The Man Handler

“Bitch, who the fuck is you calling ridiculous?”

“I said this is ridiculous, but now I see that you are too. I’ve entertained you long enough. Toodles!” I hang up.

Now I may be many things, but stupid, or crazy, isn’t one of them. You don’t actually think I’d give all these mofos I fuck my real cell or home numbers, do you? Oh, hell no! I’m always prepared for shit like this because I know it comes with the territory. That’s why I give them all the prepaid jump-off, and keeps it moving ’cause I know right off the bat that there are some dumb mofos like Jamil—and that stupid ass Seth—who will get caught out there. Please, I have no intentions of making it easy for any chick to track me down, which is why I haven’t been too pressed about Jamil or Seth’s chick’s idle threats about trying to get at me. That’s the least of my worries. Unless a chick is squatting in the dark, following her man with her headlights off, driving in an unmarked car—or worse, her man points me out—she is going to have a very difficult time trying to figure out who I am. Believe that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Due to the fact that I didn’t get a lick of sleep last night, I feel like shit today. I am cramping like hell, and it feels like someone is poking my uterus with a thousand damn needles. I decide to call out from work, and lie in bed and pop Motrin all day, listening to music. The sadistic part of me is hoping I am having a miscarriage, but I know that would be too simple. In some strange way, it would be letting me off the hook, making it easier for me to not have this abortion. For a fleeting moment, guilt finds me.

“I can’t keep this baby,” I say to myself, sitting up in bed.

One more day, I think, reaching for the remote for my Sony stereo. All I have to do is get through one more day of this, then it will be all over. I press play and wait for Lauryn Hill’s MTV Unplugged CD, disc one, to play, then fluff my pillows up in back of me when she starts singing “Mr. Intentional.” I close my eyes and move my head from side to side to the beat. The words of the song take up space in my head, and I start wondering if some of the fucked up shit most—being the operative word—people do to the ones they claim to love is intentional. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Who the fuck knows?

But what I do know is that this pregnancy was not intentional. Not on my part, and I definitely hope not on Garrett’s part either. I think for a minute, then dismiss that notion as silly. There’s no way he would stoop to that level. Then again, stranger things have been known to happen. Anyway, like I said, being pregnant was not my intent. But fucking someone else’s man is. Though my intention isn’t to disrupt someone else’s home, it damn sure is my objective to satisfy my sexual needs. And if the nigga who creeps on his woman is willing to risk getting caught—or worse, losing his family behind a piece of ass, then that’s on him. His ignorance is my sweet bliss.

I lean back and close my eyes, allowing Lauryn’s philosophical soul to drift through the room. OhmyGod, I am so exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open. We’ll finish up later. Until then…here’s to thick dick, soft lips and a bottomless throat!

When I awaken, it is four o’clock in the morning. I can’t believe I actually slept a whole day away. I stretch and yawn, then get up and head for the bathroom. I relieve myself, then turn on the shower and wait for the stall to steam up. I step in. When I am finished showering, I oil my damp body with coconut body butter, then wrap myself in a white towel. It’s only four-thirty. I set my alarm to wake me up at seven-thirty, then lie back down. But sleep doesn’t find me. Instead, I toss and turn. I find myself thinking about some of the niggas I’ve met and dismissed, and the ones I’ve fucked, shaking my head. Thinking back, I can’t help but laugh at how pathetic some of them were. Like Marco. We never fucked, just spent a lot of time talking on the phone about sex, and a few times having phone sex.

One particular night, we were having one of our sex talks when he told me he fantasized about me sucking his big, black dick nice and slow. He said he liked for a woman to be on her knees, worshipping his dick and sucking it and loving it, with long, slow swallows from his head to his balls. Well, it all sounded good until he told me he expected (yes, EXPECTED!!) me to drink his cum. I thought I had heard him wrong until he repeated himself. Now, I know he was out of his rodeo-do-sido-rabbit-ass mind with that shit. And I told him that. Then he said, “Well, maybe we can compromise. Don’t swallow.” Whaaat?!! I was too through. I told him, “I got a better one for ya.” When he asked, “What’s that?” I said, “This!” Then hung up on his ass. The nerve of him to think I’d let him bust off in my damn mouth. I’m a ho. Not some dirty whore who willingly gulps down buckets of cum. Not that I haven’t done it before, but only with my damn man. Not some fucking nigga I’m simply fucking. Don’t get it twisted!

Then there was Edwin, my first—and last, blind date. Dude wasn’t bad looking, and I was contemplating making a move on his ass so I could taste the goods. But his damn breath stunk so bad, I thought I would throw up everything I had eaten right in his damn face. It was more than simply bacteria around his teeth and gums that caused his bad breath. I am convinced the smell of sewage wafted relentlessly from the back of his throat, and clung to the grooves of his tonsils because he was a shit eater. There was no other logical explanation for it. He even had the nerve to be all up in my face, crowding my space and burning the hairs in my nose, trying to get his rap on. The whole time he spoke, I held my breath. I was getting lightheaded, trying to be cordial and keep a straight face. But this man was literally making me sick. I tried to back away just enough to suck in some fresh air before I passed out. Finally, I had had enough. Without being too nasty, I got up, and said, “Don’t call me; I’ll call you.”

Then there was Dexter. Damn him! And damn me! That’s what the hell I got for going out on the prowl. I never, ever, bring a man home without running my hands across the front of his pants first. And this particular night was no different. I grabbed a handful of his crotch area and thought I felt (and saw) a lump in his pants, which is why he got through my damn front door. But obviously, the nigga stuffed a pair of sweat socks, or something, down in his shorts. Because when he got here, what I felt, is not what the fuck I saw. When I measured him with my ruler, I had to do it again to make sure that the measurements and my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.

Here he was six-six, two hundred forty pounds; chiseled from head to damn toe, with big hands, a big nose, size fourteen feet, and a teenie-weenie Oscar Meyer Weiner. What kind of shit is that? All I can say is that another thick, strapping nigga dispelled the myth. And, yes. I was more than disappointed. I was downright disgusted to say the least. Humph.

The minute he stepped out of his boxers, my overheated pussy immediately began to lose its steam. The fool was trying his damnedest to seduce me. And as fine as he was, I didn’t have the heart to throw his ass out. So, I did what any decent ho would do. I gave him a pity-fuck. I let the nigga crawl up on me, stick what felt like his thumb in me, then, after about six pumps, he had the fucking audacity to ask me if it felt good. He had the gall to be pumping me like Humpty Dumpty, then wanted to know if it felt good.

I wanted to ask, “Does what feel good?” But, instead, I humored him, and screamed and moaned like he was ripping my insides out. And every chance I got, I silently rolled my eyes up in my head, chuckling to myself. He was sweating and grunting, working overtime. I grabbed and pulled at his dick. Yet, no matter how hard he stroked, the nigga couldn’t even fill my basket.

Anyway, he pulled out of me, then climbed up over my chest, slid his dicklet (my term for his little assed dick) between my titties, pressed them together, then pumped and pumped as if he was really doing something spectacular. He was panting, and huffing away. Just a choo-chooing his little heart out. I engaged him in some dirty talk. Lied about how good he made my pussy feel. Gassed him up to no end about him being the best fuck I’d had in months. I “oooh-baby-babied,” “yes-big daddy-daddied” him until he cracked a nut as thick as oatmeal. And the crazy thing is, that little assed dick shot like a damn cannon. He blasted his nut all over the place. I’m certain the nigga tried to bust in my face. It’s a good thing I turned my head when I did; otherwise, the shit would have hit me in my damn eye, instead of hitting the headboard. You can rest assured, he never saw the inside of these walls again!

Forty minutes pass and I am still up, sifting through my “miserable fucks” list. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, then concentrate on my breathing. In that moment, a thought comes to mind. I jump up and race to my PC. I know exactly where I want to spend the holidays. I wait for my computer to boot, then to go online and book a ten-day trip to Egypt. Yes, the Motherland, that’s where I want to bring in the New Year. I’ve always wanted to see the