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Dirty Old Men [And Other Stories] (Zane Presents), Page 1

Omar Tyree





  Dear Reader:

  “Why are older men called ‘dirty’ simply because they still have sex drives, and are attracted to the bountiful energy, unburdened spirits, and sexual aptitudes of younger women?” That is one of the many questions that will spark conversation in this latest offering by New York Times Bestselling Author Omar Tyree. Tyree’s thought-provoking delivery of this short story collection goes much deeper than strictly sex. He examines the psyches and motivation behind people of all “legal” ages hooking up in various types of relationships.

  Internationally, there are millions of people—both men and women—who prefer to date outside of their age brackets. It is only considered an issue in America, one of the most sexually oppressed countries in the world. While older women who prefer younger men are affectionately referred to as “Bobcats” or “Cougars,” older men who prefer younger women are considered “Dirty Old Men.” This is a reality and Tyree has tackled the subject matter with a desire to advance the opinions and conversations about the situations presented that only a truly prolific writer could master.

  I hope that you enjoy this collection of short stories. They are more than hot; they are intriguing and entertaining, but with a purpose. As always, thank you for supporting the Strebor Books imprint. From powerful memoirs like Scared Silent: When The One You Love Becomes the One You Fear by Mildred Muhammad and The Day I Stopped Being Pretty by Rodney Lofton to exciting novels like Street Judge by Judge Greg Mathis and Pure Paradise by Allison Hobbs, we strive to bring you cutting-edge, diverse, and extremely well-written books.

  I am confident that you will enjoy Dirty Old Men by the legendary Omar Tyree. Please let me know your thoughts. You can locate me on the web at or

  Peace and Many Blessings,



  Strebor Books International


  Pecking Order

  The Last Street Novel

  What They Want

  Boss Lady

  Diary of a Groupie


  Just Say No!

  For The Love of Money

  Sweet St. Louis

  Single Mom

  A Do Right Man

  Flyy Girl


  Cold Blooded

  One Crazy Night

  Capital City

  College Boy


  Dark Thirst

  The Game

  Proverbs of the People

  Tough Love; The Life and Death of Tupac Shakur



  The Equation; The 4 Indisputable Components Of Business Success








  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2009 by Omar Tyree

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN 978-1-59309-273-3

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-4977-5

  LCCN 2009933554

  First Strebor Books hard cover edition October 2009

  Cover design:

  Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs

  1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]

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  to the folks who ask for the truth

  and can then take the real answers.


















  To be honest here, I haven’t acknowledged folks in a book in lonnnnnng time. With 19 of them written and published now, it got to the point where I had basically run out of new folks to acknowledge. Then people began to take it far too personally. “You didn’t give me a shoutout in your book?” So it became much less stressful for me not to do it at all. But if you check at the back of my first six novels alone, I must have thanked a thousand people. So it’s not as if I’m not thankful for the love, help and support. I just wanted to write books without thinking about every person in the world who I forgot to give a shoutout to.

  With that being said, I could create another long list of folks to thank with this one. But I won’t. Due to the subjective nature of this particular book, I don’t think most people would jump up and down to be included this time around anyway (smile). Talking about the fetish that older men have for young women, at my age, can be very dangerous. But if you can’t talk about the truth in your art, then what good is having a voice? You think all that Viagra out there is being sold to older guys who are only thinking about their wives, who they’ve been married to for thirty-five years, like they suggest in those beautiful television commercials, where they dance into the bedroom? Now I dig the romantic spirit of the commercials. I really do. I just don’t trust how valid they are. Do older women really want that dude up all night long, like the younger women do? Let’s tell the truth here.

  Anyway, I want to thank, first of all, Zane, for agreeing to publish this book of very frank short stories. The initial idea was to write real stories about men for men’s magazines. But I got real tired of constantly trying to pitch to magazine editors, especially when the first words out of most of the editors’ mouths were, “We don’t have much of a budget.” Then you get the editors who constantly want you to write “for the publicity,” even though I’m a professional writer, like the people they still pay to write. So Zane came to the rescue. And now we can all read this thing and have something real to talk about.

  I also want to thank Mary B. Morrison, Miasha, J.L. King, and J. Tremble for agreeing to read one of the stories and sliding me a book jacket review, along with Zane’s. Then I’d like to thank my agent, Jacqueline Hackette, for continuing to negotiate publishing deals for me with cool, calm experience.

  I want to thank the readership for continuing to buy African-American titles, even though we’ve honestly created an overload of similar material out there to choose from. And I’m not hating on the redundance. I’m merely telling the truth, lik
e a pure Philadelphian. Straight up! We need some new and improved product.

  Speaking of my home of Philadelphia, I’d like to thank my long-time editor, Pamela Artis-Hawkins, for continuing to work with me, and for giving me good, sound advice that I never seem to listen to (smile). Had I listened to you a long time ago on what the people want to read and simply given it to them, instead of always having a mission statement in my books, I could have made a whole lot more money. But like Popeye kicked it, “I am what I am,” and that’s an old school writer with a purpose for everything I put my name on. And I can go to the graveyard proud of knowing that I wrote and published exactly what I wanted. Hopefully, I won’t be flat broke for it!

  I wanna thank my young, Florida-based assistant, Jared Holloway, who missed having his first published story in this book by a weekend. Hell, I was already running late with this thing, dude. But when I finally kick down the door in this movie game, I got you. So hold tight.

  I wanna thank the hustle and bustle of Carol Mendez, who found out how incredibly hard it is to call up the managers and staff of celebrities to try and set up meetings for business. It ain’t easy, is it? But you wait until we start making these movies, how fast they’ll call you back then.

  On the West Coast, I wanna thank Jonathan DeVeaux, Mr. Club Owner, for all of the hospitality you’ve shown me over the years through your love of reading. I haven’t forgetten about you. So tell your DJ to shout me out at the club,even when I’m not out there in L.A. (smile)!

  Up North, I wanna thank Yvette Thompson, for always having an uplifting conversation about the future of my success. “Omar, you’re gonna do it! I know it! You’re the kind of guy who won’t stop until you make something happen!” I can hear your Trinidadian accent in my mind right now. And Heather Covington, too. I know you’re up there in New York, marketing and promoting your tail off. Keep doing your thing!

  Down South, I wanna thank Shanedria Ridley for being so real about humanity, as well as the hospitality of your father, Dr. Bilal Abdul-Alim, and his family over in Dubai. I haven’t forgotten about them either. It’s all coming back around. All I have to do is live to make it all happen.

  Back home in Charlotte, I want to thank my right hand man, Ramon Jacobs, “The Barber,” for hanging in there with me through thick and thin. We almost there, partner. And my man Big Bronze for your unrelenting talent and unbreakable spirit. My man Tehut-Nine, those film deals are coming, dude. And Kenny “The Poet” Cross in front of the camera, and Vince Paul on the Southeast casting; we’re all gonna get where we want to shortly.

  On the national radio scene, I’d like to thank Michael Baisden for doing it big. Thanks for shouting me out every now and then. The people always tell me, “Michael Baisden talked about you today on the radio.” Thanks, dude. We’re all proud of your hustle, even though I can’t call you up anymore with your changing phone numbers and growing list of gate-keepers. That’s how success goes, dude. I ain’t mad at you. We’ll get back up whenever. In the meantime, we all end up screaming like fools now, “But I know Michael personally. Tell him it’s Omar on the line! Just tell him it’s me!” Life is funny that way sometimes, dude. You gotta laugh at it and keep moving.

  But you see what I mean about this acknowledgment thing? This short list can get longer and longer? And I said I wouldn’t do a long one this time. But I can already hear the left-out voices now. “You didn’t add a shoutout to me in your book? You didn’t add so and so?”

  So I’ll have to end this thing right now with this; this is only a book, ya’ll. My actions in real life still determine who I am and what I consider important. So even if I don’t name every single person, again and again and again, if I love you, I love you, man. Period! Including my business partner, Arthur Wylie, down there in the ATL, or is it out in L.A., or is it chilling in the D.R. this week, or down in Colombia, South America, or is it over there in London, England, this time?

  New business flies all around the world, dude. Let’s go get it! But this ain’t no business book here. This is a book to keep me in the “business of books,” if you can feel me. At the end of the day, I’m still a writer, and reading adults still need strong content to read. And I’m an adult. Well, ain’t I? So let’s all be mature about this and read on.

  This one book won’t change the world. I used to actually think that way. “This book will change everything!” But for many people, it’s all pure “entertainment.” And the world keeps right on spinning in the same direction. So don’t go jumping off the deep end of things concerning this one book, because gravity still falls to the ground, and you’ll break your good leg and end up limping, all for nothing.

  The bottom line is this: I’m still poised to keep making new projects happen. Plain and simple. I’m always ready to use my intellect and hustle to keep moving forward. Now watch me as it happens!

  Omar Tyree / March 2009

  When he was first born

  he sucked on his mother’s breasts for milk.

  When he turned 5

  he refused to even hold her hand.

  At age 10

  he developed his first crush on a girl.

  At 15

  he humped one against the wall in her father’s garage.

  At 20

  he contracted his first STD.

  At age 25

  he married the one who got pregnant on him.

  At 35

  he became a father for the third time.

  At 40

  he had to beg his wife to get it at home.

  At 45

  he began to follow the curves of much younger women.

  At 50

  he opened up his bank account to pamper them.

  At 55

  he got divorced so he could marry one.

  At 60

  he discovered Viagra.

  And at 65…


  he’s still fuckin’.

  It Never Ends

  by Omar Tyree


  An older man sat on a lone barstool at The Hot Spot Lounge on Eighty-Fifth Street and Cottage Grove Avenue on the south side of Chicago on a cold evening. At a quarter after six, the place wasn’t that crowded. And without the competition for drinks, the man was already working on his second rum and Coke.

  Up above his head at opposite ends behind the bar were two small televsion sets. On the small set to the right side of him, the ESPN network was talking NBA basketball. The sports analysts were discussing who were getting the most votes for the All-Star game that year in Las Vegas. The TV hanging from the left side paraded the latest music video from Nelly. The young St. Louis native was rapping about buying expensive, designer “grillz” of thousand-dollar jewelry across his teeth, while the hot video vixens shook what their mommas gave them across the camera screens.

  The man tilted his head back, his drink in his warm palm, staring like a horny vulture, imagining how he would have swooped down and gobbled up the enticing prey more than two decades ago. He was suspended in admiration while the hypnotic video played on. And when the video finally concluded its very obvious dick tease, the old man felt as if another young piece of him had faded away.

  “Shit,” he mumbled to himself. Damn, he wished he could be young and single again. Next month he was turning fifty; the big five-oh. And he had been married to the same woman for twenty-seven years.

  He slammed the rest of his drink to the back of his throat; the drink never tasted that good to him anyway. He only utilized liquor to take his mind off of things for a few hours.

  “Hey, ah…” He didn’t know the girl’s name; the new bartender. But she was the finest young thing inside the lounge. And while she had her back turned to him, filling a drink at the other end of the bar in her all-black uniform, the perfect curve of her ass made him think about the worst sins in the Bible. Why, on God’s green earth, were those young girls all getting those wicked tattoos etched across their lower backs? They looked like damn stroke tar
gets. How was an old and horny man supposed to act? How could he not think about mounting and humping that young, sexy-ass broad right there in back of the bar? He could even feel his soft tweed dress pants rising and tightening up under the table while he imagined it.

  I can feel that tight, young pussy right now, all wet, hot and slippery, while I nail that wrinkle-free ass like Lady and the Tramp, he mulled. It was a good thing no one could read his thoughts in the room. If he continued to stare at the girl in his obvious horniness, he was afraid that someone—or anyone—could read his mind. He shook his head and looked away, but not before he watched the bartender bend over and grab another bottle from under the bar.

  Oh, Lawd Jesus, help me! he told himself. I pray to God that somebody else helps me on this third drink instead of her. But he really didn’t mean it. In fact, he couldn’t wait to have that young bartender in his face again with them ripe titties of hers, pushing all up against the high bar table.

  Before he knew it, she was back on her hustle. That’s how they were when they were young, quick and vivacious.

  “You want another one?” she asked him.

  She slid back into view, appearing from nowhere, as if she had a pair of roller skates on. Her eye contact was dead on and intimate. Did she want his drink order, or did she want to order his drink?

  “Yeah, ah, gimme another one.”

  He barely looked at her when he said it. He tried to be hasty about it and mean, too, simply to get the young girl out of his face. But it didn’t work. She was still standing there, all smiling and shit.

  “Rum and Coke?”

  Her sweet young breath even smelled like peppermint, probably from a stick of gum.

  Just pour the damn drink and get out of here, he wished he had the balls to tell her. Either that or show her his balls. But that would probably get him arrested, not to mention embarrassed, in front of the talkative folks who parlayed there.