Daddy Long Stroke

and three, you too muthafuckin’ clingy. A nigga like me ain’t beat for that shit. And you ain’t worth the aggravation.”

“Whaat?! Are you fucking serious? So fuck me, right? You got what you wanted, and now you just dip on a bitch. No phone call, no nothin’. That’s real fucked up, Alley Cat.”

“Hol’ the fuck up. What is it you think I got from you?”

“Me!” she screams into my ear.

I laugh. “Baby, I didn’t ask for you. And I didn’t take nuthin’ you didn’t wanna give. You gave me you.”

“And you took advantage of me! You took my pussy, my money and my heart with no fuckin’ regard for me, or my feelings.”

I laugh again.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

“You,” I tell her, pausin’. See, a delusional ho needs to be hit wit’ a dose of reality—hard. “Listen. I ran this dick up in ya raggedyass pussy ’cause you wanted me to. I ran ya wallet ’cause you wanted me to. I didn’t take shit from you, boo. So don’t get it twisted. You gave it ’cause that’s what da fuck you wanted to do. And, as far as ya heart goes, I didn’t ask for it, nor did I want it. I told you, ‘Fuck wit’ a nigga like me at ya own risk.’ I told ya ass don’t come at me lookin’ for love ’cause I ain’t givin’ none of the shit out. But you still dropped ya mutherfuckin’ drawers, snapped open ya wallet, and invited me in. So don’t come at me sideways wit’ no dumb-ass shit.”

“Who the fuck you calling a dumb-ass trick?”

I don’t bother correctin’ her. ’Cause in all truth, her simple ass tricked up whatever common sense she mighta had the day she swallowed my nut.

“Boo, you a bona-fide fool, for real.”

“Motherfucker, the only fool is you,” she snaps, raisin’ her voice. “And I don’t appreciate you trying to dismiss me the way you did. I deserve more than you ignoring my goddamn calls.”

I laugh. Listenin’ to her belligerent ass makes me think of that flick A Beautiful Mind. Just like dude in that flick, this bitch is hearin’ and seein’ shit that ain’t there. “You need meds, for real— for real ’cause you gotta real vivid imagination, baby. And the last thing I’ma do is keep goin’ back ’n forth wit’ a nutcase—”

“Who the fuck you calling a nutcase?!” she screams into the phone.

You, bitch! “Listen, boo-boo, it’s obvious you have a buncha invisible friends tellin’ you shit that only you believe. So let me spell this out for all of ya’ll to comprehend. The only thing that was ever between us was F-U-C-K-I-N-G. Be clear. There are no attachments to you, your pussy, or any of ya muthafuckin’ split personalities. You got me confused wit’ some other nigga, real talk.”

“No, I don’t have you confused with anyone. I know who the hell I’m talking to. And I know what I’m talking about. I’m so fucking pissed…”

I frown. “Well, the only one you should be pissed at is ya’self.”

“You fucking used me! Anytime you wanted, needed something, I gave it to you. Anything you asked for, I made sure you got it. Money, clothes, jewelry, whatever. I never said no to you. I’ve been fucking good to you, nigga. And this is the thanks I get! If you didn’t wanna keep seeing me, you shoulda just said that, instead of leading me on. You didn’t have to keep coming over here fucking me.”

“And you didn’t haveta keep openin’ up ya ashy-ass legs lettin’ me. But ya did. So, whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” she states.

I shake my head, convinced this ho needs to invest in a bottle of self-esteem ’cause she’s all out. “Yo, you got issues for real, yo.”

Silence.

I get up from the counter, walk over to the pantry and pull out a tin canister. I open the lid, then pull out a large Ziploc bag of Purple Haze. I open the baggie, then smell. Yeah, this that good shit right here, I think, goin’ into the laundry room for my pack of Phillies.

I go back over to the counter, pullin’ open a drawer lookin’ for my razor. Where the fuck is that shit?

“How can you be so fucking mean and selfish?”

“Easy. Whatever heartache you feel, you brought on ya’self.”

“I…I can’t believe you…” Fuck what ya heard. I am not moved by all that cryin’ ’n shit. A nigga like me has no muthafuckin’ sympathy for a ho who can’t stick to the script. She starts wheezin’ ’n shit, like she’s havin’ an asthma attack. “I’m…so…fucking… sick…and…tired of…niggas…using me…and fucking me over…”

“Look,” I say, splittin’ the blunt down the middle wit’ my razor. “I’m sorry you feelin’ some kinda way, but”—I pack it wit’ weed, then roll it tight—“you got what you got ’cause that’s what you allowed.”

“You’re a fuckin’ liar!” she screams. I light the blunt, then take a deep, long pull.

I blow smoke outta the side of my mouth. “Yo, listen, the only muthafuckin’ liar is you.”

“I never fucking lied to you, you black motherfucker!”

I don’t know if the ho’s ever lied to me or not. And I don’t care if she ever did. But the one thing I do know is the bitch has been lyin’ to herself from gate. E’ery muthafuckin’ day this ho wakes up and looks in the muthafuckin’ mirror—tellin’ herself she’s gonna have me to herself, tellin’ herself she’s gonna keep fuckin’ ’n suckin’ this dick ’til she bags me—she’s straight lyin’. So I’m not the one the bitch shoulda been keepin’ shit real wit’. Her dumb ass shoulda been keepin’ it one hunnid wit’ herself ’cause if she had, we wouldn’t be havin’ this whack-ass conversation.

“You know what?” she snaps. “I don’t need you, and I definitely don’t need your no-good, lying ass to take care of my baby. I can do the shit on my own.”

I drop the blunt, pullin’ the cell from my ear, then starin’ at it. What the fuck did this ho just say? Baby? I return it to my ear. “Yo, run that shit by me again.”

“You heard me, nigga. I said, baby. I’m pregnant.”

Now I might be many things, but a sucka ain’t one of ’em. This ho is reachin’ for sure if she thinks I’ma let her pin that shit on me. “Okay, so you pregnant, and?”

“It’s yours.”

I bust out laughin’. “Yo, you funny as hell, word up. Nice try, baby, but you’se a real clown. Unless you can get pregnant from swallowin’ a nut, you had better go back to the lab and find the real donor, ’cause it ain’t me. And on that note, don’t call my muthafuckin’ phone wit’ no more of ya nutty-ass bullshit.”

I disconnect the call, then light another blunt. I inhale, hold the smoke in my lungs ’til it starts to burn, then blow it up into the air. “Bitch talkin’ ’bout she pregnant. Fuck outta here,” I say to myself, shakin’ my head. “These thirsty-ass broads will do and say any-muthafuckin’-thing to get a muhfucka to stay wit’ ’em.” My cell rings, again. I look at the screen, then press IGNORE.

Twenty minutes later, my cell rings again. I grin. This time it’s Moms. “Hey, beautiful, what it do?”

“It calls its mother, that’s what the hell it do,” she says, pretendin’ to be annoyed. “But obviously, you done forgot who gave birth to it.”

I chuckle, blowin’ smoke outta my mouth. “You right, my bad. Didn’t I tell you I was gonna be outta town?”

“Yeah, you told me all that. I’m just tryna figure out why you didn’t return my call.”

“You called? When?”

“I don’t remember which day it was; maybe a week or so ago.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t remember seein’ a call from you. Did you leave a message?”

“No, fool,” she huffs, “I figured you’d see my number and have sense to call back.”

“Is e’erything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, softenin’ her tone. “The question is, is everything alright with you?”

“Oh, no doubt,” I tell her.

“You sure?”

“Yep. I’m good, Ma, real talk.”

She responds, “I’m cooking tomorrow. Dinner will be ready at six.”

I shake my head and smile. Anytime she calls me and says she’s ‘cookin’,’ she wants to see me. And, more