Daddy Long Stroke

by Cairo

  “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.

  “So whatchu do this time?”

  “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!


  22

  On some real shit, the whole month’s been one big-ass blur to me. It seems like the days and weeks flew right past me. I mean like, damn…where the hell did the summer go? It’s all good, though. It’s already the first week of October. Before you know it, we’ll be celebratin’ Obama’s victory ’cause he’s really ’bout to bring it straight to them crackers’ heads, for real. Watch what I tell ya. Anyway, I’m chillin’ at my spot gettin’ ready to tear into this bangin’-ass Philadelphia burger—a thick angus burger topped wit’ provolone cheese, grilled onions and hot peppers—and sweet potato fries I picked up at Bobby’s Burger Palace when my cell rings. I glance at the screen. It’s a 770 area code. I lower the sound to the stereo.

  “Yo,” I answer.

  “Hello, Alley Cat?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?” I ask, tryna figure out the voice.

  “It’s Kanika.”

  “Who?”

  “Kanika,” she repeats, chucklin’. “You forgot who I am that quick. You called me a couple of months ago, and left a message. We were on the same flight to Atlanta.”

  “Oh yeah,” I reply, surprised to hear from her. Took ya fine-ass long ’nough to hit a muhfucka back. “What’s good, baby girl?”

  My stomach growls. As bad as I wanna fuck this burger up, I don’t wanna start smackin’ up in her ear ’cause this shit right here calls for usin’ two hands, then gettin’ down ’n dirty. I dip a few fries into some honey mustard sauce, then shove ’em into my mouth, chewin’.

  “Sorry for not calling you sooner. The minute I got back, I had to hit the ground running. It’s been nonstop.”

  “It’s all good, baby,” I say, swallowin’, then takin’ a sip of grape juice. “Yo, sorry ’bout that. You caught me in the middle of gettin’ ready to eat.”

  “Oh, don’t let me disrupt your meal. I can call you back later.”

  “Nah, you good. So what’s good wit’ you?”

  “Nothing much; just working a lot. This is actually the first time in weeks I’ve had a real moment to sit and chill. So I figured now would be a good time to finally return your call.”

  “I can dig it. I thought I was gonna haveta ring all the doorbells in Stone Mountain to get at ya sexy-ass.”

  She laughs. “Annnnywaaay, before this conversation goes any further, please let the record state that I will not be added to your little fan club list.”

  “Dig, you don’t have to be. I got a special spot reserved ’specially for you, pretty baby—real talk.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “No doubt. So, dig, baby, you gotta man?”

  “No, not at the moment,” she answers. “What about you?”

  “Hell muthafuckin’ no, I ain’t got no man,” I snap, laughin’. “I am the man, baby. All six-feet-four, two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of me. I ain’t wit’ that dick-grindin’ shit.”

  She laughs wit’ me. “You’re a mess. I wasn’t asking if you had a man. I would hope not. But I’m glad you cleared that up. Then again, you never know these—”

  “‘Then again’ nuthin’. I’m strictly ’bout the clit ’n tits attached to a beautiful chick wit’ a sweet, wet kitty. So, to answer ya question, I’m solo, baby, but I got a buncha friends.”

  “Mmmph. I bet you do.”

  I get up from the sofa and go upstairs to my bedroom. I remove my T-shirt and boxers, then stand in the mirror, flexin’ my chest muscles. I pull at my dick and make a note to hit the gym—after I get some pussy today.

  “Mmmmm. So, tell me, Mr. Single Man with a Bunch of Friends, what is your belief about relationships and monogamy?”

  Shit! That relationships are overrated and monogamy is practically extinct. I pull a half-smoked blunt from outta the ashtray on my nightstand, light it, then take a deep pull, slowly blowin’ it out. “Why, you tryna marry me, or sumthin’?”

  “Not hardly,” she replies, laughin’. “I’m asking to see where your head is, that’s all.”

  I’m hopin’ between ya pretty-ass legs—big head, lil’ head; either one makes me no never mind. “Oh, I feel you, baby,” I say, pausin’. I wanna keep shit real wit’ her, but I know if I tell her what I really feel ’bout relationships—that they require too much fuckin’ work, that they come wit’ too much stress and aggravation for a muhfucka like me—it’ll most likely ruin any chance of me pushin’ this dick all the way into the back of her pussy. And I already know if I tell her that I’ll take whoremongerin’ over monogamy on any given day, hands down, it’s a wrap. I take another pull from my blunt.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, blowin’ a cloud of smoke out. “Why, you gotta problem wit’ that?”

  “Depends on what you’re smoking,” she says.

  “Trees,” I tell her. There’s a moment of silence, then she starts firin’ off a buncha muthafuckin’ questions, like she’s doin’ research for the American Council on Weed Control—not that that shit exists, but hell, it might as well the way she’s comin’ at my neck. She asks: How often you smoke? Whenever the fuck I feel like it. How long you been smoking? ’Bout as long as I been fuckin’. Why you smoke? Uh, duh…I like smokin’ the shit. Why you so muthafuckin’ nosey? Do you think you’re addicted to it? Hell no! The only thing I’m addicted to is good pussy and wet head. But, on some real shit, I’ma probably keep burnin’ trees ’til the day I die. Fuck what ya heard. You ain’t never heard of a muhfucka catchin’ lung cancer from blazin’, or a muhfucka dyin’ from an overdose. Have you? Exactly!

  I keep my answers to myself, changin’ the subject. “So, what’s good? Can a cat holla or what?”

  “Mmmph. Well, if you’re trying to see me, then I suggest you answer my question.”

  “Which one? You done hit me wit’ so many. You know I smoke. My memory’s all jacked up.”

  She chuckles. “Oh, puhleeze. How convenient. I bet you remember what you wanna remember. I asked you about relationships and monogamy.”

  I laugh. “Oh, that one.” I spark another blunt. “On some real shit, I think relationships only work when two people want them to work. Both parties gotta be on the same page; otherwise, you just askin’ for heartache, feel me? And as far as monogamy goes, well…umm, listen. Let me get back to you on that.”

  “Just what I thought,” she says, laughin’. “You probably can’t even spell it.”

  I join in her laughter. I’m diggin’ her style. I already know she ain’t gonna be no easy lay, and I’m wonderin’ if I really wanna put in the work. I mean, I wanna taste them drawers—but, on some real shit, a muhfucka ain’t really that pressed. We go back ’n forth for another twenty minutes. She shares some basic shit ’bout herself. And I share some ’bout me. I learn she’s twenty-six. That she’s an ATL transplant by way of L.A. That she moved to Atlanta three years ago for a change of scenery and to be closer to her older sister. That she doesn’t have any children. That she’s a professional model, and travels a lot. But what I really wanna know is: Is she fuckin’?

  “So can a brotha spend some time wit’ you or what?”

  “Maybe. When will you be in town again?”

  Now you already know I didn’t have plans to be in Atlanta anytime soon, but to get a chance to get up in them hips, a muhfucka gonna make it happen. “I’ma hit you up to let you know.”

  “Do that,” she says, chucklin’. “I’m getting ready to pencil you in right now.”

  “Nah, baby, wrong answer,” I say. “Ink me in. Better yet, I want you to use a bright-red Magic Marker to mark me in.”

  “And what should it say?”

  “It should say, ‘Big daddy’s comin’ through.’” We both laugh, then talk a few minutes more before I say, “Have a good night, pretty baby. I’ma hit you up one day next week.”

  “Should I hold my breath?”

  “Only if you believe.” We hang up. I slip my hands back down into my underwear, then cup and massage my balls, smilin’.

  Ten a.m., Wednesday mornin’ my cell ri
ngs, wakin’ me the fuck up. I start to let it go into voicemail, but reach over and grab it off the nightstand. I peep the caller ID, then answer. “What’s good?”

  “Hey, baaaaaaby,” Vita screeches into the phone. I roll my eyes up in my head. Between her notes on BlackPlanet, her IM’s and these calls, I’m thinkin’ this lil’ bitch has the potential to become another stalker if her ass wasn’t so afraid of gettin’ on a plane and leavin’ her lil’ box of a world. I guess it’s a good thing the ho doesn’t travel anywhere farther north than North Carolina. Otherwise, she’d be tryna hunt me down e’ery chance she got. “How you been? Did you get my messages? I’ve left you like four and sent you a few notes on BP.”

  I yawn and stretch. Although I’m not beat to fuck wit’ her ass, today I decide to indulge her. I’m tryna get at Kanika’s fine ass, and I want her to sponsor my trip. “I’m good, baby,” I say, iggin’ all the other questions. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout you.”

  “For real?” she asks, soundin’ surprised ’n excited.

  “No doubt, baby.”

  “Then why haven’t I heard from you? I was starting to get worried about you since you haven’t returned any of my calls or responded to any of my emails. I didn’t know what to think. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, baby, e’erything’s good. I’ve just been real stressed out ’n shit. But it’s nuthin’ for you to worry ya pretty lil’”—Pumkin, I think—“head over. I’ma be aiight.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, soundin’ concerned for a muhfucka. “Why are you stressed?”

  “This job shit,” I lie, “has me ’bout ready to snap on a muhfucka. A nigga can’t seem to get a break. I been out beatin’ the pavement puttin’ in mad applications, and these muhfuckas ain’t bitin’. And the ones who are ain’t tryna pay a nigga shit. Or, as soon as they know I gotta record, they get on some other shit, like ‘we’ll get back to you,’ knowin’ damn well they gonna toss my app in the trash. Baby, I’m tellin’ you, it’s real hard out here for a muhfucka wit’ a record.”

  “A record?” she asks, soundin’ surprised. “What kind of record?” Duh, a criminal record, what else? I sigh, then give her a bullshit-ass story ’bout hustlin’ drugs, then gettin’ bagged ’cause some jealous, bitch-ass niggas snitched on me. “OhmyGod, that’s messed up. How long were you locked up?”