sober thought and drunken words
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Art Ray enabled the alarm on his midnight black 2013 Ram 1500 Quad Cab with 20-inch PVD satin black chrome rims. The sixty-six year old was semi-retired. He had enlisted in the Army when he was fresh out of high school and ended up become an MP. After twenty years in and achieving the rank of Master Sergeant and leaving with full benefits, he went to work as a detective for the Norris County Sheriff’s Department. He worked there until he turned fifty-nine-and-a-half. Almost a year after he left law enforcement, he founded Zambezi, a sober living community.
Art was an alcoholic of the highest proportion. Through the course of his drinking, which greatly escalated in his mid-forties, his first wife divorced him. His two daughters quit speaking to him. He got remarried to woman less than half his age and fathered a set of twins with her. That wife left him too. Art finally entered rehab at the suggestion of his employer. He did a 90-day inpatient treatment program and followed that up with a six-month stint in sober living. He had not had a drop of alcohol in nearly ten years now.
One problem he felt existed during his time in recovery was a lack of resources dedicated to helping men of color, specifically Black men, through the recovery process. He felt called to open a home that would bridge that gap. It started with a single renovated one-story, 982-square-foot house. It had three bedrooms with a full bath off the hall and a three-quarter bathroom as a part of the master suite. He put out feelers to a couple of friends he’d made that were on staff at the treatment center he had attended. Within a couple months, he had four guys living in the home - three Black and one white. Two of the gentlemen shared the master and the others each had their own much smaller rooms.
Today, he owned a total of five residences - a triplex containing two-story units at 990-square-feet with two bedrooms and one-and-a-half baths; an A-frame style cottage with two bedrooms and two bathrooms that had toilet, sink, and stand-up shower only, and a one-car garage; plus the original little house. Each of the new homes could house four men. So, these days, Art had a total of nineteen dudes living at Zambezi Recovery Residences - 12 of them Black, 5 Caucasian, and 2 Latino. He had chosen the name with respect to the fourth-longest river in Africa. And, he had space for one more guy to join the ranks.
The attractive, caramel-skinned man of average height was also now on his third wife - a fifty-five year-old schoolteacher who had rarely ever drank in her entire life.
Geneva Ray understood her husband’s mission and rarely interfered with the running of his endeavor. Her main participation was occasionally co-teaching a weekly Sunday school class with her husband for the residents at Tree of Life Church. She was a divorced from her first husband, a pediatrician, and had two adult c***dren of her own. She loved to knit, play tennis, and bake. She had been taken about when she first learned Art had a set of young c***dren. But, she loved the man and so she loved his k**s.
The twins, Kale and Kaitlyn, were now twelve. They spent every other weekend with their dad and Mrs. Geneva. Overall, they had a good relationship with their father. The older daughters were once again interacting with Art. And the old man played a significant role in the lives of his grandc***dren.
Art unlocked the front door of the A-frame house. He was there to meet a new guy moving in. According to the conversation he had had with the cat’s mother, the newest community member was just getting out of jail after having been locked up for 45 days in a county jail in the northern part of the state. The poor fellow was twenty-seven years old and had lost his job as an esthetician making about $15.62 per hour. His crime was a second offense for misdemeanor prostitution - luckily, he had left the d**gs at home when he was out soliciting. Art was understanding as usual and informed the worried woman that her son could come to Zambezi.
Inside the house, Art checked to see the condition of the place. Overall, it looked pretty good. The board where the guys signed out indicating what they would be doing and what time they were expected back showed that all three of the guys living there were at work presently. Art required that all residents be employed or looking for employment immediately upon entry. He conducted a more detailed review of the bedroom the newbie would be sharing with Bloke. It met his expectations.
There doorbell rang and Art went to answer. He greeted the lady and her diminutive son, “Hey there! Come on in.”
The pair stepped inside lugging a couple of suitcases and a box with them. Art offered them seats at the dinette set after giving them a tour of the place. He went over the intake paperwork and reviewed the rules and regulations. “Are you looking to get clean and sober, son,” he asked with concern.
“Yes, sir,” replied Laurent Daniels.
“Glad to hear it! You’ve come to the right place.”
“I hope so,” mouthed the jailbird’s mother.
“Don’t worry Mrs. Daniels. We’ve helped many men in similar situations to Laurent here. I, too, am a recovering alcoholic and addict.”
“Oh okay,” she said.
“Alright. We just have the matter of the payment to take care of,” Art started. “Let’s see, Mrs. Daniels. It looks like you already paid a hundred and fifty dollars towards the $300 intake fee. Also, we have two options. We can do $1000 a month or $250 per week.”
Sheila Daniels advised Art, “We’re gon’ pay by the week for now. I brought $650 to take care of the rest of the upfront cost and to cover two weeks’ rent.”
“That’ll work,” the owner affirmed. “I’m actually just gonna apply that second half of the fee to rent. So for the third week, you’ll just need to pay a hundred.”
“Bless you, Mr. Ray,” sighed Sheila.
“Thanks a ton, Mr. Ray,” Laurent added.
“Please call me Art.”
The former military cop said, “Alright, Mrs. Daniels, Laurent is all set. We’ll let you get on your way and I’ll finish helping him get settled.”
The woman thanked him profusely and hugged her son for an extended period of time. She walked slowly outside to her red 2012 Mitsubishi Galant. She started it and drove away.
“So, I see you brought your car,” Art acknowledged the 2013 mineral gray Hyundai Santa Fe SUV.
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the young man with the cocoa complexion.
“Please. Call me Art. We’re all equals here. So, just a reminder, you’re free to use your car as you please. You’re free to give other residents rides, but you’re under no obligation to do so. Make sure you keep your license and insurance up to date.”
“You got it...Art!”
“Alright then! Let’s get your stuff moved in here. And, I expect that you attend a 12-step meeting today. The main address is listed in the packet or you can just follow me there when I leave.”
“I’ll follow you if that’s okay.”
“It sure is, Laurent.”
As they were putting away clothing and other small personal effects, Laurent Daniels surveyed the room and his new living conditions. Only a month-and-a-half ago, he had been working full-time and paying for his very own one-bedroom apartment. He had rarely ever turned to his mom or mostly deadbeat father since he was 19. He felt shame and guilt over his present circumstance.
Art spied his newest resident and imagined the thoughts coursing through his mind. He said, “I find it’s helpful to talk. Just so you know a little more about me. I started drinking casually when I was eleven. I don’t hardly remember going more than two days without a drink from that time until I was in my forties. After I left the Army, it got real bad. I ended up getting drunk every night and ruined my twenty-five year marriage. I had lied to her, stolen from her, and cheated on her dozens of times. I was a piece of shit to be quite honest.”
“And it didn’t stop there, son,” Art continued. “I was messing up on the job, but covering it up because I was sleeping with my partner. She picked up a ton of my slack. I was using her. I got a much younger woman pregnant when I was fifty-four and married her just because. I was a complete dick to her as well. She ended up leaving me. Finally, my job told me it was rehab or get fired. I went into treatment against my wishes, but ended up buying into after about two months. The net net is that my life has gotten much better. Better than I ever expected it to be. I’m married again to a good woman and I have relationships with all of my k**s. You don’t have to be ashamed.”
“Wow,” Laurent murmured.
“Why don’t you share some of your story with me,” Art prodded.
“Oh okay,” the skincare specialist began. “I basically just did some recreational d**gs about year after I started working at the spa. My clients were mainly women living in gated communities, driving luxury cars, and over-medicating on prescriptions. I tried some pills. That led to some cocaine and eventually meth. I couldn’t afford to pay for it so I started offering sex for the high.” Laurent paused.
“It’s cool, buddy,” Art reassured him. “I ain’t here to judge. Just wanna help. As men and especially brothas we aren’t often made to feel comfortable talking about our feelings. But talking about it takes away the shame and stigma. Go on if you’re comfortable.”
“Yeah,” Laurent resumed his story. “I ended up meeting a connect that I’d pay on occasion and other times, I’d provide sexual favors. It started out with just him. But before long, he was bringing other guys over that wanted what I’d been giving him. I found out later he was charging them. That’s how I got busted for the first offense. My second was me trying to sell myself for d**g and rent money cause I was spending every dime I made. Now, I’m pretty much broke. I’m two months behind on my car note. My mom is gonna make a payment in two weeks, then it’s back on me. I feel like crap.”
“Hey, my man, thanks for sharing with me. It’s gonna be alright. I can promise you that,” Art informed Laurent. “It’ll all work out in due time. All you gotta do is the next right thing. I’m sorry that those guys took advantage of you.”
“I know this a Christian environment,” Laurent posited. “I hope it’s okay that I’m gay.”
Art considered his words carefully, “We are Christian-based. Here. We believe that God loves all of us so it ain’t our place to judge you. And, hell, most of the dudes in here have probably gotten down at least once in their addiction or when locked up. Just bein’ honest.”
“Make sense.”
“Even I dabbled a few times,” Art admitted. “Now, that ain’t for public record. We just sharing, right. But, it is what it is. I’m not advertising it, but I’m not actively hiding it neither.”
“I gotcha,” Laurent smiled. “May I ask if you feel guilty about that?”
“Uhhh. Not anymore. It happened. I’ve accepted it. Most of the time it was fun. I think. But, now that I’m married I endeavor to stay faithful.”
“That’s good and honorable.”
“Thanks, son! But you know no man is perfect.”
“True that,” giggled Laurent.
“You about ready to head out? I gotta meet a sponsee at the clubhouse in a few.”
“Sure!”
Laurent drove behind the pickup truck with the dark tinted windows.
As Art led the way, his mind raced back to the first time he had fucked a boi like Laurent. It was during the resident phase of his Senior Leader Course shortly before he was promoted to Sergeant First Class. He was 34 years old at the time. Over the weekend, he and a few of others had been drinking out near the pool. He walked, but mostly stumbled, up to his room. There was an attractive chick with a nice, round booty that came out of the enclave containing the ice and vending machines. He called out to her while carrying a half-empty fifth of vodka. She turned around and smiled. He motioned for her to join him in his room.
Art sat on the bed and offered the young lady a seat as well. He commented on her hair - she had micro braids that were halfway down her back. She grinned and thanked him. “Don’t be offended,” he said. “You’re a girl, right?”
“Why would you ask that,” she inquired.
“No reason...I mean you look good and all. I just don’t look like you got tits. No offense.”
“None taken. Not all women have large breasts.”
“True.”
“But, no I’m a dude.”
“For real?!?!?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Wow! You’re pretty damn convincing.”
“Thanks! I try!”
“Wow. I for real couldn’t tell.”
“I hear ya. I can go if you want.”
“Nah. Stay and talk for awhile. Want a drink?”
“Sure!”
After sipping on some more liquor, Art was horny and curious and inquisitive. “How long you been dressing like this?”
“Years,” the guest replied.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And fine as wine,” he chuckled.
“Thanks!”
“So I bet you got niggas that be trying to get at you on the low all the time, huh?”
“There are some for sure! Are you one of them?”
“Uhhhh…I dunno about all that.”
“No pressure. I was just asking.”
“I mean. Like...How would it go down?”
“I guess I would suck your dick if you were into it. And, then you would fuck me if you wanted.”
“Oh...Just like that?”
“Pretty much.”
“That don’t seem difficult. How would I even know if I liked it?”
“You’d have to try it and see. If I’m sucking your dick, it don’t make you gay.”
“How you figure?”
“Cause you’re just getting it sucked. I’m the one sucking,” shared the light-skinned Black guy.
“Oh okay. You wanna try to suck mine?”
“Yes, sir! I thought you’d never ask.”
The sissy got on his knees and pulled out Art’s eight-inch tool. He sucked it and it grew stiff. Art ended up bending the punk over the bed and going inside him.
“Ooh wee,” Art huffed. “That ass is tight as fuck!”
“Yeah, daddy! Fuck this tight boipussy,” the bottom boi coached him.
“Shit, baby!”
“You like that faggot sissy pussy, daddy? Fuck me harder!”
“Oh damn...I think I’m…”
“Nut, daddy! Cum for me. Cum on my face!”
“Alright,” Art pulled out his dick.
The fag turned around and Art busted a huge load on his face.
The next day he felt guilty and never did anything like that again for the next three years. Again, he was inebriated when it transpired.
The most recent encounter he’d had with an effeminate male entered into his mind. It was about eight months ago. The man who walked with a noticeable switch and had flamboyant mannerisms was the morning shift manager at the fast food joint where Art would stop nearly every morning for coffee before the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at 6:30 a.m. Art detested drive-thru service so he always went inside. After several weeks, the punk and Art started making general conversation.
Art learned that the employee’s name was Marquess. They exchanged thoughts on music occasionally. Sometimes they talked about topics such as Black Lives Matter or new feature films. Marquess was a movie buff and recommended a number of excellent choices. As time went on there were light flirtations as the worker read Art’s face and body language.
The day it happened, Marquess had said, “Do you remember Skool Daze?”
“You know I never saw it,” admitted Art.
“It’s a classic, man! I got a copy at home. You oughta check it out.”
“I just might.”
“Well, I get off at 11:00.”
“I might be back through by then. I could always grab a burger and trail you home, right?”
“That’d be my pleasure.”
“Alright.”
Art had spent the entire morning obsessing about fucking Marquess. He decided to drive back to the restaurant at 10:30. He went inside, ordered a combo, and ate alone at a table. Once Marquess had clocked out, Art headed out to his truck. He spotted the five-foot-six-inch, brown-skinned sissy sashaying to a metallic silver 2010 Lincoln MKZ. He pulled up next to the vehicle, rolled down his window, and smiled. Marquess waved a finger signaling him to follow.
They arrived at a quaint bungalow that Marquess apparently shared with his mother. The woman was at work so they had the house all to themselves.
“I need to shower real quick,” the host advised his guest. “There’s juice in the fridge if you wanna fix a glass.”
“Sure! Thanks!”
Art was drinking iced tea when Marquess returned wearing a pair of red short shorts and a yellow tank top. The DVD player is back here in my room if you wanna come watch. Art stood up and walked behind the femboi vixen.
“You know you got a nice ass, right,” Art blurted.
Marquess turned around and said, “I thought you might like how it looked in these shorts.”
“I do.”
“Well, come get it then, Daddy!”
They rushed into the bedroom ripping off one another’s clothes. Soon they were in the bed kissing and fondling. Marquess gave a sloppy blowjob before Art put him on his stomach and mounted him.
“Oh, shit, nigga! Give me that big dick,” screamed the passive bottom.
“Yeah, bitch! Give Daddy that sissy faggit pussy,” howled Art.
“Ooh yes, nigga! Damn that dick is big!”
“You like how I’m fuckin’ this pretty ass?”
“Yes, sir! Yes, Daddy!”
“It’s good and tight. Damn! It’s gettin’ wet too!”
“You’re fuckin’ me so good, baby! Give it to me!”
Art came deep inside Marquess. They chilled for about an hour and went at it again. Art had avoided that particular restaurant since that very day.
They arrived the designated location. Art showed Laurent inside and introduced him to a couple of guys waiting for the next meeting.
A little over an hour later, Laurent drove to his new digs. He stopped off on the way and bought a few groceries with the little amount of cash his mom had left him. He stocked up on ramen noodles, Kool-aid packets, a bag of sugar, some cheap hot dogs, bread, and found some store brand chips that were a buck a piece. This would take him through the week he hoped. Back in the vehicle, he resolved to begin looking for a job tomorrow morning.
He arrived at the house on Ladybug Lane and hauled in the bags. The television was on now and he could hear the shower going in the hallway bath. It happened to be the one he was to share with his roommate. As he was putting away his food, the guy who had been washing up walked into the kitchen covered from waist down by only a towel. Laurent examined the thin, dark-skinned guy with decent chest definition. He salivated a bit over the five-foot-ten dude with the gold grill.
“Sup,” said the dude. “I’m Bloke, yo!”
“Hey there! I’m Laurent!”
“Dats wassup, mane! You got one uh dem Frenchie names, yo!”
“Yeah! I guess.”
“When you got here?”
“A couple hours ago.”
“Oh dats wassup. What’s yo D.O.C.?”
“Mainly meth and coke. Yours?”
‘I was fuckin’ wit’ crack and pain pills. I drank too.”
“Oh okay.”
“No judgment though, right, my nigga?”
“Right!”
“You comin’ from rehab.”
“Nah. I was in jail.”
“Damn. You don’t look like no ex-con or nuthin’.”
“Thanks. I think,” Laurent opined.
“Yeah,” confirmed Bloke. “Dat ain’t no bad thang, l’il nigga!”
“Gotcha!”
“Yeah! I been locked up to. I was in the pen fuh like three years, yo. Felony possession and shit.”
“Oh wow!”
“What you had some unpaid parkin’ tickets,” chuckled the tenured resident.
“No. It was prostitution if you must know.”
“Damn! Was you pimpin’ hoes and shit?”
“No! I was pimping myself.”
“Damn! We do some crazy shit to get high, right?”
“Yes we do!”
“You still got a job,” asked Bloke.
Laurent shared, “No. I lost it when I was in jail. I’m gonna start looking tomorrow.”
“They hirin’ where I work at.”
“Oh really? What do you do?”
“Landscapin’ and shit. It ain’t the best but I got felonies. So…”
“I feel you.”
“What kinda work you was doin?”
“I’m an esthetician.”
“Esta what?”
“Esthetician. I do skincare. Things like hair removal. Facials. Stuff like that?”
“Oh okay. Like you work at a salon or some shit?”
“Basically.”
“What you thank ‘bout my skin, l’il nigga?”
“It looks pretty clear. Do you use any products?”
“Hell naw! I’m a nigga.”
“Men should take care of their skin too,” advocated Laurent.
“Maybe I should,” laughed Bloke. “Yo, you got some lotion? I’m plum out.”
“Sure,” the five-foot-five guy remarked. “It’s in the bathroom under the sink. I’ll get it.”
“Thanks, mane!”
Laurent bent down to grab the cocoa butter, As he stood back up, Bloke said, “So was you enjoyin’ dat dick in jail?”
“Huh,” Laurent bought time.
“You heard me, l’il bit. Did you at least enjoy summa dat jailhouse dick?”
“Uh wow!”
“I ain’t judgin’. Just askin’. I know how it be on da cell block, yo.”
“There was a time or two that I did,” admitted Laurent softly.
“Mane, don’t shame. We all got needs,” shared the twenty-five year-old as he grabbed his crotch.
“What are your needs, Bloke,” Laurent moved closer.
“Damn, l’il nigga! You smell good. Like a fuckin’ female.”
“Thanks! It’s strawberries and cream body spray.”
“I like dat shit!”
“So, what are your needs?”
“Damn. My balls blue fah real!”
“That’s too bad,” Laurent lamented.
Bloke thought aloud, “You could help a nigga out, yo!”
“True that! Why are your balls so blue though?”
“I ain’t had none in a minit.”
“How long?”
“Like a munt.”
“Oh wow! That is a long time. Who was it.”
“Dis white guhl dat be at da clubhouse. You sexier den her though fah real, fah real.”
“Thank you!”
“Come on, boo! Let’s go in da room fo’ dees utha niggas git back.”
Bloke sat on the twin bed that belonged to him. It was covered with a dark blue plaid comforter.
Laurent got on his knees and removed the towel from his thug daddy’s waist. He grabbed the seven-and-a-half-inch, thick lovestick. He placed his lips around it and went to work moving up and down the shaft.
“Ah, fuck, l’il nigga! Dem faggit lips feel good on dis dick, yo! Keep suckin’ dat shit, bitch! I’ma fuck da shit outta you!” Bloke took hold of Laurent’s head and guided it along his shaft. He groaned with pleasure. “Dis some good ass head, punk bitch! Let a nigga dig in dem guts, yo!”
Laurent got up from the floor bent over the bed. Bloke moved behind him and began working his cock into the clenched, brown hole.
“Oh, faggit,” Bloke moaned. “Dis li’l pussy tight!”
“You like it, Bloke,” inquired Laurent.
“Hell yeah, punk! Dis some good prison pussy!”
“Oh, yeah, Daddy! Fuck me like you fucked the bitch when you were locked up!”
“Hell yeah, sissy! I was fuckin’ his punk ass every got-damn night! You takin’ dis dick jus’ like he did!”
“Yes, sir! This is your faggy pussy. I’m your celly.”
“Shit yeah, faggit! I’ma be fuckin’ yo soft, bitch ass on da regular, yo!”
Bloke pounded furiously. Laurent panted and whimpered.
“Take dis dick, fag,” ordered Bloke. Then he roared, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk!!!”
Laurent felt the ex-con’s load flood his tender hole. “Damn, that was good, daddy!”
Art was an alcoholic of the highest proportion. Through the course of his drinking, which greatly escalated in his mid-forties, his first wife divorced him. His two daughters quit speaking to him. He got remarried to woman less than half his age and fathered a set of twins with her. That wife left him too. Art finally entered rehab at the suggestion of his employer. He did a 90-day inpatient treatment program and followed that up with a six-month stint in sober living. He had not had a drop of alcohol in nearly ten years now.
One problem he felt existed during his time in recovery was a lack of resources dedicated to helping men of color, specifically Black men, through the recovery process. He felt called to open a home that would bridge that gap. It started with a single renovated one-story, 982-square-foot house. It had three bedrooms with a full bath off the hall and a three-quarter bathroom as a part of the master suite. He put out feelers to a couple of friends he’d made that were on staff at the treatment center he had attended. Within a couple months, he had four guys living in the home - three Black and one white. Two of the gentlemen shared the master and the others each had their own much smaller rooms.
Today, he owned a total of five residences - a triplex containing two-story units at 990-square-feet with two bedrooms and one-and-a-half baths; an A-frame style cottage with two bedrooms and two bathrooms that had toilet, sink, and stand-up shower only, and a one-car garage; plus the original little house. Each of the new homes could house four men. So, these days, Art had a total of nineteen dudes living at Zambezi Recovery Residences - 12 of them Black, 5 Caucasian, and 2 Latino. He had chosen the name with respect to the fourth-longest river in Africa. And, he had space for one more guy to join the ranks.
The attractive, caramel-skinned man of average height was also now on his third wife - a fifty-five year-old schoolteacher who had rarely ever drank in her entire life.
Geneva Ray understood her husband’s mission and rarely interfered with the running of his endeavor. Her main participation was occasionally co-teaching a weekly Sunday school class with her husband for the residents at Tree of Life Church. She was a divorced from her first husband, a pediatrician, and had two adult c***dren of her own. She loved to knit, play tennis, and bake. She had been taken about when she first learned Art had a set of young c***dren. But, she loved the man and so she loved his k**s.
The twins, Kale and Kaitlyn, were now twelve. They spent every other weekend with their dad and Mrs. Geneva. Overall, they had a good relationship with their father. The older daughters were once again interacting with Art. And the old man played a significant role in the lives of his grandc***dren.
Art unlocked the front door of the A-frame house. He was there to meet a new guy moving in. According to the conversation he had had with the cat’s mother, the newest community member was just getting out of jail after having been locked up for 45 days in a county jail in the northern part of the state. The poor fellow was twenty-seven years old and had lost his job as an esthetician making about $15.62 per hour. His crime was a second offense for misdemeanor prostitution - luckily, he had left the d**gs at home when he was out soliciting. Art was understanding as usual and informed the worried woman that her son could come to Zambezi.
Inside the house, Art checked to see the condition of the place. Overall, it looked pretty good. The board where the guys signed out indicating what they would be doing and what time they were expected back showed that all three of the guys living there were at work presently. Art required that all residents be employed or looking for employment immediately upon entry. He conducted a more detailed review of the bedroom the newbie would be sharing with Bloke. It met his expectations.
There doorbell rang and Art went to answer. He greeted the lady and her diminutive son, “Hey there! Come on in.”
The pair stepped inside lugging a couple of suitcases and a box with them. Art offered them seats at the dinette set after giving them a tour of the place. He went over the intake paperwork and reviewed the rules and regulations. “Are you looking to get clean and sober, son,” he asked with concern.
“Yes, sir,” replied Laurent Daniels.
“Glad to hear it! You’ve come to the right place.”
“I hope so,” mouthed the jailbird’s mother.
“Don’t worry Mrs. Daniels. We’ve helped many men in similar situations to Laurent here. I, too, am a recovering alcoholic and addict.”
“Oh okay,” she said.
“Alright. We just have the matter of the payment to take care of,” Art started. “Let’s see, Mrs. Daniels. It looks like you already paid a hundred and fifty dollars towards the $300 intake fee. Also, we have two options. We can do $1000 a month or $250 per week.”
Sheila Daniels advised Art, “We’re gon’ pay by the week for now. I brought $650 to take care of the rest of the upfront cost and to cover two weeks’ rent.”
“That’ll work,” the owner affirmed. “I’m actually just gonna apply that second half of the fee to rent. So for the third week, you’ll just need to pay a hundred.”
“Bless you, Mr. Ray,” sighed Sheila.
“Thanks a ton, Mr. Ray,” Laurent added.
“Please call me Art.”
The former military cop said, “Alright, Mrs. Daniels, Laurent is all set. We’ll let you get on your way and I’ll finish helping him get settled.”
The woman thanked him profusely and hugged her son for an extended period of time. She walked slowly outside to her red 2012 Mitsubishi Galant. She started it and drove away.
“So, I see you brought your car,” Art acknowledged the 2013 mineral gray Hyundai Santa Fe SUV.
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the young man with the cocoa complexion.
“Please. Call me Art. We’re all equals here. So, just a reminder, you’re free to use your car as you please. You’re free to give other residents rides, but you’re under no obligation to do so. Make sure you keep your license and insurance up to date.”
“You got it...Art!”
“Alright then! Let’s get your stuff moved in here. And, I expect that you attend a 12-step meeting today. The main address is listed in the packet or you can just follow me there when I leave.”
“I’ll follow you if that’s okay.”
“It sure is, Laurent.”
As they were putting away clothing and other small personal effects, Laurent Daniels surveyed the room and his new living conditions. Only a month-and-a-half ago, he had been working full-time and paying for his very own one-bedroom apartment. He had rarely ever turned to his mom or mostly deadbeat father since he was 19. He felt shame and guilt over his present circumstance.
Art spied his newest resident and imagined the thoughts coursing through his mind. He said, “I find it’s helpful to talk. Just so you know a little more about me. I started drinking casually when I was eleven. I don’t hardly remember going more than two days without a drink from that time until I was in my forties. After I left the Army, it got real bad. I ended up getting drunk every night and ruined my twenty-five year marriage. I had lied to her, stolen from her, and cheated on her dozens of times. I was a piece of shit to be quite honest.”
“And it didn’t stop there, son,” Art continued. “I was messing up on the job, but covering it up because I was sleeping with my partner. She picked up a ton of my slack. I was using her. I got a much younger woman pregnant when I was fifty-four and married her just because. I was a complete dick to her as well. She ended up leaving me. Finally, my job told me it was rehab or get fired. I went into treatment against my wishes, but ended up buying into after about two months. The net net is that my life has gotten much better. Better than I ever expected it to be. I’m married again to a good woman and I have relationships with all of my k**s. You don’t have to be ashamed.”
“Wow,” Laurent murmured.
“Why don’t you share some of your story with me,” Art prodded.
“Oh okay,” the skincare specialist began. “I basically just did some recreational d**gs about year after I started working at the spa. My clients were mainly women living in gated communities, driving luxury cars, and over-medicating on prescriptions. I tried some pills. That led to some cocaine and eventually meth. I couldn’t afford to pay for it so I started offering sex for the high.” Laurent paused.
“It’s cool, buddy,” Art reassured him. “I ain’t here to judge. Just wanna help. As men and especially brothas we aren’t often made to feel comfortable talking about our feelings. But talking about it takes away the shame and stigma. Go on if you’re comfortable.”
“Yeah,” Laurent resumed his story. “I ended up meeting a connect that I’d pay on occasion and other times, I’d provide sexual favors. It started out with just him. But before long, he was bringing other guys over that wanted what I’d been giving him. I found out later he was charging them. That’s how I got busted for the first offense. My second was me trying to sell myself for d**g and rent money cause I was spending every dime I made. Now, I’m pretty much broke. I’m two months behind on my car note. My mom is gonna make a payment in two weeks, then it’s back on me. I feel like crap.”
“Hey, my man, thanks for sharing with me. It’s gonna be alright. I can promise you that,” Art informed Laurent. “It’ll all work out in due time. All you gotta do is the next right thing. I’m sorry that those guys took advantage of you.”
“I know this a Christian environment,” Laurent posited. “I hope it’s okay that I’m gay.”
Art considered his words carefully, “We are Christian-based. Here. We believe that God loves all of us so it ain’t our place to judge you. And, hell, most of the dudes in here have probably gotten down at least once in their addiction or when locked up. Just bein’ honest.”
“Make sense.”
“Even I dabbled a few times,” Art admitted. “Now, that ain’t for public record. We just sharing, right. But, it is what it is. I’m not advertising it, but I’m not actively hiding it neither.”
“I gotcha,” Laurent smiled. “May I ask if you feel guilty about that?”
“Uhhh. Not anymore. It happened. I’ve accepted it. Most of the time it was fun. I think. But, now that I’m married I endeavor to stay faithful.”
“That’s good and honorable.”
“Thanks, son! But you know no man is perfect.”
“True that,” giggled Laurent.
“You about ready to head out? I gotta meet a sponsee at the clubhouse in a few.”
“Sure!”
Laurent drove behind the pickup truck with the dark tinted windows.
As Art led the way, his mind raced back to the first time he had fucked a boi like Laurent. It was during the resident phase of his Senior Leader Course shortly before he was promoted to Sergeant First Class. He was 34 years old at the time. Over the weekend, he and a few of others had been drinking out near the pool. He walked, but mostly stumbled, up to his room. There was an attractive chick with a nice, round booty that came out of the enclave containing the ice and vending machines. He called out to her while carrying a half-empty fifth of vodka. She turned around and smiled. He motioned for her to join him in his room.
Art sat on the bed and offered the young lady a seat as well. He commented on her hair - she had micro braids that were halfway down her back. She grinned and thanked him. “Don’t be offended,” he said. “You’re a girl, right?”
“Why would you ask that,” she inquired.
“No reason...I mean you look good and all. I just don’t look like you got tits. No offense.”
“None taken. Not all women have large breasts.”
“True.”
“But, no I’m a dude.”
“For real?!?!?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Wow! You’re pretty damn convincing.”
“Thanks! I try!”
“Wow. I for real couldn’t tell.”
“I hear ya. I can go if you want.”
“Nah. Stay and talk for awhile. Want a drink?”
“Sure!”
After sipping on some more liquor, Art was horny and curious and inquisitive. “How long you been dressing like this?”
“Years,” the guest replied.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And fine as wine,” he chuckled.
“Thanks!”
“So I bet you got niggas that be trying to get at you on the low all the time, huh?”
“There are some for sure! Are you one of them?”
“Uhhhh…I dunno about all that.”
“No pressure. I was just asking.”
“I mean. Like...How would it go down?”
“I guess I would suck your dick if you were into it. And, then you would fuck me if you wanted.”
“Oh...Just like that?”
“Pretty much.”
“That don’t seem difficult. How would I even know if I liked it?”
“You’d have to try it and see. If I’m sucking your dick, it don’t make you gay.”
“How you figure?”
“Cause you’re just getting it sucked. I’m the one sucking,” shared the light-skinned Black guy.
“Oh okay. You wanna try to suck mine?”
“Yes, sir! I thought you’d never ask.”
The sissy got on his knees and pulled out Art’s eight-inch tool. He sucked it and it grew stiff. Art ended up bending the punk over the bed and going inside him.
“Ooh wee,” Art huffed. “That ass is tight as fuck!”
“Yeah, daddy! Fuck this tight boipussy,” the bottom boi coached him.
“Shit, baby!”
“You like that faggot sissy pussy, daddy? Fuck me harder!”
“Oh damn...I think I’m…”
“Nut, daddy! Cum for me. Cum on my face!”
“Alright,” Art pulled out his dick.
The fag turned around and Art busted a huge load on his face.
The next day he felt guilty and never did anything like that again for the next three years. Again, he was inebriated when it transpired.
The most recent encounter he’d had with an effeminate male entered into his mind. It was about eight months ago. The man who walked with a noticeable switch and had flamboyant mannerisms was the morning shift manager at the fast food joint where Art would stop nearly every morning for coffee before the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at 6:30 a.m. Art detested drive-thru service so he always went inside. After several weeks, the punk and Art started making general conversation.
Art learned that the employee’s name was Marquess. They exchanged thoughts on music occasionally. Sometimes they talked about topics such as Black Lives Matter or new feature films. Marquess was a movie buff and recommended a number of excellent choices. As time went on there were light flirtations as the worker read Art’s face and body language.
The day it happened, Marquess had said, “Do you remember Skool Daze?”
“You know I never saw it,” admitted Art.
“It’s a classic, man! I got a copy at home. You oughta check it out.”
“I just might.”
“Well, I get off at 11:00.”
“I might be back through by then. I could always grab a burger and trail you home, right?”
“That’d be my pleasure.”
“Alright.”
Art had spent the entire morning obsessing about fucking Marquess. He decided to drive back to the restaurant at 10:30. He went inside, ordered a combo, and ate alone at a table. Once Marquess had clocked out, Art headed out to his truck. He spotted the five-foot-six-inch, brown-skinned sissy sashaying to a metallic silver 2010 Lincoln MKZ. He pulled up next to the vehicle, rolled down his window, and smiled. Marquess waved a finger signaling him to follow.
They arrived at a quaint bungalow that Marquess apparently shared with his mother. The woman was at work so they had the house all to themselves.
“I need to shower real quick,” the host advised his guest. “There’s juice in the fridge if you wanna fix a glass.”
“Sure! Thanks!”
Art was drinking iced tea when Marquess returned wearing a pair of red short shorts and a yellow tank top. The DVD player is back here in my room if you wanna come watch. Art stood up and walked behind the femboi vixen.
“You know you got a nice ass, right,” Art blurted.
Marquess turned around and said, “I thought you might like how it looked in these shorts.”
“I do.”
“Well, come get it then, Daddy!”
They rushed into the bedroom ripping off one another’s clothes. Soon they were in the bed kissing and fondling. Marquess gave a sloppy blowjob before Art put him on his stomach and mounted him.
“Oh, shit, nigga! Give me that big dick,” screamed the passive bottom.
“Yeah, bitch! Give Daddy that sissy faggit pussy,” howled Art.
“Ooh yes, nigga! Damn that dick is big!”
“You like how I’m fuckin’ this pretty ass?”
“Yes, sir! Yes, Daddy!”
“It’s good and tight. Damn! It’s gettin’ wet too!”
“You’re fuckin’ me so good, baby! Give it to me!”
Art came deep inside Marquess. They chilled for about an hour and went at it again. Art had avoided that particular restaurant since that very day.
They arrived the designated location. Art showed Laurent inside and introduced him to a couple of guys waiting for the next meeting.
A little over an hour later, Laurent drove to his new digs. He stopped off on the way and bought a few groceries with the little amount of cash his mom had left him. He stocked up on ramen noodles, Kool-aid packets, a bag of sugar, some cheap hot dogs, bread, and found some store brand chips that were a buck a piece. This would take him through the week he hoped. Back in the vehicle, he resolved to begin looking for a job tomorrow morning.
He arrived at the house on Ladybug Lane and hauled in the bags. The television was on now and he could hear the shower going in the hallway bath. It happened to be the one he was to share with his roommate. As he was putting away his food, the guy who had been washing up walked into the kitchen covered from waist down by only a towel. Laurent examined the thin, dark-skinned guy with decent chest definition. He salivated a bit over the five-foot-ten dude with the gold grill.
“Sup,” said the dude. “I’m Bloke, yo!”
“Hey there! I’m Laurent!”
“Dats wassup, mane! You got one uh dem Frenchie names, yo!”
“Yeah! I guess.”
“When you got here?”
“A couple hours ago.”
“Oh dats wassup. What’s yo D.O.C.?”
“Mainly meth and coke. Yours?”
‘I was fuckin’ wit’ crack and pain pills. I drank too.”
“Oh okay.”
“No judgment though, right, my nigga?”
“Right!”
“You comin’ from rehab.”
“Nah. I was in jail.”
“Damn. You don’t look like no ex-con or nuthin’.”
“Thanks. I think,” Laurent opined.
“Yeah,” confirmed Bloke. “Dat ain’t no bad thang, l’il nigga!”
“Gotcha!”
“Yeah! I been locked up to. I was in the pen fuh like three years, yo. Felony possession and shit.”
“Oh wow!”
“What you had some unpaid parkin’ tickets,” chuckled the tenured resident.
“No. It was prostitution if you must know.”
“Damn! Was you pimpin’ hoes and shit?”
“No! I was pimping myself.”
“Damn! We do some crazy shit to get high, right?”
“Yes we do!”
“You still got a job,” asked Bloke.
Laurent shared, “No. I lost it when I was in jail. I’m gonna start looking tomorrow.”
“They hirin’ where I work at.”
“Oh really? What do you do?”
“Landscapin’ and shit. It ain’t the best but I got felonies. So…”
“I feel you.”
“What kinda work you was doin?”
“I’m an esthetician.”
“Esta what?”
“Esthetician. I do skincare. Things like hair removal. Facials. Stuff like that?”
“Oh okay. Like you work at a salon or some shit?”
“Basically.”
“What you thank ‘bout my skin, l’il nigga?”
“It looks pretty clear. Do you use any products?”
“Hell naw! I’m a nigga.”
“Men should take care of their skin too,” advocated Laurent.
“Maybe I should,” laughed Bloke. “Yo, you got some lotion? I’m plum out.”
“Sure,” the five-foot-five guy remarked. “It’s in the bathroom under the sink. I’ll get it.”
“Thanks, mane!”
Laurent bent down to grab the cocoa butter, As he stood back up, Bloke said, “So was you enjoyin’ dat dick in jail?”
“Huh,” Laurent bought time.
“You heard me, l’il bit. Did you at least enjoy summa dat jailhouse dick?”
“Uh wow!”
“I ain’t judgin’. Just askin’. I know how it be on da cell block, yo.”
“There was a time or two that I did,” admitted Laurent softly.
“Mane, don’t shame. We all got needs,” shared the twenty-five year-old as he grabbed his crotch.
“What are your needs, Bloke,” Laurent moved closer.
“Damn, l’il nigga! You smell good. Like a fuckin’ female.”
“Thanks! It’s strawberries and cream body spray.”
“I like dat shit!”
“So, what are your needs?”
“Damn. My balls blue fah real!”
“That’s too bad,” Laurent lamented.
Bloke thought aloud, “You could help a nigga out, yo!”
“True that! Why are your balls so blue though?”
“I ain’t had none in a minit.”
“How long?”
“Like a munt.”
“Oh wow! That is a long time. Who was it.”
“Dis white guhl dat be at da clubhouse. You sexier den her though fah real, fah real.”
“Thank you!”
“Come on, boo! Let’s go in da room fo’ dees utha niggas git back.”
Bloke sat on the twin bed that belonged to him. It was covered with a dark blue plaid comforter.
Laurent got on his knees and removed the towel from his thug daddy’s waist. He grabbed the seven-and-a-half-inch, thick lovestick. He placed his lips around it and went to work moving up and down the shaft.
“Ah, fuck, l’il nigga! Dem faggit lips feel good on dis dick, yo! Keep suckin’ dat shit, bitch! I’ma fuck da shit outta you!” Bloke took hold of Laurent’s head and guided it along his shaft. He groaned with pleasure. “Dis some good ass head, punk bitch! Let a nigga dig in dem guts, yo!”
Laurent got up from the floor bent over the bed. Bloke moved behind him and began working his cock into the clenched, brown hole.
“Oh, faggit,” Bloke moaned. “Dis li’l pussy tight!”
“You like it, Bloke,” inquired Laurent.
“Hell yeah, punk! Dis some good prison pussy!”
“Oh, yeah, Daddy! Fuck me like you fucked the bitch when you were locked up!”
“Hell yeah, sissy! I was fuckin’ his punk ass every got-damn night! You takin’ dis dick jus’ like he did!”
“Yes, sir! This is your faggy pussy. I’m your celly.”
“Shit yeah, faggit! I’ma be fuckin’ yo soft, bitch ass on da regular, yo!”
Bloke pounded furiously. Laurent panted and whimpered.
“Take dis dick, fag,” ordered Bloke. Then he roared, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk!!!”
Laurent felt the ex-con’s load flood his tender hole. “Damn, that was good, daddy!”
Hester
- 06.02.2022
- 20
- 0
Sober Second ThoughtChapter 2
- 3 years ago
- 19
- 0
Sober Second ThoughtChapter 3
- 2 years ago
- 25
- 0
