Tyrone lifted his shot glass and poured the liquid into his mouth before slamming the glass back onto the table. Leroy did the same. “Drink up, whiteboi,” they commanded.
Gingerly, Mitch lifted his shot glass to his nose. He sniffed. It didn’t really smell like anything he knew. “Whatchu fuckin’ sniffin’ it for?” asked Leroy. “Just drink the motherfucker.”
Mitch downed the liquid in one gulp, and it felt like his face was on fire. He coughed and gagged. “What the fuck was that?” he spluttered.
“Gasoline,” Tyrone laughed. Leroy high-fived him across the table.
“Fuck … what?” Mitch spluttered.
“Premium high-octane,” whooped Leroy. “Nothin’ but the best.”
“Nobody light a match,” Tyrone hollered. “Whiteboi over here gonna go up in flames.”
Mitch looked panicky.
“Nah, nah, we’ just messin’ wit’ you, whiteboi,” said Leroy. “Stay chill. It was vodka. We’ jus’ foolin’ around.”
Mitch still felt anxious. He took a slug of his cool beer and he felt the heat wash away. Alcohol began to accumulate in his blood stream. As he placed the pitcher back onto the table, he could’ve sworn he felt Leroy’s leg brush against his own under the table. Just once, and just lightly. It must’ve been an accident.
Mitch noticed Tyrone’s basketball singlet and he asked his first question. “You like the Bulls?” His nerves began to recede as the alcohol took effect.
“Like is an understatement. Fuckin’ love the Bulls. The Bulls are life. You into b-ball, whiteboi?”
Of course he was. Mitch loved watching basketball on TV. He fucking loved watching those tall, sweaty, athletic black dudes running around. “Yeah.” He puffed himself up. “Used to play a little myself. In college.”
Leroy and Tyrone exchanged glances of disbelief. They could imagine Mitch as the towel boy, but not much more.
“I wasn’t very good, though,” Mitch explained. He imagined Leroy and Tyrone playing on a street court, sweaty muscles on display. His head swam. It was like a drug.
“What do you do for work, whiteboi?” Leroy asked.
Mitch invented another lie. “Umm … I work for the postal service.” He didn’t want to tell them he was a lawyer for a major multinational company. He took a long gulp of beer.
“And you said you live near 77th street? How can you afford that on a shitty postal service salary?”
The web of lies grew thicker. “I work in middle management.”
Leroy stroked his chin, pretending to believe him. No way did this dude work at the post office. He looked way too preppy. His first guess was that Mitch was a corporate accountant.
“And where do you guys work?” Mitch asked.
Leroy and Tyrone glanced at each other. “We don’t ‘work’ as such,” Leroy answered. “We’re independent businessmen.”
Tyrone chimed in. “Entrepreneurs of the street, if you will.”
Fuck, that could mean anything. Mitch guessed it partly involved mugging unsuspecting strangers and then shaking them down, but he wondered what else they got involved in.
“Yo, whiteboi,” hollered Tyrone, “where’s yo’ friend? He still comin’ to meet up wit’ you?” He drained the rest of his beer.
“I’m not sure. He should’ve been here by now.” Mitch pretended to check his phone again. “No messages. I’m not sure what happened.”
Leroy looked at Tyrone. “Maybe he got mugged.” Tyrone laughed and high-fived.
“Then if yo’ friend ain’t comin’, whatchu say we get some more beers?” asked Tyrone. “I know I could use another one.” He leaned across the table towards Mitch. “You don’t have to be anywhere else right now, do you, whiteboi?”
Mitch thought about Trina. She’d still be downtown with her colleagues. Part of him considered standing up and heading home, but he knew if he did, he’d regret it. He had no idea what tonight had in store for him, but there was only one way to find out. Even though the alcohol was taking effect, Mitch was still sober enough to recognise that the situation he was in could be dangerous. Anything could happen.
He decided to ride his luck. He turned and looked dead into Leroy’s dark brown eyes. Fuck, that nose ring was so fucking sexy. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be right now. Except the bathroom, that is. I’ll be back in a second.” Mitch stood and walked towards the back of the bar.
Tyrone waved the waitress over. Three fresh pitchers of cold beer landed on the table.
*
Mitch found a vacant cubicle and locked himself inside. He took a few deep, settling breaths of rancid, stale air before unzipping. He pulled out his four inches, pushed hard, and got a stream going. He stared blankly at the bright white cubicle wall as he pissed, thinking hard. He zipped up, left the cubicle, washed his hands, and returned to the booth. A fresh beer was waiting for him.
He sat back down. “This for me?”
“Sure is,” Tyrone answered.
Mitch took a deep, satisfied slug. The alcohol was going to his head. “Feels like you sexy dudes are trying to get me drunk.”
Fuck. He panicked. He’d just called them ‘sexy.’ There was no immediate response. All Mitch could hear right now was the sound of rap music booming out from the other side of the venue, and the sound of his blood as it pumped through his brain.
It was the worst possible thing he could’ve said. He had the situation all wrong. He waited for these thugs to escort him outside into the alley. He expected to have the shit beaten out of him. He braced for violence and prepared to run.
Leroy lowered his voice. “You just say what I think you said, whiteboi?” He moved a forearm closer to Mitch. “Did I hear you right just now?”
Was this a threat? Was this where the night turns violent? Was Mitch about to die? He tried to backtrack. “Sorry … I’m … umm … just a little … no, that’s not what I meant to say … maybe I’m a little drunk … umm … I’m married … I …”
“It’s all good, whiteboi,” soothed Tyrone. “We know you’ into us. We remember the night we found your wallet. You was starin’ at our junk pretty fuckin’ bad. You might be married, and if I remember correctly, yo’ bitch got some fine ass titties, but that don’t mean you ain’t into black dick. Most whitebois are, but only some have the balls to admit it.”
Mitch gulped.
Tyrone whispered across the table. “You into BBC, ain’t you, whiteboi? You’ fuckin’ obsessed with big black dick, ain’t you?”
Mitch couldn’t deny it. Lust and submission were written all over his face. “Yes.”
“Say it,” said Tyrone. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I love big black cock,” Mitch whispered.
Leroy grabbed one of Mitch’s hands. He guided it underneath the table and placed it on the outside of his pants. “You feel that, whiteboi?”
Mitch’s head began to spin. “Fuck.” He gazed into Leroy’s dark eyes and bit his bottom lip. “It’s so big.”
“You wanna touch it?” Leroy asked.
“Yes,” Mitch breathed. He wanted to more than to just touch it; much, much more. His heart was pounding like it was about to leap out of his chest. He could barely breathe right now.
Leroy smiled. “Go ‘head then.”
Mitch unzipped Leroy’s pants. Leroy wasn’t wearing boxers, and Mitch’s fingers quickly found his thick, heavy shaft.
“Pull it out.”
Mitch did as he was instructed. Leroy’s balls were still inside his pants, but his long, flaccid shaft was on the outer. “It’s so warm.”