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Hard Ball

© December, 2000

Chris Carr

 

 

 

 

Juice all but moved in on this episode. His recently acquired 'vehicle' allowing him greater liberty, he frequently visited, often spending the night. Had he left his lady? Was he still living with her or moving in with him? All good questions to which August had no will to ask. Juice was back and back with a vengeance and that was all that mattered.

"Turn yo' ass over," he'd decree, ripping his boxers open to expose his sprouting manliness.

Mounting the boy during the wee hours of the morning, he'd grunt cursings in his ear as he lustfully humped. August couldn't complain, though. Give him a hard assed nigga, sprawled atop him, his painfully hard erection hittin’ that spot and he was content.

Sometimes Juice would invade his morning shower, making him late for work as he slammed him against the wet wall and plowed. Just be here when I come home from work, he'd pray, his asshole stretched around the youth’s thrusting spear.

 

Juice wasn't easy to please, however, never truly giving him that tenderness he desired.

"Yeah, yeah that's cool, August," he'd grumble, as August attended him, perhaps offering a drink "but can you move yo' black ass out da front of da TV?"

"The fuck is this shit?" He'd yell at practically every meal August prepared.

Nothing was ever enough. Never right. He took too long to come home from work but was a nuisance once he'd arrived. Anything could set off a fit of yelling and slapping. August was either running around like a scullery maid, attending to his every need or ducking fists or open hand slaps.

Isolation his only companion, he'd taken few calls. His cousin Charles had left several angry messages, demanding he return just one "god damn call!" Hurrying home every evening, he barely noticed the scantily clad boys, cavorting on basketball courts he passed. If the fates were merciful, his nigga would be home, angry he'd taken so long to arrive and that was all that mattered.

 

 

"Can you take me to the store?" He petitioned one evening, his refrigerator skimpy.

"What you need now?" Juice fussed.

"I just need to pick up some groceries," he tendered.

"Always sumpin'," Juice huffed, grabbing his keys.

At the market, August happily shopped, imagining himself the consummate housewife. His 'husband', impatiently waiting in the car, he absently browsed, determined to find fixings for the perfect meal.

Making his purchase at the check stand, he finally exited, cheerfully bouncing across the parking lot toward his man's car.

 

"Where you been?" a voice said beside him. Panicked, August glanced at the car, praying Juice wasn't watching.

"Vincent," he greeted, frozen.

"'Sup nigga? Don’t see you nowhere nowadays,," Vincent addressed, bouncing his basketball a couple of times.

"Yeah… I been busy," August said, nervously placing himself between the boy and Juice's car.

"Uh huh," Vincent said, eyeing Juice's car.

"Yeah… well… I gotta go," August said, turning away. But it was too late. Bounding out the car like a charging panther, Juice was swiftly approaching.

"The fuck is this?" He accused, glaring at Vincent.

"Juice, you remember Vinc…" A slap stunning him, August never finished the sentence.

"Choo lookin' at?" Juice seethed, glaring at Vincent.

"Juice," August pleaded.

Vincent held his ground, staring vehemently back at the boy. Enraged, Juice advanced on him, his eyes flaming daggers.

"Choo lookin' at?" Juice repeated.

"You besta get outta ma face," Vincent glowered.

"Or what, nigga! Or what?"

"Juice!" August begged, wedging himself between the youths.

Mashed between them, August watched in horror as they eyed each other.

"Fuckin' faggot," Juice attacked.

"I ain't the one fightin' over a nigga," Vincent reviled, dropping his basketball.

His squashed shopping bags rustling between them, August could hardly believe what was happening. Enraged, Juice swung at the boy, knocking August's packages onto the pavement. Screaming, he tried desperately to prevent Juice from hitting the teen. Juice slung him aside like a rag doll, squaring off against the boy. Sprawled among his strewn groceries, August screamed at Juice to please stop!

Wielding himself smartly, however, Vincent made quick sport of him, much to Juice's surprise. Landing two, well placed blows, he relented, waiting for the boy to regroup. Dancing about like a trained kangaroo, he hadn't even broken a sweat.

“The fuck?” Juice reeled, stunned. Stabilizing himself, he tasted blood on his lower lip. Glancing over at August, he noticed the wild eyed look of disbelief on the youth's face. His honor in question, he charged Vincent again, fist flailing.

Vincent ducked, avoiding the boy’s advance then clipped him again. Juice stumbled, the punch catching him off guard, knocking him to the ground.

Furious, he jumped up and screamed, "Fuck you and that bitch!" indicating August. "You ain't nothin' to me, bitch!" he raged, wiping his bleeding lip. "Fuck all y'all! God damn, fuckin' faggots!" He yelled, storming to his car.

Startled patrons frozen in their steps stared as August lay on the ground dazed and embarrassed. Vincent glanced around at them, still poised in his fight stance. Slowly they dispersed, leaving he and August alone.

“You a’ight?” he asked, dropping his fists.

“Yeah,” August muttered, standing. Brushing dirt off his clothes, he slowly bent to retrieve his bags. Vincent assisted, gathering bags and scattered items.

"You ok?" August inquired, observing a cut on his hand.

"Yeah," he dismissed, glancing at his right hand. August moved to inspect the gash but Vincent stepped back, pulling his hand away.

"I'm sorry," August apologized, reaching for Vincent's hand again. "Come to my apartment and I'll put something on that," he offered, holding the boy's hand. Again, Vincent pulled it away.

“I’m a’ight,” he insisted, handing August his bags.

 

“Shit is all fucked up,” he murmured, snatching up his basketball bouncing it once… twice…

 

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