Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, I juss wanna tell youuuu, I feel like I’m da luckiest man alive. If I die to-mar-oooow, it’d be my happiess day of my life. I’m serious, if I die to-mar-oooow, dat’s fine, dis da most wunnerful day. A girl as booty-full as youu to be out wiffa guy like me, is the most wunnerful day evaa of my life.”
Tiffany: “Oh, Roscoe, it’s no problem, we work together, we cool.”
Roscoe: “No, Tiff-a-Knee, you don’t unnerstan. Dis the most special day evaa. I want it to be magical for us.”
He started crying. Like, big-ass man tears coming out of his eyes. And then snot starts coming out of his nose. He just turned into a hot mess, as he told me I was so special and how amazing this day was for him. He took a minute to compose himself and said:
Roscoe: “I could die, it’s okay, I’m okay if I die now. Dat’s how special dis is to me, Tiff-a-Knee.”
Here I was, sitting in a crowded bar, with a man crying, snot coming out of his nose, and honestly, all I could think was one thing:
I’m going to fuck the shit outta Roscoe.
For real. That’s what I kept saying to myself, “I am going to fuck the shit outta Roscoe.”
First off, I’d never seen a man cry for me. I’d never seen a man express his love for me like this. Nothing like this had ever happened to me ever before.
I just thought to myself, Well, this is who I’m supposed to be with, obviously. This is who I’m supposed to spend my time with, this man who loves me so much and does so much for me and adores me like this. That’s right. I’m going to fuck him. I’m gonna fuck the shit out of Roscoe tonight.
I didn’t care about nothing else. Fuck that judgmental white lady. I downed my wine, we got another round, and then we went back to my place.
My date movie at the time was The Wiz. If I liked you, and I put on The Wiz, that was a good sign. And if you could sit and watch The Wiz through the Scarecrow part, I’m fucking. If you can sit through Michael Jackson’s scene, that’s it, it’s on.
Well, Roscoe did not sit through The Wiz. That’s because he was acting the whole thing out. HE KNEW ALL THE WORDS!
You know how white people do with The Rocky Horror Picture Show? Just like that.
Roscoe: “Come on, Tiff-a-Knee, come dance wiff me! Ease on down, ease on down da rooooaaaad!”
Oh my God, did he love this movie. It was like I dropped into some musical theater summer camp in my own house.
But you know what? I love that movie, too! Fuck it, I got up and danced and sang The Wiz with him.
By the time it got to the Lena Horne part, the end of the movie, it was time for business. I leaned in and gave him a little kiss on his cheek. He said:
Roscoe: “Ohhh Tiff-a-Knee, youu don’t wanna do dat, don’t do dat, Tiff-a-Knee. You don’t know what’chu gettin’ yursef into.”
I leaned in, gave him another kiss. He got all serious:
Roscoe: “Okay, Tiff-a-Knee, I seer-ee-us. I warned you and I not gunna warn you no more. Don’t do that, okay, you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m seer-ee-us, very seer-ee-us, Tiff-a-Knee.”
He smelled real good. Whatever it was, it was good, and it was kinda getting me horny.
I did not realize it at the time, but thinking back on it, I am pretty sure he was wearing the same cologne that Titus used to wear. He must have actually went and smelled that motherfucker, now that I think about it.
He did smell good, though. Except his breath smelled like corn chips, but that was normal for Roscoe.
“Whatever, Roscoe, you smell all good and stuff,” I said and leaned in again to give him another kiss.
He wasn’t kidding with that warning. Roscoe took that third kiss as his cue, and he straight went to work. He grabbed my face with that strong hand, and he started tonguing me down. Next thing I knew, all my clothes were off, he was stroking my face with his strong hand, still kissing me, while he’s putting on a condom with that little hand.
I was like, Oh shit! This motherfucker’s a professional fucker. Here I was, all proud of myself, thinking I was fixing to be his first. Yeah, I was fixing to blow his mind, but hell no! He’s been fucking all kinds of handicapped bitches or something, nurses or whoever, because ain’t no virgin on Earth have skills like this.
He finally got his T. rex arm to put the condom on, and he moved in. And yes, I know what you’re going to ask:
He had dick for days.
And for real . . . he tore it up.
He straight tore up the pussy. His dick game was off the chain!
He took control and laid me back and went to work, and it felt amazing. I was on my back in missionary, enjoying the hell out of this fuck. My pussy was feeling so good.
And then I opened my eyes.
Oh hell. I’m looking at him, and it’s like—his face is just twisted as fuck. It was so contorted and screwed up, it was horrifying to look at. You know when someone is concentrating, they make funny faces? Yeah, well, it was like a Halloween mask was doing that.
I closed my eyes in fright, but damn, it would start feeling really good down there, and then I would open my eyes again, and be like “Oh, no.” It was like a scary movie, except that my pussy felt great.
The thing that really messed me up was that he was holding himself up with that good arm, and his dead little baby hand was dangling over my face. And you know, it’s Roscoe, so he’s sweating and drooling and shit, and it’s dripping on my forehead.
The sweat and the drool, it was too nasty. I had to do something, but I didn’t want the sex to stop.
Tiffany: “Roscoe, hit this from the back.”
Roscoe: “Ohhhh, youuuu want me to tap dat azz from da back! YOU AIN’T GOTTA AXE ME TWICE!”
He took his strong arm, slid it underneath me, grabbed my opposite hip, and in one motion, flipped me over. I landed right on my hands and knees instantly. I don’t even know how he did it. It was some Cirque du Soleil shit.
He was right in me, holding my waist with that good hand, smacking my ass with that little dead hand, and he was just fucking my pussy up. I could kind of feel him drooling, but I didn’t give a shit. As long as I didn’t have to see his Halloween sex faces, it was cool, because his dick was amazing.
He was saying all the normal things guys say during sex, then all of a sudden, the craziest fucking thing happened.
Roscoe: “Damn girl, you got some good pussy.”
His voice turned normal.
He went from his mush-mouth, long-ass vowel words you could barely understand, to talking like a normal man. And with a deep, sexy-ass Billy Dee Williams voice.
Roscoe: “Yeah Tiffany, you like this dick, don’t you, sexy girl?”
Hell yeah, I do!
I started feeling like, Okay, I must have magical powers, I can heal people with my pussy.
He kept talking normal, and then he came hard, and plopped down next to me. The sex had been amazing, but I was even more excited that I healed this motherfucker with my pussy! I got a magical unicorn pussy!
I got all sweet and turned to him.
Tiffany: “Roscoe, you were so good, you want something to drink, baby?”
Roscoe: “Yeah, baby, I’d love something to drink.”
I walked to the kitchen, and for real in my twenty-two-year-old brain, I honestly thought to myself, I fucking healed this guy. I made him healthy. This is the greatest ghetto fairy tale ever.
I poured him a nice, cold glass of water, and I stopped in the bathroom to fix my hair and look good for my newly healed man.
Tiffany: “Here you go, baby, here’s your water.”
Roscoe: “Tank youuu, Tiff-a-Knee.”
Oh, hell no! It wore off!
My magical pussy power is only temporary!
I was seriously depressed. I honestly thought for a second my pussy had powers and that I turned this incredibly sweet handicapped man into a normal boyfriend (except for that one arm, but still). Yes, I know that’s fucking nonsense, but I thought it.
; Oh, well. He may not be healed, but handicapped or not, he can still fuck.
I was off work the next day and the day after that, so I made him call in to work sick, and I kept him at my place that whole time. We was fucking for two days straight. Sometimes sleeping and eating, but mainly fucking.
I did most of the cooking, but to his credit, he made sandwiches for us. But I didn’t go in there and watch him make them, because I didn’t want to see that dead baby hand on my food. I kept that image out of my mind.
Eventually, I took him back to his place, and I kept thinking this thought:
How can I take him around my friends?
On the one hand, I think I love this dude. He’s an amazing human and the best sex I’ve ever had—just so loving and caring. He was the shit to me, the awesomest in the world.
At the same time, he’s handicapped. There ain’t no way around that fact. I can’t take him around my friends. I can hear their voices in my head:
“You dating a handicapped guy who rides the bus? Is you serious? You getting community service for this? Did your probation officer tell you this counts or something?”
“Tiffany, you were an extra in an Xzibit video! Why are you messing with this guy? You could be fucking Xzibit! What’s wrong with you, Tiffany?”
“He can’t keep his drool in his mouth! He only got one arm that works! Bitch, what are you doing?”
Over and over it went, in my mind. There was no escaping the fact that I cannot date a handicapped guy.
• • •
I got to work the next day, and Roscoe was there. We’d had zero discussion of how we’d act at work. He was super-excited to see me and everything, and I mean super-excited. As he walked up, I could see his dick getting hard in his pants.
Tiffany: “Yo Roscoe, we gotta talk at lunch. We need to have a conversation.”
Roscoe: “Oh yeaaaa, we gunna talk awww right!”
He grabbed his dick and smiled at me.
Tiffany: “Don’t do that, Roscoe. A real talk. A conversation.”
Roscoe: “I know a place we can havva talk awwright. A goooood talk.”
Tiffany: “No, we’re going to meet in the Center Air, it’s a restaurant in the center of the airport. Meet me in the Center Air where everybody be at, we’ll meet right there.”
Lunch came around, and we met there and started talking. Roscoe was happy and serene and had no idea what was coming. I felt so bad.
Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, youuu so booty-full to-day. I was thinking bout’chu all night lass night—”
Tiffany: “Roscoe, shh. Stop. We have to talk.”
I took a deep breath and launched in.
I told him I was shallow. I told him I was insecure. I kept talking about what a bad girlfriend I was, and how I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I said I knew he wanted me to be his girlfriend, but that maybe it would work in our next lifetime. I hit him with the Erykah Badu; maybe next lifetime we can have a better life. But I’m too immature right now. I probably rambled for twenty minutes, before he got it and stopped me:
Roscoe: “Are youu sayin’ youu can’t date meee?”
Tiffany: “Yes Roscoe, that is what I am saying.”
Roscoe: “What? Are you fuckin’ seer-ee-us? Are youu sayin’ youu don’t wanna be wiff me?”
Tiffany: “Not like that, Roscoe, I want to be your friend, I just can’t be your woman. I can’t be in a serious relationship with you. I don’t know how I can handle that.”
Roscoe: “Arrr youu sayin’ youu can’t be my gurl?”
Tiffany: “Yes Roscoe, that’s what I’m saying.”
He looked at me, and his face nearly broke my heart. It was the rawest look of pain and heartbreak I have ever seen on any face, ever in my life.
Roscoe: “Okay.”
I almost started crying, and I was so close to grabbing his hand and taking it all back, when he stood up.
Roscoe: “Well . . . FUCK YOU THEN! DATS WHY YER PUSSY GARBAGE!”
Tiffany: “WHAT???”
Roscoe: “YER PUSSY IS GARBAGE.”
Roscoe stormed off. I was in motherfucking shock. I wanted to yell something back at him, but there were people everywhere. And besides, what am I going to yell back? “Well you’re fucking handicapped!” or “My pussy IS NOT garbage!”?
I didn’t know what to say or do. I just sat there in shock, until my break was over. Then I went back to my counter.
When I got back to the ticket counter, he didn’t even want to throw my bags no more. He went down to the other end of the counter and threw somebody else’s bags. And he gave me the evil eye the rest of the day.
Then, I didn’t see him after that for a few days. I went to his bosses at work. They said, “We don’t know where Roscoe is, Roscoe just stopped coming to work.”
After a few weeks, I thought to myself, Damn, maybe I shouldn’t have broke up with him. Maybe that was my blessing from God. If he was my blessing and I shitted on my blessing, that’s not cool. I need to find him and talk to him.
I went back to the address where I’d picked him up for our date. The same girl with Down syndrome answered the door. She said Roscoe was gone.
“Roscoe left, Roscoe not here no more, but you still so booty-full, you so booty-full!”
Nobody at his group home knew where he went. I even talked to the lady that ran the place. She said she didn’t know where he moved to or where he went. He left without even telling them where he was going.
I didn’t know where else to look for him, or what else to do. He was gone. He just vanished.
Nobody knew what happened to Roscoe.
I didn’t tell anyone about Roscoe and me. I just kept it to myself.
I still have all these what if’s go through my mind. I seriously think to myself, What if he was an angel from heaven? What if God was testing me to see if I can have compassion and overlook people’s physical handicaps and look at the beauty of their souls? Roscoe was such a beautiful person, he had a truly beautiful soul.
He was always so positive and supportive. Whatever I said I wanted to do, everyone else put me down or told me I couldn’t do it. Not Roscoe. He would always encourage me. He was one of the first people I told when I decided to start doing comedy.
Tiffany: “I’m about to go full-time in comedy, Roscoe.”
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEE! Youu do soo good! Youu soo fun-neeee! Tell me when youu doin’ it, I’m going to come see youuu.”
Tiffany: “I’m doing open mics right now, maybe when my shows get bigger, then you can come to the show.”
Roscoe: “Oh, you’re so fun-nee, youu make everybody laugh, you’re going to be the best comedian, you’re going to be the best.”
He would always be so encouraging. Even though life had dealt him such a bad hand, he was just a positive motherfucker.
And then he was gone, and it was my fault.
For years, I didn’t tell none of my friends about him. Then I ran into one of my old coworkers, and I told her. She about choked:
Friend: “You fucked Roscoe? Oh my God. How did you end up fucking Roscoe? I remember he used to talk about you every day, and if you didn’t show up to work, he’d be wondering where you were, so worried about you. How did you end up fucking Roscoe?”
I told her what happened, the whole story. Then she got all mad at me:
Friend: “You never told no one that? If you don’t talk about that onstage, you wrong! You have to go talk about that, because handicapped people need love—they need love too, they people.”
Tiffany: “Yeah, I know. I know I’m going to heaven, too. Roscoe taught me that.”
Friend: “What do you mean you know you’re going to heaven?”
Tiffany: “Because I fucked Roscoe. Roscoe is probably an angel, a fallen angel. I feel like Roscoe was like the John Travolta character in the movie Michael. He came to earth to teach me to be humble and that all people need love no matter who or what they are. Because I fucked him, that’s why he disappeared. Th
at’s why we don’t see him no more, because he went back to heaven. Only a heavenly dick could fuck me the way Roscoe did.”
She kinda paused, and then we both broke out laughing. She told me:
Friend: “Well . . . I don’t know about all that. But still, you gotta talk about this. You gotta tell the world about your handicapped angel.”
In my heart, I knew she was right: I couldn’t keep it to myself.
How I Got (Restarted) in Comedy
I quit comedy when I was eighteen, so I could get a job and provide for myself.
I got restarted in comedy at twenty-two, because I had to stomp a bitch for disrespecting me.
It was Bertha. Yes, that same Bertha, the stripper that Titus the Boyfriend couldn’t pimp, but I could. Here’s how it all went down.
When I was still pimping her, Bertha asked me if I could pick her up from the strip club one day. She had me take her to a party. When we arrived, Titus the Boyfriend was there.
Tiffany: “I don’t know if I should stay for this.”
Titus: “Nah, it’s cool, Tiff. It’s cool. I ain’t tripping. I get it. Let bygones be bygones. Me and Bertha, we in a relationship now.”
Tiffany: “Okay. Cool.”
I pulled Bertha aside and told her:
Tiffany: “I will always be cool with you. Just don’t ever disrespect me. If you ever disrespect me, it’s going to be a motherfucking problem.”
That night was fine. I was drinking 211 beer. Now, I don’t know if you ever heard of this beer, but it’s 99 cents. This is the shit that bums buy to get all fucked up on the cheap. It makes you fucking crazy. Of course, Titus the Po’ Pimp has this at his party.
I drank some and fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, it was late. Titus and Bertha were on the floor, right next to the couch I was sleeping on. Fucking. Like, right next to me. I jumped up:
Tiffany: “BITCH, WHAT I TELL YOU ABOUT DISRESPECTING ME?”
I just started stomping on her. I was straight ghetto-stomping her out. She curled into a ball and started crying.
Tiffany: “GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS UP, BITCH! I’M FIXIN’ TO BEAT YO ASS SOME MO!”
The Last Black Unicorn Page 9