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Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love
Thumper sat with an ice-pack on his face and puffed a fug. A short-mouth nigga named Cheeky done talk tall, and Thumper planked Cheeky out.
He sat in the parole office, looking across the clutter-top desk at Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry done give him the ice-pack for his swole upper lip. Thumper ain’t need the ice-pack, but he took it anyway. Cheeky was a softnutting nigga who threw fists with weak wrists, and he barely whiffed Thumper. Thumper weren’t shook up, but the beatdown got Mr. Perry eyeing him like a broke-down repair-kit.
“You can’t behave this way, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. “You ain’t in the big house no more. Now, I don’t gotta tell the police, since you ain’t hurt that boy too bad. But you gonna have to find a new job. You got-“
Thumper scoffed. “That pissant Jerry fired me fo’ that? He buggin’.”
Mr. Perry frowned. “You’re not in prison anymore, Wendell. Out here, fighting is taken very seriously. Jerry is required to fire you for an act of workplace violence.”
Thumper crossed his arms over his chest. Did every nigga who throw fists get fired nowadays? Did they back then too and Thumper ain’t know it? He ain’t know if he was being a cast-iron nigga or if Mr. Perry was a pansyfied pussy.
Or maybe both was viable hypothotamuses.
Silence hung between them both. Thumper ain’t wanna sorry out. Mr. Perry was hankering for a teary apology, but Thumper ain’t got a lick of regret, and he weren’t gonna promise it won’t happen again. If some other short-mouth nigga notate improper observations, Thumper would gonna hafta deliver a fist-based correction. A nigga need a line that’s easy to cross, so every eyeball can see him enforce it.
The world outside was different than prison. Thumper knewed that, and he ain’t need Mr. Perry to point it out. A nut-tapping nobody like Cheeky out here ain’t the same as a no-good nowhom in prison. Inside, a thousand niggas like Cheeky be merking niggas like Thumper to carve out a name for theyself. But plentya them thousand was on that road crew too, witnessing Thumper either showing that prison ain’t weak him down or showing that it did.
So Thumper just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for Mr. Perry to go on.
“Lotta guys want road-crew work, so I had to pull in favors to get you that job. You got something to say for yaself?”
Thumper licked his teeth. He shrugged. “A white lady on my phone screen said that roads was racist.”
“Fine, don’t take this seriously if you don’t want to. You got a week to find a new job,” Mr. Perry said with a snap-down. His plump nose wiggled. “Or you go back inside. That’s a condition of your parole, you have to be gainfully employed.”
Thumper stood and snorted. “Fine.” His giant dick bulged against the fabric of his workpants. He angled it to be less obvious. It was because he bin spying on a photograph of Mr. Perry’s wife on the shelf behind the desk. She was so-so beautiful, but she was moreso than Mr. Perry, and when Thumper’s eyes took her in, his pecker responded as peckers do.
“Stop. I didn’t say you could go,” Mr. Perry said. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He was a lipless roundbody workface chowder-white lump on a log with a bald head and weary eyes, and you could just tell his wife don’t put out no more. “You got a hardon, Wendell?”
“No.”
Mr. Perry shot him a disbelievous look and said, “You gotta get that took care of.” He sighed and stood. “Guess you don’t know where to go, huh? C’mon.”
Thumper followed him outta the office and into the parking lot. “I know how to jack my nut off, suh.”
Mr. Perry winced. “Don’t be crass. You thinkin’ wit’ ya dick, that’s the problem. Ya dick wanna punch a sucker for lookin’ at you. That ain’t ya brain thinkin’, it’s ya dick. You ain’t in prison, Wendell. Ya old patterns was a key that unlock a door you ain’t stuck behind any more. Now them same patterns lock the door instead.”
Thumper wanted to explain again, to make Mr. Perry understand. He ain’t just whale out on Cheeky for “lookin’ at him”. That’s how Jerry summed it up to Mr. Perry. But Cheeky bin sneaking disrespect and talking squirrelous shit about Thumper all morning. Then he started mean-mugging on the flagrant. He was escalating, and Thumper do be nipping escalations in the butt.
“Folks out here expect civilized behavior,” Mr. Perry said. He got behind the steering wheel of his splatter-paint truck and motioned for Thumper to get in. “I expect a big-time homeboy like you prolly need to get ya nut off e’ery morning. There’s ways. Ain’t expensive neither.”
“I can find a hoochie mama to ram, suh,” Thumper said.
“Don’t lemme hear that. That’s disrespectful to women,” Mr. Perry said. “Jesus don’t like hearin’ that kinda talk. You a Christian man, right?”
“Yessuh.”
“Then you best act like it. You got twenty bucks?”
“Yessuh,” Thumper said.
Mr. Perry said, “Give it to the man by the door. I’ll tell you when.”
He continued lecturing Thumper about proper Christian behavior and peppered him with questions about the church he went to — to verify that he was really going to the black church, Ebenezer Baptist. Mr. Perry knew Pastor Cherrymore there and said he was gonna check that Thumper bin attendatory.
They parked at a mechanic shop near a sprawling mess of a industrial area. A bus-repair yard lay in the back, and a hodgepodge of small factories and workshops sprawled around like free weights, separated by gravel parking lots and chain-link fences. They parked at the mechanic shop, but that wasn’t where they went.
Mr. Perry’s lumpy legs led Thumper to the back of the mechanic shop, where there was a high fence. On the other side was the parking area for the bus-repair workshop — it was chock-fulla buses, about half school buses, the others city buses and greyhounds.
But there was a strange little back area, behind the mechanic shop and afronta the fence. A small garage interrupted the fence, so it was accessible both on this side and in the bus-repair yard.
Thumper was confused. It was too tiny to be any kinda business, but there was a humpy-dumpty nigga with a ugly mug at the garage door like a bouncer. He ignored Mr. Perry and Thumper until they was right afront him.
“Twenty bucks,” said that broad-body nigga like he was already bored of this conversation. He glanced at Thumper but spoke to Mr. Perry.
Mr. Perry motioned for Thumper to hand the money over, and Mr. Perry did likewise. That ovaltine nigga took the money, unlocked the garage door and opened it to let them in.
It was a tiny garage lit up with one bare bulb. The whole space was barely big enough for a car. But there weren’t no mechanic’s tools or nothing in there. The far wall was covered in a sheet.
And there was a hole in it, couple feet high off the floor.
“This is called the gloryhole,” Mr. Perry said. “When you get a hardon, you come here. Real cheap way to get ya nut off. There’s a female purty as pink on the other side of the sheet.” He murmured into the cloth sheet. “How you doin’, baby?”
“She” ain’t say nothing, but Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and plugged his knob in the hole anyway. Then he sighed, and his knees went weak. You could tell from the look on his face when “she” put his honky whodinky in “her” mouth.
Thumper stayed disbelieving there was any female involved here, not for a second. They got gloryholes in prison. He knowed how it worked.
There was a man on the other side of that wall. Well, not a real man, but a punk anyway.
What Thumper ain’t get was how this more Christian than finding a slut to ram, but he ain’t wanna up Mr. Perry’s ire, so he just nodded along like a know-nothing nigga.
“Ah, shit, she got mouth like silk, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He be thrusting his hips now, making sweet love to that hole like it was the wife who got no affection for him no more.
Thumper ain’t wanna stick his dick in a hole in a sheet. The nigga on the outfront would know the real score, so Thumper swaggered towards the garage threshold. The dumptster-shape nigga at the door was tap-a-lapping at his phone screen like it was bothering him.
“Yo, nigga, can I go in the back and pop open that punk’s booty? I just got outta prison, and-“
“Extra thirty bucks. Don’t tell yo’ honky what you see back there. White folk isn’t allowed. Can’t handle it.”
Thumper whistled. “It cost fifty? Damn…” But he shrugged and passed it over. He ain’t got much to spend money on these days anyhow.
That was prolly a good price on the outside for plowing down a punk’s butthole. Thumper hoped it wasn’t some nasty-ass -crack-a-doodle.
When he got the money, the girthy nigga led Thumper in and to the sheet, next to which was a door. He unlocked it, and Thumper slipped in. He heard the plumpy nigga say to Mr. Perry, “Only black folk allowed in the back. She love black dick.”
Whatever Mr. Perry said, Thumper couldn’t hear it. He was viewing a slimfire nigga with a wild wiggle of hair sticking up. He got slick jittery legs, skittering eyes and drippy spittle. Sitting on the floor beside him was a crack pipe.
He got Mr. Perry’s fat honky dingaling resting on his tongue, spewing out slime. Thumper groaned at the sight of the trashy hole he just paid to ramrod. He came up close to that cracky-dappy nigga and spoke into the hole. “Mistuh Perry, suh, I’s in here to make love to this female. She a dime, she fine as a candy fox, ooh-wee, Mistuh Perry! She got me illin’ like a villain! And she got booty like you wouldn’t believe, suh.”
“Is she white?” Mr. Perry whispered like he got shame to ask.
“Hell yeah, she chowder-white, Mistuh Perry. Chunky clam,” Thumper said with a low whistle. He was gonna describe the ideal white man’s white woman, but all he recalled was the way white women was before — big hair and long skirts and headbands. What was white women even like nowadays, aside from phony-face phone freaks?
The punk looked up at Thumper and frowned. He shook his head, but then he shifted his ass towards Thumper. He dropped his basketball shorts, revealing boxers with the assflap torn out.
Thumper growled. That was one helluva signal. In prison, a tore-out assflap meant that booty was open for business. He was already hard in anticipation, rapidly forgetting his reluctance to plow up a hobo.
The gap-tooth crackhead winced when he saw Thumper’s big-league meat, but he ain’t resist. Thumper rammed his dick in that crackhead’s booty without no lube, no warning and no mercy.
“Ah, shit, nigga,” Thumper murmured softly. The one nice thing about a crackhead booty was that it was basically a toy. It ain’t like that boy Rico’s booty from a couple weeks ago — clean and tight, waiting for a nigga to open it up and howl wild as walnuts up his guts. A crackhead booty was loose and dry. You could add yo’ own spit — course you gotsta look at it to spit on it, and that ain’t never a pleasant sight — but you ain’t gotsta worry about ripping him open. This crackhead was well broke-in. He winced a little when Thumper slid in him, but then he ain’t move a muscle. Thumper ain’t gotsta think about him as a human at all, he just a toy, little better than them fleshlights the Latin Kings made on Cell Block G.
His butthole rubbed on Thumper’s shaft, and Thumper got in him so deep his balls slapped loudly on the crackhead’s taint. He got coarse knappy hairs running down his buttcrack and between his legs, and the hairs rubbed frictiony against Thumper’s manhood.
Thumper was watching real close as the crackhead slurped off Mr. Perry’s withery white knob. It was veiny and pale, throbbing. Thumper gripped it with one hand, stroking it past the crackhead’s lips.
Holding back a laugh so Mr. Perry wouldn’t hear, Thumper stroked it hard and strong. He got a pretty big dick for a cracker, but it was skinny like a stick of pepperoni. That nasty-knappy crackhead was trying-a avoid tasting it — he was just slobbering on the sides when Thumper got involved. Thumper ain’t let punks get away with that.
“Go deep on it, baby, swallow that-” Thumper said, interrupted by the crackhead gagging on Mr. Perry’s honky-donky-doodah ramming into his throat. His asshole was squeezing painfully on Thumper’s rod too, and the crackhead kept wriggling like a scribble, wincing like he wanna get up but that tub-of-ass nigga outside would mollywhomp him if he tried. Mr. Perry’s prejiss leaked onto Thumper’s hand, while Mr. Perry’s fat-honky huffling orgasm came through the sheet.
Mr. Perry blew a nut then, shooting jissom that flowed into the crackhead’s mouth. The crackhead winced like he ain’t expecting that — he normally pulled off so he ain’t gotsta take a mouthful of nut. Most it sprayed over his face mosta the time, which was why he got dry and wet cum dripping up and down his grizzled face and unshaved cheeks. But Thumper wanna watch his mouth fill with that spermy soup.
A whimpery gag escaped from his guts, as the crackhead tried to take his mouth off Mr. Perry’s rod. Thumper held him in place until the last second, while Mr. Perry moaned on the other side of the sheet. He shot one final wad that spurted onto both Thumper’s cheek and the crackhead’s face, and Thumper held back a baritone guffaw.
As the crackhead bucked, Thumper gripped him tight and threw his head back. He moaned and laughed at the crackhead’s shake, like a jittery version of that Sherry girl’s shimmying dance. His cock spewed that crackhead’s booty fulla creamy seed.
When it went into him, wave after wave of old-head nut, the crackhead simmered down and laid his head on the ground, his ass still up high and cringing. He closed his eyes. Jizz spurted into him, more and more seeping into his flesh. Lotta it dripped out his butt and pooled in the flatness of his battered buttcrack. He whimpered and eyed his crackpipe.
But Thumper ain’t let him grab it until he was done, until he done drain every drop of jism into that crackhead’s grimy guts. His rod popped outta the crackhead’s ropy ass, and cum dribbled into the dried-white crust in his crack. His knappy black hairs were both soaked with fresh stuff and coated in flakes of old nut.
Then he walked outta there, leaving the crackhead heaving for air and cradling his sore buttcheeks. Already the next customer was slipping his winky wiggleworm into the hole.
“You gonna love her lips, whiteboy,” Thumper said to the portly dirty-pearl college lug lining up at the sheet. He winked at him and patted him on the back. He nabbed the whiteboy’s wallet as his pants fell to his ankles, pulled a couple dollars outta it and then dropped the wallet back on the pants. Whiteboy focused on digging his nub into the gloryhole, so he ain’t notice his wallet in Thumper’s mitts. “She wanna drink yo’ pee too.” Thumper laughed and wished he could stay and watch that.
But Mr. Perry was already waiting at his crackerjack truck and poking at his phone like he was doing surgery on his only baby. Before Thumper got to the truck, he made sure his satisfied pecker was packed tight in his pants. He got in the truck, and Mr. Perry ain’t look up. Both them was silent, the only sound the universal rhythm of finger on phone.
“You feel better, Wendell?” Mr. Perry asked when he finally found a way outta his phone. He started the truck engine.
“Sho’ do, suh!” Thumper said like a shucksy nigga. “That lady fixed my boner just right. You got this nigga’s numbuh fo’ real!”
Read it now for free from Smashwords!
Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
