21 
21 I’m layin’ ’cross my bed playin’ wit’ my dick. A nigga’s in the mood for some hot, nasty phone sex. But I don’t really have anyone I can hit up ’cause most of these bitches wanna fuck after ’bout a minute of me talkin’ this good shit to ’em. And all I wanna do is beat my dick, bust this nut and chill today. I grab the baby oil, wet my dick up wit’ it, then close my eyes. I long stroke it, usin’ my other hand to grab my balls, creatin’ a scenario of voices in my head.
Yeah, baby, you like this big dick, don’t you?…
Oh, yes…
You a nasty lil’ bitch.
I’m your nasty bitch, nigga…fuck my pussy.
Yeah, you want daddy to bang up that tight pussy; don’t you, you slutty bitch?
Yeah, nigga…fuck me with that long-ass dick. You nasty, black muhfucka.
Damn, you wettin’ a nigga up, baby. Hmm…this pussy’s good…let me take this dick out and slap it across them big-ass, slutty-dick suckas…
Oooh, yes, slap my lips with that heavy-ass dick, muhfucka. You gonna let me suck all over that thick-ass dick, nigga?
Yeah, I’ma let you suck ya pussy juice all off this dick…you gonna let me spit in ya mouth, then run this dick down in ya throat?
Nigga, if you spit in my mouth, I’ma smack the shit outta you.
I got both hands on my dick now, double strokin’ it.
Yeah, bitch, that shit turns me on…smack me, slut…I wanna bust this nut in ya hot-ass pussy. You gonna let me creampie you, then suck that shit outta ya?
Mmmmm…oooh, you a nasty, freaky muthafucka…I want you to slap ya dick on my ass, then fuck me deep in it…
I quicken my strokes, “Uh…uh…aaah, shit,” I moan, splatterin’ my nut all over my chest and stomach. I lie still for a moment, steady my breathin’, then wipe my nut offa me wit’ one of my cum rags—old washcloths I strictly use for jackin’. “Damn, that shit was good.” I rub my balls, pinchin’ my left nipple. I wanna nut again.
My cell rings, disruptin’ my private moment. I reach for it off the the nightstand and glance at the screen. It’s my nigga, Short Stacks…damn, I mean Glenn. We’re not as tight as I am wit’ Red, Mike, and Gee, but we still cool. We actually went to the same high school, played varsity basketball together and ended up at the same college. Of course he graduated, and you already know what it was wit’ me. If you ran into ’im on the streets at night, you’d think he was just another saggy-pants-wearin’, tree-blazin’ hood nigga, but dude actually got his shit together. By day, he’s a proper-talkin’, suit-’n-tie-type nigga down on Wall Street makin’ moves. But the minute he comes ’round his boys, he flips—like many of us—right back into hood mode, blazin’, drinkin’ and talkin’ mad shit.
“Yo, my nig, sound like ya ass’s already blitzed.”
“Nah, not really; just a little sumthin’. Me and Gee had a few shots of Cuervo.”
I laugh. “Aaaah, shit. And I bet that tequila got ya ass feelin’ right.”
“No, doubt, son. You already know.”
“Yeah, I know, nigga. I know ya ugly, black ass is a damn lush.”
“Nigga, fuck outta here. Ya ass’s blacker than me.”
We both laugh. “Yeah, and I gotta longer dick. But what that got to do wit’ ya ass bein’ a damn drunk?”
“Shit. But I pull more bitches than you.”
“Yeah, okay. But, ya ass’s short strokin’ ’em, so it don’t matter how many hoes you mackin’. At the end of the night, you just an appetizer to ’em, muhfucka.”
“Fuck you, nigga,” he says, laughin’, “appetize on these nuts.”
“Yeah, aiiight, muhfucka. That’s the same shit I told ya moms after I finished nuttin’ in her mouth.”
He continues laughin’. “Awww, damn. Why you gotta go there? That’s some real foul shit, nigga.”
“Well, watch ya mouth then, muhfucka. Don’t hate on me ’cause ya stroke game is whack.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever, nigga,” he snaps, soundin’ offended. I laugh at his ass. ’Cause he knows I’m keepin’ shit real. No homo. But, after all the trains ’n shit we done pulled on bitches growin’ up, and the group epps we done swung wit’ chicks, he knows I know what it is. Not to put him on blast or nuthin’, but there’s a reason they call ’im Short Stacks. ’Cause the nigga’s shit is thick as hell, but most bitches be snappin’ on his ass for not knowin’ how to keep his dick in ’em. My thing is, if ya dick is constantly slippin’ outta a bitch’s hole, then maybe you need to change up ya stroke, feel me? But this nigga here ain’t get the memo. Or he just too stuck on retarded to understand that a short-dick muhfucka can’t long stroke no pussy.
“So, what’s good, muhfucka?” he asks, bringin’ me back to the conversation. “You tryna roll out wit’ us or what?”
“Where ya’ll niggas goin’?”
“The Rhum Lounge.”
The Rhum Lounge is located on the lower level of this slick lil’ Jamaican restaurant called Negril in the Village. The food is bangin’ and the in-house DJ spins reggae, calypso, soca, hip-hop and R & B joints while you sit back, chill, and get ya eat and drink on. I think for a minute. Try to decide if I really wanna fuck wit’ ’em tonight like that. I mean, these my niggas ’n shit, but sometimes they go overboard wit’ the drinkin’ and start poppin’ a buncha shit, especially Gee’s dumb-ass.
“Listen, muhfucka, I ain’t beat for no drama tonight, word up. Ya’ll muhfuckas be on some extra shit sometimes. If you gonna be mixin’ ya drinks ’n shit, throwin’ up all over the place, let me know now.” He laughs. “Ain’t shit funny, nigga. The last time, you fucked ’round and threw up all in my muthafuckin’ whip. Had my shit all fucked up. And ya black ass still owe me for the detailin’.”
“Nigga, stop whinin’. I got you. Besides, I’m drivin’ my own shit tonight.”
“Yeah, whatever, muhfucka. Just have me my money.”
“Nigga, fuck that shit you talkin’. You hangin’ or not?”
“What time ya’ll muhfuckas tryna roll?” I ask, glancin’ at my watch: 7:25 p.m.
“’Bout nine.”
“Oh, aiight. That’ll work.”
“Bet. You just need to scoop Ron up.”
“Ron? I thought that nigga was on ya side of town.”
“Not tonight he’s not. He’s at his sister’s.”
I shake my head. Not to kick dudes back in. But when it comes to women, he’s ’bout as dumb and pussywhipped as they come. “I take it he done got his dumb-ass put out, again.” He laughs. Asks me what time I’ma swing through and scoop ’im up. “Which sister’s spot is he at?”
“Lynn’s,” he tells me.
Lynn’s his younger sister; a cutie wit’ a juicy bootie. She’s also a real hot-box. And, of course, I thrashed it a few times on the low. I dicked her upside down and inside out; gave her pussy a beatdown she’d never experienced before. Not once, not twice, but at least a dozen times before her dumb ass started actin’ like she wanted to chain a muhfucka down. So she got dismissed. But she got mad props for keepin’ her cum-guzzler shut ’bout our epps.
“Yo,” I say to Glenn, “let that nigga know I’ma be through ’round nine-fifteen.”
“Aiight, bet. See you cats later.”
“One.”
At nine-thirty I text Ron to let ’im know I’m ’round the corner and to be at the door ready to roll. The minute I turn onto his sister’s street, a bright-ass porch light flips on, and I see him comin’ out the door. He’s rockin’ a slick brown leather blazer over a brown pullover wit’ his signature platinum and diamond fist danglin’ from a platinum chain. The nigga’s neck is practically glowin’ from the lights hittin’ hit. And he has his brown Negro Leagues fitted cap cocked to the side. I pull up to the curb, unlockin’ the door. As soon as he opens the door, I can smell the combination of leather and cologne way before he gets his ass in the car. He smells like he practically washed himself in a whole bottle of Dolce & Gabbana.
The minute he shuts the door, I say, “Damn, muhfucka. What’d you do, bathe in that shit?”
“Nah,” he says, fastenin’ his seatbelt. He reaches over and gives me a brotherly pound. “What’s good?”
“Shit,” I say, pullin’ off, makin’ my way toward I-280 East. I crack the front windows before the muhfucka suffocates me wit’ all them smells goin’ on. “What’s been up wit’ you?”
He sighs, placin’ his head back on the headrest. “Not much man. Same shit, different day. Or should I say, same shit, different broad.”
“I hear you, man. You ’n ya peoples at it again.”
“Man, listen. E’ery week it’s some shit wit’ her ass.” I nod knowin’ly; but don’t say shit ’cause I know he’s gonna fill me in. “She started spazzin’ the fuck out last night over some dumb shit, and poured bleach all over my shit. Shoes, boots, sneakers, clothes, you name it. She straight housed my shit.”
“Get the fuck outta here! You for real?”
“I’m dead-ass. She fucked up all my shit, man. Jewelry, watches, you name it—trashed! The only shit I have is what’s on my back. And then she took all my fuckin’ money outta the bank. I had to borrow money from my sister, so I could at least have some clean muthafuckin’ drawers ’n shit to put on.”
See, this is the kinda shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. And it’s exactly another reason why I don’t be fuckin’ beat to be in a relationship. Bitches always wanna fuck a muhfucka’s shit up when her ass starts feelin’ some kinda way ’bout shit. Then after she done finished fuckin’ up all ya wears ’n shit, she puts ya dumb ass out. But I’m not surprised. Like I said earlier, he fucks wit’ a buncha unstable bitches. It’s like he has a magnet for emotionally unbalanced broads. I listen to him go on and on ’bout he’s gettin’ tired of her shit, blah, blah, blah. Then he sits here and tells me she locked him outta a spot that he pays the rent to, but the shits in her name. I look at dude like he’s crazy. I feel like sayin’, “You stupid bitch-ass nigga! What the fuck you doin’ havin’ a muthafuckin’ joint bank account wit’ a ho you ain’t even married to?” But I’ma leave it alone ’cause there ain’t shit he can say that’s gonna make an ounce of sense to a muhfucka like me. All I can say is: I wish the fuck I would! What a retard! I’m startin’ to think this nigga likes bein’ abused ’n shit. I shake my head.
“Man, nuthin’. She be on her bullshit, listenin’ to them fuckin’ crab-ass bitches she fucks wit’, lettin’ that shit they put in her ear go to her head.”
“What kinda shit?” I ask, already knowin’ this nigga stays caught up in craziness.
“All kinda dumb shit. Them bitches all up on my dick instead of havin’ their busted asses somewhere gettin’ fucked. Hell, if they had some dick in their lives they wouldn’t have so much time worryin’ ’bout what the fuck I’m doin’ wit’ mine.”
I impatiently drum my fingers on the steerin’ wheel. “Muhfucka, what the hell you do?”
“I was at this spot in Paramus winin’ ’n dinin’ this shorty, and one of ole girl’s nosey-ass friends saw me and ratted me out.”
“Nah, nigga, that ain’t enough for a bitch to house ya shit. I know you. What’d you do? Keep it gee.”
“I stayed out all night…”
“And you didn’t answer ya phone,” I finish for him.
“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”
“Nigga, you dumb as hell. You know you livin’ wit’ ole girl, so how the hell you gonna stay out all night and not answer ya cell?”
“Actually, it was two nights.”
“Two nights? And you didn’t answer ya shit. Oh yeah, muhfucka, you knew you had it comin’. Then you probably stumbled up in there smellin’ like pussy. Nigga, you was askin’ for shit to pop off.”
“I ain’t beat. She’ll get over it.”
I laugh. “Yeah, and in the meantime, ya dumb ass walkin’ ’round homeless and bare-assed ’cause ya girl done did you dirty.”
“Never that, dawg,” he says, soundin’ offended. “I’ma always have me a spot to lay my head. And she’ll be blowin’ up my ringer tryna get me to come back.”
“Whatever, nigga,” I say, grippin’ the steerin’ wheel wit’ my left hand, and leanin’ my right arm on the armrest. “Ya retarded-ass gonna be right back there gettin’ ya ass dragged for tryna fuck her over.”
“Maybe.”
I laugh harder. “Nigga, maybe my ass. Ya simple-ass will.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He pauses, thinkin’, I’m sure. Hell, I’m thinkin’ for his ass. I’m thinkin’, why the fuck is he so goddamn stupid? And when the fuck is he gonna stop doin’ dumb shit? I’m wonderin’, why the hell a bitch will fuck up all your shit, then say she blacked out and started wildin’? But when you look ’round the room, your shit is the only shit fucked up. Nuthin’ else is touched. How the hell you call ya’self blackin’ out and not tearin’ the whole house up? What a buncha bullshit!
I hit the button for the CD player. Go to disc four; track four. Wait for Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” to rip through the speakers, then spark a blunt. “Yo, nigga, ain’t no need sittin’ over there stressin’ ’bout shit you can’t do nuthin’ ’bout. It is what it is. Hell, you brought the shit on ya’self. So ain’t no need to be bitchin’ up. You might as well take a hit off some of this good shit, and let Erykah help ya get ya mind right.” I take two deep pulls, then pass the blunt to ’im.
He takes it to the head. “Yo, good lookin’ out. This is exactly what I needed.” We let silence in. Bob to the beats, passin’ the blunt back ’n forth. A haze of thick smoke starts to fill the car. I crack the back windows, and the sunroof. As much as I love to blaze, I hate the smell of that shit in my clothes. And by the time we get into the city, and I make a left onto Beach Street, we’ve burned two blunts and are feelin’ right. Then outta the blue, this muhfucka hits me wit’, “Yo, can I squat at ya spot for a few days?”
I cut my eye over at him, blowin’ smoke out. “What the fuck just happen to ‘I’ma always have me a spot to lay my head,’ nigga?”
He sighs. “Man, listen, both of my side pieces beefin’ with me, too.”
“And why can’t you stay at Lynn’s or ya other two sisters’ spots?”
“I can. But then I gotta hear them bitchin’ ’bout shit. I ain’t beat.”
I shift my focus back to the road, bearin’ onto West Broadway, shakin’ my head. “You’se a dumb muhfucka.”
“Yeah, whatever. So can I crash at ya spot or not?”
I glance back over at him, almost chokin’ on blunt smoke. This nigga and I are cool, but we ain’t that cool where I’ma let ’im rest at my crib. And on top of that, dude’s smashin’ three chicks and they all muthafuckin’ crazy. His ass is on foot now, thanks to one of them nut jobs bustin’ out all his windows and tossin’ red paint up on the hood of his 2008 Lexus. And another one of them hoes he’s fuckin’ was responsible for settin’ his apartment on fire. Yeah, he says it was an accident; that the curtains caught fire by a candle she knocked over. I’m like, “yeah whatever, nigga.” I know better. The bitch caught him in bed wit’ another ho and went Fire Marshall Bill on his ass. Fuck what ya heard. This muhfucka’s attached to too much damn drama for me. Besides, what the fuck I look like havin’ another muhfucka walkin’ ’round in his boxers, scratchin’ his nuts up in my shit? Not gonna happen.
“Hell no, muhfucka. Ya ass got too much shit goin’ on, word up. You betta stay right where you at ’til you can take ya ass back home.”
“Damn, that’s fucked up. I thought we were boys.”
Boys? This nigga done banged his damn head. “Fucked up, hell. I’m keepin’ shit real. And that’s why I’m not lettin’ your triflin’ ass rest at my spot, or bring drama up in my space, fuckin’ up our friendship. He looks at me kinda funny, but I don’t put too much energy into tryna figure out what the look’s for. ’Cause bottom line, I don’t give a fuck!
He sucks his teeth, sighin’. “Pass me the blunt, muhfucka.”
I take another pull, then hand it to ’im.
He takes a deep pull, holds the smoke in his lungs, then says, “That’s still fucked up, man.”
I make a left onto West Third Street. “Nah, nigga, what’s fucked up is you gettin’ ya shit housed and not havin’ a place to lay ya dumb-ass head.”
“Fuck you.”
I laugh. “Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. The only one bein’ fucked is you.” I drive ’round the block lookin’ for parkin’ while thinkin’, what a loser!