’cross the bed, watchin’ her as she drops the towel, then starts oilin’ her body up. Admirin’ her toned body, I feel my dick startin’ to get hard again, but I try to will the shit still. Unfortunately, it has a mind of its own, so I let the shit swell up. She slips back on her pink g-string, then pulls her Juicy Couture jeans up over her curves. Them muthafuckas wrap around her plump ass like a glove.
“Aye, yo,” I say, gettin’ up and walkin’ over to her. I pull her into me, and start kissin’ her. “I really ’preciate you wantin’ to be here for me.” She looks up at me, stares me in the eyes.
“Alex, I told you. I got you. Whatever you need, I got you, baby.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “My moms’ real sick, babe. And I’m stressed the hell out, for real for real. I don’t know if she’s gonna make it. And I need to get out there to see her. But money’s real tight for me, you feel me?”
“Wow,” she says, runnin’ her hand through her hair, “sorry to hear that.” She looks at me, like she done figured some shit out. “Wait a minute. I thought your mom lived in Jersey.”
“Yeah, my biological mom does, but she didn’t raise me. My grandmother did, so she’s who I consider my moms, feel me?”
She nods. “Yeah, I feel you. So, where is she?”
“Atlanta,” I tell her.
“Is she in the hospital, or something?”
I slowly nod. “Yeah, she’s in ICU.” I pause for a minute, then hit her wit’, “In a coma.”
She gasps, holdin’ her hand up to her mouth. “OhmyGod, Alex, why didn’t you tell me this earlier. I’m so sorry, baby.”
“I ’preciate that,” I say, reachin’ for her hand. I take it in my mind, then kiss it. “My head’s been all fucked up over it. I need to get out there, but my paper ain’t right. And I can’t ask my pops to spot me ’cause he’s already carrin’ my black ass, feel me? And my moms is caught up in her own world.”
“Don’t stress ya’self, baby. I got you. How much you need?”
I look her in the eyes. “Just a little sumthin’ to get a plane ticket and have a few dollas in my pocket.”
“Done. When you tryna go?”
“ASAP,” I tell her. She thinks for a moment, walkin’ over to my leather chair in the corner, then rummagin’ through her Louis knapsack. I can see her calculatin’ in her head. I sit on the edge of the bed, watchin’ her. As she turns, I quickly hold my head in my hands, then slowly look up at her, sighin’. “Umm, you know what. Don’t sweat it, baby. I don’t wanna put a strain on ya pockets. I’ma see if I can get it from one of my niggas, but I hate fuckin’ wit’ them cats like that.”
“Oh, you know it ain’t no sweat off of me. I told you I’ma hold you down. I’m just tryna figure out how to do this.” She pauses, pullin’ in her bottom lip, then pulls her cell outta her bag. “I tell you what. I’ma call the airline, and book your flight. Is tomorrow too soon?”
I think for a moment. “Nah, tomorrow’s good.” She calls the airline, and makes a reservation wit’ Continental. She writes down all the information, then hangs up.
“It’s settled. You’re leaving on flight eighty-five, at one thirty-five. It’s an open ticket so you can come back anytime.” As she’s lookin’ in her wallet, I peep her pullin’ out bills. My dick starts to brick up. “I can give you five hundred; is that cool?”
Well, damn. Maybe next time I’ll hit her up for a few gees. I get up and walk toward her, then pull her into me and give her another tongue-probin’ kiss. “Good lookin’ out, baby. I’ma definitely get it back to you.”
She presses her body up against mine, strokes my Johnson. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
She punches me in the chest playfully, suckin’ her teeth. “Yeah, whatever, nigga.”
I grab a pair of navy blue gym shorts from outta my dresser drawer, then slip ’em on. I open the bedroom door. “C’mon, baby. Let me walk you out.” When we get downstairs, I lean in and give her another tongue dance, then open the front door. “Don’t be suckin’ no other nigga’s dick while I’m gone, either.”
She smirks. “You’re not my man, remember?”
“Yeah, aiight. You just make sure
She flips me the finger as she walks out, switchin’ her juicy ass. “Whatever!” I watch her get into her whip and back outta the driveway before closin’ the door.
5 
“Okay, so which one outta your harem is she?” the deep voice in back of me asks, spookin’ the fuck outta me. It almost makes a nigga jump outta his skin.
“Oh, shit,” I say, quickly turnin’ ’round to face my pops, an older version of me—tall, bow-legged, worked-out, and dark chocolate. No, homo…but the nigga’s got real flava. And at fifty-two, Pops looks like he’s still in his early forties, hands down. A nigga can’t front. I’m glad he gave up all that drinkin’ and feelin’ sorry for his ass. It was startin’ to make him look real weak ’n shit. And it got way outta hand when he started wakin’ up and hittin’ the bottle first thing in the muthafuckin’ mornin’. Man, listen. All he did was drink, curse, complain and keep an army of bitches runnin’ in and outta here when he wasn’t passed the fuck out. It’s surprisin’ he held down a job wit’ all that drinkn’ ’n shit. But he got his ass up and went to work e’ery damn day, hung over or not. And get this. He worked as a plant foreman for the Budweiser distillery in Newark. Ain’t that some shit? A muthafuckin’ alcoholic workin’ at a damn beer company! And his ass didn’t even drink the shit.
I guess livin’ in a house wit’ a drunk wasn’t all bad, though. For one, Pops didn’t stress me ’bout no bullshit- ass rules like my moms did. As long as I followed my curfew and took my ass to school, it was all gravy. I could bring chicks to the house and crack this nut up in ’em anytime I wanted. I played varsity ball in high school—all four years, which kept the bitches on my dick. And I even got offered scholarships to play at St. John’s, Syracuse, Howard, Norfolk State, and Hampton. Of course a nigga went to Hampton, and flunked out after two years ’cause I was too busy tryna major in pussy, instead of takin’ my ass to class. But don’t get it fucked up; a nigga ain’t stupid.
“When’d you get in?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the alarm chirp.”
He’s standin’ in front of me wearin’ a white Norfolk State University T-shirt with the green and gold emblem on the front, faded blue jeans and a crisp pair of white-on-white Air Force Ones. I can tell he’s been to the barber today. He’s sportin’ a fresh shape-up, and his mustache and goatee are neatly trimmed. The one carat in his left ear is blingin’. He even got on some smell-good. I bet he got some pussy lined up for tonight.
“Of course you didn’t. You were too busy up there tryna rip that gal’s guts out. I’m surprised she didn’t shatter all my windows with all that damn yelling and screaming she was doing.” He stares at me, shakin’ his head. “I thought you were up there playing opera at first with all that damn ear-splitting screeching going on.”
I laugh, ploppin’ down onto the leather sofa. “Pops, you crazy.”
“Boy, I ain’t laughin’. You gonna have to stop bringing all them screeching-ass women up in my house, like this is some damn cathouse.”
“But what ’bout all them broads you used to have runnin’ through here?”
He tilts his head, raisin’ a brow. “Nigga, the last time I checked, I paid the bills here, so I can have as much pussy as I want comin’ in and outta here. But, you, on the other hand, can’t. Besides, that was then. And this is now. And right now, I’m not on it like that. At some point, a man needs to grow up, get anchored, and decide what he wants outta life, then live by it.”
I scratch my head, lookin’ at Pops like he has three heads or some shit. He’s soundin’ like a black Doctor Phil. “Pops, you sound like you ready to turn in ya playa card.”
“The day your mother put me out, my card had already expired. I was just holding on to it to keep from crying.”
“I hear you. But you were the one always tellin’ me that a man should always have more than one bit…uh,
