Side A - Song 5
5) Whitie Babies
May Lee is bartending at Gorilla’s Salty Dog two days later. She’s never bartended there before, so I ask, “Where’s Mission? Why isn’t he working today?”
She looks like she’s been waiting for me, wearing a boob-showing blouse & high-cut shorts, coos, “Mission who? Come here, I get something fancy for show you in the liquor room,” smirking impishly, ‘cuz the most dangerous thief is the thief who’s a hotty.
May Lee is Mario’s 23-year-old sister & Mario is much of the reason my family & I can live in this city. He saved my sorry ass on many occasions. He’s becoming my buddy & he’s my body guard, refuses to call me anything but, “Johnny-boy,” & I’m about to find out that Snitch told May-Lee-licious everything Corrina-teena told him. I bump into her as she stops, spins around, slides one thin leg from her frayed shorts & she is grinning. Decrees, “Come, come, Mistah Fuckah. Spitty-spit inside I. If you no, me tell you wifey about Corinna-shitty-itty. Juke I Belize-kind. Me bet me could.”
I’m wondering who, what... She points to the window. There are half a dozen dollies looking in at us. The most beautiful one blows me a kiss. May-Lee-bony-hip-actress is pulling me toward her, sits atop a stack of Belikin boxes, opens a tunnel I shouldn’t enter.
& I don’t know shit about using condoms, but I don’t believe there is a condom in their language, much less their country, so I’m inside May-Lee-kitten-strawberry.
“...God...,” she purrs, “...big batty...mmm...”
I hear the window-dearies squealing. She grabs my hips, thrusting onto me, sighing huskily, “...God...my God...ooie-ooie...”
Her eyes are flames burning me alive. Her slim stomach is sweating. Mine is, too. She takes me out, rolls over, confesses, “Me bet triple, me get this...Corrina-pooie style...”
“Pooie-pooie, Mistah Fuckah, or me tell Mary-Beth-hoggy.”
I hope Corrina-spanky didn’t mention the slapping. I’m a man – I do it full-power. She’s bucking & grunting.
My knees are wobbly. She jerks off & slams me back into her toothless barracuda. I blow rockets. The window-girls are clapping. May-Lee-fakie-virgin barks at them to stop, kisses my throat, enraptures me, won’t let me rise, whispers, “No movie...stay, Fuckah-yes-boy...” Her gate is locked, no key. “No leavie...no leavie...mmm...Mistah Fuckah baby...we jukie-juke again tomorrow. We jukie-juke again tomorrow.”
Eventually, I pull out, turn around & there’s Mission, the regular bartender. I wonder how long he’s been watching us. His grin explains – long time. It seems he & May-Lee-baby-talk have made a little deal, something in it for both of them, a workable plan.
“Mission,” I say, no hesitation, “$100 right now. I ever hear anything, well, you fill in the blank.”
Mission’s staring at May-Lee-slutty, lying there tickling herself, humming some love song. He thinks a minute, then replies, “200, Mistah Fuckah-head.”
So that’s how it started, Mario’s sister & one of the window dandelions who pleaded to be next & it was now May-Lee-fresh-flower-field’s job to make that happen.
& I don’t know shit about choosing a partner, but May-Lee-impregnate-us-all tells me, “The girls want Mistah Fuckah whitie babies,” ‘cuz skin color is status in Belize, the whiter, the more upper class. “Spitty-spit I & I eekies or else I tell Mary-Beth-momma.” Kid smile. Kid smile.
I’ve never been gladder about my vasectomy, want to inform her, but can’t. Instead, I stretch my thumb to her crease & push into juice, tell May-Lee-cutie-bubble-butt, “Fine, but only if they wear their very dinkiest panties, like the you wear...delicious May-Lee-lace...”
She smirks, “Yes-I!”
& some of the girls who don’t get pregnant, rally May-Lee-porn-director for more opportunities.
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