Chapter 5


3:30 p.m.

              I get home and tried to shake off whatever the hell that was.  Dudes acting strange, negroes locked up in closets and shit. And I’d be lying if I try to act like it didn’t scare the shit out of me.  I was just glad I didn’t see anything I wasn’t supposed to see.

              First thought was to delete the fucking app. But I needed to make sure that ole boy couldn’t find me again.  When I hit the block button, it does that bullshit where an ad comes on and freezes the phone.  Makes it hard to just block a whole bunch of dudes at one time.  When Jack’d finally works, right away I get pulled back in, looking at profiles, bodies, dicks, asses…

              Then my sister calls.

              “Marc I need you to do me a favor.”

              “Yo, I’m in a zone right now,” I say, but I notice she sounds bothered too.

              “No, no, this is important Marc.  Really important.”

              Yeah, she’s shook from something.  And this distraction might be what I need anyway.

              “And I know you know how to keep shit to yourself since I can’t get you to tell me anything.”

              “What is it Davia? I already don’t want to do it so just come with it.”

              “Don’t get alarmed, but a rider left a dead body in the trunk of my car, only he wasn’t dead after all.”

              What the fuck? “Davia where are you? I’m coming now—”

              “No, no, no, honey I’m fine.  The police left me alone because this white dude who was the next customer—anyway I’m okay for now. But so that this doesn’t go sideways, I need you to go to the hospital and see if you can find out who the dude is. He would have been admitted to ER about an hour ago.”

              “How do I find out without a name. And which hospital?”

              “Hollywood Presbyterian. And I don’t know, negro, phone a friend. I know you have some hookups.”

              I just start laughing. I know this shit wasn’t funny in general.  But the reason she couldn’t go to the hospital herself, because she molly whopped a security guard with her purse when he tried to escort her out of the waiting room, that shit is still funny. I was there because my sister had been in a car accident and had a minor concussion. It’s Davia’s sister too and she was on 10 the whole time.

              “I hear you laughing, negro. I hear you. It won’t be funny when you’re running around the ER trying to find this fool. Good luck. And don’t leave until you get something.”

              Still laughing.

              It was all good though. When Davia hangs up, I call the receptionist working that day – she felt so bad back in the day about Davia not being allowed back that she gave me her number and she told me she would help in any way we needed. And give me some pussy if I wanted it.  I didn’t, but I didn’t want anybody to know that I was turning it down so I flirted back and gave her my number.

              When you hit up the ER, usually they ask you who you going to see. But my girl let the receptionist know my situation, and the dude directed me to Number 12. 

              The curtain ain’t even closed when I get there. Nobody was in Number 12.  I saw a nurse and started looking distraught.

              “Excuse me Miss, I’m sorry to bother you and I know you’re busy. But I was told at Reception that my cousin is here at Number 12 and, well, I just want to know where he was relocated. I’m a little beside myself right now so forgive me.”

              “Oh you’re fine, no worries.  I’ll check for you.”  She looked on an electronic pad.  Even the ER has gotten high tech. “Mr. Torres is in ICU.”

              Mr. Torres.  Now I know who to look for.  Although there could be three Torres’s right here at this hospital. It’s L.A.

              ICU is smaller, but with actual rooms instead of areas sectioned off with curtains.

              That’s cool. I knew how to snoop.  

              I start walking down the hall looking into the window of the doors to each room.  A few older folks in the first, a few people in the second. Two to a room with a curtain in the middle.  The corridor doesn’t go that much deeper so I’m thinking if it’s not the last room, I can start looking at the rooms on the way back.

              That’s when I see him.


              I freeze, feeling fear and remembering his mouth on my dick.  The dude from earlier. Except that I can’t see the two apples on his neck because of his lab coat and the fact that I’m too far away.

              Without saying shit, I turn around and start walking back toward the stairs.

              “Hey can I help you with something, sir?”

              The voice is the same and scares the shit out of me. It doesn’t sound like he saw my face, but I don’t take a chance. I walk faster to the stairs and get out.

              Second time in 24 hours I was running from the same dude like he was some boogeyman in my nightmare. 

              I was gonna have to tell Davia.

              I was gonna have to tell her everything.



1:44 p.m.


              The first thing Shaw made me Curtis vow was to not touch him.  Shaw had been good, very busy in fact, and did not need the additional complication of whatever joy Curtis got from upsetting his stability.

              Curtis promised without hesitation. 

              He told Shaw everything, starting at fucking the dude from the app, to the fight, to the new guy coming through, to the old guy waking up, to the pulse being gone, to carting the body in an industrial laundry basket and dumping it into the trunk of a Lyft.  Shaw listened with very little change in his expression before asking questions.

              “Did you get any information from the guy’s phone?  A name?”


              “Does he know who you are?”

              “No,” Curtis said. Then he looked around nervously. “I’m not sure.”

              “Where did you get out of the Lyft?”

              “Around LaBrea and Pico.”

              “Do you work tonight?”

              “No, I’m off.”

              Shaw slumped back on his sofa, as much as somebody that pulled could slump. His skin glistened.

              “You need to pick up a shift at the lab at Presbyterian as soon as you can.  While you’re there, I’ll check the morgue and your Lyft history for evidence of a police report, if the driver filed one. This might help us find out who this DOA might have been.  But you need to be at work as a reason to go that direction in a Lyft other than to get home.”

              Curtis was stunned at how fast Shaw processed the information, even though there was no reason for him to.

              “I’ll find out everything else and get back to you with instructions.  These are instructions you’re going to follow to the letter, Curtis.”

              “Thank you.”

              “Curtis, we never had this conversation.”


              “And after I get you out of this jam, the return favor is that you never call me again.”

              Curtis felt it as a punch in the stomach, a punch so hard he considered the alternative of turning down this help and going to prison instead.


              “Non negotiable.”

              Curtis could not say yes.  He got up and left, his dick hard, his heart soft.   To reclaim a bit of power he walked out and said, “I’ll call you.”

              Shaw beat him to it.  When Curtis made it to the lab at Hollywood Presbyterian, Shaw told him that the man whose body he had thrown in the trunk of a Lyft was alive. 

              Rafelo Torres.

              The collection of blood, urine and stool samples for analysis sat close. Curtis could have sworn he had seen that name in it, Torres.  He rummaged through the pack, found Rafelo Torres and ran the tests.

              He had been on Dilaudid.  Curtis remembered from years of school and training as a medical lab technician that hydromorphone and other narcotics prescribed for pain relief can lower the pulse so much that it can disappear for hours.  He must have presented as dead.

Adrenal insufficiency might account for the seizure.

              He was relieved that the man was alive, but nervous about it too.  Shaw had advised that Curtis at least steal the phone.

              Curtis waited until a sufficient stack of his workload got completed (the emergency room additions did not help) before he could hop on the staff elevator and get to the ICU.   The first room he made it to on the corridor was the one:  there was Rafelo Torres, unconscious, plugged into everything.  To make this theft not look suspicious, Curtis told himself to be quick. He stood for a minute and thought about how he could look around while taking an additional blood sample.  He prepared something to say just in case someone caught him and asked.  “A few of the samples were corrupt,” he would explain. And while he took two or three, he would look with his eyes only, searching the room for Torres’ belongings so that he could get the phone.

              Only none of his belongings were there. Curtis got in and out of the room with three more vials of unnecessary blood but didn’t find the phone.

              He walked out of the room and checked one ore time for maybe some place he missed, a corner of the room he forgot to visit with a glance.  Just when he had given up, he turned his attention to the right and saw a familiar body walking away, his back to Curtis.

              “Hey, can I help you with something, sir?” Curtis said.  And somehow, without seeing the man’s face, he knew it was the other guy from the Salvia Hotel. 

              The fact that the three of them were within 20 feet of each other freaked him out enough to abandon the mission.  The elevator could not get there fast enough. 

              Curtis made it back down to the lab and sat, and breathed until his heart slowed.  Then he called Shaw and asked who this guy was.  



6:25 p.m.


              “We had to start without you,” Rich said holding the camera.

              Colby took his jacket off mid-step and flung it on a chair in the makeshift set.  The sound of moaning and screaming could be heard in little pieces, landing like the jacket. 

              “It doesn’t look like I missed anything, those two still have on underwear,” Colby said, pointing to the muscular caramel guy and the forty-something white woman on the sofa.  

              “We had to cast without you because they weren’t available too late and—”

              “It’s okay, shit happens. Had to catch a later flight. Not too ripped, which is good, easier to sell it.  She’s perfect although I guess few people have seen our girl naked since she’s never been that way on television.”

              “Yeah, they’re close enough looking that we may not have to do a lot in post.”

“Did they sign the paperwork, NDA’s, deeper documents?”

“All signed.”

              A few women in the other bedroom screamed ecstasy almost in unison.

              “Too much noise?” Rich said.

              “Nah, the editor can take care of that in post too.  Let’s get to it. Remember not to shoot their faces until I tell you too.  Can you fuck her on her back first, um…”

              “Topaz,” the caramel-colored man said.

              “Topaz, hi. Yeah could you fuck her on her back first.  And ma’am would you oblige us? This is so behind and I’m only allowed to use this space while they’re shooting the other stuff. A favor, you know.”

              “Yes,” the woman said. “We get it.  Tara.”

              “Nice to meet you too,” Colby said. “Can we start with it open first. We don’t need to see size, although that’s a weapon right there.”

              Topaz had slid his underwear off and let his thick dick curve down and right, as if aiming for the pussy on the sofa.  Without hesitation, he grabbed it and engulfed it in her mouth.  Although it wasn’t deep down her throat yet, Colby could see Tara working to open her jaws wide enough.

              Colby watched for a few seconds as the raucous sounds of fucking in other rooms offset Rich’s smooth handheld shooting.  But Colby was all business.

              “You know what this is nice, but fellatio is too hard to make work in post so let’s just skip it and get to the good stuff.”

              Following the instruction Topaz put his dick inside the Tara, who was moist as ever by now.  Rich was about to object when Colby touched his shoulder. “We don’t have the real dick shot, buddy, so we don’t need to see entry. Get close in though.”

              As Topaz fucked Tara, Rich moved his camera closer. Each time Topaz’s dick plunged into the bed of her pussy, Rich zoomed in further.  By the time Colby took a look, he could see her natural juices right at the tip of her hole whenever Topaz pulled back.

              Colby shifted his attention from the playback on screen to Topaz. Maybe instinctively, Topaz’ camera-side arm was behind his back.

              “Done this before buddy?” Colby asked. Then, before a response, “You don’t have to hide the arm like this is real porn. Remember our guy wouldn’t do that, and this has to look sort of homemade.”

              Tara started to moan, grab her boobs, roll her eyes back. 

              “Do you plan to add the friend with the camera in post too?” Rich asked.

              “Yeah a little sound editing to add a fraternity track. We have that one done already.”

              Oh, ohhhh, aaah, aaaiii! Fuck me!   Right in front of him.         

I’m gonna cum! Oh my fucking God. Yesssss! In back rooms.

              It all sounded believable as hell. Tara especially. Colby knew. He had more experience with getting off on just the sound of porn, even more than the look of it.  Tara’s lead vocals of enjoyment with some backup from women in other rooms was turning him on, making his pink wood start to push up in his slacks. 

              But this was business.

              “Good stuff,” he said. “Okay Rich no faces yet.  Get up underneath it, from behind. I just want to see his ass, her pussy and his balls slapping it hard.”

              Rich glided over so that the camera centered the meeting.  Without any cue, Topaz fucked harder.  Tara’s hands were everywhere grabbing him, pulling him deeper.  The camera zoomed in, catching her swollen lips whenever his dick retreated. His ass looked good - maybe he should consider doing this for a living if modeling did not work out.

Tara gave a show. Or was really feeling it.

              Yes! Yes!  Ooooooooooh!  Fuck me with that cock! Give me that big cock!

              Two minutes of this passed, and Colby needed less before getting to the main shot.  He trusted that Topaz had been debriefed that on Colby’s mark, Topaz was supposed to pick her up on his dick with his back on the sofa and slide her down.  He was supposed get her reverse cowgirl so that Rich could pan up from their fuck spot to her boobs to her face, and his peeking from around the side of her back. But just before Colby gave the cue, the doorbell rang.

              He was stunned.  Anybody who knew about this space would never come to the front door. It was supposed to be secure. 

              A naked woman in flip flops casually walked to the door and opened it in the middle of this living room scene.   Without prompting, Rich stood in front of Tara and Topaz and swung the camera toward the door.

              “Sofa personnel, do not move, stay facing where you are and don’t move,” Colby said. Then to the girl answering the door, “What the fuck?”

              She opened the door to a delivery man.

              “Anybody for Seamless?” he said.

              Colby could not believe this was happening.  The delivery man was as surprised, unsure what was going on but in awe of the naked woman at the door and aware of the pleasure noises wafting toward the door.

              “Sorry,” the naked woman said. “He couldn’t find this address so I had to give him specific directions.”

              “This address doesn’t exist!” Colby said. “For a reason!”

              She shrugged.  “We were hungry. We didn’t get a lunch break.”

              The guy was in no hurry to leave the doorway after she grabbed the food and went to the other room. Colby grabbed his arm.



              Colby noted the Mexican joint where Sam worked. Colby looked at Rich, whose camera was pointed directly at Sam and waited for Rich to nod.

              “Great,” Colby said. “Listen Sam, make sure you never speak a word of this moment to anybody. Forget you were ever here and make sure the only address that gets to that restaurant’s files is whatever she gave you initially.  Capiche?”

              Sam nodded.

              Colby slammed the door.

              “I’m so sorry team,” he said.  “We’re going to have to shoot the whole thing again.  Topaz, if you can get that monster to stay up for it I’ll push to double your fee.”

              “No problem.”

              Colby sighed, regretting that he detoured earlier to play good Samaritan for the Lyft driver. Being on his earlier flight would have avoided him all this trouble.  But if he could still get and turn this footage into a deep fake by the next night, his work would be done.



Chapter 4


1:00 p.m.

              I mean I freaked the fuck out.   You’d have thought that me and Colby, the passenger I’d picked up, you’d have thought that we were close friends.

              “…what the fuck? Oh my God. Really? There’s a body in my trunk? What am I going to do about that?”  Yes, I said this to Colby, like we were tight.

              “Okay wait, calm down.  Let’s call the police right away…”

              “But what if they think it was me? They gonna want to investigate me.  I can’t have all that in my life. I have goals—”

              “I got this. Don’t worry.”

              Then I looked at Colby, this nicely dressed white guy…Latino guy?...white guy, tie in order, shirt fitted, thick legs underneath the slack, and I wondered, why are you so calm?

              He was picking up his phone calling the police for me.

              If I had finished collecting myself from the whole body-in-trunk thing, I might have protested this random man calling the PD on my behalf. But the freakout was still going.  All I could do was watch this man handle all of it.  I should have expected as much – he was white, or at least looked white, which is enough for them to take his story over mine. He waxed poetic, whitesplaining, mansplaining and corporatespeaking the whole story.

              Meanwhile he had good enough sense to get the paramedics over too. They were over there near the trunk and I was standing near a tree worried underneath the branches.  Thinking to myself, is this what God wants?  Is this immediate retribution for my Uber-orgasm?  Was then when I earned the 12 Years a Slave sentence?

              I was so caught up in this drama, no, real fear, that I missed the shocking part:  the paramedics put the man from the trunk on the gurney and started rushing.

              “He’s alive?” I shouted.

              But by the time I could make it to the vehicle, he was already in the back of the truck, full siren production. Now, I was mad. I’m nosey as fuck. I wanted to know who he was and I could have—would have looked at his face if I’d known he was alive. 

              The entire time, Tom Hardy was talking to the PD, nodding, saying things, laughing.

               The cops broke the full inquisition and came over to ask me for my license. I gave them all the licenses.  

Then I waited while they walked back to the car, all the while feeling bad about stereotyping him, especially as I was standing over near a tree scared to death looking like Erykah motherfucking Badu.

              Now when the officer came over and did not arrest me, I was dumbfounded.

              “We just want to as you some questions, Affidavia,” the officer said. “So we really need your cooperation when we reach you.”

              They were going to let me go and entrust me to come back?  They weren’t taking me in for questioning now?  Not even after they said my full government first name?  I looked at Colby/aka Tom hard in the face and stared.

              “Affi they just want you to chat with them later about the ride. All will be documented with Lyft,” Colby said in rapid fire like this stuff was normal.

              Affi? This colonizer just took my government name which he has not been authorized by me to use and remixed it into a nickname?  I couldn’t even speak, especially since now was not the time to be ungrateful.

              “We have your lawyer’s information so we’ll be in touch.”

              “My lawyer??”

              “Yeah, I just gave him John’s information, no worries, Affi,” he said coming toward me. “Thanks officers,” he said toward them.

              When we got back to the front of the car, I looked at him.

              “Um, what’s the story? What did you tell them? Will these people be at my house?”

              “Wait Af—”

              “Do not use that ever again. My name is Davia, hi I’m Davia, nice to meet you, that’s Davia, uh huh, no worries, yes, Davia.”

              He backed up and apologized. I mean he physically backed up, with swag even. At this point I was really worried about who this cat might be.

              To keep it one hundred, he couldn’t possibly know how angry the whole subject of my name makes me. My mother had a Poppies-from-The-Wiz period between my sister and older brother when she had me. When she named me Malfeasance, the thought cells were in rebellion, but at some point she realized her mistake. She got the affidavit to correct it. 

The problem is when she filled it out there was too much alcohol involved so she put the name of the document on the line where my new name should have been. And she misspelled it too.   Thus I became Affidavia Malfeasance Zirconoia James.

              Or just Davia, please and thank you, mercy Jesus.

              “Davia,” Colby said, “I have worked some things out, just consider it a favor. I just need for you to be sure to show up to whatever John needs.”   

              “This discount law is still law. So what else might John need?”

              “No, no, no, it’s nothing like that. I just mean cooperate with them helping you, that’s all.”

              I thanked him, wondered what the hell I had just gotten into and then decided to take the rest of the day figuring out what was going on. What my rights were.   

              The learning curve was hurtful.  But I finally got enough information to know that I needed to check on the guy who was somehow not dead but didn’t have a pulse a while ago.  I needed to find out what the hell happened and if my last rider put him in the car by himself or with help, and why, mainly because I was not trying to get killed by some random negro trying to make sure I can’t identify him when the police ask me about it.

              But the problem is that I could not go to the hospital myself, because he was taken to Hollywood Presbyterian on Sunset and Vermont.  Hm.  I was 86’ed from that hospital a few years back. I know, I know, it begs the question about how somebody could be banned from a hospital. But it was for assaulting a security guard. They had me on everything—it’s a long story; the point is that if I ever get seriously injured and need to go to the hospital, the ambulance has to take me to the other one, whatever that is.

              It’s fine. Marc would have to go for me and find out everything about this cat. He is in to me for so many favors anyway so he doesn’t have any currency for No. 




1:25 p.m.


              I had to leave my fiancé. 

              To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was ready to get married even though it’s everything I’ve always wanted.   Obama got the words right – the audacity of hope.  That’s the kind of hope I had that I would be absolutely sure about a man.

              I was sure the others weren’t right.  One ended with prepositions no matter the code and would not keep a job.  Another punched a saleswoman at Macy’s and would not take his lithium.  My inaugural boyfriend could not keep his hands off my friends.

              But this current and fourth one I said yes too because I knew that to marry him would be to marry a beautiful man with a good heart, good benefits, a Morgan Stanley Active Assets account, a condo in Bulgaria, a Liebowitz over the sofa in the study, a Lawyer of the Year award from the National Bar Association, a lake house in Wales and a lake in Korea. Granted, the lake is part of one of the properties that holds offices of a his globally branded nonprofit.  We would argue deliciously about mass incarceration as it pertains to the capitalization of slave labor and then have beautiful, standard fare missionary lovemaking sessions. More of the arguments than the lovemaking.

              He never seemed that sexually driven.

              But as I leave a client earlier than planned to drive to my house unexpectedly, I remember that my ex-fiance bought me a Mickalene Thomas portrait for my birthday.

              I’m in a cubic zirconium ankh with a diamond in the center that he got me for my birthday. Although it’s over between us I kept it, because it reminds me that I’m equal parts salt-of-the-earth real and high couture opulent.  And for another reason.

              My illusions about this got twisted up when I met a guy at a Starbucks who zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking, challenge-seeking missile. He knew I was the type of man whom no one had ever witnessed passing gas, who glared at belchers and refused to allow anyone to see the sweat.  

              Ten minutes later, it was me in the bathroom scene of Unfaithful.  This man tore open my shorts. He pulled down his pants.  He picked me up by my behind. He pinned me against the bathroom stall side panel. And then he did an hours worth of fucking in five minutes. Not one person entered that bathroom. Only my ass was entered.    He knew instinctively that I’m high maintenance.  He saw my effort to not get disheveled, protecting the Eton linen shirt from ripping, making sure the Dolce tank top wasn’t damaged.  He guided my chin to the side, choosing ear over eyes and whispered, “You like it tidy.  I’m gonna teach you messy.”

              I had never cum so hard.

              Nor so undone.

              I had to tie the underwear back together and wear them out by themselves, rock them with the sunglasses, tank and linen.  As a look – of course I turned it.

              I told myself not to call him, but I called.

              Every time I went to his unkempt place, the routine was the same.  I looked for a place to sit, found nothing suitable. He promised to make me sweat, made good on it and then used that sweat to slide me up and down the wall.  It was a mission. An obsession.  He didn’t even cum most of the time.

              The dynamic didn’t seem possible. Same height, him denser, more muscle-y, and me long of torso and slight of waist. Snatched. He would mount me on his dick, lever my head to one side by my chin and use his strong thighs to push me up and down the wall.   

              He would grab my bronze ass cheeks and pull them away from each other as I slid down on his dick.   

              It got worse (better) every time. 

              The next time I saw him, six months later, because it took that long to get past all my guilt, he did all that and then some.

              Whispered, “Did you think I’d forget how much you love that messy cum I push out?”

              No, no, that wasn’t a question. Because then he fucked me against two or three walls of the house in alternation.

              By this time, and unlike any other time before, his penis grew further up me every time I came down on it. I neglected to understand the phenomenon. He even started out longer, as if his penis had more battery power than before, as if his goal was to send its tip to my throat.  

Defiant, I did less, working to not sweat, to not produce the one symbol of my weakness for him.

              I was sweating enough to lubricate my penis on his hard stomach and cum up to his chin.

              He wiped it off me and put it in his mouth.

              He wiped off more and tried to put it in mine.

I was horrified. This was base.  Beneath me. Disgusting. Unbecoming.

              He saw my expression, my repulsion. He grabbed my hips and pulled me down farther, my ass wearing his entire length.

He stayed there and stirred my insides slowly with his dick the stars arrived mid air inside his apartment.

              I came again, this time an internal tsunami.  And I sucked his fingers helplessly. Defeated.

              I returned to his house again two weeks later.

              Then a week later.

              Then the desperation of lunch times, lies to lover and commuter daydreams.  Unfaithful.

              But that did not end well and this had to.

              I went to his house one day and told him it was over.

              He laughed.

              “I’m not going to even let you take off that pricey ass polo.”  He inverted me, leveraged me against the spine of the front door frame, slid me down almost to my head and scrunched off my pants.   The tongue assaulted my anus as if to slay all its no’s.[JS1] 

              “Wait,” I said. “At least let me take off my jewelry.”

              The eyes rolled, but he allowed it.  Knowing I had planned to give him every exit paper, he conceded that if I changed my mind, he at least needed to respect that I could not have on my engagement ring, the Onyx bracelet, the opal stud in my ear, the sterling bands on wrist.   

              Clear of bling, he fucked me on the kitchen sink, the wall and the balcony, upside-down. He made sure to make me cum on my clothes.

              Something had to happen.

              And then one fine day, when I happened see him after work, he put me on the bed. He respectfully took off all of my jewelry and collected it on the floor.  He put me on the bed and kissed every part of my body and pounded me with a sensitivity that I did not know could exist from men to men.  This time I came all over the sweat covering my body.

              “Do not move.”

              I obeyed.

              When he arrived back to the room, he used my driver’s license to scoop the orgasm and sweat off of me. I had no idea he was scooping it into a jar, a jar which temporarily had my jewelry in it.  He later added his ejaculate

              That evening, when he was sure I was home and in sight of my fiancé, he texted me.


              Can he see you and me up on those bracelets? 

              That ring shining more with our cum on it? 😉


              This time, I called off the engagement first.  Because before the indignation at his gall set in, I got hot. My ass started to moisten.  My entire girth jumped.  Immediate responses to the audacity of him. Not of hope. Of him.  This man who has abused my sense of order in favor of his inner higher power.  I could not enter a marriage with this kind of complication, no matter how base.  I needed to learn something else about myself that I did not know and couldn’t not know on the way down an aisle.

              So I left my fiancé.

              And then I ended the affair the next day, over the phone of course.

              I’ve ignored his calls for six months. Until last week, when I had to listen to some of the voice mail to clear messages. He was in love.  I never considered it because I was too confused to imagine that his heart could overpower his mission.  There were teary messages of how much he missed me, how he’d followed every post, studied every post from every show I produced.  He had never called a man’s name like he called mine before he came. Shaaaawwww…

Now, I finger the ankh, the only thing I did not have on that day. 

I got a call early today from local law enforcement that there was a man who looked like an intruder on my property. There is an app on my phone that will show me camera feed and then work like Waze to show the quickest path to my house.  When I saw the feed, I told the police to stand down because I knew the assumed perpetrator.

              He must have done something desperate to warrant something this dangerous and extreme to get my attention.  

              I make it to the house and pull into the driveway and see him sitting there on my porch, hugging his knees, just as he was in the feed.

              “What Curtis?” I say.  “What do you want?”        



Chapter 3


 9:45 a.m.


He swore last year he would never look for ass while he was high.

This time he had smoked a joint and a half and couldn’t think straight he was so horny.

Just one good fuck.  A quick one, no conversation, no chat.

But bouncing from thread to thread was harder than he thought, had asked much of his concentration.  The clear winner was a narrow-waisted soccer player with thighs and ass so bright they almost shone orange.   Past chats always ended when the cherub-mouthed cutie asked a personal question – place of work, kind of work, political party.

Curtis was having none of this, his irritation at filters on the app blazing more than his blunt. “Interests,” “Music,” “Movies,” an “Intro” section—who gives a shit about this when the goal is to get off?   Pretending to be interested in these answers was a straight man’s burden, and tonight he wasn’t trying to be one.

The other window had an older cat with fewer words than a headline in his profile    

 DL, big pipe to the front of the line, if I’m on I’m lookin right now

 It took Curtis two minutes to ignite his dilemma.



The ass shot dominated the phone screen, canceled everything around it.  The geometry of the ass was so perfect, a roundness reserved only for planets.  To Curtis the hole was mesmerizing, maybe because the high had slid deeper under his cheekbones, or maybe because it was somehow shaped like the small, short-branched crucifix hung always on his Pastor’s neck.  Curtis dove in.

 Damn. wya?  

Salvia hotel

You take dick?

How big


Come thru

 He tried to look up the address on Maps, but it took him so long to make out the tricks the phone played on him. Saliva Hotel. Saliva Hotel, he asked himself.  Saliva? What the fuck…  Then the buzz sound, like a sci-fi stun wand taking somebody down.  The app made it several times, and the messages were all from the first guy:  You busy working / what you watching on tv / how you like Kanye. / Are you coming this time? Come on man    

Too many questions.

Curtis pulled down the Maps window and tried Salvia Hotel again.  Three miles. Not far.  

Then the younger dude surprised him.  He sent,

 You can just come by and let me have it. Fuck me until you cum and just leave whenever. I won’t say a word. I promise.

 Now Curtis had dropped like a hard beat into his dilemma. He had been wanting the young shiny-assed boy for so long, wanted to choke his waist and pull the ass hard into his dick. He had ghosted on way too many questions and read way too many words, some he didn’t want to know: marginalization, diaspora, cisgender.  He deserved to fuck this boy for way too long.

But the full stop ease of the older dude made Curtis feel free. He texted.

 Yo ass ready now

Yep.  I’ll leave the door propped. You come in and fuck and leave.


Yeah. Brb

               Curtis was good with this. Bareback was cool because his dick was invincible. But he opened the pic again and stared at the ass. It had power that could stand up to his dick. He needed to see nothing else.  He stared and studied the ass in detail, imagined what it might feel like, pushed his erection toward it on the phone. This went on for four minutes that felt like marathons.

              He needed to send another text to the wordy guy, postpone it. Hold him off a little longer.

           Yo you know what dude

              Not back yet.

Not back where? / Where /  Yo?  

 Why was this boy tripping? Didn’t he just invite him over with no strings or words?  The ghosting didn’t add up.  He had been waiting another eternity, he was sure

 Sorry about that. Salvia Hotel.

 Curtis froze.  He was clear. He had not changed the window of the app once.  All of this was the older dude.

 You still comin

Yeah Salvia hotel here I come

When you get here let me know and I’ll give room number

 The high did not stop him from driving.  L.A. looked alive and well, as detailed as an animated film noir.  He was tripping. Then he wondered if this dude was masculine. Bass in the voice. Etc.  He tried to pull the phone out and realized texting was too much to handle. 

 Curtis pulled the car over on La Cienega and put the hazards on.

              Can I call you man?

 He waited, the high dragging everything out like a caution tape.  The reply came thirty seconds later, but Curtis felt it as five minutes and was just trying to figure out how to turn the car around on this hill.

              Yeah. Give me your number since you driving.

 Curtis did and the phone rang. 


              “Hey bro whassup. You on your way?” The voice came at Curtis with a lot of baritone, depth he could feel past his ear and through his skull.

              “Yeah man. I just wanted—”  Curtis stopped talking when he realized he didn’t know how to say that he wanted to make sure that the guy wasn’t “gay.”

              “You sound alright.”

              “Huh?” Wait, was the guy speaking Curtis’s mind?

              “Your voice. I only deal with dudes,” the guy said. “Not down with that faggoty shit. You sound right.”


              “Text when you get here.”

The guy hung up the phone.

Curtis’ dick pushed on his jeans so fast he had to drive with it out.  When he made it to the Salvia Hotel, he parked on the unlit back side of the hotel.

               What room

              312 The door is open. Come in.

The door was resting on the chain. Curtis pushed it open with caution with a whiff of sobriety, long enough to take in the room. He hurried in, closed the door and locked it.  This third world hotel had a foyer entrance big enough to stand in without being in the actual room.  He could not see the bed right away, only the bit of light coming from the nightstand.

              He walked in and saw that ass. The dude was standing near the bed, the silhouette of it.  Curtis sank back into his high, while the curves came at him. It wasn’t until he started to smell must of the dude that he realized he had walked over to him. Handsome dude, black and something else he could not place in the low light.

              Before Curtis could touch him, the dude walked around him with careful steps, climbed on to the bed and bent over on all fours.  It was the picture from the app having come to life.  It too rushed at him somehow and Curtis fell to his knees like a person ordered by an executioner.  With no idea how it got there, Curtis felt the taste of ass on his tongue, on his lips.  He slid it in, trying to push the moan out of the dude. 

              There wasn’t one. But he felt the smooth hair around the hole, tasted the must the dude’s cheeks made from being cozied up.

He grabbed the lube sitting on the night stand and oiled his whole dick.

The dude on the bed was still.

Was he alive? 

Curtis tried not to laugh, a weed tangent. Somehow that thought was funny as hell. Then he pushed his dick in like a truck entering a station.

The dude exhaled slow.

He pulled back, then pushed back in, two feet an hour.

Curtis felt extra wet heat on his dick, juice.  It made him dig further in. The dude told his pleasure to the pillow, some deep exclamation in some other language.

This made Curtis’ dick harden, grow bigger, push open the walls.

Another slow stroke from halfway out to further in.

He heard more baritone into the pillow.

He felt extra wet heat on his dick. When he pulled it out he saw the white foam.

Now the asshole was slippery. Curtis shoved his dick all the way back in it. Again and again. He heard the messy kiss of his thighs on these perfect cheeks and when he closed his eyes it sounded loud.

Thwack… Thwack…

The dude shook beneath him. Curtis plowed faster.

Now the dude was moaning louder, higher.  Foam cream crept to the edge of his asshole and Curtis got harder. The dude was bigger in stature, and Curtis guessed his dick matched it. Curtis reached around and grabbed the dude’s dick. He was right.  He felt the hood on it and stroked it.

The thick dick became a joystick—Curtis used it to pull the dude’s ass further back.

All the way back.  

Curtis felt his dick crawl deeper into the dude he was sure came from some island. They stayed locked like this for a few seconds that Curtis’ high dragged into ten minutes of profound feelgood.

Then Curtis banged him.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

The dude’s head bobbed around like he was drugged, going with the bang, enjoying it.

Curtis’ balls and the tops of his thighs kept kissing the dudes ass, pulling more foam to it every time.

Thwack, thwack.

Now foam was spurting everywhere, creamy white foam coming out around the Curtis’s dick every time he pulled it from the juicy asshole.

Curtis closed his eyes and felt like a hand made of warm gooey cream had grabbed his dick to yank the cum from it.

Thwack, thwack, thw-

Curtis came. He came forever. He came hard into the dude’s ass. 

For a moment everything was still except the heavy breathing of two men.  Curtis felt the cum on his fingers and knew he jacked the guy right.  They were quiet except for the breathing.  Deep breathing. Curtis’s knees relaxed, his hand still on the dude’s dick, his own still locked deep inside.

He started to ease it out.  But the dude pull himself away and stood beside the bed.  He opened his phone and looked at something, put the phone down and looked at Curtis’s resting dick.

Handsome dude. Very handsome.  Brown paper bag eyes.

“Wait where is it?”

“What?” The dudes voice was jarring and Curtis tried to focus.

“The condom. Where is it?”

Was he loud or were his ears just sensitive with the weed?  Curtis did not understand the question about the condom, even when he saw the dude look at the bed where the lube and condoms were.  Through the haze of after cum, Curtis started to understand that the horror on the dude’s face was about the fact the condom sitting there, unused.

“I thought you said, I thought—”

The sentence did not get out before he felt himself falling into the wall, away from the bed, a sharp sting on his cheekbone.   The realization of being backhanded had not sunk in until after the dude connected his fist to Curtis’s stomach, which sent him to the floor.

“You didn’t ask to fucking cum in me, bitch.”

Now Curtis could see the massive size of the dude, his body towering, the light behind it casting shadow. He had just enough reflex to roll over and miss the foot coming toward him.  Curtis tried to stand, but tripped over pants he forgot were still at his ankles.

When he looked back, he saw that the attacker also tripped. Maybe he was high too.

Curtis fought to get alert so that he could fight to get clear.

The guy groaned for a second and then reached for Curtis leg, used it to climb, to pull himself.

They struggled on the ground.

Curtis used the cord of the landline to yank the hotel phone off the table.

The dude made his way further toward Curtis’s neck.

Curtis felt the weight of the dude’s upper body fall on him.

 Then the shaking.

 Violent seizure. The entire body on top of him shook, even as consciousness seemed gone.

No, no, no, no.  This is not going down like this.

              Curtis turned the guy’s head on his side, took the phone receiver off the base and put half of it in the dude’s mouth.

              He got up. He looked around for something, not sure what it was.

              He started to dial 911 but he could not explain this and did not want this out. He would lose his job if the police showed up. He had to contain this.

              Curtis squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to focus.

              He ran back to the bed and grabbed the man’s phone.  It had not locked back yet, a miracle. He scrolled through the open windows and found the jack’d app right where the man left it, in a thread with somebody.  Curtis could not think straight. He could not get to a solution. He saw that the private picture did not look like the guy on the floor.

              The guy on the floor had stopped moving.  Except for a small rise and fall of his chest, he had stopped moving.

              Then the knock at the door.  Light, but there.

              In panic and sloth, he took his jacket and used it to tie the dude’s arms behind his back. He made a fishing knot that would be near impossible to escape, and then dragged the dude’s heavy body into the closet.

              Then he thought about the knock.

              He had to get it. If this dude was invited over here, it meant he wasn’t necessarily leaving.

              Curtis hurried to the dresser to see if the phone was still unlocked, if he could get the rest of the jack’d thread.

              It was locked.

              Knock. Knock.

              Curtis pulled his pants up and walked over to the door.

              He opened it to see a dark dude with smooth thick lips and almond eyes.

              “Yo,” was al Curtis could muster.


              This dude came in with authority and Curtis did not have the nerve or sobriety to react.

              “Don’t want people out there to hear, man. I keep it low.”

              And this is when Curtis realized that the brief increase of pace that helped him for the fight, the rescue effort and the body drag was adrenaline.   It was over. He was now caught in the muddy crawl of his high.

              He nodded, which was all he had.

              “You look better than that pic man,” the guy said.

              Curtis just stared.

              Then he remembered that he was supposed to do something with this man. He was impersonating a dead guy who had…forgotten to cancel on this dude?  

              He took two steps toward the stranger and touched his hip.

              Now he trembled, mostly because he worried. What if the dude wakes up before he can get this guy out of here?  Was that knot right?

“You alright man?”

              “Yeah, I just—”   Curtis tried to focus.  Horny, scared, high, he struggled to come up with a lie. “I never messed with a dude.” 

              He looked at the closet and then commanded his head to come back to the guy.   


 The feeling of tongue in his mouth helped.

The feeling of this man’s dick against his thigh let him know right away that he had to get it off. He was not prepared to take it, and he was too drained to give it.  

He would have to suck it.

Curtis shoved his hand down the guy’s pants and felt the dick.  Maybe he could jack him off and call it a day—the guy already felt hard enough to bust.

              When the new guy, the sexy guy, put his mouth on Curtis’s tattoo, he was surprised.  He did not know it was possible for this spot to feel good again – he got the two apples burned into his neck just to make sure nobody could ever gather his temptation the way those two negroes did for years.  No weak spots. None.

              Except now that these dark lips…is it the weed? Fuck that feels good…

              A noise came from the closet.

              Paranoia. The dude was out. 

Curtis still took no chances. Rather than fight the high, he used it to suck. He licked all the skin he could get to on his way down to the pipe, hard as a club.  When the dude backed away, for a second, Curtis worried about the shirt – was there something on it, like blood?

He took it off.

“Did you hear that?” the guy said.

Curtis hoped not.  He wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

He started blowing the new, dark dick in front of him.

              The moment it all went wrong was not clear to Curtis, except that the dude in the closet started to move around.   And that the new guy looked horrified.  Some weird instinct Curtis couldn’t place wanted the new guy to stick around to help, as if maybe the knot-bound dude in the closet would be more lethal now than he was before. Curtis was DDF but didn’t have the presence of mind to say it, nor the comfort to use it when it could have worked, nor the sobriety to know that it would not have mattered. But he felt some kind of comfort in this dark, warm guy who was fleeing the scene.

              He had to choose – keep the new guy or prepare to fight off the old one. Both was not an option.

              Or he could leave. He could leave and figure it out later, hope that the guy could never track him down.  If he got a head start, the guy would not be able to catch him.

              But the car keys were in his jacket pocket near the bed. And if he took off on foot, and the knot did not hold…

              Curtis needed more time for all these thoughts and for his high to go away.

              The dude continued to struggle to move out of the closet.  Curtis planned to knock him out cold, buy himself some time.

              A phone never felt so heavy. When the dude to get his head out, Curtis swung the phone down.  The dude turned his head side just in time for his temple to connect with the blow.

              He fell instantly in a slump, halfway out of the closet.

              But Curtis could not see any movement in the body. Not even the rise and fall of the chest.  

              Now he was very afraid.

              “Yo.” It was a plea, not a question.

              No response.

              “Hey. What the fuck?” 

              Curtis moved over to him and slowly reached his fingers to the throat. Pot paranoia replaced pot desire. He expected the guy to jump up and grab his 5’9 frame and throw him across the room.

              He kind of wanted him to.

              This was worse.

              There was no pulse.

              He searched again. He felt the wrist, the neck again, the other wrist. There was no sign of a pulse.

              He checked again.

              And then he checked one more time.

              No pulse.

              Curtis sat, almost catatonic, and tried to figure out what to do.  After 10 minutes, he had a loose, weed-soaked plan.

              He would use something to prop open the door.

              He would find a laundry bin.

              Then he would call a Lyft.



Chapter 2


11:15 a.m. Wednesday


This Negro has lost his damn mind if he thinks he’s going to tie up this bathroom. He hears me banging on the door so I’m clear this is rebellion.  He keeps forgetting I’m the older sister with the keys to everything – the attic, the car, Mom’s safe deposit box, Pandora’s box, Jack in the Box, everything.    

 “I’m coming out in a minute. Stop tripping.”

              “I have to pee negro. Get out. I’m also trying to leave so I can go to work.”

              “You drive for Uber. You ain’t on no clock.”

              Now this little aspiring hood rat hiding his full anthropology degree and matching vocabulary under that Playstation hasn’t made ten whole dollars since Princess Diana died and that’s because his ass was in the single digits and the cute smile still worked. He sits around perpetrating some thug for reasons unknown. Unless he was gonna hop his funky ass in the shower, he could jack off in his room.

              And all the drugs my sister smuggles in for STD’s are in the freezer in the garage.

              “None of your business negro and it’s Lyft anyway. Get out.”

              And really I drive for both, I just prefer Lyft. But you know what, maybe I need to be in his business.  Figure out what his failure to launch is all about. I get that Dad dying was a big deal, and that they had just reconciled enough to do two Laker game dates.  But I don’t get the privacy.  He was a semester into his Masters before we knew about it…

              Whatever. I need to worry about me. That’s my thing lately. Worry about Davia.  Screw this little negro.

              I start banging on the door again. No answer.

              “Marc I will pee in your Nikes, negro. Get out!”  I can’t go as far as Haddish, because shitting is too private to share.  Which I would respect if he were actually shitting. But this asshole thinks the flush is confusing me when I know he ain’t doing shit. I mean literally he ain’t doing shit. Our door is too small. I would have been spraying Febreeze outside.  

              “I can still pee in your Nikes after I leave here. I have a lot of pee so don’t act new.”

              He finally comes tripping out of the bathroom.

“Here. Now you can pee like you civilized, in the toilet.”

The whole bathroom smells like a botanical garden he sprayed so much.

              “Lying negro, get out so I can slam this door.”

              I pull the hat over my head because my ends are shit and I don’t get the Uber money or my paycheck from the City soon enough to get my hair done properly.   Outside, Marc sounds like he’s looking for something.

              “Fel has Mom’s car if you looking for the keys,” I tell him.   “You could just wait and hire me and I can take you where you’re going.”

              He ain’t doing this because you know, he’s the Pentagon.

              “Nah, I’m good.”            

              When I come out of the bathroom, I have to step over all the items the people related to me have left strewn about.  Then, the other day, my sister’s trifling ass Dominican husband brought one of his three babies from previous girlfriends over to the house to babysit. Glad he’s being a daddy and all, even if it is once every two months or so. But that means you get to clean up after yourself and your kids.  I realize he’s fine and all. The skin, the dimples, whatever.  If this heifer has a baby by him I will fight her.

              It’s important to give yourself goals when you drive Uber or Lyft. They say go big or go home. I can only do the former because if I continue with the latter I might murder my family with glee. Glee. So I’m trying to figure out how I can make my own version of this app to sort out some of the issues with it that they haven’t worked out.  A whole paycheck bet on the fact that the creators probably didn’t do this shit themselves as drivers, only as passengers.

              Now this Tinder app is another story. My right thumb is experiencing carpal tunnel just from the heavy swiping to the right I’m doing for these tired fools on here.  Not sure that there is any fix other than going somewhere where there are better men.  They think a whole lot of themselves. They take GQ shots, floss shots, gold teeth shots, drink shots in the shots. You name it I swipe across it.

              This one cat called himself “the G who knows your G spot.”

              But there was one guy last year who was relatively close and fine as hell. Young, look like he just came out of the washing machine fresh.  Johnathan. Pretty teeth, nice wave-cap-made hair, at least a basic understanding of the English language and a body-ody-ody.

              I swiped Left.

              He swiped left too.

              When we talked and he said he could sing, I was interested.

              When he said he’s 24, that meant he could only make me cum because the cut off age for something serious is Marc’s and he’s 25. Not going down further than that. But maybe Johnathan could go down further than that.  To my nether regions.

              GPS is nice and all, but he doesn’t need to know even what area I live in.  So I took to meeting him in the same area he found me in on the app, not far from the airport.

              Mind you, today I’m in a long, heavy African print skirt with my locks up in a scarf, so that these passengers don’t mistake this affable smile for weakness. They need to assume I have something under my seat other than good hot cootchie (there’s a slit on the side of the skirt for easy access and I pull one leg out of the underwear to help).

              So I’m waiting over near Manhattan Beach, where I know there will be folks needing to go to LA soon.  Johnathan shows up and I act cool, like I don’t have time.  Mind you, this is the third time I’ve seen him and I’ve let him finger my snatch every time. Last time I let him taste it but ended that shit right away because it was feeling good and I was in no position to take the time. Plus I hadn’t made my quota that week, so I didn’t deserve the reward. Anyway, I put lots of time in between meetings so that Johnathan doesn’t think I’m thirsty or desperate.  A bitch has to find herself unavailable often, cause negroes have egos even when it ain’t serious.

              “Hey African goddess.”


              “You have ten minutes, maybe less.”

              “You still a goddess.”

              I roll my eyes real hard.  “Look I have to work, in a second. I’m logging on in five minutes and if I get a ride, that’s it.”

              “I’ll give you a ride,” he says and starts grinning with all his teeth.

              “You know I can’t touch you and then do my job. I don’t have any hand sanitizer.”

              “Come on, man why you got to be like that?”

              He is right, to be fair. I could have at least given him a hand job one of these times at the very least.  But this is 2019 and we ladies spent all last year understanding our worth.

              “It’s just that I’m a little scarred. I had a bad experience, the last time I did it, this guy was rough, and my head, it was, you know, it was bad…”  I pour this shit on thick. “I mean I know you’re not like that, you’ve been great, but…”

              “I’m sorry. You know what, I’m sorry, my bad. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

              I try to cry on cue but I’m too horny to be anywhere close to tears or even good bad acting.

              “Hey,” he said, “can I at least take it out?”

              Before I can answer, I look over from my dry tears and see his entire dick standing up like a volcano. With a palm tree coming out of it.  I swear it’s that big. It’s only 24 years old, so it doesn’t need a scaffold. 

              I roll my eyes again and pretend to be unbothered while juices run to my sweet parts like people on their way to a sale.

              “Fine,” I say and grab the top of the tree.  “You have five minutes and then I’m hitting that button to go on-line and take—oooh—shit.”

              His fingers are feathering my cootch and I closed my eyes. It was too good.   It is too good to be true.   Way too good.  I open my mouth and air comes out slowly. My eyes close.  His fingers move around.  My stuff opens up to him.  I grab his hand before he can circle my juice with his finger tips. He reaches the there anyway.  

              I moan.

              He breathes warm air on my neck.

              I moan.

              He calls more juices to his hand.

              I moan.

              He plays a song on my clit.

              I cum.

              A lot.

              I breathe heavy in recovery, and to get back to the matter at hand. Fiscal goals.

              But it takes me longer because this was his best work so far.  I’m still shaking. I don’t even realize I still have my hand on his tree of a dick.  He tries to talk and I take that hand and cover his mouth with two fingers that he pries apart with his tongue.  Now I have to be back to earth for real, before I let this little negro really get it.   

              Without hesitation, I sign on to the app to get rides.

              “Wait what you doing?”


              “You gonna leave me like this.”

              I look at his dick and you know what, it seems unfair. Really it does. But then I think, this is 2019.  Men have left women sore and orgasm-free for entire marriages while they pursued great wealth and power.   This youngster, growing cuter by the minute, could definitely be a casualty.  He’ll take one for the team.

              “Yeah,” I say. “Oh look, there’s a pick up down the street at the Salvia Hotel. You got to go cutie.”

              “Wait, wait, where is that? Can I get a ride with you to there and then get out.”

              If I agreed to take him there, it would cancel the last little bit of guilt I have about leaving him high and dry. Fuck it.

              “Sure, but you have to get out of the car as soon as we stop.”

              That is, of course, not what happens. Right after I drive the four minutes to the hotel, Johnathan is in my crotch.  Mind you, he had tried to put his fingers back there a few times when I called the rider and was told to go to the back of the hotel.  As soon as I put the phone down, I told him to get out of there.

              But while I’m waiting for the passenger, this boy takes his seatbelt off, slides his head down into my seat and grabs my spot with his tongue.  I mean he folded up my entire clitoris with his tongue.  

              Then he starts to hum.

              Like a jazz standard. Into my crotch.

              I put my hands on his head with the intention of moving it away but all I can do his squeeze him further. Relenting is inevitable with the relentless.

              My eyes are closed now as he uses…something—ooooo damn, lips, tonsils, a second tongue (did this little negro have a second tongue???) to suck the flesh of my pussy toward him.  His tongue gets the meat of my thighs too all at one time and I shake.  

              I start out sounding like Toni Braxton. “Whew.” 

              But after a few minutes, when he finds that magic between his finger and tongue, I holler like Al Green.  I know I’ll be embarrassed later but I can’t help myself.  He has me on the cusp for what seems like two hours and I know it’s been two minutes.

              The knock on the window is so loud, probably because I am so deep in this near-orgasm. Fortunately, it’s on the back passenger window.  I fiddle around with the door and roll down the window a little.

              “Curtis?” I say, checking the phone.

              “Yeah can you pop the trunk?”

              Then he leaves the window very fast and I’m relieved.  I push the trunk release button and I see the lid fly up in the rearview mirror.

              “Johnathan you have to go.”  He just keeps melting my middle, fingers and tongue working at the same time.  I can’t tell if it’s just me or what’s going on, but it feels like a lot of weight in the back of the car, like dude is loading five suitcases. 

              “Johnathan, you have to goooooooooooo – oh fuck!”

              I cum with the energy of a hundred stars exploding. 

              Johnathan gets out of my lap just in time for Curtis to get in. And now that I’ve had an attack blow job, Johnathan has to get out.   

              Somehow, this mothafucker understands this and has a self-satisfied smirk on his face when he turns to Curtis and says, “She was sleep but she good now. You want the front.”

              “Nah, man. I’m good.”

              She good now? Smug bastard.  Now, I’m just mad that he’s right, that he made me cum like that with his ambidextrous mouth and volcano penis.  Well I guess he didn’t use the penis, but he had it, which helped his cause.              

              I just look at him and shake my head as he walks away from the car.             

              “We’re going to San Vicente and Hauser?” I ask Curtis.


              “Just, um, on the corner? No address, right?”

              “On the corner.”

              Fine, he’s the mysterious type.  But to get out of the mindset of this colossal orgasm that I just had in my money-maker (and I mean the car, since my cootchie was actually losing me dollars), I try talking to him.

              “You’re my first ride of the day so far,” I say.


              “How is it going so far?”


              “I should be able to get you there soon. Not too much traffic on surface streets.”


              I look at him in the rearview mirror and he looks anxious, like he’s running from a crime scene.

              “There should be a water bottle back there if you need some,” I say. “I left the other vehicle with the backseat Keurig dispenser at home this time so you’re out of luck.”

              He does a flash of lightning smile and I realize he’s not as much rude as he is worried. He could have been traumatized by the cops. This is Los Angeles, the city that originated the televised unpunished law enforcement hate crime against black men.

              Now, I try not to be nosey, but I couldn’t help but notice the sweat on his cheek from what looks like anxiety. And then there’s some dripping down on his neck. And by the way, who puts a tattoo of two apples looking like Siamese twins on their neck area? Siamese apples?  You know these little hoodrats…

              And who am I to judge, smelling like open, freshly eaten cootchie.   I roll down the windows.  Old boy in the back doesn’t say anything else. And I struggle not to call and ask Johnathan what he’s doing later.

              “You okay?” I ask. “Seriously. Not to get up in your business but is there anything I can do?”

              “I’m good.”

              Ten minutes later I pull over.

              “Why you stopping?”

              “Another passenger,” I say. “You chose Uber share.”

              He checks his phone and sees that this shit is true, so he makes that face men make when they’re mad at themselves. 

              And then, and this is the part that made me feel like I was in Stranger Things, he hops out of the car and bounces.  I’m yelling out the window and I’m just about to get out of the car until I realize that whatever evidence of Johnathan’s cootchie conquer might be right there in the seat. That’s a bad look for this next passenger. 

              And by the way, the passenger, Coby is the name on my phone, he comes out with a small roller bag.

              “Hi, Davia right? Can I put this in the backseat or should I do the trunk?”

              The trunk!

              That’s when I realize that Curtis has left all his shit in the trunk. Who does that?  But you know what, it almost didn’t happen in my world because it was being shook at the time. I have to tame all my judgments.  Now, I pump the trunk and I get out of the car and try to pull myself together all at the same time.

              “I’m sorry sir,” I say, making my way around, “but the guy who was just here just ran out and left his stuff in my trunk and would you believe all this time driving for Uber and Lyft, I’ve never someone leave behind actual luggage.”

              I can’t figure out why Coby is looking shocked until I get to the back of the car and see that there is a grown man, still as rocks, stuffed in fetal position with his back to us.

              And then I run back to the side of the car, screaming.




Chapter 1


10:46 a.m. Wednesday

I needed to bust.  And with somebody.

It take two minutes to download the app and make a profile.  I never been on it but I seen my friends on it.  Used my dad’s old email addy, downloaded a pic that showed my stomach, my legs, my print. I put up my stats.  27, 5’8, 140, 8.5, single.

I start looking at profiles and they come at me like trains pulling in a station.

But it was taking forever to go through each one. Some of the profiles have blurry pics, pics of trees and skies, bad silhouettes and shit.  Convos slow as fuck cuz bros be in denial about wanting to fuck.  Even the dude that moved fast took a while.

Hey whasup

Whassup wit u man

Watching tv

What you get into?

Smoke and chill.

That’s whassup. 

I whip my shit out, stand up and take a shot of my dick. Too dark. I used the flash and the shit was right. Overhead shot, like a drone shot but close so the tip of my dick climbed up out the picture.

              I send it.

Sexy af. I want it

Send ass pic

Didn’t hear shit from him after that for a while.

Take me 30 minutes just to go through the messages.  Big dudes trying to hide the gut. Little dudes trying not to look short.   Dudes with $$$$ all over their shit looking for somebody “generous.”  Some chocolate chasers sending three and four ass shots at a time.  A few blank no-pic profiles who opened they private pics.   My friend always look at the ones with no pics cause usually those bros be DL and fine as fuck.  I open the first one. Dee / 23 years old / 5’2 / 110 lbs / black / looking for Deepthroats++++ to be on cam / sex cam, videos, pics.

Nah, even if I was trying to take dick, it ain’t going down my throat and I ain’t no porn star. Block.  I looked at profile after profile. Every other one keeps my shit on hard but some of these cats be so quick with the pics coming at me, it’s a turn off.  You got yo shit ready like that when you thirsty. I don’t need a thirsty one.

Then the first dude finally sends the ass shot, 10 minutes later. It had him on his side, leg bent, like he on a sofa. The twist in the waist area supposed to hide the gut – I’m hip to that trick. Best friend complains about it all the time. Block button.

The app drains your battery and mine was already on low. The outlet in my bedroom wasn’t working and I didn’t need the family up in my business so the living room outlet was out. Too many people living up in this house anyway.

I’m not out. My older sister is nosey as fuck and my twin sister’s trifling ass Dominican husband so busy judging people even though they live here in my mother’s house.  So I go to the bathroom and sit in there, charge my shit in the outlet near the sink.  

I keep scrolling through the profiles until I see the one I wanted. Sexy ass dude. Body on point.  Good stats, 6’0, 180. He hit me with “Sup.”

Chillin. You?

Just at the hotel watching tv

That’s whassup. You trying to fuck?

Yeah send me some pics.

Just for you right?


I can’t have my shit getting out. Too much to lose.

This is my shit. This is the guy. I didn’t need my business out in the street.

He sent me some pics. Banging body, looked like sweet potatoes, solid.

How freaky are you?

How freaky you need?

Anonymous shit.


I want you to come to my hotel room and fuck me.  Don’t say shit. Don’t introduce yourself.  I’m gonna leave the door propped.

Dude it’s gonna take me a while to get there. You thirty minutes away.

You text me when you get here and then I’ll leave the door open. I’ll be ass up on my hands and knees. You just come in and fuck.  After you cum, I want you to kiss me and then leave.

He sent me a sexy profile pic.  Dude looks like Lebron but with a smaller face.


My sister yelling at me through the door sounding like she in the bathroom with me, in the toilet or something.  Banging the side of her fist against the door.

“I’m coming out in a minute. Stop tripping.”

              “I have to pee negro. Get out. I’m also trying to leave so I can go to work.”

              “You drive for Uber. You ain’t on no clock.” Davia don’t keep a job.

              “None of your business negro and it’s Lyft anyway. Get out.”

              I had to hurry up cause she wasn’t gonna let up.

              Bring condoms. I only do safe sex. Come and fuck me until you bust. But only safe.

              Bet.  Address?

              Then I’m waiting and this dude taking forever.

              She banging on the door again. “Marc I will pee in your Nikes, negro. Get out!”

              I unplug the phone and flush the toilet to make her think I was using it. I spray  the Febreeze.

              Shoulders cross and she thinks I checked her.

              “I can still pee in your Nikes after I leave here. I have a lot of pee so don’t act new.”

              I come out of the bathroom. 

              “Here,” I say. “Now you can pee like you civilized, in the toilet.”

              “Lying negro, get out so I can slam this door.”

              I start looking for the keys to my mother’s car. I’m tearing up the front room trying to find those shits.

              “Fel has Mom’s car if you looking for the keys,” Davia yells from the bathroom.

              Fuck. If I have to wait for a uber, I have to go through trying to tell the driver where we live.  This part of Centinela is crazy for GPS.

              “You could just wait and hire me and I can take you where you’re going.”

              I don’t need Davia in my business.  She don’t know I fuck with dudes and if she did my whole family would know.  That fucking Dominican my older sister married to, we already almost come to blows.  I’d be fighting his ass all the time.

              “Nah, I’m good.”

              I leave, walk over to the store and then order the Lyft.

              I check the app to get room number to the hotel.  315.

              I take the stairs so I don’t have to wait in front of the front desk.

              I knock twice.

              It seem like it take him forever to get to the door.


              He probably can’t hear me though and I don’t want to say more cuz people might hear.

              I turn to leave and he opens the door.  Couldn’t see him.   

              When I walk back I get a good look.

He don’t look like the picture. 


              Lighter than LeBron, more like McCollum. He shorter than me and I’m 5’10.  This dude sexy as hell. I don’t know why he so nervous.



              I hurry in.           

              “Don’t want people out there to hear, man. I keep it low.”

              He kind of nodded.

              “You look better than that pic man.

              We just standing there facing off.

              He take a few steps toward me.   

              He slide his hand along my hip.

              I touch his ass.

              His breathing on my neck makes my dick hard.  It pushes into his thigh.

              He put his tongue on my neck, my shoulder, my lips.

              We start dry humping standing up. He was shaking.

              “You alright man?”

              “Yeah, I just.  I never messed with a dude.” He look at the closet. That’s a played metaphor.  


              I rub up on him harder.

              He jams his hand down, grabs my nuts.

              I put my tongue in his mouth, like putting his handful in there.

              Start licking from his lip to his jaw to his shoulder. 

              He moans some.

              My dick is hard as hell.

              He squeezes. And then I know where this is going.

              Then he looks back at the closet. 

If I was a girl, that would have killed my mood.

I ignore that shit though and keep trying to lick his body.

              At first I’m ready to leave. He can’t get into it and I’m not sure what the fuck he afraid of. But we in the room. Alone. The door shuts.  I see his dick jumping. His ass looks ready to eat.  We can get this in and be good.   But he can’t let himself just go. 

              I back away from him. Then he takes his shirt off.   He takes my shirt off.

              He has a tattoo of two apples on his neck near the collarbone.  I sucked on the skin there.

              Whatever he was holding on to dropped with that shirt.  He licked my whole chest, ran his tongue around it. I hear a noise like something dropped and I start looking around to see where it is. 

              “Did you hear that?”

              Instead of answer, he put my dick in his mouth. Didn’t even see him get to one knee.

              My eyes roll back.  He doesn’t move back and forth, just keeps whole thing in, washing it with his tongue. I feel the roof of his mouth, the soft part, the throat. 

              I almost fall down it’s so good.

              He’s grabbing at my thighs to pull me deeper.

Then there’s a jam, something that sounds like a hard tap.

“What’s that?”

He stops and looks at the closet again.

This time I hear another kind of moan, a gut-punched, desperate kind of noise.  Someone is trying to talk, sounds like he’s gagged.

The dude looks at me with a gangster look and then shoves my dick back into his mouth.

Now I’m scared. And I can’t move.  The dude looks at me like he trying to dare me to move.

The sounds from the closet grow.  Struggle.

Then he gives up and pulls away to get to the closet.

I move back before dude can change his mind.  I didn’t finish pulling my pants up all the way before I fell back. 

I turn around and get the fuck up.  When I turn to see where this dude is, I see the only reason he can’t come after me is that the closet door is opening slowly from the bottom.

He chooses that instead.Whoever or whatever is in there starts making more noise and I run out of there with no shirt.My dick is still out when I run out of that hotel room.But I don’t stop running until I get out.