Sweeter Than Honey

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Ooh, my lord that feels good,” I’d said, trying to control my shaky teenage legs.

  Gripping my dick like a microphone, she’d spat on it, started singing like she was on stage, then licked everything off, including my cum. I’d recalled thinking, Girls in D.C. don’t swallow.

  “Sir, you’re holding up the line,” the cashier said. “May I please”—her eyes darted down to my dick—“take your order.” She smiled a little too hard.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, ordering my drink. I had to see what they were seeing. Damn! Those freaky-ass women. I had to start wearing underwear. One of them could’ve told me my dick was out. Tucking myself away, I dug into my pocket and pulled out a twenty.

  The cashier held her hands up in the air. “Uh, that’s okay. The ladies in front of you paid for whatever you wanted,” she said, grinning. “Here’s your Starbucks card. You have a ninety-five-dollar credit.”

  I was flattered but not convinced to call. Waiting for my mocha, I continued thinking. I’d never forget my first blow job. That shit felt ooh-wee! incredible, but I couldn’t say I loved, strongly liked, or even knew the girl who’d done it. In fact, I lost respect for her because she didn’t respect herself by going around and sucking dicks for fun while all the guys on our sophomore field trip in Las Vegas talked bad about her.

  “Man, she’ll suck your dick in the bathroom, in the hallway, in the stairway, anywhere you want,” one guy had said. “All you have to do is pretend you like her ass, give her a few compliments, and that trick will drop to her knees and let your nuts bang against her chin until you cum in her mouth.”

  To see if they were telling the truth, I joined in the experience. I felt like shit immediately after I’d cum in Tiffany Davis’s mouth. I doubted the other guys even knew her name. From that day forth, I promised myself I’d never disrespect another woman. If I didn’t care anything about her, I wasn’t putting my dick inside any part of her, no matter how attractive she was.

  Tiffany was definitely not the type of woman I wanted to call my own or invite to my house to meet my parents. Damn! What made that girl do that shit? At times I wondered who or what had made Tiffany that way. What was she doing now? Probably somewhere prostituting. What had made my Honey fuck strange men for money?

  “I guess I’ll never know,” I said aloud.

  Honey’s story continues in

  UNCONDITIONALLY SINGLE

  In stores August 2009!

  PURPOSE OF BEING UNCONDITIONALLY SINGLE

  Unconditionally single—a person who understands his/her relationship needs, communicates effectively, willingly compromises, refuses to settle

  Before reading Unconditionally Single, I’d like for you to take a moment to identify your relationship needs. These are the things you must have in order to cultivate a healthy union with the person you’d like to marry or consider your life partner.

  After identifying your needs, list your desires. These are the hobbies or things you enjoy and would love to do with your mate. Let your imagination explore the corners of your deepest fantasies.

  I find that most individuals cannot readily identify their relationship needs. They kind of meet a person, stumble into like, trip into love, then fall into love/hate, never having asked of themselves or the other person, “What are your relationship needs?”

  Somewhere along the way, perhaps months, maybe years later, they discover one another. Some find out that money is more important to their mate than love. The one with the most money is more powerful. Sex once a day, once a week, or once a month is either too much or not enough. In creeps infidelity and misery.

  When a woman or teenage girl has an unplanned pregnancy, she automatically expects the man to do all the right things for her and their child. Most women hope the man will marry her because she’s carrying his baby. Instead, the man stands on the fifty yard line for nine months like he’s watching an uneventful football game—drinking beer, chilling with his boys, bragging about his other woman, what he did to and with her last night, while waiting for the fourth quarter to end—waiting for her third trimester to conclude. Then he prays for confirmation, his bet is good and he is not the father, mainly so he doesn’t have to pay child support.

  Clueless about how much daycare, diapers, and the daily cost of providing for a child is, she gives birth. Clueless that one night of pleasure can bring her a lifetime of emotional and financial hardships. The natural progression of blind-love and lust, eventually heats up into resentment for both partners. Thus begins the battle of the sexes to see who can hurt the other the most. These relationship tragedies can be avoided or minimized through effective communication and safe sex, and more importantly, if both individuals enter the relationship knowing their needs.

  Unconditionally single does not mean you don’t desire marriage. I’m encouraging you to know what you need and desire before getting married or becoming involved with someone. Share what’s important to you with your potential mate. I urge all men and women to read The Honey Diaries series before getting married.

  On my way from the Antigua & Barbuda Literary Festival, I boarded the plane in Antigua to Miami, settled in my window seat. A newly married couple sat next to me. The wife, to my immediate right, her husband was seated at the aisle. The seemingly happy, giddy, constantly kissing couple couldn’t keep their hands off one another. He lived in Canada. They were headed to Los Angeles to pack her belongings then drive to their new residence in Canada. Halfway through the flight, he pulls out two sandwiches. The husband looks at his wife and asks, “Do you like rye or would you prefer the other sandwich?”

  My eyebrows raised as I continued reading Eric Jerome Dickey’s Sleeping with Strangers, thinking, “They barely know one another.” Obviously he likes rye, he’d purchased the sandwiches, and he didn’t ask what she wanted. How well should a couple know one another before marrying? So many marriages end in divorce because people marry strangers.

  Oh, well. That couple are probably of the majority who wander in and out of love, life, and relationships wondering why they keep choosing the wrong jobs and the wrong mates. What’s your passion? Your talents? What excites you?

  I hear some of you talking to yourself, asking, “What are Mary B. Morrison’s needs since she has all the answers?”

  Honestly, I don’t have all the answers, but I am a thinking woman and I do know my passion, talents, what excites me, and I understand my eternal evolving needs. Like you, as I continue to emotionally grow, my needs change. But my basic needs are always clear.

  I date openly, knowing that the man I will enter into a relationship with will show up. I don’t have to build him, change him, or create him out of play dough. (But if I did build him, I’d use Steven A. Smith as my model.) I don’t have to look under the covers or search the corporate boardroom for him. I meet men everywhere I go. I enjoy men. “I’m not reserving, preserving, or praying for God to send me Mr. Right. Waiting for “a good man” would be a waste of my time.

  Here are my relationship needs:

  He must be intelligent, highly capable of expressing his views on politics, religion, sex, and sexuality.

  He must have friends. A man’s friends tell you a lot about him.

  He cannot be a minimalist, satisfied with getting by or over to make his ends. Minimalists are underachieving, shiftless lazy leeches looking for handouts. I don’t date cheap or selfish men. He can do bad on his own.

  He must be an entrepreneur or realistically striving to become his own boss. I don’t mean the men who spit game about what they gon’ do all the while they layin’ up on a woman, burying her under his philosophical bullshit. “Baby let’s buy a ________ to-ge-ther.” Translation, his credit is fucked up.

  He cannot be envious of my success or my lifestyle. I work extremely hard. Trust me, lots of men are jealous, of successful independent women. I’m a full-time writer for two major publishers. I travel extensively. I own Mary B. Morrison, Incorporated, Sweeter than Honey, and Lift Ever
y Voice and Write (my non-profit).

  He must have a sense of humor (this ranks at the top of my list). Know how to laugh; make me laugh. Have fun. And Lord knows he cannot be depressing, dragging around his garbage like he’s a sanitation engineer. I’m no comedian, but I love to make people laugh.

  Under no circumstances can he be broke. Hell-to-the-capital-N-O. I do not support men. A broke man should suck his own dick, then tuck his dick between his balls and fuck himself. Especially if he’s sitting on his ass all day waiting for someone else to provide for him. I can’t comprehend his mentality.

  He must be great sexually. Open to exploring new sexual territories.

  He must agree to an open relationship. Even if I never have sex with anyone except him, I can’t commit to exclusivity because I might meet someone else that I decide to have sex with. No guilty pleasures for me.

  He must understand that he is my partner, not my dictator or dick-ta-tor. I have no need or desire for a second husband. Marriage is wonderful for those who need or want it. I don’t. I’m happy and intend to stay this way.

  Black women and men are not taught how to treat one another. We have generational relationship dys-function. Our mothers’ mothers’ mothers’ were raped of their virginity, their children, and their men. Our fathers’ fathers’ fathers’ were used for breeding with no emotional attachment to family. We still deal with post slavery trauma. We still struggle to genuinely love and appreciate one another. Black men must stop running away from their paternal obligations. Black women must stop unconsciously opening their legs and their hearts. I know it’s hard, but if we seriously think about the ‘what ifs’ before we become involved, our relationship will have a higher survival rate. We have to start someplace. You are the catalyst for change in your life.

  Stop entering into relationships primarily to fill the voids of your ancestors. I encourage you to talk to our children about healthy relationships. Take time to embrace and express your needs and desires. Irrespective of your partner’s views, your open and honest communication will prove productive in your relationship.

  Be true to yourself.

  PROLOGUE

  Honey

  Sometimes a woman had to kill herself to survive. I came from nothing. My mother hated me. My father disowned me. Stepfather molested me. Johns used me. My ex-husbands abused me. I had scars on my heart. Blood on my hands. The one man who truly loved me for me, I’d pushed him away. I hadn’t lived through countless trials and tribulations to exhale my last breath without dignity.

  No way in hell was I going to die; not like this, in the back of a SUV staring down the barrel of his .22 caliber pistol. My ex-man Benito pointed the gun at the one place I was sure he would like to blast all his bullets, my mouth. Eradicate his troubles, his jealousy, his insecurities, his love, his hate, his pain by shutting my—scintillating, candid, sharp, sarcastic, independent—ass up for good.

  Women living in fear died at the hands of men who were never worthy of their love. Too many women emotionally buried alive, suffered in silence. Compromising their children, bartering their bodies, sacrificing their souls, their sanity in exchange for having a man. And in many cases, a man who didn’t love, appreciate, respect, or deserve them.

  I prayed, Dear God, please don’t let me become a statistic. Don’t let me die without fulfilling my purpose to help save the women who’d given up on getting out of unhealthy relationships. Women who are living the way I used to. You gave me a brain, courage, and a heart. Now tell me which one to use first before I kill these fools.

  Benito accepted, though he seldom acknowledged, women were smarter than men. I was smarter than him. He hated my constant reminders that I was the one who’d paid the bills the three years he lived in my house. Didn’t need him for much outside of sex. Proved it to him often. The day I’d tied him up, shoved a gun up his ass, left him in my bed in Las Vegas, I’d hoped was—the same as with my first and second husbands—the last time I’d see him.

  A month ago, I saw Benito—my ex—again when I’d arrived at my current lover’s parents’ place in Washington, D.C. Benito was seated at the dinner table. Benito was worse than a bad penny, making my world smaller than I desired, in a bad luck kind of way. One step away from him, two back. Benito seldom talked about his family when we were together. Blamed his adopted mother for screwing up his life. Gave me no indication he had a half brother named Grant Hill. Now Benito was in my new hometown of Atlanta with my ex-boss, Valentino James, holding me hostage for ransom.

  How much did Benito want from me? For me? Hadn’t I given him enough? “Take this,” I said, not knowing, not giving a fuck whose head I’d put a bullet in first. I fired my semi-automatic handgun at Benito and Valentino.

  Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

  My body pounded like a jackhammer. Stars danced in front of my eyes. I prayed I’d make it out of this situation alive. The sound of engines humming in the distance, too far away from us for drivers to distinguish gunfire from a car back-firing, gave little hope of my being rescued. Glancing at my wristwatch, both hands aligned directly on twelve. Too early for this nonsense. The sun, bright, blinding. I squinted at the sky, searching for an answer to my prayer. Brain? Courage? Heart?

  I should’ve put each bullet in Benito’s forehead. I couldn’t. I once loved him. Still loved his brother Grant. This was not the time to have compassion for my enemies. Grant’s abandonment of my heart made him my enemy too. He should’ve been man enough to come back to me.

  “Ah!” Benito screamed soprano, ducked, covered his face, peeped at me between his fingers. His small gun fell, clacked three times on the pavement.

  Pressing my lips togther, I swallowed my chuckle. I’d done right getting rid of him. Former pro-quarterback champion punking out in a shoot out. Why was I still protecting Benito? Kill Benito before he kills my chances of getting back with Grant.

  Knees to chin. Heels cushioned into my butt cheeks. Lying in the trunk, messing up my red designer pantsuit, inhaling fumes of the new car, I aimed my gun at my target. Valentino’s head.

  Wiggling my fingers, I demanded “What the fuck is your problem, Valentino? Hand me your goddamn phone.” I kept my gun and eyes fixed on him. My phone was underneath my side. The only person I’d phone was Sapphire Bleu, the one woman who could track down any man in America and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Left her a message not to call me back. I’d call her again. “Benito, if you bend over to pick up that gun, I’ll slap you upside your head, then shoot you in your ass.”

  Benito squinted as though trying to figure out how I’d shoot him in the ass while he faced me. Maybe I should ask God to give him a brain.

  “Nigga, I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you with the gun. Fuck her. Pick up the gun and shoot her ass,” Valentino commanded.

  The last time I’d seen Valentino was the day he was arrested at his mansion in Las Vegas. Pimping and pandering was his vice. I got out of the business by choice. Circumstances beyond his control forced Valentino out. I had what he desperately needed. If he killed me, he’d never get what he’d come for.

  Why did these lowdown dirty bastards agitate me to the point of wanting to blow their brains out? I could kill him. Kill them. Splatter the cells God intended as a masterpiece against the hot asphalt beneath their soles. No one would care but me. Didn’t want to go to jail or go insane without having Grant in my life.

  Curled in the fetal position, I pulled the trigger to scare Valentino. Waited a few seconds, pulled it again. Valentino dodged my first bullet. Escaped the second. Moved in the right direction both times.

  “Slowly toss me the damn phone before I kill your ass for real,” I said.

  “Shoot her ass, nigga. Don’t just stand there,” Valentino yelled at Benito. “You want her to kill me?” he said, tossing his cellular inside the SUV.

  I wanted to laugh. One toy gun between the two of them, and it was on the ground.

  “Bitch, you gon’ give me back my fifty mil, then I’m gon’ person
ally kill you,” Valentino said, curling his fingers into fists.

  This time I had to do it. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” I belted, keeping my gun aimed at Valentino. “Benito, get the gun. Give it to me,” I said. Pressing the speaker on Valentino’s phone, I kept my gun aimed at him.

  Money was the root of evil for the person who didn’t have any. The fifty million was mine. A gift. Sapphire had given me half of Valentino’s money. He hadn’t. I didn’t owe Valentino shit. Neither did she. I’d given half of my half back to the women who’d earned it fucking Valentino’s clients.

  My assistant Onyx shouted through the phone, “Honey, where are you?”

  Benito eased toward me, kicked the gun closer to Valentino. I shifted my aim to Benito, then quickly pointed the gun back between Valentino’s eyes. Coldly stared at him. Eased back the trigger.

  “One wrong move and you’re dead.” I dared him, “Try me.”

  “Let’s go, nigga!” Valentino yelled. “That bitch is crazy.”

  No, I wasn’t crazy.

  I was a women who didn’t take shit off of abusive men. Not any more. Two life-threatening marriages and these two fools here, I should be crazy, but I wasn’t. The only person I was crazy about was Grant and my dead sister, Honey. I killed myself on paper, buried my birth name Lace St. Thomas, then resurrected my sister’s name, Honey Thomas. Maybe if I were more like Honey, my past life of prostitution, being a madam, and killing Reynolds would perish, never return to haunt me.

  “Onyx, I got this. Don’t hang up. Stay with me,” I said.

  Valentino fell to the ground, crawled along side the car, yelling, “Lock that bitch in the trunk and let’s go! I’ma personally kill her ass execution style!”

  Always smarter than Valentino’s wannabe pimp ass, I’d organized and operated his escort service. Managed his thirteen girls for a year. Now they were my girls, all millionaires, no longer prostituting. Valentino had more than enough time to run like a bitch. All talk, no action. Valentino wasn’t a coward. He was out gunned. He’d be back. I’d be prepared for his return. Next time I wouldn’t have a heart. No talking. I’d shoot to kill.