Daddy Long Stroke

Tamera’s ass. You still on ya bullshit?

The doorbell rings again as I text back. Nah. What’s good? I open the door. “What’s good, playboy?” I tease, givin’ Pops a pound. Although I wanna feel some kinda way ’bout what Moms insinuated, I don’t. That shit was between him and her. But I ain’t gonna front. A muhfucka still wants the rundown on shit.

“Hey, son,” he says, steppin’ into the house, then shuttin’ the door. “Where’s ya mom?”

Tamera texts: When am I gonna see you, nigga?

“In the kitchen,” I tell him as I’m textin back. Why, U cravin’ for some of this cock and cum? Pops walks toward the kitchen.

What u think, she responds. My cell rings. It’s my nigga Mike. “Yo?” I answer, takin’ a seat on the sofa.

“What’s poppin’, nigga?”

“Chillin’, dawg. What’s good wit’ you?”

“Shit. Sittin’ here wit’ Gee’s punk ass,” he says, laughin’. Gee’s another one of my boys from back in the day. We actually played ball together in high school and fucked some of the same bitches.

“Ya’ll niggas smokin’?”

“Yeah, a lil’ sumthin’.”

“I shoulda known ya fiend asses would be blazin’.”

“Fuck outta here, muhfucka,” he says, laughin’. “You burn more trees than a wildfire, nigga.”

“Damn, straight,” I agree, glancin’ at my watch. It’s almost eight. “So what ya’ll niggas ’bout to get into tonight?”

“We were thinkin’ ’bout hittin’ up that titty spot Mr. Cheeks down in Mount Holly. They got some bad-ass bitches up in that piece, son.”

“Nigga, you’se a real clown if you think I’ma trick my money up on a bunch of ass-shakin’, pole-ridin’ hoes. Not the kid, muhfucka.”

Tamera sends another text. So, what’s good wit’ u, nigga?

This nut in ya throat, I reply.

He laughs. “Man, listen, them hoes is fiyah, nigga. I’m tryna get this dick wet, feel me.”

I frown. What the fuck! A nigga like me might get into a lotta things, but payin’ to get my dick wet ain’t one of ’em. I don’t give a fuck how horny a muhfucka gets. I’ll beat my shit first, real talk, before I dig in my muthafuckin’ pockets to lace a bitch for some pussy or some muthafuckin’ head. But if that’s a nigga’s shit, then do what ya do. I just ain’t that dude.”

“Ya’ll niggas go ’head. I’ma sit this one out.”

“Yo, muhfucka, ya ass is corny as hell.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I say, gettin’ up and walkin’ back into the kitchen. “I’ll be corny, but I bet you I won’t be trickin’ my paper up on no ass. I’ll leave that shit for you whack-ass cats who don’t know howta game a bitch up offa her ends.”

He laughs. “Yo, you’se a funny nigga, word up.”

Moms and Pops are sittin’ at the table. She’s drinkin’ a can of ginger ale watchin’ him shove a forkful of food into his mouth. “Funny, hell. I’m keepin’ shit real. Yo’ dawg, hol’ up…”

“Aiight,” he says.

“Aiight, ya’ll I’m out.” I walk over to the table, then lean down and kiss Moms on the forehead.

She smiles. “You remember what I said.”

“I got you, Ma.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, smirkin’. “Whatchu got is a hard-ass head.”

I laugh at her. “And you love me to death, too.”

She waves me on, rollin’ her eyes. “Get on up outta here with that.”

I look over at Pops. “Aiight, playboy, don’t be out all night.”

“Stay outta grown folk business,” he says, wipin’ his mouth wit’ a napkin.

I laugh. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mom shakes her head, chucklin’. I give Pops a pound, then bounce. On my way out the door, I continue my convo wit’ my boy. “Yo, sorry ’bout that, man.”

“Nah, don’t sweat it. So, what’s good wit’ ya peoples? They gettin’ back together?”

“Man, listen…the hell if I know. Right now they just breakin’ each other off, feel me?” I hop in my whip, then head toward the parkway.

He laughs. “I hear you. Oh, check it. I got the rooms for All-Star Weekend.”

“Aiight, that’s wassup. Where?”

“The W in Scottsdale. Looks like most of the shit’s gonna be poppin’ off ’round that area.”

“Yo, how many muhfuckas you packin’ in a room? ’Cause you know I ain’t beat to be in a room wit’ a buncha niggas.”

He laughs. “Nigga, shut ya ass up. If you listen, I said rooms, plural as in more than one. So obviously, I got ya stinkin’ ass ya own shit. Gee and Ron are the only two muhfuckas sharin’ a room. Them some cheap-ass niggas, word up.”

“That shit’s on them,” I say, sparkin’ the blunt in my ashtray. I take a pull. “All I know is I’m tryna snap a few spines while I’m out there, and I ain’t tryna have shit block a nigga’s flow. You smell me?”

“No doubt, son. I’m tryna get up into sumthin’ my damn self. Awww, shit, sounds like you blazin’?”

“You know me,” I say, blowin’ smoke out. “I’m tryna catch up to you, muhfucka.” He laughs. I take another hit. “I just hope them bitches look good. ’Cause, on some real shit, the ones we saw down in New Orleans last year looked like pure cow shit. I think I mighta saw two, maybe three fly bitches that were on point from head to toe the whole time we were there—and that’s stretchin’ it. The rest of them fake-ass, wannabe divas were weave-wearin’ dragons in cheap-ass skirts ’n heels.”

He laughs. I blow out more smoke. “Yeah, but a lotta them hoes had some fat asses.”

“Fuck a fat ass. Them raggedy-ass booga bears looked broke as hell. If I’ma fuck a dog-faced ho, then the bitch gonna haveta look like she’s holdin’ some paper, feel me? You saw some of that outdated shit they were rockin’.”

“Yo, son. You gotta remember where we were. Most of them heads were from Florida, Mississippi, Texas and other parts of the Dirty South. They gotta different flava than us. And you know they kinda late on some shit.”

“Whatever, man. All I know is, oh-nine’s All-Star better have some dimepieces there. I don’t mind givin’ a pretty bitch some free dick. But…man, listen, I’m sorry. My dick don’t get hard for a broke and ugly ho…she’s gonna need to pay to ride up and down on this pole.”

He starts laughin’ hard. “Yo, nigga, I swear. You crack me the fuck up. Yo, but on some real shit, you can’t front. The All-Star out in Vegas was fiyah.”

“Oh, no doubt…Vegas was on point. Now that’s how a muthafuckin’ All-Star’s ’posed to be like, packed wit’ a buncha fly-ass, ballin’ bitches. Shit, even some of them white hoes were gettin’ it in. I shoulda fucked the shit outta that white chick from Cali just for the hell of it while I was out there. That ho was cravin’ for some of this chocolate dick. I woulda had her ass pawnin’ her ice, and that shiny Benz she was pushin’.”

“Man, that broad was finer than a muhfucka, too. I still can’t believe you’ve never fucked some white pussy. A lotta them are some real freaky bitches for some black dick. They’ll let you do almost anything to ’em.”

“Nah, son, never had the urge. I don’t give a fuck if she chews shit and eats cum for snack. My dick only responds to two colors, muhfucka: green money and black pussy.”

He laughs. “Nigga, you a fool.”

Speakin’ of good, black pussy, I want some tonight. I decide to go to Pops’ spot instead. If I’m tryna get this nut off, then it makes no sense to drive all the way down to the shore when e’eryone I fuck wit’ is up this way. “Yo, you can laugh if you want, nigga, but I’m dead-ass.”

“Yeah, I know you are, muhfucka. That’s why the shit’s so damn funny.”

“Whatever. Aiight, listen…I’m done fuckin’ wit’ you for one night. I’m prowlin’ tonight, so hit me up when you niggas are tryna get into sumthin’ other than trickin’ ya paper up.”

He laughs. “Then bounce, muhfucka.”

“I’m out.”

“Aiight, then…one.” We disconnect. I scroll through my address book, then press the call button.

“Hello?”