The DINNER Date
 

New story for you all I wrote last night. Much love.
Pharaoh69 the KING of Erotica. Remember if you know peeps who like to read stories shoot their email and I'll add them to the list. [email protected] or [email protected]. Feel free to email me your comments. I always answer all emails. I have two books out already so check out my website www.freewebs.com/dapharoah69 to check me out and learn more about me






The Dinner Date

A few things about me. Mama always said, “Boy, you have an acid tongue…” When I was young I never understood what she was talking about mainly because her discussions did’t match my self-talk. Self-talk was a powerful tool that could be dangerous if used incorrectly.

I say this because I was on a date. With the umpteenth guy doing the umpteenth thing talking about the umpteenth thing. Same bullshit. Hi, I’m so and so. I’m from here and there. I have been through hell and back. OK. Who hasn’t? Hell has become the new Book of Job in America.

He was cute. OK. The umpteenth cute man I have met in a month’s time. We’re both on the Down Lo. Well, with the pink on his shirt and the hoop earrings slightly longer than any “straight man’s,” he was leaning towards the closet door, you know, the one with the EXIT sign hovering above it.

We took the back table, which was more exclusive. That way I could keep my eye on who was coming and going. When I picked him up, in the suburbs at his sister’s house (he’s visiting from Alabama), he hardly said a word. Nowhere on his face was the nasty shit he said he’d do to my dick when we talked on yahoo instant messenger.

He was sexy, just the way I liked them. I had started to tell him “Hello,” but before I could utter the words he leaned over, pulled my dick out and started chopping me up. The warmth of his mouth entranced me. I grabbed his braids with one hand, steering with the other and fucked him until he started gagging.

“Nah. Suck that shit, niggah.” He was squirming in the seat. I was tearing those tonsils up.

My nuts bounced like Jordan trying to win the sixth Chicago Bulls’ ring. After a few minutes he warmed to my thrusting and gestures and handled it.

I said, “I thought you didn’t fuck on the first date…’

He took my dick out his mouth, the Plies “Shawty” song booming from my sophisticated speakers.

“…I said I don’t fuck on the first date…” He put my dick back in his mouth and immediately took it to the tonsils, held it there for a few seconds, driving me crazy…He came back up. “But I do suck on the first date.”

I was trying to keep it together, trying to keep my hard work day off my mind, trying to ignore the fact that my boss has been harder on me than anyone else lately, and trying to catch a nut. I was squeezing my muscles together, trying to force it out.

Before we got to the restaurant I said, “You’re giving me that ass before we get there or you can walk home.”

I was knee-deep in his tight hole about fifteen minutes later at a near-by fuck Motel, $20 for two hours. Lights turned down softly, so I could bask in the glow of good ass. He was a savage, taking the ten inch pipe like a trooper. The Magnum condom fit just right…I didn’t roll it all the way down, just to the middle of my stick. I wanted to feel that good ass on my shaft.
The first time I came I had his legs pinned behind my arms, his feet facing the ceiling. He moaned like a thug, just the way I liked it. I hated dudes who moaned like bitches. That hole gripped my stick like a thief with money. I weighed 220 pounds, he weighed about 178 and I put all my weight on his ass, he squirmed and tried to push away from the stick.

"Don't run...where you doing? Take this dick..." I slid the dick so far in that hole he grabbed my thigh and I pounded that ass.

"Oh, shit, niggah..."

I looked at his face, admiring the work I was doing. "I got good dick, huh bitch?"

He was trembling beneath me. "Hell, yea baby..."

I pushed those legs back until they were even with both his ears. "No other nigah eva fucked you like this?"

"Hell nah!"

"...Say you're my slutty Ho. Say it, bitch..."

"I'm your slutty whorish bitch, Damn Daddy."

Slapping sounds, dick in ass, filled the room. Pop. Pop. Pop. Poppoppop...

His hole started tightening on my dick, sporadically. It got extremely wetter downstairs. "You coming?"

He was out of control, digging his nails in my back. "I'm coming, niggah and I didn't even. Touch. Myself."

I dug faster and harder, bouncing in that ass. I loved the way he took dick. Turned me on.

I wanted my nut...

I drilled that hole, fucking him so hard, deep and fast tears fell from his eyes, his mouth permanently open, the headboard pounding the walls like the police was at the door and the bed springs singing instead of squeaking. I felt the pleasurable burn build from my toes, explode in my spine. I felt it coming, snapping my breath, my hips moving in circles, stirring that pussy.

I pulled out, pulled off the Jimmy and stood over him, come showering on his face, chest and thighs. He wiped it up, sucked it off his finger and put some on that hole, turning over onto his knees, putting that face down on the pillow and letting me see that hole from the back.

Damn.

Shit was all over my dick, the bed and the sheets. Picasso was here, and I was one mad motherfucker. I looked down. Shit was all over my thighs, dick, hands and abs. I fell to my knees, about to vomit. What the fuck!

I punched the wall so hard a hole formed. "I thought that hole was clean?"

He closed his eyes.

"I forgot to tell you about that Taco Bell I ate earlier.


We showered together. I cleaned that ass for him. I didn't mind, because I knew it'd be thoroughly cleaned when I did it. I stuck a fleet in there (I had some in my glove box in my car), and when Picasso came a tumbling out the ole anus, I sat in the bed until he was through. I knew after tonight I wouldn't be seeing him again. Shit turned me off. I didn't care how good the ass was. Shit belonged in the toilet, not on me.

We then fucked in the tub, got dressed (got some more head on our way out the door, even got my hole sucked, licked and tongued), and wound up where we were now. At the Red Lobster.

I smiled, he smiled and we ordered some shrimp pasta. Shrimp and pasta were out of my budget but I thought I’d be nice. I had a wallet with more plastic than Michael Jackson in front of mannequins at the Macy’s/Burdines’s.

His name was, um…ey, damn. His name was, shit. I’ll call him Exhibit A.
He was dressed finely. Knock off name brand clothes he cleaned and pressed and made seem like it was the real thing. Do rag. I couldn’t be fooled. My cousin worked at the Flee market. There’s hardly anything in the Flee that was “real.”

I was handing a female with a fat ass the menu. “Are you enjoying yourself?” I asked him, while he sat there sipping water, humming Beyonce’s “Frekum Dress.” God. Another fag on Bey’s tits. Just what I didn’t need.

“Yes. This place looks rather tempting,” he went on, trying his best to make his voice drop lower than Barry White’s and quite frankly that turned me off. I wanted to kick back and relax. Now I cringed. Maybe this was a mistake.

“Tempting in what way?” The tall, ugly waiter set a basket of steaming biscuits in front of us and ole boy snatched one up, dropping it, shaking his hand feverishly. “Ow! Hot…”

I was laughing. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t get that ass off my mind. He had some good stuff. The type of ass that made a man fall in love, possess it and whip his ass if he gave it away.

He stared at me, sucking his teeth. OK. Date profile. Online he looked like a thug. I liked thugs because they knew how to fuck you, get fucked and leave that other emotional shit on the bed sheets when they left, back to a world of crime or what have you. He looked like Tupac. For real. His swagger was meaner than Al Pachino. Loved it.

But meeting him changed my theory. His eye brows were slightly…um, yea: arched. I hadn’t noticed that until now. Clear finger nail polish on his nails. He had a Blackberry and a palm pilot. What thug you knew fancied Blackberries without trying to sell them with his dope? He had a leather wallet, smelled like the most expensive cologne and he snapped that head sometimes in the heat of discussion. His style of dress, sagging pants, huge ass. I loved ass, and unlaced boots.

“Are you still in the room?” he asked me, disturbing my thoughts. I picked up a biscuit, still a little hot and bit into it. Butter pours into my mouth. My thick lips slide against the bread as I bit it again. He watches me. I watch him.

“So what kind of music do you like?” he asked, trying to be articulate. Thugs aren’t articulate.

“Rap. Jazz. Classical…” A beat. “And you?”

He starts snapping his fingers, looking so gay. Oh, God. And a few people were looking. “I love Beyonce, hey. Did you check the Beyonce Experience?”

Are you serious? “Yea, but I pressed mute. I just wanted to see her shaking her ass…well, she lost her ass. Where did it go. She needs to eat.”
He averted his face. “Don’t talk about the Diva…”

OK. Dinner was over. I slammed the biscuit on the table and he got quiet.

“What happened to you being a so-called thug?”

He was offended. “Dawg, I am a thug,” he went on, his voice dropping again. It was all an act. A fine dude walked by the table and he said, “Damn, he’s ugly.”

I shook my head. He was trying to be evasive. “He’s cute, looks real nice,” I cooed, trying to flirt with my date, even though I wanted to puke. I licked my lips.

He looked at me cockeyed.

I said, “…Definitely my type.”

He gets mad. “Well, I didn’t ask you. I didn’t know the ugly duckling had a side kick…”

When he said that, the acid tongue attacked. “Look, bitch. Dinner is off. You can walk home. I was calling YOU cute. I said I think YOU’RE cute…”
He held up his hands, clearly embarrassed. But I didn’t care. I wasted my gas driving him 50 miles away from my home to take him on a date. And this was how his broke, need-a-job ass repaid me?

I was done. I snapped, people stopped eating and some started laughing and I didn‘t give a shit.

“…But you go off dissing me and shit, Dawg, I swear.” He picked up his wallet and slid back in the chair a tad. “You don’t wanna mess with me today. No wonder Hooked On Phonics got sued, dropped on the Dow Jones and the NASDAQ because YOUR dumb ass cant comprehend unless its written in a picture book with your sagging titty Mama river dancing barefooted across your brain-dead ass for wearing her goddamn stilettos.”

The place roared with laughter. People was falling out of their chairs. He stood up and said, “You can at least take me home…”

I spit at him. It flew past him and landed on an empty table behind him.
“Now I’m your enemy.” I stood up and grabbed my keys. “Maybe if you stop making your Mama wonder why her panties and bras keep disappearing out of her panty drawer, then you will realize you have a dick instead of an Aunt-Flow clad pussy, tell the ugly duckling’s sidekick to suck my goddamn dick cause I got blue balls flirting with you online.”

I walked in his face and grabbed him by the shirt. He squirmed like a little bitch. I growled. “…I was trying to jack my dick when you hit me up but you stalled my nut when you switched from using Always Maxi Pads to Depends.”
I threw his ass on the table and stamped out the restaurant like a spoiled child.

Thug my ass.
He was as feminine as the drag queens selling cock on 79th Street in Liberty City.

Bitch.

***

When I got in my Chrysler 300M, I turned it on and sped out of the driveway, heading for the Turnpike.

My cell phone rings.

I hesitated. But the Jagged Edge “Meet me at the Alter” ring tone started to break me down.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound like I wasn’t mad.

“…When are you coming home. I got dinner ready…”

Tears fell down my face. “I’m on my way now. Just leaving work.”

“Ok.”

And my boyfriend hung up.

I could never tell him I tried to get some ass behind his back…All because I was scared of commitment.