Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating

by mitchell, alan

  “Lay on your back, baby,” she instructed. Green Eyes stretched out on her back while Claire straddled, bucked and gushed her creamy sweetness all over Green Eyes grateful face, forcing her to drown in her overflowing nectar from the motherland. Sharply she ordered me to ram my thick rod into her girlfriend’s Garden of Eden at the same time. It was awesome…at first.

  As it turned out, Claire was a bit more aggressive than I bargained for. No matter how high I was, I wasn't going along with her trying to stick her finger in my ass. Her tongue would have been another story, however.

  It may be every guy’s fantasy to be in bed with two women, but let me tell you to be careful what you ask for. The two nymphomaniacs would take turns jumping on and off my pogo stick.

  Green Eyes liked to suck; Claire liked to fuck. Everyone played their position right. So while Claire would ride my dick mercilessly and try to shatter my pelvic bone, Green Eyes would stare, awe-stricken, into Claire’s somber eyes then suck on her panting mouth. She vigorously polished Claire’s clit while I continued to pound away at her tiny little box, not missing a beat. Once in a while I could hear her whisper to Claire, “Don’t forget he’s mine!”

  Then they would switch. Off came the condom so Green Eyes could engage in her specialty, sucking the chrome off a tailpipe. I’m talking about sucking a golf ball through a garden hose. She was especially proficient at using her hand to wring every drop of semen out of my exhausted penis.

  There had always been rumors floating around about how all white girls give good head and were more willing than Black women. That’s both true and not true at the same time. Sistas started taking that shit personal and stepping up their head game. I guess they finally figured out how to keep their man at home.

  After a while, I finally got tired of the fuck/suck fest and flipped Green Eyes over onto all fours exposing her pink tunnel for my heat seeking missile which I was about to destroy her don’t- hurt- me- spot- with. I gave her a firm slap on the ass for good measure then plunged my throbbing cock into her warm, fertile gulf.

  “Yessss.” I said as I savored momentarily her tightness. But then I came back to my senses and quickly switched gears and pounded her maliciously her for all the mind games she played and the times she stood me up. She relished it, of course. Her vulgar screams of passion were muzzled by Claire’s vice-like thighs.

  “Fuck me harder Dap,” she begged. Now that’s what I’m talking about. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I shifted gears and went into jackhammer mode trying to murder that pussy, however, it was around this time that Claire grew jaded after allowing me to abuse her sex slave repeatedly.

  That’s when the bacchanal became more about them and less about me. Claire and Green Eyes flip flopped like a sexual see-saw. Who’s on top? Who’s on the bottom? Then out came the eight inch strap-on. That’s when I figured out that my services were no longer required. I mean, you’ve got a real penis within arm’s reach, literally, and you pull out a fake one? Exit stage right.

  Composing myself, I leaped up. "I'm going to the frig to get something to drink. Anybody want something? OJ? Espresso? Penicillin?"

  The moans got louder… deeper. I had enough. I started getting dressed as they continued seemingly unaffected.

  "So, I'm a little tired and have to get up early tomorrow. So I guess I'm going to split." No response. "Okay?" No response still. "The house is on fire..."

  "We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn!" Claire gasped.

  I was still putting my clothes on as I walked sullen down the long hallway, hard dick and all, that I had eagerly sprinted down just an hour earlier. I felt unsatisfied, unfulfilled, and unimportant. I knew that it was a bad idea to have a threesome with someone that you care about. Save that for the jump-off.

  I really did like Green Eyes. Or was the only reason I liked her was because I couldn’t have her? That seemed to be a trend for me and a juvenile one at that. Sooner or later you have to grow up and stop playing games, silly rabbit. Dapper Carter’s rule number five: Only have threesomes with girls you don't care about...

  Because if you do, you’re probably going to get your feelings hurt.

  The Cutest Girl in Brooklyn

  After the mind fuck with Green Eyes and Claire, I was looking for a quick rebound. My ego was bruised so I rang up Charisma, Dominique's chunky friend from the other night. Given that she was checking for me, and since now I only fuck with people who are fucking with me, I figured I’d give her the energy she deserved.

  I already thought she was cute, but when I got to the restaurant she was there on time waiting for me, which I took notice of, and looking decidedly more erogenous than the first time we met. She had on skin-tight Joe’s jeans and a flattering top from Forever 21 that revealed more of her tantalizing bust line than the previous encounter. In fact, I was happy to see her. Charisma was nice and I don't mean in that way people usually refer to the opposite sex when they are lacking in the physical attributes department. She genuinely was congenial and pleasant to be around, unlike her bitchy friend. I know, I usually like those kinds of women, but as I get older I really don’t have the energy I used to have to pursue them.

  I used to be a hunter and I preferred to kill my food. However, I was becoming more of a gatherer with age. I was picking and choosing the foods that I liked. A little Swiss chocolate here, some French pastry there, a taste of Belgian waffle now, a nip of Jamaican rum later, a nibble of Chinese on Monday, and a bite of English muffin on Tuesday.

  It was metaphorical as well as I was literally transitioning from a meat eater to a vegetarian in my diet, too. As usual, I offered that she could order anything she wanted.

  "I'm not high maintenance at all, Dapper. We can take this to go, pick up some Hennessey and go back to your place."

  “CHECK PLEASE!” I waved my hand feverishly at the waiter, not being able to get outta that place fast enough. So Caesar's number one rule had become Dapper Carter’s sixth rule... Treat the hos like queens and treat the queens like hos!

  Charisma and I hastily beat feet out of the restaurant. When the customer agrees to the sale shut your ass up, don’t say another word and walk them straight to the register.

  It was around noon the next day when Charisma and I began waking up. I outdid myself last night, I must admit. I was starting to hit my stride and it was like riding a bike. Melted candle wax was all over the dresser and me. How it got on me, I don’t remember. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  The empty Hennessey bottle and the clean-picked bones from the Chinese chicken wings lay on the floor.

  Her exposed breasts peeked from under the covers, asking me for one more kiss. Turns out her breasts weren’t bigger than her stomach. She had itty bitty titties, a wonder bra, and a girdle.

  Nevertheless, she was cool and that didn’t change how I felt about her as a person. But for some reason, I wasn't into her and she knew it. She scampered off to the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth to wipe my crusty morning face clean and the remnants of nonoxol-9 off of my exhausted penis. “Thank you” I said weakly then turned my head in shame.

  "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then what's wrong? I know I may not be the skinniest or the cutest girl in Brooklyn..."

  "You're really cute. That's not it. Stop putting yourself down. You’ve got way more going for yourself than your shallow-ass friend."

  "But I really like you. There's something about you. Your confidence. Your coolness. Your energy."

  "That's funny. You wouldn't have wanted to know me a couple of years ago. I was a total asshole! I've been working really hard on myself. Charisma, you're a cool girl, but I can't do this anymore. This isn't me anymore. I know what I want and that's to love and be loved. And this right here isn't love."

  "It could be," she responded desperately.

  "No, it can't. I'm sorry. I have been with more than enough women in my life, done more than enough w
omen wrong, and I don't want to live like that anymore. I'm figuring out what I want in a relationship, what I'm going to tolerate, and what I'm going to give. When the time comes I'm going to marry my best friend."

  With that, she kissed me on the cheek and got dressed. "You're going to make some woman very happy, Dapper Carter." I was beginning to think that myself and I wanted more this time around. She actually would have been perfect for Khalil. Speaking of which, I was supposed to meet him at this hot new club in Manhattan.

  Philadelphia

  It was after 10:30 p.m., so the subway was running local by this time, stopping at every station. I usually took the train into the city but would catch a cab back since I knew it would be at least 3:00 a.m. before I even thought about going home. I could get home by four and still get four or five hours of sleep.

  When I arrived, Khalil was at the door waiting for me, rocking nervously from heel to heel. Even going out to a club he was dressed in vintage Khalil— Banana Republic slacks, oxford shirt with a sweater on top of it, shirt tail hanging out, of course. He would swap the Malcolm X frames for his sexier dark-rimmed Dolce & Gabbana’s. He looked like an accountant, but he’d hit the club and cut a rug, shaking his ass. He had this Clark Kent/Superman thing going on.

  When we got inside, the DJ was spinning house music like we grew up on in the '80s. Jersey house (club music) had a more gospel feel to it as opposed to the driving beats coming out of Chicago. Right off the bat French Kiss was starting to heat the party up until we Made Way for the Percolator. We hung out with Black Betty for a while then had to Beat that Bitch with a Bat. We had to have House Music all night long.

  After being inside the club for about ten minutes something started to bother me that I couldn't quite put my finger on at first. The more I looked around, the more I realized. There were no women in the club.

  "Hey, man, how come there aren't any women in here?"

  I was actually trying to be more sarcastic than anything until my close friend, whom I had known since the fourth grade, looked me sincerely in the eye and told me what I had always suspected.

  "I like men."

  I took a deep breath, taking in as much oxygen as possible to fill my lungs before letting it out slowly. “So. I don’t have a problem with that. But how about giving me a heads up before putting me in a situation like this?”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you. How do you tell someone you’ve known for over twenty years that you suck dick?” Whoa. TMI …too much information.

  None of the guys in the club were your stereotypical queen, I must admit.

  “You see that guy over there?” pointed Khalil. “He’s a stockbroker. The guy next to him is the vice president of marketing for a major record label. And he…” Then I spotted the brown skinned pretty boy sandwiched between two of the biggest queens in the whole club. I was shocked to see that it was Hannibal, Dominique's old screw, and he was engaged, too. I'm sure glad that I didn't sleep with Dominique Dunbar from Cleveland Heights.

  We left the sausage factory and headed to an all-night diner down in the Meat Packing District, no pun intended. Khalil and I sat in a corner booth drinking coffee and discussing how homosexuality had become so prevalent in the Black community. Although it’s always existed in every culture across the board, Blacks had totally crushed the stereotype but at the same time created new ones.

  "So, I don't understand what the infatuation is with this down-low, bisexual, homo thug thing."

  "The homo thug is an animal of a different color. Any mothafucka that can physically take the ass is scary to me, and I ain't messing with them."

  "So what's the deal? Females aren’t good enough anymore?"

  "It’s not that. I still like women. It's just that I don't like the bullshit with women anymore."

  "Yeah, there is bullshit, but I'd rather deal with their bullshit than bullshit from another nigga!"

  And I put that on my grandfather's grave. I think that shit started back in the gladiator days. It was common practice for men to have sex with other men, but if you were on top you were considered dominant, and if you were on the bottom, you were the fag. It seems like the same rules apply today in our penitentiary system.”

  "That's where you're wrong. Right now, guys are kicking it with guys because it’s simple. No dialogue about getting married, biological clocks or nothing. It’s about straight up having fun."

  "Fun? Two dicks can't have fun together."

  "That's what you think. And the best part is, when it’s over you go your way and I go mine. No strings attached."

  "There are some homosexual men who are in committed relationships too, you know?"

  "Of course. Those just aren't the ones I fuck with."

  On that note, Caesar showed up at the diner. I called him because he and Khalil needed to squash that shit from the other day. We hadn't heard from him in a while, so that meant he was off somewhere angry and pouting.

  When Caesar and Khalil saw each other it was awkward for a moment, but it quickly passed as over twenty years of friendship will do.

  “We cool?”

  “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  They gave each other a real hug and not the one where you shake hands first, then put the other arm around the person bullshit. Khalil must have been feeling good about himself and decided to keep the ball rolling with his purging.

  "Caesar, I'm just going to come right out and say this. I’m bisexual."

  ”Of course you are.” Caesar didn't even blink an eye as he stole a French fry off Khalil's plate. “And bisexual is the same thing as gay.”

  "What do you mean ‘of course you are?’ You knew?"

  "Of course. That’s why you wanted to go to Bangkok.” He’s right. I hadn’t even thought of it like that.

  “You're a little toooo sensitive; too much estrogen in your system," he continued.

  "There is not."

  "You cried watching Philadelphia."

  "When Tom Hanks died it was really sad."

  "You cried watching Ghost..."

  "So."

  "Edward Scissorhands?"

  "I hate when people are ostracized for being different."

  "When Dorothy sings ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’..."

  "She has a beautiful voice."

  "When Ricky got shot in Boyz in the Hood..."

  That was where I finally had to interject. "Now I cried during that and so did you!"

  "I know. That was pretty sad,” Caesar said. “But I don't care if you got a little sugar in your tank. The only pressing question is, are you a pitcher or a catcher?"

  Khalil started to answer, but neither of us really wanted to know, so we cut him off and changed gears. As usual, the topic of conversation switched to me and my dating dilemma.

  "I can't do this shit anymore."

  "Do what? Eat chicks out in the bathroom? Have threesomes? Crush Pam Grier looking bitches?” Caesar inquired. "My heart bleeds for you.”

  "It's not what I want anymore."

  "You don't want no booty? You turning into this guy right here?" For once Khalil didn't have to feel offended or pretend.

  "Of course not. No offense, Khalil. The way I figured we work about eight to twelve hours a day, spending another three hours commuting. So that brings us to about fifteen hours. Gotta get some sleep. Let’s say six hours, if you’re lucky. That leaves three hours a day to do whatever it is you want to do. During those three hours that I have I decided that I want to spend them with someone I love. Or at least care about a lot.”

  Caesar cracked up laughing. “Get the fuck outta here!”

  Luckily, Khalil empathetically felt different. He understood. I couldn't help but think about the one girl that might be the one. Unfortunately, she wasn't checking for me.

  Doc Holiday

  The final remnants of winter were almost gone except for an occasional forty-five degree blip here and there. It was sixty-five degrees in late May so New Yorkers were starting to shed their layer
s of clothing to get out in the sun while it lasted for the next ninety days or so.

  I was taking a mental health day on the Coney Island boardwalk absorbing all it had to offer. The screaming seagulls. The aroma of Nathan's hot dogs. The feel of the dry, rotted wooden slats that make up the famous boardwalk. A young milf jogged past me and did an obvious double take. I ignored her, of course, careful not to give any indication that I was interested in her. A funny thing began to happen. The more I got into myself, the more women started to respond. The less interested I was, the more interested they were. Women are crazy.

  The night before at the movie theatre a frisky Boricua climbed past me, spilling her popcorn all over me. She brushed the kernels off my lap, which I truly appreciated, and decided to sit down next to me and stay for the entire movie. We exchanged numbers, but I immediately deleted hers as soon as I got outside. If she called me, that would be fine; otherwise, I could care less. I was practicing indifference.

  I pulled an Indian yogi, Reva, in my Bikram yoga class and a sexy Somalian socialite, Xaali, at the bookstore. I was turning into Caesar. New York had a cornucopia of different ethnicities to choose from. Needless to say I did the same to them as I had done to the hottie from the movie theatre, deleted each of their numbers. All three of them had been blowing my phone up since.

  The strangest thing happened at the doctor's office while getting an overall physical. I hadn't had one in years seeing as though I was on Kennedy’s insurance but being in my late ’30s, it was time for me to become more aware of the health of my prostate. I was in a hospital robe with my ass hanging out while the doctor poked, prodded, and drew blood. I was a wild boy for a long time so I decided to get an HIV test, too.

  I suspect Dr. Holiday is one of the ex-stripper who made it through med school. The woman was stellar from head to toe. She had a perfectly clear olive-colored complexion, tresses as red as Georgia clay, a waist tiny enough to hoola hoop in a Cheerio, and rock hard calves that she accentuated by consistently wearing four- inch Jimmy Choo’s around the office.