Ripped & Ready
The Book of “D”
(Another tale in Author G D Grace’s Ripped & Ready series)
I wouldn’t be truthful if I said that life has been everything I’d hoped it would be after graduating from Dixon University with an MBA in Organizational Behavior. It took six long years, but I made it with a 3.0 average (Not the 4.0 my father was nagging me about getting. Let’s face it, either you got it or you don’t. Hell, a B was good enough for me, so why wasn’t good enough for him – it seemed nothing I do ever is. The bar he raised for himself was high and, from what his parent’s said, he has always been an over achiever. I never have been, never wanted to be, and never will be one – at least that’s how I feel at this current stage in my life. Who knows, that might change.
College life was extremely intoxicating to me, and looking back on it all, I might have needed a good 12-Step program. I was a straight (no pun intended) nymphomaniac. I had so many cocks pecking and pussies purring I nicknamed myself the “Ass Whisper”. I tapped more booty than a manic John, but I never paid one dime for it; instead, I got paid for it. Both sexes couldn’t contain themselves when they were around me, and I never tried to help them beat their addiction. If a slice of sweet “D” is what they wanted, all they needed to get was the right looks and the right amount of money. Even during my worst financial crisis I drew the line when it came to looks; “mud-ducks and fatties” were strictly off limits, but nothing as good as what I was getting lasts forever. Not even the best nut
I’m sure some cringe when the discover that I’m in to the ladies and the fellas, but I wasn’t born here to please no “got-dayum-body” except D’Andre’s body – and it required a lot of pleasing to please this body, because this body has quite a sexual appetite. My boys, Marco, Collin, and Todd call me the consummate opportunist because I seize a moment like thick people seize a meal. CHOMP CHOMP, and I’m up making another round at the buffet counter.
I have this little mental chat I hum to myself that no one knows about; well, nobody accept, Marco. That dude knows too much about me, but I’ll get into that later, right now let me share my sexual hymn with you:
“Dicks and pussies, kitty and beef stick, which do you prefer? We got hairy, skinny, long, plump, and oh, yeah, we gott’em in all flavors… which is your preference?”
Oh, and another thing, the most important; once I have had a taste of the P & B (That’s pussy and beef, not peanut butter and jelly), your presence was no longer required. I was a gluttonous whore monger for both in the worst way. The only difference between the two, in my eyes, revolved around the “spiritual” piece. Most men tended to match my animalistic prowess beneath the sheets while the femme fatale were gentler and into the connecting bit.
The only things I wanted to connect with were that ass or that pussy. Miss me with all of that kissing and caressing bullshit! I liked it hedonistic without the “chit-and-chat” so if you were looking for a body to keep you warm, and arms to hold you close, then you needed to get a big ass pillow or an oversized teddy bear because, and I do mean this without mincing words, my dick didn’t have any sympathy, nor did it have a conscious. Getting to know you beyond your anatomical assets was forbidden in “The Book of D”. It was dis-interesting and an immediate turnoff. Once any conversation started branching off in the direction of where and when you became part of the so long and a past tense. If I saw you after our illicit tryst a smile and a head nod sufficed.
I didn’t want to know about your birthplace.
I didn’t need to know who your parents were.
I didn’t care about your dreams or ambitions.
And I damn sure didn’t care about your feelings.
Fuck your motherfucking feelings!
I was pretty cold, huh? Yeah, back then, I couldn’t even stand myself at times, but I was so vein during that era. All I had to do was get a glimpse of all that male perfection along with these set of killer-hazel eyes I’ve got, and viola’ I switch from heart to heartless automatically. At the time I felt as though God had never intended for me to give two “swishers” and a damn about anything or anybody except for me, D’Andre Dante Washington. Boy was I wrong. I have always been my mother’s pride and joy, but I was also my father’s momentary disappointment. During my “I’m-going-to-quit-school-and-be-a-rapper” phase my father had to have hated the very air I breathed (And that’s no lie). I swear, while standing outside that front door turning the key to go into the house after a hot, nasty night of frolic, I could actually hear his loud exasperated sigh no matter where he was in the house. No matter how quiet I tried to be, he always caught me trying to make it to my room undetected.
Then, he’d start up. “What the fuck do you think this house is a cheap motel? If there’s any fucking and tipping going on in Chateau Washington, it’ll be me and your mother doing it, little nigga!”
“I know that,” was the usual cowardly and respectful response I’d utter under my breath.
“What was that, you lint-in-the-pocket, no singing, Smokey knockoff? What the fuck did you say?” He’d ask, twice. Always twice, and he seemed to enjoy reminding me how broke I was. He always tried baiting and hooking me so that, if I bit, he’d have a reason to stomp a deep mud-hole in my back, but I was too smart for that. “Honor thy mother and father;” didn’t the Bible say something to the fact that, adherence would make thy days be long?
I wanted mine to be as long as a billionaire’s bankroll.
Yup, pops wanted to upper cut my ass on more than one occasion; whenever, wherever, or however he pleased. His contempt for my brief decision to quit school did not sit well with his direction for my life, but that’s what he forgot – it was my fucking life, not his. Not his or my mother’s, nor my grandfather and grandmothers, teachers, basketball coaches, buddies, friends, mailman, garbage man… NONE OF THEM MOTHERFUCKERS…
IT WAS MY FUCKING LIFE!
And I choose to live it the way I wanted to live it, but after dealing with Peewee Jones and his shady clad of ghetto misfits during that forgettable summer; I was done trying to be a “thug”. It didn’t take long for me to realize that “thugs” had short life spans, and I wasn’t trying to be the recipient of a toe-tag this early in life. Hell, I was a lover not a fighter (RIP MJ).
That Peewee was “some kind of foul”, but I suppose he never really had a chance to be anything more than what he became in his short chaotic life – he was the leader of an infamous neighborhood gang. He sure was after my boy Marco for a minute though, and on that fateful night when everything he did and had done to young, old, rich and poor met him face to face, it did invoke a little sadness in me; knowing that he was going to die right there on those same streets he terrorized. That night, in the midst of frightened onlookers, surrounded by empty shell casings, the vile Peewee Jones, died on the streets of the court where Marco Thompson, Collin Clarke, and I grew up. The same court that Collin’s mom died in a few years earlier. He did in Marco’s arms.
There was something about that moment that triggered that long-overdue wakeup call that my father had been yelling in my ears for months at me. If being close to death and surviving didn’t make me change my ways, then I surely was destined for an early transition from here into that mysterious hereafter. “Niggas and Niggets” I had finally had enough. Later on that night, after the gunning down of my brief fling and tasty wing, I announced to moms and pops that I wanted to return to school that fall. My scholastic admission went over like a Super Bowl win minus the confetti and halftime show bullshit. I had never known my father to be an affectionate kind of guy, so when he made a swift path over towards me I was unprepared for the tight hug and the hard-kiss on the cheek he gave me. It was on the right check.
“Damn, pops, what’s up with all that?” I asked, wiping my tingling cheek.
“D’Andre, I was hoping that you would change your mind,” Pops said.
“Well, after I thought about it, it made better sense for me to get the degree so that I had the knowledge and scholastic paper as added fuel behind my ambition to accompany me in my future business endeavors. It just made sense finally. I know I can charm the pants off of anybody with these hazel eyes of mine, but charm only gets you so far; you needed to understand the dynamics of business in order to design a sound plan,” I told him.
“You got that shit right, ‘cause ain’t nobody going to hold your hand throughout this life, son. All the smarts in the world is useless if you don’t come correct. Discipline and a great work ethic are two key ingredients that make it all work; school will give you that discipline, son, because, let’s face it, you weren’t born with it. That’s why I always stayed on your ass, D’Anddre,” He said, meaning well, but stepping on my feelings as usual.
I know he meant well, but each pot shot he took at me was a confidence killer. I don’t know, it just seemed as if I would always be one step in back of whatever it is he saw in me to be. Whenever he did this, I always disguised the hurt with a joke or two to throw him off the trail, because I knew he would think I was being too sensitive. I can recall the first time he ever called me “sissy” and it didn’t go over well at all. I think it was on the night of that basketball game with the rival high school, but it took place before the game. I got a technical that night and was snatched out of the game by my coach.
“Sit your ass down now! Bench!” Coach Tobias yelled, looking at me as if he wanted to bite my “got-dayum” nose off.
I lowered my head and did exactly as I was told. By the time my mother and father arrived I had already been taken out the game. The visual caused my father to go into immediate inquisitive mode and I watched the whole sequence from where I sat on the bench in slow motion. I knew exactly when coach told him too, because he turned and looked at me from where he stood, shook his head, and walked away without saying a word. He didn’t have anything to say at the game, but I got an earful when I made it home.
“You pretty ass motherfucker! What the hell is wrong with you, son? Are you trying to fuck up your life even before you’ve had a chance to start it? You could have hurt that Morgan boy elbowing him like that! Now I’ve got to go over there and apologize to his parents for having a son too stupid to play by the rules! Take a shower, hit the books, and take your yellow ass to bed, D’Andre. You just work overtime disappointing me don’t you? Shit!” He sneered in disgust.
“But Dad… I” he cut me off.
“But Dad I what…? But Dad I’m sorry! But Dad I didn’t mean it? But Dad I’ll do better next time? But Dad I’ll make you proud of me, you’ll see? But Dad… D’Andre Dante Washington, the only butt I wanna see right now is yours walking away and down that damn hall. This shit is getting real old, man, real old. You do some of the most foolish things without thinking about the consequences. What do you think that Morgan boy’s parents are going to say to me tonight after I tell them what happened, because I know he’s not going to tell them. You know why, son, because he’s got pride… have you ever heard of that? If you want to make me proud, stop doing so many stupid things. You are handsome young man, and you’ve got the world at your feet. If you ever want the world to kiss them big boats you had better learn to control your temper,” he said, more frustrated than angry at that point.
To hide the tears in my eyes, I quickly turned and tried to walk away without him seeing them, but he called me back. “Wait, son, come here,” he said, more sympathetic.
I wiped my eyes quickly.
“Yes, dad, what is it?” I asked, in shaky voice.
“You know I love you, don’t you?” he asked, with a concerned look on his face.
“Yea pops, I know,” I told him. I knew he did too.
He hugged me.
“Now go wash up, hit the books, and get ready for bed.” He said, rubbing the top of my head like I was still a little boy.
I suppose I would always be his little boy.
I have often wondered how he would react if he ever found out about my bisexuality?
Some things are better kept a secret.
“…those old memories, those old memories get in my way…” I believe it was Gladys who sang those tender lyrics of embellishment, and she was right. Everyone is getting older; moms, pops, Collin, Todd, & Marco; it was so wild watching the aging process occur in subtle hints. The grey hairs around my father’s temples, the light wrinkles that briefly appeared and faded quickly after my mother smiles, the broad shoulders on Todd and Collin, and the full goatee that Marco now sported. Hell, my own facial hairs had filled in thicker too, and the fullness just added to my sexiness. I’m sure my father could deck me if he wanted to, but I was no longer the teenage boy they sent away to college, I had grown into a tall, lean, muscular man. I’m pretty sure I could give my pops a run for his money, but that was one line of disrespect I would never cross. I could never hit my father, no matter what he did.
“D’Andre, Marco’s at the door for you!” Moms yelled from the living room.
“Send him back, mom, I just got out of the shower!” I shouted back.
Within minutes “bruthaman from across the street” had opened the door, entered, and closed it behind him. I got to say, Marco had taken off about 40 lbs and he was looking extra scrumptious and, like clockwork, old sequoia started stirring around beneath the white towel that I had snuggly wrapped around my waist. Instead of trying to hide the protrusion, I let it grow into its full length and he couldn’t help but blush after glancing down at it quickly. When he looked away, I knew instantly that he was doing the Marco Thompson shuffle. I cannot believe how long dude has wanted me, and how much will power he has over The D.
“Hurry up and put some clothes on, man,” He said, looking at the wall, then out the window, and then at that old Magic Johnson poster I had on the wall. Finally he looked at the floor – everywhere else but down at my bulging manhood.
“Alright, Markoos,” I said teasing him.
“Don’t do that, D’Andre,” He shot back.
“Do what?” I responded, in a sheepish tone.
“That! Why would you want to remind me of Joseph and his kid? I still hurt behind that, man. Some topics are off-limits, D’Andre, damn!” He said, sounding annoyed.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” I told him, feeling bad for hurting him.
I walked over to him, and pulled him into my Ripped & Ready body.
“I didn’t know it still hurt you after all these years, Marco,” I whispered in his ear, as I caressed the crease in his back.
“I have my good days and weeks, but I really did love him a lot, D. I wanted to grow old with him. Have you ever wanted to grow old with someone? …and Joseph Jr… I really loved that little kid. I think he’s probably about 9 years old now.” He said, as his words trailed off into that zone he has gone to ever since I’ve known him.
“Marco, let’s talk about something else, I don’t want you being depressed this day, because this day is meant for you and me, so what do you want to do?” I asked, intentionally switching the subject.
That’s the one thing about my boy, he held onto things too long and too tight. It had been six years since that whole fiasco with Joseph and “The Brother Man Club”. I’m surprised he forgave me, but that night that Peewee passed, he called me on my cocaine usage. I denied it, but he laid the facts down straight on the head of the nail. When he told me that I had never smelled body odor on me before in all the years he’s known me, I knew right then and there I had to get that shit under control. Marco was the type of friend that put action to words – he even attended the 12-Step meetings with me and, by the time fall arrived, I had been clean for 90 days.
“Now don’t fuck this up,” he told me at the airport.
“I’m done with it my brotha,” I promised him.
“You had better be, because I will get on a plane and fly back south,” he said, smiling and teary-eyed.
Marco and I were the closest out of the four. I know it had a lot to do with the major crush that he has had on me for years and, even though we were grown men at the current time, I knew that he still harbored feelings for me. I’m very glad that I didn’t play with his emotions either; I let him that I would always be divided when it came to men and women, and that I would never be the guy for him. It saddened him, but it was better to sadden him at that time, then to enter into a relationship with him that would be doomed from the start. As hard as it was for him to accept it, he did, and it actually made our bond stronger. I had already hurt him on more than one occasion – one was when I was dating his stepsister, Denise. I sure am glad she got herself together. I truly believe that, once she found out that she had been fucking her own father, Marco’s dad, it scared her straight. Even though she did get clean, our time was done.
(To Be Released Date: TBD)
Author & Producer G D Grace Literary Links:
Barnes & Noble
Blogs & Miscellaneous Author G. D. Grace Info
“A Touch of Grace” Blog Talk Radio Show:
CALL IN NUMBER TO SHOW: (347) 215-6245
Author G. D. Grace reserves all rights and reproduction without written permission is not permitted. If found, legal action will be taken against the person(s) or company(s) that have cut or pasted (Plagiarized) any portion of this written document. Author, G. D. Grace; Published © 2012 December