RIPPED & READY (PART 11)

RIPPED & READY (PART XI)

Hell no it didn't go down.  No matter how bad I wanted it to, I needed to stay focused so I could pull the drawers down and expose the funky asses of those two cheats.   Have you ever caught a whiff of a rank-ass "fish-smelling" pussy?  Well, it smelled twenty times worse than that.  Imagine being chained to a chair inside a fish warehouse that lost its refrigeration units and had been closed up for thirty days with no air-conditioning, with the temperature being Las Vegas-In-the-Summertime hot.  Disgusting, huh?  Well, that's how fowl this situation was. 

                Once I had managed to regain my composure, I scooted D'Andre out of my room.  Don't think he didn't try to resist either, he turned on that lamp inside of those lovely hazel-colored eyes, and tried to hit me below the belt.  Uh-uh, before I could get myself entangled any deeper into his charismatic charm, I gave him a quick brotha-man-hug, promised him I would call him later, and then I quickly closed the door in his face.  Damn that boy was too much.  He knew what he was working with and he also knew the effect he had on dudes (into kicking it with other dudes) and females. 

I decided I had to get out of that damned house and, since I knew I wouldn't make it out of there without being asked twenty-questions leaving the normal way, I did something I hadn't done since I was sixteen -- I slipped out the window like "Brotha-From-The-Third-Floor" used to do on Martin Lawrence's show.  Back then I could do it with ease but, tack on a few years of not working out, along with a few extra pounds and you soon discover why staying in shape and exercising was necessary.    

                In that I was taller than I was back then, I stuck one leg out first, then because I couldn’t move my other leg over without knocking something off of the computer table, I straddled the window seal and pulled my other leg into me so that my foot could make it past the side part of the window frame.  FUCK! Now, when the cramp hit me in the back of my right thigh, I thought I was going to pass out.  Anybody who has ever gotten a cramp knows that you'll do anything to straighten your damn leg out so that you can try to walk that fucker out.  I am not lying when I tell you that, it felt like a possessed lobster had gotten a hold of my muscle and was pinching the shit out of it. 

 In my haste to get out of the window, I lost my balance and fell onto my back into the low-growing-ground ivy below.  THUD! I got mad as hell, but not mad enough to lay my ass down there without jumping up so that I could work that damn cramp out.  I suddenly began to feel a sharp pain on my side.  In my hurried pace, I had scraped my side, hitting the metal part of the window frame  as I was sliding out the window.  Then, to add insult to injury, Collin Clarke's gold-toothed ass was laughing his ass off.  He lived directly across the street from us, and his room window was parallel to mine. 

                "Hey, Marco, your fat ass ain't sixteen no more, nigga, you need to get on a tread-mill,  bicycle or something," he said, laughing hysterically, like the uneducated fool he was. 

"Fuck you, you illiterate smoked out ass trick!" I yelled back, in a hushed voice, as I tried brushing myself off.  Thankfully, the cramp had disappeared. 

                "Ah, man, why you gotta treat a brotha man so cold, huh?" He said, as he took another drag off of the blunt he was smoking on. 

                Collin wasn't really illiterate; he was just an unpolished dude into the thug life. You could tell by his attire, because, it usually consisted of a white wife beater tee-shirt, accompanied by sagging in the ass jeans that exposed whatever colored boxers he was wearing for the day, and a thick ass swap-meet bought gold rope chain that had a gun emblem hanging from it.  If the cheapness of it wasn't so prevalent, someone would probably have jacked his ass for it by now, but most thugs can spot fake jewelry a mile away—the fact some of the gold color was fading off of it still didn't matter to him, he still wore it.   

                 "I guess if all I did all day was do push-ups, lift weights, and smoke weed I'd probably be just as ripped as you, asshole," I told him, laughing along with him, because he really was a cool brother.  Not bad on the eyes either -- if you were into the thug type.  I wasn't.  I loved looking at them though, because some of them were fine as hell, however, outside of the looks and the dick, they had nothing else to offer.  A lot of them were also pretty aggressive and, I just wasn't into arguing and fighting twenty-four-seven. 

                 I bid my adieu to Collin, hopped into my car and sped off.  In my rear view mirror, I spotted Denise and D walking from my drive way, most likely heading back to D's house.   They were hand-in-hand too which caused my eye to twitch (this occurred whenever I got stressed).  This cow had gotten on my last nerve and she had to be brought down.  D lived next door to Collin so; I just knew Collin was going to tell him about me falling out of the damned window.  D and I used to hang tight with Collin until high school.  That's when he became a pot head and D and I weren't into smoking weed as heavily as him.  Let's just say, he hit the dank once, and he signed up to be a member for life. 

                Collin and I used to fuck around too and, let me tell you, that brotha is packing a giant redwood downstairs.  He was strictly into women now and we never discuss how we used to kick it.  I wondered if he ever thought about it anymore.  He was now, however, a one-woman guy.  Tootchie Myeres was his current woman and she was a straight up hood-rat.  Remember that movie "Friday" with Chris Tucker and Ice Cube, well; the girl who played the hood rat in that movie could be her identical twin, right down to those fake, raggedy ass extensions.  Every time I saw her that "Hood-Rat-Hoochie-Mama" song always played in my head. 

                   I sped along HWY 101 cruising at about 70 MPH because I wasn't even trying to get no speeding ticket.  The last one I got cost me $295 and my insurance company went up on my insurance $50 more a month.  They were nothing but fucking crooks.  It was warm day outside so, I had all four of my windows down and the breeze was feeling really proper.  I was listening to a new cut by Robin Thicke called "Magic" and it was thumping.   The orchestration in that song had that old Philadelphia Sound to it.  The surround sound of my car's stereo system added some extra delight to it.  The violins were running throughout my ears sounding real right. 

                  I was just about to take the Mckee Road exit when my cell phone started buzzing at my side.  Who in the fuck was this now?  I hit the side of my blue tooth to answer it and when I did I heard his familiar voice, I just thought I was going to lose control of my fucking car.  It was Todd Berry.  D may have been my boy, but Todd Berry was my nigga – he was straight up "dude" crazy.  He wasn't into females at all.  It broke my heart when his family moved away to Houston Texas.  We were all juniors in high school at the time and Todd and I were straight up fuck buddies. Well, not really, we never got into that penetration thing (I’m still not into it)  but what I really dug about this dude was that he loved to cuddle and kiss -- he was so fucking romantic. 

                "Todd, what the hell is up, man?" I asked, with a smile on my face that stretched ear to ear. 

                 "Marco, I'm visiting my aunt Beatrice.  I'll be in town for about a month before I head off to Iraq," he said. 

                My heart sunk when he said he was heading off to Iraq.  How come the one you might have the best chance of having a lasting relationship seems to be the one who was always out of reach?  D'Andre was my boy, but I wanted a real relationship and I wasn't even trying to share my man with no other dude or female.  That shit was dead.  I agreed to meet Todd at his aunt's house and, luckily for me, I was headed in the right direction.  It had been almost two years since I had seen this, beautiful, black-blue colored, handsome faced, African American man.  If you saw him approaching you in the distance, you would mistake him for Tyson Beckford, the black male super model who epitomized male perfection – in my eyes at least.

                Damn, I had a gut on me now and I was wondering if he would even still be attracted to me.  You know how a lot of dudes want beauty, in addition to the long-dong and they also wanted a six-pack (and I ain't talking a six pack of Pepsi either).  

     When I pulled up in front of his aunt's house, he was outside washing her car and he wasn't wearing a shirt or a tee-shirt.   Since the music was blaring loud he didn't hear me pull up.  I just sat in my car for a minute to admire God's handy work.  Every muscle in his back looked like they were moving in rhythm to the music that was playing.  2pac's "Me against the World" was blaring loudly.  When he bent over to dip his rag back into the bucket filled with soapy water, his heavenly bubble butt seemed to expand like spandex.  Oh, my, it was indeed a splendid sight to behold.  You could have bought me for one penny.

     When he turned around and spotted me sitting in my car, he motioned for me to get out.  Just as I reached to open the door, my cell phone started to buzz again.  When I looked down at the number, I got irritated. 

     "Hello," ...