Daddy Long Stroke

6

I finish my shower, dry myself off, then walk back into the room I grew up in as a teenager. Although I painted and piped the shit out wit’ a king-size bed, Bose sound system and a Toshiba flat-screen TV, it’s still a lil’- ass room for a grown-ass man. But, it is what it is. ’Cause like I said, ain’t no bitch comin’ up in my spot tryna bring da noise. And I ain’t payin’ for no muthafuckin’ motel room. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out the five hunnid I got from Falani’s ass last night—well, early this mornin’, then the three hunnid Electra laced me wit’, puttin’ it wit’ the paper Akina hit me wit’. Thirteen hunnid tax-free dollas in less than twenty-four hours, I think, ploppin’ ’cross the bed. Not bad for a nigga. “Oh, shit,” I snap, reachin’ over and grabbin’ my cell off the nightstand. “I betta call this bitch and let her know I’ma be comin’ through tomorrow.” I glance at the digital clock: 12:30 P.M. “Her lil’ ass betta pick up.” I dial the number. And after five rings, she answers.

“Hello?” she says in her squeaky-ass voice, soundin’ like she’s been suckin’ on helium or some shit. The shit’s fuckin’ annoyin’ as hell. But based on the flicks she’s been sendin’, she’s finer than a muhfucka; pretty cocoa-brown skin, big brown eyes, thick hips, and a nice phatty. And, yes, a nigga tryna bury his dick all up in that shit, real talk. She claims she used to be a dancer at some titty spot in downtown Atlanta, so I’m expectin’ this bitch to give me more than one front-row viewin’, feel me?

“Yo, what’s good, ma?”

“Who’s this?”

Now I know this dumb ho has caller ID, so why the fuck is she askin’ who it is? Alexander the Great, Bitch! “Alley Cat.”

“Who?”

I suck my teeth. “Daddy Long Stroke from offa Myspace.”

“Oh, heeeeey, baby.” I roll my eyes up in my head. What a fuckin’ reject!

“Did you get my note? I left you one last night, asking you to call me ’cause I lost all the numbers I had in my phone.”

“Nah, I ain’t get that shit. I haven’t been on that piece in a few days.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw when I went to your page.”

Nosey, bitch! She was probably checkin’ to see what other bitches hit my page up ’n shit.

“So, dig, baby, why you wanted a nigga to holla atcha?”

“I don’t know,” she says, tryna act all shy ’n shit. “I was just thinking about you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right. You thinkin’ ’bout how you can get some of this hard dick. Keep it gully. You wanna fuck. You ain’t gotta front wit’ a nigga like me, baby. You want some of this chocolate stick, don’t ya?”

“Damn, you make it sound like I’ma ho or something.”

’Cause you are. I hear Betty Wright’s old joint, “You’re A Hoe” playin’ in my head. I shake my head, rememberin’ my Moms playin’ the hell outta that shit. Sometimes she’d leave it on one of Pops’ jump-offs’ answerin’ machines. Other times, she’d call one of his chicks up, and start singin’ the shit to ’em, then hang up. I laugh, thinkin’ ’bout some of the other crazy shit Moms used to do to get at some of Pops’ chicks. Like drivin’ ’round lookin’ for his car. Then when she found it, she’d knock on all the doors or ring the doorbells, askin’ to speak to her husband. If she found exactly where he was, which was usually nine outta ten times, she’d leave a message for him to get home before his clothes were packed. Other times, she’d drag the chick outta her house and fight her. Or she’d sit on the hood of Pops’ ride, blastin’ her tape player to songs like, “I’m His Wife, You’re Just a Friend” or “Homewrecker,” waitin’ for him to come out. And she’d always drag my lil’ ass out wit’ her. Yo, real talk, Moms was a certified mess, back then, word up. But, on some real shit, them singers back ’n the day used to get wit’ each other real quick on vinyl like it wasn’t nuthin’, ’specially them chicks Shirley Brown and Barbara Mason. Them broads would go at it.

“Nah, baby,” I say, lowerin’ my voice, tryna get my sexy on. “I ain’t on it like that. I’m just sayin’. After our last phone epp ’n shit, you had a nigga ready to beat sumthin’ up the other night, feel me? You was talkin’ like you really ’bout it. Like you was ready to put some work in. You tryna give me some of that goodie-goodie or what?”

The dumb bitch giggles. “Yeah. I’m about it. I already told you what it is. It’s whatever.”

“That’s what it is, then. I’ma be down there tomorrow afternoon. So I’ma see what’s really good wit’ you.”

“For real?” her squealin’ ass asks, soundin’ all excited ’n shit. “How long you gonna be down here?”

“A few days, maybe a week. It depends.”

“Who you staying with?”

“I gotta room,” I lie. But, if I know her like I think I do, before we hang up, she’ll be beggin’ a nigga to squat at her spot. I always like to let a chick think she’s the one comin’ up wit’ the ideas, when it’s really me pullin’ the strings, manipulatin’ her puppet-ass into givin’ me what I want.

“A room?”

“Yeah, baby. It’s not like I know anyone there. I’m comin’ to chill to see how I’ma like it if I decide to move out there, feel me? Besides it’s my birthday weekend, so I’m tryna get into sumthin’ different, and let it do what it do.”

“Wow. I thought you were only talking when you said you might move out here. What day is your birthday on?”

“It’s Saturday, baby,” I tell her, slippin’ my hand over my dick, then massagin’ my balls. A nigga’s ready for some more pussy, real talk. “Why, you tryna throw me a party, or sumthin’?”

She laughs. “Maybe, you never know. It’ll be a surprise.”

“Well, just so you know, baby. A nigga like me loves surprises. So, you got all weekend to amaze me.”

“OhmyGaaaawd, I really thought you were joking.”

“Nah, baby. A nigga like me keeps shit real. If I say I’ma do sumthin’, then that’s what it is. And I’m hopin’ to dig that back out while I’m out there, you feel me?”

Silence. The dick-hungry bitch’s thinkin’.

“Yo, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Um, I was just thinking.”

I smirk. “’Bout what, baby?”

“About you staying here instead of a hotel.”

“So, whatchu sayin’?”

“Why don’t you stay here? You don’t need to be up in some hotel all by yourself.”

I grin. “Damn, baby, I’m sayin’. I can’t do you like that. I don’t wanna put you out, feel me?”

“No, it’s cool. I’m off the rest of the week, so we could spend the whole week together, and do something really nice for your birthday. I can even take you sightseeing, or we can just chill or whatever. Besides, I know this really nice restaurant we could go to for your birthday.”

Yeah, the “whatever” bein’ me showin’ ya ass howta spend ya checks. “Well, check this out. The only sights I’m tryna see while I’m there is that big, fluffy ass of yours bent over wit’ this dick goin’ in and outta ya pussy. Then I wanna see you down on ya knees wit’ my balls smackin’ ya chin while you suckin’ on this dick, real talk, ya heard?”

“Ooh, that sounds good to me.”

“Then that’s what it is.”

“What time does your flight get in tomorrow?” I give her the flight details. “Okay, I’m gonna pick you up at the airport, so cancel your rental.”

Hell, I didn’t even have one, but I go along wit’ it anyway. “You sure? ’Cause I can just drive out to you?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I told you I’m off, so it’s not a problem.”

“Aiight, then, bet. I hope you ain’t gonna front on a nigga.”

“Hell no,” she says. I can tell she’s grinnin’ and all happy ’n shit ’cause she’s ’bout to get her ass some thick, juicy Jersey dick. “I been thinking about you every since we started kicking it on Myspace and on the phone. I’ma be there before the plane hits the ground, waiting for you. You just don’t know how you made my day. OhmyGaaaawd.