Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 10

Tyrone laughed, remembering an earlier time. "It ain't gasoline, whiteboi. Just drink the mo'fucker. I bought you some good shit. Top shelf shit. This shit ain't cheap."

Mitch sniffed the rim of the shot glass, and Tyrone exploded, arms flailing everywhere. "Whatchu doin' right now, whiteboi? Jus' fuckin' drink it!" Tyrone lifted his own shot, tilted his head back and poured the spirit into his mouth. "Don' you truss me? This some fuckin' high-dollar beverage right here! I ain't poisonin' you!"

"I'll tell you why I'm nervous in a second," said Mitch, "but first, thank you for whatever the hell this is." He lifted the glass to his lips.

"It's vodka, whiteboi," Tyrone disclosed. "Fresh from Iceland."

Mitch half-swallowed, panicked and coughed. He sprayed a fine mist of half-swallowed vodka all over Tyrone.

"Hey, Jada," hollered Tyrone, "get this whiteboi another shot, girl! He spat half o' this high-dollar shit all over me!"

Mitch's face turned red, and he wordlessly crossed his arms across his face as if to say 'no!' But Jada didn't see him, and half a minute later, both he and Tyrone had another shot of icy Icelandic vodka on the table in front of them.

Mitch's breath slowly returned to normal, and as he looked across the table, he saw Tyrone, elbows on the table, his head resting on the heels of his hands, fully focused on him. "You said befo' you got somethin' to tell me, didn't you, whiteboi?" he whispered.

Mitch tried hard to put his brain in gear, but the pose Tyrone had struck on the other side of the table, as he gave Mitch his undivided attention, was hypnotically sexy. He took a mental snapshot of Tyrone's beautifully upturned face, knowing he'd jack off to it for years to come. Maybe the vodka was going to his head, but he desperately wanted to crawl under the table and jam his face in Tyrone's sweaty groin, fishing out his sweet meat, feeling the weight of his beautiful BBC in his hands...

Mitch shook his consciousness back to reality. Very briefly, he summarised what had happened earlier today -- his breakfast, his run in the park, his unwanted encounter with his wife, and his disastrous Icelandic lunch with her.

"So you see why I freaked out when you said the vodka was from Iceland? I'm instantly associating the whole country with sheep balls."

"I don't know shit about Iceland," Tyrone replied, "but 'pparently those motherfuckers got the best fuckin' water in the world. Like, they tell me it's like drinkin' pure spring water straight from the kitchen faucet. You ever tried drinkin' water straight from a kitchen in Harlem? There's a reason we drink so much bottled water; the liquid shit they funnel into our apartments is fuckin' unhygienic, and they tell us we' meant to be a first world country. I don't know nothin' 'bout eatin' sheep's balls, but if peeps in Iceland can use their water to make vodka, I'm on board. I'm a fuckin' patriot, but I'd much rather spend my hard-earned cash on a quality imported beverage, even if it's more expensive, than on shitty American vodka. Idaho got too many fuckin' potatoes and not enough good water. Fuck that bullshit."

Tyrone's commentary on the discerning consumer's approach to the theory of monopolistic competition as it pertained to international trade was intriguing, but Mitch was much more curious to find out how Tyrone collected his 'hard-earned cash'. He still hadn't found out, but it was a line of inquiry that'd need to wait for another day. He had something else he needed to tell Tyrone before Leroy arrived.

They clinked their shot glasses and drank.

"OK, dude," said Mitch, "you need to shut up for a few minutes while I tell you some shit."

Tyrone took a slug of his beer. His thick, tattooed fingers gestured 'go 'head, whiteboi, tell me.'

"Last Saturday morning, I was out when my wife came back to the apartment to collect some stuff. The reason I knew she'd been there is because she left me a note on the kitchen counter. I mean, her name is on the lease, she has a key, and most of her worldly possessions are still there, so even though we're separated, I expect she'll come back from time to time to collect some of her stuff, and I guess I was grateful that she happened to pick a time when I wasn't home. I assumed maybe she wanted to take some fresh clothes from her wardrobe with her, or some shoes, or some perfume, or whatever. Who cares. But while she was there, she took my dildo. She knew where I kept it, but she probably didn't know what I used it for."

"She'd prolly have a reasonable idea," Tyrone interrupted.

Mitch frowned. "Shut the fuck up, dude. Let me tell you my fucking story."

Tyrone lifted his beer to his mouth in silence, looking his whiteboi in the eye.

"I went through all of my drawers trying to find it," Mitch continued, "and it absolutely was not there. I'd used it just the day before, and I distinctly remembered cleaning it up and putting it back where it belongs, in my sock drawer. The only problem was Trina knew where I kept it, too, which I guess is why she took it. After emptying my drawers, I found a cryptic note she'd left me on the kitchen counter. It said something like 'by the way, I borrowed something of yours, but don't worry, I'll look after it and I'll bring it back soon,' so as soon as I read that, I knew exactly what she'd taken. I jacked off later that night watching some interracial porn, and while I still got my nut, it wasn't the same. The next morning, I woke up knowing I couldn't call Trina demanding my dildo back..."

Tyrone wondered 'why the fuck not, it's your shit?' but he'd been sworn to silence. He was also wondering what -- or who -- Mitch thought about while he fucked himself.

"... even though I was pissed as fuck that she took something of mine with her. She can take as much of her own shit with her, and that's no problem for me; but it sure as fuck becomes a problem when she takes *my* stuff, and it's even harder to bear when she takes something of mine that she ridiculed me for. So on Sunday morning, I googled some adult bookstores, because I wanted to buy a replacement. I could've easily purchased one online, but it would've taken a few days to be delivered, and I needed it as soon as I could get it. Like, I fucking *needed* that big black dildo jammed way deep in my pussy as soon as possible."

Tyrone's face was pure curiosity. He was boning up under the table, imagining his thick BBC ploughing his whiteboi's tight hole to a sweet, beautiful sissygasm.

Mitch continued. "Dude, you'll probably never know how good it feels to have something in your ass, and how desperately you miss it when it isn't available. So anyway, I went to a store in midtown, I found what I wanted and bought it. But just as I was about to leave to head home for some hot whiteboi sex, the guy behind the counter must've noticed something about me. He just said one word to me -- 'gloryhole?' -- and I nodded. I'd never been in a gloryhole before, on either side of the wall, so this was a bit fucked up right from the get-go, but I wanted to find out..."

Tyrone was interested, but confused. "Hey, hey," he gently interrupted, "wait a second. Why the fuck you' tellin' me all this shit, whiteboi? I ain't followin' you."

Mitch grinned. "Because Leroy was on the other side of the wall."

Tyrone sat silently for a few seconds before responding. "That's some bullshit right there."

Mitch met Tyrone's gaze. "It's true."

"Bullshit," Tyrone repeated. "I don' believe you. My dude gets mo' than enough pussy; why you think he' gon' go to a fuckin' gloryhole, whiteboi?"

This was a level of denial Mitch hadn't expected.

"I can't answer that question. I don't know. I was just as surprised as you seem to be."

Tyrone remained silent, thinking. He couldn't think of any reason why Mitch would lie to him. "OK, so let's assume it was him. How could you tell?"

"Because his voice is loud and instantly recognisable, and because... well... because I recognised his penis. I recognised how it smelled and how it tasted." Mitch paused momentarily before continuing. "I didn't say a word the whole time. Even though it felt so fucking good sucking him off, I wouldn't even let myself moan, in case he recognised something about my voice. I did everything I could to disguise myself. I used my nails instead of my fingertips, and other than my lips and mouth, I made sure my face didn't make any contact with his dick..."

Tyrone waited silently for Mitch to continue, but the story concluded much more quickly than expected.

"He poked his balls through the hole," said Mitch, "and I sucked them hard. I think he was jacking himself off on the other side of the wall while I was sucking on his nuts, because when he thrust his shaft back through the hole, he was mighty thick. Like, I know his length is just a little shorter than yours, but fuck, when he jammed his dick back down my throat, he felt ginormous. I gasped for air, I heard him moan, and then he nutted in my mouth. The modern-day whiteboi romance, right?"

Tyrone's erection had completely deflated. He felt a kind of muddy, indistinct anxiousness slowly building up inside. He couldn't think of any reason to disbelieve what he was hearing, but he found it hard to imagine Leroy as the gloryhole type. Surely this topic would've come up in conversation over the many years they've been friends. Fuck, they'd talked about sex from a million different angles and perspectives, so why would this be a no-go area? He finished the rest of his beer and waved Jada over for a couple of refills. He felt a little drunk.

Through his thickening alcohol fog, Tyrone tried to zero in on what it was that was making him feel uncomfortable. Every man on the planet loves to get his dick sucked, and if anonymity added a little mysterious spice to the exchange for some people, he was in no position to judge.

No, that wasn't it.

What burned him up was that he didn't know anything about it.

He and Leroy had been tight as fuck since elementary school. They told each other everything about their lives. Everything. Two brothers in the hood could never have been so close as he and Leroy. There'd never been any secrets in their friendship until now.

He tried hard to remember if he and Leroy had ever had a conversation about gloryholes, but he came up blank.

It was only a little thing, but even so, Tyrone felt deceived. And now he wondered what else Leroy might be keeping from him.

For the next few moments, his conversation with Mitch was a little quiet. Tyrone found himself lost in his own thoughts. He desperately wanted to disbelieve what he was hearing, but the more Mitch revealed, the more it felt like it was the truth. But was he making too much of this? What was so wrong about going to a gloryhole? As long as both people on opposite sides of the wall were getting their fix and nobody got hurt, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. Sure, Tyrone had never had a gloryhole experience of his own, but he'd never wanted or needed to have one. He'd never had a need to get his dick sucked by an anonymous mouth; his swagger and his size meant there were no shortage of hoes around town willing to get on their knees for him, and he thought Leroy had pretty much the same deal. Or maybe Leroy had unexpectedly found himself in a different part of town on that specific day for an unrelated reason, and felt the need to visit an adult establishment and then ended up...

Mitch watched Tyrone thinking. "I'm sorry... have I upset you?"

Of course he hadn't. This wasn't about Mitch, this was about Leroy. Tyrone was about to tell Mitch that everything between the two of them was cool, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door flew open and Leroy entered. He sat down next to Mitch and opposite Tyrone. There was a short flurry of physical greetings, but something about Tyrone's hug felt reserved and distant. Leroy sensed that feel something in the air wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

Jada noticed Leroy's arrival. She poured a beer for him and brought it over to their booth. "Thanks, girl," he grinned. "I 'ppreciate it." Jada smiled tersely as if to say 'if you appreciate it, please leave me a big fucking tip tonight, because I'm living in my car with my son right now, his dad is gone, and if it wasn't for this fucking bar, I wouldn't know where our next meal was coming from.'

Leroy sipped his beer and looked across the table. He noticed that Tyrone looked sullen and a little uncomfortable. Maybe this was why things didn't feel right. "You good, bruh?" he asked.

Tyrone responded wordlessly: he lifted his glass of beer, but failed to meet Leroy's eyes. He'd been looking forward to tonight, but after what Mitch had just told him, he wasn't so sure he wanted to be here anymore. He waved to Jada in search of another hit of expensive Icelandic vodka. Three cool shot glasses arrived. Tyrone smashed his back as soon as it landed, and he asked Jada for yet another.

Tyrone was a big boy who knew how to handle his alcohol, but Jada couldn't help noticing how much he'd consumed in such a short space of time.

Leroy was his best buddy. They'd known each other since elementary school... he cared for Leroy, and in a brotherly way, he loved him deeply... but he now knew there was something about Leroy's life that had been hidden from him, and he couldn't think of any reason why.

He looked at the man sitting across the booth from him, who he'd known since like forever, in an entirely different light.

This wasn't the evening Tyrone expected when he invited his whiteboi up to the hood. He thought he and his bro Leroy would enjoy some chill drinks before heading back to his crib to fuck their whiteboi all night long, but right now, that scenario felt remote. He tried to pretend everything was OK, but failed miserably. "Yeah, bruh," he replied, looking out the window, subconsciously avoiding Leroy's gaze. "All good. What 'bout you?"

There was something in Tyrone's demeanour that felt challenging and unfriendly. Leroy had seen the darker side of his bro's personality a few times before, and it wasn't pretty. He didn't want an argument. "Yeah, I mean, I can't complain 'bout nothin'," came his shallow response.

There was an unmistakeable tension in the air.

Mitch's eyes darted nervously back and forth. Something very serious was taking place, and he worried that his innocent disclosure to Tyrone had set off a chain reaction of mistrust he hadn't anticipated.

Leroy felt -- no, it was more than a feeling, he *knew* now -- that there was something poisonous in the air, but its cause was still a mystery. "Seriously, Tyrone, are you OK right now? It's *me* askin' you, bruh. Yo' boy Leroy. You pissed at me fo' somethin'? What's up? You can tell me anything."

Leroy wanted to try to pull Tyrone's mood out of a nosedive, but his last sentence landed like an anvil on a sidewalk. He didn't know it, they were now in a world of secrets. From Tyrone's perspective, the days and nights of "you can tell me anything" were over.

Tyrone took a heavy, heavy gulp of his beer, draining the remainder, gulping down all the froth. He angrily slammed the empty glass back down on the table so hard it was a miracle it didn't shatter. "Errythin's coo', dude. Never felt better," he boomed, finally meeting Leroy's gaze. The merest hint of a snarl played across his lips. "I'm fine."

Mitch jumped in fright, recoiling at the sound. He felt scared. He'd never seen these guys disagree over anything before, yet he seemed to have scored himself a ringside seat to a fight, and he was the one who'd rung the bell.

He still didn't know that this wasn't about him, but given the way Tyrone's mood disintegrated straight after he told his tale, Mitch couldn't have drawn any other conclusion. He sat in the booth, trapped between a pair of huge alpha thugs, feeling certain he'd lit a fuse.

The tension continued to rise.

Leroy looked out the window for a second, watching the traffic, breathing deeply as he collected his thoughts. "You know what, dude?" he said. "I think I'm jus' gon' leave you to yo' own fuckin' personal melodrama, bruh. I can tell you' shitty wit' me 'bout somethin', and I fuckin' need you to tell me 'bout it so we can get whatever the hell this shit is out in the open so we can fuckin' deal and move on. How'm I expected to try to make shit better if I don' know why you' pissed at me?"

He paused, waiting for Tyrone to say something -- anything! -- but there was only silence.

"OK, bro, so you jus' gon' gimme that fuckin' "nah, bruh errythin' cool" bullshit 'gain. I mean, shit, dude, I thought we' gon' have a chill night, jus' you an' me and whiteboi over here, but nah, fuck this shit. I need to tell you, my homie, I'm gettin' tired as hell of yo' passive-aggressive shit lately. I can't fuckin' deal with this fuckin' shitty attitude no more. I'm out."

For a few seconds, Leroy gently tried to catch Tyrone's eyes, seeking some kind of response, but Tyrone's fierce glance was directed downward at the table. There was no connection.

In heartbreaking disappointment, Leroy downed the rest of his beer, threw a crumpled twenty-dollar bill on the table, and left. As he walked towards the door, he regretted the heat of his impassioned monologue, but the words were out there now, and he couldn't take them back.

Tyrone's dark eyes remained fixated on the table, exploring the cracks and crevices in the tabletop wood, seemingly searching for some kind of meaning. Mitch was too terrified to say anything. Eventually, Tyrone looked up, gazing across at the other side of the bar, not looking specifically at anyone or anything. "Fuck," he whispered to himself. His eyes were wet, as if he'd been silently crying.

Tyrone had never had a long-term relationship. He'd never wanted one, nor had he ever needed one, because bitches formed an orderly line waiting for the privilege to service his huge, oversized black dick. The only long-term relationship with any serious emotional connection he'd ever had in his entire life was with Leroy. What just happened between them just now felt like a breakup. A bubble of unfamiliar emotions rose up, bursting through the tender, inexperienced walls of Tyrone's emotional existence. Silently, he wiped his eyes.

Mitch had always believed that the relationship between Leroy and Tyrone was deep, long and wide, but even though that was true, he'd just discovered it was far from perfect. His gloryhole tale wasn't a smooth pebble being cheerily skimmed across the surface of a still pond, but a meteorite heavy enough to shift tectonic plates.

Mitch had no idea his innocent story would have such serious ramifications. He retrofitted his imagination, thinking about what might've happened tonight if he never said anything at all about the gloryhole. He assumed Tyrone and Leroy would've laughed and hollered all night, slowly getting their whiteboi drunk until they decided to walk the short block back to Tyrone's crib, where they'd get their sweet interracial fucc on until sunrise. That was the evening Mitch wanted to have, but it wasn't going to happen tonight.

Tyrone reached into his pants and pulled out his wallet. He threw two crisp $100 bills on the table. He left the bar without another word.

Mitch sat there shaking, alone in the booth, for what felt like aeons. Slow, chill rap beats slithered out of distant speakers, and his ears caught the fragments of distant conversations. He still had half a beer in front of him. His brain felt like it had been severed from his body; he had absolutely no idea what to do or what to think. Anxiety and nervousness had made his mouth feel as arid as a desert. Unthinkingly, he reached out, grabbing the glass with two unsteady hands to take a sip. Seconds later, his mouth felt dry again. His pitcher was empty within minutes.