“Eat that pussy, baby,” he boldly replies, gliding his tongue across his bottom lip. “I’ve missed all that sweet, juicy pussy.”
Now under different conditions, I would have eagerly swung open the door and let his happy ass in without blinking an eye ’cause Lord knows he can eat the hell out of some pussy. But thirty minutes? He can’t be fucking serious. Besides, my mind is already made up. Like everyone else I choose to fuck, he knows the house rule. Call first. No exceptions. I don’t do walk-ins. This pussy is by appointment only. What the hell is wrong with these mofos, thinking they can waltz in and out of here like they got it like that? Just because I’m fucking you on a regular doesn’t give you any special privileges. See, that’s why I like one-night stands. Everyone plays their position without all the damn extras. There are no expectations. No questions asked. I get what I want. They get what they want. I go about my business. They go about theirs. And we’re all happily fucked.
I twist my lips up. “Humph, so you’ve missed this deep, wet pussy, huh?” I ask, fucking with him.
“Don’t play, girl,” he says, grabbing at his dick. He has on a pair of sweats and I can tell he isn’t wearing any underwear. “You know what time it is.” He glances down at his hardening dick as he stretches it through the fabric of his sweats.
“Yeah, I know what time it is,” I respond, smirking. “It’s too bad you don’t.” He tries to come in, and I quickly push him backward with the palm of my hand. “Oh, hell no,” I snap. “You done banged your damn head. If you think you gonna come up in here and get some pussy, you are out of your retarded-ass mind.”
“Look,” he starts, “I ain’t come here to beef. I’m sorry I haven’t called. And you feel neglected. But like I said, shit’s been hectic. You know I’m always thinking ’bout you. It’s just that sometimes my girl is on my back ’n shit so I gotta stay close to home to keep the peace.”
“Beefing? Nigga, I have no emotional ties to you to beef with you. So who said anything about me feeling neglected?”
“You didn’t have to. That’s the only thing that explains your shitty attitude.”
“Nigga, please,” I say, laughing. “You are not my man, nor will you ever be. So trust me, the last thing I have is an attitude. But for you to think you can roll up over here with a stiff dick in your hand and I’m supposed to drop down and wet it for you is a bit much.”
“It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m not here for you to wet this dick. I can get it wet at home, if I want.”
“Oh okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “So, then, why are you here, again?”
“I told you. I wanna plant this tongue up in that tight pussy. But you on some other shit, tryna beef ’n shit.”
“Mitchell, the last thing I’m doing is beefing with you. I don’t beef with nobody else’s man, baby, trust me. I dismiss ’em.”
“So, then why am I standing out here going back ’n forth with you instead of being inside wetting that clit up?”
I tilt my head, smiling. I love it when men think that they are the masters of the sex game, and are the ones to plot on the pussy instead of it being the other way around.
We know that it is really the woman who chooses the man. She knows the minute a man walks into the room whether or not she wants to fuck him, marry him, or strictly be friends. She has already sized him up; already checked out the competition or lack thereof. And has already made up her mind how she wants to proceed. To fuck, or not to fuck! Too bad most men missed or overlooked the memo. It would probably cut down on a lot of unnecessary foolishness.
I blink, blink again. I sift through the series of questions I typically ask a man before I ever fuck him, and wonder if I might have missed a few with Mitchell prior to squatting over his face and lowering my sweet pussy down on his mouth. I recall each question I asked him, and his responses: Do you eat pussy?
Truth be told, when I ask these questions, if the answer is “no” to more than three, there’s no further discussion. If he answers “yes” to at least three, then I might take his number, depending on what he looks like. But, if he answers “yes” to all seven, then nine times out of ten, I’m going to fuck him on the spot, or at least within the first two weeks, depending on when my last dose of dick was. In Mitchell’s case, I fucked his tongue on the spot because that’s what I wanted from him. To eat this pussy like it was going to be his last meal on earth. And that’s what he did.
Speaking of which, when a man eats my pussy, I typically prefer the sixty-eight because it gives him full access to my pussy and asshole. I also like it when he lies on the bed with his head back over the edge and I straddle his face and smear my pussy all over his lips, which is how Mitchell usually loves to eat me.
However, there are other times when I enjoy the standing sixty-nine. This is another position in which Mitchell is skilled at delivering his tongue game. It always gets me off quick. There’s something about being hung upside down, swallowing a dick, that drives me wild. Although I did have a bad experience a few years ago when the mofo I was serving got the shakes and his knees buckled. Next thing I knew, I had hit the floor. The fool dropped me on my damn head. I had a headache for days behind that. Needless to say, I never fucked or sucked him again after that.
But tonight, standing here remembering how wicked Mitchell’s head game is does nothing for me. My clit doesn’t jump at the thought of having him between my legs, so I know for certain he will not get in. Period! At this very moment, he disgusts me. And I am certain he is officially axed from the fuck squad.
“Uh,” I finally answer, looking him dead in the eyes, “because the last time I checked I paid the mortgage here, and I let who I want up in here, when I want them up in here. And tonight, you are not welcomed. So I suggest you take your hectic ass back home to your little wifey and wet her, ’cause this pussy is not available to you, not tonight or any other night. I suggest you call first the next time you catch yourself trying to creep.”
He stares at me with a dumb-ass look on his face. He stands there for a few minutes just looking at me, then swipes his big hand over his mouth, and pulls at his chin hairs, realizing what I’m saying. “Oh, shit. You really not gonna let me in, huh?”
Oh my God, this nigga is dumber than I thought. “No. Now have a good night.” I shut the door in his face, leaving him standing out in the night air. He rings the doorbell again. I shut off the porch light, then the lights in the living room.
“Fuck it, then,” I hear him say as he stomps down the sidewalk to his car. “Crazy bitch!” I watch him from the window and laugh at his ass as he slams his car door and speeds off.
Ugh, let me tell you something else about men before I go to bed. Most men don’t appreciate any damn thing they obtain too easily. Believe that. If you want to keep them interested, then you have to stimulate them mentally and learn to give them a challenge. Trust me. Men love a challenge. If you give in to their temper tantrums when they don’t get their way, or their threats to move on to the next chick, then they’ve won. You’ve opened the door to being manipulated into doing any and every-damn-thing they want. The more they want, the more they’re going to demand. The more you give, the more they’re going to take. And once they know you can be manipulated, they know they have you wrapped around their finger. And guess what? At the end of the day, they’re not going to have one ounce of respect for your ass.
However, if you’re a woman who is like me, a chick who’s simply doing her thing, a chick whose only interest in a man is to fuck him, suck him, and send him on his merry motherfucking way, then you can truly not care less about what he thinks about you when it’s all said and done. He ain’t playing you, and he ain’t manipulating you into doing jack you don’t already want to do. I have messed plenty of niggas’ heads up by fucking them, then dismissing them all in one breath. I’ve even gone as far as acting like I don’t know ’em when I run into ’em on the street.
I remove my clothes, then go into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I am done, I pull my hair back, stare at my reflection for a minute, then shut off the light. I climb into bed, wondering what would happen if every woman in the world went on a pussy strike. Basically shut down all fucking and sucking for one year. Oh, hell no! That’s too damn long. Okay, maybe for sixty days. Well, maybe for a month. Okay, okay, let’s start out with two weeks. Anyway, what would men do?
Perhaps masturbate until they got dick burns on the palms of their hands. Or go on a raping spree. ’Cause
