Dropping dough to diaper thugs has its advantages - and, its dangers. I once got robbed at knifepoint - sort of. Here's the story in a couple of parts. Part I:
MySpace was fairly new at the time, and it was still filled with real people. The SpamBots and spammers hadn't heard about MySpace yet, so there were no offers for penis enlargement cream in your comments, no warnings that your pictures have been used on another site in your mail. Chances were if you had a friend request, or message, or comment, it was from a real person; and, if you browsed the local area, you'd find real people that you might actually see out at the club.
Today MySpace is known for a place where emerging music artists can get their music out. When I joined in 2004, nobody was using MySpace for music yet. I began amassing an impressive amount of MySpace friends and, along with a few others, used my account for posting bulletins for music artists. I mainly pushed dope-ass white rappers, a genre I feel gets far too little attention. By 2005 I had a more than 200K 'friends', many who would check out my bulletins and get their first taste of the hip hop artists I was 'promoting'.
Chris was a rap fan. He was 18, high school dropout, unemployed, and a male slut - your typical 'wigger' - and he liked the people he heard in my bulletins. Chris would send me message replies to many of them, letting me know what he liked, what he didn't... and letting me know that he had wigger friends in his area who aspired to be rappers. "You should come check them out," he'd tell me. "Maybe if you post for them the right person will hear it and we'll get a deal."
The difference with Chris was, unlike most of my MySpace friends spread across the U.S., Chris lived in a city less than thirty minutes from my boat. During the summers I would go there and spend days - and, sometimes, weeks - at a time, sailing, sleeping, and sexing on the sailboat. I visited Chris's city often, so the idea of actually listening to his hip hop heads was something which might actually happen. That possibility sort of kept our virtual friendship going...
I'd only been talking to Chris for a little while when he posted a blog announcing he would be serving some jail time. "Gone 'til November" was the title, and in it he asked people to write to him and/or send him money for jail commissary. I asked what he'd done, and he told me he'd violated probation and had to "serve a couple of months."
He went in and was gone way past November; spring came and, then, summer. Every once in a while I'd swing by his page, check out some old pictures of him "passing the dutchie" or posing with a gun - a paintball gun, I assumed, although in the streetz one just can't be sure - and check the "last login" date; always the same as the day he went in.
At some point in the summer I got a message from him. He was back...
We started talking on AIM and Chris let me know how easy jail had been - sure, Chris - and how hard "life on the outside" was turning out to be. From the way he was talking you'd think that he'd been incarcerated for a lifetime, not just the better part of a year. Friends had abandoned him, his girlfriend had left him, and he was jobless and having a tough time finding anything.
"Bro, I am broke!" he would tell me on a daily basis.
"I don't even have money for weed!"
I was doing fairly well at the time, but kept that to myself. I'd tell him stuff like life is hard and he'd reply with "But I'm a baller, yo!" Christopher was still close enough to the reality of jail to want to stay on the right side of the law; afraid to sling on the streets, what's a wigger to do to make it through?
I recommended a day-labor place I'd passed on excursions into town. I'd noticed that hot wiggers would always be lined up on the street hoping someone with a job would stop by and scoop them; I figured if their thug asses could get hired, Chris could, too. He told me he'd try it and thanked me for the advice. I didn't hear from him for a few days. The next weekend, he was back on AIM.
I asked him if he'd found anything yet.
"Yezzir!" he told me. "I worked two days this week. I found $40 a day and blisters on the bottoms of my feet."
He went on to explain that, in order to get hired for the day at the labor place, you had to arrive by 5. In the morning. And wait. People would drive up in a truck, and the people who ran the outfit would come out and point to two, three, four guys. "Get in the truck." They'd get a lift to the job site and work their asses off all day. At the end of the day: $40-50. One day Chris picked up trash at a racetrack; another day he shoveled manure - "with no fucking work boots, yo" - at a fair.
"Making money is hard," he complained. "I'm working eight hours for $40."
I'm not sure what possessed me to throw it into the conversation, but I did.
"Damn, I pay that for just a few hours!"
And it was on.
Chris wanted to know what I was talking about. I tried to change the subject, and/or stall, but he persisted. And, after an initial fear of exposing my diaper secret to him - even though a blog on my MySpace alluded to it and I figured he'd seen it - I gave in.
"Pampers for pay, dude."
The AIM chat box went silent and still - for nearly five minutes. Chris remained online, so I knew he hadn't blocked me, but he wasn't responding. I figured I'd just basically said goodbye.
And, after nearly five minutes, his response:
"WTF?"
Eek!
"You don't want to know, Chris..."
I figured I'd just backpedal and then, hopefully, change the subject. We'd gotten to know each other pretty well online, and I didn't want to lose that over my weird freaky fetish. I began to think of alternate explanations... what else could Pampers for Pay mean, I wondered... and he messaged me again:
"WTF?"
I was still thinking when I saw his next message:
"Dude. You pay people. To wear diapers."
I pictured this thugged out wigger getting his crew together in someone's mom's Caprice and rolling out to where I lived to bust a cap in me.
Despite the fact that I'd diapered more than a dozen wiggers I knew that the 'wigger code' is strong, lol. I'd just revealed something about myself which violated that code. Would Chris threaten me, or just block me and leave me alone.
What he typed next surprised me.
"Dude. You pay people. To wear diapers. And you've let me bust my ass shoveling horse poop all week. WTF?"
To Be Continued...
