“Listen,” he says, sounding frustrated. “I’m not trying to get into this over the phone. What time you getting off from work?”
“Oh, no,” I say, getting up from my desk and walking over to the window. I look down onto the street. Watch as the cars go to and fro. “You are not about to come to my house to beat me in the head about something that isn’t an option.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“Garrett,” I say, walking back to my desk. I shuffle through a stack of mail. “I’m not having this discussion with you, today, tonight, tomorrow, or any other time. Good bye.” I disconnect the call, plopping down in my high back leather chair.
See, this is the reason why I need to stick to my three month rule. Fuck ’em, rotate ’em, then let ’em go. Out of all my fuck charms, Garrett—aside from Maurice—is the one who has never brought any drama with him. And he’s never tried to make our arrangement out to be more than what it’s been. Until now! What the fuck has gotten into him? I should not have to remind him of our “agreement,” the one I’ve been guilty of not following (with him) the last few weeks, the last several months: Fuck on occasion, once every few months.
Everything between us was fine. Now he wants to fuck on demand. Damn him! Like I said months ago, I’ve kept him around the longest out of all my fucks for the simple fact that he came with good dick. And he understood the rules. Now he’s trying to rearrange shit. And I’m not feeling it. I already see where this is going, and I don’t like it one damn bit. I swear I don’t want to axe him. He feels so damn good inside of me, but I’ll seal this pussy shut before I allow him to try to wife me up.
I take a deep breath. I try to list the reasons why I have been riding Garrett’s dick off and on for the last two, almost three, years. Try to remind myself of the fact that he’s always good, like Wade, for those last minute tune- ups. He aims to service the pussy with no questions asked. And he doesn’t come with any damn drama. I try to balance the pros and cons of keeping him on my team. Try to rationalize holding onto him when I don’t have any emotional connection to him. Or do I?
“Hell,
On my way to the Olive Garden on Route 22, Ian calls me on my prepaid cell. He says he wants to see me tonight. I decline. I am in no mood for him after the fucking Garrett and Majestic put on me over the weekend. Although I know sliding up in my pussy wasn’t on his mind, having him plunging in and out of my asshole isn’t an option either; especially not after the way he had my hole sizzling the last time. Thanks, but no thanks! I don’t even feel like sucking his dick.
“Can I get a rain check?” I ask, pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot. “Tonight’s really not a good night.” I park next to a burgundy Range Rover, then remove my seatbelt, keeping the car running.
“Damn, baby,” he says, practically whining. “I was hoping to see you tonight.” I roll my eyes. “What about tomorrow night?”
“Actually,” I say, flipping down my visor to check my eyeliner, “I was thinking more like one day next week.”
“Well, how ’bout I come by and we just chill?”
“Umm, that sounds wonderful, but I’m not really in the mood for a man tonight.”
“Oh, word? I can dig it,” he says, sounding rejected. “How ’bout you hit me up when you ready to get it in then?”
“Aiight,” he says. “Later.”
I hang up and get out of my car, walking towards the entrance. There are about ten people standing outside, which tells me the place is crowded. I go inside and walk up to the podium, and I am greeted with a wide smile. “Hello, Welcome to the Olive Garden.”
Hello,” I respond. “Can you tell me how long the wait is?” She says it’s a fifteen-minute wait. I decide to stay and give her my name. “I’ll be outside,” I tell her.
“This will light up,” she says, handing me a wooden disc, “when your table is ready.”
I go outside and sit on one of the benches. I am glad it’s warm out, almost like summer. There are three chicks, two black and one white, sitting on a bench not too far from me. I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation, and roll my eyes up in my head as one of them is saying something about being tired of dating broke men. The other two agreed. I literally almost pass out when I hear her say she agreed with her mother that as long as a woman is spreading open her legs, she should never be broke.
I cross my legs, thankful I have my shades on as I roll my eyes again. I get so tired of hearing women talking about needing or wanting a man for his money. That shit is so tired, and played out. I mean, really. Enough already. I want so bad to chime in and tell her to get the fuck over herself and stop looking for handouts.
We are living in the twenty-first century and more women need to learn to be self-sufficient, and self-reliant, and stop playing the damn damsel in distress role. Stop settling for that gold digger mentality. It’s really sad, and fucking disturbing, that there are still a lot of women who buy into that archaic way of thinking that a man should take care of her. As long as women hold onto that belief, they will always be dependent on a man. And when shit doesn’t work out, she’ll be a prisoner of her own choices—trapped, miserable and damn desperate to latch onto another cash cow before day’s end.
Hell, my thing is, get your ass up and do something constructive with your life besides breeding a bunch of damn babies, and gold digging. Get an education, pursue a career, and stack your money. ’Cause at the end of the day, if a man ever decides to walk out on you with the next chick, or if he takes ill, you still need to be able to stand. As far as I’m concerned, don’t rely on a man to do shit for you, except provide you with some dick, and maybe a little companionship.
Ugh! I am so glad my cell phone rings to give me something to do besides listen in on their pathetic conversation. It’s Mitchell. “Hello.”
“You ready to see me?” he asks, chewing in my ear.
I pull the phone away from my ear and frown. “What?”
He repeats himself.
Lucky for him the lights start flashing on my wooden puck. “Listen, delete my number.” I hang up before he can say another word.
As I follow the hostess to my seat, I decide I will take the rest of the day off. It’s too nice to be holed up in somebody’s office. I will go home and lounge around, listening to music and watching movies. Then tonight I will give myself a pedicure and a facial, before luxuriating in a hot, steamy bath with candlelight and soft music. I am not in the mood to be bothered with anyone else’s man today. But come tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll have my sweet, tight pussy wrapped around someone’s stiff dick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
You know, after sitting here giving all of you nasty peeping toms an up-close-and- personal look into my life, confiding in you, sharing all of my deepest thoughts, dreams, my sexapades, freaky fantasies, sex tips, and even some of my fears as if you were my dearest friends, I realize I know nothing about any of you. Other than the fact that most of you like all this nasty shit I’m telling you, ya’ll are a bunch of strangers to me. Hell, no! On second thought, a bunch of voyeuristic freaks, that’s what ya’ll are.
Humph, and what’s even more crazy is that this realization reminds me that I don’t have one female friend with whom I can laugh and talk and share secrets. And it also reminds me of the reason why. Because, like I said before, most females can’t be trusted when it comes to telling them your personal business, especially phony-ass females. Like I mentioned before, they’ll smile up in your face, and be plotting on how they can take your spot. I’m
