still for a moment, steady my breathin’, then wipe my nut offa me wit’ one of my cum rags—old washcloths I strictly use for jackin’. “Damn, that shit was good.” I rub my balls, pinchin’ my left nipple. I wanna nut again.
My cell rings, disruptin’ my private moment. I reach for it off the the nightstand and glance at the screen. It’s my nigga, Short Stacks…damn, I mean Glenn. We’re not as tight as I am wit’ Red, Mike, and Gee, but we still cool. We actually went to the same high school, played varsity basketball together and ended up at the same college. Of course he graduated, and you already know what it was wit’ me. If you ran into ’im on the streets at night, you’d think he was just another saggy-pants-wearin’, tree-blazin’ hood nigga, but dude actually got his shit together. By day, he’s a proper-talkin’, suit-’n-tie-type nigga down on Wall Street makin’ moves. But the minute he comes ’round his boys, he flips—like many of us—right back into hood mode, blazin’, drinkin’ and talkin’ mad shit.
“Yo, my nig, sound like ya ass’s already blitzed.”
“Nah, not really; just a little sumthin’. Me and Gee had a few shots of Cuervo.”
I laugh. “Aaaah, shit. And I bet that tequila got ya ass feelin’ right.”
“No, doubt, son. You already know.”
“Yeah, I know, nigga. I know ya ugly, black ass is a damn lush.”
“Nigga, fuck outta here. Ya ass’s blacker than me.”
We both laugh. “Yeah, and I gotta longer dick. But what that got to do wit’ ya ass bein’ a damn drunk?”
“Shit. But I pull more bitches than you.”
“Yeah, okay. But, ya ass’s short strokin’ ’em, so it don’t matter how many hoes you mackin’. At the end of the night, you just an appetizer to ’em, muhfucka.”
“Fuck you, nigga,” he says, laughin’, “appetize on these nuts.”
“Yeah, aiiight, muhfucka. That’s the same shit I told ya moms after I finished nuttin’ in her mouth.”
He continues laughin’. “Awww, damn. Why you gotta go there? That’s some real foul shit, nigga.”
“Well, watch ya mouth then, muhfucka. Don’t hate on me ’cause ya stroke game is whack.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever, nigga,” he snaps, soundin’ offended. I laugh at his ass. ’Cause he knows I’m keepin’ shit real. No homo. But, after all the trains ’n shit we done pulled on bitches growin’ up, and the group epps we done swung wit’ chicks, he knows I know what it is. Not to put him on blast or nuthin’, but there’s a reason they call ’im Short Stacks. ’Cause the nigga’s shit is thick as hell, but most bitches be snappin’ on his ass for not knowin’ how to keep his dick in ’em. My thing is, if ya dick is constantly slippin’ outta a bitch’s hole, then maybe you need to change up ya stroke, feel me? But this nigga here ain’t get the memo. Or he just too stuck on retarded to understand that a short-dick muhfucka can’t long stroke no pussy.
“So, what’s good, muhfucka?” he asks, bringin’ me back to the conversation. “You tryna roll out wit’ us or what?”
“Where ya’ll niggas goin’?”
“The Rhum Lounge.”
The Rhum Lounge is located on the lower level of this slick lil’ Jamaican restaurant called Negril in the Village. The food is bangin’ and the in-house DJ spins reggae, calypso, soca, hip-hop and R & B joints while you sit back, chill, and get ya eat and drink on. I think for a minute. Try to decide if I really wanna fuck wit’ ’em tonight like that. I mean, these my niggas ’n shit, but sometimes they go overboard wit’ the drinkin’ and start poppin’ a buncha shit, especially Gee’s dumb-ass.
“Listen, muhfucka, I ain’t beat for no drama tonight, word up. Ya’ll muhfuckas be on some extra shit sometimes. If you gonna be mixin’ ya drinks ’n shit, throwin’ up all over the place, let me know now.” He laughs. “Ain’t shit funny, nigga. The last time, you fucked ’round and threw up all in my muthafuckin’ whip. Had my shit all fucked up. And ya black ass still owe me for the detailin’.”
“Nigga, stop whinin’. I got you. Besides, I’m drivin’ my own shit tonight.”
“Yeah, whatever, muhfucka. Just have me my money.”
“Nigga, fuck that shit you talkin’. You hangin’ or not?”
“What time ya’ll muhfuckas tryna roll?” I ask, glancin’ at my watch: 7:25 p.m.
“’Bout nine.”
“Oh, aiight. That’ll work.”
“Bet. You just need to scoop Ron up.”
“Ron? I thought that nigga was on ya side of town.”
“Not tonight he’s not. He’s at his sister’s.”
I shake my head. Not to kick dudes back in. But when it comes to women, he’s ’bout as dumb and pussywhipped as they come. “I take it he done got his dumb-ass put out, again.” He laughs. Asks me what time I’ma swing through and scoop ’im up. “Which sister’s spot is he at?”
“Lynn’s,” he tells me.
Lynn’s his younger sister; a cutie wit’ a juicy bootie. She’s also a real hot-box. And, of course, I thrashed it a few times on the low. I dicked her upside down and inside out; gave her pussy a beatdown she’d never experienced before. Not once, not twice, but at least a dozen times before her dumb ass started actin’ like she wanted to chain a muhfucka down. So she got dismissed. But she got mad props for keepin’ her cum-guzzler shut ’bout our epps.
“Yo,” I say to Glenn, “let that nigga know I’ma be through ’round nine-fifteen.”
“Aiight, bet. See you cats later.”
“One.”
At nine-thirty I text Ron to let ’im know I’m ’round the corner and to be at the door ready to roll. The minute I turn onto his sister’s street, a bright-ass porch light flips on, and I see him comin’ out the door. He’s rockin’ a slick brown leather blazer over a brown pullover wit’ his signature platinum and diamond fist danglin’ from a platinum chain. The nigga’s neck is practically glowin’ from the lights hittin’ hit. And he has his brown Negro Leagues fitted cap cocked to the side. I pull up to the curb, unlockin’ the door. As soon as he opens the door, I can smell the combination of leather and cologne way before he gets his ass in the car. He smells like he practically washed himself in a whole bottle of Dolce & Gabbana.
The minute he shuts the door, I say, “Damn, muhfucka. What’d you do, bathe in that shit?”
“Nah,” he says, fastenin’ his seatbelt. He reaches over and gives me a brotherly pound. “What’s good?”
“Shit,” I say, pullin’ off, makin’ my way toward I-280 East. I crack the front windows before the muhfucka suffocates me wit’ all them smells goin’ on. “What’s been up wit’ you?”
He sighs, placin’ his head back on the headrest. “Not much man. Same shit, different day. Or should I say, same shit, different broad.”
“I hear you, man. You ’n ya peoples at it again.”
“Man, listen. E’ery week it’s some shit wit’ her ass.” I nod knowin’ly; but don’t say shit ’cause I know he’s gonna fill me in. “She started spazzin’ the fuck out last night over some dumb shit, and poured bleach all over my shit. Shoes, boots, sneakers, clothes, you name it. She straight housed my shit.”
“Get the fuck outta here! You for real?”
“I’m dead-ass. She fucked up all my shit, man. Jewelry, watches, you name it—trashed! The only shit I have is what’s on my back. And then she took all my fuckin’ money outta the bank. I had to borrow money from my sister, so I could at least have some clean muthafuckin’ drawers ’n shit to put on.”
See, this is the kinda shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. And it’s exactly another reason why I don’t be fuckin’ beat to be in a relationship. Bitches always wanna fuck a muhfucka’s shit up when her ass starts feelin’ some kinda way ’bout shit. Then after she done finished fuckin’ up all ya wears ’n shit, she puts ya dumb ass out. But I’m not surprised. Like I said earlier, he fucks wit’ a buncha unstable bitches. It’s like he has a magnet for emotionally unbalanced broads. I listen to him go on and on ’bout he’s gettin’ tired of her shit, blah, blah, blah. Then he sits here and tells me
“So whatchu do this time?”
“Man, nuthin’. She be on her bullshit, listenin’ to them fuckin’ crab-ass bitches she fucks wit’, lettin’ that shit they put in her ear go to her head.”
