Daddy Long Stroke

has on is what’s poppin’ for out here. And I can’t front, she’s lookin’ real sexy.

“Yo, what time is it?” I ask, grabbin’ and pullin’ at my dick, stretchin’ my legs out. She tells me it’s almost five-thirty. I let out a loud groan, lyin’ in bed a few more minutes before I finally sit up. Between the flight and fuckin’, I’m whipped. “Damn, that pussy knocked me the hell out.”

She laughs. “Yeah, and it had you snorin’, too.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, tossin’ a pillow at her. “Get the fuck outta here wit’ that.” She tosses the pillow back, badgerin’ me to get up ’cause we have dinner reservations for seven o’clock. Her cell rings, she glances at the screen, then answers.

“’Cuse me, I gotta take this call,” she says, walkin’ toward the door. “It’s one of my property managers.”

I glance at the clock on her nightstand. “Oh, fuck,” I say aloud, yawnin’. “I just wanna stay in fuckin’ bed.” I flop back on the pillows, pullin’ the sheets up over my head. I can’t front, this bed feels fuckin’ good. It feels like I’m lyin’ on a bed of cottonballs. And her one-thousand thread-count sheets feel good against my naked body. I yank the covers back and get outta bed before I end up fallin’ back to sleep. I walk into the bathroom, take a piss, then hop in the shower. When I finally walk into the livin’ room dressed in a pair of MEK jeans, a thin-fitted black knit pullover and a pair of black Prada loafers, Cherry is sittin’ on a stool patiently waitin’ on me. She smiles.

“You are one sexy chocolate man,’ she says, gettin’ up, grabbin’ her oversized pocketbook and keys. “And I can’t wait to get back here so I can finish fucking the shit outta you.”

I grin. “You ain’t said nuthin’ but a word. Hell, we can order in, and let it do what it do right now. It makes me no never mind, baby. I’m loaded wit’ nuts, and they all got ya name on ’em.”

“And when we get back,” she says, switchin’ toward the door, “I want every last creamy drop.” I follow behind her, shakin’ my head.

Of course, Cherry doesn’t tell me where we’re goin’ to eat. And I don’t ask. Between you and me, I’m too damned jet-lagged to care. But, wherever it is, I already know it’s gonna be some high-end spot that is probably extremely overpriced and not worth all the hype. But, hey, I’m not the one footin’ the bill. While we’re drivin’, we talk some, but mostly listen to the radio. I find myself takin’ in all the scenery along Rodeo Drive. She makes a turn onto Wilshire Boulevard. When we finally turn into Spago Beverly Hills, we pull up to the entrance for valet parkin’ and get out, then make our way inside. It’s packed as hell up in this piece. I look ’round the room. In the far right corner, I spot Angela Bassett sittin’ at a table wit’ two other chicks. Damn, she looks good, I think, catchin’ Cherry starin’ at me. She smiles. “She bought her last two homes from me,” she says, leanin’ in and lowerin’ her voice. “She’s a real sweetheart. Would you like to meet her?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I tell her. Now had it been my girls Beyonce or Halle—even Nia Long, I’da been like, “Hell muthafuckin’ yeah!” But, Angela Bassett, umm, no thanks! Now, hol’ up…I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t bang her back out ’cause you already know what it is. She catches Angela’s eye and waves at her.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells me, walkin’ off. She heads over to her table. Angela stands up and the two of them hug as if they’re old friends. Angela introduces her to e’eryone else at the table. They exchange a few more words, then I peep Cherry goin’ into her bag pullin’ out business cards and handin’ them out. Then some white cat gets up from his table and greets her. He kisses her, then Angela, on the cheek. I know I’ve seen dude somewhere, but can’t put my finger on it. They talk a few more minutes, then she follows him over to his table. He introduces her to e’eryone there. And, again, she goes into her bag and starts handin’ out cards. I grin. Get that paper, baby, I think, pullin’ out my cell. I decide to check my messages.

“You have twenty new messages.” I sigh, waitin’ for the first message to play. “Hello, Alley Cat. This is Marissa. Doctor Sweet Pussy. I’m ready to meet up.” Yeah, I bet you are. Now your ass’s gonna haveta wait ’til I’m ready to feed you this dick. I delete.

The next message is from Sherria. “Call me.” Bitch, you fuckin’ crazy! I delete it.

“I miss you. And I hate myself for allowing you into my life. But I hate you even more for having me feel this way, you black, selfish-ass motherfucker! I hope you die, you piece of shit!” This bullshit- ass mess is from Ramona. The last time I spoke to this ho is when she called me a while back talkin’ that ‘I’m pregnant’ shit. And I stopped fuckin’ her months before that. She needs to let go, word up. This bitch is really fuckin’ crazy. I decide to save it; just in case sumthin’ pops off.

“Hey, it’s Falani. I thought I woulda heard from you after our three-some. Hit me up as soon as you get this.”

“Alley Cat, it’s ya girl, Electra. You stood me up, punk! Stop playin’ games and bring ya ass to Brooklyn so I can super soak that dick. Get at me when you can.” I grin, pressin’ “seven” to save.

“Hey, sexy man, it’s Lydia. I’m hopin’ to get some private time with you real soon. You know Falani’s feelin’ some kinda way that you haven’t called her since the other night, and she’s been actin’ kinda shady toward me”—she laughs—“I think she knows I slid you my number. Oh, well. She’ll get over it. Call me. By the way, I still would love to bend you over and fuck your tight, muscular ass with my strap-on. All you gotta do is say the word.”—she laughs, again—“There’s nothing like turning a masculine man into my little whore-bitch, baby.”

I crack the hell up laughin’. Yo, think what you like, but after that ep wit’ her and Falani, I was tryna figure out how I could get at her wit’out straight up dissin’ Falani. So, when she slid me her digits on the low, I already knew what it was. And damn straight, the minute I get a chance to, I’ma give her all the private time she needs. But the freak-nasty bitch’ll never run anythin’ up in my ass ’cept her muthafuckin’ long-ass tongue, real talk.

“Alley Cat, where are you? I’m at the airport waiting on you. Did something happen? Call me.” Oh, shit, I think. I was supposed to be in Atlanta. Damn! I totally forgot to call Vita to let her know that I wasn’t gonna be comin’ out there; that there was an unexpected change of plans, resultin’ in wetter pussy and deeper pockets. Damn! She’s left eleven more messages, each one soundin’ more frantic. The last one sent thirty minutes ago sounded like she had been drinkin’ ’cause the bitch was straight wildin’. “Goddamn you, you black motherfucker! You didn’t have to dis me like that. Why the fuck did you have me pay for a goddamn plane ticket and you weren’t gonna use it?! The least you coulda done was called me, you thoughtless bastard! You ain’t shit, motherfucker! You’re just like the rest of these sorry- ass niggas.” Click.

I should be on some “fuck her”-type shit, but I won’t ’cause it was foul on my part to do her like that. And she’s right, I shoulda at least hit her up and told her what it was. I decide not to do her dirty and call— tomorrow. I delete the messages.

“Alex, it’s your mother. You know. The one who gave birth to you; the one you forget to call.” I smile, shakin’ my head. I delete the message, makin’ a mental note to hit her up later, if it’s not too late.

“Yo, what’s good, son? It’s Gee, nigga. Hit me up when you get this.”

I finish listenin’ to my other messages, watchin’ Cherry as she makes her way back over to me. She apologizes for leavin’ me hangin’. But I’m cool wit’ it. I ask her who that white dude was and she says all nonchalant, “Oh, that was Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Oh shit, dude who played in Blood Diamond.” She nods. “I knew he looked familiar.” Now a muhfucka ain’t never been starstruck, but I can’t front. I was impressed. I knew Cherry was out here doin’ it big, but I had no idea she was fuckin’ wit’ the celebrities like this. Most of the time when I’m here, we don’t go out; we’re layed up fuckin’ for three days, then I bounce.

After ’bout fifteen minutes of waitin’, we’re finally seated out on the patio, which is kinda cool ’cause the tables aren’t as bunched together like the rest of the tables in here. Man, listen, I can’t stand eatin’ somewhere feelin’ like the muhfucka next to me can reach over into my plate. When the maitre d’ comes to our table, Cherry orders a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of Bordeaux. She’s the only one drinkin’, so why the fuck she didn’t just order a glass of wine instead of a whole damn bottle is beyond me. I keep my mouth shut. Let her do her. While she’s lookin’ over the menu, I glance ’round the room, takin’ in the decor. Now I ain’t a Martha Stewart-type cat, but this spot needs a serious makeover. All the shit up in here seems outdated, like they’re scared to let go of the nineties or sumthin’.

Outta the corner of my eye, I peep this beauty breeze by our table, but outta respect for Cherry I don’t turn to see who it is or how that ass is shakin’. Besides, at the moment, it doesn’t really matter. I need a