The Man Handler

matter how many times, or how many ways, he is fucked by his partner. He is never going to be satisfied with what he is getting at home, and he is always going to be scheming about how he can get it without getting caught. And, yes, it is really fucked up.

I am not in a relationship—yes, ironic I know, a ho giving relationship advice—go figure. Still, I have fucked enough men to know that in order for any relationship to work, both parties have to listen to each other. And when I say listen to each other, I am not only talking about verbal cues. I mean, listen to each other’s breathing, pay attention to their movements. Trust me, it will tell you all you need to know. If a man hits a spot on a woman’s body, or licks/sucks her pussy and clit a certain way that makes her ribs rise, and a gasp escapes from the back of her throat, he should remember that spot, make a mental note of it. If a woman is sucking her man’s dick, or riding his dick, and he starts to wiggle underneath her, starts moaning, that means he’s enjoying how she’s giving it to him. That doesn’t mean stop what you’re doing; keep the rhythm going. When she/he no longer responds, then change up. On that note, I’m moving on…

My cell phone rings. I glance at the number. It’s Jamil. My fuck charm, and, of course, another man creeping on his woman; see what I mean? “Hello,” I answer, tossing my latest issue of Ebony on the coffee table, then placing my bare feet up on top of it.

“Hey, you free tonight?” he asks in a low, monotone voice. He sounds discouraged, perhaps depressed.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, partially concerned.

“Yeah,” he replies, sighing. “I want some stress-free pussy tonight.”

“Oh what, wifey ain’t giving you any this week?”

I chuckle to myself, knowingly. The only time Jamil calls is when his woman is in bitch mode and has shut down the pussy, which seems to be every other week. That’s the craziest shit to me. I remember this chick I used to be cool with telling me how she and her man would be beefing and she wouldn’t give him any pussy for weeks. I almost choked on my chicken salad. What in the hell?! The way I like to fuck, I could never be the type of chick who withheld pussy from her man. What kind of shit is that? The only person I’d really be punishing is me. And, like I’ve said many times before, I’m not depriving myself of shit. I’m sorry. There’s no way, I’d have some dick lying next to me, and I wasn’t riding or sucking it. Not going to happen. My thing is, so what if you and your man are beefing. What the hell does one thing have to do with the other? Curse his ass out, fuck him real good, then finish addressing the issue. And if it can’t be resolved, either let it go, or move the hell on. Trust me. After a good fuck, you’ll see things more clearly. Well, that is, if you’re not the type of chick who’s weak, and allows a stiff dick to control her. Anyway, go figure. And these chicks got the nerve to wonder why their men creep. Duh! ’Cause your whack ass ain’t serving up the pussy.

Don’t roll your eyes and suck your teeth at me. Please. That shit is so damned corny to me. As far as I’m concerned, withholding sex is one of the worst things anyone can do in a relationship. It is definitely asking for trouble. I mean, I can understand a few days (maybe a week at most). But more than that—weeks, months, years—is pure craziness.

I remember this dude, Cedric, I used to fuck a few years ago. His wife, well girlfriend at the time, would go months at a time without giving him some pussy. She would talk about how she didn’t feel like it. I couldn’t believe it. And he had been with her for almost fourteen years. But he had had enough of the begging, and eventually wandered outside looking for someone who would fulfill his needs. And, ooh la-la…lucky him!

See. With me, it was an open invitation. And he truly appreciated being able to have access to some good pussy on a regular. I’d delightfully wet his cock and balls up with no hesitation. Mmmph. Let me tell you. His dick was six and a half inches and thick as sin. And he knew how to work the hell out of it. Oh my God, he was such a damn good and greedy fuck. He would gobble this hot pussy up like there was no tomorrow, then fuck me like his life depended on it. We kept up our little rendezvous for almost eight months, before his dumb-ass wife came to her senses and started fucking him like she had some damn sense. Damn, I miss that dick. Oh, excuse me for digressing. As you can see, I do that from time to time.

“Something like that,” he states, bringing me back to the conversation.

“Poor thing,” I coo. “I bet that juicy, black dick is aching for some of this wet, sweet, gushy stuff.”

“Exactly. So you got me or what?”

I glance at my watch. It’s a little after eight p.m. on a Wednesday night. I really don’t feel like being bothered with him, and my sex drive still isn’t up to par, but—after entertaining thoughts of smearing my creamy nut on his tongue, I decide to allow him to indulge his carnal urgings. And hope I don’t get sick in the process. Anyway, I always heard pregnant pussy was the best kind, so until I have my procedure, there’s no sense in letting any of it go to waste.

“What time you tryna come by?” I finally ask, forgetting all about the dick fast I’m supposed to be on.

“In like an hour.”

“I’ll be here,” I say, before hanging up.

Humph, I think, shaking my head. I wonder what his dumb-ass did this time for her to stop wetting his dick. Now, make no mistake. Like I said, I don’t necessarily agree with rationing out the pussy. However, I do believe there may be instances where a woman probably should. Like when her man continues to take her for granted and expects her to keep catering to his whims while he shits all over her. Or when she fucks her man any-and-every which way the wind blows and the greedy mofo still isn’t satisfied, still needs to run off and fuck the next chick. Oh, hell no! Now, that’s when the shop should shut the hell down— indefinitely. And if you ask me, after that, her ass should be entertaining divorcing herself from his no-good ass. Damn sure not staying.

I’m sorry. I know I fuck other chicks’ men, but trust me. If my man was cheating on me, and I found out, there is no other discussion to be had other than when you moving the fuck out—if we live together. Or I’ll see you in divorce court—if we’re married. I’m not going to want to hear none of that “baby-I’m-sorry-it-was-a-mistake-I- fucked-up-I’ll-never-doit-again-because-I-didn’t-mean-for-it-to-happen” bullshit. Lies, I say! You can save that shit for the birds.

I know; I know; that’s easier said than done. And that’s why there are countless women staying in fucked up situations because they believe it’s too damn hard for them to get out of them. Maybe it is; maybe it isn’t.

Speaking of which, how many women do you think believe in the saying: How you get him is how you’ll keep him, or is that how you lose him? Hmmm…Let’s see. I suspect not too many buy into it ’cause if they did, they wouldn’t be hard-pressed to jump into a relationship with someone who they already know is capable of cheating, because he was cheating on the ex with her dumb ass.

Now, my next question is: What makes this ho think her pussy and head game is so damn tight that he won’t ever get the itch to cheat on her retarded ass with someone else? If he did it once, isn’t it possible he’d do it again?

No need to answer now. Let’s let it sit and marinate for a while. Jamil will be here in another thirty minutes, and I need to get ready.

Jamil rings my doorbell, and I open the door wearing a loosely-tied, baby blue, silk robe. My cleavage and the scent of lust greets him. My hair is in an upsweep do, but I anticipate it being tossed about by the time he finishes with me; this is what I think—hell, hope for, as he walks through the door and grabs me. I quickly turn my head as he tries to kiss me, causing his dark lips to brush against my neck.

“Oh, you still on that shit?” he says, stepping back, looking at me. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“You know how I feel about kissing,” I say. It’s not that I dislike it. I actually enjoy it. But I am not letting every man who walks through my door and sticks his dick up in me, kiss me. In my opinion, kissing opens the doorway to the heart, forces emotions to surface. Brings about a certain level of intimacy that should only be reserved for someone you are emotionally connected to. Not someone you only want for fucking. Oh, alright already, with the exception of Garrett, Maurice, and…yes, Wade. And I’m not emotionally connected to any of them. But that’s beside the point. “Besides,” I continue, “you’re not my man; nor will you ever be, so there’s no need for your lips to ever touch my lips unless they’re the ones neatly folded between my legs.”

He laughs, removing his jacket, then pulling off his brown Timberland boots. “You crack me the hell up with all of your little rules.”

“Well, that may be so,” I say, opening my robe and letting it fall from my frame. “But this is where you chose to be; this is where you wish to be, so my little rules must not be a problem for you.”

“Hell, baby,” he says, stepping out of his boxers, “you can have as many rules as you want as long as you keep serving up the pussy and wetting this”—he grabs his cock and swings it back and forth—“dick up as good as