Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 05

As soon as he heard Mitch snoring, Tyrone woke him up and sent him home. Mitch didn't want to go, but he knew he had to. Tyrone loaned him a spare pair of pants to wear home, so he wouldn't have to explain what happened with his own.

He opened the apartment door quietly, just in case Trina was asleep. She was.

Mitch showered and dried himself off. He examined his ass cheeks in the bathroom mirror. They were inflamed, and the imprint of a hand was clearly visible on each cheek. He applied some medical cream in the vague hope they'd look better in the morning. He already knew he was going to get interrogated tomorrow, and he didn't want to let a bad situation become worse.

He delicately crawled into bed. Despite his warmth from the shower, he felt Trina's body move away from him.

*

He woke up on Saturday morning, and the first thing he thought about was Leroy kissing him last night. And then he remembered where he was. He didn't really want to be here.

He headed to the kitchen in search of a coffee.

Trina was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast and reading the morning newspaper online. "Where'd you go last night?"

"And good morning to you, too, babe," Mitch sarcastically replied.

"Morning," mumbled Trina apologetically, chewing her bite of toast. "I'm just curious. Where'd you get to last night? You weren't home when I went to sleep. All I knew from your text message was that you 'had to go out unexpectedly after work'. I didn't hear anything more from you until I turned in at 11. Don't you think I might have been worried?"

"Sorry, babe," pleaded Mitch, "I didn't want to bother you. I just had a business meeting come up unexpectedly that I couldn't get out of."

She looked at him intently, trying hard to understand. "A business meeting?"

"Yeah, babe. No big deal."

"You had a business meeting that ran until almost midnight, on a Friday night?"

"Yeah, babe. Zoom call. We're setting up a new presence in Japan." He pointed to his wrist. "Time difference. We're thirteen hours behind Tokyo. 11am there is 10pm here."

Trina paused to think. "Wait a second," she said. "You said you 'had to go out unexpectedly after work'. That sounds to me like you did something that isn't related to work."

Mitch tried to stay cool. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said, playing for time.

"Well, if you're doing something 'after work', that implies that whatever it is you're doing 'after work' isn't work. Doesn't it? You fucking some chick on the side?"

Mitch froze for a second. "No, babe, of course not. I think you're reading too much into the words in my message. Maybe I chose those words poorly. At the time, I was busy preparing for the presentation I needed to make, so maybe I was a little distracted."

Trina still wasn't sure, but for now, she was willing to give her husband the benefit of the doubt. She folded her arms. "You could've told me all this, you know. It's not a national secret."

"Oh, I know. I'm so sorry, babe. I didn't mean for you to worry." He poured himself a coffee and took a slug. "Matter of fact," he continued, "I need to log on this afternoon and finish up a few things from the meeting." He kissed her on the cheek.

She assumed her husband was telling the truth. Even allowing for the misleading nature of Mitch's text message, his story seemed plausible. They headed out for their usual Saturday morning brunch, and Mitch winced a little as he sat down. His cheeks were still tender. He hoped she didn't notice.

Later that afternoon, Trina found a strange pair of pants in their apartment. They were black, with bold silver and white printing that looked like graffiti. The fabric was thick, there were big pockets on the outside of both legs, and they were cut baggy as fuck. She knew Mitch didn't have a pair of pants like these. They looked to her like the kind of pants criminals and drug-dealers wore in the Bronx. She scratched her head. Yet another mystery to solve. "Hey ... Mitch?" she called.

Mitch was on the couch, flipping through channels. His ass cheeks were still tingling. "Yeah babe?"

She brought the pants out into the living room. "I just found these." She held the pants up as though they disgusted her. "They aren't mine." She raised an eyebrow. "Are they yours?"

Fuck. She'd found the pants Tyrone loaned him last night. He couldn't seem to keep anything hidden from her lately. He thought quickly. "Yeah, babe, they're mine. Remember I went shopping last weekend?"

Trina remembered the sight that welcomed her that stressful afternoon -- her Ivy League husband was sitting on the couch, wearing a basketball singlet and high-dollar track sweats, with a shiny piece of industrial machinery jammed into the side of his nose. "Did you buy these pants?"

"Yeah, babe, but they don't fit. I'm going to need to return them."

"I'm not surprised they don't fit. They're so baggy we could probably both wear them at the same time. Circus clowns don't wear pants as baggy as this. But I'm glad you're returning them. I really don't want to be seen in public with you wearing clothes like these."

For a split second, Mitch let his guard down. "Fuck. Lighten up." That was all it took to light the fuse.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Mitchell, you've never worn clothes like this before, and I still can't deal with your stupid fucking nose piercing. I'm half-expecting you to come home one day with a tattoo on your face. What's gotten into you lately?"

Mitch knew *exactly* what had gotten into him lately. A pair of big black cocks, in each of his holes.

"I'm just trying something new, Katrina."

She'd run out of patience. "You know what? Fuck you, Mitch." She went to the bedroom, slammed the door, and got changed into the sluttiest cocktail dress she could find. She was going out. But before she left, she took the opportunity to rummage through Mitch's drawers. She'd never gone through her husband's shit before, but she was hyper-suspicious about him right now. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew he was hiding something.

She found something solid buried deep at the back of his sock drawer. It felt firm. She wasn't sure what it was, but it certainly didn't feel like a sock. When she pulled it out, she couldn't believe her eyes.

A dildo. A big, black dildo. Her jaw gaped open in shock.

She flung open the door and charged back into the living room, dildo in hand. "What the fuck is this?"

Mitch noticed what Trina was holding, but also what she was wearing. "Where are you going dressed like that?" he countered. "Is that even a dress? Does that qualify as clothes?"

"You're one to talk about clothes," she challenged. "Besides, I asked you first. What the fuck is this?"

Mitch was incensed. "OK, so you're going through my fucking drawers now?"

"Oh, so it *is* yours, then," she spat. "I half-expected you to say it belonged to a friend, and you were just looking after it."

The anger rose. "Why are you dressed like a cheap fucking whore?" He stood up to face her.

"Because I need to get some dick, and I'm sure as hell not getting any from you lately."

"It's the middle of the afternoon," Mitch retorted. "Check the time. It isn't slut o'clock yet."

They glared at each other.

"OK, Mitch, I'll ask you one more time. It's a very simple question. What. The. Fuck. Is. This." She waved the black plastic cock in front of Mitch's face.

Mitch smiled. He found himself enjoying the confrontation. "I believe it's known as a dildo. A dildo is an object designed for sexual penetration of the mouth, vagina or anus, and is usually solid and phallic in shape..."

Trina stepped forward to cut him off. She waved Mitch's dildo in front of his face. "Shut the fuck up. I know it's a dildo, and I know what it's used for."

Mitch felt loose. "Hey babe, I was just answering your question. You asked me what it was. If you already know what it is, why did you ask me three fucking times?"

Trina was infuriated. She concentrated hard, forming the words for the question that was burning a hole in her soul. "Why does my husband have a dildo hidden in his sock drawer?"

Mitch was blatantly toying with her now. "Well it's not in my sock drawer right now, and it wasn't hidden very well if you found it ..."

She screamed and hurled the dildo at him out of sheer frustration. Her face was a contorted mess. She frantically grabbed her purse and keys, and threw the door closed behind her.

Mitch couldn't ever remember seeing his wife so angry. He didn't expect her to come back home tonight. And for the moment, he was just glad she was out of his face. He collected his dildo and returned it to his sock drawer before returning to the couch. He turned the TV on and watched the last quarter of the Bulls v Celtics game before heading into the street in search of food. He downed a bowl of salmon ramen and a cool Sapporo beer before returning to his apartment. Despite what just happened, he felt surprisingly calm.

He fired up his laptop, retrieved his dildo, and turned off the lights.

It was time for some hot whiteboi sex.

He went straight to the dogfart website. He had a membership. He scrolled to find the clip he wanted.

A blonde bimbo walked innocently into a sex shop. She looked a little coy, but she knew what she was looking for. She was ushered to a room in back. The room was brightly lit, perhaps too brightly lit. The walls were plastered with explicit messages written with a sharpie. Mitch imagined the room had been well-used, and that the girl could probably see tell-tale marks and stains on the floor and walls. He assumed the cleaners were kept busy.

The bimbo sat on a chair and watched some interracial porn on a TV screen. She spread her legs and touched herself, until a big black dick poked through a hole in the wall.

She feigned surprise. Mitch watched her mouth open in amazement. He watched her sink to her knees as she tasted it. He watched her lick the tip before sucking on the head. He watched it grow in her mouth and under her touch.

He wished that dick was in his own mouth. He wished he was her. He sucked on his dildo, pushing it as deep in his throat as he could. It felt good, but not as good as a real cock.

The porn bimbo wanted to feel that BBC inside her, but she didn't want her husband to know. He heard her speak. 'It isn't cheating if it's anal,' she said, and Mitch nearly climaxed on the spot.

He lubed himself up. He knew what was about to happen.

He watched as she took off her heels and impaled her tight anus on the huge black shaft poking through the wall. He took the dildo out of his mouth and began fucking himself with it.

She didn't want him to cum in her ass, she wanted to taste him. She kneeled in front of the fat black viper, stroking it, wanting the sexy dude on the other side of the gyprock to unload into her mouth.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

"So am I," echoed Mitch. "Cum on her face." He fucked himself hard, feeling his pussy stretch.

The BBC complied, oozing thick nut into her mouth. Mitch noticed she gagged a little. Rookie mistake -- black cum is a gift to be savoured.

And as he imagined he was her, with a fat black dick flooding his mouth with thick sperm, he came.

He scooped up his nut and ate it, imagining it was Leroy's.

Almost immediately, his phone pinged with a message from Tyrone.

"Hey whiteboi. Get ur ass back up here. We want some more of ur tight pussy."

"Sure. Same bar?"

"Yeah."

"Give me an hour." Mitch logged off and got ready to leave. But before he left, he looked through his wife's drawer. Fuck, if she was gonna raid his own private shit, why couldn't he do the same?

He pulled on a pair of lacy pink panties before catching the green line northward.

*

Mitch arrived at the bar. This time, he didn't feel the need to race; he took his own sweet time getting there. And unlike last time, he didn't feel the need to wait until he was called over to the booth. He sat down next to Tyrone. "You hollered?"

"Yo, wassup, whiteboi?" Tyrone greeted. He extended one of his massive hands to shake Mitch's. He was wearing dark sunglasses.

"Hey," said Mitch.

"Welcome back to the 'hood," joined Leroy.

"You dudes always sit in this same booth?"

"Yeah. We comfortable here," Tyrone replied.

"What's Harlem life like today?" Mitch asked.

Tyrone sighed. He took his shades off and placed his sexy hands on the table. "Same ol' same ol', I guess. How's things wit' you?"

Mitch couldn't tell whether Tyrone was having a genuinely dull day, or whether he was reluctant to move beyond small talk. He couldn't imagine these thugs lived boring lives, and he'd love to find out what shit they got up to. Maybe some other day. He sighed, thinking about his own eventful day so far. After what happened just a few hours ago, maybe his marriage was now officially dead. If by chance it was still alive, it was probably on life support. "My day's been ... unusual."

"What's happenin' in the Upper East Side soap opera?" Tyrone quizzed. "How're all them Rockerfellers trackin'?"

"I had a shower when I got home last night," Mitch began, "and when the water ran over my ass cheeks, it stung like an absolute motherfucker. You really laid into me, you know that?"

Leroy and Tyrone exchanged knowing grins. "Yeah," said Leroy. "We know."

"I haven't been spanked like that since I was at school. Fuck, it hurt so bad, but at the same time ... it felt good."

Tyrone's mouth spread into a wide, toothy grin. "No doubt, whiteboi." While the urban gangsters were instantly curious about why Mitch got spanked at school -- he seemed like such a fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizen who grew up on the right side of the tracks -- it was probably gonna be a subject for another day.

"My wife was asleep when I got home last night, but this morning, she asked why I came home so late. I guess it looked weird because it was a Friday night. I spun her some bullshit story about having to stay late for an international business meeting. I've bent the truth a little on a few things lately with her, but let's just say I think she bought it."

Leroy stroked his chin. "An international business meeting? At the fuckin' postal service?"

Mitch nearly got caught out. "Uhh ... yeah ... it happens all the time. Gotta make sure postal officers in different countries are talking to each other. You'd be surprised at what goes on behind the scenes when it comes to international mail."

Leroy shrugged. He couldn't give a fuck about the postal service.

A waitress came over to their booth with a tray -- three shots and three beers. Mitch downed his shot immediately, exhaling the burning heat before continuing his story. He looked at Tyrone. "And then she found the pants you lent me last night. That was a little more difficult to talk my way out of."

"What'd you tell the bitch?" Tyrone asked.

"That I bought them at the mall the same day I got my nose pierced, but that I was gonna return them." Mitch reached into the backpack he'd brought with him. He extracted Tyrone's pants and threw them at him. "Thanks for the loan. Consider them returned."

"Sho' nuff," thanked Tyrone. "Hey, whiteboi, what's yo' bitch's problem with my fuckin' fine ass threads?"

"She said she wouldn't want to be seen in public with me if I was wearing pants like that. She said they were so saggy two people could've fit inside them."

Tyrone leaned forward. "They make 'em saggy like that for a reason," he drawled, "an' you already fuckin' know what it is."

Mitch's dicklet twitched.

There was short pause in conversation, but since they were discussing marriage, Mitch thought it was a good opportunity to inquire. "So, are either of you two married?"

It was a genuine question that came from an innocent place. The two thugs looked at each other across the table. There was a split second of 'did he just ask what I thought he asked?' disbelief before they burst into laughter. They high-fived at the hilarity of Mitch's question.

The gulf between Mitch's world and Harlem's gritty streetlife had never been so stark. In Mitch's world, a man aspired to a good education, a well-paid job, and if he was lucky, a beautiful wife. On the street, none of these things applied. Bros fucked hos, and the only education that mattered was learning how to hustle.

"Shit, whiteboi, that's fucked up." Tyrone wiped tears of laughter away from his eyes. "Whatever you' been smokin' today, I want some o' that shit too."

Leroy gestured across the table at Tyrone, arms flailing as he laughed. "I'm imaginin' you dressed up in a tux," Leroy whooped, "standin' in a church, with one of them English pipe organs playin' in the background, while the emcee say you gotta faithful to the skanky ho in the white dress standin' next to you, like, for the rest of yo' life, when you already know her bridesmaid is gonna suck a load outta yo' dick the minute you leave the church." His palm slapped the table as he laughed.

They nearly laughed themselves hoarse for about five minutes before Leroy struggled to pull the straightest face he possibly could. "In response to your inquiry, no, neither of us have ever been so fuckin' stupid."

Mitch's shoulders slumped. "Hey, we jus' messin' with you," said Tyrone. "We ain't throwin' shade at you, it's jus' ... it's jus' I don't ever wanna be tied down to no bitch."

"Fuckin' word," Leroy agreed. Two heavy, black palms collided over the table. "Amen to that. Marriage is for weak men with small dicks."

Mitch looked at Leroy, and his bottom lip trembled. Without a word, he picked up his backpack and left the bar. He stood in the alley on the next block and cried. Everything was a fucking mess.

Tyrone hissed at his homeboy. "Fuck, dude, what you gotta say somethin' like that for?"

Leroy was apologetic, but to the wrong person. "Fuck, I know, I'm sorry. It just kinda slipped out."

Neither of them knew what had happened between Mitch and his wife earlier in the day, but given his reaction, they assumed he'd be halfway to the subway by now.

"Wait here," Leroy said. He stood and left the bar. It didn't take long for him to find who he was looking for. He found Mitch crouched, sobbing, clearly in deep emotional pain, in the alley behind the bar.

"I'm so fuckin' sorry," Leroy offered. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Fuck off," Mitch sniffled. "Leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to talk to you right now." He wondered whether he should go home, but he knew his apartment would be empty. There was no love or peace to be found at home tonight, and none in Harlem either.

Leroy moved closer. They heard the hum and bustle of the street around them. Mitch flinched. "Didn't you hear me? Leave me the fuck alone!"

Leroy's palms were upturned. "I jus' wanna say I'm sorry ..."

Mitch became defiant. "I don't want no goddamn apology from you."

Leroy bent down to gently touch Mitch's shoulder. It was meant as a gesture of comfort.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME RIGHT NOW!"

Leroy stepped back. "OK. I hear you." He walked back into the bar, not sure what else to do.

Mitch sat in the gutter, doubled over in emotional agony. He cried for half an hour. Nobody else noticed him. Nobody else cared. Harlem was hard turf.

He cried himself thirsty. With red, puffy eyes, he walked back into the bar in search of a glass of water. Leroy immediately stood up to approach him.

"Didn't you fucking hear me the first time?" Mitch screamed. All conversations in the bar ceased. "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"

Security moved, but Tyrone motioned for them to chill.

Leroy sat back down. "Hey, dude," he said, "maybe we best leave."

"OK," his homeboy agreed. They settled their check and left.

Mitch stood at the bar with his glass of water in front of him, not sure where to go what to do. His wife's panties wouldn't get any airplay tonight. He felt uncomfortable; he knew people were staring at him. He summoned an uber and went home. As expected, his apartment was empty and lifeless. It felt like he didn't belong here anymore. Or anywhere at all, really.