Federal Hill, South Baltimore, Summer, 1984

Shoey was now working with his brother as a heroin distributor, had plenty of cash, and decided to head out of the Barney Street area of old South Baltimore up to Federal Hill, where the upscale yuppies were moving in with their pretty women, near the Inner Harbor, in Baltimore’s first gentrification push. Shoey was arrogant round these guys, since he knew the only reason these pussies could risk moving into Baltimore, was because him and the other real white boys always kicked the shit out of any black dudes that came further east or south than Henrietta Street.

Shoey was at some upscale bar that he swore he would never go into again and declined to even name. This was not far from the bar where Shoey and an accomplice tried to mug some big, older gay dude, only to have the guy smile, put up his dukes, and say, “The only thing I like more than sucking dick, is fighting!”

[This is not the only time someone has related a story to me about fighting a gay guy that said this. It must be a queer masculine mantra.]

Shoey met some “rich, big-titty bitch” and walked home with her, assured by her that her husband would not be home until the next morning, as he was working in Washington D.C. She had complained to Shoey, over drinks, “My husband thinks there is something humiliating about eating pussy. The dick is good, but a girl wants some tender loving every once in a while too.”

Saturated on vodka and cranberry, Shoey, promised to rock her world, utilizing all of the “rug-munching” cunnilingus metaphors he could pull out of his rock and roll lexicon. For him “banging a yuppie bitch’ was a notch on my belt.

When they repaired to the lady’s remodeled row house, that didn’t look anything like these houses had once looked, he swept her dramatically off of her feet, sat her up on her granite kitchen counter top, pushed up her skirt, pulled off her panties, and just gawked.

Impatiently, she began pulling on his head, drawing him down into what seemed the all-devouring mouth of some nightmare beast. He ripped her hands off his head and stood as she fell back onto her elbows and snarled, “What happened to the almighty-pussy-eating SOBO Boy! I thought you were into eating pussy.”

Shoey stepped back, looked at her, and said, “Lady, I love eating pussy. I even eat black pussy—but that is a ϲunt! Nothing that big should be called a pussy!”

Years later, Shoey said to me, “Brother, that wasn’t a pussy. That was a whole other animal, like some man-eating mollusk from the deep! Fucker probably had teeth too!”

The woman than snarled, reached over, grabbed a knife out of the butcher block, and Shoey had never before been so glad to have not taken down his pants, as he ran out onto the coble stone street with her screaming behind him, and made a b-line for Light Street, with every intention of walking this frightful experience off in the park on te other side while he smoked a joint on Federal Hill.

Ever after, Shoey avoided “rich, big-titty bitches” like the plague.