My Boyfriend Be Trippin’

Chapter 1
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My Boyfriend Be Trippin’

You’ll Give Me A What? If I Drive You Where?

Take it from Frankie: You can love a whole category of women, and I most definitely do: Hookers. I could give you a hundred reasons why I love ’em, one skillful blowjob in the front seat of my cab or one quick hot fuck in the back seat at a time. But this isn’t about “love” in the way I love big dogs and baseball and homemade lasagna. It’s about Love with a capital L. Stupid Love at that. It’s about Kat.

I’d just driven Kat from Geary, the street she was working, to the motel in Oakland where she was living, so she could make a drop-off. I was driving her back to work on Geary but we’d made a little detour….
The Oakland Bay Bridge commuter parking lot is nice and quiet at 2 AM. A good spot to enjoy a joint and a blowjob.
Kat and I had just finished the joint.
“Nice weed, Frankie,” Kat said.
She reached over, squeezed my cock through my pants and giggled. “Oh, and I guess you’re ready for your BJ now, huh?”
I was always ready for anything from Kat. She was fucking beautiful: A great, tight little body; short blonde hair, big, dazzling baby blue eyes, and full pouty red lips just made for sucking. Street work will age a woman fast but at the ripe old age of 20 Kat was still ahead of the game. We were in low light now, but I’d seen her looking great even in the noonday sun.
Yeah, I was ready for Kat. But I decided to tease her a little.
Pretty sure of yourself, eh doll? Who says I want a BJ?”
She squeezed my cock again, then slid her palm all the way down to my balls and cupped them through my pants.
“Oh, he be wantin’ it awright,” she laughed. “Best let him out fo’ he bust out.”
Right there was something about Kat that pissed me off royally. With her blonde hair and blue eyes Kat was as whitebread as could be. But courtesy of her stupid motherfucking pimp boyfriend Rasheed, Kat could turn on the Ebonics whenever she wanted and sound like a goddamn ghetto low-life. She knew it ticked me off because I’d called her on it before. But she also knew she was safe laying on the street talk at the moment. After the weed we’d just smoked there was no fucking way I’d let my anger get between me and a super special Kat-style blowjob.
I’d never found a chick who could suck cock as great as Kat did. And believe me I’d been searching.
I slid out from behind the wheel and let her go to work. She jerked my belt buckle open, popped the button on my jeans and zipped them down. Ready? Hah. I was rock hard. I lifted up so she could yank my pants and jockeys down around my knees. She grasped the base of my dick in her little fist, leaned over and spit a thick foamy ball of saliva right onto the head.
Such a dirty, slutty little gesture, made even dirtier because it came out of such an angelic face. My cock pulsed and I thrust up towards her. Man oh man, I needed to bury my dick in that angel face.
Kat rolled her fingers over my cock knob, spreading the wetness, then took my dick in her mouth. She sucked just the head, running her tongue over it, pulled her pouty lips off me with a loud popping noise and jacked my shaft hard and slow, the way she knew I liked.
“C’mon baby,” I grumbled. “Get that fuckin’ pussy mouth on my cock.”
“Oh yeah, Frankie?” she purred. “You wanna fuck my mouth, baby? You wanna fuck it like THIS?”
Then she did it….
She wrapped those gorgeous lips around the head of my dick and slid DOWN inch by motherfucking inch… all the way down. Her hot little hand was still cupping my balls and soon her tongue was lapping the bottom of my shaft in sweet lazy licks, my whole cock buried deep down in her throat. She slid back up and off. Went back down again.
Up… and down.
Then up and off.
Kat peered at me with her blue, blue eyes. Her lips were swollen and wet.

“Yo, you gonna fuck mah mouf now Frankie baby? Huh? You gonna fuck mah mouf like it be mah pussy? Gonna fuck mah mouf HARD now?”
“Fuckin’ A-right, bitch,” I growled. Right then and there, Kat’s ghetto-jive bullshit was pissing me off AND turning me on if you know what I mean. Just like the little bitch knew it would.
Kat’s hair was short, but not so short I couldn’t grab two handfuls and drag her angel face down on my dick hard as ordered. I defy anyone to last long with Kat’s super superior suck skills. Two minutes, no more and I groaned and shot a cum blast up against the back of her throat. Kat swallowed every drop, then slid up off my member lapping me clean as she went. Clean as a cat.
That’s right, Kat was what every man wants: Not just a cock sucker. Kat was a cum drinker.
“Good boy, Frankie.” She giggled and smacked her lips. “No trouble. Nice and quick.”
I knew what she meant by that.
We both needed to get back to work.
We kept quiet driving back to Geary Street, which was fine by me. It gave me time to think….

Hoes, hookers, pros, prostitutes, sluts, call girls, streetwalkers… call ’em what you will. I could never for the fucking life of me figure why it is considered an insult to call a woman a whore. Think about it: A woman who allows a horny guy the HONOR of shoving his dick in her mouth or cunt or ass with nothing required other than a simple exchange of goods for services… green for pink…? Hey, in this over-complicated world how fucking amazingly simple and great is that?
Like I said before, I love the whole hooker category.
But I do love some individual whores more than others and now I’ll tell you something I bet you have already figured out on your own. I was kind of in love with Kat.
Stupid, right? Hey, when did Frankie claim he was a fuckin’ genius?
But truth is, Kat really was cool.
You already know she was beautiful: Five foot two, eyes of blue and all that jazz. But beyond that, Kat had a head on her shoulders useful as more than a cock pocket. She’d been an English Lit major at Berkeley. No bullshit — I’d actually seen her student ID card… her expired student ID card. It had fallen out of her purse onto my front seat when she was looking for a Bic to fire up the very first joint we shared, before she sucked my dick for the very first time.

And now it is time for another side note. Just as I love the whole hooker category of women, I have pure fucking contempt for a certain category of men.
And that would be pimps.
Don’t get me wrong. No matter what any cab driver will tell you, if you want to make money driving at night, you have to be willing and able to turn horny dudes onto sex when they ask for it. Not only that; many of us make a point of being on-call to ferry working girls from one trick to the next; or in the case of street hookers, from one stroll to another. And yes, for providing the ladies with needed services, guys such as myself do get compensated in cash or gash and often in both.
Of course that is how I met Kat in the first place.
So yes, every successful night cabbie is a part-time pimp, and I freely admit it. Still, the way I, and lots of night drivers like me, relate to hookers is clean and simple — just a basic exchange.
When I say I hate pimps I’m talking about the fucking leeches who mess with a vulnerable woman’s head, the so-called “boyfriends” who drain a whore’s hard earned money; the creeps who beat, cheat and otherwise mistreat a woman who’s out there doing a very dangerous and demanding night’s work.
The camaraderie between night cab drivers and hookers is way different. We both share the dangers of the night, putting our lives on the line. We’re alone with people we don’t know, literally in a vulnerable position: Hookers down on their knees or flat on their backs; cabbies with strangers sitting right there behind us.
Statistically, night cab driving is more dangerous than being a cop or fireman. But crimes against cab drivers are generally reported to the cops; crimes against hookers often are not. So I don’t know whether driving or hooking is truly more unsafe. One thing is for sure though… there is a natural bond between the two callings.
No doubt “true” pimps, the ones who just kick back at home collecting the dough, think of us working-stiff cabbies as another kind of street hoe. That’s another reason I fucking hate them. And even though I’m hookers’ biggest fan, the one thing about them that drives me up the wall is, how in the world can they let their scumbag asshole pimps mistreat them the way they do.
And one of the most mistreated hookers I ever knew was Kat.

I didn’t know the details but I did know that Kat’s college career happened before the lure of the street and the lure of her douche boyfriend-pimp. Rasheed enticed her away from the straight life and into the big bad world of gash for cash.
Speaking of Rasheed, I’d only actually seen him a few times, lounging in the doorway of their motel room, or hanging with his homies on the corner, holding his dick like a typical jive-ass and waiting for Kat to come by with her drop-off. Those few times were more than enough. I hated the fuck on sight and would have blown his useless brains out if I could get away with it.

One early evening soon after the scene I started out with, Kat found me by my garage, taking a break and shooting the breeze with Burnt-Out Alex, the gas guy. We had just finished a joint when Kat came running toward my cab. Alex saw her first, and announced her impending arrival as he always did: “Uh oh, Frankie. Here comes Trouble.”
That’s right, Trouble with a capital T.
Alex knew the way I felt about Kat, knew the favors I’d do for her at the drop of a hat. So his and my nickname for her was what she was: Trouble.
Like I say, Kat was beautiful and smart except when it came to boyfriends. I’m not one to hold back when I feel strongly about something, and I always gave her shit about her taste, or her lack of taste, in men. Kat thought I was just doing it to tease her.
I knew I was doing it because… well, you know why I was doing it.
One night when she was babbling on in Ebonics mode, I just had enough and cut her off.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! I look at you and there’s this classy white girl sitting next to me. I listen to you and it’s a fucking ghetto low-life bitch yakking away sounding just like her goddamn pimp! Talk straight or I’m gonna throw your stupid whore ass out of this moving car!”
Kat gasped in mock disbelief. “Oh no! Reeeally, Frankie?”
Then she began to suck on her fingers like they were my dick. She even leaned forward so I couldn’t miss what she was doing while I still kept my eyes on the road.
I finally said sheepishly, “Okay, okay…. So I’ll throw your dumb ass out after my blowjob, you stupid fuckin’ ghetto hoe!”
“Hah!” Kat laughed triumphantly. “Yeah that’s right, Frankie, I’m a stupid hoe, right? That’s why you don’t get your BJ till you drive me where I wanna go, right? Hah!”
That was Kat. Not just smart, also a real smart ass.

Back to the night she found me hanging with Alex.
“Hey big stud, wanna’ run me over to Oakland for a slurpy?”
She asked it excitedly and nervously. I could tell she needed me to say Yes, and even without the details I knew why. Fucking Rasheed was hassling her about some shit, probably insisting she drop off money sooner rather than later. Of course she knew what my answer was going to be, because no matter how much crap I gave her about her shitty life choices she knew I was crazy for her.
What she didn’t know was that I would give her the ride without the blowjob. Then again she probably did know it and just wanted to keep our relationship uncomplicated. Professional.

When she came back out of the motel and dropped down in the front passenger seat, we headed to the Oakland Bay Bridge lot. She didn’t say much on the ride over, just kept fidgeting nervously. I made a point of ignoring her; but just before we got to the lot she burst out with, “Damn, Frankie. My mo’ fuckin’ boyfriend be trippin’.”
Kat was clearly in a bad state, close to tears. So I knew enough not to rag her about speech patterns. I simply asked what Rasheed was pissed about this time.
Incredibly she launched into a story about how she needed new whore shoes but Rasheed insisted she only spend “Fiddy dollah” and she couldn’t find anything that low but did manage to find some decent shoes for “Fiddy-five dollah.”
“Rasheed be trippin’ I din’t follow his word an’ spent more ‘n’ he say. Now he all bent outa shape an’ shit.”
Rasheed had insisted she take back the shoes. Get the picture?
This wasn’t what it sounded like — a stupid little story about shoes and money. It was a fucked up, sinister power trip about control and obedience, the tools of pimphood. Kat was clearly upset, without doubt because there had been more than words exchanged. I couldn’t see any marks on her face, but knew it was just because Rasheed was too smart for that.
Damn for sure there had just been some bitch-slapping that Kat was too ashamed to mention to me. No doubt there had also been the threat, no, the promise of more to come.
I was upset because Kat was upset. And I was angry and frustrated because there really wasn’t a damn thing I could do about the grim life she had chosen for herself.
But just in case you’re wondering, the answer is No. As soon as we parked I did NOT let either Kat’s unhappiness or my frustration get in the way when she reached over, jerked my belt open, popped my pants button and zipped down my fly. I slid out from behind the wheel, lifted up to help her pull my pants and jockeys down around my knees. I kept my eyes open as she parted her beautiful glistening lips and took my cock in her mouth… because Kat giving me head looked every bit as beautiful as it felt. I loved watching her go down on my cock.
Like I said right at the start, Kat’s suck skills were way too good to let anything else get in the way. It didn’t take me long to shoot a big load into her mouth, either.
But what happened next was strange. Instead of us both zipping up and getting ready to roll back to business as usual, Kat just laid there with her head in my lap. I found myself stroking her head softly, running my fingers gently, very gently through her short blond hair.
Finally, without moving, Kat murmured into the darkness, “Frankie? Do me a favor? Take me the fuck away from all of this, Frankie.”
Jesus. What the fuck were the tears doing in my eyes?
Ah, I never said I wasn’t crazy. But I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t let Kat see the stupid tears. I slid back behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. Kat sat up stiffly without another word, staring straight ahead. I hiked my pants and buckled up.
Silently, we headed back to Sodom and Gomorrah.

Take it from Frankie: There is no percentage in falling in love with a hooker. No percentage at all. Hookers you fall in love with are TROUBLE!

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