Microphone Fiend

by Sa'id Salaam

  ***

  Stevens waited in the hotel parking lot for La-La to arrive. He pumped his fist triumphantly when he saw how fine she was. She had a classic nasty walk that put her ample ass in motion. Satisfied she was alone, he got out to greet her. She certainly couldn’t fit a weapon under the tiny shorts or wife beater she had on. The shorts couldn’t keep all that ass under wraps, so no way could it hold a gun, or anything else for that matter.

  “La-La?” he asked, and approached with the room’s key.

  “Un-huh,” she replied, scanning him from head to toe to determine his net worth. “You got my weed, right?”

  Stevens produced the blunt for a reply and opened the room door. Once inside, he sat back to watch her smoke it. La-La greedily sucked down the weed, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to pass it. He didn’t. Instead, he let her get good and high before saying anything.

  “Thank you,” she giggled once the weed was gone, then knelt before him to thank him properly. She took him into her mouth and got to work.

  “Damn it, man!” the cop exclaimed when he exploded in La-La’s hot mouth minutes later. She swallowed in loud gulps until he was bone dry.

  “What you say yo’ name was again?” La-La asked after the fact.

  “Oh, Mike. Mike Stevens with the Atlanta Drug Enforcement Agency,” he replied, almost making her cough up a cum bubble. “Don’t worry, it’s not about you. I’m working on the murder investigation of Tanya Daniels and Montel.”

  “Who?” La-La frowned, trying to recall the familiar sounding names. Everyone called Shrimp “Shrimp” for as long as she could remember. It took a second before it came to her.

  “Shrimp! Shrimp dead? Mont too? That’s my friend and my baby daddy!”

  “Who’s Ju-baby? You guys texted about a Ju-baby,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “Who?” La-La asked, just like she was supposed to. She was a true hood chick, and that meant no snitching.

  “Listen, I know… Wait. You know what? Take this cash, along with my card,” he said, handing the items to her. He had been in business long enough to know the whole ‘no snitches’ thing sounds good in rap songs and on t-shirts, but niggas do snitch. They’ll sell their own mama out if need be. Eventually she would need help with something and have something to give.

  “Is that it? Can I go?” she asked, standing in front of him. Her lack of emotions stemmed from life in the streets. Death was a part of that life. They put them on t-shirts, poured out a little liquor, and went on with life. He examined her fine frame and decided there was one more thing he needed.

  “Pull them shorts down, turn around, and bend over,” he ordered, removing a condom from his wallet. La-La quickly compiled and let him splash around inside of her. Her mind was too preoccupied to enjoy it, so she squeezed and wiggled to move things along. Once he came, she left and dialed her phone.

  ***

  “You heard about Shrimp ‘nd ‘em?” La-La asked, hoping to be first to spread the news.

  “Who? What? Why?” Ju-baby asked, acting surprised when La-La delivered the news of Shrimp’s death. “I’m on my way!”

  “I’m ‘cross town, so give me a few.”

  La-La was waiting with her hand on that hip of hers when Ju-baby arrived in the projects.

  “Nice ride,” she said as she slid into the Range Rover.

  “Thanks,” Ju-baby replied, pulling away. He went a few corners before parking in a park where people came to smoke and fuck, since he planned to do both.

  “They kilt my gurl. And my baby daddy,” La-La moaned. She was genuinely sad, but knew she could get a blunt out of it. Every time someone in the hood got bad news, somebody else would offer to come smoke one with them.

  “I heard it was them Eastside nigga,” Ju-baby threw out to get the rumor started. He had the right one, too, because she texted it immediately. The lie would be viral by nightfall.

  “I heard that, too,” she lied. Actually, it wasn’t a lie, since she had just heard it. As expected, he lit a blunt of loud and passed it over. Two puffs later, she passed it back. Back and forth it went until it was done while they reminisced over Shrimp.

  “I gotta push in a minute,” Ju-baby announced as he leaned back and whipped out his dick. It was already semi-erect from anticipation when he rolled the condom over it. La-La needed no formal invitation for a blowjob, so she leaned in and got to work. Giving blowjobs was the only job she had ever held.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Poor Tasheena’s Sunday was off to a bad start. Her million-dollar pregnancy plan fizzled out with the start of her period. She had ignored the signs, hoping to be pregnant, and now had a mess to clean up instead. It also meant her mechanic would have to settle for head instead of tail to fix her brakes. The power steering would have to wait for her vagina to be back ready for use. He also planned to charge her for bodywork for pulling out the dents and dings.

  Good thing Ray-Ray had broken bread so generously. Now she could pay her aggravating monthly bills. She hoped to see him again for jazz night at the club. If not, she would be clean, douched, and ready to exchange a few numbers for future use by the weekend.

  Breeze’s Sunday started off with a meeting at the club. He mentally crossed his fingers when he arrived to meet with Carlton. The first two nights of operation were hits, so he expected good news. Well, at least he hoped — no, prayed — for it, actually.

  “Last night wasn’t too bad. Not in the black yet, but getting there,” Carlton informed.

  “No?” Breeze whined. He didn’t like the sound of it, so he cleared his throat and asked again. “No? How can that be? How can we possibly still be in the red after the night we had last night?”

  “Well,” Carlton began, then turned to Billie to run down the numbers. The nerdy girl seemed happiest when dealing with numbers.

  “Door sales were thirty thousand, add ten more for the V.I.P. entrance,” she began. When she ended, they were up to almost eighty thousand dollars. Breeze smiled at the respectable number until Billie started quoting the deductions.

  “Ten thousand for the DJ, another—”

  “Wait, what? I paid ten grand for a DJ for two nights?”

  “DJ Rondell is the hottest DJ in the nation. A good amount of patrons came out just to see him, plus we got him at the last minute,” Carlton jumped in.

  “Well, I’m getting Rain Man back! I would have only had to pay him half of that for the whole damn month,” Breeze fumed while scrolling through his phone for his number to make the call.

  “Excuse me, sir, it’s been my experience that once one is fired, they should stay fired,” Carlton said, making perfect sense. The same theory works for relationships, too. It makes no sense for people to go back to the same person they couldn’t be with before. Booty calls aside, that is.

  “Fuck that,” Breeze insisted. The meeting was paused while he negotiated and gave Rain Man his job back. Carlton simply sneered and shook his head. The fussy man wasn’t accustomed to having his advice disregarded.

  “Fifteen thousand for the radio station live remote, add five more for the host. Add another ten grand for advertising.” On and on Billie went until they were down ten grand and had to gear up for the next weekend.

  Carlton charged ten thousand a week for his services, plus another grand for Billie, who, incidentally, did most of the work. “So, everyone got paid except for me?” Breeze said in that whiny tone again.

  “You have to pay the cost to be the boss,” Carlton reminded. “Once this place takes off, like I know it will, you’ll be a millionaire. Club Illusions will be the biggest, hottest club the city has seen in decades. Bigger than Kaya! Bigger than 112! Bigger than Atlanta Live!”

  Breeze felt mixed emotions as he listened to Carlton’s grandiose claims for the future. What troubled him was he never once said God willing. His grandmother had always scolded him about speaking on the future without saying God willing. After all, tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone.

  Carlton cont
inued to ramble on with the zeal that got him hired in the first place. Billie nodded along with him until Breeze looked over at her. Then she quickly ducked her head and looked away shyly. Had she been a turtle, she would have hidden in her shell. She wasn’t, so she hid inside baggy clothes, big glasses, and baseball caps.

  After the inspiring pep talk, Breeze felt a lot better. He still didn’t get paid, but he knew there was money to be made.

  Tonight at the club would be jazz night with a local band. Then Monday and Tuesdays would host happy hours. Wednesdays were scheduled to be ladies’ nights, which featured big-dick strippers prancing around on stage. Finally, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays were set up to be the meal ticket, simply because it was the weekend.

  After reviewing the line-up for the week and all it was expected to produce, a smile of satisfaction spread across Breeze’s face.

  ***

  Tosha clocked in at her call center job bright and early Monday morning. She planned on getting some overtime in, since Tasheena needed another loan. Technically it couldn’t be called a loan, because loans were paid back, and Tasheena never paid her back. Tosha was working for both their sakes. She was dead tired by hump-day, but there was no rest for the weary, or those friends with Tasheena.

  “Bitch, where you at?” Tasheena questioned when Tosha finally answered her calls. It was a rhetorical question, but she still waited for an answer.

  “At work. ‘Bout to clock out now,” she replied. “I’m ‘bout to take my ass home and get some rest.”

  “Girl, boo! You know we gotta hit Club Illusions. It’s ladies’ night, so let’s go turn up!” Tosha could see her friend dancing when she said it. Life was one party after the next for the party girl.

  “Okay,” Tosha moaned wearily. At least she could get a power nap in for a couple of hours before it was time to get dressed and head out, since the club’s doors didn’t open until nine and ladies were free until ten. “Bring some ones with you to tip the strippers.”

  “Chile, please! Picture me giving my hard-earned money to some man! Go on, close yo’ eyes and try to picture that shit! You can’t, can you? Me neither!” Tasheena ranted. It sounded good, but it was some bullshit. Only thing hard about the money she earned was the dick she took to get it.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll meet you at the club at abo….”

  “Un-uh, girl. My car acting up. I just got a brake job, but my steering is still messed up. You gotta come get me.”

  “Okay,” Tosha sighed, shaking her head at driving across town twice in one night.

  ***

  “Okay, so what’s this about?” Breeze inquired at Carlton’s urgent meeting. He and Billie were gathered in his office at Carlton’s request.

  “Only to tell you I booked the hottest male dance troupe in the city,” he raved and loaded a DVD into the player.

  “I thought you had already lined up the entertainment? I was planning to wait outside until they finished,” Breeze reminded Billie.

  “I did,” she replied with a shrug, since this was news to her as well.

  “Introducing: The Lumber Jacks,” Carlton exclaimed and hit play. Both Breeze and Billie grimaced in pain and snatched their eyes away from the screen.

  On the screen were flashes of ten of the hottest male dancers in the country. They were also the gayest, too. The troupe was comprised of fuck men or men who fuck other men, which is the same damn thing. They were dubbed ‘The Lumber Jacks’ because they had some serious wood between their legs. Besides being able to dance, it appeared having at least ten inches of dick was a requirement to join.

  They, of course, all had colorful names to match their performance and appearance. There was Cowboy, a bow-legged, big-dicked dude from Dallas. He danced in cowboy attire, which consisted of boots, a hat, holsters, and a lasso tied to his foot-long penis, which he used to twirl it around.

  Then there was the Elephant Man. He had a large tattoo of an elephant’s face on his midsection. The ears stretched from each side of his navel around to his buttocks. His long, uncircumcised dick served as the trunk.

  Sammy Sosa wore a baseball-type uniform and used his thick erection as a bat to hit little baseballs into the crowd of screaming women. The Clapper was called such because he would twist his hips real fast, causing his dick to clap against his thighs. Sideshow Bob let women toss rings on his erection for prizes. There was also an Indian, a Fireman, a Gorilla, and several more male performers.

  “Okay, fine!” Breeze shouted, and took off out the office. He had seen more than enough dick for a lifetime. Billie, too, because she was right behind him.

  “Wait! You guys are going to miss the twenty-one gun salute,” Carlton called after them.

  “I’ll pass. I’m sure it’ll be great,” Breeze called behind him and kept on trucking. He was wrong, though. It wasn’t going to be great at all. In fact, it was going to be downright nasty.

  ***

  “Nice turn out,” Breeze stated when he stepped outside to view the line later that night. It was the stroke of nine, and the doors were now open.

  “It is,” Coach nodded his head and agreed. Admission was currently free until ten, which is when the show was slated to start. Thirsty women of all shapes and sizes lined the block, waiting to see some hard wood. When the show ended at midnight, hordes of hungry men would flock inside to scoop them up. Hunger and thirst do not a relationship make. Still, some boots were definitely going to get knocked after the show.

  “Yeah, boy-ee!” Tasheena cheered and high-fived her best friend when they beat the clock to get in with five minutes to spare. That meant they still had time to get some dollar shots before they went back up to five dollars.

  “Yippee,” Tosha cheered back with zero enthusiasm. She would much rather be at home in her bed, flipping through the pages of a good book on her Kindle.

  “Ladies! Are y’all ready to get some wood in ya lives?” Rain Man asked over the loudspeaker of the stereo system.

  “Hell, yeah!” the crowd of thirsty women roared. Thirsty they may have been, but they were also rich, educated, independent, and successful.

  For several reasons, Atlanta, Georgia had a massive shortage of eligible black men. One reason being the fucked-up, corrupt, racist criminal justice system the state had in place. Crooked cops, lawyers, and judges there all got rich off of stuffing black men into overcrowded prisons. As a matter of fact, one lawmaker was quoted saying, “If a black man wants to stay out of Georgia’s prison system, then he needs to stay his black ass out of the state of Georgia.” His statement would be duly noted.

  The next reason was because it is the gayest black city on the planet. On any planet, truth be told. Chances are they don’t butt fuck on Pluto. It’s not clear if there’s something in the water or air, or if it’s too much sun or what in Atlanta, but it was clearly fuck man central, homo-headquarters. As a result, there were a ton of pretty, ambitious, go-getting black women who owned their own businesses, homes, and cars. These women had everything they could want — that is, except a man. That’s why they were piled up in front of the stage to see some wood.

  “I can’t hear y’all,” Rain Man teased. “I may as well tell The Lumber Jacks to go on home!”

  “You do and you gon’ get yo’ ass whipped,” the school board commissioner vowed. “We tryna see some dick, and yo ass playin’.”

  The Lumber Jacks’ MC took the stage and the mic and got the show underway. He knew firsthand how rowdy these broads could get about the wood. One by one, he introduced the dancers. First, there was the Indian Chief with feathers flailing and a big dick dangling.

  “He gay,” Tasheena surmised instantly.

  “How you figure?” Tosha squinted to see what her friend saw.

  “First, the thong. No straight man is gon’ have a piece of string stuck up his ass. Next, look how he dancing. No man gon’ work his hips like that unless he’s been penetrated,” she explained.

  “Oooh,” Tosha nodded in agreement. They s
till tossed some of her hard-earned cash on the stage. They also tossed a few rings, as well as caught a few mini baseballs.

  Carlton smiled from ear to ear while watching the show. He banged one hand against the other like a tambourine being played in church. The question of whether or not he was gay had definitely been answered tonight. Hell, yes, he was gay!

  “And now, it’s time for the twenty-one gun salute,” the MC announced, and on cue Rain Man put on the old disco song It’s Raining Men.

  The dancers all lined the stage and stroked their erections synchronously.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” the MC counted down, causing the men to stroke faster and faster, “…six, five, four…”

  “I’m not liking the looks of this,” Breeze warned Billie.

  “That’s the very reason why I’m still a virgin,” she grimaced in disgust.

  “A what?” Breeze asked in surprise, sure he had misheard what she said. In his world, girls didn’t make it to high school, yet alone all the way through college, with their cherries still intact. As a matter of fact, most had theirs bust by middle school.

  “Three, two, one,” he yelled, and they blasted off.

  “Eww!” Billie screamed and took off running.

  “Eww!” a woman in the front row shrieked when a glob of semen landed in her Martini.

  “What the fuck?” Breeze wondered at the fuckery he had just witnessed. “My eyes, my eyes!”

  “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!” Carlton shouted as he clapped and stomped his feet in excitement.

  “I’m not cleaning that up!” Meeka declared.

  “Me neither!” Pops agreed. Luckily, The Lumber Jacks came with their own cleanup man. While they waved good-bye with their penises, he scooped up their DNA.

  Meanwhile, Coach ushered in the men who were waiting for the show to end. The wet-pantied women eagerly accepted drinks and corny come-ons from the men. A few women were so turned on by the show they were willing to fuck complete strangers at the end of the night. Others would stop and get fresh batteries and go home and fuck themselves.