MN Manmacker's mansploitation
It was a slimfire nigga named Patrick Spinnaker who shined on Thumper from the get-go. They both came up in the same housing project, but Patrick was a couple years older. He was always cool as a clam to Thumper. Patrick was a smooth-talking lady-macking kinda nigga, with long fingers and a smooth chest, and you could tell he was used to wearing gems on each finger. He weren’t a big-time nigga, but he carried hisself like one, like he ain’t realize he was skinny and short.
Caden was already drinking a forty of malt liquor from a brown paper bag, sitting on a brick wall by a bank of rented beach-houses and staring at the sea beyond like a poet, a image that was undercut every time he halted his handsomeness to hop on his phone with fingers like bony breadsticks. Thumper disliked him right away. He was a necky sumbitch, a shoulderless chowder-white honky with shiny teeth. He got this foppish mess of blond hair like a limp mop, and he be bitsy-sipping at his brown-bag forty. He also kept a surly eye on Caden, who be running his fingers through his hair and walking with a uptight butt like a prison therapist. He showed off his flatty-flat chest cuz of a tattoo he just got — the word liberation writted in a “hardcore punk font”. Thumper disliked him more with every passing moment. Mr. Gregarian was right: Caden was a smoothpecker. Thumper ain’t even know what that meant, and he was sure it applied.
Somebody oughta slap that boy’s daddy in the balls.
Rico is a young man.
That nigga Rico was darkskin and glamor-muscle but not big, with a nice smooth face like any shebody would fall in love with.
Rico also attracted Thumper’s eye cuz he was young and high yellow, cool as a pear and dimpley like a golf ball, dimpley like Davon — but Rico’s dimples was less arrogant. Rico was the kinda young nigga Thumper woulda got to know real good in prison. Thumper woulda shared a bunk with Rico, and he’d-a bin got Rico to feel some love deep in his heart, deep enough to make Rico bend over and spread his cheeks. Rico was handsome as a kangaroo, handsome enough to make Thumper forget about women during the cold of a empty night. Thumper would teach Rico how to get a nut off without women, and Rico would teach Thumper all the cool modern lingo that handsome young niggas say.
There was this frown-toting darkskin nigga, smooth and kittenish, handsome as rice, dimples oozing outta the frown he fooled upon his brown like frowning was his natural state. That frown was heavy-hugging onto his pretty mug.
He looked down his nose at Carson, then at Thumper, intensifying that frown like he was too good to be opening doors for old niggas. “Wuddup.” He screwed up his eyes, and yep, there it was, his frown intensified to a category four. Damn that nigga was displeased! Displeased like missed fees!
Thumper focused his nigganess at Rico, who was pretty like a girl, a girl with small tits and a poopety frown on her mug, a girl whose daddy spoiled her. Thumper got big boy feelings for real.
From Deep on the Downlow
Rico did got dimples cute as a baby otter, bitches love that. Maybe his frowns turn ‘em off though. Women expect a nigga to make ‘em happy, so if a nigga is glum, she gonna think he won’t ever make her happy. Thumper did tell Rico that, that he gotsta be more agreeable, but Rico plussed, cuzza him not liking it when old niggas tell him what to do.
From Deep on the Downlow
Him and Rico walked home. It was less than two miles, which was a long way for Rico cuz he was a pansy-brown homewreckin’ cute-nigga dimpled-booty girl-grabbing kinda man who ain’t never walk nowhere till the cops took his car and put him on probation.
Rico was much younger than Thumper, at barely twenty-one years old, and he was a handsome, slimly-muscled thug with dimples and an ass so thick it made Mason drool when he saw it. He had baggy jeans that were slung low enough that Mason got a good look at his shorts-clad asscheeks. He sauntered in, swagger so thick it dripped off him.
Rico took off his shirt. He had been a basketball player in high school, and he had largely kept up the same training regiment even now, giving him a perfect six-pack and a powerful chest.
The closer one (Rico) was young, handsome, a bit short and lanky, but with wiry muscles beneath his baggy clothes. He had tight cheekbones and a smooth chin.
Rico was smooth all over, like that nigga was made of cantaloupe. Thumper liked touching him. He was smooth and warm and you could feel his lor-nigga heart pounding away under his handsome chest muscles.
He don’t got a single chest hair. Nigga must shave, Thumper thunk. Back in his day, no nigga shaved his chest. Some honkies do, and Arabs, cuz otherwise they gonna evolve back into apes, but niggas don’t do that.
Rico hesitated, then moved his hands. Thumper ain’t seen it yet — he done got touch-a-bunch in bed at night, but he ain’t seen it in the light. The shower only got one dim bulb in it, but it was enough to see that he got a nice dinky. It was smooth and darker than the resta his skin, and Thumper liked the way it felt in his hand and the way touching it made Rico tremble. Rico’s taut-apple pecs rippled.
A nigga with dimples and creamy skin like a fancy coffee drink a honky in a sweater might doctor up for his chowder-white bitch on her birthday (that was a commercial Thumper saw last night). Rico was lor, but he carried hisself like nobody ever told him that.
Thumper chuckled. He rammed his hand into Rico’s sagging jeans, and he grabbed his cock and his balls with one of his giant hands. Thumper was well over six and a half feet tall, and Rico was well under it, so Thumper’s big barrel-shaped chest rammed at his face. Rico stood on his toes and sucked in his breath, as Thumper’s fucksweat collided with Rico’s kangaroo-like nose. Thumper squeezed his balls and gave his dinkydoo a stroke. It was nicely sized, big enough to hold onto but not so big it could swing like a pendulum.
Thumper nodded. Rico was too doey to realize he shoulda nodded too, but Carson ain’t much care about that. Rico was the loose change of the gangsta wallet. This conversation was between Thumper and Carson; Rico was just a bystander standing by.
Rico sat there looking slack-jawed, like a kitten who just found out what a lion was.
Rico stood there, still as a daisy, ignorant as a petunia, unaware as a daffodil and handsome as a pansy. He was a bouquet of know-nothing nigga.
That Rico nigga was smooth and gleamy, and he was a low-cal slice of handsome pie, with dimples and all — Thumper could dig a nigga with dimples like a girl. If Thumper was in prison with Rico, he’d put a wig on him and squeeze that nigga’s neck when he rammed him up the booty. He’d break that booty apart, feast on what comes out and share that buffet with the ugliest, fattest niggas in that prison. Thumper would love that nigga Rico so good his mama don’t wanna see him no more.
He wrapped one great big arm around Rico’s welterweight shoulders — he was short and muscle-firm, not big, just firm — glamor-muscles, that’s what that is. He don’t wanna get bulgey. He only do muscles cuz he wanna attract the females and not scare ’em off.
From Thumper on Parole
Ellis Carson is a gangster.
Carson was a lieutenant in the Bloods, but he got a respectable look about him. He was one them roundbody niggas, in a button-down shirt and nice pants, got a graveled-down voice with a throaty murmur. He run the barbershop on the outfront for the Bloods, and since Thumper done his time standing up for them, Carson was supervising his freedom.
He got showed to his new apartment by this nigga Carson, a bullet-shape darkskin homeboy who ran the Bloods of Allentown. Carson wore a nice shirt he buttoned up like a white man. Or maybe niggas did that now, shit’s bullshit. Back before, ain’t no nigga button up a shirt. Not a proper nigga anyway.
Maybe the top button, if you’s a California nigga. But Thumper don’t mess with the West Coast.
From Deep on the Downlow
Isaac was draped in a old-fashioned suit too, like a 70s disco dancer, complete with a raised collar and a little afro, like he ain’t got the balls to grow a real one. His shirt was made outta velour or some damn shit like that, Tyrell thought, and he got a goatee like a white hipster. Tyrell liked the look of Isaac less and less the more he see of him. Isaac’s mustache quivered like jet-black jello.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con
Never give coke to a Australian girl. Australian females was the worst kind of white girl.
He ain’t get what David done said, but he picked up the gist: David got cash, and he ain’t got a lotta sense. He gots enough foolishness to buy coke for a Australian chick, for one thing.
Tyrell knew enough about white girls to know that was a bad idea. That’s a relationship that’s gonna end with her putting a brick in her purse and slamming it into this honky’s head. Never give coke to a Australian girl. Australian females was the worst kind of white girl.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con
Now, at last, he returned to the “workshop”, which was what they called the company headquarters where the trucks was parked overnight. It was basically just a warehouse with a locker room and shower attached, and there was a tiny little room — a glorified closet — that served as Mr. Taggart’s office. The office had a window that opened on the locker room and shower… The shower smelled like bleach and sun-baked linoleum, which was nice — it was reminiscent of the prison shower, but cleaner and not crowded with Hispanic bikers, and the hot water was always plentiful. It was a better shower than the one at Tyrell’s apartment building.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con
It was a voluntary role, but some people got volunteered for it whether they wanted to or not.
Betty was the cell girlfriend. Every night, if you wanted, she would rub your shoulders, suck your dick, tell you how handsome you was, even let you stick your dick in her ass if you was into the nasty.
The only downside was that there ain’t no Betty. Betty was a fictional construct. She was fine in Tyrell’s mind, but she wasn’t real. Betty was more of a title than a person.
And the current Betty was Ernie Collard.
It was a voluntary role, but some people got volunteered for it whether they wanted to or not.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con
Cell 19C on Cell Block Carolina was the latter. It was a gymnasium-style cell, which in this case was literal — the room was built to be a gymnasium. It was a high-ceilinged chamber with a couple dozen men in it and its own built-in toilets and showers. The bunks was stacked three high, and there still ain’t always enough room for all the mofos they shove in there. Some niggas gotta lay they head down on the floor.
Tyrell’s bunk was on top of a three-bunk stack. There was a little shelf attached with some of his personal belongings on it. Tyrell had outfitted his bunk as well with a piece of plywood sticking out at one end — Tyrell was almost seven feet tall, so he ain’t fit in the bunk without some extra plywood to give it more length.From Tyrell the Ex-Con
Buck lined up with the homeboys of 19C. He was the only white feller in the cell, on account of Warden got a noyed at Buck’s hillbilly bigness, so’s he put Buck in 19C with all the black Bloods. But Buck was in good as grins with the Bloods anyhow, and he got no hate in his heart fer black boys. He was too barrelly fer the black ones to mess with him regardless-like, so’s Buck be doing fine in 19C.
Ryan is a white man.
Ryan Hofferman was an accountant, and his girlfriend, Shaniqua Green, owned a beauty salon. He was a slim white nerd with glasses and pants that fit proper-like. He knew he was a dork; he knew he ain’t sexy… That honky is a weak-ass punk-ass light-ass candy-ass pale-ass dumb-ass triflin’ cracker.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con