“I done say it b’fore, Lem, you don’t know nuttin’ ’bout whiteboy dick.” Buck screwed up his eyes down at his dick in Lem’s hand. It was limpening cuzza Lem’s sandpapery skin. “Ya old-man meat discomfit me — why’s it look like a burnt hot dog? Sheeit, looks like a hot dog made wit’ too much skin, then lit on fire, then locked in a dehydratuh fer a decade.”
“Yo’ dick is uglier than mine, hillbilly. Axe any female in the world, they’ll tell you. It’s impossible to orgasm wit’ a white cock. Women need nigga meat.” Lem got both hands on Buck’s dick now, sorta rubbing it but more petting it like a disliked cat. “One day soon all the whiteboys gonna get replaced by a broken dildo plugged in to a bossy computer, and the world gonna rejoice.”
Buck scoffed. “World got no use fer homeboys already, Lem. Somebody done invent rhyming diction’ries and robots that can shoot each othuh.” His laughter made his cockfat jiggle limp as a dead eel in Lem’s hand.
From Buck on the Oil Rig