Daddy Long Stroke

I adjust my seat upright. “Nah, actually, I haven’t. I know ya biological clock is tickin’ and all, but right now, baby, I can’t see myself plantin’ a nut up in you. I’m not ready for sumthin’ that major.”

“Fair enough,” she says, bearin’ onto I-405 South. “So, let me ask you. And be honest.”

I hope this bitch ain’t ’bout to beat me in the head wit’ no bullshit, I think, cockin’ my head to the side. “Wassup?”

“If it weren’t for the money and shopping sprees that I freely hit you with, would I still be the type of woman you’d spend time with?”

Fuck! If this is ’posed to be a trick question, she done failed ’cause I ain’t ’bout to fuck up my paper tellin’ her no dumb shit. “No doubt, baby.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you got some good pussy,” I say, grinnin’. She sucks her teeth, rollin’ her eyes.

“Oh, so that’s the only reason?”

“Keepin’ shit gee, it’s the biggest reason. But, it’s not the only reason. You also got ya shit together. I dig how you stay on ya grind, makin’ major moves. Baby, you’re a strong, independent, beautiful woman.”

“But?”

You gotta head like a damn globe. Kickin’ some real shit, moon face or not, the more time I spend wit’ Cherry, the more I’m startin’ to dig her. “No, ‘but,’ baby. Whether you lacin’ me or not, I’d still wanna fuck wit’ you.” I’m shocked at myself for sayin’ this, and actually meanin’ it. She smiles. “But I ain’t gonna front and say you don’t have a muhfucka spoiled as hell, word up. You got me rotten, baby—right down to the damn core.”

She laughs.

“So, you tell me. If I wasn’t packin’ all this big-ass dick, would you still be fuckin’ wit’ a muhfucka like me?” Now on some real shit, I already know what it is. It’s this dick that’s got her strung ’cause it’s not like a nigga’s comin’ to the table wit’ sumthin’ else, feel me? Yeah, I’ma fine, sexy, black nigga, but all I’m ever gonna offer her is good dick packed wit’ hot cream and a buncha mind-blowin’, toe-curlin’ sex.

“As fine as you are, I probably would.”

I bust out laughin’. “Stop lyin’. You know damn well if I was servin’ ya ass wit’ a little-ass dick, you’d be feelin’ gypped. Little dick and broke, you’d dismiss a nigga quick, and you know it.”

“That’s not so,” she says, tryna sound offended. Fuck outta here!

“Yeah, right,” I say, smirkin’.

“No, I’m serious. Yes, it’s nice being with a well-endowed man. But trust me. It isn’t the most important thing. A big dick doesn’t guarantee a good experience. I’ve dated some men who were average size, but they knew how to work what they had and it was great. It’s not the dick that makes the experience. It’s the man behind it. It’s the connection.”

“Yeah, okay; sounds good. But I know better. Ya ass’d be bored to death wit’ a muhfucka short-strokin’ you. Baby, be real. You know like I know, you got too much pussy for a short-stroker.”

She shoots me a look. “So you tryna say I have a big pussy?”

I grin. “Nah, I’m sayin’ a little dick would drown in ya deep waters.”

She rolls her eyes, mergin’ onto I-5 North. “Same difference, nigga.”

I laugh, takin’ in the scenery as she speeds down the interstate.

Whoever said it doesn’t rain in Southern California is a muthafuckin’ lie! It rained all Friday night, and all day Saturday. But today it’s in the damn sixties. Cherry and I are standin’ outside Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’n Waffles over on Pico Boulevard, waitin’ to be seated. It’s packed as hell up in that bitch. Cherry’s kinda tight that we’re here, but this is where I wanna eat. A muhfucka was tired of hittin’ up all them shi-shi, foo-foo type spots she drags me to. I wanted to get my grub on in the damn hood for a change. Not ’round a buncha pretentious-ass bitches. She complains ’bout how ghetto and rude the staff can be at times here; how the wait is too long; how she doesn’t feel like dealin’ wit’ anyone bummin’ her for change on our way out; how they put too much damn butter up on the waffles; how the chicken is too greasy; how if she has to eat Roscoe’s, she’d rather go to the one over in Hollywood. I let her ass go on and on. But I feel like tellin’ her to shut the fuck up. Luckily, a call comes in that keeps her ass occupied for the next twenty minutes. My flight tonight can’t come soon enough. A muhfucka’s ready to bounce. I watch Cherry as she walks and talks. She paces up and down the sidewalk, e’ery so often stoppin’ and posin’ wit’ her bag hangin’ in the crook of her arm, and one foot lifted up on the heel of her shoe. I decide to check my voice messages while she’s yappin’ her jaws. There are thirteen.

“When you comin’ back to Brooklyn, nigga? It’s ya girl, Electra.” Delete.