Daddy Long Stroke

think you talking to, but I am still your goddamn mother!”

Fuck! She’s the last person I need to be beefin’ wit’, for real. “You right, Ma, my bad. I apologize.”

She clucks her tongue. “Mmmph. You just oughta be. ’Cause I’m not the one. I will smack your damn face up.”

“I was outta pocket, Ma,” I say, walkin’ up on her and givin’ her a hug. “You know I’d never disrespect you.” I try to kiss her on the cheek.

“Hmmph,” she grunts, sidesteppin’ me. “Try it and get fucked up, okay? Now, are you hungry? I made some smothered chicken and brown rice.”

I smile. “You already know.”

“Hmmph, I shouldn’t give your black ass nothing,” she says, switchin’ off toward the kitchen. I follow behind, apologizin’ again. I pull a chair out and sit at the table. She brings me an empty plate, then tosses it down in front of me.

“I don’t know why the hell you sittin’ there like I’m about to serve you. Get your spoiled ass on over there”— she points toward the stove—“and fix your own damn plate. Hazel the Maid is done servin’ your fresh ass, Mister Grown-Ass Man.” I get up, shakin’ my head. “And when you’re done, wash your motherfucking dishes. You done lost what’s left of your goddamn mind talking shit to me.”

I’m not sure what’s set her off, but whatever it is, I’m convinced it has nuthin’ to do wit’ me. I keep my mouth shut, though. Let her rant ’n rave as I scoop out a big spoon of rice, cover it wit’ three pieces of chicken and a buncha gravy, then stick my plate in the microwave.

Fuck!

While I’m standin’ there waitin’ for my food to heat up, when I sit down to eat, up until the time I finally finish my food, the only thing she does is stare at me. Lips twisted, eyes squinted, starin’ through me—in disgust. Yeah, I’m kinda pissed that she’s actin’ all funny-style ’n shit. But I ain’t gonna sweat it. I get up from the table, wash my dishes, take out the trash, then walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek, then dip. I get into my car, spark the rest of my blunt and head the fuck back to my crib down at the shore. I glance at my watch: 8:15 P.M. I feel like gettin’ this dick sucked tonight. Maybe I’ll hit up Crystal’s fat ass and see if she feels like wettin’ it. “She just needs to keep her muthafuckin’ socks on,” I say aloud.

I dial her number. “Hey, baby,” she says, “I was thinking about calling you.”

“Oh, word? Wassup?”

“You left your boxer briefs here.”

I frown, shakin’ my head. What the fuck?! I rocked her box three weeks ago and she’s tellin’ me this dumb shit, now. Why didn’t this bitch hit me up before? I knew I left ’em there, but I wasn’t pressed. “Yo, you can toss them shits,” I tell her, takin’ another pull off my blunt.

“Oh, no, I’ma hold onto ’em.”

Why the fuck you wanna hold onto a muhfucka’s worn drawers? I think. Whatever! I let it go. “Did you wash ’em?”

“No,” she says.

I frown. “Why?”

“Because I love to sniff ’em,” she whispers, “while I’m playing in my pussy. I can still smell you in ’em.” What a nasty bitch, I think, shakin’ my head. Sniffin’ a nigga’s crotch like a dog in heat. When you got a bitch sniffin’ yo’ dirty drawers, beatin’ her pussy, you already know you gotta nut on ya hands. But, I knew why she kept her nose pressed up in ’em. Sometimes, when I know I’m ’bout to lay this pipe, I mix a little Egyptian Musk with some baby oil, then rub it into my pubic hairs, underneath my balls, and the crack of my ass. Other times, I just dab coconut oil on. The way I like to fuck and get sucked, a nigga gots to keep his dick ’n balls fresh at all times. Well, that is, unless I’m leavin’ a ho’s cum juice dried up ’round my balls for someone else to clean off, feel me? Then it’s straight musk and pussy funk.

“Listen, baby, you feel like suckin’ on this dick tonight?”

“I feel like doing a whole lot more than just sucking. I wanna fuck, too.”

Damn, why the fuck can’t I just get a fuckin’ dick suck wit’out the extras? I sigh. Decide to go the fuck home. “You know what, forget I called.”

“Why?”

“I’m not checkin’ for pussy tonight.”

“Well, damn. Can you at least finger-pop me?”

You suck.

You swallow.

You please me ’til I’m satisfied.

You ask no questions, ’cept, “May I suck you, again?”

That’s the kinda mood I’m in. “Nah, I want my dick wet, that’s it. So don’t sweat it. I’ma head home and watch True Blood instead.”

“Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“I sure am.”

She sucks her teeth, then the phone goes dead. Bitch musta hung up, I think, slowin’ down at the toll booth, then tossin’ four quarters into the bin. I take the last pull off my blunt, then toss it outta the window.

As soon as I get in the house, I take off my clothes, then hop in the shower. I lather up my body, soap up my dick, then start strokin’ it, cuppin’ and yankin’ my balls and dippin’ at the knees. I work my nut up to the tip of my dick, then abruptly stop. I let it roll back down into my balls, then work it back up again. I repeat it three more times ’til my balls start to swell and ache, then let it blast out all over the shower walls. “Gotdamn, that shit was good,” I say, steppin’ outta the shower and wrappin’ a towel ’round my waist, lettin’ water drip all over the floor as I go into the bedroom. I oil my body, slip on a pair of boxer briefs and a wife beater, then head downstairs.

After I hit up Papa John’s and order a veggie pizza, I flip on the flat-screen, spark another blunt, then wait for True Blood to come on. My cell rings. “Hello?”

“We need to talk.”

Fuck! “Yo, I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you,” I tell her. Akina’s been hittin’ me up for the last two days and I’ve been iggin’ her. But today she got on some slick shit and called me from another number. “There’s nuthin’ else we need to say. You said what you had to say, then you fucked up and put ya hands on me, so it’s a wrap, boo.”

“Nigga, you put ya hands on me, too.”

“Bitch, are you on crack or some shit? I was fuckin’ tryna get you off of me. I wouldna punched the shit outta you, if you weren’t tryna bite my damn arm off.”

“And you grabbed me by the throat.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And? Nigga, you coulda killed me.”

Yeah, I tried to snap her muthafuckin’ windpipe. Once she bit my arm up and I saw blood, it was a wrap. I’ve never put my hands on a chick, and I have never allowed one to put their hands on me. So why this bitch thought she was gonna be an exception is beyond me. I shake my head. These hoes kill me. They jump up in a nigga’s face, hookin’ off on a muhfucka, then don’ think they should get the shit beat outta them. Fuck what ya heard. Don’t put ya muthafuckin’ hands on me, and I won’t put mine on you. I’m not down wit’ that shit. But, be clear. If you bring it, then all bets are off. You gonna get lumped the fuck up. And that’s what it is.

“Then I guess you woulda got what ya ass deserved.”

“Are you fucking serious? You think I deserved having my neck snapped?”

“You put ya muthafuckin’ hands on me, hell, yeah. You lucky I didn’t break ya damn face.”

“Well, you shoulda never lied to me.”

I shake my head. “So I lied. And?”

“And you should feel fucked up about it. I thought we were better than that. You know I woulda done anything for you. All you had to do was kept shit real. But, noooo, nigga. You had to be on some extra shit.”

I sigh, rubbin’ my chin. “Yo, listen. You right. I shoulda kept it real wit’ you. But I didn’t.” She wants to know why. And on some real shit, I don’t know. “Because I felt like it,” I tell her. She sucks her teeth. Asks if I’m gonna at least apologize. “Listen, what I did to you mighta been fucked up, but I’m not gonna apologize for it. I did what I did