Daddy Long Stroke

“Get the fuck up,” she said, walkin’ over to my window, then pullin’ it up. She swung it up so hard I thought it was gonna shatter. “And get the fuck out!” I crawled my way over to the bed and pulled myself up. She was starin’ a nigga down so hard I thought she was gonna drop the cord, then pull out a burner, and start blastin’ holes in my ass. I kept my eyes on her, though. “Just like you been sneaking them fast-ass girls in and outta my goddamn window, you gonna climb your sneaky, black ass outta here the same way you let them bitches in. And you ain’t taking shit I paid for. Now, get. OUT!” And then she had the nerve to start beatin’ my ass while I was climbin’ outta the window, word up. I couldn’t believe it. My own moms put me out in my motherfuckin’ drawers all bloody ’n shit. And she wouldn’t let me back up in her spot— not even to visit—until I had paid her for e’ery damn window.

I shake the thought, shiftin’ in my seat. The memory of that ass whoopin’ causes a nigga to wince. I look over at Pops. “Nah, it ain’t goin’ down like that,” I say.

He squints at me, unconvinced, then stands. “You make sure it doesn’t.”

My cell rings. I ignore it, gettin’ up, too. I step in to give him some love. “I got you, Pops.”

“Nigga,” he says, backin’ up and scrunchin’ his nose up, “what you got is a bad case of funk. Go wash your stankin’ ass, and brush your tongue. It smells like you been fuckin’ ’n suckin’ a bushel of rotten crabs.”

I bust out laughin’. “You crazy, Pops. Word up.”

“Crazy my ass.”

“Aiight, Pops,” I say, chucklin’. “I’ll holla atcha lata. I’ma hit the shower, then catch a few zees.”

“Yeah, you do that.” He grabs his keys from off the table. “Listen, I gotta make a run. If I’m not here when you get up, lock up when you leave.”

“Bet.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, openin’ the door.

“What’s that?”

“Invest in a muzzle.”

I tilt my head, givin’ him a confused look. “A muzzle?”

“Yeah, fool. To keep them gals from making so much damn noise when you’re up there stretching their insides out.”

I burst out laughin’. “Oh, shit. Pops, you one funny dude— word up!”

“Funny hell,” he says, walkin’ out and shuttin’ the door behind him.

6

I finish my shower, dry myself off, then walk back into the room I grew up in as a teenager. Although I painted and piped the shit out wit’ a king-size bed, Bose sound system and a Toshiba flat-screen TV, it’s still a lil’-ass room for a grown-ass man. But, it is what it is. ’Cause like I said, ain’t no bitch comin’ up in my spot tryna bring da noise. And I ain’t payin’ for no muthafuckin’ motel room. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out the five hunnid I got from Falani’s ass last night—well, early this mornin’, then the three hunnid Electra laced me wit’, puttin’ it wit’ the paper Akina hit me wit’. Thirteen hunnid tax-free dollas in less than twenty-four hours, I think, ploppin’ ’cross the bed. Not bad for a nigga. “Oh, shit,” I snap, reachin’ over and grabbin’ my cell off the nightstand. “I betta call this bitch and let her know I’ma be comin’ through tomorrow.” I glance at the digital clock: 12:30 P.M. “Her lil’ ass betta pick up.” I dial the number. And after five rings, she answers.

“Hello?” she says in her squeaky-ass voice, soundin’ like she’s been suckin’ on helium or some shit. The shit’s fuckin’ annoyin’ as hell. But based on the flicks she’s been sendin’, she’s finer than a muhfucka; pretty cocoa-brown skin, big brown eyes, thick hips, and a nice phatty. And, yes, a nigga tryna bury his dick all up in that shit, real talk. She claims she used to be a dancer at some titty spot in downtown Atlanta, so I’m expectin’ this bitch to give me more than one front-row viewin’, feel me?

“Yo, what’s good, ma?”

“Who’s this?”

Now I know this dumb ho has caller ID, so why the fuck is she askin’ who it is? Alexander the Great, Bitch! “Alley Cat.”

“Who?”

I suck my teeth. “Daddy Long Stroke from offa Myspace.”

“Oh, heeeeey, baby.” I roll my eyes up in my head. What a fuckin’ reject!

“Did you get my note? I left you one last night, asking you to call me ’cause I lost all the numbers I had in my phone.”

“Nah, I ain’t get that shit. I haven’t been on that piece in a few days.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw when I went to your page.”

Nosey, bitch! She was probably checkin’ to see what other bitches hit my page up ’n shit.

“So, dig, baby, why you wanted a nigga to holla atcha?”

“I don’t know,” she says, tryna act all shy ’n shit. “I was just thinking about you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right. You thinkin’ ’bout how you can get some of this hard dick. Keep it gully. You wanna fuck. You ain’t gotta front wit’ a nigga like me, baby. You want some of this chocolate stick, don’t ya?”

“Damn, you make it sound like I’ma ho or something.”