spring break – Mansploitation

Miriam wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. She groaned and clutched her stomach as she got in the back of the Jag. She leaned against the door and fell asleep before Thumper even got the car onto the highway outta Ocean City.
That was fine with Thumper. He ain’t want her bitching the whole way home like she did on the way down. He was relieved that this weekend went good, and he even got Caden to dump Miriam like last month’s turnips — Mr. Gregarian was gonna be pickled pink about that.
After a hour or so, Thumper stopped for gas. That woke Miriam up, but she ain’t say boo. Thumper went inside the gas station and bought her a bottle water.
“Here. Drink this,” he said.
“Oh god, yes, I needed that,” she said, her voice a croak like a creaky frog. “I didn’t mean to drink that much last night. Oh god, Wendell… My head hurts.”
“Yep. It’ll do that,” Thumper said with a dirgey whistle.
He thinked she went back to sleep and maybe she did for awhile. But before he got back onto the Bay Bridge, her phone beeped. She looked at it and groaned. She closed her eyes and clutched her face.
“Ohhhhhhh!” She squealed and wiggled all her limbs like a overturnt turtle. “It’s all over Instagram, my friends are going out with their boyfriends to get pancakes at some place in Stevensville! I’m not invited because I’m single! It’s a couple’s thing, and Taylor Swift ate there once!” She gasped into her phone. “Caden’s going! With… With… if it’s Ripley Grundy, I will stab a dolphin, oh-!” She gasped again. “It is Ripley Grundy! He’s going out with her now!” She squealed. “I could just die!” She looked into the rear-view mirror and made eye contact with Thumper. “I wish I was in prison!”
A long hollow silence hung around the car. Thumper focused on merging onto the Bay Bridge. Miriam put her phone down and looked out the window, but only empty space stretched in every direction. The sound of the wheels whirring atop the ground changed to a metallic clanging when they got onto the bridge. Ahead all was traffic and salt-scent fog, and even the Bay below was not visible. The bridge seemed to traverse the sky itself this morning, no land, no water, but the sound of both reverberated through the air.
“Sorry,” she said after her pouty pause became too much for her to maintain. “I don’t, uh… I didn’t mean that.” She fell quiet again, as still as a suffocating teapot. She vibrated up and down, and she opened her mouth again a couple times like she got something to say with them pretty painted lips. But then each time she ain’t find the words she be seeking.
None that troubled Thumper none. He was stiff-gripping the steering wheel as he once again crossed the Bay Bridge. Once again he hadta fight against the urge to look over the unprotected edge into the pitchy waves below. In the backseat, Miriam cleared her throat like a giggley volcano.
Her tangerine-cream fingers thrummed up and down on the seat, as she finally said, “What is it like in prison?”
He scoffed. “It sucks there. You lose e’ryone you love one by one, and you gotsta spend all yo’ time wit’ niggas you can’t choose, guards watchin’ yo’ e’ry step. Smells like a foot’s patoot too.”
She kept her eyes trained out the windows like something was gonna rise outta the Chesapeake. She glanced at her phone once but then slammed it down and put it under her purse. She sniffled and wiped a tear away from her eye. Her mouth cracked open to speak, but no words came out.
Her feet wiggled. On the way here, her feet done pump up and down because she was impatient to get to Ocean City. Now, they waggled in no direction, impatient only cuz Miriam ain’t know how to be anything else. She sighed couple times, nearly getting her phone out from under her purse, but she stopped herself each time.
Just as they reached the end of the Bay Bridge, she finally said, “I’m glad Caden dumped me. I was only dating him cuz it pissed my dad off.”
“I know,” Thumper said.
“There’s probably a better reason to date a guy,” she said. She blew her curl outta her face, and this time it stayed beside her temple, framing the off-tempo smile that creeped onto her lips.

“You should have a boyfriend who makes you glad to get outta bed in the morning,” Thumper said. “Not humiliated to be alive.”

As the Jaguar thumped off the Bay Bridge and onto the road, she reached up and patted Thumper on the bicep. “You’re not as bad as some of the other bouncers. Like Tyrell, he’s so annoying, I’m glad he didn’t take me to Ocean City. You’re an annoying old fool too, Wendell, but you have a good excuse. That name is still retarded though.”
“My friends call me Thumper.” Thumper’s mind reeled from her fingertips on his arm. He ain’t mean to feel like a little boy — he got no kinda crush on Miriam. Thumper just ain’t get touched a lot in a nice way.
The cops who arrested him treated him rough. Prison doctors poked and prodded. The guards picked fistfights with him for fun — Thumper was a boxer before his arrest, well-known locally, and the guards all wanted a chance to mess with him, so they could brag that they punched out the Chesapeake champ.
It weren’t until Thumper got through his stint in local jail during his trial and sentencing and then got processed into prison that he met his cellmates, his fellow Bloods.
They was all from Baltimore, same as him. They all knew the same places and the same niggas. It felt like home — a cramped, sweaty kinda home.
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.
“Yo, nigga, you got through yo’ first day,” Patrick said when they returned to the cell that night, after Thumper got intook. Thumper done plopped his ass down on his bunk. His back was to the bars — one of they cell’s walls was bars, and niggas be mad pacing back and forth out there. Nowadays, after thirty-four years in cages a lot like that one, Thumper wouldn’t never sit with his back to the bars. But on day one, he ain’t know no better. Patrick got his back to the wall. “How you feelin’?”
Thumper shrugged. “Fine.” He got a purple bump on his left eye, his nose crooked and stuffed with cotton balls, so his voice be huffy and squat. His chest was slick and shiny with sweat. He was in the infirmerary getting a cut on his shoulder sewed up during shower-time, so he weren’t gonna get to wash the grime off till the day after tomorrow.
“That all you got to say? I ain’t just yo’ cellmate, Thump,” Patrick said like a cool cat, dipping and diving across the cell — like three steps of open space — to where Thumper was sat on the cell’s only chair. Thumper sat on it backwards, so his legs was splayed, his bare bronze chest steaming with sweat and swole with growing bruises. “I’s yo’ nigga in this organization. I know it ain’t easy, making the transition. If anything is troublin’ you… You gotsta let yo’ nigga know. Don’t sit and stew like a gumbo, homie.”
He shrugged. “I gots a pro’lem with them screws comin’ hard at me. I can’t fight ’em like that e’ry day.”
“Shit, nigga, you be fine,” Patrick said. “If them screws gots a real problem wit’choo, they’d send you up to solitary so you ain’t go to no infirmary, and they’d break a bone fo’ sure. They’s just messin’ wit’cha cuz you famous. Lemme see you box, nigga.” Patrick stood up and shadowboxed afront Thumper.
He looked up at him, too tired to do anything more than sit a spell before lights-out. But Thumper was under Patrick’s command — Patrick was a lieutenant in the Bloods, and Thumper was brand-new. Thumper’s job in the Bloods was enforcer. He couldn’t hardly complain too bad about taking a beating or practicing punches.
Patrick was also pushing fifty years old, and Thumper was less than half that age, and he was a semi-pro boxer literally a month ago. So Thumper ain’t think nothing of standing and putting his dukes up.
“You know you can’t hold no grudge against the screws who hit’cha, right?” Patrick said. He threw a couple punches that Thumper blocked with an open palm.
“What? Why not? Whatchoo mean?”
“That’s just how shit goes, nigga,” Patrick said. “And lotta them… we do truck wit’ ’em.” He paused and let Thumper punch him back on his open palms. “I’s an old nigga, Thump, don’t get too rough wit’ me.”
Thumper nodded and threw couple punches. He stopped before he punched Patrick’s hand at all, so he made only glancing contact. It did feel good to get his blood pumping again. “Man, that one smirky blond guard, I wanna smash that bastard’s face in.”
“Higgins? Yeah, he prolly Higgins, he a fuckhead. Jerome Watley fucks his wife, if that makes it feel better,” Patrick said. He was jostled this way and that by Thumper boxing him even without any real contact between them, and he steadied hisself by grabbing Thumper’s waist. “You hella boxer, Thump.”
Lights-out in five minutes!
Thumper stopped boxing. “Shit, I’m sweaty, nigga. Lemme wash off some in the sink or somethin’. I don’t wanna go to bed sweaty like this,” he said. He hadta squeeze past Patrick to get to the sink. He washclothed sweat off his belly and chest.
As Thumper rinsed the washcloth to do it again, Patrick came up behind him. That was another thing Thumper wouldn’t stand for these days.
But he ain’t know no better then. He stood there wiping his chest with a washcloth awkward-like, while Patrick got real close behind him, his slim hands wrapping around Thumper’s barrel-shape high-yellow body.
Thumper paused. He wanted to wipe his balls, but Patrick was so close it seem rude to drop his drawers. Thumper could even feel the bulge of Patrick’s soft pecker through the boxers both them wore.
“Hey, nigga, you know ’bout yo’ lights-out duties?” Patrick asked. One his hands reached around his body to touch Thumper’s nipple, making his pec bounce. His hot breath condensed on Thumper’s back.
Thumper shook his head. “Not really. Switcher said you was gonna tell me somethin’ ’bout… I gotsta do somethin’ sometimes after lights-out. Like beat a nigga or some shit, I ‘xpect.” He formed a fist and punched the palm of his other hand with it. “Just point me at him, nigga.”
“Nah, nah, ain’t about fighting… Well, you might sometimes gotsta fight a nigga after lights-out too. But that ain’t what lights-out duties is,” Patrick said. His hands kneaded Thumper’s shoulders, which was thick with muscle and rock-hard. “Gimme that washcloth,” he said when Thumper done wrung it out.
Patrick took the washcloth and lowered Thumper’s boxers all the way down. Thumper’s ass was bare and faced the wall of cell bars, on the other side of which niggas was still dapping and rapping. Thumper wiggled a little, but he ain’t wanna attract no attention.
His dong was dangling bare at the cell bars. Couple niggas walked by, but they ain’t act like they saw nothing.
The cell was quiet as a dead choir, and the chaos outside growed more and more distant, rumbling softer as niggas found they way to they cells. Patrick wiped Thumper’s buttcrack clean, and he got deep in there too. He ain’t just wipe the crack, he went down into it. The washcloth rubbed rough as rubble against Thumper’s butthole.
“Ow, nigga-” Thumper grunted and tried to step away, but Patrick stopped him with a hand around his torso. “You rubbin’ mah poop-chute-” He lowered his voice cuz somebutt hustled by to get to his cell. Whoever it was ain’t look. “It hurts, nigga!”
“Sssshh…” Patrick clucked his tongue. He held onto Thumper tight.
Of course, Thumper was much bigger than Patrick and could overpower him. Patrick ain’t even try to hold Thumper in place. But Thumper was told he gotsta do everything Patrick say.
The lights flickered out, and all was darkness. The sound outside the cell dwindled on the rapid, as leftover niggas scurried to they cells before the screws came through for the first night check.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper again tried to move, but Patrick stopped him with his fingers gentle on Thumper’s waist. Thumper’s boxers was still down hugging his ankles, and his dick swinged between his legs.
“Sssssh… Stay where you are,” Patrick said. He kissed Thumper on the sweat of his nape, and Thumper shuddered. Patrick closed his eyes and murmured into his skin. “It’d be best if you stayed right there. Don’t move till I tell you.” He stayed behind Thumper and reached around him to hold Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. It was thick-a-brick and floppy. “You got nice big meat.”
“Uh-huh. Nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Thumper sucked in his breath, his boxer pecs flexing up and down, then staying tense.
“Ain’t no women ’round, Thumper, so we gonna hafta get creative,” Patrick murmured as his hands kneaded the meat of Thumper’s chest and belly. “We gonna jack off togethuh now.” Thumper sensed Patrick’s naked body, though all he saw was a slim silhouette next to his own hulking shadow, cast by the emergency light outside the cell. He turned Thumper around, and Patrick frotted both dicks together. His own was already half-hard, but Thumper’s roped around like a live snake. He was too nervous to get hard. Patrick ain’t seem to care or even notice though. He got his own dick throbbing hard like rebar. It jabbed over and over into Thumper’s pubic hair.
Sticky precum came from his cocktip, lubricating his hand. He let go of his own dick and stroked Thumper’s alone for a few seconds. Thumper still couldn’t get hard and ain’t even realize that was expected of him. He just stood there like Patrick was his coach, inspectorating his body.
“Sit on the floor,” Patrick said.
Thumper plopped down on his ass and had no sooner got hisself situated before he was confronted with Patrick’s dick in his face. He grunted, and Patrick rubbed his cock over Thumper’s teeth and lips. The musty smell of his salty balls combined with the astringency of the precum on his darkskin cocktip.
“Whatchoo doin’-? That’s nasty, that-“
“Sssssh, keep it quiet,” Patrick whispered. The sound outside the cell was dwindling fast, and every peep Thumper made could be heard in the nearby cells. Patrick sucked in his breath and pushed his cocktip past Thumper’s lips, running along his teeth, while Patrick’s bony fingers gripped Thumper’s face.
“Open your mouth, Thumper,” Patrick said soft as cotton.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper ain’t mean to open his mouth, but he did, and Patrick drilled into him. Patrick’s long cockshaft invaded his throat. Instantly Thumper gagged — he ain’t expect that, so his whole torso flexed and expelled Patrick’s dong. “Ew, shit, nigga-“
“Ssssshhh…” Patrick said, clucking his tongue. He pushed it back in before Thumper could even stop gagging.
This time Thumper managed to keep his mouth open. He closed his eyes, though Patrick’s fingers rubbed his cheeks like to force his eyes open — in the dark, all Patrick could see was the whites of Thumper’s eyes. The salt-dappled taste of his dick filled Thumper’s mouth.
“Move yo’ lips up and down on it,” Patrick said when Thumper was quiet. Thumper still ain’t move. He ain’t even shut his mouth, so his lips flapped far from Patrick’s shaft. “Move yo’ lips up and down.”
As soon as he moved at all, Thumper again gagged, but this time he couldn’t spit it out. Patrick forced his dick to stay in there. Patrick’s scrappy rope-a-dope muscles sheened in the dim light. He was so short Thumper gotsta stoop his head to swallow his pecker, and Patrick stood on his toes. Thumper wanted to get up, but he stayed crounching next to the sink and toilet. It reeked of piss over here.
A retch escaped from Thumper’s throat. He got both big hands on Patrick’s thinly muscled body. Patrick ain’t try to resist Thumper’s biceps shoving him off, and his cock popped out with a splash of spit on Thumper’s face. Thumper took a deep moist breath. “Ew, shit, ew!”
Somenigga somewhere tittered out laughter. Thumper could tell it was aimed at him. He was finna speak, but he gotsta hold back another gag as Patrick’s dick touched his nostrils and he worried speaking would give away who was on his knees in this cell.
And Thumper ain’t realize that every nigga already knew. As long as Thumper was quiet, it was impolite to acknowledge.
“Ssssh, you gotsta jack me off,” Patrick said low as lips. He held Thumper’s head with both hands. “Like using yo’ hands when you stroke yo’ own meat, but yo’ lips instead. Don’t think about yo’ tongue or yo’ throat. Think ’bout yo’ lips.” His cock throbbed in Thumper’s hands, which was coated in Patrick’s precum.
Thumper nodded. “Do I got to? I ain’t-“
“Sssssh, this is part of yo’ cell duties, as a new nigga in the Bloods,” Patrick said. He pushed his dick back in, and it rested there, not moving, on Thumper’s big-nigga tongue. Thumper’s lips fluttered around, until Patrick clucked and said, “Get’cha lips on it, nigga. Put’cha lips — aw, shit, yeah, there you go. Li’l faster.”
Thumper was doing it now, though his throat rebelled and his stomach churned. His head moved up and down. Every couple seconds the back of Patrick’s gooey-bubbling cock hit his throat and he gots to suppress another gag. But he found that Patrick was right — it was easier to not think about it if he focused on his lips. He pressed ’em on the shaft firm, which made Patrick shake and moan on the downlow.
“When you get older and you get assigned a cellmate, you’ll understand why this is important,” Patrick said, his hands mostly on his hips, until every few seconds he gotsta grip Thumper’s face to guide his cock in. Then he pulled out and flopped his spitty pecker over Thumper’s face, leaving a layer of fluids there. Thumper’s mouth gotta stay open cuz breathing through his nose made him want to throw up.
Patrick’s dingaling smelled like an old dirty dishrag. He closed his eyes. It was so fleshy, and it seemed to have extra skin. It rubbed in and outta his mouth, though it was clear Patrick wanted to stop and move onto something else.
At last, Patrick pulled out and murmured. “Now get on all fours. Spread yo’ legs as wide as you can.”
In yo’ cells, maggots! That was the guard coming by on his first nightchecks. He wasn’t looking in any cells though, just making sure no one was outside ’em. So Thumper stood there, Patrick’s hands kneading his buttcheeks, until the guard done pass.
Then he climbed down to all fours. Thumper’s big-ass took up most the cell. Patrick kneeled behind him and stuck his dick into the asscrack. Thumper got wide asscheeks, each one bigger than Patrick’s head, and his thighs was massive cables. His body was firm as could be.
It felt gooey and hot in his buttcrack, and it throbbed against his butthole. Thumper gritted his teeth. “Ew, shit, nigga, feels weird-“
“Ssssssh… No talkin’. Okay? Bloods don’t beg. Bloods don’t cry,” he said.
“Ain’t cryin’, Patrick, nigga-” Thumper said. He sucked in his breath as a twinge of pain hit him. He realized Patrick wasn’t gonna hump his crack — he was gonna stick it in.
And it ain’t feel like it was gonna fit. Thumper gritted his teeth, and his hands gripped his own bunk tight. He heaved and grunted with each thrust of Patrick’s shaft. “Ow, shit, ow, shit-“
“Ssssh…” Patrick pushed more in. “No beggin’. That’s beggin’, Thumper. I can punish you for that,” he said. “Sound sexy, no beggin’… C’mon, nigga, get me off, get me off, nigga…”
Thumper wanted to say that that wasn’t begging, but he had a feeling Patrick would say saying that was begging too. And anyway, all of a sudden it hurt to speak, so Thumper shut his muffin up.
Patrick worked his rod back and forth, and Thumper let out a baritone seethe with each thrust of Patrick’s dick, but he kept the volume low enough that the sound ain’t bother Patrick. The pain was extraordinary. He spread his legs so wide his hips hurt.
Then Patrick stopped moving. “I lost it. Stop gruntin’, Thumper. I lost my hardon,” he said. He pulled his dick out. It was indeed mostly soft. “Sounds like you takin’ a shit when you do that, nigga.”
“Sorry, Patrick, that really hurt,” Thumper whispered.
“C’mon, lay on your back on these pillows,” Patrick said. He got both he and Thumper’s pillows arranged on the floor, and Thumper lay on them with his feet in the air. “It feels kinda like fucking a girl that way, with your feet up.”
Patrick rubbed his limp dick over Thumper’s taint and thighs, trying-a get it hard. He made Thumper jack it off too, with hogfat-lubed fingers, while Patrick rubbed more hog fat into Thumper’s butthole. It seemed swole in Thumper’s grasp, even before it re-firmed. Then it was hard like a iron nail.
Then he drilled it in once more, and Thumper hissed and clenched his cheeks. “Ow, shit-” He sucked in his breath before he could start begging. “Hmmmm… Hmmmmmmmmm!”
“Sssh, just be quiet, if you can’t make girly sounds,” Patrick said. He began working his rod back and forth. He closed his eyes and put one hand over Thumper’s mouth. “Sssh, you gonna make me lose it. Just focus on bein’ quiet, nigga. Ignore e’rything but yo’ own voice. I’s just usin’ yo’ backside to get off.”
With Thumper’s mouth plugged up by Patrick’s hand, his frenzied panting sounded vaguely girlish — a very bass girl — and Patrick’s other hand roamed over Thumper’s chest. He was still young then, with taut skin and enough pectoral meat for Patrick to grope it like a breast. Thumper felt the heat of more precum seeping into him.
“Oh god…” Thumper winced, as Patrick’s balls slapped at his taint. Twinges of pain still ran through him, as cum filled Thumper’s backside. He groaned into Patrick’s hand.
“Fuck yeah, baby, baby, shit, lemme kiss you.” Patrick sounded desperate. “Moan like a girl, nigga, c’mon-” Patrick removed his hand and slathered his lips onto Thumper’s. Thumper’s eyes opened wide in the dark. Another jet of cum coated his guts. Thumper twitched. He felt droplets of goo sliding out his butthole and down his thighs. Patrick’s tongue invaded his mouth.
“Oooohhh…” Thumper ain’t mean at first to moan like a girl, like Patrick wanted, but he managed to raise his grunt to a girlish tone. Patrick moaned like a casanova and kissed him again, his cock rubbing fiery as a moist missile in Thumper’s backside.
One final explosion of jissom erupted within Thumper, who breathed a sigh of relief when Patrick’s mouth pulled off his, and his cock plopped out slow. “We gonna have to work on that, nigga,” he said, “But that was okay for a first night. I’m glad you ain’t ask a guard to make me stop. If you did that, I’d have to get a dozen niggas to beat you down. Bloods rules.” He wiped his dick off with some toilet paper, then he wiped down Thumper’s buttcheek. “It won’t hurt as bad next time, nigga,” Patrick said as he threw away the toilet paper.
Thumper nodded and stood. He stretched his sore legs. Then he crawled into his bunk. Patrick met him with a kiss when he laid down, and Patrick’s tongue invaded Thumper’s mouth again, gentle as a dewy lamb. “Nigga-“
“Sssshhhh…” Patrick said. “I’m gonna make you love me, Thump.” He climbed up to his bunk. “Buckle up, cuz we gonna have nights of long love, nigga.”

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

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

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Six

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

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

“This is awful, my life is over!” Miriam screamed. She threw a sharp-heeled shoe at Thumper, who stood in the doorway to her room. “This is because you follow me around everywhere. Caden thinks you’re a creep, that’s what it is!”
“Miriam, I’s sorry, guhl, I ain’t — you bein’ dramatic as a soap star, yo’ life ain’t ovuh-“
“What the hell is a soap star?! Why do you talk like that? Why can’t you talk like a cool black guy from this century? What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stamped her feet. She bin tearful, so her makeup was smudge. “Now I have to fix my makeup, and it’s all your fault!”
She plopped down on the chair facing her mirror, and she grabbed her makeup kit. Her hands shook.
A tense silence lengthened the room. She kept getting out arcane cosmetic tools, but she ain’t concentrate enough to use none and her haircurls be flopping afronta her eyes, so she put her makeup down to fix ’em, only for her hair to go flopagain, flopagain.
“How long was you wit’ him?” Thumper asked. It was the only question he could think of. His gruff baritone deepened the bedroom, chock-ablock with cast-off clothes and empty suitcases.
“Almost two months!” she said. She wiped tear-smudge eyeliner off her cheek. Then she took a long breath and managed to slather a couple layers of makeup on.
“So it weren’t too serious-” Thumper frowned at her through the mirror she still faced.
“It was serious! He loved me! He was the most popular guy in high school!”
“You livin’ in the past, guhl. Need to chillax. Ain’t you done graduate?”
“I said was!” she said. “It was serious. You don’t know anything about girls.” She scowled and turned to look at Thumper direct in his gaze. “I’m not missing putt-putt today. If I don’t show up, everyone will think Caden won.” She gritted her teeth. “So you have to be my partner. All the other girls will have a boyfriend. But I’ve got my babysitter — the discount Mike Tyson. I was the biggest loser in school, Wendell, you know that? Everybody hates me.”
He frowned at her. “Them girls seem to like you-“
“You don’t get them,” she said. She batted her eyes to fix her smudge mascara. “They’re like catastrophic bitches.”
“Why they yo’ friends?”
She turned her head to look at him direct. Her lips remained pursed, lipstick in hand. “You really don’t understand girls, do you?” She finally applied the lipstick, the color of fancy wine.
“I ain’t barely see no female for thirty-four years,” he said. “Not since I was your age.”
She got up and muttered to herself as she checked out her face from a couple different angles. She tweaked her hair, which still blocked her face, then leaned forward to pose as a golfer. She examined in the mirror what she’d look like from that angle. She said, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go before we’re…” She glanced at him, and her ears perked up like a excited fox. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I barely done seed not a single female until recent-like. I was in prison,” he said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he looked down at his feet. He felt her eyes drilling into him.
“For thirty-four years?”
He nodded.
She was took far aback, but she fussed with a floppy-woppy hat with fake flowers in it as she said, “Ew, that is so gross. Don’t tell anybody, okay?” She left the room, and Thumper followed. “That is… I don’t even know how to take that. My dad is so weird. He’s a freak. So are you. If Caroline knew you were a ex-con, she’d totally spazz out, she got trauma from a black guy on the transit who was, like, yelling crazy loud this one time, it was so insane. Oh look at me, I got trauma, I got so much trauma. That is so her, could she be more of a pick-me try-hard?”

“Uh… Uh-huh.” Thumper ain’t get how those words added up to a question. Miriam was on the move regardless, so he followed her.

“Are you good at putt-putt?”
“You keep saying that, but I dunno what it is. It sound like butt-butt. So yes,” he said.
“Ew,” Miriam said with a petite smile. “It’s mini-golf.”
So that was how Thumper wound up playing putt-putt, which was just small golf with nonsense in the way. The putt-putt place crawled with fresh-face drunkos, even though it was still morning. One group of late teens from “HoCo” joined Miriam and her girlfriends’ game. Thumper was suspicious because they was lidded from the get-go, on something more than alcohol — Thumper couldn’t tell what, but they was walking like dream-scented swaypots with plump pupils, and they ain’t seem to know what was going on.
The putt-putting ain’t get very far. Folks was drunken fucking afronta the mini-windmill, so they gotsta skip that hole. Thumper woulda stayed to watch, but the girlie-gals declared it gross. The gorilla hole got a pool of puke, and they all agreed that was gross, so they skipped that hole too. Then Miriam’s friends got to making kissy lips with they boyfriends, and the game more or less stopped entirely.
“You can’t hang around me all day,” Miriam eventually said. She stood on her lonesome except for Thumper, both of them frumping frowns at the necking teenyboppers. “Go on, get outta here, we’re not really playing the game anyway. The boys all think I’m with you, which is just so disgusting. You could be my grandfather, if you smelled like flatbread instead of newspaper.” She snorted down a laugh.
“I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Miriam sighed. “I’m not gonna put out. You don’t have to watch me to make sure I don’t. Did my dad tell you to check I don’t fuck Caden?”
Thumper furrowed his brow at her. He licked his teeth. “Yo’ daddy said I should keep Caden from takin’ advantage of you. That’s what Caden wanted, you know that, right? He was putting malt liquor down yo’ throat so you’d pass out and he could plow yo’ lady-garden. Or maybe he go knocking on your back door.” He knocked on a imaginary door in the air.
She looked upside at him. “Eww…! What? He wouldn’t…”
Thumper scoffed. “He would. Guarantee that. That’s why he put his disappoint face on when he seen me.”
“He’s not that bad, Wendell. My dad just hates his father, that’s the only reason he doesn’t like Caden,” Miriam said. She shook her head and feisty-growled. “Whatever, grr, you suck, and Caden sucks. Nobody will ask me out as long as you’re around.”
“Why don’t you ask one? I seen you eyeballing deep into that tall drink of watuh over there,” he said. There bin this long-leg stretchy-arm pinkthumb following the group around — his gawky butt ain’t got a female or even any male friends. He be loitering like a forgettable spider.
“Rick? Okay, first of all, he’s a total freak, and I can’t believe you’d suggest him. He’s like the only one in the whole school who’s as much of a loser as me, to have to go to Baltimore College like some ghetto trash piece of shit. No offense. Second of all, I can’t just walk up to a boy and ask him out. That’s not how this works-“
“Why not?”
“I’m not a man!” she said. “Maybe you don’t get it cuz you were in prison for so long. I have to let boys ask me out. I’m not a skank like Lisa Ann Slattery. She’ll go right up to any guy, even like… Puerto Rican guys.” You could tell she woulda said ‘black guys’ if she was with her friends. “You don’t know her, but she’s a total gutter-skank. With so many guys here, if she came on this trip she’d be like slipping on her own snail trail. Everybody knows, she’s so trashy. She’s, like, my best friend who couldn’t be here.”
They putt-putt was interrupted then by a torrent of female laughs, as a gaggle of gigglous golf-club-carrying girls ganged the course. Thumper stood afront Miriam at first, presumptittive that they was gunning for her.
But they phone screens was friends with her friends’ phone screens, so all them white girls mingled like saucy noodles, sharing infinite commentary and considerations on unspecific plans to go clubbing tonight. Thumper heard more words than he heard in thirty-four years in prison.
Thumper growled but assented to the nightclubbery. He couldn’t think of a reason to say no besides “clubs is crowded”, which was true, but Ocean City was crowded. So Thumper and themwhoms went back to the beachhouse, where he rested his weary ears, while Miriam and them other girls tried on every single article of clothing any them brung. They took photos of theyselfs with they phones and then used some kinda phone magic to make the photos hotter, then assured each other that they was really that pretty.
Finally they made it to the boardwalk nightclub, which was battered by oceanfront winds, while waves battered the beach underneath. The moon beamed bright as babies against the shore, and the boardwalk was lit like a stage due to the rows of nightclubs and souvenir shops that stayed open late spilling light and drunken collegiate kittens.
He struggled keeping track of Miriam in the elbowy nightclub. He kept an eye on her the best he could though, specially once she got to dancing with this darkskin roundbody with polished eyes and a chocolate nugget for a face. He was older than her, and he rubbed Thumper sideways from the first moment.
So Thumper waited for Miriam and her girlfriends to herd off to the ladies’ to phone around in a different room, then he got up real close to him. “Yo, nigga,” he said, direct into his ear so his voice would drown out the clanging clatter (which was maybe a band called “Dubstep” and sounded like computers being tortured). The nigga threw his slick eyebrows back — there weren’t barely a handful of niggas in this room, and Thumper gotta be the eldest. That chocolate-nugget nigga stumbled a step aside like a folding napkin. Thumper stayed near enough that he could talk clear over the loud thrum of shitty music. “Yo, nigga, you hear me? You best treat that girl right. If you plow her, I will rip yo’ nuggety head off and send it to her daddy wit’ a bow on top and a card fo’ him to sign fo’ yo’ grief-sicken mama.” That nigga’s eyes bugged his mug out, as Thumper fingered a line of tears down one cheek. He said, “You may lick Miriam’s pussy, but only if you good at it. Stick yo’ tongue out.” His tongue trembled outta his mouth. In the dark of the club and swaddled in that terrible tune, ain’t nobody see his terrified tongue and Thumper’s face atop it. “Nah. You got babytongue, nigga. Hand stuff only. But don’t break her maidenhead if she still got one. Or I will wreck you.”
The chocolate nugget nodded, just in time for Miriam to return from the ladies’ room. She looked at Thumper like he shouldn’t be talking to her man, then she sidled up close to his butterface and they got to dancing again. Thumper stayed back but made sure that clumpy chump saw how close he was observating.
When Miriam and her girlfriends headed outta the club, Thumper kept close behind. They was all kissing they boys hard and hot. That chocolate nugget held Miriam’s hand and shot her flirtsome smiles, but he ain’t do more than give her a peck on the cheek.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said when his babytongue fucked off without even no handiwork, leaving her surrounded by her girlfriends and they wooing boys. They was all playing with they phones between making moist lips upon the moonlit beach, but Miriam trudged back to the beachhouse with a sniffle and a droopy neck, Thumper close behind. “I thought he did. He asked me to dance. He prolly thought I was beautiful in the dark, in the club, but once we got out in the street with all the lights, he saw what I really look like.”
“Nah, Miriam, he ain’t drop you like that,” Thumper said. “He tryin’-a treat you proper, I ‘xpect. He shouldn’t be trying nothin’ on you on your first date. You don’t wanna screw around the night you met him, don’t be loose like that, like a greasy gravyboat-“
She hit him with hurtful eyes. “Ewww! Don’t say it like that, that’s so disgusting! I wasn’t gonna put out. But he’s supposed to try! Anyway, that wasn’t a date. It’s spring break. That’s not how it works on spring break. Or anytime this century,” she said. “I mean… Whatever, that wasn’t a prison reference.” She looked down at her feet before opening the sliding-glass door into the rental house. “I just wanted to…” She blew her curl outta her vision, but it dropped back in place. “I just wanted my friends to see me with him. I didn’t even really like him, not really… He’s tubby, and he has a weird forehead, it’s gross.”
“Yo’ friends is bitches, the boy you dance with is gross… Guhl, why don’chu spend time wit’ someone you like?”
She flared her pretty little nostrils. “You have a lot to learn about women.” She went into the bathroom then to take a shower. Thumper investigated the kitchen in hopes of food, but there weren’t none.
As the other couples came in to the beachhouse hoppy and sloppy, Thumper stood by the door so the boys would see him and know he was monitoring the situation. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Though Thumper weren’t hereing and nowing to defend the honor of these other females, he ain’t gonna let no scoundrel take advantage of ’em. Most the boys got the message from him standing over them, and a couple more slippt into slumber like sacks of sleepy peaches.
But one pair kept a-canoodling, until Thumper saw that the girl — Alexa or Alyssa or some white-girl shit like that — was barely awake. The long and tall honky atop her either ain’t notice or ain’t care.
So Thumper stood next to ’em and cleared his throat some.
The whiteboy, a dimple-pimple kindle-limb ruddynut cracker with a pointless tribal tattoo, looked up at Thumper with a tremor in his eyes and flustering fingers. He stood up, his pants tented. “I think, uh, she’s getting tired. Will you help me put her to bed?” he asked.
Thumper nodded. He ain’t trusting none those words tumbling outta that boy’s mouth, but he ain’t wanna leave the girl on the floor neither. So they carried her to her bed. Thumper ain’t need no help and coulda carried her hisself. That ruddynut boy, Adrian, got arms like twiggy pencils.
When they got back out to the living room, Adrian looked around the piles of shoes for his own. Thumper stood behind him, checking out Adrian’s pooper, cradled by tight jeans.
“Yo, why you wear tight pants?” Thumper asked.
Adrian yelped. He done found a pair shoes but got trouble coordating his drunk limbs enough to get them on. He looked at Thumper like he forgot he was there. “Whaaat?”
“Them pants. You spraypainted ’em on,” Thumper said.
“Oh. That’s the style,” Adrian said with a shrug and a burp. He fell over, toppling onto his ass with two shoes in hand — they was two sneakers that looked similar but wasn’t a matching pair — for one thing, they was both left-foot shoes.
“Uh-huh. You was gonna stick yo’ dingdong in that girl, wasn’t ya?” Thumper said.
Adrian nodded. “She wanted it real bad. She said it earlier.”
“But then she passed out,” Thumper said. He got one hand in his pants now, getting hisself good and hard. He kneeled beside Adrian, who done struggled one shoe on and held the laces like he was thinking about tying them. “You was still gonna stick her? That girl a virgin?”
Adrian shrugged. “Prolly not. But she nineteen, and gawddamn, man, her pussy wus tight. Got my finger in there, almost got to fuck her, but, uh…” He furrowed his face like he was trying-a remember why he ain’t get in her pussy.
“Lemme help wit’ them shoes,” Thumper said. He grabbed both Adrian’s feet and lifted them up, so Adrian fell onto his back on the carpeted floor. Thumper pulled Adrian’s pants and drawers off to bare his booty. “I’ll let you see how it feels when a bigger man takes advantage of you bein’ drunk.”
“Whaaat?” Adrian asked. He tried to sit up on his elbows, but Thumper was already drilling his dick into Adrian’s asshole. Adrian’s socked feet kicked the air behind Thumper.
That tight hole resisted. Thumper ain’t have no lube. He coulda snooped around the kitchen for something that’d work, but he kinda liked the idea of doing it the old-fashion way. He was a old-fashion nigga after all. Adrian sucked in his breath. Thumper spat on his palm and wiped it on his cocktip. He plowed in, just the tip, but stopped when more resistance stopped him from going deeper, and Adrian’s groan of pain turned first into wordless wince of silence. Thumper pushed past his tightness, and a couple inches more slid in.
“Oooh, boy, here we go now,” Thumper said with a chuckle, as Adrian panted and wriggled. His ass squeezed Thumper’s shaft. That made him shimmy with the sensations sparking up his spine. Adrian squirmed like a dying fish. He almost squirmed away, but Thumper got a grip on his neck, squeezing just enough to let Adrian know who was in charge here and to keep him from shouting out loud. He ain’t cut off his air entirely, so Thumper could hear his panting and begging.
“Oooooowww!” Adrian tried to howl, but Thumper plugged his mouth up with his own tongue. He kissed Adrian and swallowed up them cries of pain like oatmeal. He moaned into Adrian’s mouth too, as Adrian’s ass got goopy like a sloppy ho. Adrian’s eyes opened wide as Thumper pulled his lips off him, and then stuffed Adrian’s mouth with his own drawers. Adrian’s feet kicked up a storm, but he ain’t couldn’t make much noise.
And still Thumper pressed in deeper, deeper still with every thrust of his hips. Each movement sent a wave of pleasure through Thumper’s body. It reminded him of the coziness of prison — a small part of cell-bound life, but a part he missed. Getting a nut off in the dark, surrounded by sleeping whombodies… As he ramrodded like a stallion, Adrian’s hands clawed at Thumper’s chest, and that too felt like home.
He forced it in until his balls slapped at Adrian’s taint. Thwackity-thwack-thwack, thwackity-thwack-thwack. Thumper smirked down at Adrian, who still seemed unsure what was going on. He spat on Adrian’s face, then covered it with a pillow.
Adrian threw his head back, unaware of the spit on drip down his cheeks. He felt that asshole cracking open to accommodate Thumper’s throbbing manhood. He yelped the best he could despite the pain and the pillow blocking his face.
“Intact booties do be drawing out a nut quick, ruddynut. Goddamn, you gonna be walkin’ crooked fo’ a week. Hope you don’t got no sit-down engagements comin’ up,” Thumper boomed out a laugh along with his orgasm, and he gyrated his hips. “You gonna feel some warm inside ya. That’s just me-” Thumper’s voice broke, as he pressed his cock all the way in and held in Adrian’s asshole. That made it hard for Adrian to take a breath, and Thumper ground his dick in a long circle within Adrian’s guts. “That’s me nuttin’.”
A long hot jet of cum sploded in Adrian’s asshole, and he screamed into the pillow that muffled his mouth. Thumper held it there with one hand, as he moaned into Adrian’s ear. Wad after wad of sticky goo seeped into Adrian and dripped outta his loose ass.
“This’ll teach you to take advantage of females,” Thumper said with a sigh, while his balls emptied another spurt of jissom into Adrian’s tight booty. “Yo’ farts is gonna smell like me fo’ a long time. E’ery time you smell that, you remembuh to treat girls proper, ruddynut.”
Thumper pulled out and let his cumwad flow onto the carpet. He watched it plop out in a couple great big creamy wads, followed by a trickle of smaller droplets.
Just when he thinked it was done, and Adrian lifted his head to let out a crinkly grunt of pain, a loud farting sound came and a fist-sized globule of cum spurted out into Adrian’s plump asscheeks. Thumper done smashed ’em so hard they was already bruising.
“Shit, you one messy whiteboy,” Thumper said, at the sight of cum soaking onto the floor. He punched Adrian in the face hard enough to knock him out.
He carried Adrian over his shoulder out to the beach. He draped Adrian’s unconscious face on a bench, his knees on the ground so his bare ass was plainly accessible. Some them beach bums, Thumper thunk, was likely gonna get a nut off in him before he woke up.
That would be fun to watch, but Thumper ain’t wanna leave Miriam alone for so long. He hurried back to the beachhouse to make sure Miriam and the other girlies were safe. He was gonna go straight to bed, but he got worry about they morals, so he picked up all the sleepy-weepy boys and bringed them into his room. He put ’em on the floor. That way he could be sure they wasn’t gonna hurt none the females.
Plus, he thunk, he could get a nut off again in the night, if he felt like it. Which he almost certainly would.

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

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

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Five

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

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

Thumper was surprise Mr. Gregarian picked him. When he was a young man, before he got locked up, no honky daddy would send him out with his pretty daughter to keep her safe — a nigga like Thumper, in his come-up, was exactly the kinda man her daddy need her kept safe from. Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t never have done let young-Thumper near his daughter.
Nowadays though, Thumper got long teeth and gray corn in his rows, and Mr. Gregarian knew that Thumper would go back in if he fucked up his parole — that was a mighty good incentive not to get fired. Plus Mr. Gregarian managed the club and all the hos who hoed there, and he promised Thumper a thousand bucks and a free ride on any them once he got back from the assignment.
As long as his daughter was still a virgin.
So Thumper got a car and a company credit card. This should be easy as slack pussy, Thumper thunk.
He was going on spring break.
Miriam was Mr. Gregarian’s daughter, and she was pushing past nineteen. She was a spray-on tangerine-cream white girl, pretty as a pumpkin despite the disaffected curls of hair blocking her face. She was going to spring break now, she said, because Ocean City was strictly 18+ this weekend.
The math suggested Miriam was the same age Thumper was when he got arrested, but Thumper couldn’t wrap his wrinkles around that, so he tried not to ponder it.
As Miriam settled into the backseat of the Jaguar while tapping and dapping at her phone, Thumper wondered if she was really still a virgin. Maybe. She ain’t look it, but you could tell she was trying-a look sluttier than she was. She was all dolled up with ruby lipstick, blooming blush and scarlet mascara, and she got a bare midriff and a bikini under that halter-top. She got a bitch-happy way of talking too.
“You better drive quick,” Miriam said, rolling her eyes already, as soon as the car rocked into motion. “We’re off to a late start. My friend Katie is like almost there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ugh, ‘ma’am’. Don’t call me that,” she said with a scoff. She blew one them hair-curls outta her face, but it drooped right back to dangle above her frown as though pointing to it. “You make me sound like a old maid.”
“Uh, yeah, okay, Miss Gregarian-“
“Just call me Miriam, okay? It’s humiliating enough having you as a babysitter.”
“Bodyguard,” Thumper said.
“Same thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And don’t try to talk to my friends.” She rolled her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”
“Fifty-three.”
“That’s gross, that’s so ancient. I can’t believe Dad won’t let me go alone. Ocean City is not a ghetto, no offense — I can drive, you know, I have a driver’s license. I drove to Florida last year. I’m almost twenty years old.”
Thumper nodded. “I don’t think it’s the driving he do worry ’bout, miss… Miriam.” He cleared his throat. “He mention you gots a boyfriend gonna meet you there. He wanna make sure the young fellah treat you right. And other fellahs — there gonna be lotta fellahs at the beach. Lotta them fellahs only want one thing, and they got Roman hands-“
“I know! Do you go to church in the 50s?! You don’t have to explain sex to me. I know all the parts of the penis! God, my dad is the worst,” she said. “I know boys are assholes, and I hate them.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My boyfriend is Caden. He’s very cool, you have to know that. He DJs at a club and has like a hundred thousand followers on Instagram. My dad doesn’t like him. He said he’s a smoothpecker. I don’t know what that means. I think it’s a translation of something Armenian.” She again blew that tendril of hair away from her face with a judgmental puff, but it went right back to the way it was. “I hate being Armenian.”
Thumper got distracted then by a slowdown on the highway, as traffic choked the road. He ain’t wanna admit that his driving skills was weak — Thumper only drove a few times on a highway in his life. He barely drove before, and Carson only helped him get his license back last week. Mr. Gregarian never asked. White folk do be assumptive that everywhom drive everyway everyday. Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles honkied up, as cars careened past like sleek elephants. Cars went faster nowadays, or maybe time itself was faster. The Jaguar was smooth as a lubed thumb, but lotta the other cars on the road rattled and roared like wraiths on a rampage, like they was finna collapse into a car-shaped pile of car parts. The sound of some squawky whiteboy on the radio pissed Thumper off like squawky whiteboys do, but he gotsta grope around on the dashboard to figure out how to turn it off.
“You drive so weird, old man! I’m putting TuneBleed on. You’re my driver, not my boss,” Miriam said. She stayed messing about on her phone as if she weren’t allowed to put it down.
He grunted. He was calmer now that he was steady in the slow lane, confident he was heading the right way. “TuneBleed, huh? Never heard of ’em. They a rock band?”
Miriam sneered. “A rock band? That’s not a thing anymore. It’s an app,” she said like it shoulda been obvious. Some awful music blared from the speakers. It got a beat like hip hop, a slow-kidney tinkle-piss beat, like if rain could cry, but no words, cuz every nigga in the world musta got too sleepy to rap over it.
Thumper glinted at Miriam in the rear-view mirror, still white-knuckling the steering wheel. “How do I get the lady back? The directions lady?”
“The what?” She stayed in her phone, tippy-tapping at it like she was finna finish her tippy-tapping but kept finding more tippy-tapping to do.
“The lady who know where to go.”
“You mean GPS? It’s on.”
“The directions thing? Yeah. the woman, like a white-lady robot,” Thumper said.
“The GPS lady is Siri. You know she’s not a real person, right?”
Thumper narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “I ain’t a retard. I know there ain’t a woman in the dashboard reading directions off,” he said.
She scoffed and blew strands of hair outta her bratty-brown eyes, only for them to flop right back once again like a bossy octopus. “Can’t you drive faster? You go so slow. I can’t be the last one there, I will absolutely die.”
“Yo’ pa said I gots to bring you back in one piece. It ain’t a race.”
“It is! If I’m the last one there, Caden will be hanging out with Donna Wiltshire, and she will suck off anything that moves, I swear, she is such a skank, and everybody knows it.”
Thumper roared into the rear-view mirror. “Get that white-lady robot back on. What’d you say her name was? Seeree?”
“Siri! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m your boss!” Miriam snapped.

“Yo’ daddy is my boss, and he said to tell you to quit being a ungrateful brat and you ain’t allowed to whine at Wendell like a mouthy hussy all weekend,” he said.

She screwed up her nose. “Okay, first of all, my dad did not say that. Second of all, did you just call me a ‘mouthy hussy’? Third of all, I can’t believe your name is Wendell. It’s like disgustingly uncool, I swear, every time anyone calls you Wendell a celebrity somewhere in the world gets fat-“
“Bring back Siri!” he said. “I dunno where to go! I-“
“You stay on this road, you crazy old moron! Siri is still there!” Miriam screeched like a whole flock of shattering bats. She slammed her hands on the seat and gritted her teeth. She snapped at him, “GPS will cut in over the music when it’s got something to say! You’re ridiculous, how can you be so lame?! Don’t you just, like, want to die? You know nobody likes you.”
“What? You dunno nothin’.”
“I know all the bouncers! All of them! Buck, Rocky, Poahi even, and he’s so dumb he’s nice. They all said you’re a humiliating old fool and they can’t believe you get out of bed in the morning,” she said. She sat back in her seat with a flounce and crossed her arms over her chest, phone still in her hand.
He chuckled. “Not a single one them evuh met me. Only bouncer I know is Tyrell,” Thumper said.
She looked out the window and wrinkled her cutey-tooty nose. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You need a slap upside the face and a job where you work up a sweat,” Thumper said.
She looked at him with wide-eye shock in the rear-view mirror. “You can’t talk to me like that-“
They was both startled then by Siri cutting in over the music. Prepare to approach the Chess-a-peak Bay Bridge in one mile. Thumper’s fingers fumbled like fretful butterflies around the dashboard in search of a button to press to go back to TuneBleed, but then it did that automatterly.
“Be quiet when I go over the bridge,” Thumper said. He eyed the bridge, which extended over the horizon. It was wide but narrowed by lurching traffic squeezing in away from the sheer, unprotected sides. The sound of the bay’s waves, honking cars and cawing seagulls reverberated through the fog below.
“Why? Are you sneaking up on it?”
“I never drove on it before,” Thumper said softly. He ain’t like how the traffic was slowing down, and one of the that-way lanes was fulla cars going this-way, and the bridge rumbled like jagged rags under a trillion tons of too many cars, but he ain’t wanna let on to Miriam that he ain’t never drove outta Baltimore before and ain’t never even drove on no big-time bridge. The lanes narrowed as the cars seemed to grow wider, and a utility truck ahead looked too broad to fit.
Thumper sucked in his breath as if that’d make the car smaller or the lanes bigger.
The Bay Bridge stretched far into the distance. The water loomed low below, and there weren’t no shoulders or even a real guardrail, and the edge nipped at Thumper’s side. There weren’t barely nothing to stop the car from a icy plummet. Thumper could only go with the flow of trapped cars. He got a tight grip on the wheel like it was trying-a escape, or he was.
His heart raced. He ain’t realize how long this bridge was. Weren’t there islands in the Chesapeake?
It felt like a cage even though it was the exact opposite of one — it was wide open, no barriers to speak of ‘cept the bridge itself underneath. The Earth stretched to surround it, but the cars hemmed Thumper and Miriam in like shrunk tighty-whiteys. If Thumper got out, he couldn’t even fit between the trafficky cars. He was as trapped as a rat in a eagle’s talons seeing the openness and freedom it never knew it had on the ground.
Miriam stared out the window. Her legs were crossed, her lower-down foot tapping the upholstery like a drumless drummer, as she shot bosomy, judgemental sighs up to Thumper.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “It’s just a bridge. I could drive it in my sleep.”
But Thumper’s honky-up knuckles was taking all his attention. His concentration went towards fitting the Jag through these tiny lanes and praying for the sight of land on the far side of the bridge.
“Can’t you go faster?”
“No!” he snapped at her. He looked at her in the mirror. “Ain’t nowhere to go!”
“It’s just a bridge. Grr,” she said with a roar like a bored tiger. “Honk your horn or something! Go faster-“
“That won’t make nobody go faster.”
“I can’t be there last! You have to go like a hundred miles an hour the rest of the way!”
“You ain’t in charge of speed,” Thumper said, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.
Miriam fumed like a flirty volcano and called her girlfriends one by one to tell ’em the traffic on the bridge was “mega-bad”. She said it like ain’t none her friends ever heard of traffic, so she gotta explain it to ’em.
Finally, the Eastern Shore did appear ahead, rising over the horizon and beckoning the line of cars. Thumper held his breath until the cars’ wheels switched from echoic thrumming on steel to dull solidity atop the ground.
He prayed his thanks to the Lord in Heaven. Miriam gabbed on her phone with a friend about another friend, Kylie Jenner. Miriam gossipped with her friend that this Kylie Jenner was a “butt-slut” who was into black guys. Thumper wondered if Kylie Jenner was gonna be at the beach this weekend. Miriam whispered that part about Kylie Jenner liking black guys. Thumper ain’t let on that he heard.
If she thunked Thumper couldn’t hear, she was more likely to talk to her friend out loud. That was good, cuz Thumper wanted to know her plans.
“Yeah, I’ll get so drunk tonight. Me and Caden. Ew, no, I’m not gonna — that is so gross, you don’t even know,” she said. “What’d he buy? Uh-huh. I don’t know what that is. Is it cool? It sounds manly, like something a coal miner would drink.” Then she grunted like a macho man. “Steel Reserve.” She giggled. “Prolly has a lotta calories. I don’t care, I’m not eating this weekend. I’m so fat. Oh don’t say that, I wish I had your thighs. I am! I’m so fat, I’m like groundhog-shaped.”
Thumper locked his eyes askew at her in the mirror, but she ain’t clock his mug. Steel Reserve was a malt liquor. Hobos drank that.
At least, long time ago, before, hobos drank it. God only knows what people did with it nowadays. Enemas, prolly, Thumper thunk with a chuckle, until Miriam saw him laughing his foolish ass at nothing.
Was she allowed to get drunk? Mr. Gregarian ain’t said Thumper should stop it. But Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t want her puking streetside like a trash-high ho.
By the time they made it to Ocean City, Miriam done made it very clear she intended to get drunk as a cup tonight. Her boyfriend Caden wanted to drink — he was who bought the malt liquor.
Him and her was the last of her friend-group to arrive, but ain’t nobody but Miriam seemed to notice that.
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.
“Yo, babe, wuddup?” Caden said with no chalance when Miriam came close-up. He glanced at Thumper, then looked away, then glanced back at him with flurries of worry on his mug. Nearby, waves in batches bashed the beach and crashed against the craggy shore, where rowdy crowds shouted out loud and brohed down like broken clowns. Thumper hung around Miriam with a bare, uncaring stare at Caden until he looked away again. Miriam was gobbling on about some girlish shit and ain’t clock the men mean-mugging.
The bounce in Miriam’s step vanished when she turned from her gal-pals to Caden, and her excited eagerness gave way to the same slow tone as his cracker ass. “Hey,” she said with a shrug. She arranged her hair tendrils outta her eyes only for them to slip back afronta her gaze, and she ain’t fix ’em again.
He leaned in to kiss her, but his eyes fluttered once more upon Thumper looming down on Caden like a slimy bug he was finna smash. Thumper ain’t blink once since Caden thought he was man enough to make eye contact with him, which was likely not the first time Caden misestimated his manhood. Caden whispered to Miriam, who whispered back as they kissy-kissed, and they both laughed like giddy guppies. His hands roamed over Miriam’s back.
“Oh, that’s Wendell. He’s my driver. Ignore him,” Miriam said, both to Caden and to her other assembled friends, as Miriam, Caden and them other multiracial whobodies gathered up and headed on to the beachhouse they was doing a “airbee inbee” weekend in.
The crowded streets was bustling out loud and packed as canned sardines. Thumper ain’t realize it was gonna be asses to elbows here. Ain’t no way even a dozen bodyguards could keep track of the dimwits ambling down the ave, so Thumper kept his eye eagling on Miriam.
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.
The beachhouse was as sad, small and plain as a half a packetless ramen. You could tell nobody actually lived there — it was like a overgrowed hotel room. Everything was too clean and too polished, and it smelled like a lemon got the hershey squirts in there. The floppy-cheap furniture inside was uncomfortable and awkward. Nobody would choose this furniture if they hadta use it every day. That was what Thumper decided when he plopped down into a awkward rattan chair, while Miriam and the other girls changed into and outta each other’s bikinis in the bedroom. They stayed reassuring each other that they all looked better than they did in they own bikinis.
The beachhouse living room was silent as a dead man’s shoes until Caden spoke — except for the next-room-over giggling-atop-each-other girls changing they clothes and hair and makeup. Thumper scowled at Caden, who said, “Yo, dawg, I think it’s great you’re protecting Miriam this weekend,” Caden gave Thumper a chinless nod. “Men can be such pigs. Somebody could easily take advantage of her this weekend, y’know, if I’m not around or whatever.”
“Uh-huh.” Thumper grunted.
Caden still got his forty of Steel Reserve. “Yo, homeboy, you want some malt liquor? I got more forties in the fridge. This is a sweet pad, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm… Why you drink malt liquor, boy?” Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits.
“It’s badass, my homie.” Then he did a little singsong imitation of some cheesy nigga. “Sittin’ on the stoop, drinkin’ forties wit’ my homies…” He grinned like he thought Thumper was gonna sing along with him. “Steel Reserve is good drink.”
“No, it ain’t,” Thumper said, a-beating his feet on the floor. He got a curl lip for that Caden.
Eventually, the girls emerged in they final bikinis, which was the same as they first bikinis but a hour later. Caden went right up to Miriam — Thumper couldn’t hear what he said, on account of those girlfolk being loud as lightbulbs. They came herding into the living room giggling like drunken donkeys and braying like bitches and exuding hormones like a pack of wild glands.
And Thumper couldn’t deny that his dick twitched in his pants at seeing them in they bikinis. They was pretty young things fresh outta high school — all legal age, but Thumper was old enough they felt too young to look at. Did girls get younger while he was locked up? He was them girls’ age when he got arrested, but they looked younger than he ever felt. Girls before ain’t look like girls now, he thunk. Most ’em was spilling bits of tits outta those stringy things. Mr. Gregarian musta ain’t never seen Miriam’s bikini or he’d-a blowed up.
Thumper got no bathing trunks. But he did strip down to basketball shorts and his clean sneakers. His bare chest scared off Caden and displayed his tats. He was glad to wear the basketball shorts cuz they was the only article of clothing he took with him to prison thirty-four years ago and still had, plus basketball shorts looked the same now as they did before. It was the only thing he got that ain’t look old-fashion.
“You look ridiculous,” Miriam said to Thumper as they all left the beachhouse and headed to the boardwalk and beach. “You’re like a thousand times older than anyone else here. What even are those shorts? What century did they make them in?”
“What?” Thumper’s heart sagged like a stuck balloon. “Basketball shorts ain’t change-“
“The stitching on the elastic is all wrong, they’re like a half-inch too short, the material is thin like a whore’s lingerie, oh my god, and they’re like fraying, look at those loose threads. Do you live in a mouse nest? And your tattoos look like crap, those aren’t even cool tattoos! You have a naked woman tattooed on your back, that’s disgusting and probably misogynist!”
“It’s the Statue of Liberty,” Thumper said, looking down at his shorts. Now that she pointed out all the differences, he could tell that his was old-style and the ones Caden and them wore was new.
“Gross. She has a vulva like a fat girl.”
Thumper got no response to that. He couldn’t see his back, and he weren’t sure what a vulva was.
The town of Ocean City swarmed with late teens and twenty-whatevers on spring break — thousands them flocked here, outnumbering the beleagured locals like lambs in a slaughterhouse. Miriam, Caden, Thumper and the rest struggled to remain in a tight group, as they filtered through the thronging streets. The smell of beery vomit and sea-spray filled the air, and Thumper felt sand in his shoes, though he ain’t goed on the beach yet.
“Didn’t you bring swim trunks?”
Thumper shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in the ocean, Miriam.”
“You’re going to make us look like freaks on the beach!” Miriam said in a quiet hiss. They group of young’uns done combine up with another group of identical young’uns, and Caden was hububbing with some boistery boys, all them porting forties in brown bags.
One whiteboy whooped, “Drinkin’ forties like a shorty, dawg! Fuck yeah!” They all whooped and chugged they forties, clutching phones in they other hands.
Thumper wrinkled his nose. It felt good to be shirtless. His tats gleamed in the sun. The rambuncting whiteboys sang through that song about drinking forties, and Thumper was ready to strangle them and then whichever shit-snack wrote that song.
“Yo, you some kinda gangsta?” Caden asked, his words starting to slur, when he saw the prison tats adornmenting Thumper. “Bet you pop a cap in countless niggas, huh, broh?” He whooped and yelped like he made a joke, and the other paleface pusses scattered around all whooped like they was in on it. Caden finger-gunned at his brohs.
But before Thumper could say nothing, Caden and the other boys was moving on, roughhousing and playing down afront the girls. Some commandy light-hawk whiteboy was organizing up a volleyball game, but the beach was crowded like a Brazilian prison and nobody got a volleyball or a net and everywhom was tipsy as drippy drains. So the volleyball plan seemed unrealistic. They just drank.
By the time the sun setted and the moon rised and the star and open sky spreaded over the horizon, Thumper guided them on they way back to the rented home, and Thumper held Miriam’s hair back as she puked into the toilet. Her bony body undulated like a slender manatee with every vomit.
And them tits bounced in her bikini, not that Thumper watched ’em go.
“Malt liquor is strong, guhl,” Thumper said. “It tastes like beer, but it get you drunk like liquor.”
“Oh god, ssshut up… I hate you,” she gasped. She wiped a few tears off her cheek. “Where’s Caaaayden?”
Thumper shrugged. “He and his boys rumored off to buy shrooms,” he said.
She nodded. “Oh god, I can’t do mushrooms.”
Thumper frowned. “No, you can’t. Yo’ daddy wouldn’t approve that, reckon,” he said. “Betcha big beans they get ripped off anyhow.”
Half-standing on her wobbly legs, Miriam almost fell. Thumper supported her and gave her another glass of water. She gulped from it. “He’sss gonna fuck that biiiiiiiitch Caroline, I just know it.”
Shaking his head, Thumper said, “Nah, nah, no way,” he said. Thumper ain’t know which of the identical girls Caroline was. “Caroline’s fatter than you, and she got that messed-up hairdo. Caden ain’t goin’ aftuh her.”
“Thank you!” she said. “She can’t pull off bangs, I knew it!” She touched her ears. “She doeshn’t have the right ears for bangs.”
Thumper nodded like the kinda nigga who got opinions on bangs. “C’mon, guhl, you best sleep it off.” He put another glass of water beside the bed, then helped her to it. “You sleep late, guhl.”
“Ssssshut up, Wendell,” she said, but she plopped onto the bed and closed her eyes. “You sssshuck.”
Thumper stood over her until he was sure she was asleep. Once she was thoroughly conk-a-zonk, Thumper was glad to have some time to hisself. He could wander out to find a slut to bang. There was plentya women hot to trot in this town. Maybe that Kylie Jenner was hopping about.
But could he leave the house with Miriam slumbering? How many other men were on the wander looking for a ho to poke?
He went to his own room and took a shower. He rinsed Miriam’s vomit off. He went lookie-loo around the beachhouse, dressed only in his boxers, to make sure the doors and windows was all locked — even at close to two o’clock in the morning, the phone-lit streets of Ocean City was choked with drunken revellers.
One of those drunken revellers was outside Thumper’s bedroom when he returned to it. The shadowy figure fumbled with Thumper’s window, making a loud racket as he worked it unstuck from outside. The light was off in the room, so Thumper stood there by the window with his arms crisscrossing his chest.
Finally, the window was forced open, and the familiar blond tousle upon Caden’s dome appeared. He was so drunk he ain’t notice Thumper standing there. Caden crawled in and toppled onto the floor.
“Baaaby…” Caden said when he got up and checked that his phone weren’t smasht. He saw Thumper and the empty bed. “Oh. Sssshit. Thissssh ain’t Mere-yum’sssh room. Ssshorry, homie.”
“I ain’t yo’ homie, Caden,” Thumper said. “‘d you buy shrooms?”
Caden shook his head with a slowness, like his whole body was made of honky-flavor jello. “Was a ripoff. Where’s Mirre… Mirre… Where’s she at, dawg?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper said. “If you think I’mma let you go in there and plunder that female like she a bag of doritos, you are even dumber ‘an you look, and you look dumb as dogshit, Caden.” He said his name with a sneer.
“I-“
But Thumper grabbed Caden by the cheek and turned him around. He shoved him face-first into the wall, and he spread Caden’s legs before lowering his pants. Caden wiggled to get away, but he was so drunk and so slow that Thumper ignored his efforts.
Then he pulled down his boxers — plain white but thick and weirdly nice — Thumper ain’t never in his life seen high-fashion-brand men’s underwear before — and revealed a plump white ass. Thumper loved smashing a pair of porcelains.
He rubbed his dick on Caden’s buttcrack until it was good and hard. Caden’s whole body undulated as he tried not to vomit. “What’rrrre you doin’?” Caden asked. He was sobered up a little by the surprise and the pain from Thumper holding his hands behind his back.
“This is called ramroddin’ in prison,” Thumper said. His dick was hot and hard now. Caden felt it in his buttcheeks but couldn’t figure out what it was. Every time he tried to move his head, his world swam and his belly swayed inside, so he stopped, and Thumper wouldn’t let him look all the way behind hisself anyway. Thumper said, “Whiteboys call it cornholin’. Black fellahs call it ramroddin’.”
“Hmm… I heard of that,” Caden said softly. He tried to remember the rapper who says he was “ramroddin’ bigger niggas with a quicker trigger finger”. He always thought the line was “ham-waddin’ bigger niggas”, but he looked it up a couple weeks ago cuz he ain’t know what “ham-waddin'” was. He also ain’t know what “ramrodding” was.
Then a fiery ball of pain erupted in his backside. He bit back a howl, while Thumper placed his dirty drawers in Caden’s mouth as a gag. Caden ain’t know he shoulda bin clenching, but once Thumper’s manhood pushed into his hole, Caden couldn’t expel it no more.
His cock forced its way deeper into Caden’s backside, as a firestorm of pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine. Thumper howled along with Caden, licking his lips. Caden cringed and grunted, and he bit his tongue so hard it bled. Thumper kneaded his buttcheeks like rising dough. Every motion Caden made sent another frisson up Thumper’s spine. He ain’t plowed down a whiteboy since prison, and it felt good to plunder his hip little guts.
“Hmm, whiteboy, yo’ booty feels damn good…” Thumper moaned and his voice broke in Caden’s ear. Caden shivered and bit back a cry of agony. Thumper nibbled on his earlobe.
With a whine and a whimper, Caden felt a throb in his ass. Thumper grunted. A spurt of hot liquid washed into Caden’s flesh, and the heat of Thumper’s load suffused throughout his body. Cum flowed into him, great creamy wads of it that filled him up.
“Don’chu mess wit’ Miriam this weekend,” Thumper said with a growl, still nutting inside Caden. He thrust into Caden’s ass and shot jiss deep into his guts. His moist voice echoed in Caden’s ear. “Or I’ll get a dozen niggas to split you in two, and I’ll make you call yo’ mama so she can hear her son stop bein’ a real man.”
“Yes! Okay! Yes, sir!” Caden said, shouting the best he could without taking a deep breath. More jissom flowed into him, more than he thought possible. It dripped down his thighs. Thumper’s heavy body pressed against his back still, and Thumper’s hot breath condensed on Caden’s ear. Finally, there was one last spurt, then only a few drops leaking into him.
Thumper’s dick limpened slow in Caden’s ass, while Caden whimpered and stamped his feet. Thumper smacked his buttcheek one more time.
That made Caden tense and grit his teeth. His whole body wiggled like an agonized snake. “Hhnnnnnnn!”
“That was some nice booty, Caden,” Thumper said with a grin that grew as he watched his big black pecker ooze out, along with rivulets of pearly nut. “Hope you don’t gotsta walk straight anytime soon.”
His cocktip emerged with a moist plop, and Caden sighed. Jiss flowed down his thighs. “Ow, shit!” Caden groaned out loud. He tried to stand up too quick, and dizziness struck him.
“Don’t forget, whiteboy: leave Miriam’s virtue alone,” Thumper said before he tucked his dirty dinky away. He shoved Caden back out the window he done crawl in through, and Caden collapsed with his pants down outside. Thumper threw his phone after him.
Then he locked the window. That, he thunk, was one problem solved.