Page 39 of Between the Sheets

“Loud ‘n’ clear, my dude. Next caller.”

“Yo, fam, this Whalik from Elizabeth. What it do, yo?”

Muhfucka, you called me. Fuck you mean what it do? You eatin’ pussy or not, niggah? “You tell me, bruh. You puttin’ in that tongue work or what?”

“Hell naw, man. I ain’t eatin’ no broad out. That shit nasty, yo.”

Then what the fuck you callin’ in for? “And what makes it nasty, playboy?”

“Yo, pus—bleep—sy’s made for fuc—bleep—ing, not lickin’. That shit’s dirty, feel me?”

This whack-ass mofo. “Yo, my dude, you ever try it?”

“Ugh! Yeah. Once. And it was disgustin’, yo. I couldn’t get past the smell or the taste. It was fishy.”

“Fishy? Bruh, I don’t know what kinda foul punanni you had ya mouth up on, but sounds like maybe you had a bad batch of tuna. Unless her diet is real crazy or her insides are rotted, that thing-thing should be real tasty. And it damn sure shouldn’t smell or taste fishy. Real spit, bruh, if a chick spreads open her legs ‘n’ she’s leakin’ shit that looks like clam chowder, you need to hop up ‘n’ run for the door. Mmph. Sounds like the chick you had ya tongue in needed to invest in some antibiotics ‘n’ a douche. My advice, next time do the two-finger test. Slide them fingers up in ’er. Play with that thing-thing. And, if them fingers come back missing, covered in slime, or smellin’ like the back of a garbage truck, then you already know what it is. Baby girl got some hazardous waste in them drawz.”

“Nah, fuc—bleep—that. There ain’t gonna be no next time. My mouth ain’t goin’ no where near a ho’s hole.”

I glance over at Nina, giving her my “what-the-fuck” look.

She shrugs, shaking her head.

“Bruh, sorry ya first experience was a bad one. But, yo, you need to get ya mind right ‘n’ face the clit tongue-on. Try again, playboy. Thanks for callin’ in. Yo, my freaky peeps. Before I take my next caller, we’re about to go into a quick break, but let me say this to all the beauties out there listenin’ right now. Check this out. If you’re with a mofo who is pressin’ you to drop down on his top, but dude isn’t ’bout that tongue life, then baby, you need to shut that slurp shop down. If he ain’t suckin’, then neither should you. Unless you’re not beat ’bout gettin’ head ‘n’ only enjoy giving it, then do you. But if you want some face-time, too, then it should be an equal opportunity suck-a-thon. And if dude tells you he only eats his girl or wifey out, then you need to tell him to take his ass on back home to her ’cause the head doctor is on leave.” I laugh. “Yo, let me shut these clit lickers before I get some’a you dudes tossed up outta ya cribs. Don’t let me disrupt y’alls’ bed-flow, I’m just sayin’…You gotta know a place where you can kiss to bring ya baby to bliss. You want the key to her heart, you gotta go down low, nice ‘n’ slow…”

I pull back from my mic as Mariah Carey’s “Bliss” bellows over the air, which means I have about three minutes or so to hit my baby up with a few nasty texts before I’m back on the air. I reach for my phone and hit her up, letting her know I’m thinking about her and can’t wait to crawl up in bed and caress her clit with my tongue, then slow-lick her pussy lips, before sliding my tongue into her slit.

I set my phone back on my desk, then look over toward the glass booth and grin at Nina as Mariah sing-whistles about taking it slow and letting the feeling grow. Nina smiles back at me, knowingly. She always knows what to play next. Real shit. We’re a perfect fit. She feeds off my energy and knows exactly what songs to play to tie into the heat. And it’s been like this ever since I stepped foot through these studio doors and took my seat at this desk. We just clicked.

She signals me that we’re on in five…four…three…two…one…

I press my legs shut, pressing the swelling in my balls. “Aiight, aiight, aiight…what it do, my people. I hope all of my beauties out there in radio-land are somewhere ridin’ down on a face as I speak, glazin’ some wet tongue ‘n’ horny mouth with them sweet juices. Next caller…you’re on the air with ya boy.”

“Yo, what’s good, MarSell. This Q from East New York, yo. Why mafuckaz be stylin’, yo? How you not eatin’ the twat? Man, that mafucka who called in earlier is mutha—bleep—ing whack, yo. Tell that niggah I said it’s snack time, niggah! I love givin’ head, yo. Give me a hairy wet hole ‘n’ I’m feastin’ on it ’til she passes out. I love them bald beavers, too. But a lil’ fur is mad sexy, yo. Work between them sexy thighs ‘n’ spread open them juicy wet lips ‘n’ go to work suckin’ that puffy clit; word to mother, yo. Tell that whack-azz mafucka he can send his girl on over to me. I’ll eat her out, suck her insides out. Flip her over on all-fours ‘n’ eat that shit from the back, tongue all up in that slit ‘n’ bootyhole, then run this big-azz di—bleep—up in ’er. Then after I bust up in her guts, I’ll lick my nut out ‘n’ send ’er home to his corny-azz.”

I lick my lips. “Damn, son, sounds like you stay gettin’ it in.”

“Word to mother, yo. I gets it in, fam. I’m real ’bout mine. Them niggahs out there frontin’ on that good-good better wake up. They can sleep on it if they want, but it’ll be a horny mafucka like me givin’ his broad the business, then climbin’ outta his window at night. That’s real shit, yo.”

“I heard that. Keep on lickin’, playboy. Yo, y’all heard it here. If ya man ain’t lickin’ it, there’s someone else out there—willing ‘n’ ready—who will. Next caller.”

“Oh, yassss, daddy,” the raspy-voiced caller says, sounding like the character Sheneneh from the old sitcom Martin. “This is Princess from Bushwick. No tea, no shade. But you give me life. I live for Thursday nights.”

“Oh, word? That’s wasssup. So you puttin’ in that tongue work?”

The caller coughs. “No hunty. I’m allergic to fish.”

I blink. What the fuck?! “Yo, then why you callin’ in, my dude? Wait. Yo, you are a dude, right?”

“No. I’m transsexual. And I gets my kitty tongued down. I keeps me a piece of trade on speed dial to handle this cat. And I love sucking dic—bleep. Oral sex is my ish. And for all them lazy non dic—bleep sucking fish who ain’t giving head, they best believe I’m more than willing to give their men what they need. A tight, wet throat. Trust. Mmmph. I’ve probably already had most of ’em anyway. But they know their secret is safe with me ’cause I don’t kiss ‘n’ tell.”

“Oh, aiight, aiight. Well, Princess from Bushwick. Thanks for callin’ in.”

“Wait, daddy. I’m not done. I wanna know would you ever get head from a dude?”

I blink. Shift in my seat. What the fuck this muhfucka think I’ma say, “Hell yeah. I dig seeing a masculine muhfucka on his knees sucking the nut out this long-ass dick”? This niggah buggin’ if he thinks I’ma admit some shit like that on live radio.

“Nah, my dude,” I tell him. “I’m good on that.”

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