The Man Handler

man’s ass is actually here while I’m trying to get it in with him. Please don’t make me have to pull out my chrome on your ass, I think, pulling in a deep, exaggerated breath.

“Well, I’m sure you do want some of this tight pussy, or this wet throat. But you’re not getting it here, especially after your chick called my cell talking shit. Yeah, that’s who I was talking to earlier. So, take your happy ass on home to wifey before she cuts up your shit. Her words, not mine.”

“Oh, so what…That’s it? You get yours and it’s fuck me? Is that how you doin’ it?”

“Yep,” I state, leaning up against the dresser and folding my arms across my chest. I stare at him for a few seconds, then walk out the room and go downstairs where I wait for him to bring his silly ass down to get his clothes on—and get the hell out! I glance at them strewn on the floor near the door, and roll my eyes.

Now don’t ask me what the hell is taking him so long to come down the stairs ’cause your guess is as good as mine. But five minutes have passed, and that’s five minutes too damn long.

“Jamil, what the hell are you doing up there?” I yell up the stairs at him. No response. “Jamil?!”

“What? I was using the bathroom,” he says, finally bringing his ass down the stairs. He glares at me. “Damn, you really buggin’.”

“Bugging? No, you got it wrong, baby. I ain’t bugging. I’m done with you—big difference.”

He sucks his teeth, picking up his jeans, then slipping them on. “Yeah, whatever,” he huffs as he stuffs his dick down in them, then zips them up. I’m standing by the door waiting to open it to let him out. He takes his time putting on his shirt. But, it’s fine with me. I have all night. I fold my arms and wait.

“So, just like that you gonna flip the script, is that what you saying?”

“Jamil,” I say, sighing. “I told you from gate I don’t play that shit with women calling me about their men, and that I expect any man I’m fucking to keep his shit tight. You failed to do that. So, yeah, I’m done. Now, hurry up; get the rest of your clothes on and get up out of here.”

He is staring at me like he’s clueless. “Yo, ma, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, for real.”

I roll my eyes and snort. “Oh, really? Well, answer me this: how the fuck did your girl get my phone number, Jamil?”

“Fuck if I know,” he says nonchalantly, slipping his size eleven feet into his Timbs. “Yo, this is some fucked up shit. Word up. You get my dick harder than a muhfucka, and you just gonna up and put me out.”

“Yep. Take that dick back home to that crazy-ass chick of yours ’cause it’s obvious she needs it more than I do. Now, tell me. How the hell she get my number ’cause I know I didn’t give it to her?”

“Well, don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to her. She probably went through my damn phone again.”

I blink, blink again. She probably went through my phone again, I repeat in my head. I raise my brow. Now, I’ve always known most men were real stupid when it comes to women. They are damn good liars, but when it comes to cheating they are about as dumb as they come. Hell, Forrest Gump has better sense, and we all know he wasn’t the brightest light. And Jamil is a prime example of what stupid looks like. Why the hell would this silly mofo have my number programmed into his phone? And now his damn chick has all the incriminating evidence against his dumb-ass, which is why she was on the phone beefing with his ass earlier. Now what kind of shit is that? What a fucking idiot! And I’m telling you, if by some strange chance she comes here ringing my fucking doorbell, Jamil is seriously going to need plastic surgery ’cause I’m going to gut his brainless ass.

I swing open the door. “Jamil, get the fuck out of my house.” He snatches up his keys, then steps up in my space. I tilt my head and stare him down. “Is there something you wanna say to me?”

The muscles in his jaws are twitching.

“You really fucking up a good thing over nothing,” he says.

I laugh in his face. “A good thing? Nigga, please. Get out, Jamil. And take that bullshit back to your woman ’cause I’m not the one. Good day.”

“Yeah, aiight,” he says, walking out the door. I slam and lock it.

“Good riddance!”

Now help me understand why in the hell would an already involved man have another chick’s number programmed in his phone or be saving emails (in the first place) when nine times out of ten, he’s fucking with some nutty, insecure chick whose going to go snooping through his cell, start prying through his email file cabinet, or rummaging through his wallet looking for any signs of infidelity. Don’t these fools know that most women (who are already one pill away from crazy, and seriously dick whipped) have nothing but time on their hands, and will spend all day trying to figure out phone codes and email passwords? Unless he simply doesn’t give a fuck, only a nigga sucking on paint chips would be retarded enough to leave a trail of evidence. Of course, this is only my opinion.

I turn my phone back on, then head for the shower. When I finish my shower and return to my bedroom, I check my phone. The flashing envelope alerts me there are messages. I retrieve them, and laugh. There are three from Jamil’s dizzy-ass chick. Message one: “Bitch!” Message two: “You better hope I don’t catch you, fucking ho!” Third message: She’s playing Monica’s song “Sideline Ho” in the background. Interestingly, I really like the song. It definitely doesn’t apply to me. But Jamil’s little wifey seems to think so, so it is what it is. She blasts the song into my phone, then lowers the volume and speaks, “That’s right, bitch, you a sideline ho. Get your own man, and leave mine the fuck alone ’cause he don’t want ya dumb ass. He was only using you.” This is the message I find the most amusing. “He was using me; oh really?” I laugh out loud. “Girlfriend, if you only knew.”

Now, like I said, I love that Monica joint. I mean, I think the song is really cute, and really gives you something to think about. But Miss Thing has me fucked up with someone else ’cause ain’t no way a man can use me for shit. I wet a mofo’s dick because I want to, not because he sweet-talked his way into my drawers. And I’m definitely not fucking him because I’m lining his pockets with my money, so he can bring it back home to his chick. So, how am I being used?

Anyway, I laugh at her assumption that I’m sidelining for her man. Girlfriend has me twisted up with one of them brand-new fools on the block. I’ll be damned if I’m standing on the side of anything, waiting, hoping for a man to come through and do anything for me. I don’t want to know shit about his family, finances, or future. I don’t give a fuck where he goes when he walks out this door, and I don’t want him whispering shit in my ear, except how good my pussy is. All that other mess, he can save for the chick at home wringing her hands, wondering where the hell his ass is.

I’m going to let you in on a secret: See. When it comes to a cheating-ass man, I know where he is when he’s not with her ass. He’s in my bed, eating my pussy, and giving me the dick the way I want it. And when he’s not with me, I still know where he is. At home with her ass, thinking about me, wondering how he can get out of the house to come back for some more of this good pussy.

While she’s cooking, and cleaning, and taking care of his kids, playing the happy wife and mother, he’s sneaking into the bathroom, or basement to call me to complain about her ass, telling me how bad he wants to feel my lips wrapped around his dick again or have his tongue in my ass. So, hell no! I’m not a sideline ho, a crack ho, a project ho, a groupie ho, or a damned gold digging ho. I’m a ho who loves dick.

Now, answer me this: who’s the real fool in the room?

Forty minutes later, my cell phone rings. I look at the number on the screen and see that it’s this crazy bitch again. And I know good and well Jamil took his simple ass home. Instead of letting the call go into voice-mail, I decide to indulge her one last time.

“Yes, Sweetie?” I say, fucking with her.

“Stay the fuck away from my man,” she warns. “Jamil came home and told me everything. He told me how he fucked you one time and you been bugging ever since. You keep tryna get at him, begging him to come fuck you again. Bitch, you mean to tell me that you that hard-pressed to be sweating another woman’s man? I know my man got some good dick, but, bitch, you need to check ya’self quick. Find your own fucking man, and leave mine the hell alone. So, I’m telling you now to back the fuck off.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing. That punk-ass mofo twists the shit up to make him look good, trying to make it seem like I’m riding his jock. And it’s obvious she believes it. I laugh. Not that what she says is funny, but the fact that she is actually saying it is what I find entertaining. I am convinced that the two of them deserve each other for her to be as stupid as his ass is. And for some reason, I almost feel sorry for her.

“What the fuck is so funny?” she asks.

“You are, boo,” I say, still laughing. At this point, I’m laughing so hard at this bitch that tears are streaming down my face. “Whew, I see Jamil has you all fucked up in the head. Better you than me, sweetie. That’s for sure.