Every dick ain’t the right dick to get with. When it comes to protecting the cooch, some of them dicks gotta get a hard NO.
I was blessed to have an Uncle who shoots from the hip, especially when teaching life lessons. It did not matter if he was preaching to his own children, a host of nieces and nephews — or the choir — his sound advice was always a commingling of wisdom and snark:
“When’s the last time you changed the oil on that trainwreck you call a car?” he’d frequently ask. “You gotta know your head from your ass, if you wanna get anywhere in life,” and “If you gon’ screw somebody, inspect their body parts — poke it, pull it, pat it, squeeze it.”
Unc lectured, but he always had a point.
Back in the day, before the Netflix & Chill culture — when dudes were a lil’ more mindful of suggesting a first date be indoors, binging on episodes of Narcos, lemon pepper wings and shots of Patrón — I went on a date with a co-worker. It was outdoors, but in an F150 truck at a drive-in movie theater; we watched Training Day, downed hot wings and a six-pack of Coronas. My, how times have really changed.
Somewhere between Snoop’s terrible performance as a paraplegic drug dealer and Denzel forcing Ethan to hit the blunt, my co-worker slid his arm around my shoulders and helped himself to healthy handfuls of my breasts, and then a mouthful. There was implied consent; I had my good bra on. I had already conceived the moment.
Listen: eight months of office politricks and quality mindfucking will have the best of us in our heads, mapping out kama sutra positions and whole ass sex scenes. Don’t front.
If I ain’t know better, I’d swear the homie took a La Leche class ‘cause he was damn good with the tetas; no extreme sucking, no teeth, all tongue. He paid attention to both breast without neglecting the chocha. It made sense — his multitasking skills were on par with his work ethic on the job. With his thumb, he slid them drawls to the side and stroked staccato, crescendo and piano notes outta my cooch in a way that could only make Ray Charles big happy from the keyboard heaven above. His fingers and my crotch were #teammakethatmusic. We were an orchestra of ourselves
There are but so many ways to maneuver while sitting upright in the cab of a truck so the co-worker reclined his seat as far back as it would go. He tore off his sweatshirt, exposing a gorgeous six-pack that Anheuser-Busch would be jealous of. One-by-one, he licked his fingers and sucked my insides off of them— slowly — while looking me dead in the eye.
“Why you still over there? Come sit your ass on my face,” he said.
What else was there to do, but oblige?
I balanced myself by holding on to the window and the rooftop; then I straddled those jaws with the spirit of Isaac Burns Murphy. I started with a slow and steady pace before I gained momentum then rode his mouth into oblivion. Big ups to the invention of skirts. When I climbed off his neck, I plopped myself down in my seat; I assure you the ride was schweet. All I needed was a blanky to cuddle with, and a safe space to suck on my thumb. Co-worker had something else in mind. He took my hand and placed it on the lump of man meat in his lap. I caressed “It” a little, and watched “It” grow a lot like a Chia Pet in the palms of my hands. I really needed both hands. The smirk on my face grew wide as Gwen Guthrie’s 80s tune played in my head:
On the day that you were born
And the angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true
So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair, but baby your eyes ain’t blue
That is why all the girls at the job
Follow you around
Just like me, they long to be
Closer to you …
He dug deep down in his pants and flipped “It” out, and from what I could see in the dark, “It” was a python. However, from what I felt, “It” was wearing a tight ass turtleneck. Just to be sure, I gripped “It” and ran my hands down the shaft and back up. I followed Unc’s advice. I poked it, pulled it, patted it and squeezed it, and came to a final conclusion — all dicks were not created equal. Some are smedium. Others are lengthy. Some are meaty, while others are just … well, those don’t really count. To my surprise, my co-worker’s King Kong ding-a-ling was fully outfitted in a hoodie.
“Don’t be scared, babe. It won’t bite you. Just kiss it. Taste it.” He coaxed.
He massaged my shoulders and applied subtle pressure to the back of my neck in an attempt to guide my head to this ant-eating bodypart that rested between his thighs. My body stiffened, and then resisted mid way. Why this dude thought I was down to resucitate a poorly overdressed peen is beyond my comprehension. Sensing my aversion, co-worker forced the foreskin back until a big wet head bulged from its stretched opening. It was decorated with dick cheese clinically known as smegma — it looked painful. It smelled gross.
My thoughts shifted between hella yucks and a ton of gotdamns. It even saddened me to think about the waste of a gigantic phallus … just damn.
That ku klux kock stared me down for three whole minutes before its owner interrupted our gaze with pompous curiosity:
“You gon’ get this dick or nah?” he asked.
“Nah, Fam. I’m good.”