Daddy Long Stroke Read Free

thinkin’.”
    â€œYou wasn’t thinkin’?” I repeat. She tries to keep from laughin’. But, a muhfucka like me don’t find shit amusin’ ’bout someone bustin’ they ass in ya muthafuckin’ grill. Stupid bitch! “Well, guess what? You not thinkin’ done got ya funky ass put the fuck out. So, get ya shit on, and get ta steppin’.”
    She looks at me like I have boogers ’n snot hangin’ outta my nose or some shit. But fuck what ya heard. I ain’t the one. She frowns. “Are you serious? I said it was an accident.”
    â€œYo, I’m dead-ass. Get the fuck out.” I walk over and start pickin’ up her clothes and tossin’ ’em at her.
    She gets up offa the bed and starts snatchin’ her shit up. “That’s real fucked up. You know that, right?”
    â€œBitch, I don’t give a fuck,” I hear myself sayin’ in my head. But I igg the ho instead; stare at her as she puts back on her bra. Ipick up my cell, scroll through my address book ’til I get to Carla’s number. I hit the call button, then wait for her to pick up.
    â€œHey, boo,” she answers. “You finally got around to calling me.”
    â€œHey, baby, what’s good?”
    â€œYou,” she coos.
    I cut my eye over at Shakeeta. She got the nerve to be icegrillin’ me while gettin’ dressed. I keep my eyes locked on hers. Stare her down. Stupid bitch! Who the fuck names their child Shakeeta any damn way? Fuckin’ ghetto-ass bird.
    â€œThat’s wassup, baby. Yo, you feel like suckin’ this dick tonight?”
    â€œAlways,” she responds. “Just let me know when.”
    â€œBet. I’ma swing through as soon as I toss out this trash.”
    Shakeeta slams her hand up on her hip. Her neck starts rollin’. “Nigga, I know your black ass is not tryna call me trash. And how the fuck you gonna call another bitch up and I’m standing right here…”
    â€œWho’s that in the background?” Carla asks. “Sounds like—”
    â€œI’ll see you in a half-hour,” I say, cuttin’ her off and snappin’ my phone shut.
    â€œâ€¦That’s some real foul shit, nigga, for you to disrespect me like that,” she continues as she puts on the rest of her shit. “But, not to worry, muhfucka, I ain’t hard-pressed for no nigga, or his dick, especially yours. Trust me.”
    I laugh at her ass. “Mighty funny ya ass is always blowin’ up my line talkin’ ’bout how much you need this dick, how much you love this dick, how much you don’t wanna stop gettin’ this dick. But now you ain’t pressed. Yeah, okay. That’s what ya mouth says.”
    â€œFuck you!” she yells, swingin’ open the bedroom door, and stormin’ down the stairs. I follow behind her, holdin’ my breath, hopin’ like hell Pops ain’t here to hear this shit. That’s all I need right now. “You ain’t shit, nigga, for real.” She gets to the frontdoor, swings it open, then stops before walkin’ out. She turns to face me. “I shoulda shitted in ya motherfuckin’ mouth.”
    â€œHo, get ya stankin’ bum-ass on up outta here.”
    She gives me the finger. “Fuck you, nigga! I’ve been thrown outta better places.” She storms out, leavin’ the front door wide open.
    I walk over and shut the door, lockin’ it. Then stand in the middle of the livin’ room for a minute, listenin’ to see if I hear Pops stirrin’ ’round up in this piece. I can’t front, a nigga’s relieved that it’s quiet. Pops done warned me hundreds of times ’bout bringin’ this kinda shit up in his spot, and the last thing I need is for him to walk in on it. Dude would be up in here snappin’ for sure.
Nigga, you know you shoulda handled that bitch better than that
, I