The Book of Leon

by Leon Black

  Plus, memory foam just takes, and trust me, you don’t want a mattress that just takes and takes, you need a mattress that gives, one that takes a pounding and bounces back. Next time you walk into a mattress store, make sure you’re prepared. Test every mattress. Throw a basketball on there and see how high it bounces. Throw your lady right afterward and see how high she flies. If she barely bounces, that’s a low-quality mattress. If she bounces over your head, that shit is too much; you could wind up killing someone with an apparatus like that. But if you toss your lady and she bounces back up into your arms, you’ve found yourself a perfect damn mattress.

  Oh, and mattress makers, don’t tell me what the fuck to do—don’t tell me not to tear the tag off. I’ll rip that shit the fuck off if I want to! Also, I don’t need one of those mattresses with the arrow signs that say “This Side Up.” How do they fucking know what feels good to me or what I’m trying to accomplish? Say I just had sex with a lady and I don’t want her staying the night, I’m gonna put the box spring on top of the mattress, flip that shit . . . so now we are sleeping uncomfortably on the motherfucking wood. She’s not going to like that, and at some point in the middle of the night she’ll roll over and I’ll see the glow of her phone as she orders an Uber.

  Problem solved.

  THOSE TADDIES

  This is a topic that is near and dear to me! I love me some damn breasts and the women who possess them! One thing I don’t understand is men who are nailed down to one type of breast or ass. Look, as far as titties go, it’s like this rhyme I heard:

  Appreciate the titty you see today,

  For they’re all pretty in their own way.

  That damn poem is as true today as it was when I heard it in the third grade. With that, I want to break down for you the three basic types of titties—four if you count fake ones, but I hate fake ones so much that I’m not giving them their own category. With fake ass titties there’s a smell of plastic that makes me feel like I’m in some fucking sci-fi movie having sex with a way too perfect robot. See, I don’t like perfection, I like a balance. If a lady has sexy lips, it works for me if she has a club foot. Or if a lady has perfect thighs, it doesn’t work for me unless she has a sexy ass hump or something like that, see what I’m saying!

  I was gonna do a section on ass, but basically there are only two types of asses, fat and flat, and I don’t count the second one. Also, while big asses are desirable, just remember that as big asses get older, the one thing they don’t get is smaller. Anyway, here’s the three types of titties:

  1. The Bitty: These are small to nonexistent. Most fat men have bigger ones than these. You might think they serve no purpose, but years ago I heard of a group called the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Well, I went to one of those meetings, and lemme tell you, those damn ladies were some of the sexiest, most organized women I ever met. I wound up making monthly speeches at their meetings, where I discussed the concept that “More than a mouthful is a waste.” They ate that shit up! To be honest with you, that was just some bullshit I had heard; truth is, if you had anything more than a mouthful, you would just put the rest of that shit in the fridge and have it later. Plus, who sits down to eat just a mouthful? I want a plate of damn food—a plate of food, seconds, and some damn dessert!

  2. The Titty: These are what you want. These are what you marry! Big, but not too big! Goldilocks specials. They’re big, but they age well. A little exercise and a supportive brassiere will keep a titty spry well into its eighties.

  3. The Tattle: These are titties gone wild! If a titty is a container of milk from the supermarket, a tattle is a container of milk from Costco. It is a bulk titty! Most tattles are fake, but a rare special few are natural! Tattles can often be found in strip clubs and tend to demand attention. While tattles are great fun, they do come with a set of drawbacks. Often, big tattles are attached to big owners. Also, over the course of time, tattles endure a long ass journey: They see many things and go many places, and at the end of their journey there comes a time when they must lie down and rest, lay waaay down. Yes, the tale of a tattle is a long one, there is no hiding it. Eventually tattles tattle on themselves, that’s where the word “tattletale” comes from.

  And lastly on titties, I’m not into breast reduction. If I was a surgeon, I would require three legitimate reasons to take the breasts down. You never hear of a man getting a Johnson reduction just because his jeans don’t fit the way he wants them to. There are no dick reduction pills. Fact is, a woman has never said, “Oh, you’re too much for me. Please take a pill to take it down.” So the same shit should go for women, too!

  By the way, one annoying thing I’ve noticed about the way titties are treated on TV by censors confuses the fuck out of me. They always pixelate the functional parts of our bodies. Like if a thong pops, they pixelate, or they don’t want to show the part of the titty that produces milk. Censors got weird standards. In one hour, I saw the same chest in full view and then pixelated for no fucking reason. I was watching one of those extreme titty makeover shows, and it was about some guy getting a sex change. In the beginning, they showed the man’s chest. The whole fucking thing, hair and nipples and all. The surgeons shaved him and then started drawing circles on his chest and shit where his new breasts were gonna be. They laid him on the gurney, put him under anesthesia, built him some breasts, and then cut to a month later when they took the bandages off. The music got all tense and shit. I couldn’t wait to see what happened to this man’s chest . . .

  And boom, they took the bandages off and fucking pixelated the nipples. The same nipples we saw in full view twenty minutes ago, but now they’re attached to a fun bag and we can’t handle them? That’s bullshit. They have no problem showing a fat guy with man titties, but a man with fake titties—that we can’t handle??

  FUCKABLE PROFESSIONS

  You can tell a lot about a potential sex partner by what she does for a living. I’m here to offer some guidelines so you don’t fuck around with the wrong profession. Here are some random thoughts on the matter.

  The first is a no-brainer: Stay away from Costco cashiers. Those ladies are used to seeing and handling large things. You are not going to impress them unless you’re extremely well endowed. Stay in your lane . . . is what they will tell you, they tend to use a lot of shopping lingo.

  Nurses are always a good fuck. They are caregivers and they know how to clean you up after sex—a nice hot towel to reinvigorate you, some warm coconut oil on you skin to open your pores, and an IV drip to replenish lost fluid. And in case of medical emergencies that occur during the act, having a nurse around just may save your damn life! As a matter of fact, for anyone over sixty-five, I say only fuck nurses, it’s a no-brainer.

  Now personally—and I can say this because I’m black—I like black nannies. You go to the park in the afternoon and you’ll see a whole bunch of those fine ass ladies in all flavors. At really nice parks there’s usually a whole selection to choose from. Why a black nanny, you ask? A few reasons. Black nannies know how to keep things secret. They watch their employers do all sorts of outlandish shit and they never say a word. Also, they are usually paid under the table, so keeping secrets is in their job description.

  But the best part of being with a black nanny is that they’ll treat you right. They’ll fuck you and then make you a sandwich and cut the crusts off. They’ll bring shit to your house in little Ziplocs (save them bags for later use), things like baby carrots, string cheese, healthy snacks to help you get through the day. These ladies love when you nap—they even tuck you in for your nappie-poo. They wipe your nose with the tissues they keep in their fucking bra. They are the best.

  And you can be your true nasty ass self around them because they have a high tolerance for gross shit. You see, they spend all day cleaning up kids’ snot. A kid’s nose is like a caterpillar that blooms into a butterfly—snot is the caterpillar and the butterfly is the booger payoff. Children have so much fucking snot it’s crazy. Where does all this s
not come from? It’s like a snotty ass assembly line. Kids don’t have the sinus power to suck it back up like we adults do. No, on a nasty ass kid snot can’t be stopped, and kids just let it flow.

  On the other hand most adults have the ability to manage their snot flow. Like Viola Davis. What an amazing actress! She has remarkable control of her snot. If you ask me, I think she feels snot represents emotion, and when you let the snot flow it’s like you’re telling the world you don’t give a shit what they think . . . give me my fucking Oscar!

  4 PLAY

  If you ask me, foreplay is for someone who lost his pinkie or his thumb, because if you have five fucking fingers you should be practicing, “fiveplay.” What I’m saying is, don’t hold anything back when it comes to foreplay!

  Also, one misconception is that foreplay happens right before sex. HELL NO! Foreplay is not what you do the moment you get in bed—foreplay is the shit you do all day long that gets your woman aroused and into bed. And trust me, foreplay does not have to be dirty or obscene. Don’t get me wrong, sending your lady a text in the middle of the day that says, “I’m gonna wear your pussy out tonight!” will probably work, but so will sending a text that says, “Usually we spoon, but tonight we’re gonna fork!” could work too!

  And foreplay doesn’t have to be expensive either. Obviously, you could take your lady to a fancy restaurant and spend a whole lot of money—I’m sure that would get you some dinner ass—but trust me, there’s a better way. I have a move that I call the “Birthday Trick.” Take your lady to one of those chain restaurants, like a Chili’s or a Red Lobster or a Cheesecake Factory, and secretly tell your waiter that it’s your lady’s birthday. See, places like that make a big deal over birthdays. They make their whole damn staff gather ’round and sing a birthday song. You’ll notice I said “birthday song” and not “Happy Birthday” because they don’t sing the traditional “Happy Birthday”—they create their own shit complete with clapping and stomping and whatnot. To be honest, it’s kind of fucking crazy; you wind up sitting there wondering why they don’t just sing the regular song or at least the Stevie Wonder version. I mean, what? They couldn’t get the rights? Is it a pride thing?

  Anyway, you’ll be sitting there with your lady, and all of a sudden they’ll come over chanting and stomping, carrying a piece of cake with a sparkler sticking out that looks like one of those cartoon sticks of dynamite in it. It’s a fucking spectacle, like when someone orders Bottle Service in the VIP section at a hot club. As that mob approaches and your lady realizes that they are coming for her, she will begin to try and tell them it’s not her birthday. At which point, put two fingers on her lips and give her a “Shhhh.” That simple, cool act by you will put a sly smile on her face. And as you share that free piece of cake (’cause those places give you gigantic pieces of cake for free on birthdays), the two of you lovers will enjoy a secret glance, knowing that you are getting over on the man.

  Later on that night, call her “the birthday girl” and ask to see her “birthday suit.” She’ll giggle and say something like, “You know it’s not my birthday.” To which you reply, “Every day is your birthday.” Right there, it’s a wrap—you might have to splint your Johnson to handle the evening you have ahead of you! And as if getting some great sex out of the deal isn’t enough, that birthday covers you the next time you forget her actual birthday.

  The Birthday Trick—dang, that was some insightful shit! Hell, I think I’m giving you bookworms a little too much help! Anyway, happy birthday, muthafuckas!

  CALL OF THE WILD

  I know this might sound strange, but if you ask me, a giraffe is one of the sexiest animals on earth. Think about it: them long ass muscular legs . . . like the ones you see when you’re on vacation in the Caribbean. When you go to one of them islands there are always some performers up on some stilts wearing masks, dancing around and shit! I would love to be one of those guys! You got to watch your lady around them muthafuckas though. Ladies on vacation get wild and you’ll wind up losing track of your lady and come to find out one of them Caribbean stilt muthafuckas took her back to your room and broke her the fuck off. Oh she will deny it, but the evidence will be clear when you go up to your room and see hand prints all over the damn ceiling. Could’ve taken them damn stilts . . . freaky stilt dancing muthafucka!

  Anyway, I would get me some stilts and a giraffe outfit and go fuck me a giraffe because goddammit, it’s a beautiful creature. I love a good giraffe. What!?! Those flirty ass long eyelashes! I would tear that giraffe’s ass up! They gotta use more of them in fashion shows, ’cause they can walk up and down that runway and wear more than one pair of pants at a time. I would like to see a giraffe in some heels, some sexy stilettos, with a garter that goes up to her thigh, or some fishnet stockings, that would change the whole game!

  Ironically, I would fuck a giraffe doggy style, which brings me to this: Why do they call it “doggie style”? No animals do it in the missionary position, they all do it doggie style! So why not call it “moose style”? Why not “giraffe style”? Why is it “doggie style” no matter who the fuck is doing it! Oh, and especially cats, cats hate dogs and they gotta do it “doggie style”! That don’t make any damn sense! Look, cats go buck wild, they fuck in alleys, dumpsters, even when cats are fighting they sound like they’re fucking! Cats are so noisy and wild you never know what they’re doing, they could be doing reverse cowgirl style for all we know. Sound ridiculous? Possibly.

  By the way, the editor has informed me that fucking a giraffe is illegal, so just forget I said all that shit. As a matter of fact, tear this page out and throw it away. I’m not trying to go to jail for fucking a giraffe, especially when it was consensual.

  SIGN LANGUAGE

  Horoscopes can be useful for a lot of things. Not everything, though. I mean, they’re not gonna tell you if you’re gonna get fired, or if you’re gonna buy a new recliner. But they are helpful as a guide to who you might be compatible with. And in the end, that’s all we really care about: who we’re gonna fuck, or marry, or have kids with. Am I right?

  SAGITTARIUS: I’m starting here ’cause this is my sign. I’m half-horse, half-man, with a fucking bow and arrow in my hand. I got three things going on! I’m a grown fucking man with a mane of fucking hair and a powerful chest, and I got horse legs and a horse ass, and a horse torso on my fucking body. With all of that going for me, I have to be wise who I match myself up with.

  PISCES: I would get along with a Pisces because I like fish, and there are two of them. Would I fry them? Or bake or broil? Either way, I fucking love fish. I’ll put my bow and arrow down and stand at the table and eat that fish. I’ll stand, ’cause it’s impossible to sit down with a horse ass.

  GEMINI: Ahh . . . The Twins. What man wouldn’t want to get with two fucking twins? These are two beautiful ass women. I would take them and they would be perfect for me. ’Cause it’s no secret: A dude with a horse body is hung like a fucking horse! Those zodiac people knew what they were doing, ’cause they could have easily reversed it and given us a horse upper body and a man’s ass. Either way, it’s fucking confusing: Do I have four legs or two legs? Do I wear two pairs of pants, or one pair along with some shoes and a shirt? I don’t fucking know. Is there a urinal designed for a half-horse, half-man body? There should be. And they should use Sagittarians for horse races. Get rid of jockeys. Tiny ass useless muthafuckas. Just imagine, if I won, I would walk my half-horse ass over to my bookie and pick up my damn money. I would have that winner’s ribbon around my neck and I would be in the winner’s circle, tapping my hooves and counting my fucking money. I would post the fuck out of that on Instagram!

  LEO: Ahhh . . . Leo the Lion. A Leo is king of the jungle, but that’s about it. Everything else is not his jurisdiction. He can’t do shit in the city or on concrete. The only lions you see in the city are in a fucking cage at the zoo. Of course, there are women who are Leos, but the weird thing is that Leo, with that big 1970s-looking mane, is clearly a male lio
n, not a lioness. So does that mean that chick Leos have male tendencies? That shit doesn’t sound right. I say stay away.

  LIBRA: I like that the lady is blindfolded and holding a scale. It means she’s judging the weight of our relationship, but she’s willing to let things slide, so me and Libra would definitely get along. Plus, sexually, I’m into blindfolds.

  AQUARIUS: Look at this asshole, pouring water out of a big ass goddamn beaker. We won’t get along. All Aquarians are bed wetters. The last thing I want to do is be in a relationship with a fucking bed wetter. Golden showers are not my thing.

  SCORPIO: A scorpion is a dangerous fucking animal. Why would they use it as a sign anyway? You don’t want to date a Scorpio, ’cause they have the ability to poison your ass. They bite you, then you gotta get to the hospital to get someone to suck that venom out before you die. Shit like that would create a whole new set of problems for me. I mean, as a Sagittarius, what do I do? Do I rush myself to a veterinarian or go to the ER and tell them I’m a man who brought a horse in for treatment?

  CANCER: Why that name? I mean, it’s unfortunate enough to be named after such a horrible disease, but then you’ve got another damn affliction as your symbol. I feel bad for these muthafuckas. As if cancer wasn’t bad enough, you also got crabs. Woo, I hate me some crabs! Nothing worse than crabs in your pubic hair. That’s why crabs are always in a bad mood, living in some damn pubic hair. I’ma be honest with you, I’ve had crabs, several times. You could even call me a regular at the clinic. I’ll pop into the doctor’s office and she’ll say, “Oh, you again,” all snide and shit. I always wanna tell her, “Why don’t you just shampoo my pubic hair and shut the fuck up!” But you don’t want to mess with a doctor in her own environment. Never know: Catch her on a bad day, she might just cut you up with a goddamn scalpel, stick it in your ass like a shank.