Alberto Gullaba, That Spring Work

It came that time of year again, when the minor plundering of First Year Dorms died down, and everyone was looking to wife something, to find some steady, round the way chick you wouldn’t mind bringing around your boys, a lady that could hold you down for the rest of year, maybe longer if it weren’t so shameful to admit that deep down, you was a suckafahlove.
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎The clocks sprung forward and the everyday hoodies were thrown into closets. Now niggas gazed at themselves longer in the mirror. Naked mostly, turning this way and that, trying to let the light catch the outline of the love muscles they remembered once having. They dressed solemnly, recited a few lines from LL, and braved outside in immaculate white sneakers, every stitch free from defect, even the soles scrubbed white because who knew? You could be sitting at the bus stop kicking up your feet, and you dont want no piece of gum stuck there with a piece of grass stuck to it, lookin trifin as hell. Can never be too careful, stick man.
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎They cruised down to Central Grounds, where the females show the new skin of their vaselined legs, where breasts bloomed, where niggas would fall in love numerous times. The temptation to goose everything that walked past was persistent. Yet they had to fight the urge in broad day. Didn’t want people to think they didn’t know how to act. So they hoped and prayed for the weekend to come as they continued doodling in notebooks during lecture. Wu-Tang symbols and their own names in BIG BLOCK LETTERS, and they underlined shit and drew boxes around the things the professor said was important. On their mind, though, were cheeks. Spectacular pairs. Without the safe cover of winter coats, cheeks fulflled their destinies under the bright Southern sun. Goodness. What it would do to them. The feeling that would shoot up their bodies when they saw a stallion, the chill then the rush and the world would wobble and they couldn’t for the life of them really believe the work of God. They thought those kinds of females only existed in music videos.
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎After class, the image of cheeks helped them push up that last rep on the bench. Kept them pushing when all the fibers in their chests were frayed. Grooming was even more essential. A nigga could drop a couple bones on the weekly edge-up. Shit added up. But they had to. Grounds in the Spring could do that to a budget. And the last time you tried to edge me up that shit was lookin diagonal. How? I used the ruler. Im sayin though, stick man, it was straight but slanted to one side, thats all.
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎Niggas worked the phone lines harder at night. Spring was the season of caking. Each went into their respective rooms and lay in bed twirling the phone cord, knowing it looked gay, but it was nice talking to females regardless. Going on laughing and flirting for a change. It was nice talking about diferent things because, sadly, niggas ran out of things to talk about amongst themselves. They lacked group activities with the NFL season long over. Nightly marathons on Madden had lost the weight and significance bestowed by those Sundays that counted, and switching over to an NBA game somehow never appealed. Yeah, it was hard to deny the season turning. Niggas had to put in work with the females. They were on their own for that.