Daddy Long Stroke

She grins, reachin’ for her bag. “Hold up for a minute.” She opens it, pullin’ out a box of Durex condoms. “Don’t you know a diva is always prepared?” I grin back at her, unzippin’ my jeans and fishin’ out my dick. I recline my seat as far back as it will go. She takes out a wrapper, rolls it down on my joint, hikes her skirt up over her hips, then climbs her bare ass up over me and slides down on this dick, rodeo-ridin’ this cock ’til we both bust.

Thirty minutes later, she starts the engine, then backs outta the parkin’ space—happily fucked. “So have you thought any more about my proposition?” she asks, glancin’ over at me. Shit, I was hopin’ this wasn’t gonna come up.

I adjust my seat upright. “Nah, actually, I haven’t. I know ya biological clock is tickin’ and all, but right now, baby, I can’t see myself plantin’ a nut up in you. I’m not ready for sumthin’ that major.”

“Fair enough,” she says, bearin’ onto I-405 South. “So, let me ask you. And be honest.”

I hope this bitch ain’t ’bout to beat me in the head wit’ no bullshit, I think, cockin’ my head to the side. “Wassup?”

“If it weren’t for the money and shopping sprees that I freely hit you with, would I still be the type of woman you’d spend time with?”

Fuck! If this is ’posed to be a trick question, she done failed ’cause I ain’t ’bout to fuck up my paper tellin’ her no dumb shit. “No doubt, baby.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you got some good pussy,” I say, grinnin’. She sucks her teeth, rollin’ her eyes.

“Oh, so that’s the only reason?”

“Keepin’ shit gee, it’s the biggest reason. But, it’s not the only reason. You also got ya shit together. I dig how you stay on ya grind, makin’ major moves. Baby, you’re a strong, independent, beautiful woman.”

“But?”

You gotta head like a damn globe. Kickin’ some real shit, moon face or not, the more time I spend wit’ Cherry, the more I’m startin’ to dig her. “No, ‘but,’ baby. Whether you lacin’ me or not, I’d still wanna fuck wit’ you.” I’m shocked at myself for sayin’ this, and actually meanin’ it. She smiles. “But I ain’t gonna front and say you don’t have a muhfucka spoiled as hell, word up. You got me rotten, baby—right down to the damn core.”

She laughs.

“So, you tell me. If I wasn’t packin’ all this big-ass dick, would you still be fuckin’ wit’ a muhfucka like me?” Now on some real shit, I already know what it is. It’s this dick that’s got her strung ’cause it’s not like a nigga’s comin’ to the table wit’ sumthin’ else, feel me? Yeah, I’ma fine, sexy, black nigga, but all I’m ever gonna offer her is good dick packed wit’ hot cream and a buncha mind-blowin’, toe-curlin’ sex.

“As fine as you are, I probably would.”

I bust out laughin’. “Stop lyin’. You know damn well if I was servin’ ya ass wit’ a little-ass dick, you’d be feelin’ gypped. Little dick and broke, you’d dismiss a nigga quick, and you know it.”

“That’s not so,” she says, tryna sound offended. Fuck outta here!

“Yeah, right,” I say, smirkin’.

“No, I’m serious. Yes, it’s nice being with a well-endowed man. But trust me. It isn’t the most important thing. A big dick doesn’t guarantee a good experience. I’ve dated some men who were average size, but they knew how to work what they had and it was great. It’s not the dick that makes the experience. It’s the man behind it. It’s the connection.”

“Yeah, okay; sounds good. But I know better. Ya ass’d be bored to death wit’ a muhfucka short-strokin’ you. Baby, be real. You know like I know, you got too much pussy for a short-stroker.”

She shoots me a look. “So you tryna say I have a big pussy?”

I grin. “Nah, I’m sayin’ a little dick would drown in ya deep waters.”

She rolls her eyes, mergin’ onto I-5 North. “Same difference, nigga.”

I laugh, takin’ in the scenery as she speeds down the interstate.

Whoever said it doesn’t rain in Southern California is a muthafuckin’ lie! It rained all Friday night, and all day Saturday. But today it’s in the damn sixties. Cherry and I are standin’ outside Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’n Waffles over on Pico Boulevard, waitin’ to be seated. It’s packed as hell up in that bitch. Cherry’s kinda tight that we’re here, but this is where I wanna eat. A muhfucka was tired of hittin’ up all them shi-shi, foo-foo type spots she drags me to. I wanted to get my grub on in the damn hood for a change. Not ’round a buncha pretentious-ass bitches. She complains ’bout how ghetto and rude the staff can be at times here; how the wait is too long; how she doesn’t feel like dealin’ wit’ anyone bummin’ her for change on our way out; how they put too much damn butter up on the waffles; how the chicken is too greasy; how if she has to eat Roscoe’s, she’d rather go to the one over in Hollywood. I let her ass go on and on. But I feel like tellin’ her to shut the fuck up. Luckily, a call comes in that keeps her ass occupied for the next twenty minutes. My flight tonight can’t come soon enough. A muhfucka’s ready to bounce. I watch Cherry as she walks and talks. She paces up and down the sidewalk, e’ery so often stoppin’ and posin’ wit’ her bag hangin’ in the crook of her arm, and one foot lifted up on the heel of her shoe. I decide to check my voice messages while she’s yappin’ her jaws. There are thirteen.

“When you comin’ back to Brooklyn, nigga? It’s ya girl, Electra.” Delete.

“Yo, son, what’s good? It’s Gee. Where the fuck you at, nigga? Hit me back when you get this.”

“Alley Cat, it’s Falani. What’s up with you? I guess since you got what you wanted, you’re not beat to hit a sista up. It’s all good, though. I just thought you might wanna know Lydia and I want another round with you. And we might have another friend who’s down. So if you’re down for a foursome, give me a call.” Hell muthafuckin’ yeah, I am! Save.

“Hey, sexy man. It’s Vita. Call me when you get a moment.” Delete.

“Hey, Alley Cat. It’s Carla. When am I gonna see you?” Delete.

“Hey there, it’s Marissa. I was calling to see if you were free tonight. I have a few hours to myself and was hoping to see you. I know it’s last minute. But if you can, let me know.” This ho calls me from a blocked number, so how the fuck I’ma let her know shit, when I don’t have a number to call her ass back? Delete.

“Alley Cat, it’s Akina. Call me.” Delete.

There’s also three messages from Maleeka, one from Moms, and two from Tamera’s crazy ass, talkin’ real slick. I swear she’s gonna have me gag her wit’ this cock. I delete ’em all. By the time Cherry walks back over to me, we’re ready to be seated.

Cherry orders a breast and waffle, wit’ a side order of mac ’n cheese. I order one of the house combos: mac ’n cheese, greens and corn bread wit’ a breast and a side order of waffles. The waitress comes back wit’ our drinks. Cherry ordered a Sun Rise, a mixture of lemonade and fruit punch; and I got the Eclipse, a mixture of lemonade, OJ, and fruit punch. The shit is bangin’.

While we wait for the waitress to return wit’ our orders, we talk ’bout the holidays and what kinda plans we have. She’s goin’ to St. Lucia to visit her family. Says she’d love for me to go wit’ her. I smile, tell her I’d love to go as well, but haveta do the family thing. She understands. Somehow the conversation shifts to relationships and her wantin’ to know how many women I’m fuckin’. The question catches me off guard ’cause it’s not sumthin’ she’s ever asked before.

“I have a few friends handlin’ this dick. Why?”

“No particular reason. I mean, I know you’re in hot demand and all, but I was wonderin’ if you ever see yourself settling down.”

I take a sip of my drink. “Not anytime soon. Maybe one day. But for now, I like keepin’ my options open”—I grin, pausin’— “wide open, if you know what I mean?”

She takes a sip of her drink, shakin’ her head. “Yeah, I bet you do.” I’m glad the waitress finally comes back wit’ out food so we can get the fuck off this topic. The first thing I bite into is my waffle. Man, listen, I swear these muhfuckas dip ’em in cinnamon and crack ’cause these muthafuckas right here are addictive!

We eat and talk and laugh ’bout stupid shit, like Toni Braxton bein’ eliminated on Dancing with the Stars before Susan Lucci’s old ass; to chicks writin’ tell-all books ’bout who they fucked ’n sucked, or how they got done dirty by some industry cat, basically playin’ themselves like real birds. Somehow we start talkin’ ’bout celebrity deaths and tragedies that happened over the year, like the deaths of Isaac Hayes and Bernie