Daddy Long Stroke

I flash her my mega-watt smile, givin’ her another hug and kiss. “I love you, too, Ma.”

She closes the door behind me as I walk to my car, shakin’ my head and smilin’. I disarm the alarm, then slide behind the wheel, crankin’ the engine and sparkin’ a blunt, makin’ my way toward the parkway, headin’ south to my spot.

9

I’m tired as fuck! My muthafuckin’ flight to ATL was delayed two hours. Then they kept a muhfucka cooped up and bunched up on that biotch for almost forty minutes before finally takin’ the fuck off. A nigga needed a damn blunt bad, still do—straight to the dome. Lucky for me, I don’t fuck wit’ alcohol, otherwise, a muhfucka woulda got right. The one good thing outta the whole fucked-up flight is that I was posted up next to this bad-ass bitch from Stone Mountain. Whew…man, listen. Chick is a real beauty. Model-fine type wit’ long, sexy legs, nice bubble ass, lil’ waist and slanted gray eyes. Then she got the nerve to have a sexy-ass mole over her lip, and a muthafuckin’ Gabrielle Union smile. Man, listen. You know I had to put my thing down on her fine ass. And yeah, a nigga got the digits.

So, here I am walkin’ and talkin’, just straight kickin’ it wit’ her fine-ass. I’m diggin’ her vibe, and I can tell she’s diggin’ mine. And on some real shit, I almost forget the bitch I got waitin’ on me. I sigh when we get off the tram and make our way to baggage claim. I make a promise to get at this cutie before I bounce; not even on some fuck-type shit—well, not unless she’s tryna step outta them drawers, but on some straight chill shit.

“Make sure you do that,” she says, smilin’. She shifts her brown Dolce & Gabbana handbag from one arm to the other.

“No doubt,” I say, lickin’ my lips. “I’m definitely tryna holla.”

“You got the number. Use it or lose it.”

I laugh. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”

“So, who you out here staying with?” she asks, starin’ me in the eyes and grinnin’.

“My peoples,” I state. “But I’m tryna spend some time—”

“Alex, over here,” I hear. I cringe. Fuck! I know who it is the minute I hear that squeaky-ass voice. I turn around, lookin’ for… uh, damn, what’s this bitch’s name? Vita, yeah, that’s it. I don’t see her, so I go back to talkin’ to my Stone Mountain beauty.

“…with you, ma,” I continue. “So, make sure you pick up ya phone when you see a nine-seven-three area code comin’ through. It’s gonna be me tryna get at ya.”

She smiles. “Well, if I’m not busy, I’ll pick up. If I don’t, leave a message. Oh, there’s my bag,” she says, pointin’ to a black Louis travel bag. I reach over and grab it before it goes by, then hand it to her. “Thanks, she says.

I glance ’round, lookin’ for Vita’s stupid ass, but I still don’t see her. “So dig, baby, I’ma hit you up in a few days.”

“Well, if you don’t, that’s on you.” She grins.

I grin back. “And if I do?” I ask, lickin’ my lips, steppin’ into her space.

She locks her eyes on mine. “Then that’s on you, too.”

I smile wider. And just as I’m ’bout to scoop this beauty up in my arms, I see this lil’ bow-legged chick, wobblin’ up on me, wavin’ me down. Who the fuck is this lil’ bitch? At first I think it’s some fresh-ass, hot-in-the-pussy shorty tryna holla. But then I notice her face got some age on it, and realize she’s a grown-ass woman.

“Heeeeeeey, Alex,” she says, grinnin’ from ear to ear, showin’ the gap between her teeth, like she just hit the Lotto.

I ice-grill the bitch. “Yo, what’s good? Do I know you?”

She keeps her smile plastered on her face as she walks up to where we’re standin’. She looks up at my Stone Mountain beauty, then up at me and says, “Yeah, boo, it’s Vita.”

My jaw drops. A nigga is ready to pass the fuck out! Ole girl looks at me, then down at this chick, and smirks. I can tell she’s thinkin’, You fuckin’ that? Oh, I see your work. She looks me in the eye and says, “It was nice talking to you. Enjoy your stay in the ATL.”

“Most def. I’ma hit you up.” I watch her walk off, then return my attention to this ho. Vita? A nigga tries to keep his composure. What the fuck?! I look down at this lil’ Munchkin bitch. Vita? Oh, hell naw. The chick in those flicks is brown-skinned wit’ thick hips and lips, and has big brown eyes and a sexy-ass smile. Not some muthafuckin’ light-bright, high-yellow bitch wit’ big, pink lips and burgundy hair.

I frown, scratchin’ the side of my head. “Hol’ up,” I say, shakin’ my head in disbelief. “You’re ATL Rough Rider Cutie, Vita, from offa Myspace?”

“Yeah, boo,” she says, laughin’ “You so crazy. Who else? I was calling you for a minute, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”