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What Fags Are For is a series of short narratives by men of color concerning their experiences with homosexuals. Next up, the story of a young brother who followed in his father's footsteps.
What Fags Are For,
by Skorpio
Part Two - My Professor the Fag: the Story of Deshawn Miller.
If you're reading this, you've probably already read my dad's account of how he came to own a fag who supplemented his income and gave blowjobs on demand. Growing up, I always wondered why Dad was friends with the funny white man we called "Uncle Bob." It just never made sense.
For as long as I live, I will never forget that summer night shortly after I graduated from high school when we drove across town to Uncle Bob's apartment. The old man welcomed us at the door and invited us in. He seemed nervous as he took our coats and brought us ice-cold beer in frosted mugs from the kitchen.
Dad would not tell me why were paying Uncle Bob a visit. But I had a feeling the mystery surrounding his existence was about to be shared. There was a taut, tense moment of silence. Something strange was about to take place. I could sense it, and that excited me. Like the hunch you get just before you scratch off a lottery ticket, knowing somehow in advance you were about to become a winner.
"Assume the position," said my father. Immediately, the white man dropped to his knees, and put his hands behind his balding head.
"Good boy," chuckled Dad. "You knew this day was coming. It's time. Tell Deshawn what you are."
"I'm a faggot," Uncle Bob declared.
"What else?"
"I'm your father's slave."
"Is this for real, pops?" I could not believe my ears. I always suspected the confirmed bachelor might be queer. But I never thought about it much. There were a few homos in my senior year, but no one I knew ever had anything to do with them. But this? Not just a queer, but my dad's slave to boot? Dayummm!
"It's for real," said my father, smiling like I had never seen him smile before. "Bobby here is my slave. He works for me. I own him. Actually, he's the family slave. He pays slave tax and does whatever I tell him to do. But there is one thing he is really good at doing. That's sucking dick. He's been blowing me for years since I was about your age. And tonight he's going to do the same thing for you. If you want him to, that is. Consider it a rite of passage now that you are a grown-ass man. Are you down?"
"Sure," I said. "I guess." I was totally nonplussed by this revelation, but somehow it all made sense. It explained everything.
Dad finished his beer, and said he would wait for me in the car. Then, Uncle Bob crept between my legs, unzipped my pants, took out his dentures, and proceed to give me head. My dick was soft at first. But Uncle Bob knew how to get it hard. His mouth was warm and wet. With a little suction, it did not take long for my nature to rise.
This was not my first blowjob. I had been having sex since I was thirteen, but never with a guy before. Hell, naw. Why would I even consider it? I'm a good looking cat, with chick always on my jock. The only problem I ever had was that most girls have a little trouble going down on me. It's too big, they always complained. I don't know. I measure my hard-on once. Is eight inches big? Always figured I was about average. I saw other niggas in the locker room whose shit looked bigger than mine.
Uncle Bob did not choke or gag, not once, when he deep throated my dick, all the way down to my nuts. It felt good as shit the way he did that. Still, it felt kind of creepy having a fag go down on me, but the pleasure was too good to care about that for long. I like getting head even more than fucking. And this was some serious skull.
I wanted to make the nerve-tingling, sweet sensation last, but after about fifteen minutes, I ejaculated like gang-busters and that faggot swallowed every drop. Without saying a word, he put his dentures back into his mouth, reached into his pocket and handed me two fifty dollar bills.
"Thank you for letting me suck your cock, Master Deshawn," he said.
I grunted with disgust and looked at him like the pathetic creature he was. Without saying a word, I grabbed my coat and left. It seemed so surreal. Like a weird dream. Except for the warm, lingering glow of satisfaction and the cash in my hand. I did not know which pleased me more, the blowjob or the money.
"Everything alright?" my dad asked on the drive home.
"It's all good," I shrugged.
"Did Bob take care of things?"
"Let's just say, he did his job," I snickered.
"That's what fags are for," Dad laughed.
"He gave me a hundred bucks. Sup with that?"
"Black dick ain't free, son. Not even for a slave. There is a bond between a Man and his cocksucker. He's getting you off, but you're doing him a favor as well. Getting a dick in his mouth makes him happy. It makes him a better slave."
"That's deep."
"That's the way it is."
"Does Mom know?"
"She knows."
"Dion?"
"When your brother comes of age next year, Dion will know what you know. Until then, this has to be our secret."
"Word is bond, Pops! But I wanna be there when he finds out. This is gonna blow his mind."
"Another thing. Feel free to use Bob whenever you want. That's what he's there for. Think of him as a credit card. It's there when you need it. Just use it responsibly. Bob has a few more good years left.
"When he gets old, what are you gonna do? Put him in a nursing home?"
"Honestly, son? When Bob is of no further use to us, I don't really care what happens to him."
"That's cold."
"That's life."
"Cool."
That summer before I went away to college, I dropped in on old Uncle Bob whenever I ran low on funds. All I had to do was show up. Any hour, day or night. Bob would stop whatever he was doing, and ask if he could get me anything. "Would you like a beer? Something to eat?"
Sometimes that was all I wanted, and a couple Jacksons. But when I was horny and told him to suck my dick... Oh my God, the look of sheer elation on his face! He could not wait to service me. And I always came away with a hundred dollars. I never asked for more. I wasn't greedy. And he paid up eagerly. It seemed he liked giving me cash as much as I liked taking it.
Like my dad says, that's what fags are for.
When I went to college, I moved into a dorm, and had a roomie named Rodney who was a cool motherfucker. He was deep into hip-hop like me, played hoops and ran track, and was GQ down. We considered joining an all-black fraternity but decided against it. Rodney was a business major, while I took up Health and Physical Ed, thinking I might go on to become a personal trainer, own a gym, or coach high school sports. Something along those lines. My whole future was ahead of me. The one thing missing from my life was a bottom bitch cocksucker like Uncle Bob.
There were plenty of homosexuals on campus. Flaming types, bold as they could be, swishing when they walked, mincing their words, as if being queer was something to be proud of. They even had their own social group called the Gay Alliance. Rodney and I wondered what fags talked about when they got together.
"Maybe they suck each other's dicks," he suggested.
"Nah, fags don't blow other fags unless they're desperate."
"Aren't all fags desperate?"
"What I mean is, most fags prefer straight dick. That's like their drug of choice, naw mean?"
"You seem to know a lot about fags, bruh. Please don't tell me you're..."
"Hell no!" I slugged Rodney in the shoulder. "I ain't no fag! Let's just say I know a thing or two."
"Ever let a fag suck your dick?"
That's not the sort of thing guys talk about, but me and Rodney were tight, and the subject was in the air.
"What would you say if I have?"
"I'd say, welcome to the club, brother."
"Then, you...?"
"Couple times."
"Same fag?"
"Nah. Different ones. White guys."
"Get paid?"
"How did you know?"
"That's what fags are for," I laughed.
As freshmen, Rodney and I both had to take a course in English Composition. Our instructor was a geeky white dude who wore a tweed jacket and bowtie. Professor Brett Hamilton was his name.
We knew he was a fag the first time we saw him. Sure, there was a wedding band on his finger, but there was no mistaking the way he looked us over whenever we showed up for class after a workout in knee-length basketball shorts and tight-fitting tank tops. More than once I caught him staring at my bulging crotch. I would reach inside and scratch my balls just to get his attention. Worked like a charm. Bitch was practically drooling. He was a fag, all right. No doubt about it.
One night, I went to the professor's office where he kept late hours grading papers to discuss the latest assignment, an autobiographical essay on some turning point in our lives. I had no intention of writing anything of the sort because I knew that I would not have to. All I had to do was convince Professor Hamilton of that. And it was going to be a piece of cake.
Beefcake, that is. Black Angus beef, you feelin' me? Man, faggots are so easy to play. My dad told me once that when a fag gets a taste of black dick, he's hooked for life.
I dressed for success. Cut off sweats to expose my quads, commando style so my print would show, and a wifebeater so he could get a good look at my physique. Biceps big as cannon balls, flared lats tapering to a 32 inch waist, rock hard abdominals.
"What's this about, Deshawn?" Hamilton asked, looking me up and down.
"It's about my paper," I said, taking a seat.
"Are you having problems?"
"Yeah, something like that. A big problem, you might say."
Our eyes met. Beads of nervous perspiration appeared on his brow. He knew where this was going, I was sure of that. But I wanted to reel him nice and slow. Let him wonder what I getting at.
"How big is it?"
"Really, really big."
"I see..." His pale blue eyes widened.
"Professor, do you think we can work this out in private?"
"Of course," he agreed, getting up to shut the door.
"That's better," I said.
"So, what exactly is troubling you?"
"Maybe I should just show you."
With that, I pulled down my shorts, and released the dragon. Still soft, about four inches long, biding its time.
"I don't know what you're thinking..." he started to protest.
"I need a blowjob," I stated plainly. "Figured you would be interested."
"This is highly inappropriate, Deshawn."
"Yeah, about that. I think it would show more respect if you called me Mr. Miller from now on."
"Mr. Miller," he said. "First of all, I'm a married man."
"I don't really give a shit."
"Mr. Miller, I think you should leave right now."
"Not until you take care of my problem. Why don't you get down on your knees and fix it with your mouth?"
He stared at me, startled, conflicted, so I scratched my heavy black satin nuts to give him some more incentive.
"Alright," he said. "But it can only happen this once, never again. Understand? Just this one time. That's it. Do we understand each other?"
"Oh, I think we understand each other perfectly."
A moment later, the professor dropped to his knees like a supplicant before his god. I watched his mouth engulf me, felt his thin, pallid lips clamp down as my johnson doubled in size. Deeper and deeper he took it, inch after inch, all the way down his throat.
"You like this big dick?"
"Mmmm-mmm."
"You like it?"
Again, a murmur of assent.
"Then, suck it like you like it."
He began sucking harder and faster, rhythmically, making loud slurping sounds.
"There you go. Make some noise, bitch! Suck it like that! Don't stop! Show me what you can do. Suck that dick!"
My words goaded him into even more furious sucking. He was like a machine that can't stop. Faster, deeper, harder!
And he was loving every minute of it, every inch, loving it like only a cocksucking faggot can.
What a fucking pussy!
Gripping his head like a football, I held him down, pushed his pointy nose into my funky crotch, until he choked.
"Why you gagging?" I snorted, letting him catch his breath for only a moment. "Wanna take a break?"
"Just for a second," he whimpered, trembling with exertion.
"Nah, I don't think so. You can rest up after you get the job done. Suck the dick!"
I could have busted at any point, but I held off, making the blowjob last. If the cocksucker wanted my juice, he was gonna have to earn it. Work for it. Suffer for it. Pay for it.
"I bet you like it rough, don't you? Maybe I should just tie you down and rape you. Would you like that? My big dick in your cunt, fucking until you beg for mercy, and then fucking you some more. Maybe one black dick ain't enough for you. Maybe I should call up some of my boys. You want that? Get gang banged by some roughnecks? Is that what you need? You like pain? Because I can give you pain if that's what you want."
I was bluffing, of course. Getting head from a fag is one thing, but I don't fuck dudes. That's where I draw the line. Not sticking my meat in some faggot's nasty butt hole. Not me. I'm not the one. But the professor didn't know that. Maybe he liked it rough, maybe he didn't. One thing was sure: he loved sucking my big dick.
I don't know how long he went at it. An hour, maybe. Like a baby with a pacifier, he could not get enough. Even when he gagged, tears in his eyes, sweat on his brow, drool dripping from his lips, he kept on sucking. Up and down, up and down, sucking and slurping.
I thought about my dad and how Uncle Bob offered his services so willingly. I could not count on Hamilton being so obliging. That's why I needed a backup plan, just in case the professor needed some convincing, know what I'm saying?
Taking out my cell phone, I recorded the action without him even noticing, that's how obsessed he was. That's how bad he wanted me. After I had caught enough of the action, I closed my eyes, thought about Mrs. Lopez, my Spanish teacher with the big tits, and let it happen. I shot sperm like lava erupting from a volcano.
"Swallow it, bitch!"
After I came back to my senses, my first impulse was to beat the shit out of him. He disgusted me. But I restrained myself. That's not why I was there.
"Was that good for you?" I asked, nicely. "You want to do this again sometime?"
"God, yes!" he exclaimed. The words tumbled from his lips before he knew what he saying. That made me smile.
"That can be arranged. Yah, I could use a cocksucker like you, but we got to settle something first."
He looked up at me, uncertainty welling up in his eyes. Maybe a look of fear, as well.
"By the way, Brett. I think I've earned an A in your class, wouldn't you say?"
"I d-don't know," he stammered.
"I'm giving you an A in cocksucking. So, I think it would only be right for you to show me the same consideration."
"You're asking me to falsify your grades. I could lose my job for that."
"I wouldn't worry about your job, if I was you. What I'm asking is, do you want me to go to the police?"
"The police?"
"Black dick ain't free. If you're not gonna help me out, I'll just share this little movie I made with the Dean of Students, and explain how you pressured me into letting you suck my dick."
"You wouldn't do that!"
"It's been nice knowing you, Brett. I thought we could do business, but if that's the way you want it..."
"I'll give you an A," he relented.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good fag," I said. "While you're at it, I supposed you've noticed I'm not the only brother in your class. Let's see, there's Rodney, he's my roommate. And there's Lamar and Morris. I don't know them that well, but they deserve an A too, don't you think?"
After a long moment of silence, the professor surrendered to my terms. Not that he much of a choice. Then again, that depends on your perspective. A real man would have stood up to me. A real man would never have gotten himself into this predicament to begin with.
On the other hand, fags aren't exactly real men, are they. Honestly, I don't know what they are. But men they ain't.
"So, this is how it's gonna be," I proclaimed. "I'm not gonna show up for class tomorrow, but I'll be by tomorrow night to give you another hit on the pipe. You be ready."
"I will be."
There was a gleam in his eye, a cold glitter of lust, hungry for more.
"I expect to find you on your knees when I come through that door."
"Yes, Mr. Miller."
"One more thing," I added. "I'm kind of low on funds at the moment. I know you wanna help a nigga out."
Understanding me, he pulled out his wallet and offered me a twenty dollar bill.
"That's not gonna get me far," I said, shaking my head with dismay.
I left with a hundred bucks, just Professor Hamilton's way of showing his gratitude and appreciation.
Back at the dorm, I took Rodney aside and told him everything. He was rapt with attention as I detailed the entire experience.
"That is so fucking cool," he exclaimed. "Maybe I should pay the professor a visit."
"If you wanna come with me tomorrow, you can get your dick sucked," I suggested. "But remember, he's MY bitch now. If you wanna get paid, you gotta find your own fag, aiiight?"
"That'll work."
We dapped in solidarity.
Next night, I called ahead to let the faggot know I was stopping by his office. I told him that I was bringing a friend. When Hamilton tried to mumble his way out of it, I reminded him of our arrangement.
"So, what's it gonna be? You gonna be there or not?"
"I'll be there," he said, with a sigh. But it was not a sound of reluctance. More like resignation to the inevitable. With a undertone of anticipation. That chump didn't fool me for a second. I knew that he could not wait for our arrival. It's a lucky fag who gets to blow two black dicks in the same night. I was doing him a favor.
"Leave the door closed and be on your knees," I instructed the instructor.
That was how Rodney got his dick sucked. While the professor took care of him, I poked around the office, going through the desk, just to see what I could find. There was a framed picture of his wife, who was actually kind of hot, and some of his kids, a boy and a girl, probably in high school. The thought of using Hamilton's entire family crossed my mind, because that would be sweet. I could just imagine owning a family of white slaves, mom and dad, son and daughter, devoted to my big, black dick.
But it was just a thought. Maybe somewhere down the line. For the time being, I had what I needed. My very own personal, faggot tax-paying cocksucker. It was a good semester. Once a week, every Monday night, I let the professor suck my dick and pay the usual fag tax. Never less than a hundred. The other six nights of the week, I made sure he kept busy doing what he did best.
Rodney got his ebony scepter polished every Tuesday. Wednesday nights belonged to Lamar. Thursday was Morris's turn. Fridays, my buddy Darryl from the varsity basketball team. Weekends were anyone's game, because word got out, so Professor Hamilton was always busy. Every brother in the class got an A just by showing up, although not all of them knew how that came to be. When the next semester rolled around, lots of brothers took his class.
After graduating with honors, I went on to bigger and better things, but that's how it all started. Like I keep saying, like my dad taught me, that's what fags are for.
To be continued in Part Three - My Roommate the Fag: the Story of Rodney Epps.