by Cairo
She jumps up from her seat, slamming her hands on her hips. “You got a lot of nerve to be judging me,” she snaps.
“I’m not judging you,” I snap back. Bitch! “I’m judging the company you keep. But if the shoe fits, then wear it well.”
She swings open my office door, and storms out, leaving a dust of anger behind her. I frown, shaking my head. Pathetic, I think, getting up from my seat to close the door. I’m sorry to say this, but some women out here are fucking trifling. And, trust me. It damn sure isn’t always a man’s fault for some of these women being so damn jacked up.
My cell phone rings. I glance at the number that flashes across the screen. It’s Garrett. I sigh, contemplating whether or not I should answer. Against my better judgment, I pick up. Attitude in my tone. “Hello?”
“We need to talk,” he says flatly.
“About?”
He sighs. “What we were talking about last night.”
“There’s nothing else to talk about. You said what you wanted, and I told you what I wasn’t going to give you. What more is there to talk about?”
“Listen,” he says, sounding frustrated. “I’m not trying to get into this over the phone. What time you getting off from work?”
“Oh, no,” I say, getting up from my desk and walking over to the window. I look down onto the street. Watch as the cars go to and fro. “You are not about to come to my house to beat me in the head about something that isn’t an option.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“Garrett,” I say, walking back to my desk. I shuffle through a stack of mail. “I’m not having this discussion with you, today, tonight, tomorrow, or any other time. Good bye.” I disconnect the call, plopping down in my high back leather chair.
See, this is the reason why I need to stick to my three month rule. Fuck ’em, rotate ’em, then let ’em go. Out of all my fuck charms, Garrett—aside from Maurice—is the one who has never brought any drama with him. And he’s never tried to make our arrangement out to be more than what it’s been. Until now! What the fuck has gotten into him? I should not have to remind him of our “agreement,” the one I’ve been guilty of not following (with him) the last few weeks, the last several months: Fuck on occasion, once every few months.
Everything between us was fine. Now he wants to fuck on demand. Damn him! Like I said months ago, I’ve kept him around the longest out of all my fucks for the simple fact that he came with good dick. And he understood the rules. Now he’s trying to rearrange shit. And I’m not feeling it. I already see where this is going, and I don’t like it one damn bit. I swear I don’t want to axe him. He feels so damn good inside of me, but I’ll seal this pussy shut before I allow him to try to wife me up.
I take a deep breath. I try to list the reasons why I have been riding Garrett’s dick off and on for the last two, almost three, years. Try to remind myself of the fact that he’s always good, like Wade, for those last minute tune-ups. He aims to service the pussy with no questions asked. And he doesn’t come with any damn drama. I try to balance the pros and cons of keeping him on my team. Try to rationalize holding onto him when I don’t have any emotional connection to him. Or do I?
“Hell, no!” I snap, glancing at the Waterford crystal desk clock. It is twelve-fifteen. “Girl, get over yourself. The nigga has to go!” I get up from my seat and grab my purse, deciding to go to lunch. “And the next time he calls, I’m gonna serve him his discharge papers,” I say to myself as I head out of my office and pass the different work areas en route to the elevators. I spot Nahdirah sitting at her desk, talking on the phone. I toss my hair and act as if I don’t see her. Make her retarded ass invisible.
On my way to the Olive Garden on Route 22, Ian calls me on my prepaid cell. He says he wants to see me tonight. I decline. I am in no mood for him after the fucking Garrett and Majestic put on me over the weekend. Although I know sliding up in my pussy wasn’t on his mind, having him plunging in and out of my asshole isn’t an option either; especially not after the way he had my hole sizzling the last time. Thanks, but no thanks! I don’t even feel like sucking his dick.
“Can I get a rain check?” I ask, pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot. “Tonight’s really not a good night.” I park next to a burgundy Range Rover, then remove my seatbelt, keeping the car running.
“Damn, baby,” he says, practically whining. “I was hoping to see you tonight.” I roll my eyes. “What about tomorrow night?”
“Actually,” I say, flipping down my visor to check my eyeliner, “I was thinking more like one day next week.”
“Well, how ’bout I come by and we just chill?”
“Umm, that sounds wonderful, but I’m not really in the mood for a man tonight.”
“Oh, word? I can dig it,” he says, sounding rejected. “How ’bout you hit me up when you ready to get it in then?”
No, nigga, how ’bout I erase you from my list, I think. “I will,” I say, flipping up the visor, then shutting off the engine. “Thanks for calling.”
“Aiight,” he says. “Later.”
I hang up and get out of my car, walking towards the entrance. There are about ten people standing outside, which tells me the place is crowded. I go inside and walk up to the podium, and I am greeted with a wide smile. “Hello, Welcome to the Olive Garden.”
Hello,” I respond. “Can you tell me how long the wait is?” She says it’s a fifteen-minute wait. I decide to stay and give her my name. “I’ll be outside,” I tell her.
“This will light up,” she says, handing me a wooden disc, “when your table is ready.”
I go outside and sit on one of the benches. I am glad it’s warm out, almost like summer. There are three chicks, two black and one white, sitting on a bench not too far from me. I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation, and roll my eyes up in my head as one of them is saying something about being tired of dating broke men. The other two agreed. I literally almost pass out when I hear her say she agreed with her mother that as long as a woman is spreading open her legs, she should never be broke.
I cross my legs, thankful I have my shades on as I roll my eyes again. I get so tired of hearing women talking about needing or wanting a man for his money. That shit is so tired, and played out. I mean, really. Enough already. I want so bad to chime in and tell her to get the fuck over herself and stop looking for handouts.
We are living in the twenty-first century and more women need to learn to be self-sufficient, and self-reliant, and stop playing the damn damsel in distress role. Stop settling for that gold digger mentality. It’s really sad, and fucking disturbing, that there are still a lot of women who buy into that archaic way of thinking that a man should take care of her. As long as women hold onto that belief, they will always be dependent on a man. And when shit doesn’t work out, she’ll be a prisoner of her own choices—trapped, miserable and damn desperate to latch onto another cash cow before day’s end.
Hell, my thing is, get your ass up and do something constructive with your life besides breeding a bunch of damn babies, and gold digging. Get an education, pursue a career, and stack your money. ’Cause at the end of the day, if a man ever decides to walk out on you with the next chick, or if he takes ill, you still need to be able to stand. As far as I’m concerned, don’t rely on a man to do shit for you, except provide you with some dick, and maybe a little companionship.
Ugh! I am so glad my cell phone rings to give me something to do besides listen in on their pathetic conversation. It’s Mitchell. “Hello.”
“You ready to see me?” he asks, chewing in my ear.
I pull the phone away from my ear and frown. “What?”
He repeats himself.
Lucky for him the lights start flashing on my wooden puck. “Listen, delete my number.” I hang up before he can say another word. I don’t know how the hell, or why, his woman puts up with him, I think, getting up from my seat to go inside to enjoy an extended lunch. Poor thing!
As I follow
the hostess to my seat, I decide I will take the rest of the day off. It’s too nice to be holed up in somebody’s office. I will go home and lounge around, listening to music and watching movies. Then tonight I will give myself a pedicure and a facial, before luxuriating in a hot, steamy bath with candlelight and soft music. I am not in the mood to be bothered with anyone else’s man today. But come tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll have my sweet, tight pussy wrapped around someone’s stiff dick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
You know, after sitting here giving all of you nasty peeping toms an up-close-and-personal look into my life, confiding in you, sharing all of my deepest thoughts, dreams, my sexapades, freaky fantasies, sex tips, and even some of my fears as if you were my dearest friends, I realize I know nothing about any of you. Other than the fact that most of you like all this nasty shit I’m telling you, ya’ll are a bunch of strangers to me. Hell, no! On second thought, a bunch of voyeuristic freaks, that’s what ya’ll are.
Humph, and what’s even more crazy is that this realization reminds me that I don’t have one female friend with whom I can laugh and talk and share secrets. And it also reminds me of the reason why. Because, like I said before, most females can’t be trusted when it comes to telling them your personal business, especially phony-ass females. Like I mentioned before, they’ll smile up in your face, and be plotting on how they can take your spot. I’m not having that. I did it once, and the trick tried to fuck my ex. So, now you know why I hate when a woman runs her damn mouth about her relationship or her man to her so-called friends. I did that shit once—confided in a bitch about my relationship, and it cost me, dearly. I lost what I thought was a good friendship, and a relationship with a man who claimed he loved me. Then again, in hindsight, I really didn’t lose out on shit. If anything, I gained. And finding out the truth about both of their asses saved me a bunch of drama in the end. Still, the whole ordeal was painful. To be betrayed by someone whom you thought you could trust. After all the times I had her back, bailed her out of situations, gave her a shoulder to cry on—hell, even lean on, unconditionally loved and cheered for her, and…still, that wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
And when that trick-bitch turned around and tried to fuck my ex, Vaughn, I knew then I would never, ever, trust another woman with anything personal again. I started picking up on what she was doing when she kept popping up over my house, unexpectedly. And it just so happened to be any time Vaughn’s car was in my driveway. And she’d be prancing in wearing practically nothing. Making it her business to let him know what was what with her ass. A few times, I caught her ass eyeing him, and licking her lips, trying to be sly with it. No, I didn’t say shit at first. See, I learned sometimes you got to know when to sit back and watch what the fuck is going on around you. And that’s exactly what I did until I got tired of the show. Then I called her ass on it. And the bitch had the fucking nerve to say, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’d ask me something like that. That shit is nasty, and disrespectful. You know I wouldn’t do no shit like that.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’d do,” I had snapped. “But what I do know is you been coming around here every time Vaughn’s car is outside—just popping up, like you were in the neighborhood, knowing damn well your motherfucking ass lives all the way across town. I also know that the last four times you dropped by, you made it your business to sit across from him so that every time you opened and closed your legs, he could get a glimpse of your pussy—”
“Bianca, now c’mon, girl,” she urged, slamming her hands on her hips. “You are really starting to bug now. I can’t believe you are going to stand here and accuse me of trying to get with your man. That’s really stretching it. Please, he is cute and all, but he is not my type. And you should already know that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Karen, do me a favor and save that shit for someone else. A pussy has no motherfucking conscience, and you know like I know that a horny bitch will fuck another woman’s man without any thought. And I don’t care what you say, you wanna fuck my man.”
Then this bitch had the audacity to go into an Academy Award winning performance and start shedding tears, talking about how hurt she was that I would come at her like that, accusing her of trying to disrespect our friendship and my relationship. Lying bitch!
“You’re like a sister to me,” she had the fucking nerve to say. “I don’t know what you think you saw or heard, but I’m telling you, I would never do no shit like that.”
“And there are plenty of sisters who will fuck her own sister’s man, so don’t give me that bullshit.”
Well, long story short, the bitch would do some shit like that, and she tried. But, she didn’t exactly get what she wanted. And when I confronted Vaughn about my suspicions, he readily admitted, which was surprising to me, that she had been saying slick shit to get at him, but he would brush it off. I asked him why he never mentioned it, and he said because it wasn’t a big deal. Yeah, okay. I know better. As far as I am concerned, he should have checked her ass, then told me what the hell she was up to. But since he wanted to keep shit on the low, obviously needing and wanting her to feed his already super-sized ego, I dumped his ass. I had to wonder what else he was keeping from me. Call it extreme if you want. But if some chick I’m supposedly cool with is stepping to my man, I expect to know about it, right then. There’s no damn way I want a man in my life who keeps secrets. Sorry, boo-boo, you ain’t the one for me!
And since then, I haven’t allowed another bitch into my personal space. The only bitch I need in my life is me. At least I know what I’m capable of. But another bitch, humph…now, that’s a whole ’nother story. I don’t trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em. And trust me, there’s too many of them slimy hoes for me to be trying to spend my life tossing around, so I choose to not fuck with ’em, period. Hell, as advanced as technology is, you would think someone would have developed a Ho-scanner by now. Some type of device a chick can either carry in her purse to wand a bitch down, or install around her front door, so that when she allows a chick to enter her home or personal space, bells and whistles start going off, alerting her that the company she is keeping has the potential to fuck her man, if given the right opportunity. And then the bitch would have to wear some type of identifying marker, like a damn metal wristband or something so every woman with a man would know who the hell was amongst her. Now, if you ask me, that would cut down on a lot of damn heartache, disappointment and confusion.
Humph. I haven’t given Vaughn or that tramp Karen a second thought in almost four years until today. And in all honesty, I need to probably thank her ass because if it hadn’t been for that situation, I would probably be still thinking that bitch was my friend.
Anyway, even if Vaughn would have told me what she was up to, I would have still eventually ended it with him. There were some things about our relationship that weren’t sitting well with me. Sexually speaking, he often left me unfulfilled. He had a nice nine-inch dick, but the mofo was stingy as hell with it. He couldn’t deal with how I liked to fuck all the time. While I wanted it two to three times a day, he was okay with fucking once or twice a week. What kind of shit is that? That’s some mess you do when you’re in your sixties.
I practically had to beg him for the dick, or wait until he was asleep, then take it. Trust me. That started getting real played. Please tell me. How many men you know who have access to a steady supply of wet, hot pussy turn it down, unless they getting it somewhere else? But he swore up and down there wasn’t another woman. Hmmm, okay. Then maybe…ugh! I don’t even want to entertain the possibility of him being one of those down-low brothers as an option. But, nowadays, who the hell knows?
Bottom line, there was no regular fucking going on in my own bed. And when he did hit this pussy, he didn’t like for me to talk dirty, or make a lot of noise. I felt so damn constricted with him. Couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that. Hell, he only wanted me to lie there, and listen to him grunt and pant for forty minutes. God forbid i
f I did let loose, and go into freak mode, he’d cum within ten minutes, and would barely be able to get it up again for another round, or he’d fall into a deep, bear-growling snore.
And through it all, not once in the three years I was with him, did I go out and get some side dick. I thought about it. And as bad as I wanted to, I refused to cheat on him. But, trust and believe, after I broke it off with him, I made myself a promise that I’d never be involved with another man who couldn’t keep me satisfied in the sack. I refuse to be deprived (or stifled) sexually ever again. I will never again be with a man who feels the need to ration out the dick. And I mean that!
Ugh! All this “strolling down memory lane” got me thinking about my worst sexual experience. I was in my sophomore year in college and there was this junior, Jonathan, in my human development class that every chick on the campus wanted. If there were two hundred chicks sweating him, best believe he’d already fucked at least sixty of ’em. And on the surface, I could understand why. Besides being the star point guard for our basketball team, he was capital F-I-N-E. six, three, 210 pounds of smooth, honey-coated skin with the prettiest almond-shaped, light brown eyes I have ever seen (to this day) on a man.
Well, long story short, spring semester I gave him some pussy. And it was absolutely horrible! His dick game was so busted it was almost depressing. First, he had a hard time finding my hole, then he finally gets it in and it keeps slipping out because he’s too busy trying to long stroke it when he was only working with a short stick, if you know what I mean. And when I say short, I mean measuring in at four-and-a-half very thick inches. I couldn’t believe it! Now, I know I basically said a while back that dick size was strictly a matter of preference. And like I said, a big dick can be a nice treat from time to time. But, as I already mentioned, I’d rather have a man with a thick six to eight inches plunging in and out of my pussy on a regular, than nine inches or more. Because the truth is, I don’t want my shit stretched open so wide that a man needs an express train to get to the other side, or a damn escalator in order to hit the bottom. That is not cute. But, fucking a man with only four inches of hard dick, now that is a damn travesty! Hell, as far as I’m concerned, that isn’t a dick on a grown-ass man, it’s a damn butt plug. Ugh, poor thing!