What Fags Are For

Please support Nifty by making a generous donation now!

What Fags Are For is a series of short narratives by men of color concerning their experiences with homosexuals. First up, the story of young brother whose prayers were answered in a way he did not expect.

What Fags Are For,

by Skorpio

Part One - My Neighbor the Fag: the Story of Dante Miller

Who would have thought yours truly, Dante Miller, would be married with kids by the time I turned twenty-two?

Not me, that's for sure. I had big dreams. Planned on a college scholarship shooting hoops, going pro, making major money, living life in the fast lane. That's how it was all supposed to go down.

Then, I met Trina, love of my life. Homeroom, junior year. It was raining, which always makes me blue, but when I looked up, our eyes met, and it felt like the sun was shining on my face. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

Trina got pregnant just before graduation. I wasn't too happy about that at first, but I came around. June, we were married by the Justice of the Peace. No honeymoon. Couldn't afford one. But we were so sprung for one another that we became the honeymoon wherever we were.

I landed full time work in the meat department at Wholesome Foods, sold weed on the side, and found us a crib in a not too rough part of town. Trina wanted to get a job, but I wasn't having that. Not while she was carrying and raising my child.

Trina eventually saw things my way. She can stand up for herself, but she understands. The wife is the heart of a home, but the man is its head. I make the major decisions.

After our second son came along a year later, we decided on birth control. I hate jimmy caps. I want to feel pussy not latex. Not to mention it's hard finding them in my size. Just saying. Anyway, Trina went on the pill, but that screwed up her female hormones and shit. The babies demanded all of her attention. You see where I'm going with this? Trina stopped putting out, and by stopped I mean we were down to once a week.

Now that ain't right. I gotta bust more than once a week. If I go too long without pussy or a blowjob, I get mean. It is what it is. I needed sex. I also needed money. I prayed to Almighty God in Heaven for sex and money, and God blessed me with a faggot. The Good Lord works in mysterious ways.

There was this white guy, thirty-something, named Bob, who lived in the apartment on the first floor. I never gave him any thought. He was very polite. Insisted on calling us Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Kept the vestibule and hallway swept and mopped.

It never crossed my mind Bob was a fag until Trina told me. What the fuck. There was a white fag living in our building. That explained the weird looks I got some times. That queer must have been checking me out.

I wanted to bitch slap Bob the fag the next time I saw him. See if he checks me out when his faggot ass is on the ground and I'm standing over him. I should piss on him. Fucking queers. What are they good for, anyway?

Like I told you, I get mean when I'm horny. My anger subsided when I thought about that question. What are fags good for?

I slapped my forehead as the answer came to me. The obvious, of course: sucking dick. That's what fags were good for. Head. Going down. The Art of Fellatio. Smoking pipe. Deep throat. Damn, I was horny. Hell yeah, I would let that fag blow me.

I decided to confront Bob, see what's what, but when I got to his door there was a familiar stench leaking out into the hall. So, Bob the fag smokes weed. Good to know. That funky shit smelled sweet, so I went back upstairs and rolled a fat one.

Next time I ran into Bob in the hallway, I mentioned having some excellent chiva if he was interested. Sold Bob an ounce for $350, twice what it cost me. A week later, sold him another ounce for $400. Told him it was good shit, hard to get.

Bob the fag bought an ounce off me every week, which meant not only was Bob a major pothead, but he had bank to burn!

That's why when we fell behind on the rent and some other bills, Trina suggested I go to him for a loan. "I don't want to owe that faggot nothing," I exploded. "I aint want to ask him for nothing! Fuck that. I ain't asking him for money. Fucking faggot should give me money without being told. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

Maybe I got carried away. Trina listened patiently to my tirade, then made an interesting suggestion. "You don't have to pay him back."

"I settle my debts," I insisted.

Trina: "He's just a fag, Dante. Don't you know anything about using fags?"

I confessed to ignorance. I never gave homosexuals much thought. Probably because they don't make sense to me. Why would a man want to suck a dick? He wouldn't. Cocksuckers weren't men. I didn't know what they are, but most definitely not men.

"Break it down to me, baby," I said, trying to melt Trina with my warm, playful, seductive gaze. It didn't work.

"Both my brothers use fags all the time," she stated matter of factly. "If one of them knew you had a fag for a neighbor and weren't using him, he would step in. No sense letting a fag go to waste. That's what they would say."

"What, I meant was how do they use them? I don't get it."

"Fags are weak, Dante. Boss them around. Take their money. Get a blowjob if you want. They're just fags. If you don't use Bob, someone else will."

"You mean, I should rob the bitch?"

I didn't bring up the blowjob, but Trina knew I was hurting for some head because she wasn't giving me none. Claimed it hurt her jaw.

"You're not gonna rob Bob," she said. "You're just gonna ask him for some money and you're not gonna pay him back."

"And he's just gonna give it to me like that."

"Haven't you seen the way Bob drools when you're wearing a wife beater? When you go commando in sweats with everything showing? I can't believe you haven't noticed him leering at you. I think he's one of those whiteboys."

"What do you mean? What are `those' whiteboys?"

"You know, the ones that love black dick and only black."

"Are you shittin me?"

"It's true. They want to be our slaves. My dad had a fag like that, this old white guy who stopped by once a week with an envelope full of cash."

"Did you ever ask your dad about it?"

"He said the honky worked for him."

"Really, he said honkey?"

I had to laugh. Honkey doesn't get as much play as it used to back in the day. Probably due for a comeback.

Trina went on, "I didn't know what Dad meant by that until I found out Dre and Junior were using white fags. Then, I put two and two together!"

"That's wild."

I was rapidly getting used to the idea. Even though I had never heard of white fags begging to be used, it felt like I had always known deep down inside.

After our conversation, I went down to see Bob about a "loan" to help me and Trina through a rough patch. As it turned out, Bob was totally cool. Without skipping a beat, he wrote out a check for a sold grand, twice what I needed.

"I'll pay you back," slipped out because I couldn't help myself. That's just the way I was raised. Might be a roughneck, but I'm also a gentleman.

"Don't worry about it," said Bob. "I'm glad you came to me. If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know. That's what neighbors are for."

He was actually licking his lips when he said that so he kind of sputtered the words.

When I showed my wife the check, she asked, "Did you let Bob give you a blowjob?"

"Hell, no. You know I don't roll like that."

"I wish you would. Maybe then you wouldn't be angry all the time."

"Trina, he's a fag."

"Getting your cock sucked doesn't make you a fag, baby. When I suck your cock, does that make you a woman?"

"Whatever."

I wasn't gonna argue with her. Anyway, if she was doing HER job, we wouldn't be having this discussion. I know her libido is off and the babies wear her out, but dayummm.

As the weeks went on, not only did I not pay Bob back, I kept on borrowing. Twenty here, fifty there. Got to the point where I didn't have to ask. Soon as he saw me, he would reach for his wallet.

"Hey, Bob. Good to see ya. Say, I'm gonna need to hire a baby-sitter so me and Trina can go out tonight." Bob handed me three hundred dollars in fifties. His billfold was bulging with green cash, like he had been waiting for this.

"Where are you taking Trina?" he inquired.

"I wanted to take her to the Borgata but I don't have that kind of bread."

"Now you do, Mr. Miller."

He put the wallet in my hands.

"Thanks, Bob."

Seven hundred more. I counted the bills right in front of him because I think that turned him on. Did I mention just back pumped from the gym and no shirt on? There was a drool at the corner of Bob's mouth. Bob the fag gave me a thousand dollars to party and gamble overnight at a five star casino resort with my wife. The boys, by the way, were staying with our other neighbor, Mrs. Morrison, who has been like a mother to us.

While I was counting the money, my dick got hard. I was pretty sure Bob noticed. I was wearing sweats. "You know what, Bob?"

"What's that Mr. Miller."

I loved being called Mister Miller from a white guy practically twice my age. A whiteboy who was steady looking at my crotch calling me Mister. Sounds like Master.

That's what I should call myself, I decided. Master Miller.

"What's what, Bob?"

I lost my train of thought.

"You said, you know what, sir?"

He called me sir. That made my dick twitch! Like a pulse shooting through all that meat making it hard as a crowbar. Suddenly, I remembered.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," I resumed. "I was gonna say some night I'm gonna stop by your crib, aiiight, and we can get to know each other mo' better."

"I would like that, Mr. Miller."

"I know."

I palm-rubbed my erection. Bob looked like a puppy wanting a bone. He fumbled for yet another wallet, and handed me his MasterCard.

"Whatever you need tonight," he gushed.

I grunted thanks, and sprang up the stairs. Had to get away or I was gonna nutt if that walking ATM gave me one more cent.

That evening Trina and I spent Bob's fag cash without a care in the world. Gambling, dining, dancing. Fucking. Filled Trina three times in one hour.

I have always known that was the night she got pregnant with our third son despite being on the pill. Goes to show you the power of my little swimmers.

Over the winter holidays, I had the place to myself while Trina and the boys went down south for two weeks to visit her folks. I wanted to go with them, but I had to work. My boss at the grocery store is a real bastard.

New Year's Eve, I was home alone, watching an old movie on TV. Penitentiary, with Leon Isaac Kennedy. Brother has to box his way out of prison while dealing with attempts on his ass and bitched niggas dropping to their knees.

After several snifters of Courvoisier and a phat blunt, I got to thinking about Bob the fag. I wondered what he was doing on New Year's Eve. I knew he was home because I heard music coming from his apartment. Some lady singing in French.

Poor Bob the fag. Probably couldn't go out because he didn't have any money. No, that wasn't true. Bob had lots more bank tucked away somewhere. Of that, I was certain.

I almost felt sorry for that homo bringing in the new year all by himself, until I remembered that I was in pretty much the same boat. Last New Year's Eve, Trina gave me a blowjob and made me nutt just as the ball was dropping in Times Square and Old Lange Syne was playing.

That gave me an idea. I could let Bob suck my dick.

It was still early, not quite ten o'clock. I grabbed my dumbbells and did thirty curls to put a peak on my biceps and work up a sweat. Fifty pushups. One hundred crunches.

By that point, I could smell my own pits. I had a gut feeling Bob the fag was gonna love sniffing that jungle musk. Should I go down there with my shirt off? Nah, I'm not a piece of meat.

I slipped on a black muscle shirt instead. The gold chain Bob gave me for my birthday last month. The seven hundred dollar watch he bought me when I announced Trina was pregnant with our third. Black denim pants and Jordans also bought with fag cash.

Bob sure made a difference in our lives, and it was actually high time I showed that bitch some gratitude. He would have to pay for it, of course.

I took another puff of that good weed, a quick shot of brandy, and headed downstairs. It was cold in the hallway, and smelled of air freshener. The music coming from Bob's apartment was old school jazz. Billy Strayhorn or the Duke. I knocked on the door.

Bob the fag looked stunned to see me. I felt his eyes crawling like caterpillars on my bare shoulders.

"Mr. Miller..." he sputtered.

"Hey, Bob."

I raised my arm to lean against the doorway, putting my pit a few inches from his face. His nostrils twitched like a bunny rabbit.

"Mr. Miller..." he repeated, stupefied.

"Can I come in, Bob?"

"Of course! Yes! Come in Mr. Miller."

"Good, cause there's something I wanna talk to you about."

He showed me to the red leather sofa, and asked if I wanted something to drink. "Courvoisier, if you have it," I requested, and of course he did. I think he had a bottle of every kind of liquor. After making himself a martini, Bob the fag turned off the stereo, and clicked the TV remote. The party crowd in Times Square was in full swing. Midnight was an hour and a half away.

Bob sat directly across from me in a leather armchair, too nervous to speak. I liked that I made him nervous. He should be scared around me.

"I'll get to the point," I began. "You always been there for me and Trina and the boys, so I want you to know how much we appreciate that. That's why I decided to give you something you've been wanting in return."

"You didn't have to buy me a gift, Mr. Miller."

"I didn't buy you anything," I said, trying not to sound too derisive, but what the fuck was he thinking? In what cum-soaked corner of his fag brain was the idea of me spending money on him even conceivable?

Someone was about to get an attitude adjustment.

"I don't understand," said Bob.

"I know."

I stood up and slowly unbuckled my belt. Bob's eyes widened.

Then, I pushed my pants down to my ankles, setting my black anaconda free. Bob's jaw dropped.

I plopped back down on the sofa, peeled off my tank to show off my six pack, and put my hands behind my head. My soft, plump, juicy dick and low hangers dangled over the edge of the couch cushions.

"You want some of this?"

When Bob didn't reply, I went on: "You know you want it."

"I don't know," he quivered.

"What's wrong? You don't like black dick?"

"No, no, I do, I mean, it's not that..."

He sounded almost apologetic.

"What's the problem. I'm starting to feel rejected, Bob. You invite me in, give me brandy, can't take your eyes off me, so I figure you want something. Then, I want to give it to you, and you say you don't know. Sup with that?"

"What about Mrs. Miller?" he asked in a soft, conspiratorial whisper.

"Trina's out of town, you know that. You should. You paid for it."

"But she's my friend. I don't want her to get hurt."

"Bob, Bob, Bob," I clucked, shaking my head with dismay. "Trina isn't your friend. You're a faggot. Why do you think she never lets you watch our boys? In fact, Trina's the one who suggested I come to you for head, because my dick made her jaw hurt. I don't get too many blowjobs at home no more."

"So you're saying Mrs. Miller won't mind...?"

"I'm saying if you wanna suck this dick, you better get busy before I change my mind."

I don't like having to explain myself, that's why I was losing patience with this simple-minded cracker. Lucky for Bob, he got down on his knees in front of me where I wanted him.

"Take off my sneakers," I ordered. "But kiss them first."

"Yes, Mister Miller," he lisped while planting his lips on the tips of my Jordans.

"That's Master Miller from now on."

"Yes, Master Miller!" he sound enthused.

Next, I had the cocksucker remove my jeans and fold them neatly, so he could get between my powerful thighs to do his job.

As soon as Bob put his warm, moist mouth to work, my shit doubled from four and a half inches to nine in seconds. He lost no time taking it down his throat. Best goddamn blowjob I ever had.

I knew when he bobbed up and down like a stone chickenhead, it was gonna be good. Tongue steady flicking that sensitive spot at the top of the shaft just below the head. Bitch sucked hard and slurped loudly like his life depended on it.

I wasn't gonna hurt him none, but wondered if maybe in a sense a cocksucker's existence did depend on that shot of life. That was pathetic.

Although my dick was throbbing, looking down at the fag filled my soul with loathing and disgust. "Yahh, suck it like that!" I barked. "Suck it, you nasty bitch!"

Crude shit like that made the fag suck even fiercer. Made me feel better too. Reminded me of the way I treated whores back in the day with utter contempt. Because they disgusted me, but I had to get off. Filthy tramps with no self-respect, just like that white fag working his mouth like a cunt for my dick.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it. It's why you don't never go nowhere. You hang around hoping to run into me. That's why you give me money. You're in love with me, aren't ya. But I don't want you to love me. Naw, I want you to worship me like you're worshipping my dick right now. Naw mean, little man?" Of course the fag couldn't exactly answer with my sausage dick down his throat. But I think he understood me. There was only one way I wanted to be worshipped and he had been doing that for months. When he grabbed my shit, I swatted his face with the back of my hand, and growled, "Don't be touching me. Just use your mouth!" He cringed like a wretch.

I wasn't having that. It was one thing to let a fag go down on me, but I wasn't gonna let him grope me. Made my skin crawl just thinking about some white fag's clammy fingers feeling me up. Hell, no! I shut my eyes and imagined Trina nursing my joint like she used to. Then, my eyes opened, and it was my neighbor the fag on his knees servicing like a greedy slut.

I relaxed and let my mind slip into a sensual haze, enjoying the faggot's focus on my meat. There are few things better than a nice long uninterrupted blowjob. I was in no hurry to bust a nutt. Just wanted to enjoy that warm, tight mouth.

Time passed as I drifted in and out, but the fag never slacked his pace. If his jaw ached, which it had to by now, he didn't show it. Damn, that bitch could suck a dick.

Suddenly, I was aware of the crowd counting down in Times Square, and my nuts began to churn. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six... The head of my dick was tingling intensely. Three, two, one!

Happy New Year!!! My pimp juice shot like hot, molten bullets down his gullet. Boo-yahhh!!! Take that, faggot! Dayummm!

I got dressed while Bob remained on his knees with cum like foam on his lips. He pulled out his dick and stroked. It looked like a poisonous toadstool.

"Put that nasty little thing away," I said. "I don't need to see that shit! You can play with yourself after I've gone. Right now, we need to talk. We might have a problem."

"Did I do something wrong, Master?"

Not Master Miller. Just Master. I liked that.

"See, it's like this," I said, buckling my belt. "What you just did was cool. We might do that again sometime. It's just..."

I frowned as if it putting something unpleasant into words was an effort for me.

"It's what, Master?" He looked so distraught.

"Let me ask you a question, Bob. Do you think black dick is free?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think I should have to ask for money?"

"No, sir, you shouldn't."

"Is that a fact? Maybe we don't have a problem, after all."

"We don't have a problem, sir. May I get my wallet, sir?"

"Yeah, go get your wallet."

A minute later he produced two fifty dollar bills.

"What's that, a down payment?" I laughed.

"It's all the cash I have on me."

"That's not gonna be enough. I mean, I gave you a nice gift, so you should give me something of equal value in return. You're not saying my dick is only worth a hundred dollars?"

"No, sir!"

"What are you gonna do about it."

"I can go to the ATM, sir."

"How much?"

"I can only withdraw $500."

"That makes $600. Is that what my dick is worth to you?"

He looked confused. What was the right answer? You could almost see the slow wheels turning in his feeble brain.

"I can withdraw more in twenty-four hours, sir."

"Good boy."

"Thank you, sir."

"When you get back from the ATM, I might let you suck my dick again. Would you like that?"

"Very much, Master. Thank you, sir."

I kept my word. When Bob returned with the cash, I let him go down on me a second time. That one was on the house.

I decided then and there to go on using that cunt for the rest of its sad, pathetic, faggot life. Years have passed since then. Trina and I own a house in the suburbs. Bob lives a few blocks away. He stops by once a week with cash in an envelope.

Sometimes I take Bob down into the basement to show him what I been working on, but you get what that's about. Trina told the boys when they were little that Bob works for daddy, but the time has come to let my oldest in on the truth.

Deshawn just turned eighteen, leaving for college in a month on a basketball scholarship. Tonight, I'm taking him with me to visit Bob. I want Deshawn to know everything.

After all, Bob the fag paid for his tuition. And if Deshawn takes after his old man, he might wanna show that cocksucker some gratitude. And walk away with some cash.

Because that's what fags are for.

To be continued in Part Two - My Professor the Fag: the story of Deshawn Miller.