All Day Long #2
The second chapter of this saga has less morally or stylistically redeeming qualities than chapter one. I apologize for our first encounter, but I was warming up my rhymes like the sunrise in the beaches of San Juan. The second day of my little trip begins with a mouth-bang stereotype, it continues with a jovially gay Joycean moment, and it ends with a bang. Not the kind you think though, so, it all begins when I crave for the genie of the magical medical bong.
Red bandana wearing, black trench coat and white wife-beater bearing, suspenders not holding his baggy pants high enough to cover his shorts because he don’t mind the staring, nigger-wannabe Chaz the pimp dares to talk this way to the Lark. “Shit, bitch, I understand your itch, but you got no cash for breakfast and hash.” Fucking Chaz, he poses and waves his hands as if he had gas. His “old school” jive makes him look like a damn fool on stage, live. His rhymes are as madly predictable as arithmetic beating multiplication tables.
“I’ll give you a blow job, if you give me a little grass and a lot of grub.” He opens his fly and out comes the beast with one eye. I stick out my tongue and circle the foreskin. The faker’s shaft is as thin as a wide-tip marker. His cock is much darker than his white-bread skin. Maybe that’s where he gets this idea that he’s actually a "nigger-in-kin". I shake my tongue as he slides the snake down my mouth. His hands push me further down into the abyss of doing my quotidian biz. My wet lips carefully surround my carefully filed fangs. I’m not chancing any punishment, no thanks. I slide up and down, up and down the pole, like all the pretty horses on the merry-go-round of my soul. Within a few seconds, I’m taking it all, to the hilt and to his balls.
Up and down, round I go, when will he spunk? Nobody knows. Is this worth a bowl of the skunk, bro? Sometimes, even I don’t know. I feel the beast moving in for the kill. It shakes, and it shivers, it grows a tad more. A few drams of semen Chadzynski is spilling. My sweet little pink mouth that dude he doth fill-in. It’s all in a day’s work for this simple street whore. This is just my life in the Polack-hardcore. Stop laughing South Central girl because I’m being serious!
“Here you go bitch.” I smile through the cream as a bag full of dreams falls on my lap. She is my medicine, my little life rope, my friendly and helping, sticky green dope. I’m wrapped around her finger like Pandora’s Box to hope. While I fondle and caress my tiny plastic-wrapped reward, my pimp throws me into distress. “You’ve already had breakfast.” I cannot deal with this stress. “If you want more, better run fast, my freshly fucked lover. Today is the day the trash truck comes over.”
“Cholera!” I scoot out the door, with cum in my mouth and a bag in my boot. This is the everyday shame I must endure. This is done to ensure my survival, ladies and gentlemen. Please stick around guys and gals. I am the boy-toy who will be Chaz's rival of rivals. For now, I might as well be sucking on Hades’ semen, living in the world completely filled with demonic bastards that leave me steaming. Fortunately, tomorrow’s a new chapter and I plan to be the victor. I’m the slave-raptor, who’ll sip the nectar and whip his master in the coliseum! I can taste the victory. YUM!
Now that I finished eating trash, I going to need some more cash so, let us switch to the next scene and about noontime on the same day. You’ve followed me thus far you masochist, now let’s be on our way.
