Best pussy I ever had, this mixed virgin chick named Heather. Her shit was about eight degrees hotter than normal and hugged my dick the whole way through. I busted in like 3 minutes flat, played it off like we were quitting cuz I didn’t wanna make her sore. She pretended to believe me, we spooned for a sec, then she bailed.
She went away to school two days after that, we were supposed to hook up winter break but the night before our rendezvous someone broke into the Hyundai and got me for everything i had, including my organizer under the seat. It had her number in it and I never called like I said I would and we never hooked up and didn’t see her again for another 2 years.
The next time we ran into each other was at a bar, she told me she’d been dating some defensive lineman from Howard for the past year. I smiled and nodded and inside cursed the day that big football playing motherfucker ran up in her. Her pussy was ruined forever. It would never fit the same again. We chatted a bit more then I went on my way. I didn’t ask for her number that time.
Second best pussy ever, i forget. Nobody remembers second place, remember that losers! But I’ll tell you this much, Angie the Twin is top 5. Angie was this little half Mexican half Indian chick from southwest Detroit, that’s Tonto not Gandhi Indian. She was the good twin, her sister Erika was the wild one. Erika was the stripper and Angie worked the door at the same bar.
I met Erika at this after hours spot on Woodward by McNichols, Numbers. It was a gay bar but everybody went there. You’d see trannies and Chaldeans and club girls on the dance floor, thugs posted up by the pool table, serving coke and e, Albanians at the bar tricking off their Coney Island money on strippers and rave kids on the ground against the walls rubbing each other, rolling their asses off.
I chopped it up with Erika for a minute and bailed. When i saw her again on the streets she acted like she didn’t know me. Turned out to be her sister Angie. I pulled her instead.
We went out a few times, I’d come visit her at the titty bar or I’d go see her at her spot on the east side. The night we smashed I was at her house but i was supposed to go swoop up another chick and fuck with her. She ain’t say shit, didn’t get jealous or anything she just sat there watching Practical Magic. I went outside and i couldn’t get my car started, I tried everything. Nothing. I called my sister she said she’d get me in the morning. I stayed the night, we banged, it was the shit.
When i woke up the next morning I went out to the car, just to see if i could get it to start again and it started right up. Fucked me up.
I thought back to the witchcraft movie Angie was watching and the tomahawks and dream catchers all over the crib and said, “Hell naw this chick put some ol Medicine Woman, hoodoo voodoo, tribal witch doctor shit on my motherfucking car.”
Got the fuck out of there.
Her vagina was spectacular but i never slept with her again. It kills me because I had to keep stopping. I needed a do over but didn’t even try. We’re friends to this day but i never slept with her again.
Few months later, she got me a sweater for my birthday, a cream joint with a stripe along the bottom. Called me up the next week, she was the beer tub girl at this spot in Rochester, she wanted me to come out and see her, wear the sweater.
Me and Danny rolled out there, I drove. We stopped at my gas station the 76 on 8 mile and John R next to the Booby Trap to get some gas.
I put 5 on it and got a pack of Black and Milds and some Big Red chewing gum. You used to be able to fill up your car for 10 dollars back then. The dude working behind the Plexiglas was some straight from Yemen, work 18 hours a day, type motherfucker, probably slept on a broke down card board box in the back, gave me too much change. I was gonna keep it but then i was like, ‘nah, his cousin’d prolly dock him a weeks pay for that shit.’ gave him his 40 back.
He smiled and thanked me.
I walked out to pump the gas patting myself on the back for doing the “right thing”, Danny walks in past me. “You want a Faygo?”
"Nah, I’m good."
I’m at the island pressing buttons, get the nozzle in the car when i hear from behind me in a little squeaky voice, “Run yo pockets bitch!!!”
I turn around it’s a little fat ass twelve year old standing 5 feet from me with a .22 rifle leveled at me.
I know it’s a .22 because when i was 15 I had the exact same one, loaned it to Jeremiah Tutstone, he shot himself in the foot with it and i never saw it again. Jeremiah ended up in jail 2 years after that for robbing some white boys outside a Taco Bell in Waterford. He did 3 years for that came out i gave him some clothes and loaned him some money to get him back on his feet and he ducked me. Ducked me for 40 dollars, fuck em, 40 bucks is a cheap price to separate the real from the fake. Last I heard of him he went crazy and shaves his eyebrows.
So that’s how I knew it was a .22 because i had the same gun. I’m staring at some little fat Doe Boy lookin’ motherfucker, wielding my gun at me at me, telling me to run my pockets.
In my head I’m like, ‘Fuck this little fat motherfucker take that gun.’
And then I’m like, ‘Motherfucker is you crazy? He’s got a fucking gun dog! Give him your money’
But then I’m like, ‘It’s a fuckin .22 you can’t kill nobody with a fuckin .22!”
'No but you can get shot with a .22, all you got is 12 dollars on you, doctor bill cost more than 12 dollars, you don't got insurance mother fucker. Give up the cash. Run it, run it, run it!'
I’m looking at the fat boy all of 2 seconds having this conversation in my head, when two more voices with a little more bass in ‘em come from behind me. “Run yo pockets nigga! Run them shits!! Get em dog, get that muhfucka!”
The internal struggle ceases and I’m reaching in pocket to give em my shit, wishing i wasn’t such a bitch. Wishing I was a little more Stephen Segal or like one of my crazy ass friends who don’t consider a lack of health care providers or medical bills when getting robbed, they just went nuts.
I look over, see Danny coming out the store with a Faygo Red Pop. He sees me with a gun on me, does an about face, turns his ass around and goes right back into the gas station.
They got me in a triangle, i’m looking at the gun listening to voices. Other people keep pumping their gas, they got their heads down, they won’t look at me. The one behind me’s tellin me to hit the ground. I look down, that shit is fucking filthy. I got on a cream sweater, cream cargos and some Lugz, I’m like, ‘fuuuck that!’
I say, “Come on man, this my Birthday Sweater.”
They’re like, “Bitch get on the fucking ground.”
So i do.
I’m in a half push up trying not to touch the sweater to the ground. Fatboy’s got the gun pointed at my head, the other two are rifling through my pockets like it’s theirs. They get the money and leave the Black and Milds, leave the gum and my license.
One of ‘em’s like, “Get his car, get his car.”
They take the keys out my pocket.
"Dog it’s a Hyundai."
They leave me my car.
But my dignity goes with them.
I just got robbed by a 12 year old, for 12 fucking dollars. That splits 3 ways is 4 bucks a piece. That ain’t shit but a 40 and a fucking bag of chips. Go and buy your food I hope you joke on it bitch.
I don’t call the cops I got warrants myself. I get in the car spark up a Black and drive off. Danny’s counting his money.
I blame the sweater, I been to that gas station a hundred times and never had a problem, the minute I throw on that fucking witch doctor sweater some kids rob me.
I show up to the club, in the sweater, it’s still clean. Give Angie a hug, stay for a drink and bounce. I run into Nichole, this little christian chick with TMJ on the way out, tell her about getting robbed. She takes me to her car and blows me. I sit there in the passenger seat watching her head go up and down against the cream knit. i cursed the sweater while her jaw clicked the whole time through.
i was at some shitty art opening the other night with nicholas. the art wasn’t that bad, it was middling, but the there people sucked. i tried mingling. i asked some dude a question about the artist and he answered me with such contempt, i thought we were gonna have to fight.
he walked away. i looked at nicholas, i said, “i think i hate that dude.”
that happened a couple more times, i’d speak to somebody and they’d look at me like i just exposed my genitals and they were covered with warts, they’d then quickly move to another part of the room, shook to the core, take a swig off their pbr and try to forget their run in with a peasant.
fine fuck you, we don’t gotta be friends. sometimes i forget that not everybody has the social graces of me, rude jude, mr. mid-west sensibility.
i was ready to leave that motherfucker after some art bitch hit the stage and sang beyonce whilst hula-hooping the whole tune through. die bitch. i have no tolerance for these art fuckers and their forced irony. here’s the thing about irony if you’re trying too hard to be ironic, you’re self aware and it’s no longer ironic, it’s just douchey. “irony” is for those people who don’t have the balls to claim what they really like, so they do it with a wink just in case you reject them, then say they were just kidding anyway. how do you think mustaches became cool again? some hipster dipshit did it with a wink, it caught on now there’s dudes all over silver lake looking like rollie fingers.
anyway i’m on my way out the door when i ran into my homeboy daniel. he’s a good dude, i know him from detroit, we go way back. he used to date my sister’s best friend for years but some dude had touched him when he was a kid and he ended gay. i don’t see him that much, we run in different circles but we’re homies. he struggled with it, the gay shit, the molestation, he’d take pictures of his dick covered in blood, shit like that. i think he published a book with his dick in it, bloody, just trying to heal but that was years ago, he’s happy now, i think.
we’re catching up. he’s asking how i’m doing, what i’m up to. i tell him about the blog, how i wanna write a book. how i been writing but’ve been off that bitch for like a month.
he says, “why?”
i tell him, “i been dealing with taxes and this move. my head’s crazy, plus i got no place to write. once i get back on-line, i’ma start writing again.”
he says, “Dude, you sound like one of those guys from back home, ‘once i move out my mom’s house i’m gonna…’ ‘as soon as i get hired at this one place i’m gonna get that car….’ “
i say, “i know i sound straight loser. excuses excuses excuses.”
he goes, “don’t be a bum, just write.”
i say, “i’m gonna.”
he’s looking at me like i’m full of shit. it stings.
i see what he’s saying. i’m sittin here for a month like a fucking bum, getting rusty. i’m not sharp, i’m not hungry, i’m not wiry. i’m just rusty. but i got my reasons.
i was listening to royce da 5’9 the other day, boom. and i got chills, i’ve heard the song a hundred times before. but this time was different. i was listening to the way he spit line after line, bar after bar. fire and precision. i sat there with my goose bumps and said, here is a man with laser like focus. it was inspiring it made me wanna write.
my life’s been hectic, i haven’t been able to give anything that focus. my shows, i been mailing ‘em in. my home was in disarray, my writing’s in shambles but that’s all gonna change. shit’s opening up.
i see these kids nowadays, they multitask everything. they’re watching tv, on the computer, texting motherfuckers, twittering about what they just saw on the tube. there’s no focus. they end up doing 5 things poorly instead of one thing well. they’re mediocre.
i see it with adults too. people got jobs and websites and blogs. jesus christ the blogs. everybody has a fucking blog. everybody has to have their five little fingers in 5 different pies. stop. be good at one thing. get good at that then move onto the next thing. here’s a news flash for you. most of your blogs suck. they’re boring, poorly written and they have no heart. you’re fooling yourself if you think people care. shit, some motherfucker’s blogs are just a collection of random pictures. really? that’s the best you got? i’m over here bleeding on this fucking key board and you’re collecting pictures? whatever, do you. do what makes you happy. but i tell you this that’s not what i aspire to be.
this shit might hurt some of the readers feelings, i’m sure a lot of you write your own blogs. maybe it applies, maybe it doesn’t. if it makes you feel better, i dont read anyone’s blogs so i’m not talking about you. but if your feelings are hurt and you think it applies, either give up, or try harder. me, i’m gonna try harder.
i don’t know what i’m gonna write about tomorrow but i’ll figure it out when i get there.
cats have been hitting me to update this blog, i’m gonna, as soon as i get the internet at the crib. right now, i got nowhere to write and it’s killing me. trust me i wanna write too. i be waking up at the crack of dawn with nothing to do. yeah i could go to the coffee shop by the crib but it’s a bunch of out of work, no talent screen writers in that bitch typing away. i don’t want any of their loser juice to rub off on me so i avoid it like the plague. the cable guy will be here at the end of the month so check back early april, i’ll be back then.