"Aight then, when yall want me to start?"

"Smart man." D-Rock nodded to the driver, who pulled over two houses down from Momma's.

"Don't get out. We clear on the specifics? You bake. You provide the additional service. You keep your mouth shut. You get paid. We revisit the arrangement if the product is sub-par."

"Yeah. We clear."

"Good. Welcome back to the workforce, chef."

The lock on the Impala's door clicked up. I got out, the night air felt like welcome relief. It smelled like fresh menthol cigs. Newports right off the pack.

The Impala slid away silent like police without the marks, leavin' me standin' there with my bag and my new life. I walked the last few steps to the porch. The light was on in the livin' room.

I opened the door, and the smell of Pine-Sol and simmering chicken wrapped around me. Say whatchu want bout stereotypes, but it come from somewhere. Just don't be acting like it's a broad stroke or be a punk-ass racist bout it. But shit, it helps make good gambles tho.

"Marcus? That you, baby?" Her voice came from the kitchen, frail but strong.

"Yeah, Momma. It's me."

She came wipin' her hands on a dish towel, her eyes big and wet. She looked older. Prolly lost some extra years when her lil mans wound up in jail. But her smile was the same. I dropped my bag and opened my arms, and she fell into 'em, tiny and shakin'. I hugged her tight, buryin' my face in her hair. I didn't cry. I just breathed her in. Plays know better than to cry, even in front of they mamas.

"My baby is home. Thank you, Jesus. My baby is home."

We sat at the kitchen table. She fed me 'til I thought I'd pop. I told her about my new job.

"A baker?" she said, her face lightin' up like I'd just told her I won the Pulitzer.

"Marcus, that's wonderful! Usin' your gift! I knew them prison classes was good for somethin'. Who you workin' for?"

"Caterin' company," I lied, the words slick and easy. "Big corporate events. Pay real good, Ma. Gonna get you that new roof."

She patted my hand, her eyes all proud. It felt like a knife in my gut. "You just get yourself right, baby. Don't you worry 'bout me. I'm just so proud you're usin' your hands for good."

I went to sleep in my old room. The bed was too soft. The quiet was too loud. I stared at the ceiling, my mind goin' back to that car, to that "additional service." My dick twitched again, traitorous and hungry.

I hated myself for it. Being a gay brotha wasn't easy outside penetentiary. No matter what them TV say or Hollywood be claiming about gay black men. They can add all the letters to they acronyms, hell even throw in a fuckin plus sign now. But dismantling decades of bias and homophobia from an entire community's roots gon take lotta time.

Not everyone got that time these days tho, and I wanted to get that bag, and that dick.
____________________________________________________________________


The next mornin', after Momma made me a feast of eggs and grits, I texted D-Rock.

> Ready to start.

Bout twenty minutes later, a different car, a black Escalade this time, chromed up Asantis and full tint rolled up. I kissed Momma goodbye, tellin' her I had an early prep shift.

The ride was quiet. We went deep into the West End south of Atlanta, past the boarded-up stores, gentrifying ass neighborhoods and the lots full of weeds, until we pulled up to a long, low buildin' that used to be a meatpacking plant. Graffiti covered the rusted roll-up doors.

One door was open just enough to walk through. The driver nodded me inside.

The warehouse was big as hell. High, filthy windows let in dirty shafts of light full of swirlin' dust.

The air was cold and stank of wet metal, old grease, and somethin I ain't know how to put my finger on. And it was full of people.

Young boys, some lookin' no more than twent, lean and hard-eyed, clustered around space heaters, eyein' me. Older dudes with tired faces and permanent scowls leaned against pillars, talkin' low. A few women, some typical snowbunnies that fuck with thug cock or the young thug special: them ladies from out east. Ain't know if they got them surprise between they legs, but I fuck with them either way.

Every head turned as I walked in. The new meat. The chef.

D-Rock emerged from a side office. "My brotha! Ey y'all show some respect, this is Marcus.Our new pastry chef. Y'all treat him and his workspace with respect. He is a premium asset."

Some of the young thugs snickered. One whispered somethin', and another elbowed him, grinnin'. Punk ass boys finna find out who the hell they fuckin laughin at.

"This way," D-Rock said, leadin' me through the maze of crates and pallets.

And then I saw it. In a cleared-out corner of this shithole, under a bank of harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed like they did back in them holding cells, this time it was a kitchen.

It wasn't no home kitchen. It was all proper and shit, small-scale professional setup. A heavy-duty commercial range with six burners. Big ass oven. A stainless steel table, long and wide, like that dick nawmean?

They even got them Hobart mixers, the kind I used to dream about, sitin' there like a silver king.

And stacks of supplies: sacks of Swiss flour, blocks of Plugrbutter, vanilla beans, Valrhona chocolate. Motherfucker was just missin Gucci mixing spoons or a Louis mixing bowl up in that shit.
It was a fuckin' dream only a playa like me could appreciate. Young brothas out them that be snickers ain't know any of this shit.

"Your station," D-Rock said, spreadin' his hands. "Everything yo ass would ever need."

I walked over, my fingers trailin' across the cold steel of the table. It was solid. Real. The mixer was clean. This was hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment. I ain't asking him where they stole it from but shit, the stuff be hot as hell if the police raid this place.

"And this," D-Rock said, openin' a drawer under the table. He pulled out a strip of thick white cloth. He tossed it to me.

It unfolded in my hands. A chef's apron. Heavy-duty, knee-length.

The only garment I was supposed to wear.

"The boys are lookin' forward to your first show tonight." He leaned in close, his voice dropin'.

"Get familiar with your tools, chef. The butter needs to be laminated. I want perfect layers. I want to see your focus."

He patted my shoulder, his meanin' clear. He set me up good, now he want his investment to count..

He walked away, leavin' me standin' in the circle of light, the weight of every eye in the warehouse pressin' down on me, the apron bunched in my fists.

I looked at the pristine, beautiful equipment. I looked at the apron. I heard the low murmur of the crew of thugs, OG's, and they ladies, the expectant, hungry silence.

I took a deep breath, then I slipped the apron over my head.

It was stiff, brand new. The ties hung down at my sides.

My fingers went to the button of my jeans. The denim was rough. I popped it open, the snick of the button too loud in the waiting quiet. I shoved the True Religion jeans and my Alfani boxers down my hips in one push, stepping out of them, then pulled my Walmart shirt over my head. The warehouse air was cold as a motherfucker on my delicious bare skin, raising goosebumps around my sculpted prison muscles. The main piece, my dick, half-hard just from the sheer audacity of this shit, began to swell fuller against my thigh.

I left the clothes in a pile. The apron was all that was left. I slid my arms through the straps, letting the heavy cloth fall down my front. It covered me from chest to knees, but it was open in the back. My whole ass was out, bare to the room. I could feel the draft.

But the front the front was the show. My cock, now fully hard, thickened and rose, curving up against the stiff white fabric. It made a tent, a blatant, obvious bulge. A low murmur went through the crowd. Someone whistled. Another whispered, "Damn."

I walked to the stainless steel table, the cold of the floor seeping into my feet. My heart was hammering, but my hands were steady. Thug hands made to kill turned to chef's hands. I flipped the apron's waist ties behind me, then brought them around to the front to tie them.

I didn't tie them at my back.

I tied them in a loose knot right at my hip bone, pulling the apron to the side.

My cock sprang free, jutting out from the open flap of the apron, fully exposed. Thick and dark, veins running along the shaft, the head already slick. A couple of the younger boys gasped.

A chorus of "Shiiit" and "Oh, hell yeah" rippled through the warehouse. They were leaning forward now, all pretense of indifference gone. Eyes wide, lips wet.

"Y'all wanted a show," I said, my voice flat, cutting through the noise. "Watch how the master work. Motherfuckas."

I turned to my mise en place. The butter blocks were cold, the flour was mounded in a bin. I started to measure, my movements automatic, practiced. The feel of the flour dusting my fingers was nice. Better than countin cigs back in prison just weeks ago.

The weight of the rolling pin was an old friend. But all the while, my bare ass was to the room, my cock bobbing slightly as I moved.

I could hear them. All them thugs. The wet sound of they lips being licked. Them shiftin of bodies getting closer. I felt a hot rush below the belt that shoulda been there. This was power, not like that lame 50 Cent shit tho..

I finished laminating the dough, the layers perfect, and slid the first batch of puff pastry into the oven. The smell of butter and heat started to seep out. I moved on to the cream. I hauled the heavy mixer bowl closer, poured in the cold heavy cream, the vanilla bean seeds like black gold. I started the whisk attachment. The low hum of the motor filled the space.

As the cream began to thicken, to form soft peaks, I reached for a can of store-bought whipped cream on the counter. A prop. I shook that bitch real hard. I turned to face the choir of thugs and playas, my cock standing straight out. I pointed the nozzle at the base of my shaft.

Pssssht.

A line of white, fluffy cream sprayed onto my skin, cold and shocking. I dragged the nozzle up, laying a messy, glistening trail all the way to the tip. I dropped the can. It clattered on the steel table.

My eyes scanned the crowd. They were a blur of eager faces, all staring at my cream-covered dick.
"Who's hungry?" I asked

For a second, nobody moved. Then a skinny young thug with braids, couldn't have been more than twenty two, broke from the pack.

Young buck moved quick, dropping to his knees on the concrete in front of me. Lil playa knew to respect his OG's cuz he didn't hesitate. He leaned forward and licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of my thick shaft, clearing the cream.

"Mmm, sweet," he mumbled, his eyes glued to mine.

That broke the dam. Two more thugs scrambled over, pushing each other. "Move, Ty! My turn!"
"Line the fuck up," I commanded. They listen cuz they know better, forming a jagged ass queue to my right, jostling for position. To have they moment to show respect for real thug cock.

The first thug, Ty, took me back into his mouth, his lips sliding over the head. He sucked, deep and eager, his tongue swirling. My hips jerked forward once, on instinct while I groan like a gorilla.

The second thug in line was on his knees too, waiting, his hand rubbing roughly at his own jeans.

"Damn, chef, let me get some."

I looked down at Ty, his cheeks hollowed as he worked me over.

"Give me a treat big d." Ty begged between slurping my cock.

I reached behind me, my fingers finding one of the prop pies D-Rock just purchase from the store fo sho--a simple apple galette, the edges crispy and golden. I brought it around.

"Open wider, baby," I said.

Ty looked up, confused, his mouth still full of me. I didn't wait. I shoved the pie, filling-side down, straight into his face.

The young thug grunted, but didn't pull away. He started eating it greedily, crumbs and spiced apples smearing his cheeks, even as he continued to bob his head on my cock. The mix of sensations was insane--the wet, tight heat of his throat, the crunch of him eating, the sweet-tart smell of baked apples mixing with the smell of my own skin.

"Fuck, that's good," he moaned, the words muffled by pie and my fat dick.

"Yo shit is sweet, chef. Both of it." He sucked harder.

The next thug in line was already pulling at my hip. "Me next, man, come on, I wanna taste."
I put a hand on Ty's head, guiding him off me with a soft pop. He sat back on his heels, pie glaze and my pre-cum shining on his chin, a stupid, dazed grin on his face. The next one took his place, his mouth hot and desperate.

"A'ight, a'ight, easy," I muttered.

I never expected to be back in the gang, doing all this kinda shit. But they hunger, they willingness, they fucking praise for my actual skills while they serviced my dick was a good feelin.

I grabbed another small pastry, a peach hand pie, and smashed it against the second boy's forehead as he sucked. The filling oozed down his temple. "Lick it up thug," I ordered.

Young playa did, his tongue be dartin out to catch that syrup, even tho he deep-throated me with a guttural sound of approval. "So good yo dick tastes better than the pie, chef, swear to God."

The line was getting longer, not shorter. Some of the females tried to pull up but I told them this one's only fo the boys. Females could get with them other thugs. I only work with dick.

Sho nuff, word was spreading. More were coming from the back of the warehouse, drawn by the noise, the smell, the spectacle.

I worked mechanically, one hand braced on the steel table, the other alternating between guiding a thug's head and smashing pastries into they greedy, willing faces. Them sounds filled the rest of the warehouse: sucking, slurping, moans, the crumble of crust, the low, constant thrum of the mixer still whipping cream in the bowl.

This was the job. This was the first night. And as another warm, eager mouth enveloped me, I felt the first five thousand dollars of my new life pumping thick and hot down a young gangster's throat.