Daddy Long Stroke

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.”

Of course you not, I think, grabbin’ her ass. You wanna keep gettin’ this black dick. “Well, as long as you keep wettin’ up this dick”— and linin’ my pockets—“I might keep ya fine ass ’round for a while.”

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 you remember that.”

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.