The Man Handler

me in.”

“No, I’m only asking the question.” I must have hit a nerve, I think, smiling. These women crack me the hell up. This bitch is sitting in front of a certified dick-loving ho. I know for a fact that if I wanted to fuck her man—not that I do or would ’cause he isn’t my flavor—I could ride his dick, or have his tongue shoved in my asshole in the blink of an eye. There’s no question in my mind. It’s all in his eyes. Every time dude is around me—which isn’t that often now that he no longer works here—he looks at me like he’s trying to undress me with his eyes. And then he has this habit of licking his lips, looking me up and down when he speaks to me, drooling—and basically eye fucking me!

“Well, like I said, there’s nothing wrong with dating someone you work with.”

She fails to answer the question, and I won’t press. The bitch obviously doesn’t know how Jake really feels. Women kill me, putting their men up on pedestals, and men kill me, too. No one can predict what another human being will or won’t do. You can only hope they do what’s right, and not only when they believe someone is watching them. But we all know there are so many who don’t, and won’t. “Yeah, okay, if you say so. And how many women here had Jake before you did?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. A few, I guess.”

“A few?” I repeat, laughing. “Nahdirah, get real. Jake was worse than Nathan, and you know it.”

“Okay,” she says, getting defensive, “and?”

“And how long did the two of you date before you got into a relationship with him?”

“A few months; why?”

“And what did you really know about him?”

I can tell her mind’s scrambling to come up with an answer, one that will hold truth. The dumbfounded look on her face tells me she can’t locate one that makes any sense to her, or me. “Well, we were still getting to know each other,” she offers.

I roll my eyes. “And during that time of ‘getting to know each other,’ did you ever ask him how many of his coworkers he screwed?”

She looks at me like I have said something stupid. But girlfriend forgets I know they were only dating three weeks before her ass got knocked up by him, so that says to me the only thing she was getting to know was his dick. The whole time her ass was pregnant, she stressed because bitches were flaunting the fact that they had fucked him first, or were still getting a ride on his chocolate joystick. Not to mention, his other baby’s momma, who works down in the mailroom, was causing havoc in his life because he was fucking “that ugly bitch in promotions.” But, of course, girlfriend had no clue that he had two other children until after it was too late.

“Why? We all have a past, so why do you feel the need to always bring shit up and be so damn negative all the time? Why can’t you leave shit alone?”

I blink, blink again.

Poor thing, she truly doesn’t get it. That’s exactly why men and women have problems in their relationships, ’cause they don’t fucking ask questions. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Like I told you before, I use the term friend loosely with this chick. If anything, it’s more of a friendly working relationship than anything else. ’Cause ain’t no fucking way I’d ever be real friends with a ditsy bitch like her.

I glance at my watch; it’s almost noon. I’m done with her ass. She’s exhausted all the time she’s going to get out of me today. I don’t have the strength or the energy to continue on with her.

I sigh. “You’re absolutely right. We all have a past.” I get up from my seat, walking over to my desk. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I have a ton of reports to get done. So I better get to ’em.”

I busy myself at my desk, shuffling papers, pretending to be reading shit I have no interest in. She gets up from her seat. “Yeah, girl, I’d better get going. I gotta meet Samantha and them downstairs in a few, anyway.”

“Have fun,” I say, not looking up.

“I’ll stop by later.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, raising my eyes from the monthly projection report. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too,” she says, pausing before leaving. I can tell she wants to say something more, but can’t quite find the words. A few seconds go by.

I tilt my head, turning my hands palms up. “Umm, is there something else?”

She slowly shakes her head, pursing her lips. She has decided not to strain her brain, and I’m thankful. I watch her make her way to the door. When she is gone, I shake my head. “There’s no fucking way I’m ever dating anyone from this place,” I say to myself. “I don’t care how fine he is. Besides, most people don’t know what the hell dating means any damn way.”

Now help me understand something. Is it me, or am I the only one who got the memo on dating? I mean, damn! In my opinion, dating means you can go out with Fred on Thursday, go clubbing with Leon on Friday, have drinks and a movie with Stan on Saturday, and fuck all three of ’em on Sunday if you so choose. Not that you have to, or should be expected to. However, if you feel the urge to ride the dick to see what they have to offer, then you do exactly that. Just be responsible. And don’t expect it to be no more than what it was, a fuck.

Unless I’m missing something, dating does not equal relationship. Dating is a filtering, get-to-know-you process. It helps you weed out the men who are full of shit. Dating is asking questions. It’s one big interview, in my opinion. But, of course, no one dates anymore. It’s straight fucking, then right into moving him in. Talk about stupid!

Then when shit starts coming up missing in the house, or he starts staying out late or not coming home at all, or has trouble keeping a job, or wants to lie around the house in his boxers, scratching his balls and playing Xbox all damn day, you want to bitch and complain about it. Uh, duh, dumb ass, that’s what your ass gets when you don’t take the time out to learn a man before jumping straight into a relationship with him. Oh, don’t think that doesn’t go for men too. They get caught up in a big butt and smile attached to some good pussy, then before you know it, they’re complaining about her ass too.

Whatever! All I know is you get what you get when you don’t take the time to look for what you really want, and don’t ask questions. You know, maybe it’s me. But some of these fucking people today are really pathetic.

Humph. Well, since I’m already disgusted, I might as well go in for the kill and send out this special public service announcement to these dizzy-ass chicks—better known as the birds—swooping around the room. Listen, sweetie. I hate to be the one to tell you, but most dudes ain’t tryna wife you. They only want to fuck your low- budget ass every which way.

Besides giving you a stiff dick, don’t think he’s really going to lace you with much. He already knows that all he has to do is buy you a bottle of Hennessy, some Alize, and come through with some smoke (trees, collard greens, or whatever else the pot heads call it) and you’re going to let him smash your insides out all night. And if he’s feeling generous, he’ll hit you with a fresh pair of kicks, or slide you a few dollars to get your hair and nails done. You might even be able to get a few more dollars (a hundred at most) out of him. Yeah, he might even splurge on a standard room at the Hilton or Sheraton for you. Hell, he knows it’s a step up from the Motel 6s and the backseats of cars you’re used to. He knows it doesn’t take much to excite you. You love his company and the fact that someone like him is paying you some attention. He already knows you think he’s the best thing that has ever come your way and that you’re not trying to let him go. He might even tell you he’s “feelin” you. But, you best believe you aren’t ever going to be his main girl, even if he is splashing off raw inside of you. At the end of the day, you just a bird to him. And when he bounces from your nest, he’s shaking off the feathers and going home to his main chick. Believe that!

CHAPTER NINE

I love New York, damn it! Yesterday I went to the Harlem Book Festival and it was packed. There was so much positive energy flowing. There were a ton of well-known and up- and-coming authors pushing their books. I finally got the chance to meet Anna J. She’s the freaky chick who wrote that book My Woman, His Wife. She was actually pretty cool, and I loved her sense of