Nane Quartay

Come Get Some

Here is the cast of characters from my book, Come Get Some     


                                                          Uncle Dope

     When Uncle Dope walked through the door, Gloria was cooking horse in a spoon. After the the white powder liquified, she carefully drew the clear liquid up through a hypodermic needle, slowly, until there was nothing left in the spoon, and leaned back in her chair, preparing to shoot up. Uncle Dope paused to watch her profile and counted himself lucky to be in love with her.

     Gloria was life's big payback to him. Fate's retribution for all the dirty deeds that he'd done had come back and cost him more than he could have ever imagined. At times, when he was being completely honest with himself, he realized that he had become that which he pitied the most: a sugar daddy. He was a weak man, a man who had lost his mojo - he was in love with a woman who loved heroin.

Their courtship had been intense. Uncle Dope fell into an emotional morass that defied his every instinct of self-preservation as he fought to bend her to his will, to mold her into the woman he wanted her to be, only to find himself being twisted and molded. He was well past the point of no return, trapped by a love that he had never thought possible before he realized that Gloria loved another.

     She loved Heroin. White cricket. The chemical didn't care about Uncle Dope's dilemma, not even a little bit, while it callously claimed a part of Gloria that he could not touch because she loved the rush of the dope more than she cared for him.


                                                         Whiteboy Paul

     Whiteboy Paul felt a chill. She had tangled her legs in the covers and twisted and pulled until he lay naked and exposed. The air conditioner was turned on full blast and the room felt as if the temperature had plunged drastically as they lay on her living room floor. He looked over at her. Even lying at the odd angles that her body was twisted into, he still marvelled at the roundness of her hips, the smoothness of her thighs. Reaching down, he tugged at the covers, pulling them back between her tightly clamped legs but to no avail; there was no prying them loose without waking her up.  It was getting late and he knew that he had to get up and go home. Paul didn't want to make any mistakes and ruin the good thing that he had going.

     He was having fantastic sex with his English teacher, Miss Jones.

     Nina Jones' voice was thick with sex and sleep as she turned over on her back, watching him. "You leaving already?" When their eyes met, a single thought rushed through Paul's mind: Sex.

     Actually, Miss Jones was better than sex. She was better than he could ever have imagined sex could be and sometimes he felt as if he could not contain his excitement. He was banging Miss Jones!



     Truitt lost his virginity to Jackie Thicke.

     Jackie was a year older than Truitt and she already had the thick, cury body of a woman. At sixteen years of age, Truitt was the only virgin that he knew of, so his only sexual experience had been solitary ventures. His knowledge  of sex consisted of discerning between the drunken wisdom of his father and the pages of the porno magazines that he had hidden in a box in his closet, buried beneath his comic book collection. So when Jackie came up the stairs, pushed him against the wall and slid her tongue into his mouth, Truitt was both frightened and excited. After his first hesitation, his fingers traced the contours of Jackie's full breasts, his imagination exploding with the feel of their full softness. Emboldened, he ran his fingers down her back until he reached the fullness of her ass. He squeezed.

     A soft groan escaped from Jackie's lips and she pressed her hips firmly between his legs in the start of a slow grind. They would do this slow grind, dry hump, whenever they could get away with it, and Truitt found their quick moments extremely satisfying. They shared a secret lust that made Truitt happy that a girl would be willing, and apparently was pleased, to let him go that far with her.

     But this time was different.



                                                   Willmon Angel

     Willmon Angel had a pen in his hand. Over the past two weeks he had been writing, trying to catch the rhythm of his life, to capture his world in word pictures and colorful beats... and he couldn't seem to stop. Nothing could escape his poetic vision. No aspect of life was safe from the imagination that pulsed inside his brain.

     But the pulsations ached sometimes. His head pounded, thumped in a dizzying rage whenever "The Fits" overtook him. That was what his mother called the episodes that plagued him since the bike crash. His mother seemed to enjoy reliving the accident that led to his condition.

     Willmon wrote a on the wall:

     Mother is God. And Glory.

     If God don't love you.

     If words burn and smoke. In the air.

     And glory can't do nuthin but cry.