When It Rains...

by Angie Daniels

  The clock on the dresser ticked and seconds became minutes and finally I began to relax. Yes! He’s not going to touch me tonight. Then, just as I started to really fall asleep, I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. I tensed because I knew that in the next five seconds he was going to ask me that same stupid-ass question.

  “Can I have some?”

  I wanted to yell, “Hell nah, you can’t have none!” No, what I really wanted to say was, “If I wanted to give yo’ fat ass some, I would’ve been lying in the bed butt-naked instead of in a long gown and a pair of grandma draws.” Instead, I remained stone-faced and tried to pretend I hadn’t heard him, but at this point it was obvious he wasn’t falling for it.

  “Hey, Renee, you hear me?”

  I gave a long, exasperated sigh because for once I wished my husband would just get the hint and leave me the fuck alone. “Not tonight,” I said as nicely as I could manage, then rolled onto my side. I even threw a little sleep in my voice since I hadn’t quite given up on that trick yet.

  “Aw, come on,” he begged. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  I know his quick. Thirty minutes of him playing with my left titty, then he’ll want me to play with his dick before he’d finally climb on top of me for another half hour of torture. I blew out another angry breath, then rolled over onto my back and looked up at him. “Why can’t you wait until I want you sometimes? I mean ... I can’t understand why you always want some when I’m not in the mood.”

  There was a long moment of silence and one would have thought I had hurt his feelings, but not John. He gave me this sad, pleading look. “So you gonna give your husband a little bit or what?”

  I couldn’t help it. I tossed my arms in the air and gave a frustrated laugh. He was obviously not going to let up until I gave him some coochie. And as usual, I felt guilty as shit for depriving him of what he felt he was entitled to have on an “ass-needed basis.” “I’m not in the mood,” I snapped with attitude. “I don’t want no dick! But if you want it, if you really, really want it, then go ahead and do the damn thang!”

  Now any other brotha would have said, “Fuck you, bitch,” and rolled over. Not John. He rose long enough to shrug out of his t-shirt and tighty-whities, then eagerlyclimbed back in the bed. The moment I felt his limp dick on my thigh, I sighed because I knew I was in for a long night.

  Lord, why me?

  Now, I could have refused, but Big Mama taught me never to bite the hand that feeds you, so as usual I gave in, and let him have his way. Within seconds, I felt his hand slide underneath my gown. I cringed as his fingersgrabbed my nipple, tweaking it like he was trying to tune a transistor radio. I have discovered in the five years of our marriage that playing with my breasts for five to ten minutes is one of the only ways John can get an erection. The other is me going down on him, but that shit’s not about to happen. John lifted the gown over my head while I lay there like a stiff board. He suckled one nipple between his dry, cracked lips while he twisted and pulled at the other with his fingertips.

  The entire time, I stared at the ceiling fan twirling above while tears ran from the corners of my eyes and onto the pillow. I’m so sick of this shit, I don’t know what to do. Every time he touches me I feel like I’m being violated. I’ve never been raped, but it can’t be too far from what I’m feeling. As he slid my panties down to my ankles, I allowed my mind to disappear to another time in my life. A time when I was free to do what I wanted with whomever I wanted. I then traveled back even further to happier times when I was in grade school before all the madness in my life had begun. My sister Lisa and I used to lie in our bunk beds, laughing and creating make-believe worlds. I bit my lip and forced myself not to cry. Even after a year, thinking about my sister still brought tears to my eyes. At thirty-eight,Lisa had lost her battle with ovarian cancer. I didn’t even know she had it until it was too late. One of her last wishes was for me to give my marriage an honesttry, and because of her I was still trying to hang in there with John. As much as I loved my sister and tried to be a woman who stood by her word, I wasn’t sure how much more I could endure.

  “Play with it,” John instructed as he reached for my hand and moved it over to his limp dick.

  I was so pissed off, I lashed out at him. “I don’t understandthis shit! If your dick ain’t hard, why’re you botheringme? Why can’t you wait until it wants to work?”

  My voice cracked but he didn’t seem to notice becausehe gave an impatient sigh and said, “Just play with it a minute.”

  I practically yanked at his shit because I just don’t get it anymore. For the last year his dick has only half worked. Not that it has mattered to me. Even when it was still fully functional, the sex between us had been bad. I just didn’t think it was important. Seriously! It may sound crazy but I really thought that what I was getting out of the marriage far outweighed what I had to give in return. That shit sounds crazy as hell now. When he met me I was a broke bitch trying to rub two nickels together and when he asked me to marry him I jumped at the chance, thinking that life could only get better. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  By the time my hand was about to fall asleep, John’s dick finally rose to the occasion. Quickly, before it grew soft, he climbed between my legs and searched for the hole. “Help me find it.”

  I don’t understand why John can’t find my coochie! Damn! We’ve been fucking for over five years but he still aims for the wrong hole. What the hell is up with that shit? Reaching over into the top drawer of my nightstand, I pulled out a tube of KY Jelly because my coochie was as dry as the desert. I squeezed a little in my hand and lubed the head of his dick. Damn! He was starting to get soft already.

  “Mmm, baby, that feels good. Rub some more on me,” he crooned.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, then squeezed another dab in the palm of my hand and jacked him off some more. By the time he was hard again, I quickly guided him to my hole and he entered me.

  I sighed while he pumped his little dick in and out like he was hurting some damn body. He was moaning so loud, you would have thought it was me. As he thrust, his fingers tweaked my nipples. And tweaked and tweaked and tweaked some more.

  “Dammit, would you stop before they fall the fuck off!” I yelled, then slapped his hand away. I’ve told him I don’t know how many times to stop playing with them so much, but that shit goes in one ear and out the other. I don’t even think plastering a note across my chest that read, “leave them the hell alone,” would have made a difference.

  John sighed, then slid me down to the middle of the bed and entered me, again pumping and pumping like he was doing some damage. I could have lain there and gone to sleep if he wasn’t dropping balls of sweat all over me. I put a pillow over my face to stop the next droplet that was sure to fall in my damn eye. Thank goodness he paused long enough to wipe his face off on the sheets. He then tossed my pillow aside.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yeah, just hurry up,” I managed through gritted teeth.

  Draping my legs over his shoulders, John began to plunge all three hundred pounds into me. I couldn’t feel shit, but I knew if I wanted this ordeal to end I had to pretend that I did, so I started to moan. As usual, the sound of my voice excited him.

  “That’s it, baby. Come with me,” he said as he reached for my nipple. Instinctively, I slapped his hand away, then rocked my hips and met him stroke for stroke. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m about to come.”

  I was so happy to hear that, I started moving my hips faster, moaning even louder, and urged him on. “Come on, big daddy, you can do it. Come all inside this pussy!”

  “Okay,” he said like a good little boy. “Okay.” He pumped faster.

  I reached up and stroked his nipples, since he seems to get off on that shit. “Come on, Daddy. I want to feel you nut inside of me. Wet that pussy!”

  “Yeaaah! I’m getting ready to come!”

  “Me, too!” I lied.

  While he was howling like a hound dog dur
ing a full moon, I felt that wet, warm feeling as he squirted insideof me. The bed rocked. John was slamming the headboard against the wall so hard, I know the kids heard it, until finally, he collapsed on top of me. Thank you, Jesus! I lay there waiting for him to get off of me. He finally rolled over and within seconds he was snoring.Overcome with relief, I eased out of bed and went into the adjoining bathroom and cleaned myself up. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the tears began to fall again. What has my life become?

  I’m miserable, but nobody seems to believe me. Especiallynot the big muthafucka who happens to share my bed. I feel trapped. Being trapped in a bad marriage is bad enough, but being trapped in a marriage with a good man who you don’t love makes you want to stand in the corner and bang your head against a cement wall. Don’t get it twisted. If it wasn’t that John was an excellent provider and that my kids adored him, I would have left a long time ago.

  John and I have been married five years and I’ve been miserable for three. A one-night stand I met at a club. I was horny and after a night of no other prospects, I went home with him. I was too drunk to remember the specifics of his performance. The only reason why I know we fucked was because I woke up naked and spotted the used condom wrapper on the nightstand besideme. We dated a couple of times after that. None—to his disappointment—ended with sex. I found John to be a kind, generous man, but too damn nice and touchy-feelyfor my taste. He was also dull, very lonely, and needy. Not to mention he wasn’t much to look at—dark, five-eleven, over three hundred pounds, with a waist I couldn’t even wrap my arms around, and a face that resembledShrek. What’s even worse, the brotha can’t dress! And even when I try, it’s no use. Phat Farm on John just looks like the fat farm. But despite his appearance,he had a six-figure salary, which meant he took me to the finest restaurants in town, his company had box seats to all the sporting events, and he drove a Lexus. I know my reasons for dating him were purely selfish, but hey, it isn’t every day a girl from the streets gets the opportunity to sample the finer things in life. After a while, though, even those weren’t enough to make me want to keep seeing him.

  The second time I gave him some was because I couldn’t bring myself to say no after he had spent over two hundred dollars on a lobster dinner. As soon as we were in the bed, he was all over me, touching, feeling, sucking, and, of course, tweaking. When I reached down and felt what he was working with, I almost laughed in his face. Good Lord, my thirteen-year-old son had more than he did! Nevertheless, I endured the hour-long session,and when I finally left his place, I had every intentionof ending the relationship. Unfortunately, the next day at work I got fired, and who did I call? John. He let me cry on his shoulder. Back then, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was already behind on my house payment. After a month of hitting the pavement hard, I panicked—then John offered a solution.

  “Let’s get married.”

  “What?” I looked at him like he had lost his damn mind.

  He simply shrugged. “Why not? You need help and I want to help you.”

  I tried to think of every reason I could why that wasn’t even a possibility and ended up stating the obvious. “We’ve barely known each other three months.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “It wouldn’t matter to me if it had been two years. In the short time we’ve been together,I have fallen in love with you and your children.”

  I was at a loss for words because although he was starting to grow on me, love wasn’t even a factor, not to mention that the sex had gotten worse instead of better, and I was ready to move on to the next guy.

  John noticed my hesitation, because he added, “Listen,I know you don’t love me and that’s okay. You can learn to love me later. Let’s try it out for a year and if it doesn’t work out, then we can go our separate ways.”

  If I hadn’t known it before, I definitely knew it then—his ass was desperate. Why else would someone ask a woman he barely knew to marry him? With two kids, and a foreclosure notice from the bank, I did the only thing any desperate single mother would do. I accepted.

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You just made me a happy man.”

  John then gave me one of those kisses that lacked passion, as well as tongue, then moved into the kitchen. I was about to yell, “Wait! I changed my mind,” When I saw him grab the stack of bills I’d left lying on the kitchen table. When he removed his checkbook from his back pocket and took a seat, I didn’t say a damn thing. That night I lay in his arms, trying to imagine a life with him, and all I saw was boredom and lousy sex. Still, I kept my mouth shut. Three days later, John got down on one knee in front of my kids, holding a one-caratsolitaire. I didn’t even feel my lips move but I definitely heard myself accept. Within the next two weeks, we were standing in front of the justice of the peace with my sister Lisa and her husband as our witnesses.

  After that I tried to make the best of it, even though I knew I didn’t love him. John was so good to me, I thought nothing else mattered, and that in time I could surely learn to love him. Making him happy was easy. I fucked him when he wanted to be fucked and told him what he wanted to hear.

  A year passed with me trying to convince myself that I had made the right choice. With his six-figure salary, I made myself believe that I loved him and everything that he was able to do for me. I was financiallysecure. I didn’t have to work. I was home when the school bus arrived. I attended PTA meetings and made brownies, things that so many mothers wished they could do. I started getting into that Suzie Homemakershit and began planning meals. I even learned how to crochet.

  John loved me to death and showered me with so much affection that I tried to tell myself this was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I even tried to enjoy sex with him. I would fondle and play with him and for hours we would lie in the bed, kissing and hugging between rounds one and two. I convinced myself that I had a lot to be thankful for. Sex was a small price to pay for the lifestyle I was living.

  John built a four-bedroom home for me and my kids and I got the joy of decorating it myself. Then, when I had nothing left to do, I started looking for a job. I appliedfor every management position I could find, and after a year, I still hadn’t found a job. Every rejection was proof that marrying John had been the right decision.However, at the end of the first year, I thought I was going to lose my damn mind. I had too much time on my hands and all I did was sit around and think.

  “Why don’t you write?” John suggested after I started complaining about being bored. “You said you always wanted to write a book.”

  It had always been a dream of mine to become a famousauthor someday. So, I decided to give it a try. John bought me a computer. Before long, the words began to flow and I got so wrapped up in my writing that I discovered a way to fill the void in my life for the next year. After that, every time I thought about leaving him, a voice in my head would say, Bitch, look at all you have accomplished with this man. You’d be a fool to let him go. Then I would glance over at his kind face sitting in a chair like a damn puppy just waiting for me to scratch his head, and I would feel guilty for even thinking about leaving him. But still, even after I had published three erotic romance novels, I realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that no matter how much I tried to hide behind the stories I was writing,my marriage wasn’t going to change. I realized that after three years, I still wasn’t in love with him. I liked him and loved how good he had been to me and my kids, but I didn’t love him.

  I mean, come on. To this day, I’m embarrassed to be seen in public together. With our fifteen-year age differenceand his old-school spirits, it’s like having my daddy on my arm. I dread going out alone, just the two of us, because we have nothing to talk about. Vacations are a bust because we never have any fun unless I createit. I didn’t realize until we were married that John had no friends, no hobbies. Anything I do, he wants to do. He has become so needy that his entire life revolvesaround me and my kids, and it is driving me crazy. I’m not
kidding you. I do almost anything to get away from him. Book-signing tours, vacations with my girlfriends, any excuse to put some distance between him and the boring life he wants me to continue to share with him. The only reason we have lasted this long is because of financial stability, and after my divorceI wanted to offer my children a stable home. Something I never had.

  I never knew my real daddy. He died in a car accidentwhen I was barely four. Growing up with my stepfatherwas pure hell. Paul Perry made it no secret he didn’t like me. No matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. To hide my pain, I rebelled and generally gave him a hard time. My mother, Bernice, was and still is a crackhead. Talking to her was a waste of time. A week after my sixteenth birthday, she left and didn’t bother to come back. During that time, I had already met my first husband. High-school romances seldom work, and my marriage to Mario was just that. By the time I received my diploma, I was already pregnant with Quinton. Tamara came three years later. After Mario put his hands on me one time too many, I took a bat to his head, and filed for divorce.

  Now you’re probably wondering, after all that drama, how I could even think about leaving a man like John. Believe me, I hear it a lot, and I’ve been asking myself the same question for years. Only I can’t come up with one good excuse except to say, I am unhappy. I just wished I felt the same way he does. I’ve tried so hard, but I’ve got needs and wants that he just can’t meet.

  The thought of him touching me turns my stomach. His kisses make me want to run to the bathroom and throw up. I can’t help the way I feel. I love John for who he is, but I am not in love with him. There is a difference.I didn’t believe that at first, but I know it now. I just can’t take it anymore. I know now he isn’t my soul mate. That I can’t spend the next fifty years with him because, in the process, I’ll be losing a piece of myself. I need a man who challenges my mind, body, and soul, who I look forward to sharing my evening with, talking about our day. I want a man who holds me in his arms through the night after making me come.