If it wasn't so damn cold outside, today would be a perfect day to grill. Sun was shining. Plenty of light. New day is dawning. Sunny...
Wait, that's a Luther Vandross song. Shows you what kinda mood I'm in today.
Never was one for church. No reason to go when all the preacher man is gonna do is talk about the same scripture he read some 15 minutes before. I can read that at home or pick one of them Joel Osteen books and get all the religion I need.
Christine was gone to do whatever it was that her and her uppity friends did on Sundays. Nails, feet, all that girly stuff that white chicks do. She'll be gone for most of the day so I'll probably just whip up something later by the time she gets home. A ni**@ gotta eat something. All that bi**h do is spend the money I make. The more I stood to make, the worse she got. Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and any other brand you can think of, she wanted her hands on it. F**k, she was worse than some of the black women that I had messed with before. You'd think a white chick who came from a little money would know how to act when she get with somebody who got a lil something. Sh*t was the total opposite.
I remember when we was in Italy about 6 years ago when I was playing ball. A ni**@ prolly had a 300k house inside his apartment. Paintings and furniture and all kinds of useless sh*t that she would call "art." I'll say this. She was good at managing all the money I made, but the way her spending habits were, I swore I woulda been broke after our first year over there. Luckily, the club I played with furnished the apartment and car payments.
5 years now. I can't call it "trapped" because we don't have any kids. Truth be told I could probably leave whenever I wanted and still come out on top. But the girl had this talent...wooohooo!!!
She was this young, perky thing when I first met her. Maybe it was the fact that she was a cheerleader, but something about Christine Lancaster put a spark through my bones when she first spoke my name. I heard it like it was just yesterday:
"F**k me, number 24..."
Hit that sweet, pink snatch on the first go 'round. Slim waist. Killer blonde hair. Body like that chick from the Transformers movies (Megan Fox). Oh, the head?!? She gave head like a Super Vac. I mean, literally, if you put a d**k in her face, she would wrap those cute pink lips around the shaft and suck so hard I felt like my sh*t was caught in an oral twister. And don't get me started on the pu$$y?!?! I used to flood that valley like Hurricane Katrina. She was on one of them birth control joints so I didn't give a sh*t about going raw. It was cool though because she didn't want Daddy to know she was spending her college money getting 360 degrees with of Mandingo slammed into her basket.
But guess who Daddy was?
Graham Lancaster...U.S. Senator Graham Lancaster.
Almost like playing against one of those black schools in an early season game. Scoring easy and often was my thing. UGA was tucked away from the rest of metro Atlanta, so if you were an athlete, you f**ked, studied, and played ball. But with this particular cheerleader, it was too good to pass up. Political connections, old South plantation-like money, and as much good old fashioned "white" privilege that I could stand. They were a little more liberal than their ancestors were, but you could've cut the tension with a knife the first time they found out their baby girl was dating a black superstar--even though I was mixed with some Filipino.
Things been kinda rocky for some time now. Don't remember when it started but I ain't happy. She spends all the money. She don't have no ambition to be more than a house-ho. And she...
Can't have kids....
All the graces and Southern a ni**@ could ask for, and she couldn't do that one simple thing. She couldn't bear me a son to carry on the Bishop name. And as the years went by, and the false alarms grew, she just became complacent. She wouldn't let me smash her in the ass like she used to nor would she wake up in the morning, ready to catch this nut right before I left the house for work. Sure, I'm probably fu**ed up for being in these streets, looking for something younger, hotter, and more willing, but I got needs too.
She probably figured I was getting some pu$$y elsewhere because sex with us came so few and far between these days. Back in college, we used to f**k like rabbits. Now, we sleep like rocks next to each other. Maybe a snuggle here and there. A bit of mediocre head on holidays or my birthday. Hell, I just wasn't happy.
Chris never complained as long I kept her laced, but if she was half as devoted to the preservation of ME, like say...Mallory, the better off the b**ch would be.
She knew the game before she said I do. I like pu$$y. So f**k what you say.
A ni**@ like me keeps it consistent.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
J'Lynn's got a Girlfriend...
If I could just sit here and smoke weed everyday...I mean don't have to get up and go to no job, making some 8 dollars an hour, none of Nikki's sh*t talking about me being lazy...
Man...that would be the life.
Not like I can go back in time and make sh*t right. Can't go back and uncurl my spinal cord so I can enlist in the Air Force. Can't go back in time and stop my no-good ass daddy from molesting me. Can't go back in time and erase Nikki's ass berating me all the time for her f**k-ups...
Now you tell me what's wrong with this picture:
This bi**h got 4 kids by 4 different ni**@s. Ain't none of them was ever gonna amount to sh*t anyways, but she got her ass gamed up trying in the club trying to be a boss bi**h. Letting them ni**@s hit off the rip like that. But if I was a "bulldog" who commanded the attention of hoes in strip clubs like that, only to have these simple fools wanna roll in my circle because I have my pick of the baddest ones on stage, then I could put a price on this pu$$y just like she did.
Don't trip. Nikki wasn't no bottom of the barrel kinda broad. My baby was a sho nuff stalker. Them Keri Hilson legs and an ass like Nicki Minaj. Had that hair like Tyra and some pretty white teeth...The first time I ate that pu$$y, I knew I was in love.
I knew the bi**h liked to run the streets, be seen like these other superficial hoes that ran around Atlanta chasing the nut sacks of these nigs with status. But it was something more to her that night when I caught her in the club. Prolly was the Goose that had ya girl on tip. Eyeballing this hoe while she just tossing ones all around. Something told me she was in some heavy sh*t. Guess I just didn't know how heavy until the first time she hit me.
I may look like a ni**@, but I'm all woman. Titties, clits, and all. But nigs be acting like lil groupies when they see a bi**h rolling through Lennox Mall or Phipps with a hairline colder than Steve Harvey's. They be checking for theLouis scarf and hat, fresh J's, and the black bubble vest...all while a piece of hot twat strolls right beside me. Usually, it's one of Nikki's "girls," but she wasn't really fu**ing none of them. They was just eye candy for a quick come up. But, sh*t, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them hoes had fallen for her janky ass.
That was still my babe though. I know we have our ups and downs. And a lot of it, I believe is my fault. She got them kids, but don't but one of them actually stay with us. Lil' Tron...or Antron Marcus...that's his real name. The other kids are either with her mama or lost in the system. I think it bothers her to even talk about it sometimes, she don't even talk about them anymore and anybody that know too scared to ask. Then you got me laying up in the house, all injured and sh*t. Can't really find no place to give me no job to pay what I want. But I do what I can. Working some lil bullsh*t courier job, but it pays the bills and keeps Nikki's hands off my face--and my tongue between her legs when she ain't getting fu**ed.
Sigh...another puff...exhale...
I'll clean up the house after this nap. I ain't even trying to hear her mouth when she get home.
Man...that would be the life.
Not like I can go back in time and make sh*t right. Can't go back and uncurl my spinal cord so I can enlist in the Air Force. Can't go back in time and stop my no-good ass daddy from molesting me. Can't go back in time and erase Nikki's ass berating me all the time for her f**k-ups...
Now you tell me what's wrong with this picture:
This bi**h got 4 kids by 4 different ni**@s. Ain't none of them was ever gonna amount to sh*t anyways, but she got her ass gamed up trying in the club trying to be a boss bi**h. Letting them ni**@s hit off the rip like that. But if I was a "bulldog" who commanded the attention of hoes in strip clubs like that, only to have these simple fools wanna roll in my circle because I have my pick of the baddest ones on stage, then I could put a price on this pu$$y just like she did.
Don't trip. Nikki wasn't no bottom of the barrel kinda broad. My baby was a sho nuff stalker. Them Keri Hilson legs and an ass like Nicki Minaj. Had that hair like Tyra and some pretty white teeth...The first time I ate that pu$$y, I knew I was in love.
I knew the bi**h liked to run the streets, be seen like these other superficial hoes that ran around Atlanta chasing the nut sacks of these nigs with status. But it was something more to her that night when I caught her in the club. Prolly was the Goose that had ya girl on tip. Eyeballing this hoe while she just tossing ones all around. Something told me she was in some heavy sh*t. Guess I just didn't know how heavy until the first time she hit me.
I may look like a ni**@, but I'm all woman. Titties, clits, and all. But nigs be acting like lil groupies when they see a bi**h rolling through Lennox Mall or Phipps with a hairline colder than Steve Harvey's. They be checking for theLouis scarf and hat, fresh J's, and the black bubble vest...all while a piece of hot twat strolls right beside me. Usually, it's one of Nikki's "girls," but she wasn't really fu**ing none of them. They was just eye candy for a quick come up. But, sh*t, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them hoes had fallen for her janky ass.
That was still my babe though. I know we have our ups and downs. And a lot of it, I believe is my fault. She got them kids, but don't but one of them actually stay with us. Lil' Tron...or Antron Marcus...that's his real name. The other kids are either with her mama or lost in the system. I think it bothers her to even talk about it sometimes, she don't even talk about them anymore and anybody that know too scared to ask. Then you got me laying up in the house, all injured and sh*t. Can't really find no place to give me no job to pay what I want. But I do what I can. Working some lil bullsh*t courier job, but it pays the bills and keeps Nikki's hands off my face--and my tongue between her legs when she ain't getting fu**ed.
Sigh...another puff...exhale...
I'll clean up the house after this nap. I ain't even trying to hear her mouth when she get home.
Some of my Brown Sugar (Gavin E. Marshall)
Mama told me to think twice before I went into teaching high school. Said because I look so young that the hormones of what she called "fast tailed girls" would kick and and try to get some of my stuff. Not that I didn't believe her, but I thought to myself:
"That sh*t ain't too far from the truth.."
Hell, if I was a young, impressionable, high school female (18, at least), I'd prolly look all googly-eyed at me too. But that's just me smelling myself. I don't mean nothing by it.
Really, I hadn't really had a problem with my young looks with the students. Now, the girls definitely pay more attention in my music/choir class than the fellas; but even with me being 29 and most of the dudes in the class being 16 and 17, what young dude wouldn't think that I was comp to him trying to holla at the prom queen...
The younger, female teachers were the ones with issues...and even some of the older ones. I'd walk in the room for, say like a faculty meeting, and I'd feel like my d**k was just hanging out for all them to look at. That's just how naked a ni**@ felt because they would be gawking so hard hence the reason I tried to get there before most of them. But it was all good. As long as they wasn't fu**ing with my money or my music, they could look all they want.
But back to mama's advice, I never really had a problem out of any student in terms of advances. The lil girls might say something like:
"Hey, Mr. Pretty Boy"
Or the would put a little more emphasis on my last name like:
"Oooo, Mr. Marshallllll..."
Made my skin cringe when they would do that. Sounded like Eartha Kitt in "Boomerang." What the f**k I look like getting caught up in some scandal sh*t like that??? Have my ass all over the AJC
(In my best Chad Ochocinco voice) Chile please!!!
I had seen 2 of my speech teachers get banged up like that when I was in high school. Getting caught with they hand in the cookie jar. Stupid asses. I would at least waited till the young hoe graduated.
Word to the wise: Fresh, clear ball field pu$$y like that comes along every 9 weeks. Believe that.
I wasn't gonna jeopardize my career or my chances at being an recording artist over something that easy.
What was I gonna do letting some lil young chick run behind me, feigning for me, having lil tremors in her juice box because she got a thing for her teacher?
But I believe that was just what happened when Raven Fontenot' walked into my class the beginning of school...
And did that sh*t ever creep up on me.
But I gotta get back to work. Class starts in 5 minutes and I haven't finished arranging the music for the annual Spring Concert Classic next month.
Sh*t, I forgot to text Mallory back. F**k it. She can wait. Prolly don't have nothing more than to complain about Bishop anyways.
Later.
--G.
"That sh*t ain't too far from the truth.."
Hell, if I was a young, impressionable, high school female (18, at least), I'd prolly look all googly-eyed at me too. But that's just me smelling myself. I don't mean nothing by it.
Really, I hadn't really had a problem with my young looks with the students. Now, the girls definitely pay more attention in my music/choir class than the fellas; but even with me being 29 and most of the dudes in the class being 16 and 17, what young dude wouldn't think that I was comp to him trying to holla at the prom queen...
The younger, female teachers were the ones with issues...and even some of the older ones. I'd walk in the room for, say like a faculty meeting, and I'd feel like my d**k was just hanging out for all them to look at. That's just how naked a ni**@ felt because they would be gawking so hard hence the reason I tried to get there before most of them. But it was all good. As long as they wasn't fu**ing with my money or my music, they could look all they want.
But back to mama's advice, I never really had a problem out of any student in terms of advances. The lil girls might say something like:
"Hey, Mr. Pretty Boy"
Or the would put a little more emphasis on my last name like:
"Oooo, Mr. Marshallllll..."
Made my skin cringe when they would do that. Sounded like Eartha Kitt in "Boomerang." What the f**k I look like getting caught up in some scandal sh*t like that??? Have my ass all over the AJC
(In my best Chad Ochocinco voice) Chile please!!!
I had seen 2 of my speech teachers get banged up like that when I was in high school. Getting caught with they hand in the cookie jar. Stupid asses. I would at least waited till the young hoe graduated.
Word to the wise: Fresh, clear ball field pu$$y like that comes along every 9 weeks. Believe that.
I wasn't gonna jeopardize my career or my chances at being an recording artist over something that easy.
What was I gonna do letting some lil young chick run behind me, feigning for me, having lil tremors in her juice box because she got a thing for her teacher?
But I believe that was just what happened when Raven Fontenot' walked into my class the beginning of school...
And did that sh*t ever creep up on me.
But I gotta get back to work. Class starts in 5 minutes and I haven't finished arranging the music for the annual Spring Concert Classic next month.
Sh*t, I forgot to text Mallory back. F**k it. She can wait. Prolly don't have nothing more than to complain about Bishop anyways.
Later.
--G.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
This is Mallory Speaking....
"Bank of America...this is Mallory speaking..."
See that sh*t...this is what I have been relegated to on a daily basis. Answering the phone like some kinda secretary. And truth be told, that ain't even my job. One of the chicks who normally runs the phones is out, and since I guess I'm the next in line (or closest to the bottom of the totem pole), I have to take up the slack.
Normally, whoever calls doesn't want anything. Maybe a personal call here and there, but mainly customers looking to gripe about something with the bank. Word to the wise:
If you that unhappy, go to another damn bank!!!
This job is strictly for the birds. I don't know what's worse: The fact that I been working for this bank almost 7 years and I don't have my bachelor's degree yet...or that when I leave here, I go home for a few hours to nap, fed and walk my bad ass dog, then report to Club Cheetah at 9:30???
Don't get me wrong. I hustle. And I hustle hard. A bit*h ain't got hardly any debt. Student loans almost paid off. No car note. Nothing. And I owe that all to these thirsty ass ni**@s who waltz they wannabe ballin' asses into the club every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights just to see some young hoes pop they pu$$y all over a shiny stage. They be in there hollering and whistling like they ain't got no h0me training. Then again, they here looking at chicks like me because they woman ain't training they ass at home. But sh*t...I ain't complaining because I got to get mine. I got too many bigger and better plans to be waisting them up in there, or even here for that matter. Told myself I was going to give it about 2 years then I'd be set...
Year 3...and I'm still working on it.
"Bank of America...Mallory speaking..."
He didn't have to say nothing but hello. It was like he was reaching through the phone and grabbing at my titties. He knew I loved that sh*t.
Gotdamn, I loved me some Bishop.
Think on this:
6'5, 210 or 220...
Strong, worn hands...
Fabulously low cut hair and looks...like, like Shemar Moore on "Criminal Minds"...
Former pro b-ball player turned investment banker...
And a di*k like a sledgehammer...
That man made my pu$$y wet every time he would ring my line.
Logan...Logan was what he called me. That was...is my last name. But you know a sista wishes it was his...Mrs. Roman O. Bishop.
F**k what you say. That has a nice ass ring to it.
It was almost lunch time and he wanted to see me...at our usual spot.
Upstairs...around the corner...
You know I had never been fu**ed in a janitor's closet until I met him. He said it would be our secret place, somewhere we can hide from the rest of the world and just be loose. This one time...he just told me that he wanted me to give him the best head that I ever gave anyone before in life. Don't you know I tried to suck the living soul out this ni**@ like I was giving an exorcism. My jaws would feel that sh*t later, but the way that white juice shot out into that empty coffee mug, I knew my "Trojan Horse" was pleased.
Bet his Hooter's girl bit*h of a wife ain't bust a move on his d**k like that. Cause if the hoe had, he wouldn't be coming to me.
Even after he hung up, I was still gushing between my legs. Ain't nothing like some "high noon" fu**ing. Might as well put these panties in my purse. Won't be needing those anytime soon....
...Least for the next hour.
See that sh*t...this is what I have been relegated to on a daily basis. Answering the phone like some kinda secretary. And truth be told, that ain't even my job. One of the chicks who normally runs the phones is out, and since I guess I'm the next in line (or closest to the bottom of the totem pole), I have to take up the slack.
Normally, whoever calls doesn't want anything. Maybe a personal call here and there, but mainly customers looking to gripe about something with the bank. Word to the wise:
If you that unhappy, go to another damn bank!!!
This job is strictly for the birds. I don't know what's worse: The fact that I been working for this bank almost 7 years and I don't have my bachelor's degree yet...or that when I leave here, I go home for a few hours to nap, fed and walk my bad ass dog, then report to Club Cheetah at 9:30???
Don't get me wrong. I hustle. And I hustle hard. A bit*h ain't got hardly any debt. Student loans almost paid off. No car note. Nothing. And I owe that all to these thirsty ass ni**@s who waltz they wannabe ballin' asses into the club every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights just to see some young hoes pop they pu$$y all over a shiny stage. They be in there hollering and whistling like they ain't got no h0me training. Then again, they here looking at chicks like me because they woman ain't training they ass at home. But sh*t...I ain't complaining because I got to get mine. I got too many bigger and better plans to be waisting them up in there, or even here for that matter. Told myself I was going to give it about 2 years then I'd be set...
Year 3...and I'm still working on it.
"Bank of America...Mallory speaking..."
He didn't have to say nothing but hello. It was like he was reaching through the phone and grabbing at my titties. He knew I loved that sh*t.
Gotdamn, I loved me some Bishop.
Think on this:
6'5, 210 or 220...
Strong, worn hands...
Fabulously low cut hair and looks...like, like Shemar Moore on "Criminal Minds"...
Former pro b-ball player turned investment banker...
And a di*k like a sledgehammer...
That man made my pu$$y wet every time he would ring my line.
Logan...Logan was what he called me. That was...is my last name. But you know a sista wishes it was his...Mrs. Roman O. Bishop.
F**k what you say. That has a nice ass ring to it.
It was almost lunch time and he wanted to see me...at our usual spot.
Upstairs...around the corner...
You know I had never been fu**ed in a janitor's closet until I met him. He said it would be our secret place, somewhere we can hide from the rest of the world and just be loose. This one time...he just told me that he wanted me to give him the best head that I ever gave anyone before in life. Don't you know I tried to suck the living soul out this ni**@ like I was giving an exorcism. My jaws would feel that sh*t later, but the way that white juice shot out into that empty coffee mug, I knew my "Trojan Horse" was pleased.
Bet his Hooter's girl bit*h of a wife ain't bust a move on his d**k like that. Cause if the hoe had, he wouldn't be coming to me.
Even after he hung up, I was still gushing between my legs. Ain't nothing like some "high noon" fu**ing. Might as well put these panties in my purse. Won't be needing those anytime soon....
...Least for the next hour.
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