The Man Handler

man.

You fear her? So you should. Your man has been in her bed; she may have been in yours. He has licked her in places that should have been reserved for only you, has fucked her in every position imaginable, has tasted her, explored her, enjoyed her, then has come home to you. She has hooked him by the balls and has conquered him. She stands boldly in your face or silently behind your back, smiling, lending you a shoulder to cry on, lurking in your shadows, anticipating the moment when your man becomes weak, when she crumbles his resolve, then fucks him relentlessly.

So before I move on, I have one thing to say: Listen up! For all you chicks without a clue, no man wants a woman who can’t suck dick, can’t take dick, and is downright scared of dick. And he damn sure doesn’t want a dry, lazy pussy. You’d better learn to drop it like it’s hot, and make that shit do what it do: Snap, crackle, and pop! ’Cause if you don’t, it’ll be a freak like me who’ll turn his ass out.

And for the love of sweet, black dick, women, keep the kat house clean and the hairs clipped and trimmed. Having a wild, musty, damp jungle between your legs is not chic. You don’t know how many of your men I’ve heard complain about how nasty some of your snatches are. Or that your sorry ass has on mismatched panties and bras. The only thing I can do is shake my head. See, that’s exactly what a man gets when he deals with you low-budget, Conway, Dots, and Walgreens bitches. ’Cause it’s a two-dollar ho who doesn’t care about her pussy hairs being wrapped around the edges of her panties or nothing matching. But a classy chick or a chick who takes pride in her look and hygiene (even if she’s a ho) is always going to step out of her clothes with her pussy on point and a sexy, color-coordinated set of undergarments. Believe that.

Well, since I’m on a roll, here’s something else to think about: When it comes to women and sex, men want the whole package in a woman. Otherwise they’re most likely going to go out looking for everything she lacks in someone else. So if your head game is serious but your sex is whack, your man is going to be looking to fuck someone who can slay the dick. If your sex game is tight, but your slob job is weak, he’s going to be out looking for someone who can handle a skull-fucking. Bottom line: In order to be a great fuck, you have to be good at everything, or damn near close to it. You need to know how to be a classy chick in the streets, and a slutty freak in the sheets. Of course, some will dispute this, and that’s fine and dandy. Again, this is the opinion of a certified ho who has probably fucked enough men to know what it is they want and don’t want— whether they’ll openly admit it or not.

Since I’m sharing, I might as well tell you some of the many things men love about me, the things that keep them coming back for more. Men love it when I get on all fours and slowly crawl toward them real sexy-like, with a come-hither look, enticing them, urging them to lie back and allow me to indulge their fantasies. They love it when I lick my lips, whine, and beg them for the dick. They love it when I make my fat, perfectly round ass dance for them, one cheek at a time, clapping and popping. They love it when I taunt them and tease them, slowly, sensually, rotating my hips and thrusting my pelvis at them. Or when I wildly toss my hair, pout my lips, and swing my hips toward them. They love it when I narrow my eyes into seductive slits and sensually suck on my fingers, or when I peel the skin off a banana, then swallow it whole, pretending it’s their dick going deep down in my throat. They love it when I use my warm tongue to lick all over their balls. Men love it when I moan and make slurping noises while sucking their dicks. They love it when I bend my knees and slowly spread open my legs, teasingly pulling open my pussy while licking my lips. They love it when I whisper and whimper for them to “fuck this pussy;” when I tell ’em in low, chant-like groans to “make my pussy cum.”

These sexual gestures cause their dicks to swell and ache in anticipation of what they want the most: to taste this sweet, wet pussy and to feel their dicks engulfed in its warmth. Some of you should try it sometimes. It might keep some of your men from straying.

You see, while I’m fucking a man, I make him believe that I care about his needs and wants, even if there’s no truth to it. I stroke his ego, and do whatever it takes to make him feel important; to make him feel special. For that moment, I become his healer. I release him from his frustrations. I unlock his imagination and take him places mentally and sexually where most women dare not venture. I give him the illusion that he is in control. But we both know it is the vise-like, suction grip of my thick pussy that forces him to weaken at the knees and bust his nut against his will. And when I’m done with his ass, he leaves out of here with a smile on his face, feeling like he can conquer the world.

Men also love the fact that I’m positive, confident, beautiful, and extremely comfortable in the skin that I’m in. They love it that I know what I want and how I want it, and that I’m not afraid to demand what I want. They love it when I tell them to fuck me from the back, to pull me by the hair, and slap me on the ass. They love it when I tell them to talk dirty to me. When I taunt them, incite them, to fuck me harder. When I look over my shoulder and gaze at them, licking my lips. They love it when I slam my pussy back at them and say, “What, is that all you got?! When you gonna fuck me? When you gonna make me feel the dick, nigga? When you gonna bang this pussy up, huh? Why you teasing me? When you gonna put it in and give me the dick, huh?”

Oh, it drives them over the edge when I challenge their ability to fuck, when I make ’em feel like they’re not slaying the pussy right. All the while, I’m smiling inside, watching their faces contort with pleasure, purpose, and exhaustion all at once.

Yes, men love it when I make them work for the pussy, when I make ’em work for that nut. No matter how many times I make a man feel chumped, he wants more, he needs more, he craves more. By the time I’m done fucking him, he walks out of here feeling like a champion of the pussy, no matter how much of an illusion it is.

Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been told by all the men I’m fucking, or have fucked, that my pussy is “da bomb.” They love how hot it gets, how wet it gets, and how tight it grips. So that should explain the line of men wrapped around the corner trying to get a ride in this pussy.

I also believe that who I am as a woman is what drives men crazy. Men are usually already turned on by my physical beauty way before I ever spread open my legs and pull them into my love cove. I seduce them mentally. So by the time I give them a taste of what’s between my legs, they’ve already worked themselves into a sexual frenzy. The fact that I make it my job to help men realize (and oftentimes maximize) their “fucking” potential—or at the very least, expose them to new experiences—is a big part of why they keep wanting more.

I am not the least bit surprised when my doorbell rings at almost midnight, and I open the door to find Mitchell standing there with a silly-ass smirk on his face. I can tell by the glassy look in his eyes that he’s been drinking. Wrong answer!

Besides, the last time he was supposed to come through, his sorry ass was a no-show, no-call. But it was all good. I sweat no man. Believe that. As far as I’m concerned, what one man is unable to do, another will. And when all else fails, I keep my bullet and a vibrator on standby, charged and ready to take the edge off.

I sigh, swinging the door open. “Why are you here?” I ask, holding the door and blocking the doorway to keep him from coming in.

“Damn, baby, a nigga can’t get a hello? You gonna let me in or what?”

“No, I’m not letting you in,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You were supposed to come through two weeks ago when I called your tired ass. But you didn’t, so you’re shit out of luck. Go ring someone else’s bell.”

“C’mon, baby,” he whines. “Why you gotta be hard on a brotha. Ole girl’s been on her bullshit lately ’bout me hanging out…you already know my situation.”

I glare at him. “Nigga, you have me confused. I don’t give a fuck about your situation. You only get one time to stand this pussy and ass up; then you’ll never get another sniff of it again. I mean that. And you knew this from the gate. I have no time for any of the lame excuses, and there’s no need to give any because you ain’t my man, and will never be. The rule is and has always been you come when expected, not when you feel like it, or you get the ax. I don’t care how good the dick or the tongue is. There are no rain checks. And I’m not offering up no drive- thru pussy where you can place your order whenever you get around to it. So your black ass has been scratched off the list.” I let out a disgusted grunt. “Then you have the nerve to ring my damn doorbell this time of night like you got it like that.”

“Listen, baby,” he says, trying to get up in my face. “I had to wait until my girl took her ass to bed before I could sneak out. I’m sorry ’bout the other week. I know I shoulda called, but I got caught up. I’m here now and I promise to make it up to you. But I only got thirty minutes or so, so instead of you standing here wasting most of it, stop playing games and let me in.”

“Um, excuse me,” I say, putting my hand up to stop him from getting too close. I feel myself about ready to scream on his ass. “I’m hardly playing games with you. I’m being real as hell. Now, what the fuck you think you gonna do with me, or for me, in thirty damn minutes?”