by Cairo
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 you do.”
His cell phone
rings. He lets it go into voice mail.
I roll my eyes. Men are so fucking stupid. I have told him over and over again, when he’s with me and his woman calls, answer the damn phone. Continue doing what you do when you’re not creeping with me. Don’t change up your routine. But, this mofo disregards what I say every time.
“Why didn’t you answer?” I ask. But at this point I could really care less.
His phone rings again.
He ignores the question and the call, taking me by the hand and leading the way upstairs. When we finally get up to the bedroom, he sits down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread apart. He rests his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together, and sighs. I sit next to him, reach for his semi-hard dick and begin stroking it until it thickens.
“Why can’t I get this shit at home?” he asks, turning his gaze on me. “Instead of a bunch of bullshit,” he blurts out.
I stare at him, let go of his dick. “If you’re not happy with her, why do you stay?”
He looks at me as if what I’ve asked is incredulous. As if the answer should be obvious. “I love her.”
I blink, blink again. If that isn’t the weakest, lamest, most overused excuse in the world.
“But you’re sitting here.”
“What does me loving her have to do with that?”
“Yeah, okay, if you say so. If cheating on your woman is love, then do you, boo. But obviously, you’re not happy.”
He scowls. “I never said I wasn’t happy. I simply can’t stand her mood swings and shit, and her being stingy with the sex. Other than that, I’m good.”
“So then why are you sitting here again?”
“For some pussy.”
“And why is that?”
He sucks his teeth, leaning back on his forearms. “What’s this? Twenty fucking questions?” He huffs, looking down at his dick resting on the left side of his stomach. “You gonna take care of this dick or what?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking his cock back in my hand. I flick my tongue over the head, plant slow, wet kisses along the back of its shaft, then abruptly stop, letting go of it again, “after you answer my question.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. If you want your dick wet, you’ll answer the question.”
“I’m here tryna get some pussy, because I ain’t getting it at home.”
“Hmm…very interesting,” I say, getting up from the edge of the bed. I walk over to one of my walk-in closets and pull a satin robe off one of the brass hooks. I slip it on, then tie it tight across my body.
He frowns. “What you put that on for?”
Now, before I go off on his ass, let me vent for a minute. I already know that, in life, you get what you get, when you do what you do. But, dammit, please tell me what in the hell I ever do to have to listen to a damn man whine and complain about what it is his woman doesn’t do. Okay, okay…usually, I’m all ears. But, tonight, at this very instant, I am not in the mood to hear shit except his balls slapping up against the back of my pussy. But he wants to bitch about shit that makes me no never mind, and it has fucked up my mood. It’s bad enough I really wasn’t up to seeing his ass tonight anyway. But, because I let my pussy talk me into letting him come through, I got to listen to this shit. Sorry, baby…not tonight.
“Because,” I say, facing him with my hands on my hips, “obviously you need a relationship therapist; not pussy.”
And before he can open his mouth to say anything else, I put him out. Tell him to get his shoes on, stuff his dick back into his boxers, and to get the hell out of my house; and to never, ever, ring my goddamn doorbell again unless he’s coming here to fuck, not vent. And I mean it. When I say I’m not in the mood for any chitchat, only fucking, that’s the hell what I mean. Don’t come here with the extras!
CHAPTER THIRTY
Okay, another question for you—and let’s see how many of you can get it right. What is the one thing that a man cherishes, and will die trying to protect; the one thing that will bring him the most drama if he isn’t able to be in control of it; the thing that will disrupt his life if not used wisely? Answer: His DICK!
Yes, his most prized possession. The thing he nurtures, and adores, and defines and measures his manhood by. The thing he takes pride in. The cock, the dick, the penis, the pipe, the wood, the schlong, the ding-dong, the ding-a-ling, the Jimmie, the Big Boy, the snake, the bamboo, the bozack, and a slew of other pet names assigned to describe his appendage. Hell, I remember having a man in my bed lying on his back with his legs spread wide, begging me to make his “hotdog” spit. Ugh! That was it for me. Dude had to go. Then there was one who had the nerve to tell me to suck the cream out of his “Twinkie.” Maybe it’s me, but a grown-ass man referring to his dick as a damn Twinkie has some serious issues, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m not sucking or fucking anything being likened to a damn sponge-cake filled with a bunch of white cream.
Anyway, dick (or whatever cute, little descriptive term used), is made to be sucked, to be fucked, to be pleased. And I have no problem doing what is necessary to take it on the most enjoyably wet, toe-curling ride of its life. I have no problem teasing it, tormenting it, or taming it.
And like I said before, when I’m fucking a man, my mission is to give him a total out-of-body experience. I want to take his breath away, then give it back. Make his damn toes curl, his nipples harden, his balls rattle, and his eyes roll all the way in the back of his head. Then when he’s about ready to bust that nut, make his body ripple with an electrical energy that shakes his soul. When I roll off of him, I know the mission is complete when he’s looking dazed and confused, then starts drooling and slurring his words, lying there paralyzed. Yep, I’ve fucked his ass into a stroke.
My phone rings. I am not familiar with the number, but I answer anyway. “Hello?”
“Hey, Beautiful,” the smooth, velvety voice says on the other end. “I’m in town for a few days and was hoping you had some time for me.”
It’s Maurice. He’s a cross country truck driver I met three years ago at a party in Brooklyn. He’s six-two, two hundred forty pounds of thick, dark-chocolate man meat who calls me whenever he’s in the area. The last time we fucked was about six months ago, so I’m down for another round of his nine and three-quarter inch dick with the thick vein running along the shaft. Mmmm. And of course he calls me, wanting to dip his dick into my sweetness. And, yes, he’s another man I’ve tongued down.
I smile. “Of course I do,” I say, imagining his pillow-soft lips on my nipples and clit. Mmmph. The thought of his dick up in my love basket sends chills down my spine. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like straddling a man’s face and cock, and riding his ass down into the mattress. Mmmm. And with Maurice, I can position his dick in me to hit every angle of my pussy and grind my clit against his pelvis to really get off. Oh, yes! The thought of shoving my panties in his mouth while I slam my wet, hot pussy down on his dick has me tingling. In my head, I hear myself telling him to lie back, and enjoy the damn ride. “What time you coming?”
“I’m on my way,” he says. “And I’m horny as hell, too.”
“Just how I like it,” I say, sliding my hands between my legs, then pulling open my lips. “Ooh, daddy,” I whisper. “I can’t wait to feel your dick in this pussy.”
“And this dick can’t wait to feel you,” he says. “I’ll be there in ’bout half an hour.”
I glance at the clock. 8:17 p.m. Oh, shit, I think, jumping out of the bed and racing to the bathroom. I have to freshen up this cat box.
Twenty minutes later, I am showered, and relaxed, and horny as hell. The thought of fucking Maurice has me on fire. I crave body contact, body heat. Humping and grinding. Mmm, I smell temptation in the air. Or is that sex? No, it’s Maurice ringing my doorbell.
I rub almond body butter into my smooth skin, then hurriedly pull out the bobbie pins that keep my wrap in place, and comb it out, allowing my hair to form around my face. I shake my hair,
admiring its shine and bounce, then add a splash of cherry wine lipstick onto my lips. I slip on my red-lace robe and slide my feet into my black mules. I give myself a once-over in the mirror. I smile. You a bad bitch, I think, smiling as I head down the stairs to let in the dick for the night.
When I open the door, Maurice is standing there, smiling and holding a bouquet of flowers that he obviously got from Shoprite. But I am appreciative of the gesture. I smile back at him. “For me?” I ask, feigning surprise. I take the rainbow assortment of roses from him and bring them up to my nose. “Mmm, they smell pretty.” Every time he comes through, he brings a different bouquet of flowers. The last time he was here he brought me a bunch of damn, big-ass sunflowers. What the hell! But I graciously accepted them anyway because it was the thought that counted. “You are going to have me spoiled if you keep bringing me flowers every time I see you.”
Before he even gets the door closed, he is pulling me into him and prying my lips open with his tongue. I allow his cinnamon-flavored tongue to dance with mine. It is his kissing that gets my already hot juices to stir between my legs. Like Garrett, Maurice is really more than just a fuck for me. I genuinely like him, but unfortunately not enough to have him as my man. However, I like him enough to allow him to kiss me, use my shower, rest, eat whatever food he might bring or order in—’cause I don’t do any cooking for a man who isn’t mine—and I even allow him to hang around after the sex. He still has to be out of here before the sun comes up. All that waking up in my bed, looking for breakfast or another dish of pussy is out.
