Date: Sun, 18 Dec 2016 22:30:23 +0000 (UTC)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: What Fags are For - Part 1  (author, interr)

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What Fags Are For is a series of short narratives by men of color
concerning their experiences with homosexuals. First up, the story of young
brother whose prayers were answered in a way he did not expect.



What Fags Are For,

by Skorpio



Part One - My Neighbor the Fag: the Story of Dante Miller



Who would have thought yours truly, Dante Miller, would be married with
kids by the time I turned twenty-two?

Not me, that's for sure. I had big dreams. Planned on a college scholarship
shooting hoops, going pro, making major money, living life in the fast
lane. That's how it was all supposed to go down.

Then, I met Trina, love of my life. Homeroom, junior year. It was raining,
which always makes me blue, but when I looked up, our eyes met, and it felt
like the sun was shining on my face. She was the most beautiful girl I had
ever seen.

Trina got pregnant just before graduation. I wasn't too happy about that at
first, but I came around. June, we were married by the Justice of the
Peace. No honeymoon. Couldn't afford one. But we were so sprung for one
another that we became the honeymoon wherever we were.

I landed full time work in the meat department at Wholesome Foods, sold
weed on the side, and found us a crib in a not too rough part of
town. Trina wanted to get a job, but I wasn't having that. Not while she
was carrying and raising my child.

Trina eventually saw things my way. She can stand up for herself, but she
understands. The wife is the heart of a home, but the man is its head. I
make the major decisions.

After our second son came along a year later, we decided on birth
control. I hate jimmy caps. I want to feel pussy not latex. Not to mention
it's hard finding them in my size. Just saying.  Anyway, Trina went on the
pill, but that screwed up her female hormones and shit. The babies demanded
all of her attention. You see where I'm going with this? Trina stopped
putting out, and by stopped I mean we were down to once a week.

Now that ain't right. I gotta bust more than once a week. If I go too long
without pussy or a blowjob, I get mean. It is what it is. I needed sex. I
also needed money. I prayed to Almighty God in Heaven for sex and money,
and God blessed me with a faggot. The Good Lord works in mysterious ways.

There was this white guy, thirty-something, named Bob, who lived in the
apartment on the first floor. I never gave him any thought. He was very
polite. Insisted on calling us Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Kept the vestibule and
hallway swept and mopped.

It never crossed my mind Bob was a fag until Trina told me. What the
fuck. There was a white fag living in our building. That explained the
weird looks I got some times. That queer must have been checking me out.

I wanted to bitch slap Bob the fag the next time I saw him. See if he
checks me out when his faggot ass is on the ground and I'm standing over
him. I should piss on him. Fucking queers. What are they good for, anyway?

Like I told you, I get mean when I'm horny. My anger subsided when I
thought about that question. What are fags good for?

I slapped my forehead as the answer came to me. The obvious, of course:
sucking dick. That's what fags were good for. Head. Going down. The Art of
Fellatio. Smoking pipe. Deep throat.  Damn, I was horny. Hell yeah, I would
let that fag blow me.

I decided to confront Bob, see what's what, but when I got to his door
there was a familiar stench leaking out into the hall. So, Bob the fag
smokes weed. Good to know. That funky shit smelled sweet, so I went back
upstairs and rolled a fat one.

Next time I ran into Bob in the hallway, I mentioned having some excellent
chiva if he was interested. Sold Bob an ounce for $350, twice what it cost
me. A week later, sold him another ounce for $400. Told him it was good
shit, hard to get.

Bob the fag bought an ounce off me every week, which meant not only was Bob
a major pothead, but he had bank to burn!

That's why when we fell behind on the rent and some other bills, Trina
suggested I go to him for a loan.  "I don't want to owe that faggot
nothing," I exploded. "I aint want to ask him for nothing! Fuck that. I
ain't asking him for money. Fucking faggot should give me money without
being told. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

Maybe I got carried away. Trina listened patiently to my tirade, then made
an interesting suggestion.  "You don't have to pay him back."

"I settle my debts," I insisted.

Trina: "He's just a fag, Dante. Don't you know anything about using fags?"

I confessed to ignorance. I never gave homosexuals much thought. Probably
because they don't make sense to me. Why would a man want to suck a dick?
He wouldn't. Cocksuckers weren't men. I didn't know what they are, but most
definitely not men.

"Break it down to me, baby," I said, trying to melt Trina with my warm,
playful, seductive gaze.  It didn't work.

"Both my brothers use fags all the time," she stated matter of factly. "If
one of them knew you had a fag for a neighbor and weren't using him, he
would step in. No sense letting a fag go to waste. That's what they would
say."

"What, I meant was how do they use them? I don't get it."

"Fags are weak, Dante. Boss them around. Take their money. Get a blowjob if
you want. They're just fags. If you don't use Bob, someone else will."

"You mean, I should rob the bitch?"

I didn't bring up the blowjob, but Trina knew I was hurting for some head
because she wasn't giving me none. Claimed it hurt her jaw.

"You're not gonna rob Bob," she said. "You're just gonna ask him for some
money and you're not gonna pay him back."

"And he's just gonna give it to me like that."

"Haven't you seen the way Bob drools when you're wearing a wife beater?
When you go commando in sweats with everything showing? I can't believe you
haven't noticed him leering at you. I think he's one of those whiteboys."

"What do you mean? What are `those' whiteboys?"

"You know, the ones that love black dick and only black."

"Are you shittin me?"

"It's true. They want to be our slaves. My dad had a fag like that, this
old white guy who stopped by once a week with an envelope full of cash."

"Did you ever ask your dad about it?"

"He said the honky worked for him."

"Really, he said honkey?"

I had to laugh. Honkey doesn't get as much play as it used to back in the
day. Probably due for a comeback.

Trina went on, "I didn't know what Dad meant by that until I found out Dre
and Junior were using white fags. Then, I put two and two together!"

"That's wild."

I was rapidly getting used to the idea. Even though I had never heard of
white fags begging to be used, it felt like I had always known deep down
inside.

After our conversation, I went down to see Bob about a "loan" to help me
and Trina through a rough patch. As it turned out, Bob was totally
cool. Without skipping a beat, he wrote out a check for a sold grand, twice
what I needed.

"I'll pay you back," slipped out because I couldn't help myself. That's
just the way I was raised. Might be a roughneck, but I'm also a gentleman.

"Don't worry about it," said Bob. "I'm glad you came to me. If you need
anything, anything at all, just let me know. That's what neighbors are
for."

He was actually licking his lips when he said that so he kind of sputtered
the words.

When I showed my wife the check, she asked, "Did you let Bob give you a
blowjob?"

"Hell, no. You know I don't roll like that."

"I wish you would. Maybe then you wouldn't be angry all the time."

"Trina, he's a fag."

"Getting your cock sucked doesn't make you a fag, baby. When I suck your
cock, does that make you a woman?"

"Whatever."

I wasn't gonna argue with her. Anyway, if she was doing HER job, we
wouldn't be having this discussion. I know her libido is off and the babies
wear her out, but dayummm.

As the weeks went on, not only did I not pay Bob back, I kept on
borrowing. Twenty here, fifty there. Got to the point where I didn't have
to ask. Soon as he saw me, he would reach for his wallet.

"Hey, Bob. Good to see ya. Say, I'm gonna need to hire a baby-sitter so me
and Trina can go out tonight."  Bob handed me three hundred dollars in
fifties. His billfold was bulging with green cash, like he had been waiting
for this.

"Where are you taking Trina?" he inquired.

"I wanted to take her to the Borgata but I don't have that kind of bread."

"Now you do, Mr. Miller."

He put the wallet in my hands.

"Thanks, Bob."

Seven hundred more. I counted the bills right in front of him because I
think that turned him on. Did I mention just back pumped from the gym and
no shirt on? There was a drool at the corner of Bob's mouth.  Bob the fag
gave me a thousand dollars to party and gamble overnight at a five star
casino resort with my wife. The boys, by the way, were staying with our
other neighbor, Mrs. Morrison, who has been like a mother to us.

While I was counting the money, my dick got hard. I was pretty sure Bob
noticed. I was wearing sweats.  "You know what, Bob?"

"What's that Mr. Miller."

I loved being called Mister Miller from a white guy practically twice my
age. A whiteboy who was steady looking at my crotch calling me
Mister. Sounds like Master.

That's what I should call myself, I decided. Master Miller.

"What's what, Bob?"

I lost my train of thought.

"You said, you know what, sir?"

He called me sir. That made my dick twitch! Like a pulse shooting through
all that meat making it hard as a crowbar. Suddenly, I remembered.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," I resumed. "I was gonna say some night I'm gonna
stop by your crib, aiiight, and we can get to know each other mo' better."

"I would like that, Mr. Miller."

"I know."

I palm-rubbed my erection. Bob looked like a puppy wanting a bone. He
fumbled for yet another wallet, and handed me his MasterCard.

"Whatever you need tonight," he gushed.

I grunted thanks, and sprang up the stairs. Had to get away or I was gonna
nutt if that walking ATM gave me one more cent.

That evening Trina and I spent Bob's fag cash without a care in the
world. Gambling, dining, dancing. Fucking. Filled Trina three times in one
hour.

I have always known that was the night she got pregnant with our third son
despite being on the pill. Goes to show you the power of my little
swimmers.

Over the winter holidays, I had the place to myself while Trina and the
boys went down south for two weeks to visit her folks. I wanted to go with
them, but I had to work. My boss at the grocery store is a real bastard.

New Year's Eve, I was home alone, watching an old movie on
TV. Penitentiary, with Leon Isaac Kennedy. Brother has to box his way out
of prison while dealing with attempts on his ass and bitched niggas
dropping to their knees.

After several snifters of Courvoisier and a phat blunt, I got to thinking
about Bob the fag. I wondered what he was doing on New Year's Eve. I knew
he was home because I heard music coming from his apartment. Some lady
singing in French.

Poor Bob the fag. Probably couldn't go out because he didn't have any
money. No, that wasn't true. Bob had lots more bank tucked away
somewhere. Of that, I was certain.

I almost felt sorry for that homo bringing in the new year all by himself,
until I remembered that I was in pretty much the same boat. Last New Year's
Eve, Trina gave me a blowjob and made me nutt just as the ball was dropping
in Times Square and Old Lange Syne was playing.

That gave me an idea. I could let Bob suck my dick.

It was still early, not quite ten o'clock. I grabbed my dumbbells and did
thirty curls to put a peak on my biceps and work up a sweat. Fifty
pushups. One hundred crunches.

By that point, I could smell my own pits. I had a gut feeling Bob the fag
was gonna love sniffing that jungle musk. Should I go down there with my
shirt off? Nah, I'm not a piece of meat.

I slipped on a black muscle shirt instead. The gold chain Bob gave me for
my birthday last month. The seven hundred dollar watch he bought me when I
announced Trina was pregnant with our third. Black denim pants and Jordans
also bought with fag cash.

Bob sure made a difference in our lives, and it was actually high time I
showed that bitch some gratitude. He would have to pay for it, of course.

I took another puff of that good weed, a quick shot of brandy, and headed
downstairs. It was cold in the hallway, and smelled of air freshener. The
music coming from Bob's apartment was old school jazz. Billy Strayhorn or
the Duke. I knocked on the door.

Bob the fag looked stunned to see me. I felt his eyes crawling like
caterpillars on my bare shoulders.

"Mr. Miller..." he sputtered.

"Hey, Bob."

I raised my arm to lean against the doorway, putting my pit a few inches
from his face. His nostrils twitched like a bunny rabbit.

"Mr. Miller..." he repeated, stupefied.

"Can I come in, Bob?"

"Of course! Yes! Come in Mr. Miller."

"Good, cause there's something I wanna talk to you about."

He showed me to the red leather sofa, and asked if I wanted something to
drink. "Courvoisier, if you have it," I requested, and of course he did. I
think he had a bottle of every kind of liquor.  After making himself a
martini, Bob the fag turned off the stereo, and clicked the TV remote. The
party crowd in Times Square was in full swing. Midnight was an hour and a
half away.

Bob sat directly across from me in a leather armchair, too nervous to
speak. I liked that I made him nervous. He should be scared around me.

"I'll get to the point," I began. "You always been there for me and Trina
and the boys, so I want you to know how much we appreciate that. That's why
I decided to give you something you've been wanting in return."

"You didn't have to buy me a gift, Mr. Miller."

"I didn't buy you anything," I said, trying not to sound too derisive, but
what the fuck was he thinking? In what cum-soaked corner of his fag brain
was the idea of me spending money on him even conceivable?

Someone was about to get an attitude adjustment.

"I don't understand," said Bob.

"I know."

I stood up and slowly unbuckled my belt. Bob's eyes widened.

Then, I pushed my pants down to my ankles, setting my black anaconda
free. Bob's jaw dropped.

I plopped back down on the sofa, peeled off my tank to show off my six
pack, and put my hands behind my head. My soft, plump, juicy dick and low
hangers dangled over the edge of the couch cushions.

"You want some of this?"

When Bob didn't reply, I went on: "You know you want it."

"I don't know," he quivered.

"What's wrong? You don't like black dick?"

"No, no, I do, I mean, it's not that..."

He sounded almost apologetic.

"What's the problem. I'm starting to feel rejected, Bob. You invite me in,
give me brandy, can't take your eyes off me, so I figure you want
something. Then, I want to give it to you, and you say you don't know. Sup
with that?"

"What about Mrs. Miller?" he asked in a soft, conspiratorial whisper.

"Trina's out of town, you know that. You should. You paid for it."

"But she's my friend. I don't want her to get hurt."

"Bob, Bob, Bob," I clucked, shaking my head with dismay. "Trina isn't your
friend. You're a faggot. Why do you think she never lets you watch our
boys?  In fact, Trina's the one who suggested I come to you for head,
because my dick made her jaw hurt. I don't get too many blowjobs at home no
more."

"So you're saying Mrs. Miller won't mind...?"

"I'm saying if you wanna suck this dick, you better get busy before I
change my mind."

I don't like having to explain myself, that's why I was losing patience
with this simple-minded cracker. Lucky for Bob, he got down on his knees in
front of me where I wanted him.

"Take off my sneakers," I ordered. "But kiss them first."

"Yes, Mister Miller," he lisped while planting his lips on the tips of my
Jordans.

"That's Master Miller from now on."

"Yes, Master Miller!" he sound enthused.

Next, I had the cocksucker remove my jeans and fold them neatly, so he
could get between my powerful thighs to do his job.

As soon as Bob put his warm, moist mouth to work, my shit doubled from four
and a half inches to nine in seconds. He lost no time taking it down his
throat. Best goddamn blowjob I ever had.

I knew when he bobbed up and down like a stone chickenhead, it was gonna be
good. Tongue steady flicking that sensitive spot at the top of the shaft
just below the head. Bitch sucked hard and slurped loudly like his life
depended on it.

I wasn't gonna hurt him none, but wondered if maybe in a sense a
cocksucker's existence did depend on that shot of life. That was pathetic.

Although my dick was throbbing, looking down at the fag filled my soul with
loathing and disgust.  "Yahh, suck it like that!" I barked. "Suck it, you
nasty bitch!"

Crude shit like that made the fag suck even fiercer. Made me feel better
too. Reminded me of the way I treated whores back in the day with utter
contempt. Because they disgusted me, but I had to get off. Filthy tramps
with no self-respect, just like that white fag working his mouth like a
cunt for my dick.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it. It's why you don't never go
nowhere. You hang around hoping to run into me. That's why you give me
money. You're in love with me, aren't ya. But I don't want you to love
me. Naw, I want you to worship me like you're worshipping my dick right
now. Naw mean, little man?"  Of course the fag couldn't exactly answer with
my sausage dick down his throat. But I think he understood me. There was
only one way I wanted to be worshipped and he had been doing that for
months.  When he grabbed my shit, I swatted his face with the back of my
hand, and growled, "Don't be touching me. Just use your mouth!" He cringed
like a wretch.

I wasn't having that. It was one thing to let a fag go down on me, but I
wasn't gonna let him grope me. Made my skin crawl just thinking about some
white fag's clammy fingers feeling me up. Hell, no!  I shut my eyes and
imagined Trina nursing my joint like she used to. Then, my eyes opened, and
it was my neighbor the fag on his knees servicing like a greedy slut.

I relaxed and let my mind slip into a sensual haze, enjoying the faggot's
focus on my meat. There are few things better than a nice long
uninterrupted blowjob. I was in no hurry to bust a nutt. Just wanted to
enjoy that warm, tight mouth.

Time passed as I drifted in and out, but the fag never slacked his pace. If
his jaw ached, which it had to by now, he didn't show it. Damn, that bitch
could suck a dick.

Suddenly, I was aware of the crowd counting down in Times Square, and my
nuts began to churn. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six... The head of my dick
was tingling intensely. Three, two, one!

Happy New Year!!! My pimp juice shot like hot, molten bullets down his
gullet. Boo-yahhh!!! Take that, faggot! Dayummm!

I got dressed while Bob remained on his knees with cum like foam on his
lips. He pulled out his dick and stroked. It looked like a poisonous
toadstool.

"Put that nasty little thing away," I said. "I don't need to see that shit!
You can play with yourself after I've gone. Right now, we need to talk. We
might have a problem."

"Did I do something wrong, Master?"

Not Master Miller. Just Master. I liked that.

"See, it's like this," I said, buckling my belt. "What you just did was
cool. We might do that again sometime. It's just..."

I frowned as if it putting something unpleasant into words was an effort
for me.

"It's what, Master?" He looked so distraught.

"Let me ask you a question, Bob. Do you think black dick is free?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think I should have to ask for money?"

"No, sir, you shouldn't."

"Is that a fact? Maybe we don't have a problem, after all."

"We don't have a problem, sir. May I get my wallet, sir?"

"Yeah, go get your wallet."

A minute later he produced two fifty dollar bills.

"What's that, a down payment?" I laughed.

"It's all the cash I have on me."

"That's not gonna be enough. I mean, I gave you a nice gift, so you should
give me something of equal value in return. You're not saying my dick is
only worth a hundred dollars?"

"No, sir!"

"What are you gonna do about it."

"I can go to the ATM, sir."

"How much?"

"I can only withdraw $500."

"That makes $600. Is that what my dick is worth to you?"

He looked confused. What was the right answer? You could almost see the
slow wheels turning in his feeble brain.

"I can withdraw more in twenty-four hours, sir."

"Good boy."

"Thank you, sir."

"When you get back from the ATM, I might let you suck my dick again. Would
you like that?"

"Very much, Master. Thank you, sir."

I kept my word. When Bob returned with the cash, I let him go down on me a
second time. That one was on the house.

I decided then and there to go on using that cunt for the rest of its sad,
pathetic, faggot life.  Years have passed since then. Trina and I own a
house in the suburbs. Bob lives a few blocks away. He stops by once a week
with cash in an envelope.

Sometimes I take Bob down into the basement to show him what I been working
on, but you get what that's about. Trina told the boys when they were
little that Bob works for daddy, but the time has come to let my oldest in
on the truth.

Deshawn just turned eighteen, leaving for college in a month on a
basketball scholarship. Tonight, I'm taking him with me to visit Bob. I
want Deshawn to know everything.

After all, Bob the fag paid for his tuition. And if Deshawn takes after his
old man, he might wanna show that cocksucker some gratitude. And walk away
with some cash.

Because that's what fags are for.


To be continued in Part Two - My Professor the Fag: the story of Deshawn
Miller.