Daddy Long Stroke

“It’s all good, baby,” I say, swallowin’, then takin’ a sip of grape juice. “Yo, sorry ’bout that. You caught me in the middle of gettin’ ready to eat.”

“Oh, don’t let me disrupt your meal. I can call you back later.”

“Nah, you good. So what’s good wit’ you?”

“Nothing much; just working a lot. This is actually the first time in weeks I’ve had a real moment to sit and chill. So I figured now would be a good time to finally return your call.”

“I can dig it. I thought I was gonna haveta ring all the doorbells in Stone Mountain to get at ya sexy- ass.”

She laughs. “Annnnywaaay, before this conversation goes any further, please let the record state that I will not be added to your little fan club list.”

“Dig, you don’t have to be. I got a special spot reserved ’specially for you, pretty baby—real talk.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“No doubt. So, dig, baby, you gotta man?”

“No, not at the moment,” she answers. “What about you?”

“Hell muthafuckin’ no, I ain’t got no man,” I snap, laughin’. “I am the man, baby. All six-feet-four, two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of me. I ain’t wit’ that dick-grindin’ shit.”

She laughs wit’ me. “You’re a mess. I wasn’t asking if you had a man. I would hope not. But I’m glad you cleared that up. Then again, you never know these—”

“‘Then again’ nuthin’. I’m strictly ’bout the clit ’n tits attached to a beautiful chick wit’ a sweet, wet kitty. So, to answer ya question, I’m solo, baby, but I got a buncha friends.”

“Mmmph. I bet you do.”

I get up from the sofa and go upstairs to my bedroom. I remove my T-shirt and boxers, then stand in the mirror, flexin’ my chest muscles. I pull at my dick and make a note to hit the gym—after I get some pussy today.

“Mmmmm. So, tell me, Mr. Single Man with a Bunch of Friends, what is your belief about relationships and monogamy?”

Shit! That relationships are overrated and monogamy is practically extinct. I pull a half-smoked blunt from outta the ashtray on my nightstand, light it, then take a deep pull, slowly blowin’ it out. “Why, you tryna marry me, or sumthin’?”

“Not hardly,” she replies, laughin’. “I’m asking to see where your head is, that’s all.”

I’m hopin’ between ya pretty-ass legs—big head, lil’ head; either one makes me no never mind. “Oh, I feel you, baby,” I say, pausin’. I wanna keep shit real wit’ her, but I know if I tell her what I really feel ’bout relationships—that they require too much fuckin’ work, that they come wit’ too much stress and aggravation for a muhfucka like me—it’ll most likely ruin any chance of me pushin’ this dick all the way into the back of her pussy. And I already know if I tell her that I’ll take whoremongerin’ over monogamy on any given day, hands down, it’s a wrap. I take another pull from my blunt.

“Are you smoking?”

“Yeah,” I answer, blowin’ a cloud of smoke out. “Why, you gotta problem wit’ that?”

“Depends on what you’re smoking,” she says.

“Trees,” I tell her. There’s a moment of silence, then she starts firin’ off a buncha muthafuckin’ questions, like she’s doin’ research for the American Council on Weed Control—not that that shit exists, but hell, it might as well the way she’s comin’ at my neck. She asks: How often you smoke? Whenever the fuck I feel like it. How long you been smoking? ’Bout as long as I been fuckin’. Why you smoke? Uh, duh…I like smokin’ the shit. Why you so muthafuckin’ nosey? Do you think you’re addicted to it? Hell no! The only thing I’m addicted to is good pussy and wet head. But, on some real shit, I’ma probably keep burnin’ trees ’til the day I die. Fuck what ya heard. You ain’t never heard of a muhfucka catchin’ lung cancer from blazin’, or a muhfucka dyin’ from an overdose. Have you? Exactly!

I keep my answers to myself, changin’ the subject. “So, what’s good? Can a cat holla or what?”

“Mmmph. Well, if you’re trying to see me, then I suggest you answer my question.”

“Which one? You done hit me wit’ so many. You know I smoke. My memory’s all jacked up.”

She chuckles. “Oh, puhleeze. How convenient. I bet you remember what you wanna remember. I asked you about relationships and monogamy.”

I laugh. “Oh, that one.” I spark another blunt. “On some real shit, I think relationships only work when two people want them to work. Both parties gotta be on the same page; otherwise, you just askin’ for heartache, feel me? And as far as monogamy goes, well…umm, listen. Let me get back to you on that.”

“Just what I thought,” she says, laughin’. “You probably can’t even spell it.”

I join in her laughter. I’m diggin’ her style. I already know she ain’t gonna be no easy lay, and I’m wonderin’ if I really wanna put in the work. I mean, I wanna taste them drawers—but, on some real shit, a muhfucka ain’t really that pressed. We go back ’n forth for another twenty minutes. She shares some basic shit ’bout herself. And I share some ’bout me. I learn she’s twenty-six. That she’s an ATL transplant by way of L.A. That she moved to Atlanta three years ago for a change of scenery and to be closer to her older sister. That she doesn’t have any children. That she’s a professional model, and travels a lot. But what I really wanna know is: Is she fuckin’?

“So can a brotha spend some time wit’ you or what?”

“Maybe. When will you be in town again?”

Now you already know I didn’t have plans to be in Atlanta anytime soon, but to get a chance to get up in them hips, a muhfucka gonna make it happen. “I’ma hit you up to let you know.”

“Do that,” she says, chucklin’. “I’m getting ready to pencil you in right now.”

“Nah, baby, wrong answer,” I say. “Ink me in. Better yet, I want you to use a bright-red Magic Marker to mark me in.”

“And what should it say?”

“It should say, ‘Big daddy’s comin’ through.’” We both laugh, then talk a few minutes more before I say, “Have a good night, pretty baby. I’ma hit you up one day next week.”

“Should I hold my breath?”

“Only if you believe.” We hang up. I slip my hands back down into my underwear, then cup and massage my balls, smilin’.

Ten a.m., Wednesday mornin’ my cell rings, wakin’ me the fuck up. I start to let it go into voicemail, but reach over and grab it off the nightstand. I peep the caller ID, then answer. “What’s good?”

“Hey, baaaaaaby,” Vita screeches into the phone. I roll my eyes up in my head. Between her notes on BlackPlanet, her IM’s and these calls, I’m thinkin’ this lil’ bitch has the potential to become another stalker if her ass wasn’t so afraid of gettin’ on a plane and leavin’ her lil’ box of a world. I guess it’s a good thing the ho doesn’t travel anywhere farther north than North Carolina. Otherwise, she’d be tryna hunt me down e’ery chance she got. “How you been? Did you get my messages? I’ve left you like four and sent you a few notes on BP.”

I yawn and stretch. Although I’m not beat to fuck wit’ her ass, today I decide to indulge her. I’m tryna get at Kanika’s fine ass, and I want her to sponsor my trip. “I’m good, baby,” I say, iggin’ all the other questions. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout you.”

“For real?” she asks, soundin’ surprised ’n excited.

“No doubt, baby.”

“Then why haven’t I heard from you? I was starting to get worried about you since you haven’t returned any of my calls or responded to any of my emails. I didn’t know what to think. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, baby, e’erything’s good. I’ve just been real stressed out ’n shit. But it’s nuthin’ for you to worry ya pretty lil’”—Pumkin, I think—“head over. I’ma be aiight.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, soundin’ concerned for a muhfucka. “Why are you stressed?”

“This job shit,” I lie, “has me ’bout ready to snap on a muhfucka. A nigga can’t seem to get a break. I been out beatin’ the pavement puttin’ in mad applications, and these muhfuckas ain’t bitin’. And the ones who are ain’t tryna pay a nigga shit. Or, as soon as they know I gotta record, they get on some other shit, like ‘we’ll get back to you,’ knowin’ damn well they gonna toss my app in the trash. Baby, I’m tellin’ you, it’s real hard out here for a muhfucka wit’ a record.”

“A record?” she asks, soundin’ surprised. “What kind of record?” Duh, a criminal record, what