Dirty Heat (31 page)

“Yo, Nivia, word is bond. Watch ya fuckin' mouth, yo. Stop comin' at me like I'm some lazy, bum-ass nigga, yo. You really comin' at me crazy right now, like you been holdin' shit down all along by yourself.”

“Nigga, if you're sitting ya nasty ass up on my couch in ya drawz playing Xbox and eating cereal all damn day, burning up my electricity, while I'm out busting my ass, then if it acts like a bum-nigga, then it must be a bum-nigga.”

“Oh, word? Is that how you talkin' now? So all I am to you now is some bum-nigga, huh? I wasn't hearin' you talkin' all that dumb shit when I was out there hustlin' ‘n' shit, coppin' you all them muthafuckin' Louis bags and red bottoms ‘n' shit you got stuffed in them fuckin' closets. You wasn't poppin' shit when I dropped twenty-gees to get us this spot or put ya ungrateful ass up in that shiny, big-body whip you got parked out front.”

“Yeah, well, guess what? I wasn't popping shit because you were bringing money up in here.”

“Yo, what the fuck?! So what you want me to do? Go back to sellin' drugs? Is that it? I just did four muthafuckin' years, yo. And I'm still on parole. So what the fuck is you sayin', huh? I told you I was done wit' that life. I'm not goin' back to prison, yo. For you or anyone else. So if that's the kinda muhfucka you want, then go out ‘n' get 'im. Because I ain't tryna be that muhfucka.”

“I didn't say go out and start selling drugs again, nigga. And I'm not looking for one who does, dumb-ass. I'm looking for
you
to get a job. And keep one. Or at least act like you're trying.”

“I am tryin'. Damn! What the fuck you want me to do, yo, huh? Put a gun up to a muhfucka's head ‘n' make 'em hire me? These cracker-ass muhfuckas ain't tryna hire a felon. Period.”

“Nigga, you can get a job if you want to. I told you Wegmans is hiring. Did you go down there and put in the application like I told you to?”

“Yeah. I told you I did. And they still haven't called me back.”

“Well, until they do, the least you can do is have dinner cooked when I get home from work, and this house clean. I shouldn't have to work all day, then come home to a bunch of dishes in the sink. And not one
goddamn thing cooked. This shit is getting old. And I'm getting sick of it.”

“Yeah, aiight, man. Whatever.”

“Whatever, my ass, Levar!”

“Yo, fuck, man. I ain't tryna beef wit' yo. But you stay talkin' shit. You know that, right?”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't have gotten fired from Walmart. But you did. So if you don't want me talking shit, then you need to get up and find another damn job.”

“Yo, what the fuck is your problem today? Didn't I just dick you down real good? So why is you poppin' shit?”

“Nigga, a hard dick ain't gonna keep these bills paid up in here. I don't give a fuck if you gotta sell apples and oranges on the side of the road, or sweep up horse shit. Hell, go out and sling dick if that's gonna keep these bills paid. All I care about is you working, period. It's bad enough I'm paying all the bills. But I shouldn't have to keep paying
your
child support, too.”

“Man, whatever. Relax. I got this.”

“Well, how 'bout you go relax them bills that keep piling up on the damn counter, and get. A. Motherfuckin'. Job.”

“Yo, you got that bread?” I say the minute I step inside this muhfucka's crib ‘n' the door shuts.

“Yes. A hundred, right?”

“Yeah. You wanted me to shit on you, right?”

“Yes.”

This nasty muhfucka.

“Then I'ma need to see that paper, first,” I say, eyeing him. He's about my height, six two. Brown hair. Brown eyes. His ad said he was thirty-eight, but he looks older. He's barefoot, wearin' a navy blue bathrobe.

I peep a wedding band on his finger.

Damn, this muhfucka's married. I wonder if he lets his wife shit on him. Nah, if so, he wouldn't be payin' muhfuckas to take a dump on him.

“Oh, sure. No worries,” he says, turning to walk off. “I have your money. Follow me.”

I follow him through his condo, scoping the place out as we make our way down a hallway. I can't front. The muhfucka's crib is right. He has all types of high-end shit up in here, and expensive-looking artwork and sculptures.

Yeah, this freak-ass muhfucka's caked up.

Yo, hold up. Before you start judgin' me, know this, I ain't gay, bi, or some down-low muhfucka. I'm just in a tight spot at the moment. So I'm doin' what I gotta do to keep a few dollars in my pocket.
And keep my girl off my back. So this shit I'm doin' is strictly business, point-blank, period.

And I don't consider nothin' I'm doin' as cheatin'.

It's me gettin' this paper, that's it.

Hell, I woulda never been browsin' the sex ads late last night if I wasn't feelin' pressed for money ‘n' curiosity hadn't gotten the best of me. I heard there was a buncha horny muhfuckas on the Internet willing to be generous for all types of sex. So when I peeped this muhfucka's ad lookin' for someone to shit on him, it sounded—nasty as it is, like a quick way to make some fast cash.

So here I am.

About to drop my drawz ‘n' shit on this freaky muhfucka.

Hell. I wouldn't even be at this muhfucka's crib about to take a shit on him if Nivia wasn't always poppin' shit about money. I'm not sayin' it's her fault that I'm here. I'm here by my own choice. All I'm sayin' is, that shit's annoyin' as hell. Don't no muhfucka wanna keep hearin' that shit from his girl. I already feel low as fuck as it is that I can't do for my family like I want, the way I used to. That shit fucks with me e'eryday. So I don't need my girl beatin' me in the head about it. That shit be makin' me wanna smack her fuckin' teeth out.

Don't get it fucked up. I love my girl. She's my heart. But, on some real shit, she's spoiled as fuck. And I know I made her that way. Still, yo, she stay naggin' the fuck outta me about this work shit. Like I don't know I need to find a fuckin' job. What the fuck she think I be doin' all day?

Don't answer that shit. You already know. She thinks I'm layin' up in the crib all day scratchin' my balls ‘n' shit; doin' nothin'. Yeah, aiight. That's a buncha bullshit, yo.

Yeah, aiight. Maybe she's right. I could try'n keep the crib a lil' cleaner. And, aiight, yeah…I can at least have dinner cooked for
her. But damn. I'm like, fall back. Shit's stressful enough. She acts like I don't know the light ‘n' cable bills gotta get paid ‘n' our two kids gotta eat.

Shit. I wouldn't be in this fucked-up situation—unemployed and all fucked up—now, if that stupid, flat-assed bitch with the big-ass titties hadn't come up in my line with a cartload of shit, poppin' shit 'cause I wasn't movin' the line fast enough for her ghetto ass. She lucky I had already smoked a blunt before I got up in that muhfucka or I woulda probably knocked her dumb, snaggletooth ass out.

But I checked her ass. And the bitch tried to turn up. Then came back with some cornball-ass nigga, like that was supposed to mean something.

So when he came at me, like he was tryna put that fist work in, I took off my apron ‘n' knuckled up.

Yeah, we got to fightin' up in that muhfucka. But I didn't start the shit. I cracked the nigga's jaw ‘n' finished it, then went back to checkin' out my customers.

Still, I got fired.

And, since I wasn't workin' there long enough to collect unemployment, I was assed out. Luckily I had a few dollars saved. But that shit only lasted for a minute. And the bills still keep coming in.

I've been out here looking for work like crazy for the last five months. But muhfuckas ain't hiring. Or maybe they just ain't hiring
me
.

•  •  •

“Okay, here you go,” dude says, bringing me outta my thoughts. He hands me a crisp Benjamin.

“Aiight, cool,” I say, stuffing the bill in my pocket. I glance at my watch. It's a little after ten in the morning. And I gotta be at my
next destination two towns over between twelve, twelve-thirty. “So where we doin' this?”

“Right here. On my bed.”

He points to a king-size, four-poster bed. Probably the same one he lays up in wit' his wife. But that shit ain't my worry. So let me take this dump ‘n' get the fuck on.

In the center of the bed is a large white pad ‘n' some white towels.

Dude takes off his robe, then crawls up on the bed, propping up on his forearms. He's wearing a skimpy pair of white satiny bikini briefs.

I pull off my hoodie. Then turn my back to him ‘n' kick off my boots, before stepping outta my sweats ‘n' drawz.

He groans. “Oh, God, you have a beautiful ass. I would love to have my face shove up in it.”

My jaw muscles tighten. “Yo, dude, you gonna need to keep them ass comments to ya'self. I don't need to hear that shit.”

Yo, focus, nigga. Get this paper ‘n' get the fuck up outta here.

Dude offers an apology. Tells me no disrespect meant.

“Turn around,” he says. “Let me see you.”

I take a deep breath. Then face him ‘n' the muhfucka's eyes bug out. I ain't gonna front. I know my body's right. Muscled and tatted with a long dick. So it is what it is. That's what I have'ta keep telling myself while I'm standin' here butt-ass naked in the middle of this muhfucka's bedroom.

“I want you to put your boots back on. Then climb up on the bed.”

I stuff my feet back into my Timbs, then swagger over to him, lettin' the muhfucka get an eyeful of this dick. I'm good wit' him lookin' at it as long as he ain't tryna touch it.

He licks his lips. Goes in about how big my dick is. But I ig the shit. I know it's big. I climb up on the bed, then squat over him.

“Yo, where you want me to shit on you?”

“On my stomach. No, no, over my cock.”

I frown, tryin' not to look down at his dick strainin' against his lil' panty-like drawz.
This muhfucka's real outta control.

I pull open my ass, and start pushin'.

“Damn, you have a nice ass. I love the way your balls hang.”

I frown. “Yo, my man. You gonna have'ta shut the fuck up. All this yappin' is makin' it hard for me to take this shit.”

“I'm sorry. I can't help myself. You don't know how amazingly sexy it is to see a muscular, masculine man's ass pulled open over me. You're so sexy. The way your brown hole puckers when you strain. It's like it's winking at me. Seeing you squatted over me is such a turn-on.”

“Well, no disrespect, my dude, but I'ma need you to keep the fuck quiet so I can concentrate.”

“Okay. It's going to be hard, like my cock. But I'll try.”

I close my eyes and push.

“Can I touch your balls?”

I shoot him a nasty look over my shoulder. “Nah, man. I ain't wit' that shit.”

“Okay. Just asking. But I'll pay extra.”

I ain't wit' havin' another muhfucka touchin' my shit. But, uh…it's all about collectin' this paper. So…

“How much more?”

“Fifty more dollars. I just want to touch them. Nothing else.”

I hold my dick up in case the muhfucka tries to be on some slick shit. “Aiight, you can touch my balls. But don't squeeze 'em. And don't be tryna grab at my dick.”

He moans, lightly grazin' my balls wit' the tips of his fingers in soft gentle strokes.

Oh shit.

I grunt. Fart. Then dump a pile of hot shit on his chest. And this
nasty muhfucka nuts on himself without ever touchin' his dick.

I grab one of the big, fluffy towels he has on the bed and wipe my ass.

“Here,” he says, holdin' a hand out. “I'll take that.”

I hand him the shitty towel. Then grab my clothes and head into his marbled bathroom. He has a washrag and soap already up on the marble counter for me.

I reach for some toilet paper, wipe my ass some more, then run water over the rag, soapin' it up. I wash my ass out wit' the rag, then toss it up on the counter, catchin' my reflection in the mirror on my way out.

Muhfucka, you wild as hell.

I smirk, steppin' back out into dude's bedroom. I stop in my tracks. Dude's got my shit smeared over his dick ‘n' he's jackin' off while sniffin' the towel I wiped my ass on. He stares at me, grunting as his nut spurts outta his reddish-pink dick.

“I couldn't help myself,” he says all sheepish ‘n' shit, grabbin' the other towel ‘n' wipin' his hands on it.

He reaches for his robe. “Give me a sec to wash my hands, then I'll let you out.”

A few seconds later, he's walkin' me down the stairs. “You seem like a really cool guy. Maybe we can make this a regular thing. I'm really a regular married guy who happens to have a weird fetish…”

Yo, shut ya shitty-ass up ‘n' just show me to the muthafuckin' door.

“I love to be farted and pooped on. The smell turns me on.”

I frown. But keep my thoughts to myself. I ain't hear to judge him. If that's his thing, and he's willin' to cough up that paper, then fuck it. I'll come through ‘n' shit on the muhfucka. Hell, I'll even shit in his mouth if it shuts him the fuck up.

“You can smoke, drink, and watch porn if you want…”

“No ball touchin', though,” I say, raisin' a brow. “And I want one-fiddy.”

He opens the door, smilin' ‘n' smellin' like shit. “Same time next week?”