Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 06

Tyrone gazed at Mitch. "Seriously, dude. What kind of jedi mind trick we jus' witness, Skywalker? Are you plugged into the Matrix?"

Mitch didn't feel happy or proud, but he also couldn't believe what he'd just done. It felt like, just for a few seconds, he was a completely different person. If anything, he felt numb. He looked across at Tyrone, sitting on the other side of the booth. "I got no idea what my life is gonna be from now on. I guess a man with nothing left to lose doesn't care what he risks."

"Yeah, but that asshole could've shot yo' ass," Leroy whispered.

Mitch shrugged. "Whatever. I don't really care right now."

The room slowly recovered from silence.

"Not gon' lie, whiteboi, that was some crazy-ass bullshit," declared Tyrone. He shook his sexy dreads behind him.

"Sho' was," Leroy added. "Imma be honest wit' you, whiteboi, I never expected you' be that brave."

"Or that crazy," Tyrone interjected.

Leroy continued. "We owe you one."

For the first time in a long time, Mitch smiled. "No sweat."

They drank in silence for a few seconds. Cops arrived to ask questions. Nobody could describe the features of the gunman because he was wearing a mask. Another case with no leads. They thanked Mitch for his bravery, and took the firearm away with them.

A waitress came over with three fresh beers. "To say thank you," she explained, smiling at Mitch. "On the house."

"Thanks," said Mitch. He turned back to his companions, taking a deep chug of his cool liquid amber. "You got a gun?" he asked.

Leroy and Tyrone glanced at each other. "Who you' askin'?" said Leroy.

"Either of you."

"Yeah, we' both got guns," said Tyrone. "Speaking personally, I don't carry mine often. I leave mine in a safe place in my crib. But in our line of work, sometimes a gun can be useful."

"You ever used it?" asked Mitch.

"No," Tyrone replied. "Not on the streets. At least, not yet."

"So what is your actual line of work? You already know what I do, so tell me what you do?"

Leroy laughed. "You ain't workin' at the fuckin' postal service, whiteboi. We know you' ain't tellin' us what you really do. Besides, we tol' you already what we do. We' independent businessmen." He placed his masculine, tattooed hands on the table, as if to show he had nothing to hide.

Mitch probed further, gazing at Leroy's beautiful nose piercing and his juicy, fat lips. "I remember you telling me that before, but what does it really mean? Like, do you have your own company?"

"Nah. We work for ourselves," Tyrone responded. "We' proudly unincorporated."

"But what exactly do you do?" Mitch was very curious.

"I guess you could say we' debt collectors," smiled Leroy. "An' you' already seen us in action."

"Huh? Are you talking about that night I took my wife to a diner not far from here, and you shook me down?" asked Mitch.

Leroy stroked his chin. "That's one example, but it's an unusual one. We knew you could pay, because we found yo' wallet, but debt collection takes many forms," he explained cryptically. "You remember the tip you left that night?"

Mitch shook his head. He really couldn't remember how much he tipped. Most of the evening was a blur. All he could remember clearly was seeing the outlines of Leroy's and Tyrone's BBCs through their pants, and his head reeling with uncontrollable cocklust.

"Yo' tip was twice the price of the meal," informed Tyrone.

"You totally cleaned me out that night," Mitch protested. "There was about $150 in bills in my wallet that night, but they were missing when you gave my wallet back to me."

Tyrone leaned across the booth. "I don't know anything about the missing bills; yo' wallet was already empty when we found it. But I'm curious why you gave such a generous tip. You a philanthropist, whiteboi?"

Mitch knew the answer -- he wasn't thinking straight that night. These thugs had intimidated the fuck out of him, and he loved how it felt.

Leroy explained further. "Harlem's street economy runs on credit, and people are only as good as their word. Our regular line of work is collecting debts from people who borrow too much and then find they can't pay their debts, and they try to worm out of it. At this point, the angry creditor purchases our services, and we ensure the debt is repaid on terms conducive to both parties."

"We' financial intermediaries," Tyrone proudly stated. "We make sure the wheels of the Harlem economy keep turnin'. The Fed should be thankin' us."

Mitch suspected this was only the tip of the iceberg. He paused to take stock of recent events, because right now, he really wasn't sure why he was here. These thugs had stolen his wallet, ripped the cash from it, and then stood over him, intimidating him to the point where he left a tip of astronomical proportions. And on another occasion, they invited him up to Tyrone's apartment where they handcuffed him, chained him to a pole, cleaned his wallet out again, looked through the photos on his phone, and then smacked his ass so hard it left visible handmarks. Meanwhile, his marriage was falling apart, and now, just moments ago, he nearly got himself killed.

Why the hell was he spending time in this dangerous part of town with these dangerous people? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He'd tried hard to forget that night at the diner, but memories came flooding back now. He remembered how badly he stank and how humiliated he felt after puking his meal up all over himself in the bathroom. He remembered the hot streak of fear he felt when he realised his wallet was missing. He remembered the feeling of intimidation as these two thugs shook him down out back. But most of all, he remembered how badly he wanted to suck their cocks, and how desperate he was to jack off once he got home, had showered his stink off, and his wife was asleep.

He was completely addicted to BBC now, and he knew the craving would never go away.

He checked his phone -- still no contact from Trina. But he suddenly remembered that he'd left the office early on Friday, and his boss was expecting him to have his last unfinished task of the day done by Monday morning. And it was Sunday afternoon.

"Fuck, I have to go," said Mitch. "I just remembered I need to do something for work before tomorrow."

"On a Sunday afternoon?" asked Tyrone. "The mail can't wait until morning, huh? We was jus' 'bout to tell you how we go 'bout our daily business. We thought you was interested in what we do."

"I am, I really am, but ... it's gonna have to wait," Mitch deflected. "I was meant to finish something at work on Friday afternoon, but I left early because I came up to Harlem to meet y'all." He pointed to Tyrone. "You remember you texted me? So I need to get it done before tomorrow morning. And besides, I should probably check to see if Trina is home."

"Yeah, word. Any messages on yo' phone from yo' bitch?" Leroy inquired.

Mitch checked again and shook his head. "No, but I should go anyway. Thanks for the beers, the conversation, and the support."

Tyrone chuckled. "We got yo' back. Like we said, we owe you one. Thanks for saving us from getting killed, Obi-wan."

Mitch stood to leave, and he received a pair of heavy hugs before departing. "Later," said Leroy.

He raced to the station and caught the subway home. Turning his key in the door, he noticed the apartment was still empty. He tried calling Trina's phone again, but there was still no response.

He fretted about his wife, but he also knew he had to finish last week's work before tomorrow morning. He logged onto his work computer and remembered where he was up to. An hour and a half later, he was finished.

Just as he logged off and shut down, the apartment door opened. "Trina?"

"Yeah." He heard the door close behind her, and then the sound of her shoes hitting the floor. She went to the bathroom and locked the door.

He sat on the couch and waited long moments for her to reappear. He had no idea what she might say or do, or how he might feel. Maybe there'd be no conversation at all -- maybe she'd just come back for a quick change of clothes before heading back out again.

She flushed the toilet and headed to the living room. She flopped down into a chair, looking vacant and drained. She acknowledged Mitch's presence with a grunt.

"Welcome back, babe," he said.

"Yeah, I guess." Trina moved to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

"How was your night?"

Trina came back to the living room with her glass. She placed it on a nearby table before flopping back down again. "It was good, I think. I can't remember all of it."

Mitch leaned forward. "Where did you go?"

Trina sighed. "To a bar."

Mitch got the impression that Trina wasn't in an expansive mood. "Which one?"

She rubbed her eyes. "Uhh ... I met up with Sophie from work at a place in Times Square. We got ... drunk."

"I think I can tell," said Mitch. She was wearing her hangover like an overcoat. "Want me to get you something for your headache?"

Trina waved him away. "No," she whispered.

"Some water?" asked Mitch.

"No, I'm good." She pointed to the glass on the table. "I've got some."

There was a pause. Mitch had no idea where this conversation was heading.

"Then Amanda joined us, and we went to a club. We danced, and some cute guy hit on Sophie. She's such a fucking slut. She disappeared for a few minutes, and neither me or Amanda knew where she was. When she came back her breath smelled like cum. She kissed me on the dancefloor and told us she blew him in the bathroom. I kissed her and I could taste it in her mouth. I remembered how much I love the taste of cum, but it's been so long since I've had any." Trina paused, glancing nervously at her husband.

"I don't remember how I got there, but I remember being on my knees in the men's bathroom. I guess I must've swallowed seven or eight loads before I went back out to the bar. I told Sophie what I'd done and she was so excited. We had a few more drinks before we went to another club, and I did the same thing again. I was knocking back a mixture of wine, hard liquor and cum for hours. Next thing I remember I was on a gurney in the emergency room. They told me they pumped my stomach. I don't really remember how I got to the hospital, but when I woke up, I was on my own. I think Sophie and Amanda might've dropped me there and left me." She raised a weak smile and tried to laugh. "Imagine draining those ingredients out of someone's stomach."

Mitch tried to be supportive. "The medics are probably used to it. Pumping cocktails of alcohol and semen out of stomachs is probably a regular Saturday night thing."

"So that's what I did last night," Trina concluded. "And I lost my phone."

Mitch now knew why he hadn't received any messages from her.

Trina's face turned into a vicious scowl. She lifted her head and looked Mitch dead in the eye. "So what did my faggot husband get up to last night?" she spat.

Mitch almost couldn't believe his ears. He *hated* that word. "Umm ... excuse me ... but what the fuck did you just call me?"

Trina looked defiant. "You heard me. Did you play with your dildo last night, you little femboy? Or did you dress up and walk the streets until you found yourself a real man? I told Amanda and Sophie all about what I found in your drawer yesterday afternoon. I don't remember everything about last night, but for the rest of my life, I'll never forget the moment when I found a giant plastic fucking penis hidden under my husband's socks. We had a good laugh about you last night. Amanda said she always thought you were a sissy."

Mitch stood up and walked over to his wife. He picked her up and carted her to the bedroom. She struggled, but she was too weak to fight. Mitch threw her on the bed, face down. He tore her panties off with one hand while pinning her body to the mattress with the other. His cock was as hard as steel. He spat on it before spitting on his wife's asshole.

He went in raw, and she screamed.

"Mitch! Fuck! What are you doing? Get off me, I don't do anal!"

"You do now, you fuckin' skanky bitch," Mitch seethed. "You're gonna suck a thousand anonymous dicks in a single night, but you won't let your own husband fuck your ass? Shut the fuck up." He gritted his teeth and fucked her like he hated her. "Call me a fuckin' faggot, will you? Call me a sissy? Tell me how many loads they pumped out of your slutty guts last night, you fuckin' cum dumpster?"

For the first time in her life, Trina gave in to the mixture of pleasure and pain of anal sex. These sensations were all brand new to her. She'd never played with her asshole in her life, not once; not even a curious fingernail in a moment of drunken inhibition.

"How'd you like my faggot dick in your ass, you dirty fuckin' slut?"

She moaned, but the sound she made was unintelligible.

"What did you say, bitch? How does it feel having your anal cherry taken by your faggot sissy husband?"

Mitch had never fucked any hole harder in his life than right now. His four and a half inches felt like four and a half yards as he pistoned in and out of his wife's virgin anus.

"You love it in the ass, don't you?"

Trina's eyes rolled back in their sockets as she squirted uncontrollably all over the mattress. A warm, wet patch spread underneath her stomach.

Mitch felt his orgasm approaching. "You want some cum, bitch?"

Trina screamed. Some words came out, but Mitch couldn't understand what she said.

"You said you had your stomach pumped last night, you fuckin' slutty whore? I think they missed a load," Mitch announced, as he came deep into his wife's ass. "Take that shit, you fuckin' bitch."

He felt her asshole twitch around his shaft as she climaxed a second time, flooding the bed.

Trina had never seen this side of Mitch. She couldn't remember the last time her husband made her cum so hard, if ever.

Mitch pulled out. "So your slutty friends think you can do better than a sissy femboy like me? Fine. If that's what you think of me, Katrina, I'm done with you. I want a separation." He dressed and packed an overnight bag before returning to the bedroom. Trina was still face down on the mattress, having barely moved. Her asshole felt raw and inflamed. "Tell your friends you lost your anal virginity to your faggot streetwalker husband, and tell them how hard I made you cum. I'm gonna stay at a hotel tonight. Don't wait up."

He heard Trina's weak, distant voice: "wait, no, Mitch ... I'm so sorry ..."

He slammed the door behind him on the way out.

*

He had two things he needed to do. First, he rang his supervisor to explain that he'd completed Friday's workload and that it was ready for him to review first thing tomorrow morning, but that a family emergency had come up and he wouldn't be able to come into the office tomorrow. His supervisor asked a few sharp, probing questions, and Mitch gave defensive, guarded replies that hinted at marriage strife.

The second thing was much more important. His palms were sweaty and his hands were dry as he called Tyrone. The line rang and Tyrone accepted the call.

"Yo, whiteboi, wassup?" Tyrone greeted.

"Hey," said Mitch nervously. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"Nah, dude, I'm just kickin' back watching some hoops on TV. You OK?"

"Not really. Trina came home while I was finishing up some work stuff. She had her stomach pumped in the emergency room last night. She got way drunk, and from what she said, she sucked more dick last night than Madonna in the 1980s."

"For real? Shit, whiteboi, yo' wife's a skanky whore."

"Yeah, maybe, but I don't care about that right now. She can fuck whoever she wants." Mitch took a deep breath. "I told you about how she found my dildo. She called me a faggot, and I got angry."

"Fo' sure," said Tyrone. "That word is brutal. The f-word is up there with the n-word. People should know better."

"I was so angry I fucked her in the ass. I'd never done that before, and she squealed like I was her first. I nutted in her, told her I wanted a separation, packed a bag and said I was going to a hotel for the night."

Mitch could hear Tyrone breathing on the other end of the line.

"I'm gonna book a hotel now, but I don't really want to," said Mitch, "not unless I have to. I don't want to be with her, but I also don't want to be alone." He paused. "So I was wondering ... can I stay at your place tonight?"

"Well, I'd love to help a brother out in his time of desperate need, but I got my slutty Filipino maid comin' in tomorrow morning, you understand; she wears one of those skimpy French outfits an' every time she bends over to dust somethin', her tight brown asshole winks at me, an' the place is a mess right now, so she' got a lot of work to get through tomorrow before she gets her payment ... but on the other hand, yo' crazy-ass shit might've saved me from an untimely death today, so..."

On the other end of the line, Mitch laughed. "Thank you," he said.

"Come on up whenever," Tyrone concluded. "Later." He ended the call.

Mitch slung his bag over his shoulder and headed north to the 125th street elevated station. He wondered if there was a frequent flyer program on the green line. He sat back in his seat, relaxing. The train jerked and shuddered before screeching to a halt on the southern side of the river.

Mitch walked the few short blocks to Tyrone's building. Weeks ago, Harlem was like another world to him, but tonight, he swaggered through the streets, feeling almost untouchable. He arrived at Tyrone's building and was buzzed in. He rode up to the 16th floor to find Tyrone's apartment door was already unlocked for him. He walked inside, closing the door behind him.

Tyrone was doing exactly what he'd said he was doing. Mitch found him with his feet up, slouched on the couch, watching a basketball game. Tyrone grabbed the remote and hit the pause button. "Hey, whiteboi."

"Hey." Mitch dropped his overnight bag near the door.

Tyrone stood and headed to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door. "Have you eaten?"

"Nah ... but I'm not hungry."

"You want something to drink?"

"Yeah. Thanks. A beer would be good."

Tyrone flipped the tops off a couple of bottles and brought them back into the living area. The image on the TV screen was frozen.

"What are you watching?" Mitch tentatively asked. "I'm really sorry ... I feel like I'm interrupting."

"You ain't interruptin' shit, whiteboi," Tyrone replied. "Sit yo' ass down, make yo'self at home."

Mitch sat on the couch, but at an appreciable distance from Tyrone. "Where's Leroy?" he asked.

"Don't know," answered Tyrone. "I assume he' at home."

Mitch was confused. "He doesn't live here with you?"

"Shit no, whiteboi. He' got his own crib. We' in the same building, but he' down on the 10th floor, so his views of the inevitable death of America ain't quite so elevated as mine."

Mitch shook his head in confusion. "I thought you two were together?"

"Yeah, we are. But I thought we had this conversation already? We' been together since elementary school ..."

Mitch felt bold enough to ask. "No, no, that's not what I meant," he interrupted. "I thought you were ... together ... like ... in a relationship."

Tyrone laughed so hard beer shot out of his nose. "Me? And Leroy?" He waved his arms.

"Nah, nah, nah man, you got the wrong idea. We' ain't like that."

"Like what?" probed Mitch.

"We ain't gay."

Mitch understood. He nodded, turning back towards the frozen image on the TV screen, worried he'd pushed too far. "I ain't gay either," he whispered to himself.

"What' you say, whiteboi?" hollered Tyrone.

Mitch gathered his voice. "I ain't gay either."

"Yeah, I know you ain't," Tyrone replied. "You tol' me you just fucked the shit outta yo' wife' tight asshole."

Mitch sat in silence for a few moments, deep in thought. He hoped he wasn't keeping Tyrone from the basketball game, but Tyrone appeared in no hurry to grab the remote. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked.