The Man Handler

Garrett with this mess. Not today. “That’s up to you,” I finally say.

I hear, click.

I know he didn’t hang up on me, I think, getting out of bed and sliding my feet into my slippers. “That motherfucker is really losing his damn mind,” I say aloud as I shuffle into the bathroom to relieve myself. “And I’m crazy for letting him get away with it.” When I am finished pissing, I wash my hands, then retreat back to the comforts of my bed.

I don’t awake again until after one o’clock, and by the time I finally decide to get out of bed, it’s already going on two in the afternoon. At almost four o’clock, I still haven’t showered. I’m sitting here in my silk robe listening to my girl Syleena Johnson’s CD Chapter 3: The Flesh. I love her!

She has this song titled “Phone Sex” that I’ve played three times today. Whew! I love me some nasty, freaky phone sex. Mmmph. Baby…let me tell you. There’s nothing like it. How many women and men do you think get off on phone sex, or have even tried it? I personally think it helps keep things exciting.

There is so much power in mind-fucking, sexually speaking that is. To create the mood, to be able to role- play fantasies, to be able to bring someone to the edge of an orgasm by taunting and sensually teasing them. Then when they’re about to cum, you make ’em slow down or stop, then start back again. Bring ’em to the edge again, and again, making them stop each time they are about to nut. Torture them in sweet, delicious whispers until they can no longer take it; until they are begging you, moaning and groaning, for the real thing. My God!

For anyone who hasn’t tried it, I say shame on ’em. And for those who can’t get into it, I say humph. Boriiiiiiing! Of course, I know there are some people who would only become sexually frustrated with phone sex, especially men. I had a man tell me he’s cool with it (and with foreplay) for a while. But after thirty minutes or so, he was ready to fuck. I was like, ohhhhkaaaaay. Click. There was no need in trying to go any further with him. No man is going to short-change me when it comes to foreplay or role-play. And any man who can’t open his mind to phone sex, or lacks a creative imagination, is not for me. End of discussion.

Anywaaaaaaay, moving on, let me ask you something: Does having sexual fantasies about being with the same sex mean I’m a budding lesbian? Or does it simply mean I’m curious? ’Cause let me tell you, the last few days I have been fantasizing about having a woman eat my coochie while I’m sucking a cock. I’ve had fantasies in the past where it’s strictly me and another chick, and I’m fucking her with a double-headed dildo. Other times, it’s with me, another chick, and a dude. Chick is riding him reverse cowgirl—with her back toward him, for those of you who might not know. His legs are spread open and hers are draped over his and I’m on my knees between both of their legs, rubbing her clit, sucking his balls and licking her pussy juice as it drips down the shaft of his dick. It gets me off every time.

But as of late, my fantasies consist of me lying flat on my back with my head hanging off the bed. My legs are bent and my knees pulled up to my chest and a cute little cat licker is between my legs lapping and nipping at my clit, then tongue-fucking and sucking my pussy voraciously while a tall, dark-chocolate daddy is skull-fucking me with his fat, juicy dick, stretching my throat and slapping my forehead with his balls. Whew, baaaaby, listen…there’s nothing like a good dick-swabbing. OhmyGod, the thought gets my pussy juice boiling every damn time. And now it has me wanting to slam down on some dick, or at the very least, grind my pussy down on a pair of wet, hungry lips.

Hmmm, let’s see, I think, scrolling through my cell phone contact list. Who can I hit up for a quick fix? Who am I in the mood for tonight?

I purse my lips, contemplating. But before I can decide on my fuck for the night, my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number, but answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby,” the voice on the other end says.

“Baby?” I repeat with attitude. “Who is this?”

“Damn, baby,” he says, “you done forgot my voice that fast? It’s Benson.”

I frown, then let out a disgusted grunt. “Ohhhhhkaaaaaay, and why are you calling?”

“I was hoping to—”

Oh hell no, I think, shaking my head. I cut him off before he can part his lips to finish his request to hit this pussy. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but there’s no sense in hoping ’cause it’s not gonna happen, boo.”

“Why, you got some other plans? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it before placing it back up to my ear. “Uh, nooooo,” I answer sarcastically. “I thought I told you the last time I saw you to delete my number.”

“I didn’t think you meant it,” he states, sounding serious.

“Oh, I meant it. Along with everything else I said that night.”

“Damn. I was hoping a little space and time would mend whatever ill feelings you might have had the last time we were together.”

“Benson, are you delusional?”

“Hunh? Whadaya mean am I delusional?”

“Just what I asked,” I say. “I want to know if you are crazy, ’cause you really must be if you think you and that lazy dick of yours will ever be invited back into this tight pussy again. After the way you half-fucked me the last time I had you in my bed, I don’t think so, nigga.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m thinking before I speak. I really don’t appreciate how you coming at me. Have I ever disrespected you?”

I take a deep breath. “No, not that I can recall,” I admit.

“So then what makes you think you can come out your mouth all slick?”

“Let me explain something to you. Number one: I’m a grown-ass woman, and I speak to you how I want. I have no respect for a man who creeps on his woman, so get it right. Number two: When I ask—no, tell—a nigga to not call my fucking house again and he does anyway, then it’s obvious to me that his ass doesn’t understand basic English and he damn sure doesn’t respect my wishes, so I have to give it to him raw and uncut. Bottom line, if you don’t like how you’re being talked to, then don’t call my motherfucking house. You had your opportunity to get some good pussy on a regular and you blew it, so let’s keep it moving.”

“You know what? Fuck you…you fucking nasty, trick-ass bitch.”

“No, fuck you,” I say back, laughing. “I know you don’t think you hurt my feelings with that little bullshit line. Nigga, puhleeeeeze. You need to get your dick game up first, before you try to come for me.”

“Fucking smut,” he snaps.

I continue laughing. “And so is your dumb-ass mother for throwing up her rusty-ass legs and giving birth to a pathetic-ass motherfucker like you,” I snap back. “Nigga, you are a fucking waste of dick. So you might as well do yourself a favor and go put a bullet in that lazy-ass cock of yours. You retarded fuck. Now, don’t call my fucking number again ’cause the next time you do, I won’t be so nice.”

“Whatever, bitch,” he snaps, hanging up on me.

I fall back on my bed, laughing my ass off until tears pour out of my eyes. These niggas crack me the hell up. I swear they do. The minute you check their asses, they wanna resort to calling you out of your name. That shit is hilarious to me. Hell. I keep shit real with ’em and their dumb asses want to start feeling some kind of way about it. Oh, well. The truth hurts. And I don’t give a hot fuck whose feelings get hurt. Niggas have been dismissing and disrespecting women for centuries. It’s about damn time women turn the tables and start shoveling the shit back at them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a new damn day. I’m not letting any man try to pimp me, or play me. Believe that.

Instead of dealing with a nigga tonight, I decide to take my ass a long, hot bath, climb up in bed, and masturbate. That’s exactly what I’ll do, I think, getting up and removing my clothes, fuck myself into a delicious slumber.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN