baby Boy IV

BABY BOY IV

BACK PORCH.
Baby Boy and his two friends Joe Bob and Billy Bob from town.



(Joe Bob and Billy Bob are hanging around Archie Lee’s back porch with nothing else to do. They can’t sleep after all the excitement back in town last night. Mister Silva’s big party with booze and music, as well as all the Big Wig politicians givin speeches and schmoozing with the local Rubes for votes and bucks. But then Somebody torches Silva’s gin mill, the biggest one in the county with Silva the Sicilian as the Mafioso Big Daddy.
Everybody knows it's Archie Lee, cause Archie Lee had gone bankrupt with Silva’s total Takeover of all the gin mills and now Silva had a Mississippi monopoly all the way to Biloxi. So Joe Boby and Billy Bob are getting together with Baby Boy to share some secrets as usual. They like to gossip about all the Big Shots like Archie the Big Mouth and Silva the Sicilian Hoodlum. And like all truant juvenile delinquent young Delta troublemakers, they wanna be in on the action. They’ve never seen such a big fire as the one that burns down Silva’s Gin Mill. It's the Talk of the town, but lots of the gin owners like what Archie did. Lots of resentment moiling around town, you can feel it in the air. Nobody's talkin abou nothin, neither whites, nor blacks, nor dinge queens or white trash. Everybody's sittin back, waitin for whatever's gonna happen next. The afternoon is humid, there aint nothin to do, except the usual Thing. Gettin down on the Back Porch, Baby Boy joining Joe Bob and Billy Bob like they usually do on hot day.)

Baby Boy: Okay, you guyz, you can stop playin with yourselves. I'm here now, so we can get down to some serious business. Like where's the weed?

(The boyz smirk amongst themselves. It’s all they do when they get together. Getting stoned and jackin each other off. Nobody masturbates as much as bored Mississippi boyz, cause that's all there is to do. No girlz would put up with them, especially white girlz. Not even the Trailer Trash girlz out by the Truck Stop would stoop to be with Baby Boy, Joe Bob or Billy Bob. These three are the bottom of the barrel, broke and nothin to show for it. So they all have plenty of time on their hands to mess around and get stoned. What else is there to do on such long languid humid honeysuckle afternoons and bored badboy magnolia mandingo kid evenings?

So they're into what most truant lazy adolescent Southern Boyz do when bored with Deep South boredom and cumly youngmale Plentitude. Joe Bob and and Billy Bog are Twin Dinge Angels, just perfect for Delta teenage skullduggery and givin head. The girlz aren’t any fun, they faint whenever the word "Fellatio" comes up in whispered hallway conversations. And when it comes to gettin intimate with thick sluggish turgid Ole Man River when its flowin thru Pretty Boy limbs and lips, well, there's really nothin you can do about it except what the Three Young Thugs do with each other. It's old as the levee and plantation sin, you can feel it flowin deep inside your bones if you give it a chance. Let it flow baby, let it flow. It flows nice and easy, like some decadent overly-knowing Mississippi Queen riverboat boy who knows how to get down, who's been there and back, all the way from Big Easy Mardi Gras up to Memphis Miss Reba's Whore House ladies of the night and Popeye's gangster limo chauffeur Alabama Red gettin it on with Temple Drake upstairs bangin her all night long. Alabama Red's hung and hot, with Popeye hangin onto the brass bed, buck-nekkid and howlin at the moon. That's not what Baby Boy likes to do though, his proud Creole cock has a much more proud and uppity history, going back all the way to the War of 1812 and Big Easy Mardi Gras dayz. His proud jet-black Creole heritage lying down between his long lanky legs, full of French, Spanish, Mulatto Badboy Pretty Boy Baby Boy Creole Style and Negritude Genealogy...his nice pretty Creole cock with so much of the Fine History and exquisite Legacy of Louisiana's Free People of Color...

Billy Bob: Well, Lordy, Lordy. My oh my, just look what walked in. It be none other than our cousin Baby Boy Blue. The Whitey Kept Boy of this Dumpy Plantation Mansion. Just look at you, Baby Boy. You sure be Black for a White boy, you know that Baby Boy? You're more hung than than me or Billy Joe, my Twin Brother!!!

(Baby Boy is lounging there on the swing, leaning back there on the dumpy verandah, with his lavender kimono half-hanging open, letting his huge gnarly veiny Pascagoula penis hang out there, so proud and erect. He takes another toke, then passes the huge joint to Joe Bob.)

Joe Boy: Man oh Man, alive. If only those Yoknapatawpha Queens over there at the University Faculty Club could get a gander at that piece of Mississippi Meat of yours, Baby Doll. You'd have Tenure right away with them know-it-all Big Shots.

Baby Doll: Yeah, I know. Especially if they only knew I was a Kept Boy over there in Rowan Oaks for for a couple of years. I had had my own Big Daddy over there, he knew how to treat a Lover Boy like royalty. But that’s cause I be a local Mississippi mulatto boy. I may be high yellow above the waist… but down below I’m a black-assed Mandingo man, you betcha Billy Bob.

Billy Bob: Whatever you is, you be a dirty White Boy that’s for sure. I don't believe a word you say about Rowan Oaks or any of that high-fallutin stuff. You can't even read a comic book, you're such a dumb White Boy. I’ve known a lotta white trash boyz back in town, but I tell you, Baby Boy. None of em got a big old mean-lookin piece of Congo Cobra Meat like yours that's for sure, man. Peal that head back a little bit, I wanna give ya some head.

(Baby Boy shrugs, closes his eyes and pulls back his jet-black satin foreskin. Out slides a pretty pink swollen head, the size of a deep-dark purplish-pink plum all ready to do its nasty thing.)

Baby Boy: Go ahead and suck it , Billy Bob. It’s been awhile dontchaknow. And I can use some good head around now. That stupid fucker Archie Lee, he’s been all hot and bothered about my bod again. He just won’t leave me alone, he’s the worst goddamn sugar daddy a guy could ever have.

(Joe Bob and Billy Bob smirk knowingly. Then Billy Bob gets down to work, slurping away at the dirty white boy’s magnificent piece of young whitey Creole Negroid heaven. How could anything so young and innocent-looking, end up growing so big and tall like a field of sugar cane thick and shiny in the delta moonlight, growing so thick and juicy outta that tiny twisted kinky little triagle of pubes, how can a White Boy own such a shameless huge piece of young beautiful Negritude? A seeminly whiter-than-white almost albino-tinted dirty white boy like Baby Boy McCorkle upstairs? But all that Creole Proud Legacy down in the bargain basement, Voodoo Hoodoo Creole Snake Boy slithering down outta the kimono? Billy Joe just nodded in agreement, waiting his turn patiently while polishing his own knob slowly and luxuriously in the languid humid Mississippi afternoon.)

Baby Boy: There’s one thing I don’t understand tho, Billy Joe and Billy Bob. When they catch dummie loud-mouth poor Archie Lee for torching Silva’s gin mill and put him in jail, like who’s gonna take care of me then anyway? This dumpy old mansion, Archie’s old gin mill, the worn-out land down around here, all the retired black folks hanging around… all of us will just have to just get up gettin by somewhere else I guess.

Billy Joe: That’s okay, Baby Boy. You can come live with us and Uncle Moses back down by the river outside of town. We got plenty of room in our old dumpy sharecropper’s shack down by the tracks. You can sleep with me and Billy Bob like all of us together, then we can go fishing and fuckin around all we want in the afternoons down by the Yazoo River…

Baby Boy: Oh, man!!! Oh, man oh man!!! Okay, Billy Bob… I can’t hold it much longer, oh Lordy, Lordy... here it comes!!! Take it, baby. It’s all yours, I got a pint down there I betcha…

(Billy Bob can’t take all of it, all 12 inches of Baby Boy’s big fire-hose meat. Baby Boy tries to get it all the way down the Billy Bob's throat anyway, grabbing and manhandling Billy Bob's ears like a pair of handlebars on one of those BMW or Harley hog motorcycles. Billy Bob be choking to death, gagging and struggling with all the gushing spaz spermazoidal spew of Baby Boy’s thick runny serpentine spluge. It aint pretty. Baby Boy squeezes his eyes closed tight, flexing his hips and arching his head back up against the rotting bougainvillea-twisting leaning porch, the swing banging against the wall.

Only to be caught and cradled in the gentle strong hands of Silva the manly Mafioso mobster bending down over them. Silva holds Baby Boy’s head tightly like in a vise, bending down and French kissing the kid with his long Sicilian snake-like tongue. It’s more than Baby Boy can stand—the kid faints and then faints some more, getting sucked off down below and French kissed up above.

Baby Boy loses it completely, not even guessing what was in store for him. What nefarious plans Silva has for Baby Boy, using the kid for bait and then getting revenge with Archie Lee for the dirty deed of burning down his lucrative new gin mill and the new King Kotton Business of the whole county. Silva waits a little bit until the kid's over-sensitive, teenage tremors and shameful shudderings come to an exhausting ending, then he scoops up Baby Boy in his arms and carries him back into the house, up the creaky old stairs and then back to Baby Boy's bed upstairs.)

Silva: C’mon kid, you done haven't shot your biggest mother lode yet. I've got plans for you Baby Boy. But like now you need a little rest before the next time comes around. And then I’m swoop you outta this dumpy old mansion of Archie's, and I'm gonna show you how to be a Real Kept Boy. I'll take you back to my place, that's where my little Baby Doll belongs. I'm gonna get you a brand new Baby Cradle just for you, a really nice ritzy one with silk sheets and what you deserve. And then my little Honey-Pie Baby Boy… You're gonna tell me all about Archie and how he burned down my gin mill back in town. Hush now, we'll talk about it later. Pretty Boy...