Daddy Long Stroke (7 page)

“I hear you. But you were the one always tellin' me that a man should always have more than one bit…uh, woman on his team.”

“Yeah, fool,” he says, walkin' over to me and playfully poppin' me upside the head, “but I didn't say bring 'em up in here. You got your own place; fuck 'em there. Besides, that was my belief back then when I was young, dumb and ignorant.”

I pretend like I'm hurt, rubbin' the side of my head. “Owww,” I say, jokin'. “You know I ain't down for havin' none of these broads knowin' where I rest.” And that was on some real shit. I'm not beat for havin' a bunch of bitches bringin' drama to my doorstep. And I ain't wit' that cop shit either. I copped me a slick two-bedroom condo in Pier Village down by the beach in Monmouth County. And since I only fuck wit' chicks from up the way, I don't havta worry 'bout none of 'em drivin' way down there tryna bring the bullshit. I can sit out on my balcony at night, smoke a blunt, stroke my dick—if I want, and stare out into the ocean on some chill-out shit wit'out a bitch all up in my ear. Dig what I'm sayin'?

“Well, you need to make some other kinda arrangements 'cause all that sticking and moving gotta stop. I don't want another repeat of what happened over at your mother's happenin' here, and at the rate you going…”

I nod, knowin' exactly what he's talkin' 'bout. I was fifteen—a young hard-headed cat wit' a hard, hot, horny dick, and was constantly sneakin' bitches up in my room when my moms wasn't home. Moms was cool 'n all, but she didn't play that fuckin'-in-her-house shit.
But a nigga like me wasn't beat to follow house rules, so I was gettin' it in e'ery chance I got, havin' them dick-hungry hoes climb through my window 'n shit. So, dig, I'm up in my room diggin' this eighteen-year-old Spanish
mami
's guts out when this bitch, Jasmine—who was like twenty, comes 'round to the back of my house, and lifts up my bedroom window for a dose of this dick.

Had a muhfucka been on point I woulda heard her ass openin' the window and climbin' in, but I had my eyes closed enjoyin' my lil' hot tamale ridin' my dick. And her horny ass was makin' so much fuckin' noise that I didn't even know the chick was in my room 'til I popped open my eyes. She had the Spanish chick's hair wrapped around her hand, and was yankin' her offa my dick, swingin' her 'round the room. The next thing I know, they tearin' shit up, knockin' my TV and stereo to the floor, swingin' each other into walls 'n shit. Then when I tried to break 'em up, Jasmine's retarded ass jumped on me, and started fuckin' me up. I had to manhandle her lil' ass, and drag her ass through the house, then shove her out the door, slammin' the shit in her face. I went back to finish bustin' my nut, thinkin' that was the end of it.

Twenty minutes later, this crazy smut comes back and starts bustin' my mom's front windows out with a baseball bat. Now, you know a nigga was wrecked when I heard glass smashin' 'n shit. I slipped on my boxers and ran through the house, swingin' open the door, goin' outside to see what the fuck was goin' on. This nutty bitch started chasin' me around the yard with the bat, tryna swing off on me, word up. She had my dick bouncin' and swingin' all 'round the yard tryna keep her ass from smashin' my lights out. And the Spanish bitch snuck outta the bedroom window, then climbed over our backyard fence, bouncin' on a nigga. A neighbor called the cops. And Jasmine's psycho ass got locked the fuck up.

Needless to say, when Moms pulled up and saw her shit all busted out, she went noodles on a nigga, cursin' and screamin'. She beat my ass so bad I thought she was gonna peel the skin offa me.

“I told your black ass about bringing all them nasty, trampy, hot-in-the-ass bitches up in my motherfucking house, didn't I?…”
Slash! Slash! Slash!
She had a nigga runnin' 'round yellin' and screamin' like a lil' bitch. “…I told your motherfucking ass… No”—
Slash
—“bitches”—
Slash
—“in”—
Slash
—“my”—
Slash
— “mother”—
Slash
—“fucking”—
Slash
—“house…”

“Aaaaaah, Ma…I'm sorry…aaah …owww…”

“You just like your goddamn father, sneaky…”
Slash!

“Owwww…I won't do it again, I promise…ooooow.”

Seems like the more I apologized, and promised to not let it happen again, the angrier she got. She wasn't tryna hear nothin' a nigga had to say. For some reason, it felt like Moms was beatin' my ass on the strength of all her anger toward Pops. She just snapped, it seems like. For e'ery wrong thing he ever did, it felt like she took that shit out on my ass. I know she was hurt. Hell, I would hear her cryin' in her room sometimes. And that used to fuck me up, for real. Moms had married Pops when she was like eighteen, then had me three years later. They had been fuckin' all through high school, and thought they were in love. They probably were. But Pops loved fuckin' other bitches. I guess I got that shit honest. Anyway, moms knew how Pops got down before she married him. But like so many other broads, she thought she could change him, or that maybe he would change on his own. Well, he didn't. And eventually, she got tired of beggin', and cryin' and arguin' 'bout his cheatin'. She just gave up, and started creepin' on his ass, too. They woulda probably still been together, fuckin' behind each other's backs if one of Pops' hoes didn't come to the house tryna get shit poppin'. That's when Moms flipped
the script and lit chick's ass up, then packed Pops' shit and put his ass out. I was thirteen.

Slash!
“Nigga, ‘don't oww, Ma' me. You wanna fuck. You wanna get that black dick of yours sucked; then, nigga, you can't stay up in this house. Anything your black ass wants, I get. I work two motherfucking jobs to make sure your black ass has a roof over your head, food in your stomach and high-priced clothes on your motherfucking, ungrateful-ass back, and you can't even follow my rules. Instead, you FUCK in my house. SNEAK bitches through your window. LET one of your dizzy, whorish, hot-in-the-ass little bitches bust out SIX of my motherfucking windows.”

“I'm sorry, Ma. I'ma…”

Man, listen, I don't know how long she was beatin' my ass. But what I do know is, when she finally stopped, a nigga's arms, ass 'n back was on fire, and there was blood e'erywhere. She stood in the middle of the room, heavin' and sweatin', and waitin'. But I was scared as fuck to move.

“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.”

'Cause you are.
I hear Betty Wright's old joint, “You're A Hoe” playin' in my head. I shake my head, rememberin' my Moms playin' the hell outta that shit. Sometimes she'd leave it on one of Pops' jump-offs' answerin' machines. Other times, she'd call one of his chicks up, and start singin' the shit to 'em, then hang up. I laugh, thinkin' 'bout some of the other crazy shit Moms used to do to get at some of Pops' chicks. Like drivin' 'round lookin' for his car. Then when she found it, she'd knock on all
the doors or ring the doorbells, askin' to speak to her husband. If she found exactly where he was, which was usually nine outta ten times, she'd leave a message for him to get home before his clothes were packed. Other times, she'd drag the chick outta her house and fight her. Or she'd sit on the hood of Pops' ride, blastin' her tape player to songs like, “I'm His Wife, You're Just a Friend” or “Homewrecker,” waitin' for him to come out. And she'd always drag my lil' ass out wit' her. Yo, real talk, Moms was a certified mess, back then, word up. But, on some real shit, them singers back 'n the day used to get wit' each other real quick on vinyl like it wasn't nuthin', 'specially them chicks Shirley Brown and Barbara Mason. Them broads would go at it.