DAVIA
11:15 a.m. Wednesday
“Marc!”
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.”
Really?
“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?”
“Working.”
“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.
“Yeah.”
“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.
“Cool.”
“How is it going so far?”
“Alright.”
“I should be able to get you there soon. Not too much traffic on surface streets.”
Crickets.
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.