urbanerotica

"Hey, Stan," Lindsey greets, reaching over heads in the kitchen.

"Wha'ssup!" I yell back, confused, handing him the bag of ice. "How are you, Linds?" I ask out of courtesy. I brush water out of hair with my hand.

"Child, I'm fine! Nice haircut! And a hot shirt," he squeals, making his way through the kitchen queens.

"Thanks!" I answer. Lindsey is wearing an androgynous black sheer outfit that I refuse to compliment. A couple of queens cheer as they receive the ice and a blender starts to blare. "Terrence has the Absolut," I inform Lindsey, brushing off my jeans. There are too many people in this damn kitchen.

"What?" he asks, tripping over somebody's foot. I raise my voice. "Terrence has.."
"Oh, you can give the gifts to Sylvester at the door, honey," Lindsey cuts me off.
"That's not..never mind! Sylvester's a little full to be takin' anything!"
"Oh yeah, I bet he is," Lindsey agrees. "He's been drinking since I got here! He's probably way past full," he laughs. "You want a cocktail, baby?"

I look over my shoulder for Terrence. "Well...what's here?" Lindsey nods and rattles off cheap liquor that I don't drink. "Any juice?" I ask, hopefully.

"Yeah. We have orange, grapefruit..." he looks around the kitchen.
"Any cranberry juice?" I could really use a Cape Cod to keep my high from the margaritas Terrence and I had at dinner.
"Ooh, Stan," he sucks his teeth, "I don't think so." He scans the kitchen.
"Well, fuck it. I'm fine. Where's Eric?" I ask.
"We just sang Happy Birthday!" Lindsey shrugs, "I don't know where he went!"
"Well, I'll shout to you later!" I joke, excusing myself out of the kitchen.

Some underground house song in the unlit living room is deafening but no one seems to mind. There's a faint odor of weed in the air which makes me immediately crave a joint. Carey, it looks like, walks past, then recognizing me, steps back, smiling.

"Hey, boy," I smile, weakly. It is Carey. "What's up?"
"You," he answers. "You look nice," he compliments, enthusiastically. "Where'd you get this shirt?" he asks, physically admiring it. I shrug, pulling back. I scan the room again for Terrence while Carey continues to invades my space.
"I called you the other night?"
"Did you?"
"I left a message, didn't you get it?" he says, genuinely concerned.
"You know, I'm glad you told me that," I lie. "I think my machine is fucked up or somethin'." I pause and smile. "So what's up?"
"Well..." he rolls his eyes, sighing. Eric, thankgod, materializes behind him.
"Really?" I interrupt, clumsily. "Hold that thought, Carey. I'll be right back." I push past Carey and smack Eric in the head.

"Niggaa..!" he spins around, nearly spilling his drink on me. "Heeey! What took you so long, boy?" He glances at his naked wrist. "They've already sung Happy Birthday and shit! Where's Terrence?" He looks past me.
"I have no idea. I left your card in his car though."

"That's alright. I see you're wearing that damn multi-color shirt! Hey," he leans towards me, trying to whisper. "Frankie's here." I take Eric's large glass and sniff: Tangueray and something. Lindsey didn't mention having Tangueray when I asked him in the kitchen. I'm vaguely interested in Frankie's attendance, but I haven't seen him yet. However, since I'm here with Terrence, I'd be better off not seeing him. I hand Eric back his cocktail and smile wickedly.

"So Frankie's here? Where is..." Before I can finish my question, Eric notices Sean, an HIV-positive tramp, and pursues him. Terrence steps on my shoes and the room, and Terrence, are so dark, that I don't immediately recognize him.

"I know a lot of people here," he announces, proudly. Whatever.
"Terrence, where is the Absolut?"
"I um, gave it to..." he pauses and looks around as if he really expects to see this person. "I gave it to somebody."
"Some. Body?"
"Some. Body at the door when we first came in," he explains. "Do you want me to...find it?" he asks, trying to read my expression.

"Fuck it," I mutter. But Terrence is already on his way to locate the fifth of vodka. That's Terrence: Eager To Please. I've been thinking this past week that it's time to give him the boot. This would probably come as a shock to Terrence. But lately, his good intentions have only managed to irritate the hell out of me. And I've never been one to linger in an unpleasant situation. Besides, he's not my best bed partner; although he beats masturbation.

My dick twitches and I notice that, down the hall, Sheryl is looking rather special tonight. I decide to flirt, just enough to ascertain whether or not her twin brother, Darryl, has turned into a drag queen prostitute like they say. However, it's really dark and I'm within inches before I realize that Sheryl is Darryl. This is unnerving enough for me to strike up a conversation with Fran whose foot I've just stepped on.

"How's it going, Fran?"
"Hey, boy!" She grips my hand hard. I haven't seen Fran since high school, so her instant familiarity with me is slightly unsettling. "Long time, no see, motherfucker!" she belches. She's drinking an Old Style and is simultaneously squeezing her lifelong white girlfriend, Lisa, roughly around the waist. Lisa doesn't seem to mind.

"I've been around," I answer, faking a smile. I need a drink.
"Hi, Stan," Lisa reads my mind and holds out a Bartles and Jaymes. "Here. You can have my cooler. I don't want it." I take the unopened cooler and spot Terrence heading toward us. "Is that, Vetta?" Lisa squints. Blind bitch.
"No, that's Terrence!" I scream a little too loudly. Terrence hands me a glass and whispers "cape cod" in my ear. I hand him the cooler and he goes back into the living room without questioning me.

"Where the hell is he going," Fran demands, wiping sweat off her forehead. I ignore her. Terrence knows how I hate for him to stick to me at parties. He generally stations himself far enough from me so that I don't get annoyed but close enough to watch me and make sure I don't meet any new boys. Whatever. He doesn't exactly trust me around the ones I already know. And he shouldn't. But when he gets that why, that's when I concentrate on the women at the party. Terrence is intimidated by women. So when he really gets on my nerves I tell him I have a date and he can't come over to have me fuck him good night.

I do care about Terrence, but we've only been fucking for about three months. The last two months have been defined by Terrence as "the beginning of a relationship." He's gone as far as promising to be "faithful to our relationship," persuading me to make the same ridiculous oath, under the influence of Absolut.

"Do you have any weed?" I ask Fran. She gives me a "get real" look. "Well," I rephrase my question, "do you know if anyone is selling any?" I have no plans of actually buying any weed but maybe I can get Terrence or...

"Michael's here!" She barks. "He usually has some joints, I think."
"Are you sure?" I question, gulping on the cocktail. "I thought he only dealt coke."
"Well," she sighs tiredly, "I wouldn't know for sure. I heard that he sells joints. I haven't seen him in a while though. Have you, baby?" She asks Lisa, who didn't see me give the cooler to Terrence and is now eyeing my glass weirdly. I smile at her, remembering how everybody called them The Odd Couple in high school.

Lisa shakes her head adding, "Ask Paul. He's a drug addict." This is one reason why I don't get along with rehabbed lesbians. I shoot a look at Lisa and move through the hallway toward anybody. I see Paul but he's in a conversation with Detroit trade and I have a feeling he will piss me off if I engage him in conversation. I spot what looks like Michael in front of the bathroom; the only considerable source of light in Eric's apartment. I squeeze through saying hi to somebody, being careful not to spill my cocktail.

It is Michael but not the Michael I thought Fran was talking about. This Michael is a dealer too though, so it doesn't really matter. Actually, this Michael is the one who sucked my dick at Riviera's a couple of months ago, so this might work out to my advantage. He's trying to explain to some queen why he can't sell him coke on credit.

"I don't even know what credit means!" he yells in the frail boy's face. The guy frantically scans the area for someone to loan him some cash, I guess. "Look! I don't have time for this," Michael groans. He leans over, whispering in the boy's ear. The boy's expression lightens and Michael shoos him away. Michael turns toward Randy Johnson, who appears to have been waiting awhile.

"Hey, Mike Dog!" I yell, snatching his attention from Fat Randy who cuts me with his eyes. Fat fag.

"Stan tha Man!" Michael yells back, slapping me five and grinning. Michael's coal skin is complemented by white jeans and a tank. Then again, maybe it's not his outfit but my memory of his full wet lips wrapped around my dick. At any rate, the drug dealing scene is something I don't want to be involved with again. The bathroom door opens and Drea comes out and glares at me. Luckily, I didn't speak to her first. Michael enters the bathroom and motions me in, much to Randy's vocalized dismay.

"So Stan," Michael begins, his voice rumbling. He gives me the once over while closing the door on Randy. Eric's bathroom is small so I sit on the edge of the sink. "What's up, man?"

"You, boy," I bait. Michael grins, showing off a recent gold tooth, and carefully lowers the toilet seat. Pulling bills out of his pockets, he sits and starts counting them.

"You know, Stan. I've seen you at the Stop and Drink at least three times and you keep dodgin' me, man." He looks up.

"You saw me." A small wave of paranoia flows through me. "I didn't see you. I would've said somethin', man." I don't remember seeing him but if I had I probably wouldn't have spoken. I don't like to draw too much attention to myself when I slum at gay bars. I shift on the sink and notice his yellowing eyes following my crotch. "Hey Mike. Does Eric know you're sellin' shit in his bathroom?"

"It's aiight, man. It's aiight." He rubberbands the bills in stacks of fives, tens, twenties, etc. "Eric's been drinkin' all night. He's full out of his mind, man." I drop the subject. There's knocking at the door, probably Randy, which we ignore. "You don't like that I deal do you, man?," Michael mumbles without looking up. "I'm not a bad person. You should give a nigga a chance, man."

"A chance for what?" I ask, repositioning myself. I put my glass on the sink. My heart beats faster as I remember the Riviera. This motherfucker is hot, but... There's more knocking at the door.

"Oh you gonna play me like that now, huh?" he asks, putting the wads back in his pockets. He looks at my face, then my crotch.
"Play you like what, Mike?" I ask. He doesn't answer me so I ask if he has any weed.
"No, man. I don't sell weed anymore," he answers with a sniff. I'm genuinely disappointed knowing that if he did still sell weed I wouldn't have to pay for it.
"Yeah, well I don't do that other shit."
"Sorry, man. I don't have anything else to offer," he grins, wetting his full lips. I walk over to him, until my crotch is in front of his face.

"Yeah?" I growl, slowly unbuttoning my jeans. Michael takes my semi-hard dick in his rough hands and licks the head so that it jerks upward. He snorts, taking my entire dick in his warm mouth. His nose buries deep into my hair so that I can feel him breathing. Working his tongue around my dickhead, he sucks loudly and quickly. My forehead starts to sweat and I grab the back of his bald head to control the rhythm. The knocking is constant now as Michael grabs my balls, massaging them. He's sucking my dick better than he did at the Riviera. In no time I cum, smearing it on his face at his frantic request. I stumble back, dazed, and grab some toilet paper to wipe off my dick. Michael splashes water on his face, wiping it with toilet paper. I swallow the rest of my drink, mostly melted ice, and button my jeans.

"You got any gum, man?" Michael asks, flushing the paper down the toilet. He clears his throat and spits. The knocking, which I've just noticed had stopped, starts again. I check my reflection.

"Nah, man." I wait for the toilet bowl to refill before opening the door.