop in the shower. When I finally walk into the livin' room dressed in a pair of MEK jeans, a thin-fitted black knit pullover and a pair of black Prada loafers, Cherry is sittin' on a stool patiently waitin' on me. She smiles.

“You are one sexy chocolate man,' she says, gettin' up, grabbin' her oversized pocketbook and keys. “And I can't wait to get back here so I can finish fucking the shit outta you.”

I grin. “You ain't said nuthin' but a word. Hell, we can order in, and let it do what it do right now. It makes me no never mind, baby. I'm loaded wit' nuts, and they all got ya name on 'em.”

“And when we get back,” she says, switchin' toward the door, “I want every last creamy drop.” I follow behind her, shakin' my head.

Of course, Cherry doesn't tell me where we're goin' to eat. And I don't ask. Between you and me, I'm too damned jet-lagged to care. But, wherever it is, I already know it's gonna be some high-end spot that is probably extremely overpriced and not worth all the hype. But, hey, I'm not the one footin' the bill. While we're drivin', we talk some, but mostly listen to the radio. I find myself takin' in all the scenery along Rodeo Drive. She makes a turn onto Wilshire Boulevard. When we finally turn into Spago Beverly Hills, we pull up to the entrance for valet parkin' and get out, then make our way inside. It's packed as hell up in this piece. I look 'round the room. In the far right corner, I spot Angela Bassett sittin' at a table wit' two other chicks.
Damn, she looks good
, I think, catchin' Cherry starin' at me. She smiles. “She bought her last two homes from me,” she says, leanin' in and lowerin' her voice. “She's a real sweetheart. Would you like to meet her?”

“Nah, I'm good,” I tell her. Now had it been my girls Beyoncé or Halle—even Nia Long, I'da been like, “Hell muthafuckin' yeah!” But, Angela Bassett, umm, no thanks! Now, hol' up…I'm not sayin' I wouldn't bang her back out 'cause you already know what it is. She catches Angela's eye and waves at her.

“I'll be right back,” she tells me, walkin' off. She heads over to her table. Angela stands up and the two of them hug as if they're old friends. Angela introduces her to e'eryone else at the table. They exchange a few more words, then I peep Cherry goin' into her bag pullin' out business cards and handin' them out. Then some white cat gets up from his table and greets her. He kisses her,
then Angela, on the cheek. I know I've seen dude somewhere, but can't put my finger on it. They talk a few more minutes, then she follows him over to his table. He introduces her to e'eryone there. And, again, she goes into her bag and starts handin' out cards. I grin.
Get that paper, baby,
I think, pullin' out my cell. I decide to check my messages.

“You have twenty new messages.” I sigh, waitin' for the first message to play.
“Hello, Alley Cat. This is Marissa. Doctor Sweet Pussy. I'm ready to meet up.” Yeah, I bet you are. Now your ass's gonna haveta wait 'til I'm ready to feed you this dick.
I delete.

The next message is from Sherria.
“Call me.” Bitch, you fuckin' crazy!
I delete it.

“I miss you. And I hate myself for allowing you into my life. But I hate you even more for having me feel this way, you black, selfish-ass motherfucker! I hope you die, you piece of shit!”
This bullshit-ass mess is from Ramona. The last time I spoke to this ho is when she called me a while back talkin' that ‘I'm pregnant' shit. And I stopped fuckin' her months before that. She needs to let go, word up.
This bitch is
really
fuckin' crazy
. I decide to save it; just in case sumthin' pops off.

“
Hey, it's Falani. I thought I woulda heard from you after our three-some. Hit me up as soon as you get this.”

“Alley Cat, it's ya girl, Electra. You stood me up, punk! Stop playin' games and bring ya ass to Brooklyn so I can super soak that dick. Get at me when you can.”
I grin, pressin' “seven” to save.

“Hey, sexy man, it's Lydia. I'm hopin' to get some private time with you real soon. You know Falani's feelin' some kinda way that you haven't called her since the other night, and she's been actin' kinda shady toward me”
—she laughs—
“I think she knows I slid you my number. Oh, well. She'll get over it. Call me. By the way, I still would love to bend you over and fuck your tight, muscular ass with my strap-on. All you gotta
do is say the word.”
—she laughs, again—
“There's nothing like turning a masculine man into my little whore-bitch, baby.”

I crack the hell up laughin'. Yo, think what you like, but after that ep wit' her and Falani, I was tryna figure out how I could get at her wit'out straight up dissin' Falani. So, when she slid me her digits on the low, I already knew what it was. And damn straight, the minute I get a chance to, I'ma give her all the private time she needs. But the freak-nasty bitch'll never run anythin' up in my ass 'cept her muthafuckin' long-ass tongue, real talk.

“Alley Cat, where are you? I'm at the airport waiting on you. Did something happen? Call me.” Oh, shit,
I think.
I was supposed to be in Atlanta. Damn!
I totally forgot to call Vita to let her know that I wasn't gonna be comin' out there; that there was an unexpected change of plans, resultin' in wetter pussy and deeper pockets.
Damn!
She's left eleven more messages, each one soundin' more frantic. The last one sent thirty minutes ago sounded like she had been drinkin' 'cause the bitch was straight wildin'.
“Goddamn you, you black motherfucker! You didn't have to dis me like that. Why the fuck did you have me pay for a goddamn plane ticket and you weren't gonna use it?! The least you coulda done was called me, you thoughtless bastard! You ain't shit, motherfucker! You're just like the rest of these sorry-ass niggas.” Click.

I should be on some “fuck her”-type shit, but I won't 'cause it was foul on my part to do her like that. And she's right, I shoulda at least hit her up and told her what it was. I decide not to do her dirty and call—
tomorrow.
I delete the messages.

“Alex, it's your mother. You know. The one who gave birth to you; the one you forget to call.”
I smile, shakin' my head. I delete the message, makin' a mental note to hit her up later, if it's not too late.

“Yo, what's good, son? It's Gee, nigga. Hit me up when you get this.”

I finish listenin' to my other messages, watchin' Cherry as she
makes her way back over to me. She apologizes for leavin' me hangin'. But I'm cool wit' it. I ask her who that white dude was and she says all nonchalant, “Oh, that was Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Oh shit, dude who played in
Blood Diamond
.” She nods. “I knew he looked familiar.” Now a muhfucka ain't never been starstruck, but I can't front. I was impressed. I knew Cherry was out here doin' it big, but I had no idea she was fuckin' wit' the celebrities like this. Most of the time when I'm here, we don't go out; we're layed up fuckin' for three days, then I bounce.

After 'bout fifteen minutes of waitin', we're finally seated out on the patio, which is kinda cool 'cause the tables aren't as bunched together like the rest of the tables in here. Man, listen, I can't stand eatin' somewhere feelin' like the muhfucka next to me can reach over into my plate. When the maitre d' comes to our table, Cherry orders a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of Bordeaux. She's the only one drinkin', so why the fuck she didn't just order a glass of wine instead of a whole damn bottle is beyond me. I keep my mouth shut. Let her do her. While she's lookin' over the menu, I glance 'round the room, takin' in the decor. Now I ain't a Martha Stewart-type cat, but this spot needs a serious makeover. All the shit up in here seems outdated, like they're scared to let go of the nineties or sumthin'.

Outta the corner of my eye, I peep this beauty breeze by our table, but outta respect for Cherry I don't turn to see who it is or how that ass is shakin'. Besides, at the moment, it doesn't really matter.
I need a damn blunt
. Cherry knows I blaze, but she ain't havin' that shit 'round her, which is probably why I only stay no more than two days a pop when I come out here. How the hell I'ma go two weeks wit'out sparkin' an L, is beyond me. Not that I can't do it. I don't want to. Big difference, feel me?

I bring my attention to Cherry. Stare at her. I can't front, she's
one classy-type chick. She fucks good, looks good, gotta bangin' body, and makes major moves. And if she didn't have so much damn forehead, wasn't stuck on wearin' weaves 'n shit, and knew howta suck dick, she'd be a ten, hands down.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, lookin' up from her menu

“I'm good, baby; just checkin' things out.” I wink at her.

She smiles. “And do you like what you see?”

“Oh, no doubt,” I tell her.

“Good. So do you know what you want to eat?”

“Nah, what do you suggest?” She recommends the lobster and spinach raviolinis in a cream sauce. What the fuck?! I frown, shakin' my head. She chuckles, then suggests I try one of the pork, chicken or fish dishes.

“I gotta use the bathroom,” I say, gettin' up, “You order for me; make it sumthin' simple. No pork or beef, though.” She tells me she'll order me the halibut and seasoned vegetables. “Oh, aiight, cool.”

When I get to the bathroom, I do what I gotta do, then wash my hands. I glance at my watch and decide to hit mom dukes up real quick. I call her on the house phone, and she answers on the third ring.

“Glad you remembered my number,” she says sarcastically. “I wasn't sure if you needed me to leave it for you or not.”

“Ma, go 'head wit' that,” I say, chucklin'. “You my number one girl. You know I know how to get at you. Is e'erything aiight? You good?”

“Humph, that's what you say. Actions speak louder than words, though. But to answer your question, I'm good. I'm just making sure you are.”

“Oh, no doubt. I'm chillin',” I tell her while checkin' myself out in the mirror. Although I usually keep my face smooth-shaven,
I'm kinda diggin' the five-o'-clock-shadow thing I got goin' on.
Damn, you'se a fine, chocolate muhfucka!
Hell, yeah, I'm in love wit' myself. Why the fuck shouldn't I be? What, you think I'm 'posed to stand 'round wit' my dick in my hand, waitin' for someone else to love me? Yeah, right. Picture that shit! If I don't love me, then how the hell can someone else? That's the problem wit' some of these dumb-ass muhfuckas and hoes out here. They always lookin' and expectin' love from someone else. Then they wonder why they end up in fucked-up situations, and don't know howta get the fuck outta 'em.