The Man Handler

He stares at me. “Incapable or unwilling to?” he asks, removing my hand from his face. He holds it in his, then kisses my palm. I can feel him searching for something I am unwilling to help him find.

I pull away. “Both. And after tonight, I think it is best we end this situation we got going on.”

He frowns, repeats what I’ve said. “Why’s that?”

I slip on my robe. “Because the arrangement was we fuck, we suck, but we don’t catch feelings. And you’ve reneged on the agreement.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, slipping on his jeans, “so I’m good enough to come through to climb up on your back, but not good enough to love, is that what you’re saying? As long as I fuck you on demand it’s all good, right? But feeling some kind of way about you, or for you, means this situation is over because you say so, right?”

“Basically,” I say, brushing my hair, then pulling it back into a ponytail. My pussy still aches for another round of dick. I glance at the clock. It is already four-thirty in the morning. In a matter of hours, the sun will be rising, and I will have to be getting ready for work. I fake a yawn. “Listen, it’s late, I need for you to hurry up and go.”

He hurriedly pulls his white tee over his head, then puts on his pinstriped button-up. “Yeah, you right. I gotta get outta here,” he says, snatching up his Timbs. “You on some real bull-shit at the moment. You act like there’s something wrong with a muhfucka diggin’ you. But it’s all gravy. Do you, ma.” I can hear the hurt in his voice.

He walks out the room and heads downstairs. I follow behind.

I stare at him. He looks let down, but what can he say, or do. Not a damn thing. “Listen,” I offer, “I’ve had a great time with you, but this journey was bound to run its course anyway. It’s best that we end it sooner, rather than later.”

He turns and shoots me a look, sucking his teeth. “We aren’t doing anything. You are. But like I said, it’s all good. No biggie. You right, it was good while it lasted. So, I guess I should thank you for wetting my dick.”

“That’s not really necessary. Like I said, I enjoyed the time we’ve spent together.”

“Yeah, as long as I don’t use words like love around you. And you know what’s really got me bugging? I almost feel used.”

“Used?” I repeat, frowning. “Wade, let’s not exaggerate here. I would hardly say you were being used. We both benefited from this. I wanted to fuck, and so did you. It was something we both mutually agreed on. So, please, don’t go there.”

“Yeah, but that’s not all I want…I mean, wanted from you. I told you I was digging you. I wanted to get to know you. Go out. Do some shit other than fuck all the time.”

“Well, that’s all I wanted from you—to fuck. And I told you from the door those extras were things that weren’t available to you, which is why I stressed ‘no-strings-attached,’ because I do not want to be attached to anyone. Not right now, anyway.”

“Then when? When you get tired of having different muhfuckas run up in you,” he says, shocking me. “Yeah, I know you like getting your fuck on. But, c’mon, at some point you need to stop playing yourself, and let love in so it can do what it do.”

I tilt my head, placing my hand on my hip. “And what would that be, huh, Wade?”

He walks up on me, pulls me into him, then kisses me forcibly. I feel myself getting caught up in his storm, and being pulled into its winds. He pulls away before I get swept away. “Love you,” he says, gazing at me. I knew then he really had feelings for me. Humph. I almost feel sorry for him, standing here looking all pitiful and whatnot. Poor thing. But he knew the rules. Now, I’ll admit. Good dick is my weakness. But, it’s something I’ll never be a fool over. And my mind is made up. There will (can) be no more fucking between us. Damn him!

“That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” he says, walking towards the door. He looks at me over his shoulder. “’Cause I am.”

“Then you were looking in the wrong place, and definitely in the wrong face.”

He grimaces as if I’ve said something hurtful. As if I’ve tossed a bucket of hot shit in his face. He gives me a painful stare, then says, “I guess I was.” And with that said, boyfriend walks out the door, and closes it behind him. Easy cum, easy go, I think, walking over to lock my door. Two down, and one more to go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Let me share a little something with you. See. I believe there are women who spend their lives wishing and praying for a knight in sparkling, shining armor—or a handsome prince charming galloping up on a white horse to sweep them off their feet. And, interestingly, I believe that many of these women are actually fortunate enough to snag such a catch. However, there are also, I believe, women who sit home night after night, alone and lonely, praying and crying for someone—anyone—to rescue them from their miserable situations. Even some of them are lucky enough to meet their saviors. Then there are women who, sadly, even after finding whom they believed to be their perfect “fairytale” man, they find themselves still sitting around wishing and wondering and praying and crying, hoping for shit that will never come true. So they go through life turning a blind eye to the naked truths that the men they have given their hearts to have fucked them over. Humph!

Then there are women who aimlessly sit at the feet of their men, who come to them by command and not by choice, forced to be slaves to the men’s egotistical, self-centered, selfish whims; to be prisoners of lies and mind games. Many of these women are aware of this, and yet they stay, making excuses and justifying their men’s actions. There are still others who are stuck in deep-rooted denial, blinded by the illusion of love, and will willingly ignore and/or pretend, making choices that keep allowing their men to violate and disrespect them. And that’s their business. But, make no mistake, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever allow myself to be lured into believing that I have to idly sit, and take whatever bullshit a man feels compelled to dish out. I’m sorry, boo-boo, I know women have their reasons for why they do what they do—even if it appears out of desperation, but I cannot sympathize with any of ’em. And I damn sure can’t wrap my mind around why they’d compromise themselves or allow themselves to be victimized. Fuck that! I will never allow myself to stay in a fucked-up, miserable situation with a man, hurting, just for the sake of saying he’s mine.

Trust and believe. I’d rather keep rotating dick and have peace of mind, than have a piece of a man and have to put up with a bunch of his bullshit and be stressed the fuck out, losing mad weight with my hair falling out and bags under my eyes. No, no, no…not gonna happen, trust! ’Cause at the end of the day, when it’s all said and done, with all of his cheating and lying and manipulating, is the motherfucker really yours? Better yet, is he really worth all the damn trouble? And if you’re going to answer, let’s be perfectly real about the shit. Unfortunately, most of you know like I do that many of you won’t be able to keep it funky with the truth because your dumb asses are so damn stuck in denial, and blinded by your own emotional neediness. But I’m not one to gossip.

Anyway, when I bring a man into my bed, at least I already know who the hell I’m sleeping with. And, most times, it’s somebody else’s man. Someone I would never consider keeping in my life. And I accept it for what it is: a stiff dick and a wet tongue to be used at my discretion. So, the question is, do you really know who’s in your bed? Now, you don’t have to answer that with me, but it’s definitely something to think about.

My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I walk over to the dining room table to get it. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually answer calls that come up on my caller ID as blocked, restricted or private, and I’m not exactly sure what compels me to start today, but I do. I press the green phone button and accept the call, walking back over to the sofa. I plop down.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Bitch, how long you been sucking my man’s dick?”

“Excuse you? Who’s this?”

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” the voice on the other end snaps. “And trust me. When I find out who the fuck you are, I’m gonna beat your slutty ass, bitch!”