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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

When Thumper woke up, that meth freak he messed with last night was gone. Thumper long snored on the solo while the booty boy smoked meth, haphazardly cleaned the apartment like a overclocked robot and then scuppered sideways in the pre-dawn light.
That was good. Thumper ain’t want no meth freak sticking around, after all.
He got up just after dawn. It ain’t feel early to him. In prison, he be getting up at the north side of dawn. Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six. Lazy-ass punks all over.
His sneakers was old-fashion now. He done forgot how to dress. In prison, all the niggas was sporting sameness — orange jumpsuits and tee shirts, scruffy beard, Bloods tats, crucifix cuz no other jewelry was allowable. Out here, niggas was dudding up in polo shirts and tight-leg jeans, with pink drawers showing. Thumper ain’t know how to wear that, cuz ain’t none that flied before. He’d look ridiculous in that.
What was up with them homeboys with bleached hair? Thumper pontificated to hisself on on that topic when a recycling truck rattled down the road — there ain’t never was recycling trucks before neither — the driver was a reflective-vest redbone with bleached hair, a shiny grill, steel rods in his eyebrows and a center-of-his-nose ring. That nigga was presenting like a tinfoil supervillain.
Ain’t not a single nigga bleach they curls platinum before.
What made young cats come up with crazy shit like that? How did Thumper and his homeboys avoid it back in the before? They acted proper. Young pups was freak-show niggas now. He stood mean-mugging the recycling truck. The nigga inside paid him no mind, and neither did the truck as well.
The world bin moving on since before, and it weren’t gonna stop now for some creaky-knee nigga heaping harsh at the history of here.
He was still scowling short when this nigga Carson arrived at the barbershop on the ground floor. Thumper bin standing out smoking fugs and marinating his grays in dawnlight, cogitating upon the years that done gone and the recycling trucks that passed.
The sun was baking the boulevards of Baltimore early this morn. It was gonna be a scorcher today, and the humidity already hung about in the air like a sauna of spiderwebs. But it felt good to be exposed to the weather and the heat and the Chesapeake wind blowing the day’s haze astride the sky. Moisture done condense on Thumper’s skin, and that felt right as rum.
“Wendell, hey, nigga,” Carson said. He 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.
Carson gave Thumper a dapper nod. “You out early this morn.”
“Yep. Gettin’ a head-start on the day.” Thumper licked his teeth. He ain’t wanna admit that he got up outta prison-toned habit and that he ain’t got nothing on the agenda today.
He did have one chore he done got tasked with: his parole officer bin fussing at him to snag some employ. He was sposedta hump it to a job center to apply for work online. The job center was at a library, and it got this dickless sniveling smudgy-specs sunnyskin college-high nothing-muffin with a bone up his butt and quakes in his loafers to teach him how to use the internet. That Chinese boy’s name was Fancypunches, but Thumper ain’t tell him so yet.
Thumper weren’t shook up over the job search. Carson said he would arrange it.
So Thumper just be milling like a footless fighter on the street, where a stoop mighta been thirty-four years ago. Did they stop making stoops? He ain’t seen no new ones, and plentya old ones he remembered was gone.
Everything new looked the same, he thunk. Every building younger than him in Baltimore was identikit boxes in gray and black, like the world’s only architect musta got locked up at the same time he did.
He dithered in the barbershop when it opened, checking out the lookbook and considering hisself without no cornrows. He hoped sitting among niggas would feel like coming home again.
But they was ticking and tocking on they phones and conversating over soccer, and one them niggas said he got new pajamas, and another one’s girlfriend only ate raw vegans, and Thumper gathered that every single one them males be shaving they pubes, and they was drinking coffees made with butter, mochachiatto and “dragon’s fruit”, and the teevee got a scrawny honky plastic-surgeoning hisself into a starfish to protest the weather and ain’t nobody act like they was confuse about that, and then that grown-ass nigga who wore pajamas said the best teevee shows was not on the teevee, they was streaming outta cloud that his sister changed the password to, and ain’t nobody act like they got confuse about that neither. Something called “Poke He-Man Go” came up, but Thumper ain’t wanna ask what it was and look like some out-of-touch old head, because that was exactly what he was.
All morning they listened to some nutty-butter rap, Thumper could hardly believe it. Niggas rapping like a deflating balloon, beats dry as a frigid bitch, and every head in that barbershop a nod-along nelly. They was all sneaking eyes at Thumper like there was something wrong with him that only they could see.
When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he got a chill of not knowing what to do, and all them niggas saw it. Thumper wanna punch one’s lightbulb out, just to give ’em something else to remember, but he restrainted the urge.
Before, only bankers and coke dealers got cell phones, and they was as big as dictionaries. This one was a plasticy pop-tart as heavy as a nun’s fart. Every single nigga got one too, and mostly they was lost inside they’uns.

Carson done hookt him up with the phone and showed him how to use it, but Thumper blanked on what he said now. He touched the phone. That musta worked, cuz he heard Carson’s voice. “Yo, Thump? You in the barbershop?”
“Uh… Yeah.” Thumper said. He held the phone up to his face like a handheld radio.
“Come into the backroom, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Some in the shop simmered with subdued snickers like slippery niggas. Sidefacing that whack pack of rats, Thumper stepped out, still holding the phone up though he ain’t think Carson was there no more. Did folks leave the room if they took a cell call? Seemed like niggas be broadcasting private tidbits on the flagrant.
But he ain’t want them to know he be fucking this up, so he strutted fly and blithe into the back the barbershop, and he ain’t return the phone to his pocket till nobody could see him unsure if it was hung up or not.
“Yo, you wanna check out some females tonight?” Carson asked when Thumper got to the office. “I’ll take you to Lipsweet. You remember Lipsweet, right?”
“Hell yeah…” Thumper said with a soft whistle, realizing he ain’t heard no niggas whistle since his release — did niggas stop whistling?
Lipsweet was a strip club around long before Thumper’s lockup. Entirely different ladies dancing there now, of course. He’d like to find the ladies who was dancing a couple decades ago and see what they was up to. Bet they’d still purr fine as foxfur in they own way.
Thumper could dig a old lady with nice flappy pussylips too. He ain’t mind that one bit. Some sag’d sit nice on his pecker, and Thumper could dig a droopy tit or two. A old bitch wouldn’t snigga when he ask how to use his phone neither.
Carson said he’d “text him the details”. Couple minutes later, his phone vibrated again. Some words popped up on the screen and got a time on it.
So Thumper went up to his apartment and was ready to dip at that time. Sure enough, Carson swung by in a SUV then and drove him to Lipsweet.
The neighborhood was different than Thumper recollected it. All the neighborhoods they drove through was different — Ramspoint was ritzy and white, Bay North ain’t even a thing no more, Castle Street was desolate, East Middle was fulla young white folk with unpleasant hairstyles, and Factory Ridge got some kinda burnt-bamboo Chinese that Carson said was Lay-Oceans. But Lipsweet was still a grime-down shithole. The grime made it feel like home, and he liked that it was the same as ever.
Actually, a few things did change — the bar area was bigger, so there was less tables, and there weren’t no tiki jawns no more, plus it looked like the backrooms done got expanded.
Place was slow and low now though.
To a lazy beat with a hazy melody, a couple dozen niggas watched the dancers as if none them mattered, sneaking peeks at they phones like beepy crack-pipes. Droopy-eyed black girls be dancing like they was tired of it. Prolly wishing they was back on they phones. One them females looked at Thumper with a fraction of a smile and a beckonsome finger.
“Yo, you wanna get a private lapdance?” Carson asked. He carried a chocolatey grin when he reckoned the graceless hardon rocking Thumper’s pants.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” Thumper said. He ain’t realize how blatant his boner was until he stood up and Carson bugged at it. His stiffy was stabbing like a dagger, making Thumper bent over, too awkward to stand up straight.
“Arrange yo’ dick, old man,” Carson said with a dryness.
Thumper pointed his pecker up so the hardon weren’t so obvious. “Shit, nigga, lookit all them females…” He whistled. “Ain’t see females like that in prison.”
“Which one you want?”
“That one ovuh there, wigglin’ like a riddle,” Thumper said without a second think. He let out a low-boil growl at the sight of her. She was a fancy-fine lightskin gal with a ripe badonkadonk and tits spilling outta her skimpy top. She made Thumper’s dick hurt, and her thighs made the hurt worth it.
A silver grin on his foolish-ass face, Thumper widewalked around his hardon to the champagne room, while Carson retrieved the black girl with the bounciful booty. She came to Thumper with a shimmy in her hips and her eyes wide like a cartoon skunk.
“Aw, fuck yeah, guhl,” Thumper murmured. He plopped his erection into the chair in the center of the champagne room.
Wither-dicking R&B boomed out the speakers as she backed her ass up to him, but Thumper’s manhood drooled regardless. “I’m Sherry,” she said with a shrug and a snort, like she preferred no nigga remember her name. Thumper grabbed at her booty, moaning at its plumpness and tensing tall when she dragged his hands up her side to her tits.
She mighta said something else, Thumper ain’t know cuz the music was loud and nauseating and her sultry bosoms was soft as Santa’s belly. His dick throbbed like a hypertensive nigga and leaked precum all over his balls. She rubbed her booty, grinding it hard atop his crotch, like she was trying-a make him nut down under.
That was exactly what he did too, like a drippy teenager. Just as the song ended, Thumper closed his eyes and filled his drawers with a massive wad of cream. The jissom kept on flooding his thighs and his asscheeks and soaking into his socks.
But then the song was over, and Sherry murmured some words of low import before she slid out into the bar proper, on the prowl for another nigga with a prick aimed at her. Thumper grimaced when he stood, his swampy crotch marinating in his own juices now. He found some napkins to get up what he could, then he headed outta the champagne room hoping nobody could see.
A cigarette puffed in Carson’s lips, while uninterestedly he watched a girl dance onstage. Smoke fumed above Carson’s head, his stubbled mien lit by his cherry and the glow of the phone he ain’t never put down. Thumper came back to the table and sat in the cummy puddle of his pants.
“You the man, Carson,” Thumper said. “I know you ain’t gotsta do this much fo’ me.”
Carson scoffed. He got a cool-capping tone to his voice, like he want listeners to know he could honky down if he wanted to. “Nonsense, nigga. This organization has to respect its elders. You done yo’ time for us.”
“Wish I had my old homies around. But they scattered like peanuts, nigga.”
Carson shook his head and exhaled a thick plume of cigarette smoke. They both watched a new girl, a swarthy Asian lady, begin her dance — Lay-Ocean — real pretty but short and bony like a ant-farm scarecrow, with a tiny ass — Thumper seen bigger ballsacs on niggas in prison — but she look pretty enough if you sat real close. Then Carson said, “You can look ’em up on Facebook.” He saw Thumper’s face frumping aloud, and Carson picked up his phone. “Gimme a name.”
“Jerome Barkley.”
It took a few minutes. Finally Carson said, “Oh. He died three years ago.”
“Tyrone Franks.”
Carson sighed. “He died in prison in Oregon.” They went through all Thumper’s old niggas, but his face soured and sagged lower with each one. Reg O’Leary overdosed on his own supply. Tangiers Garraty shot hisself. Carl Munters got run over by a bus. Shankem Jones and Willie Donald both got shot by some nigga or another. Casey Carlisle’s fat heart gave out. Elsa Spit — the only dancer at Lipsweet whose real name Thumper recalled — got breast cancer and died just eight months ago.
There wasn’t a head from before who was still alive, ‘cept for Thumper.
He sat there nursing his drink, his dick limper than ever and shrinking like it done run outta shit to do in this life, while Carson be mad beeping and booping at his phone on the hunt for Thumper’s final nigga — Robert Smith, which ain’t a easy name to look up — there was about a million of ’em, including a rock singer.
But then Carson’s phone rang, startling both them. Carson was peering at the screen and dropped it with a little yelp when it vibrated. He picked it up to answer it. “Yo, what?” Carson’s calm smile turned into a tense frown. “Yo, what?! He… Aw, shit, Rico, that fuckin’ nigga… I’ll get him.” He hung up and like swiped or something at his phone, then he looked at Thumper. “You wanna take a ride?”
They dipped. Outside, the streets was a swampy night, and the sidewalks was choked with shiesty scrubs. They all knew Carson though and stayed outta his way. Thumper sat in the passenger seat of Carson’s SUV. It turned out that one of Carson’s dealers got arrested, not for nothing too serious — some itty-bitty possession beef, plus resisting arrest and disorderly conduct. Carson drove to the police station and went inside to bail him out.
“Oooooh, shit…” Thumper licked his teeth when Carson emerged from the jailhouse with the young cat. That nigga was darkskin and glamor-muscle but not big, with a nice smooth face like any shebody would fall in love with.
Thumper loved him too. He got feelings in his heart from the moment he spied that nigga. Thumper ain’t feel much love in prison, and he got used to finding it where he could.
And if he saw that nigga behind bars, he’d brew up a pot of love in that nigga’s phat booty, and he’d season that stew with all the right herbs and spices. You just know he got a drumskin-tight intact booty too. Could load lotta love into that dumptruck.
“Rico, this is Thumper. He a ex-con, just got released,” Carson said. “You two make nice, cuz you gonna be rooming together for awhile-“
“Aw, man, Carson, what?” Rico said with bickerish bitterness, like he ain’t never got disappoint before. Thumper was already imagineering how Rico would look without no clothes on. He’d be smooth and dark and undulating when the lights was off. He’d shimmy and shake just like that Sherry creature, and remembrancing her movements got Thumper so hard his nuts was finna splode in his soupy pants again. But for now, Rico was whipping out whine and sucking on his teeth. “I gotta share a place with him? Old head smells like a band-aid, nigga! Gimme my own place. I can’t live with old nigga, he prolly drink tea and shit. Put his hair in the drain-“
“Coffee gimme lumpy throat, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico.
“Bullshit, Rico, fuck you!” Carson said. He got behind the wheel and drove off, Thumper and Rico in the back. “I gotta come bail you out. You got a ounce of coke confiscated. You was arrested just cuz you can’t shut your fool mouth. Now I am givin’ you a home to lay your dome down in, and you bitchin’ cuz you gotta share it? You best recalibrate your expectations, cuz I am not a endless nigga. You done reach my limit, I gone beyond it, and if I gotta go any farther, you gonna feel some consequences from the great beyond.”
Rico rolled his eyes but murmured, “Yeah, fine, whatevuh. Makin’ me move in wit’ old nigga past his prime, he a would-be has-been…”
Carson muttered out his mean-muggery. “Shit, nigguh can’t even act right when I am in the middle of doing him a favor…”
That car was fulla hostile mumbles, but Thumper was lost in his need for booty and maybe some decaf tea. Nigga got him thirsty.
Soon enough they was back in the hood, and the shivering silence in the car ain’t diminish when they all got out. Thumper showed Rico to the apartment above the barbershop — the Bloods gave him that apartment on the free-up, so Thumper ain’t mind sharing it, specially with a prettyface nigga like Rico.
Rico wore that handsome frown as his crown the whole time. He be sneaking dirty-dog eyes in Thumper’s direction as though any Rico’s predickyment was Thumper’s fault.
“You only got one bed,” Rico said when he saw the bedroom and its lonesome mattress.
“You count good. We gotsta double up,” Thumper said. “We gonna be snug as a hug, mah nigga.” He grinned. He patted Rico on the back. His hands lingered there, then moved under Rico’s shirt to rub his smooth back.
“Lemme uh…” Rico shrugged his shoulders to make Thumper leggo his back. “Lemme call my lawyer. And my girlfriend.”
“Oh, you got a guhl? Bring her ovuh!” Thumper said. He returned his hands to Rico’s back, and he whispered right into Rico’s ear. “Lemme mack on her. I’ll suck her clit while you fuck her.”
“Whaaat?!” Rico held his phone in hand.
“If yo’ dick slip out and I lick it some, won’t bothuh me none. C’mon, nigga… Get me some trim,” Thumper said. He rammed his hand down the back of Rico’s saggy jeans. He gripped his asscheek hard, like he was trying-a rip it off. It was damn smooth, pert near hairless, and you could just tell it was gonna shine — Thumper loved a shiny nigga. He growled into Rico’s ear. “Lemme fuck yo’ guhl. Tell her to give up her booty if she bleedin’ outta her period. She do booty, right? Does she lick yo’ butthole? Cuz I will lick her’n. I will eat her asshole like a chicky pot pie.” He mimed eating a very big pot pie with a itty-bitty spoon.
“What, no?!” Rico backed away. “Step off, nigga!” He shortfooted from Thumper, then left the apartment without dropping his hound-dog frown. Thumper heard him out in the hallway on that relentless phone, talking to his lawyer, then his girl, then some niggas, then his mama — Rico be mad after a place to park his poker.
Not wanting to make his roommate discomfitted, Thumper showered and cleaned his cummy balls. Then he went out in stale-scent duds straight from the thrift shop. It was getting to early evening, past suppertime in prison, and his clock-happy stomach let him know it. So he hightailed it to a pizza jawn and bringed back food. When he returned to the apartment, Rico done dip.
Thumper weren’t shook up. Rico prolly staying with his girlie, Thumper thunk. Or he sleeping on some nigga’s couch. That won’t last.
He ate his pizza alone. All he thinking about was choking down mushy food at crowded tables that smelled like too many niggas. In prison, everywhere was cramped and full-up. Out here, everyspot was empty ‘cept for phone screens. Baltimore was a quiet blip upon the world’s surface. The longer Thumper spent past the prison gates, the worse he got with the broad open tangles of the free world. Confinatory walls circumscribed chaos into legibility, but the night-sky teemed fulla forever, and Thumper got lost in the sterile black screen of the buttonless teevee. He ain’t even try working that remote control. Them sky-bound stars in the window ain’t sparkle the same as those precious stars he peeped seldom as angels behind bars.
When his belly was fulla greasy pizza, Thumper worked his jimmies out. Carson bought him a gym membership, but Thumper ain’t know where the gym was or what the plastic jawn Carson gave him meant — presumitably, he gotsta display it to get through the door, but it ain’t look like no identification. Thumper just did burpees like he was used to, and he lifted a gallon of milk before gulping from it.
So he bedded down lonefully. About thirty seconds after he laid his melon, there came a knockity-knock at the door.
“Rico?” Thumper opened it on Rico a-frowning that face, so forlorn like a frayed wire. He pushed past Thumper to enter the apartment.
“Alright, old head, I’ll stay here,” Rico said with a scowl. He be mad on that frowning trip. “My girl dumped me!”
“Aw, shit, nigga, that’s some horsehockey, yes it is,” Thumper said. He touched Rico on the cheek. “You forget about that bitch. She ain’t worth yo’ time.”
Rico wrinkled his nose at notice of Thumper wearing nothing but prison drawers, his biggity dickmeat bulging against the fabric, his unkempt pubes poking out the fly. “Nigga, put some shorts on or some shit.”
“Nah.” Thumper led Rico to the bedroom. “C’mon, it’s bedtime.”
“It’s ten o’clock,” Rico said.
It took Thumper a second to realize Rico said the time because that was early to him. “Ten o’clock bin lights-out for damn near e’ry night I spent on God’s green Earth,” Thumper said. “So c’mon.” He went into the bedroom. “Leave yo’ phone out here.”
“I ain’t tired,” Rico said.
Thumper ain’t used to niggas being free men making they own choices. In the cell, if he telled a nigga it was time for bed, that nigga best get sleepy. Thumper ran that cell on point. “Go take a shower, nigga. Shower is in the hall.”
Rico sucked on his teeth and nodded. “I ain’t got… y’know, no towel or nothin’.”
“Hmm-hmm,” Thumper murmured. He liked the idea of Rico hiking up the hall buffly brown, his tight tushy dripping like a nigga popsicle melting in the night.
But that old bat Vera might see his dingading-doo. So Thumper gave him a towel, a washcloth and a bar soap, and Rico frowned out that not a single nigga in the universe used bar soap no more — a modern nigga be using “body wash” — but he scampered off to the shower to scrub up irregardless. Thumper wanted Rico clean as a squeaky puppy.
Somebody must buy bar soap, they got ’em in the store, Thumper thunk.
He lay down waiting for Rico. Sleep hit him good and hard up the skull — Thumper got that regulatory sleep schedule. Ten o’clock came, and his body was presumitave that the time for slumber was now.
So he was only dimly awake when Rico returned from the shower, his skin a-tingling and burnished. Rico hesitated in the dark apartment, but he sensed that Thumper wouldn’t tolerate him turning on the teevee or no lights or nothing, so he plugged his phone in and slipped into bed when it seemed Thumper was deep in nod.
He lay there in the darkness and silence. Thumper’s body radiated warmth and that old-band-aid smell, and his weight hefted heavy on the mattress, which made Rico slide bit by bit closer to him. He ain’t feel hisself moving, but he gotsta keep scooting back to the edge or he’d be nuzzling Thumper’s shoulder.
Rico sighed and closed his eyes. He wished he ain’t backtalk that cop.
Soon, Rico found Thumper’s heavy body curling up around him. He smelled musty and salty as a few beads of nightsweat popped up on Thumper’s shoulders, and his arm was thicker than Rico’s head. His nose nuzzled Rico’s neck.
That rendered Rico wide awake.
“Yo, nigga! Nigga!” Rico hissed, quiet though there weren’t nobody around to overhear. Thumper’s nuzzles turned to moist kissery on Rico’s handsome cheekbones. “Thumper, wake up! Get off me!”
“Ssshhh…” Thumper’s lips planted on Rico’s. Thumper moaned into Rico’s mouth as his tongue invaded. That nigga tasted as sweet as Thumper bin expecting, sweet as a free summer’s day, sweet as meadowy candy. Thumper licked his loving face.
Rico squirmed. His tight little muscles was hard as metal bars beneath Thumper’s grasp, but they wasn’t big. He got no heft on Thumper, whose chest pressed down on Rico’s tautness. His muscles flexed perky under Thumper’s callused fingers like battering bats.
The bedroom filled with Rico squealing outta the sides of his mouth plugged up by Thumper’s tongue. The smell and taste of Thumper’s liniment or pomade or some old-nigga shit like that overwhelmed Rico and bringed tears to his eyes. Thumper’s callused hands roamed over Rico’s smooth body, rough-handling him like a disobedient steak.
Thumper was immovable, despite Rico on claw at his back. Thumper ain’t care. He just kissed.
It felt damn good to kiss a clean nigga like Rico. In prison, a nigga like that would be expensive. A nigga like Carson wouldn’t just put a nigga like Rico in with a nigga like Thumper in prison.
He pulled down Rico’s boxers, tongue still invading Rico’s mouth, and he gripped Rico’s cock and balls with both hands. Rico finally squirmed his mouth off Thumper’s.
“What the fuck, old man?!” he sputtered.
“You said you ain’t got no female no more,” Thumper said. Rico sat up, but Thumper kissed him on the cheek, hugging his little body close. He stroked Rico’s limp dick too. Rico panted and pushed Thumper’s chest. Thumper was too heavy though, and he just moaned at Rico’s touch. His scratchy voice resonated in Rico’s ear. “C’mon, nigga, lemme pull a nut out. I’ll fill you up so good you forget where babies come from. We be deep in the downlow, nigga, ain’t nobody gotsta know.”
“I don’t — what does that mean?!?!?!!” Rico cried out, but Thumper plugged up that nonsense with his tongue again. He grabbed a tube of lube from the bedside table, and he smeared a big wad of it over Rico’s shiny booty. He pulled Rico to lay on his side, and one Thumper’s hands massaged his buttcrack with a palmful of lube, while Thumper’s other callus-thick hand aggressively stroked Rico’s limp pecker.
“Hey, nigga, what’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked.
The question was so incongruent Rico stopped a-wriggling. “Huh?” Rico gulped. Thumper’s brick-like fingers smeared more cold goop in his ass, then he rolled Rico over. Thumper’s chest hair rubbed against Rico’s back, and Rico struggled but remained ensconced in Thumper’s powerful arms.
Thumper took that moment to ram his cocktip into Rico’s tight asshole. Rico squealed, and his whole body tightened. His butt clenched around Thumper’s cock. “I axed, what’s a Poke He-Man Go?”
“Wha…? Ow, shit, nigga, ow, ow, ow, shit, whatchoo doin’, Thumper? Thump! Quit playin’-“
“What’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked again. He was kneeling behind Rico, who be on his knees too. The bed creaked under them. Rico tried to squirm away, but the pain made him wince, and Thumper drilled in a little deeper. “What’s Poke He-Man Go? Explain this shit, c’mon. You my nigga, right? So help a nigga out, damn. Why’s it a pro’lem when a li’l Lay-Ocean guhl come to a barbershop for a Poke He-Man Go Jim?”
“You mean Pokemon Go! It’s a game!” Rico said. His voice was tense and clipped. “It’s a mobile game!” His hands waved around behind hisself as he tried to dig at Thumper. “It’s… augmented reality.”
Thumpter stopped moving. He lowered his noggin and furrowed his forehead at Rico. “What?”
“Nigga, lemme go!”
“Whats’at mean?” Thumper asked. He gripped Rico’s shoulders and held on tight, drilling his dick in deeper. He threw out a moan and slapped Rico’s buttcheek. That broke something open, and Thumper was able to ram mad inches into that nigga behind.
Intense pain erupted in Rico’s backside. He squirmed and tried to scream, but Thumper placed one meaty hand over his mouth. His other hand gripped Rico’s cock and gave it a few strokes. It was limp as a spineless snake. Shivers of pleasure ran through Thumper’s body, and he let out a creaky moan like a crypt being opened.
That made Rico shudder. He bit at the pillow beneath his head.
“It’s — ow, fuck, c’mon, nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Rico panted. He hung his head, his whole body sagging like he wanted to lay down but it hurt.
“C’mon, nigga, don’t be shamey,” Thumper said. “We just messin’ around on the downlow. You want a reacharound, right? You ain’t a punk if you get yo’ nut off at the same time.” His callused old-man hand kept on jacking Rico’s dick as he plowed into his butt, like Thumper ain’t realize yet that Rico’s meat stayed soft. “Yo’ butt feel damn good. Squeeze it around my dick some, squeeze it good-“
“Ow, fuck, fuck, c’mon, Thump, don’t be a booty bandit!” Rico’s daddy and uncle Jermaine bin told him to stay away from ex-cons and don’t never bend over afront them, and now Rico realized how good that advice was. “That’s nasty pervert shit!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper snapped. His meaty hands caressed Rico’s back and kneaded his flesh. “Ain’t nobody gots a right to judge — nigga, please!” He was annoyed now. He pushed Rico’s head down, pulled his ass up and gripped his nape to keep him in place. His barrel chest done left a sheen of sweat on Rico’s clean back. “You ain’t nevuh got locked up for thirty-four years, nigga, don’chu tell me what to do!”
“Ow, fuck! I ain’t-! It ain’t-! I ain’t-! C’mon, Thumper, c’mon-!” Rico cried out.
Thumper was all the way in now, plowing so hard Rico’s whole body shook. Rico bit back a scream of pain. He pushed hisself face-first into the mattress, which stank like Thumper’s band-aidy ass. Thumper massaged Rico’s back and shoulders as he pounded back and forth. He was so damn lean, ain’t got extra skin and scars and smudgey tattoos done by Italians. It made Thumper wanna own him forever. Thumper kissed him on the prettiness of his back, and Rico squirmed and roared like a sexy cougar.
“Hey nigga,” Thumper said as he lowered hisself again to the apex of his descent, all the way in, so Rico was holding his breath, asscheeks quivering like jello. His booty squeezed and massaged Thumper’s shaft just right, like it was begging for nuts. He was all the way into the wreck of Rico’s guts, his balls laying heavy on Rico’s taint. “Hey nigga?”
“What?!” Rico gritted his teeth and shouted into the mattress.
“If we was in prison, you’d be in love right now,” Thumper grunted out into Rico’s ear.
Thumper’s cock throbbed and spewed a wad into Rico. Thumper groaned into his ear and nibbled on his earlobe, as his voice broke and a wave of pleasure frissoned up Thumper’s spine. Heat seeped into Rico’s flesh, and both them niggas moaned, Thumper’s a croon of desire and Rico’s a cringe of pain. He felt jissom trickling inside him, and Rico winced and gritted.
At last, Thumper pulled most the way out, still nutting, so he could see his veiny shaft pulsate in the dim light. Splashes of manjuice leaked out Rico and down to the mattress.
“Oh shit, nigga, we makin’ a mess. I blame you. You a spillsy nigga,” Thumper said with another thrust all the way into him for one more jissing. That caused Rico’s sensitive asshole to twinge with pain, and he howled.
His final cumwad flowed into Rico, but Thumper ain’t stop right away — he was plowing on auto-pilot. He rammed his dick back in and out, churning his nut into a big frothy mess. Soon his shaft was limp and doubling up like a phone cable on Rico’s shinier-than-ever backside, and it popped out.
“Oh god, fuck, Thumper, don’t… thank god, that hurt, nigga-“
Oodles of ooz gooed up Rico’s buttcrack, but Thumper licked up every drop of that felchy fluid outta Rico’s shine. He tasted like funk-a-butt, and Thumper slathered love in Rico’s tender crack.
Then he mounted Rico’s smoothness and kissed it all into his pretty-nigga mouth.
The taste of his own assjuice and Thumper’s salty semen made Rico’s eyes opened wide, when he realized what that foul taste was. He screamed but Thumper still kissed him, and he swallowed that scream up. The stink smeared between both nigga faces. It got into Thumper’s salty beard hairs and between the cornrows on his old head.
Eventually, Thumper moistly pulled his tongue outta Rico’s mouth. Rico lay, a-breathing heavy and suppressing gags because Thumper pinched him when he retched.
So Thumper again kissed him, and this time Rico didn’t resist, even when he again tasted his own ass-funk on Thumper’s lips. Thumper’s hand wrapped around his cock and stroked. Rico ignored it, trying-a settle his stomach and ignore his sore ass. He whimpered a little. Thumper’s hand was so big and so callused it was like sandpapery leather on Rico’s dick, which shrinky-dinked with every passing moment. Rico wiped his face off, but the smell of cum and ass persisted.
“C’mon, nigga, get hard,” Thumper whispered into Rico’s ear. “I’ll help.” He moved his head down, licking a trail over Rico’s pecs and belly, and he put Rico’s cocktip in his mouth. He suckled on it like he was getting something outta it, and Rico gasped in surprise.
He ain’t expect that at all. He was still in too much pain to get hard, he thunk, but his dick did begin to firm up despite hisself. The goo on his face made it hard to focus on the warm wetness of Thumper’s mouth encircle his shaft. Thumper gripped it with one hand and licked the length of it, shuddering back a gag.
Rico was still rumbling up a retch too, as Thumper soon lay on his side, opposite to Rico, so he could slurp on Rico’s knob. That placed Thumper’s own santorum-coated cock not far from Rico’s face. It flopped onto Rico’s chin. The smell of his own ass and the slimy remains of Thumper’s cumwad clinging to the shaft made Rico wrinkle his nose.
A painful wrack of pleasure made Rico suck in his breath. “Shit, nigga!” Rico banged his head on the wall, as Thumper’s mouth filled with oozes of prenut.
Thumper was merely getting Rico started — that was a prison thing. It cost less than actually paying a nigga to swallow a nut. “Getting a nigga started” meant putting his pecker in your mouth and stiffening it, then pulling off when you taste prenut and finishing the nigga with your hand. Lotta niggas would get’cha started for cheap but consider it humiliating to actually taste a nut.
And Thumper ain’t mind that too bad. But Thumper got carried away when he tasted salty precum, and it felt so real, so visceral, that he ain’t wanna pull off. He be thinking he got more time.
So he throated that nigga dick until his nose smushed into Rico’s trimmed pubes. Thumper let his throat stretch around it, and he savored the feel of its hotness throbbing in his belly like a second heart.
Then Rico shot a big creamy load that coated Thumper’s gullet. Neither them niggas was expecting it — Rico was barely aware he was even hard, while Thumper was off in dreamland and exulting in the smooth young muscles of Rico’s body. He liked the cocoa-butter flavor of Rico’s skin, so he ain’t pull off until his mouth overflowed with sunshines of jissom.
He removed his lips from Rico’s manhood and spat all that cum up onto Rico’s face. He mounted Rico’s limp body so he couldn’t get away, and though Rico shook his head left and right, Thumper pinned him down and coated his face in juices. Eventually the cum dwindled to pure spit, but Thumper liked that too.
All that whatever on Rico’s face made him a extra-shiny nigga.
Rico gagged violently. He tried to get up, but Thumper still wouldn’t let him. “Nah, nah, you done made a mess, lemme make it bigguh.” Thumper smeared the nut all over Rico’s face with his tongue. The bracing saltiness and the intense funk made Thumper wrinkle his nose, but every time he did, Rico let out a shallow-breath gag and undulated his perky frame beneath Thumper’s tired old muscles.
Then he lay down and pulled Rico to lay down with him on the soggy mattress. Rico’s whole body was covered in body fluids.
“C’mon, let’s go to sleep,” Thumper whispered hotly into his ear, which he nibbled on like a juicy raisin. “In the mornin’, you gonna be dry again, and then you can shower.” Making a man sleep covered in jizz made him more amenable to the downlow in the future, and he was likely to make Rico dirty again when he woke up at dawn anyway.
He still got that prison schedule in him, after all.
“Man, nigga, Thumper, that hurt,” Rico said in a hoarse whisper. “That was so gross. Lemme shower-“
“Sorry, nigga. You’ll get used to it,” Thumper said. He hugged Rico buddy-tight and snuffled up the fudgey nuts and full-butt scent that clung to Rico’s lumps. “You nevuh finished explainin’ what ‘Pokemon Go’ is. Do I gotsta get one?”

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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey