DAPPER
CARTER’S
8
RULES
OF
DATING
Alan Mitchell Books are published by
O’dell Publishing
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Suite 502
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Copyright 2005 by Alan Mitchell
ISBN 978-0-9856977-2-3
www.alanmitchellbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental. The setting is in Newark, New Jersey; Brooklyn, New York; and other locations. Certain real locations and institutions are mentioned, but the characters and events depicted are entirely fictional.
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The White-Winged Albatross
“So, how’s married life treating you?”
I could no longer tell if that was my best friend Caesar asking me that question or if it was the tiny voice deep down inside of me inquiring. Caesar always had a way of asking the tough question, but he always had a way of making sense too. The truth is that Caesar was the little voice deep down inside of me at times. He represented my desire to be honest with myself, which was something I was incapable of achieving right now.
“How do you think married life is treating me? It’s after midnight and I’m sitting here in a strip club with you.”
I had what everyone thought was going to be the perfect marriage. Kennedy Craig (KC) was my high school sweetheart. We were from the same hometown, our families got along well, and her girlfriends even liked me…at first. Then, the real Dapper Carter showed up to the party. He’s moody, hates to be alone and hates to be with someone at the same time. And he doesn’t really like to come home every night. Not the best recipe for a marriage.
Chicag-hoes was my home away from home and the grimiest of all the strip clubs near Newark Airport. I was just as comfortable in Beverly Hills as I was in Port Newark. I had all the best opportunities afforded to me but still I like to live on the edge and maintained a strong affinity for the hood, not to mention its hood rats.
It was a slow Tuesday night by strip club standards so there were only about fifty horny motherfuckers in there, including Caesar and I.
The hue of the blue and red lights bouncing off the well-toned strippers’ bodies was more intoxicating to me than the Grey Goose and Red Bull I sipped. I could never quite understand how combining a depressant with a stimulant could cause a euphoric effect. But it did and that was my drink of choice to get me revved up for the fun I was going to have that night.
I fixed my eyes on the ultra fit Lollipop as she acrobatically performed walkovers and rabidly pirouetted around the brass pole hinting of her classic dance background. I committed all seven of the deadly sins simultaneously in my already oversexed mind whenever I saw Slippery When Wet gyrated in front of me finger-popping her pussy. Of all the deadly sins my favorite was lust, though I was pretty good at all of them to say the least. The mouthwatering Miss Peanut Butta, creamy caramel skin and an ass like a horse was climbing hand over hand up the forty-foot stripper’s pole then nose-dived to the bottom, stopping on a dime one inch from the floor and rearranging her picturesque face…butt ass naked.
“I don’t know how you do what you do,” Caesar said as he maniacally “made it rain” dollar bills all over Puss in Boots, the thicker-than-grits Latina whom we learned danced at night to pay her way through NYU Medical School. It was cliché but education was expensive. So I guess half of the female doctors in the United States are probably former strippers. That should help my next prostate exam go down a little easier.
“Don’t know how I do what? Be married or fuck around on her?”
"Be married, of course. I don't really care what a nigga does on the side. I’m talking about looking at the same chick for forever. Do you know the definition of forever? Check this shit out. No other animal, except one, mates for life. You don't see two buffaloes chillin' next to each other for life. By being with one woman, we are fighting against nature and evolution.”
Caesar always had a unique way of looking at things. He was my number one dawg and had been since the day we met in fifth grade.
“Damn man, why do you have to be so brutally honest?”
“Real honesty is brutal, unfortunately, and there is no way around it.” The red light and siren wailed signaling that it was “money time”. All the ponies, colts, and stallions came from the dressing room behind the stage. One by one Trinity, Popsicle, Me Love You Long Time, Hot Chocolate, Sexual Chocolate, Chocolate Thunder, Thunderpussy, Lickity Splits, Holly Hood, Lorraina Bob It, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Sexy Lexi and Strange` hit the stage and started working the crowd for lap dances. The stallions were old pros and knew to hit the stroll first before the newbies got out there. I usually would get two or three but not tonight I was saving my dough for something special.
Next the ponies came out who had been dancing for about a year. They usually thought this was going to be temporary but weeks turned into month, and months eventually will turn into years.
Last to come out were the fillies. They were young, usually around nineteen, shy, and new to dancing. They hadn’t stepped their lap dance game up to the level of the stallions and ponies but they would learn quick.
“So which animal mates for life?”
“The White-winged Albatross.”
“Get the fuck outta here! How do you know?”
“C’mon, son. You know I went to Princeton!”
That didn’t have shit to do with it. He just watched a lot of Discovery Channel on those nights when he was home alone because no one wanted to deal with his brutal honesty. Caesar shoved a twenty dollar bill into The Clapper’s dental floss thong, making sure to cop a feel before slapping her on her juicy booty.
“I’ve got so many bitches checking for me right now that don’t know what to do with myself,” he boasted.
I don’t claim to have the greatest respect for women, but I had more than he. Every once in a while he would aggravate me with his Neanderthal references of the opposite sex. I used the word bitch a lot myself. Too much, actually, but it was nowhere as much as Caesar did. He actually had a method to his madness. For him, it was all about word placement. If he started the sentence out with the word “bitch,” he used it like a pronoun and to be dismissive. Bitch, fuck you! Now, if he used it at the end of a sentence like an exclamation point, you have pissed him off and now he’s trying to be hurtful. Fuck you, bitch!
“How come every woman got to be a bitch?”
“Because that’s what they are to me, either a bitch or a ho.” Caesar’s venom spit from his disparaging lips. He was hardcore like that and it was self inflicted. “They all want some of Caesar,” he boasted.
Caesar is not the best looking guy by any stretch of the imagination and he knows it. He’s tall, about six-foot-four, gangly, and kind of looks like the Warner Brothers’ frog. But nonetheless, he’s pretentious, articulate, undeniably confident and impeccably groomed, taking extra special care of his hands and feet. Women do like him and confidence will take you places you never thought you could go. And he actually is a fucking genius, being tested with an IQ over 150.
“They all want some of Caesar’s money,” I c
ountered as we continued to covet the heavenly bodies in front of us while not so secretly thirsting for Baton Rouge, the stallion of the stable. She was a redbone and proud of her Creole look. Hair black as coal waved down to the sexy Christmas tree at the small of her magnificent back. She had mammoth implants going up three cup sizes from a D to a full double D, massive speed skater thighs, and a tail like a New England lobster. She was as close to perfect as I had ever seen.
I had enough money on me so I could actually afford to holla at her, but the queen bee didn’t come cheap. I had no problem paying for pussy, because one way or another I was probably going to drop over $150 on dinner, a movie, and drinks anyway, so I might as well just pay up front and know how the evening is going to end, without a shadow of a doubt. Actually, what I was doing was paying you to leave!
“Whatever it is, so be it. Just keep giving Caesar the ass. You know, I listen to these young bucks talking all this shit about how they ain't spending no money on these hos. You ain't spending no money on these hos? Then you don't want no pussy!”
“You're right.”
“I know I'm right. Niggas who don't have money complain about spending money on a bitch. Niggas with money take that shit in stride and know it's a part of the game. That's the difference between a player and a baller.”
What Caesar philosophized was true, if you have the money. He’s a big-time trader on the New York Stock Exchange, pulling in about a million dollars a year with the top brokerage firm on this side of the Atlantic. It's what he always wanted to be. While the rest of us had our heads in the clouds with false hopes of the NBA, Caesar fantasized about being president of the Bank of New York. He’s not there yet, but there is no doubt in my mind that he will get there someday.
Caesar dubbed his approach the "West Coast Offense," short, quick strikes. He was all about the skins and he would do whatever it took, or cost, to get 'em. Conversely, I played more of a defensive game tailored to stopping the run, as in stopping a chick from running all over me. Offense is pretty, scores a lot of points, and is exciting to watch. But defense wins championships.
Caesar agreed while throwing back his fifth Hennessey on the rocks. “So, you never answered my question. How is married life treating you?”
“I’m cool. As long as I keep hitting Kennedy off right, she ain’t going anywhere.”
The truth of the matter was that we hadn’t had sex in so long I was starting to wonder if maybe she was doing her thing on the side too. I mean, everybody needs sex. Even if the two of you aren’t speaking, sooner or later you're going to roll over onto that ass lying right next to you every night, right?
I watched Baton Rouge work her way around the bar until she finally reached me. But not before some idiot decided he was going to pilfer an extra feel and stick his fingers in her chocha. She cussed him out royally and the bouncers kicked his ass royally. The devious smile on her unblemished face excited me. It made me want her more, if that was even possible. She lap danced for me, unmercifully grinding her fat ass against my stiffening manhood. Then she whirled around and sadistically taunted me by slapping my inebriated face with her impressive watermelons. While I contemplated my next move, she rammed her tongue into my mouth and began to devour mine like a greedy lion cub.
“You like that, Daddy?”
It was impossible to respond with her huge tits now pressed up against my face suffocating me.
“Tell me what you want me to do, Daddy?” she begged as she straddled me grinding her pussy against my awakened bulge. My dick was harder than Chinese arithmetic.
“Do it all and I’ll tell you when to stop.” I couldn’t help but to caress the softness of her pistachio-colored skin. Her butt felt delicate like tissue paper underneath my sweaty fingers. For once I had enough money to afford her and Cheetah, the snow bunny with tiger paw prints tattooed up and down her milky white thighs. Baby girl was doing deep throat tricks with a longneck Corona bottle that was very impressive. That girl got talent.
I glanced over at Caesar to let him know that it was time to jet, but the only thing I could see was the back of his head buried between Miss Peanut Butta’s tig ol’ bitties. I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the same look we’ve been giving each other for over twenty years when it was time for the jump-off. He was with it, of course. That’s my nigga and he was the best wingman a guy could ask for. No fuss, no muss as long as he was getting hit off too.
Why Not?
We took the party back to her apartment in the Towers across from Penn Station. A lot of the strippers lived there so they could easily get in and out of the city, depending on where they were dancing that evening. Not to mention Newark had some of the best stripper fashion to choose from right there on Broad Street.
But first we had to make a stop at Kennedy Fried Chicken to pick up a fifty piece of Buffalo wings. Nothing soaks up alcohol better than wings and greasy fries. We knew food would be an afterthought once we got to the crib, so we devoured them right there in Cez’s diamond white S65 AMG Benz ($211,000) with customized black leather Coach seats. He usually drove the Benz when he wanted to floss. The Escalade was reserved for hanging out with the fellas and the red Ducati 848 Evo was just because. He called it justification for higher education.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t very happy about us eating in his baby, but fuck him because he’s the same guy that would let a chick smoke crack in his car if he thought he was gonna get a blowjob.
Cez brought along another dancer from the club that I called Heroin because she was killing niggas. We also needed to pick up a bottle of Patron, a liter of Hennessey, and a twelve- pack of Coronas. Heroin had her own “party favors” and my concubine had weed at the crib as the Coup de grâce.
When we got there it wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t the love den of iniquity. It wasn’t a lair of S&M. It wasn’t a fortress of bondage. It was quaint and neat, not like the wreck I was accustomed to whenever flight attendants shared an apartment. They would have six girls sharing a place, splitting the rent, and no more than two would usually be there at once. But the unit was always a wreck because they turned around and were headed back to the airport so quickly not leaving time for anyone to do the cleaning. Dirty chicks are such a turn-off.
Baton Rouge’s place was antiseptic and spotless like a hotel room. Everything was in its place and it had a light, airy feel being set off by shades of yellow, orange, and tan. But that changed quickly.
“Who’s ready for some drinks?”
Caesar announced trying to get the party started.
“You know what I want, Daddy,” Heroin anxiously replied.
She and Caesar had hooked up plenty of times which gave him no reason to fuck around wasting time with Cheetah or Miss Peanut Butta as far as he was concerned. Caesar lined up four shots of Patron, four Coronas to chase it, and four Hennessey’s to chase all that.
We raised our glasses in a bullshit toast. “Let’s pour a little out for the hos who ain’t here.” Caesar declared. “I’m just joking. If you pour that ‘gnac out I will kill all of you.”
We didn’t go through that lick your hand then suck a lemon shit with the Patron shots. We each took the five ounces of agave straight to the head then followed up by chugging as much of a Corona as we could. Last we each took a healthy swig of Hennessey right out of the bottle.
Feeling good and ready for more we each grabbed our glass and took it into the living room to listen to some music and whatever else that would come along with it.
The multi-faceted Heroin had a talent for rolling a blunt with one hand while she slowly but firmly gripped Caesar’s manhood through his pants with the other hand.
While we smoked, drank, and rode the white horse, the girls put on some music to show off some of their salacious new moves. They got off to some crazy hip-hop tracks that I hadn’t even heard yet. Strippers were my barometer of what was going to be hot in the streets. If strippers liked it, it was going to be a hit.
After a few so
ngs of “dropping it,” and “booty clapping” the girls became bored and things quickly turned pornographic. Baton Rouge and Heroin started kissing heavily before taking turns eating one another out on the chaise longue for our entertainment. Cez and I smiled at one another, trying to recount how many times we had been in this exact same position…during that year alone! Caesar still had about $500 in $20 bills, so he continued to shower the girls with dead presidents just for kicks.
After fifteen minutes or so of preliminaries we robotically peeled off our clothes and made our way to separate ends of the couch.
Heroin dropped to her knees in front of Caesar, unzipped his pants, and then instinctively plunged his pink and brown pole inside her mouth. She looked like she was trying to commit suicide by stabbing herself repeatedly with a blunt instrument in the back of her throat. Heroin was what we liked to call a brain surgeon and she enjoyed sucking dick more than any girl I had ever met. I knew this to be true because she broke me off the week before.
Baton Rouge decided she had enough and sprawled herself over the arm of the couch, presenting her perfect brownish-pink love canal which was pleading for the unyielding eight and a half inches I had for her.
I tenaciously grabbed a handful of her wavy locks, wrangled them, and then pulled, triggering her to arch her muscular back.
“You like that don’t you?!”
“You know I do, Daddy.”
“Say you’re a dirty fucking whore.”
“I’m a dirty fucking whore,” she whimpered.
She liked it rough and so did I. But I liked it even rougher than that.
With the one hand entangled in her locks, I took the other hand, ripped open the condom package with my teeth, and stretched the prophylactic on my impressive erection.
Without hesitation or warning, I thrust my rocket deep into her vast Milky Way. She yelped with delight. With each thrust I could feel myself going deeper inch by exciting inch into her never ending tunnel. She expanded and contracted her sugar walls with each stroke extracting the nut from my overworked muscle. I fucked her hard, amused to hear the sound of my balls relentlessly slapping against her well-developed backside. I tried with every enthusiastic plunge to drill my dick through her writhing body and out her panting mouth. She howled in rapture.
Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating Page 1