by Cairo
It’s always the blame game with her.
Poor Stephanie. Everyone’s always picking on Stephanie. Bull-shit. It’s her shitty-ass disposition that keeps her from holding down a job, and no one wanting to fuck with her. Yeah, on paper she looks good, and she can sell herself in the interview, but then she gets the job and they start to see what type of broad she is.
Always late.
Always defensive.
Always calling out sick.
Always making excuses.
So they write her up. She curses them out. Then they show her to the door.
Shit, her own family stopped fucking with her because of her attitude. Her sister and her mother, both have a restraining order against her. They literally want nothing to do with her ass.
Man, if that doesn’t scream craziness, I don’t know what does. I should have known then that there was something wrong with her. Nah, nah, if I’m really being honest, I should have known she had a screw loose when I saw her with a hammer chasing down some cat she used to mess with in broad daylight.
Dude was literally running through parking lots and around parked cars trying to get away from her, yelling for someone to “come get this crazy bitch.”
And the cops didn’t do shit.
But, nah, I still fucked with her. Let myself get caught up into thinking that she’d never come at me like that. Thinking my dick game—and the fact that I’m a good fucking man—would keep her satisfied.
But then I met the real Stephanie.
And now I know.
The bitch needs meds and a straitjacket.
No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you can’t make a miserable bitch happy. Sadly, I’ve had to learn that shit the hard way.
Nine years too late!
I swear to you. If I could turn back the hands of time, I wouldn’t be in this shit. I would have fucked her, just to see if the pussy was as good as the word on the streets said it was, then kept it moving. Then again, I would have kept my hard dick in my draws, and run in the other direction. And I damn sure would have never married her.
But here I am.
Trapped.
And these last few years have been nothing but h-e-double-l.
Her sister and mother were smart as hell to cut her off, especially after I learned she’d pulled a knife out on her sister and threatened to slice her face, all because she didn’t like her sister telling her she was useless.
Well, shit. It’s the truth. She is fucking useless.
And I married her ass!
And it’s been a fucking nightmare trying to get rid of her. She’s like a fucking roach. You kill one, and five more appear.
All I can do is shake my head. And let her play victim all by herself.
In the beginning, I used to feel sorry for Stephanie when I didn’t know better, that is. But now I don’t feel shit. No. Scratch that. I do feel something. Disgust. This broad doesn’t do shit. Won’t cook. Won’t clean. Won’t even go out and get a fucking job. Or keep one. Some days, I don’t think she even washes her ass. Not that I’ve smelled her. She just always looks like a funky-ass mess to me.
Yet, she’s always so quick to call me stupid for only having a GED, then throw up in my face, to remind me, that she has a master’s degree; that she’s college educated. Like I give a fuck about her bullshit-ass degree.
Whoopty-fucking-doo!
I stare at her long and hard every time she starts talking that dumb shit, thinking, Yeah, bitch, whatever. So what, you went to college and got yourself a few degrees, you’re not doing shit with ’em. So that shit doesn’t mean shit if all they’re doing is collecting dust, or somewhere buried under a dresser drawer full of ugly-ass cotton panties and raggedy-ass bras.
Just because she can string a bunch of big words together doesn’t mean shit. Yeah, I dropped out of school, and got a GED instead. But I’m the one with a job. I’m the one with a pension. I’m the one with a few dollars stashed. I’m the one with good credit. And Stephanie’s ass can’t get shit. So who’s really the stupid one here?
This educated bitch is.
The only thing she will do is, keep her feet and nails done and make sure our daughter’s hair is combed and she’s dressed and ready for school. Other than that, she doesn’t do shit. Well, except sit on her ass and be all up on Facebook and Instagram, practically all fucking day, while watching shit she’s taped on DVR, burning up unnecessary electricity. And if she’s not doing that, then she’s got her face pressed into the pages of some nasty fuck-book.
I don’t know why the fuck she’s reading that nasty shit for ’cause it’s not like she’s ever tried to do any of that shit she’s reading with me. Hell, maybe if she would have done more sucking and fucking and less shit popping, we might have still had a shot at making shit work.
But not now.
And thanks to her always being parked in the same spot day in, and day out, we have a lopsided sofa and a cushion with her ass print stamped in it.
I used to snap on her. But then she’d start with the crocodile tears, or the “I’m depressed” bullshit. Other times if I pushed too far, she’d start yelling and name-calling, then start with the “Motherfucker, get off my back before I stab you” craziness.
A few times she’s actually jumped up in my face with a knife and my daughter got caught up in the middle of our drama, trying to keep us from tearing each other up. And once, about three years ago, she called the police on me and lied telling them I tried to choke her. I told the police, “I’m not gonna lie. I’ve thought about choking her ass plenty of times. But I’ve never put my hands on her.” But they still arrested me after she was the one who put her hands on me.
Amaya was hysterical. And this bitch had the nerve to be smirking.
That did it for me.
I don’t want Amaya seeing that shit. And I damn sure don’t want her thinking, or feeling, like she has to play referee because her crazy-ass mother can’t keep her hands to herself. I’m not putting my daughter through that.
Hell no.
I said I’m here for Amaya. And that’s that.
So now I let the bitch do her. Sit on her ass all day, then lay up in bed late at night eating boxes of Entenmann’s cookies, bags of Doritos, then washing the shit down with wine most nights, vodka on other nights. Weed on the weekends.
Always that good shit.
Hell, I smoke, too, just to deal with the stress of living under the same roof with this crazy bitch. A blunt a night, that’s all I need to keep the edge off. Oh, and one before I step through the door and have to look in her face.
Hell yeah. I gotta be high to deal with her. Being around her is stressful as fuck. Her mouth. Man, listen. Her mouth is so fucking reckless. Sometimes I really wanna put my fist through it and knock out all her fucking teeth. That’s how bad it gets. Well, it had been. The last three weeks or so, things have been kinda calm. She’s not bitching as much. And she’s even asked me to sleep in the bed with her.
Not.
But I’ve given her some of this dick and fucked her to sleep, just to keep the peace. Still, wet pussy doesn’t mean shit if it’s attached to a fucked-up, crazy-ass bitch.
Now, she’s scrambling trying to figure out what she can do to make up for all the shit she’s put me through. Not. A. Goddamn. Thing.
I guess she sees I really don’t give a fuck. That she’s a nonfactor. I get up in the morning, do what I gotta do, drop my daughter off at school, then head to work.
Most nights I’m home from work by six, only because I need to make sure Amaya’s homework is done and that she isn’t being fed McDonald’s or some other fast-food bullshit. So I cook. Do the dishes. Get Amaya ready for bed. Then come into my man cave and lock myself in.
Now all of sudden it’s fucking with her that I make her ass invisible. But when I was sweating her, practically begging her to not give up on us, she gave me her ass to kiss. Now she wants to try to make things work. So she’s being nice.
Bitch, bounce.
It’s too fucking late. Her disrespect has done too much damage. Now I’ve emotionally checked out. All I am now is a physical body in this crib, and an unhappy participant in this shithole of a marriage.
Hold up.
I know what you’re thinking: Why am I still here? Why don’t I leave if I’m so miserable?
Stephanie’s even told me to get out. Then the one time I did attempt to leave, she blocked the door and started fighting me for leaving, accusing me of wanting to go off “to fuck some other bitch.”
I laughed in her face and that only pissed her off more. She spat in my face. And the only thing that stopped me from breaking her jaw was Amaya. She begged us to stop. And I did.
Stephanie, on the other hand, wanted to keep shit going. She always does. But now when she comes at me with that dumb shit, I give her a blank look. Fuck that. Me leave? Is she fucking kidding me? Why should I? Why doesn’t she go? The lease is in my name. And I’m the one paying all the bills around here. So I’m not going any-motherfucking-where.
Well, not until this lease is up.
Still, as far as I’m concerned, this is my shit. So I’m gonna ride this storm out until I can get rid of her, for good.
Hell, I’ve tried putting her out, twice. But she turned around and called the cops on me. Told them, crying, that I was putting her out and she had nowhere else to go, that I was throwing her and our daughter out on the streets. The cops stood there and looked at me like I was the biggest asshole. Then they had the audacity to tell me I couldn’t put her out because her name is on the lease, too. The worst thing I ever did, was putting her name on this lease.
Now I can’t get rid of her ass.
She’s even threatened to take my daughter from me, again. And she knows I’m not having that. The last time she ran off with my Amaya, she stayed gone for almost six months. That fucked me up.
I couldn’t eat, or sleep. Or even think straight.
Stephanie knows Amaya is my whole world. And her packing her shit and taking my daughter with her almost had me wanting to beat her ass.
Even though she moved like forty-five minutes away—and I got to see Amaya on the weekends, it felt like she’d kidnapped her and ran off to another country. Coming home and seeing my daughter’s closet and dresser drawers cleaned out had my head all fucked up.
I’ve been in my daughter’s life since the day she was conceived. I cut her umbilical cord. I held her in my arms before her own mother did. I got up in the middle of the night and fed her when Stephanie was too exhausted to nurse her. So, no, I’m not leaving. Not without my daughter. Period.
So, yeah, it’s no secret. She knows that the only reason I’m still with her is because of Amaya. That’s her only leverage. Our daughter. And she knows she has me by the balls. She knows if we didn’t have Amaya, I would have bounced seven years ago.
That’s when the shit started getting crazy with us. Or maybe it was always crazy, but in the beginning, it was all good, at least that’s what I want to believe. So I didn’t pay most of her bullshit any mind because she had a little waist, fat ass, looked good in the face. And she was putting it down in the sheets.
So by the time I started noticing it, it was too late. She was pregnant with Amaya and I wasn’t going anywhere. Period.
So I married her.
Big fucking mistake.
Seems like once she got that ring, and had Amaya, she got real loose. She started getting careless with her mouth, cursing me out in the streets and around my daughter. She started thinking it was okay to jump up in my face. And, like now, back then I put up with the shit because I wanted to be in my daughter’s life, by any means necessary.
And, I will be.
So I’m fucking stuck, for now.
And I suffer in silence.
And, while Stephanie’s drinking and eating herself into piggy heaven, getting all fat and sloppy, I do what I gotta do to be a full-time father to my daughter. I make sure Amaya has what she needs. I make sure shit around here gets done, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I take out the trash, and clean the crib, and do my daughter’s and my laundry, and handle the groceries and everything else, leaving Stephanie to her own demise.
So in a word, I’m married to an educated, lazy-ass, loud-mouthed bitch, who is all too comfortable with her tore-up weave and her fake lashes, flopping around the house in funky-ass sweats and oversized shirts and those ugly-ass Chinese slippers with the rhinestones.
Now. You tell me. Who the hell wants to come home to that shit every night?
Not me.
Like I mentioned, I don’t even sleep in the same bed with her. One, she hogs the bed. And, two, she snores like one. Sleep apnea or not, the bitch looks like Hannibal with that breathing apparatus strapped to her face at night.
And yet, she wonders why I don’t wanna fuck her. Not that we don’t fuck. Just not on the regular. And only when jerking out this nut isn’t enough.
Yeah, I can’t stand her ass. But, fuck. I’m still a man with needs. And I still have a dick that gets hard, and horny.
And she’s still a piece of ass, who’s laying up in here not paying one motherfucking bill. So, uh, yeah, the least she can do is roll over and get up on all fours whenever I’m feeling generous enough to grace her with a few hard strokes.
So when I give her this hard dick—after I’ve gotten myself aroused thinking about fucking someone else—it’s a pity fuck. A hard, dirty pounding—from the back; always from the back—out of anger and desperation and fucking disgust.
It’s fucked up to say this, but I can’t fuck her unless I’m thinking of someone else. I close my eyes, imagine I’m somewhere—anywhere else but here, with her—then beat her shit up wishing it were her face. Smacking her ass, hard and rough, is the only time I aggressively put my hands on her.
Every time I fuck her, I try to beat her ovaries up. Try to gut out her uterus. Sometimes, I even grab her in a chokehold while I’m hitting that shit from the back, wishing I could snap her fucking neck. That’s how bad it is. That’s how deep my hate for her runs. But then I think about Amaya and keep from snatching her breath.
And the irony is, she loves it. Begs for it.
Her pussy gets real wet when I yank her by the hair and try to snatch her scalp off. Or when I manhandle her.
“Yes, nigga, ooh, fuck me! Beat that shit up! Aah! Aah! Aah! Yassss! Yasss! I know you hate me, nigga. But you love this pussy…”
Yeah, okay, if she only knew.
True. I used to love the pussy. Used to.
All that pussy is to me, now, is a wet hole. A convenience. A cum-dump. And it being at my disposal when I’m high and horny enough to wanna put my dick in it is all I care about.
Here’s another crazy thing. After I beat that shit down, she’s good for a few days, up whistling and smiling and trying to be nice, wanting to fix us.
But, like I said, it’s too late. There’s nothing to fix. We’re gonna keep doing what we do.
Nothing.
So now when she gets in her feelings, I leave her ass sitting in them, biding my time. And, if she starts popping shit, I let her argue by her damn self, which usually only sets her off more. Then she gets it in her little, crazy-ass head that there’s someone else.
“Motherfucker, are you cheating on me?!”
“Hell no, I’m not cheating. I should be. But I’m not.”
“Well, you’re fucking something because you’re damn sure not fucking me!”
“Listen, go ’head with that. I’m not doing this with you with Maya in the other room.”
“Nigga, I don’t give a fuck about Maya being in the other room! Maybe she needs to hear how fucked up you are.”
“Listen. Watch your fucking mouth, aiight?”
“Or what, nigga? I asked you a fucking question. Who you out there fucking?”
“No one. Damn. Now get the fuck off my back.”
“Nigga, I ain’t on your back, yet! I know y
ou fucking some dirty bitch. But if I find out who the bitch is, I’ma fuck her up. Try me!”
“Think what you want. I can get pussy anytime I want. But I don’t. So to answer your question, dumbass, I’m not fucking you because of you, not because of some other broad.”
“Nigga, fuck you and that little-ass dick! You ain’t gotta fuck me, bitch! That little-ass dick ain’t about shit anyway.”
“Yeah, aiight. Then why you sweating it if it ain’t about shit, huh?”
“Motherfucker, get the fuck out of my face!”
And, of course, Amaya heard that shit, too.
I frown, shaking the thought of our last argument two weeks ago out of my head. Yeah, I’m miserable in this marriage. But I’m still married. So until she leaves, or I can get up this money to file for a divorce—and get custody of our daughter—cheating is out, no matter how bad I want some stress-free pussy.
Shit, if I could afford one of those “happy-ending” massages, I’d let some slanted-eyed babe work the nut out of me.
But I’m not even chancing that. Just my luck, she’d fuck around and catch me getting this dick handled. Then try to fuck me over more than she already has. So, nah, I’ll get this nut off solo—well, with the help of porn and phone sex, for now. Otherwise, I’m not giving her any ammunition to use against me when it’s time to take her ass to court. But, trust me. If I was the kind of man to step out and fuck other women, I would. It’s not like I’m not being tempted. Pussy is always being thrown at me.
It’s like the more I say no, the more it’s being tossed at me. Still, as hard as it is, I resist. But fuck. Do you know how badly I want some new pussy? Some head? I’d love to have my dick sucked right now. And these balls licked, slow and wet. Would love to give this dick to someone who appreciated a good man and some good goddamn dick.
But I don’t need the added drama.
Not right now.
So I’ll pass.
I just want this bitch gone.
I want her to go on with her pathetic life, and leave Amaya and me alone. Let her ass be the weekend parent. It’s not like she’s doing much of the parenting any-damn-way. But, for now, I take the high road. Bite my tongue. And keep pretending.