Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 11

Mitch's Sunday morning started out as miserable as hell, and just as lonely. His full bladder woke him up early, but after taking a desperately needed piss, he went straight back to bed. He wished he had a cat to feed. At least that'd give him a reason to be awake. He willed himself to fall back asleep.

He thought back to last night. There were too many questions, but not enough answers, and it was far too early to make sense of anything. Eventually his eyes closed again, and he slept a dreamless sleep. He woke again late, just before lunchtime. He stretched his limbs and tuned back into his consciousness. He felt a little hungry.

Without meaning to or intending to, he'd somehow wedged himself into the cracks of a deep connection between two dudes and detonated emotional explosives. And his wife was somewhere else in town, sleeping with one of her colleagues. He imagined Trina's mouth lovingly teasing Amanda's cunt, and it repelled him. He didn't miss her.

He longed for a garden to potter around in. He craved getting his hands dirty in deep, dark soil, planting new life and watching it grow, but he lived in an apartment with a tiny balcony. Scratch that off the list.

He cooked himself a late breakfast; scrambled eggs with toast, accompanied by a strong coffee. For something to do, he walked to the Museum of Modern Art on West 53rd. He gazed at the Pollocks, the Warhols, the Rothkos and the Ruschas hanging on the wall. He put his headphones on over the top of his ball cap, turned noise-cancelling on, and listened to some ambient sounds while he admired the precious art. He let the paintings flood his mind, soothe his emotions and settle his thoughts.

He stood in front of Pollock's 'Autumn Rhythm' for a long time, eventually getting lost inside it. He focused on the size and scale of the work, then considered the narrow palette the artist used to express such deep, profound meaning. He focused on the drips, flicks and streaks of black, white, grey and beige paint, on an off-white canvas backdrop. He'd seen images online of another Pollock painting, known as 'Blue Poles', which many critics considered to be the pinnacle of Pollock's tragically truncated career, but he'd never been in its presence. Like James Dean, Pollock lived too fast and died too soon.

Mitch would've loved to sit on a wooden bench and stare at 'Blue Poles' for an aeon, but that painting was on the other side of the world, faraway in Canberra, Australia. Who the fuck would ever want to go there.

Besides the life and times of Jackson Pollock, two things were playing on Mitch's mind. First, he still had no idea what damage he'd done in terms of the connection between Tyrone and Leroy, but he was trying hard to park the thought, because thinking about it only made him feel anxious. If it turned out he'd ruined a lifelong friendship, he'd never forgive himself. And secondly, what the fuck was going on with his gonads? Whenever he had sex in real life, his discharge was weak like water and just as tasteless, but whenever he had an arousing dream, his nut was full, thick and rich. Like, what the fuck is up with that? Weird shit like that only ever happens in Murakami novels, and the last time Mitch checked, he wasn't a fictional Japanese character.

He stared at his feet for a moment. He switched his tunes from ambient to hardcore rap. Unconsciously, his frame began to bounce loosely in time with the beat.

A tall, sexy black dude moved next to him in front of 'Autumn Rhythm'.

Mitch watched him studying the painting closely.

The dude noticed Mitch.

Mitch unflinchingly met his gaze.

The dude suggestively raised his eyebrows as his hand drifted south, lightly touching his crotch.

Mitch looked him dead in the eye and nodded slightly.

Half a minute later, they were locked inside a cubicle in the men's bathroom. There was no kissing and there were no names. Mitch sank to his knees, and a fat, black shaft bounced in front of his face. Fuck, it was big. Not quite as big as Leroy's nine inches or Tyrone's ten, but big enough. Mitch didn't have a great deal of experience, but he guesstimated he was about to swallow seven and a half inches of fat, juicy black meat.

Mitch's headphones pounded hardcore thug rap into his ears as an anonymous BBC pounded his throat.

"Yeah, you suck on that shit, whiteboi. Suck that shit good."

Mitch couldn't hear anything the man said. His ears were being assaulted by deep, heavy beats.

"Fuck, you got a sweet fuckin' mouf, whiteboi."

Mitch let the dude fuck his face. He could feel the anonymous BBC getting close.

"You like art, do you, whiteboi? Lemme fuckin' paint you." The man pulled his fat cock out of Mitch's mouth.

Mitch's field of vision narrowed to a fat black dick stroked by a heavy fist. He knew what was about to happen. He opened his mouth wide and flopped out his tongue.

Thick, delicious streaks of black cum drenched his face, stained his cap and soaked his headphones.

Before he could look up, his companion had gone, leaving the cubicle door wide open as he left.

Mitch stood up and approached the bathroom mirror. The room was quiet. Luckily for him, there was nobody else in the bathroom. As he took his headphones off, he heard nothing but the cool hum of the building's air-conditioning. Quietly, he cleaned semen off his headphones and face with some paper towels. While he was able to wipe most of the dude's nut off his clothes, a telltale residue remained. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and shrugged. He didn't care.

He walked out of the bathroom and back into the museum with the delicious taste of black nut in his mouth.

Half an hour later, Mitch was standing in front of a series of screenprints of Campbell's soup cans. He stepped back to appreciate their tight precision and uniformity as a group, then walked forward to note the tiny, minor imperfections in the screenprinting process that made each individual Warhol print a separate, unique thing. He was lost in his own world when he felt a presence beside him. It was the dude from the bathroom. Mitch noticed his dark eyes, broad shoulders, and his strong, athletic, masculine chest. And he'd already tasted his big black cock.

"You're not wearing your headphones anymore," the man said. Even though he spoke quietly, Mitch noticed how deep and sexy his voice was.

"That's because you painted them," Mitch whispered, not wanting to disturb his fellow art enthusiasts.

The man laughed. "Sorry about that. I suppose the least I can do is buy you a coffee."

Mitch smiled. "I cleaned them up in the bathroom afterwards, but thanks, I'd like that. I guess I could use a caffeine hit."

They walked towards the elevator and descended to café level. They sat at a table, and after the man ordered, two coffees arrived. For the first time, Mitch drank in the appearance of the nameless man he'd just fellated. Piercingly dark brown eyes, frizzy black hair tied back in a loop, a thick neck, powerful chest, strong arms, and a pair of thick, kissable lips that framed a beautiful, friendly smile. Mitch couldn't see any tattoos or piercings. The man was wearing a plain black t-shirt that betrayed the slightest hint of nipple.

"You're cute," said the nameless man. "I hope you don't mind me saying that."

Mitch was stunned, completely lost for words. Nobody had ever called him 'cute' before. Not Leroy, not Tyrone, not Trina; nobody. "Uhh ... err ... I guess ..."

"You looked cute wearing your headphones." There was that word again. Mitch had no idea how to respond. "I dig your nose ring too. Really suits you."

Mitch blushed beet red, but he had no idea what to say. He nervously slurped his coffee.

A large, black hand of friendship was outstretched. "I'm Brontë. I've been told my name means 'thunder'."

Mitch thought about the sweet, delicious thunder that rained over him in the bathroom. His warm cup clattered back down into the saucer with a rattle as he accepted Brontë's hand. "Nice to meet you, Brontë. I'm Mitch, and I've been told my name means 'whiteboi'."

Brontë cracked an amused, friendly smile.

"Honestly, I've got no idea what my name means," Mitch admitted, "but I hope it isn't on the test."

Brontë laughed a little. He looked around the café before leaning forward. "You come here often, Mitch?"

Mitch assumed this was a genuine question, and not the most worn-out pickup line known to humanity. "I haven't been here for a while," he said, sipping his coffee, "but I love modern American art. I mostly admire the pop artists and the abstract expressionists." He paused for a moment. "It's almost embarrassing how infrequently I come to MoMA, considering I only live a few blocks away."

Brontë sipped his coffee. He'd created some of his own abstract expressionist art not so long ago -- right across this whiteboi's face. "Where do you live?"

"Not too far away. Just a couple of blocks. What about you?"

"Harlem."

Mitch's dicklet twitched. He glanced around the room before drinking the rest of his coffee. He felt a little wired and spoke without thinking. "I've been spending time there recently myself." He instantly regretted this disclosure.

"Really? Whereabouts? What for?"

Brontë was curious, but Mitch let the pitch sail through to the catcher. He gave a vague, meaningless answer.

Brontë finished his coffee and prepared to leave. "Nice meeting you, Mitch. Can I give you my number before I go? I'd like to see you 'gain."

Mitch's hands were shaking a little as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked the screen and passed it across the table. As Brontë picked up Mitch's handset, his eyes were drawn to the Grindr icon at the top of the screen: Mitch had an unread message on his app. Quietly, Brontë typed in his digits.

"Text me, sexy whiteboi," Brontë said as he returned Mitch's phone, making sure their fingertips touched. He stood, turned and walked away.

The wreckage of Mitch's mind lay in pieces by the side of the road. He walked home, changed into his gym gear, and went for a run to clear his head.

He returned home and showered. Drying himself off, he glanced in the mirror and noticed the Jack of Spades ink on his ass. Was he just imagining it, or was his ass getting fatter? He parked the thought. He had absolutely no regrets about his ink, though it'd been way too long since his last anal encounter with a flesh-and-blood BBC, and his pussy was getting hungry. He headed out for a bite to eat, trying to resettle his mind before work tomorrow. He checked his phone and noticed three unread text messages.

The first one he read was from Tyrone: 'hey whiteboi we need 2 talk bout last night text me back'

Mitch remembered Jada's advice from last night: "Shit's gon' work out, whiteboi. Just give 'em time and space. They' gon' work it out. Truss me." He didn't reply.

The next message he read was from Leroy: 'fuck whiteboi bout last night can we talk soon 4 real'

Mitch remembered the last thing Jada told him yesterday: "The longer you keep yo' distance, the more they' gon' fuckin' want you."

Again, Mitch didn't reply. He remembered that Tyrone knew about his tattoo, but Leroy didn't. He wondered whether the thugs might've discussed it, but Mitch assumed they wouldn't have. He looked forward to the moment when Leroy saw his ink for the first time.

The third message was from Trina: 'hey hubby still at amanda's but hey i need to return your big black dildo'

This time, Mitch replied. 'Keep it.'

*

Mitch rose around 7am on Monday morning and got dressed for work. He made himself a strong coffee at home before heading to the subway station. He caught the green line down to the Financial District before picking up another coffee and a pastry from a street vendor. He caught the elevator up to the 30th floor. He arrived at his desk, logged on, and began to tune into the working week.

Mitch bit into his delicate, flaky pastry and took a deep slug of his takeout coffee. He looked out into the distance at the blue sky over the East River. He should've been concentrating on work, but he was thinking about Brontë. His number was in his phone, but he had no idea what to send as a first message.

Fuck, why was he feeling so nervous? He couldn't deny it to himself. If it was just a quick anonymous blowjob in a public bathroom, he would've moved on, but it was more than that. Or, at least, that's how it felt to Mitch. They had coffee afterwards, and it was all at Brontë's suggestion. Briefly, they'd connected.

He tried to shrug it off to focus on work, but his mind was still fixated on the blowjob he'd given in the MoMA bathroom yesterday.

He stared out the window at the East River, looking at everything but nothing at the same time. He was meant to be concentrating on the Franklin account, but in his mind, all he felt was the cold, hard floor of the MoMA bathroom as his knees fell upon it. In his mind, he heard thick beats of hardcore rap assaulting his ears, he smelled the ugly chemical stenches of a public bathroom, and he saw a beautiful, big black cock dangling in front of his face, demanding his attention.

Through a deep psychological distance, he heard someone calling his name.

He felt his jaw stretch wide as he tasted precious pearls of sweet precum pooling on his tongue. His nostrils inhaled black masculinity as he tried to swallow as much of the delicious dark chocolate as he could.

Again, he heard someone calling his name.

He felt the cock in his mouth begin to twitch, and seconds later, he was under a waterfall of hot semen that flooded his hungry mouth, drenched his hair and clothes, and splattered all over his headphones.

"MITCH! Earth to Mitch!"

Mitch felt a firm collegiate hand shaking his shoulder. He realised he'd been daydreaming. A colleague needed his attention. Fuck, the Franklin file! They'd planned to discuss strategy at 11am, and he was underprepared.

He put his daydreams aside, gathered up his documents and joined the meeting. For a brief second, he thought about feigning an illness. He needed to jack off so fucking bad right now; he'd say anything to get a cheap five minutes to himself. The office bathroom felt risky, but by the same token, he knew he'd struggle to keep it together for a half-hour subway ride back home.

His shoulders slumped as he realised the next hour and a half of his life was going to be devoted to the Franklin file.

Leaving the marathon meeting, Mitch packed up as quickly as he could and caught the subway home, desperate to jerk off. He jogged up the stairs at the 86th street station, taking them two at a time, then practically ran to his building. He caught the elevator to his floor and opened his apartment door.

He was in the process of unbuckling his belt when he heard her voice.

"Hey, Mitch!"

Fuck, why the hell was *she* here? Again? Shouldn't she be at work?

"Fuck off a sec, Trina, I'm busy."

He locked the bathroom door and let loose. It only took ten seconds, but the sweet release of his weak, watery semen felt so fucking good.

He washed his hands, pulled his pants up, and left the bathroom.

"Hey, hubby!" he heard. She was sitting on the couch.

Mitch was completely fucking exasperated. "What the fuck are you doing here, Trina? I thought I was clear last time we were in each other's presence: we're separated, and can you please call or text ahead in future." For the first time, he noticed she wasn't alone.

Trina ignored everything Mitch said. "Hey, hubby, you remember Amanda, don't you?"

Amanda blithely acknowledged his presence.

"I didn't know you were coming home for lunch," Trina continued, "but I wanted to return something I borrowed from you." She held up the thick nine-inch black dildo she'd found in Mitch's sock drawer.

Mitch was exasperated. "I got your message yesterday, didn't you get my response? I said you could keep it. I don't need it anymore."

"Why don't you need it anymore?" Trina asked. "Did you buy a replacement? Or have you found something else? Have you found a real man, perhaps?"

Mitch was approaching breaking point. "Listen to me good, Trina. You need to drop this subject."

"We're just curious," said Amanda.

Under the circumstances, Mitch was as polite as possible. "This is none of your goddamn business, Amanda." He regretted coming home at lunch; maybe he should've just fapped in the office bathroom. His attention returned to his wife. "Aren't you meant to be at work?"

"Yeah, I am," Trina replied, "but it's our lunch break too, and like I said, I wanted to return what's yours."

"I don't want it back," said Mitch. "I already told you that yesterday."

Trina shrugged her shoulders, giving no clue as to whether she'd read Mitch's response or not. "Yeah, but, well, anyway, here it is." She placed the plastic black penis upright on Mitch's coffee table. It wobbled a little as she planted it down.

For a few awkward seconds, there was nothing but silence.

"What do you use it for?" Amanda asked.

Mitch glared at her. "I fuck myself in the ass with it, you nosey fuckin' bitch. Any further questions?"

Amanda shared a knowing glance with Mitch's wife.

"What have you two been using it for?" Mitch asked Trina.

"Nothing," Trina replied, smiling. "We didn't use it at all, not even once. We kept it on Amanda's coffee table as a decorative ornament. It reminded us of you."

Mitch's blood boiled over. He pointed a furious, angry finger at Trina. "I am fucking done with you," he seethed. "You can expect to hear from my lawyers. I want a divorce. I don't want anything of yours, all I want is for you to be gone from my life for good. Once we're divorced, I never want to see or hear from you again."

Trina stood up from the couch. "Aww, hubby, it was just a joke..."

A beer glass smashed into the kitchen wall so hard it left a permanent mark. Fragments shattered far and wide. Both Trina and Amanda jumped in fright.

"Leave," commanded Mitch. "Now."

The women collected their things and quietly began to move towards the door. Amanda was a little shaken up by what she'd just seen.

On the way out, Trina tried again. "Mitch, it was just a joke ..."

Mitch interrupted her. "If you think what you did was funny, your soul is warped. You just admitted to humiliating me and laughing about me behind my back. I mean, I know you've been doing this for a long time, fuck, maybe you've been doing it for as long as we've known each other, but that's no way to treat someone you profess to love, you sick, twisted, psychopathic bitch. Men less tolerant and forgiving than me would've kicked your sorry ass to the kerb a long time ago. If I can offer you any advice as we part, because this truly is the end of you and me, it'd be this: get some professional help. You and I are done." He paused for a second. "Do you hear me?"

Silently, Trina nodded.

"If you leave me alone from now on," Mitch continued, "our divorce will be amicable. But if you want to test me, mock me or humiliate me any further, we will be going to court. You will have one opportunity, and one opportunity only, to come back to the apartment to collect the rest of your shit. You will need to negotiate the day and time with me, because as soon as it's humanly possible, I will be getting the lease amended to remove your name, and I will be getting the locks changed. Do you understand?"

Trina nodded again. She and Amanda left the apartment and stood in the hallway. She watched her hubby -- or now, soon-to-be-ex-hubby -- holding the door, preparing to close it. "I'm sorry, Mitch," she whispered, with a sad, pitiful look on her face, as if she regretted everything she'd said and done, and was ready to change her ways.

Mitch fell into her trap one final time. "Sorry about what?"

Trina's face morphed into a vicious, evil scowl. "I'm sorry that I confiscated your plastic BBC, you useless, worthless, weak as fuck, gay--"