Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  “I see,” she said. “Less headaches. That’s why I’m enjoying your amazing dick. Tired of faking orgasms with my husband.”

  Admiring her hourglass frame, I twirled her nipples. All I wanted to do now was enjoy watching Kandy get off. I pulled her upper body to me.

  Now that I knew she was like most women I’d met, who weren’t being dicked down properly by their man, I said, “If we were together, you could ride this all day, every day.”

  Her legs shivered uncontrollably. A sound deep inside her belly rumbled. She roared like a wild animal in the jungle mating for the first time. Her breasts, arms, stomach, and back became moist.

  Catlike, she stood, picked up her purse, tiptoed into my bedroom. I followed her. Stopped as she entered my bathroom. I heard the door lock. Returning to the living room, I retrieved her dress from the balcony, ended the video.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I opened my social page, started to post. Rethought that move. Created a fake page, clicked upload, watched our video. Had to shake my head. I could make some dollars off of that shit. See how much her husband worships her if he witness this.

  The shower flowed seemingly forever. Kandy unlocked the bathroom door. I stood ready to feast my eyes one last time on the body of a brainless goddess.

  Kandy was fully dressed in a red sundress. Scanning down to her feet, the heels matched. Trailing her to my front, I picked up her purple dress, handed it to her along with her golden heels. Didn’t regret exposing her.

  She opened the front door, looked up at me. “Keep it as a gift. Trymm? Right? I know my way out.”

  Downing two male enhancement tablets, I needed Kandy to hold on to that “what’s his name?” attitude. She’d made it easy for me to leave her on my fake page and log out of my new account. See how long it takes for her to never forget me.

  A text message registered from Francine, Sorry about the Walter situation. I miss you, babe.

  Yeah. Right. She could get the fuck outta my life too.

  CHAPTER 5

  Francine

  Day 3

  “Aren’t you happy you didn’t miss the concert of a lifetime?” The question was rhetorical. Rene couldn’t stop raving about Common, but Mariah Carey gave my girlfriend life.

  Rene strolled beside me along the Riverwalk, singing all the lyrics to “We Belong Together,” when all I was trying to do was deny I needed to replay “Shake It Off ” in my mind. The pit of my stomach churned. My gut felt like spoiled whipped butter. How much longer would I endure this heartache. I stopped, gazed at the full moon. Watched boats docked at the pier on the muddy Mississippi.

  “You’re right. I’m glad I didn’t miss our girls’ night out yesterday.” But in a way I had. Every song performed, I couldn’t stop thinking, worrying, wondering, Where is Trymm? Who is he with? When will this break end? The next one begin?

  R. Kelly’s music blasted in the distance. Rene stood beside me. “Check out all the people gathered by that yacht.” She started dancing. “My husband and I did a midnight cruise as part of our honeymoon package.” Rene smiled as though she had an X-rated flashback. “Maybe someone is hosting an Essence after party. Let’s go be nosy.”

  It was an hour before midnight. The last headliner was probably on stage at the Mercedes-Benz Superdome. “An after party doesn’t make sense this early. I’m good. All I see is a bunch of women. Where they gon’ sail to in the dark?” I asked, then answered, “To the West Bank?” That was less than a ten-minute drive from where we stood.

  “Darling, where females gather, men follow. The best parties always let women in first.” Staring into my eyes, she questioned, “Aw, honey. Why do you stay with Trymm when clearly he doesn’t care about you?”

  Rene was sincerely an upbeat person who couldn’t relate to my pain. I confessed, “The thought of letting him go creates a level of anxiety that makes me feel”—I paused, feeling vulnerable—“like I’m going to go out of my mind. Or, worse, die.” There, I’d admitted it to someone for the first time.

  If my family and coworkers knew my truth, they’d call me stupid. I’m not. I’m highly intelligent when it came to my job. And I had a plan. Once Trymm and I married, knowing his family didn’t believe in divorce, the real Francine was showing up and out. “I can’t live without him, Rene.”

  All I had was what President Obama had instilled in me. Hope kept me from acting out on the rage—making him a punching bag, destroying his car, bleaching his clothes, tearing up his home. I feared that would make him take longer to propose or, worse, he’d break up with me for good and some other woman would enjoy the married life I deserved.

  “ ‘Can’t’? Or don’t want to? No man is worth wasting a decade of your life on,” she said.

  I knew that. But try convincing my heart.

  “You’re scared of what? Doing better? Meeting a man that will respect you?” Holding my hands, she continued to speak. “Francine, I have never seen you truly happy with him since I’ve met you.” She touched the top notch of my braid. Her fingers meandered to the tip that was below my hips. I felt her untangling the end.

  I panicked. “Stop! Don’t do that to me!” Snatching my ponytail from her, I draped it over my shoulder, held on to it as though it were my lifeline to Trymm.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. You can’t even let your own hair down without Trymm’s permission. Women spend thousands of dollars for good Indian hair. God blessed you with it and you keep it coiled up just like your real feelings.” Rene cupped my face in her palms.

  I bit the inside of my lips hard as my eyes watered, then broke her bond. I knew she cared, but I didn’t. She had her husband. I deserved mine. “Please don’t touch me.”

  Rene stepped back. “Pretty lil light skin, five foot ten, slim, curvy, sexy, had all those fine-ass men last night competing to buy you a drink. Begging you to take their number. And one by one, you rejected them all. For what? A man that makes you miserable.”

  I nodded at her. No matter what Rene said, we knew last names in New Orleans, Louisiana, had meaning. One could say Hankton, Carter, Bartholomew, Morial, or Allen and automatically an association with an entire family was made. Dupree was prestigious.

  “I love you, Francine. I saw a post the other day stating ‘Black Women Are Weak.’ That post could’ve very well . . . had your picture on it. You are the weakest woman I know.”

  Bad relationships could turn good. Sometimes so-called perfect marriages became nightmares. Tired of listening to her give me her opinion, I said, “Thanks for judging me my friend. Hopefully one day I won’t have to return the favor.”

  I wasn’t weak. I was determined.

  CHAPTER 6

  Trymm

  Day 3

  Fucking around with Kandy’s ass almost made me late for my own yacht party.

  Arriving three minutes before eleven, I zigzagged through my pack of soon-to-be carnivores, pumping my fist to Chris Brown’s “Privacy.” BobbyRay unhooked the red velvet rope, let me board, then refastened it.

  He whispered, “This sex group is international. Most of them like females, too. The organizer heard about the other clubs. She came to me and requested an exclusive. The only way she’d agree to the terms was in exchange for a twenty-thousand-dollar donation. I took care of it. But you owe me. Cool?”

  I told him, “They’re here now. Next time run that shit by me before, not after. Give me ten minutes to get ready for my internationals.”

  Heard a voice say, “Hey, Trymm, baby. Remember me?”

  She could’ve been from anywhere in the world. I’d find out who she was soon enough. Not bothering to turn around, I headed belowdecks to my bedroom. Learned the hard way, had to ensure there were no repeats on anything foul. First thing I did was move the ice containers to the corner. Didn’t want any of the ladies getting extra creative by turning my circular king-sized mattress into an ice bath. Had enough of those as an athlete. No liquor in or near my throne. Refills required getting up and not thro
wing up on me. I made sure there was plenty of appetizers on the upper deck, far away from me. Refused to have anyone stuffing my face . . . with food.

  Kandy crossed my mind. Wondered how she was trending on social. I wanted to see her again. Ask her to leave her husband. Should be able to double up on my count if I could pull off convincing one of my married pieces to file for divorce.

  As I made my way back to BobbyRay, the muddy Mississippi was cleaner than the two hundred wedded females that set sail with me the last forty-eight hours. I was sure I had another beating coming from Walter, but winning the mil was my priority.

  ’Bout to stack another hundred. Make that a hunded, just like basketball days, and add on an ‘and one’ for Mrs. Kandy. No one would ever know about dude that sucked me off.

  “Hey, Trymm.” A sexy Southern belle, the first to greet me, smiled, waving her fingers and swaying her ass in the wind as she stepped off the ramp onto the yacht.

  “I’ma need you to enter your name and sign this waiver right here,” BobbyRay told her as he held my iPad. “Use your finger. Remove your hat and sunglasses.”

  Laughing, she did as he’d requested. BobbyRay tagged her upper left shoulder with a sticker that revealed her number, #1. She struck a pose. He snapped her photo with the same device, then moved on to the next guest. I’d left my cell in the glove compartment of my GLS. Didn’t need it. BobbyRay had surveillance setup from every angle on the yacht.

  “Welcome . . .” Before I could finish my sentence, Southern Belle put on her shades, unwrapped her dress, let it fall to those gladiator spiked heels. The brim of her wide sun hat flopped over her forehead as though the sun was beaming at high noon. Women waiting to come aboard started undressing in line.

  Southern Belle encouraged a male enhancement rise outta me that couldn’t be denied. I’d lost track of how many pills I’d taken since Friday. Had to slow down. Tomorrow. Get back to work at my restaurant.

  I slid my hand from the nape of her neck to her front hairline as she grabbed the rim of her hat before it hit the floor. Wanted to feel her silky strands tickle my balls. Had to admit, I was a dog well before I’d pledged purple and gold.

  My boy counted off the number of women boarding. “Thirty-one, thirty-two.”

  Southern Belle licked my dick, then said, “I’m on deck for whatever you want, I just hafta be first.”

  That bitch was a lotta bit too late. Thanks to Old Granddad, my grandfather, and a street ho he called Desire, who did it all for a few dollars, I’d lost my innocence at the age of eleven.

  Southern Belle’s lashes blinked once. “Where and how do you want me?” she asked, holding on to my shaft.

  BobbyRay was halfway through to my maximum count. A twerking contest with all naked babes jumped off right in my face.

  “Suck it three times, take as much as you can handle, then say, ‘I love you, Trymm.’”

  Dumb bitch tried to do it. Barely got past my frenulum before gagging. Mutual exchange was no robbery. She got what she wanted. I got what she’d come for. Whoever her stupid husband was he should cut his losses and pawn the bling on her finger. Her beauty faded in the shadow of other conquests. Southern Belle could take a swamp tour, fall overboard, get swallowed by an alligator, I didn’t give a fuck. She was number 202 and officially under my belt.

  “Ninety-nine, one hundred,” my homey BobbyRay said aloud. “Time to set sail, Captain!”

  BobbyRay gave forty-four a flute filled with bubbly, then placed a glass of cold champagne in Southern Belle’s hand to wash away what I perceived as a bad attitude, as I gawked at forty-four dumbfounded. Quickly, forty-four turned her back to me.

  Lawd, have mercy! I was about to put everyone off the yacht. Elbowing BobbyRay, I whispered in my homey’s ear, “Who the fuck is fordy-fo, yo’?” Dat ass, though.

  Turning from the female flow to give me his undivided, BobbyRay said, “Guess she’s just out to have fun like the rest.”

  Spotted the ring from the distance. “Who’s her ball and chain? You know?” I had to find out. Not really. She was here, and that nigga could stay wherever the fuck he was, ya heard me.

  “Not sure. I imagine she’s in town for the festival like most. How you want me to handle her?”

  I couldn’t dog her like the rest. Couldn’t let her see my trickin’ game. “Save her for a real date.”

  “One better,” my homey said. “Do what you came to do. I’ll set her up alone in my suite, let her relax, and whenever you’re ready for that one-on-one, she’ll be all yours.”

  Too late to get her number and put her off the yacht. “Don’t fuck her,” I said. “She’s mine. Something about her is special.”

  My boy smiled. Nodded. “You can trust me. They’re all yours, bruh. I’m just eating leftovers.”

  Started moving closer to fordy-fo to intro myself. Asked, “What’s your name, suga?”

  Damn, her smile makes me melt. Feel like a kid. Hadn’t experienced butterflies since I dated my first love and high-school sweetheart.

  Untying her scarf, she said, “It’s me. Heard about your party. Thought I’d come. See you haven’t changed.”

  Oh, wow! I removed her sunglasses, stared into her big brown eyes. Her nose was smaller, lips crazy bigger, slender hips were rounded. Taking her by the hand, I spun her in a 360. She had what must’ve been quadruple boobs. “Atlantis Broussard?”

  Slowly she nodded.

  My heart raced. I held on to her left hand. “You married yet?”

  AB. That was what I used to call her. She was flat everywhere when we were in the twelfth grade. She’d rounded out nicely. Now the only thing flat on her was her stomach. Spinning her around again, I bit my bottom lip. Blitz, that nigga was right. Atlantis looked incredible.

  “Engaged,” she answered, seeming all happy and shit.

  Blitz had talked her up. Or had that nigga sent her here? No way he could’ve found out about my secret sails. Nor could he cozy up to this right here. Hell, I might have to use my old-school charm on AB.

  Atlantis continued with, “To him.”

  No fucking way my competition was about to ball-and-chain my favorite female. Staring deep into her eyes, I spoke what I felt in my heart. “Don’t marry that nigga. Let me change that.”

  Atlantis knew I was a freak but I prayed she hadn’t seen Southern Belle give me those three licks and that she wasn’t about to walk down that aisle with my competitor. That homey was a straight nerd. Atlantis was here. That meant she was searching for something. Looking for me. I’d hoped.

  Hearing Atlantis say, “François Trymm Dupree, I still love you” made my dick hard as a fucking rock. Waving her palm face-up, she added, “But this is why we could never be.”

  The mission could not be aborted. I placed Atlantis’s hand in BobbyRay’s, then told him, “Take excellent care of my future wife.”

  As I headed belowdecks, Clydesdale was the true superstud. Women gasped watching him crawl past my belly button. Stood in line to touch my dick to see if it was real. Examined it like they had credentials.

  A porn-type chick set the bar by announcing, “If you can’t make the whole dick fit, you gotta suck, suck, pass!”

  The relay was nonstop until we docked. Long as they kissed, licked, or rode (successfully or not), I was the victor.

  Witnessing the number of sexually deprived women drinking and partying in their birthday suits was astronomical. Two muthafuckin’ thumbs-up to all the homies that left their hot, juicy, pulsating pussy on pause just so they could bang another bitch.

  Trymm got your wife, bruh. Once I spank her with this colossal, she might leave you, homey. And don’t come crying or bitchin’ to me, bitch. Just remember where you busted your last nut, nigga.

  CHAPTER 7

  Trymm

  Day 9

  Needless to say, I never made it to number 301, after Atlantis stayed isolated by BobbyRay. A text from Kandy registered, Back in town. Wanna meet up?

  Kandy? Right? was my re
sponse. Although I’d removed the video of her this morning, there was no way in hell she hadn’t seen or, at a minimum, heard about a tape going viral of a woman French-kissing a man’s asshole.

  Locking the door to the office, I booted up my iPad. My homey had downloaded all the footage from my three voyages last weekend. I’d created four social pages with a white horse profile pic and named them all Clydesdale2930.

  Kandy’s dude was more than likely a spitting personality of me living that “Mind of a Man” life Usher sang about, which meant I’d probably done him a favor exposing his wife. Who gave a fuck if he saw it? If I knew him, I’d direct message that nigga on the strength.

  None of the crewe specified our face had to be shown. I edited out my frame from the neck up, and blurred the females boarding in background. All that was left was Southern Belle’s face and Clydesdale hanging out of her mouth. Soon as I posted ole gurl, the one who had to lead the group, I looped her video.

  I pressed ENTER. Posted three more times, DM the link to my homies. Instantly my cell blew up and after answering one call, I was in the mix of a conference with Kohl, Dallas, and Blitz.

  Francine messaged me, See you later?

  “I’m on speaker? Y’all best not be at the Trolley Stop,” I said, shutting down my iPad.

  Dallas replied, “Ain’t nobody called you ’cause Walter supposedly had you on that short leash. Otherwise, you woulda been posting all day, every. What the hell you sent us?”

  Blitz chimed in, “Yeah, bring your ass over to Jax now so we see what else you got.”

  “We outside,” Kohl added.

  “On my way,” I said, putting my computer in the drawer.

  On second thought I took it with me, but I wasn’t showing my hand. Best to put Francine on pause until the challenge was over. I texted Atlantis, When can you steal away?

  Found out that Atlantis had let her fiancé move in with her. That told me he was a bullshit nigga that couldn’t rub his coins together. Had to balance getting back to bangin’ and courting my one-and-only true love. More like persuading her to call off her lame-ass engagement.