by Cairo
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. But since you wanna talk about your man, let’s. But, be very clear, bitch, I don’t want him. Never have, never will. Your man sweats me. Your man begs me for this pussy. Your man comes to me and complains about how fat and lazy your ass is. Your man tells me how all you do is complain about shit. I’m not your problem, boo-boo. Your man is. So make no mistake. I don’t want him. I only borrowed him, but he can gladly be returned ’cause I have no more use for him. You can surely keep him and his bullshit, ’cause the dick ain’t really all that to be stressing over…”
I laugh again. “Boo-boo, you’re calling here like you done snatched yourself the brass ring. Baby girl, please, what you need to be doing is getting your mind right, instead of calling here harassing me.”
What I say throws her over the edge and she starts cursing and screaming into the phone like a raving lunatic. For a minute, I think I’m listening to Linda Blair. In my mind’s eye I see the bitch’s head spinning around, and her spitting out green shit all over the place. “Bitch, I’ma bust you in your motherfucking face when I catch your ass. Who the fuck is you, telling somebody what they need to do, when you the one fucking someone else’s man? Get your own man, bitch! And stay the fuck away from mine!”
I sigh, pull the phone away from my ear, and shake my head. Jamil’s dumb ass came with more drama than dick, anyway. So she can keep his clown ass. Poor thing, I think, tossing the phone down on the bed while I go into my walk-in closet to get my shit ready for work in the morning. Yeah, I could hang up on her, but it’s obvious she’s hurt, and she wants to blame me for her relationship being fucked up, so out of kindness, I allow her to vent. Oh, ohhhkaaaay, maybe I shouldn’t have told her all those things Jamil’s fucked-up ass said about her, but, hell—she needed to know. Of course she sees me as the problem. Truth be told, I’m not her damn enemy. The dumb bitch is sleeping with him.
My home phone rings, I pick up the cordless off the night-stand and see that it’s my mother calling. I let it go into voice-mail, and pick up the cell.
“…Do you hear me talking to you, bitch?!”
“Umm, ’scuse me, what were you saying, Sweetie?” I ask, plopping down on the bed, then lying back.
“I asked you how long you been fucking Jamil?”
“That’s something you should be asking him.”
“Bitch, I already asked him. Now I’m asking you.”
“And obviously you either didn’t like his answer, or you don’t believe him. So, maybe you should make some decisions about your relationship—“
“Why the fuck you wanna fuck another woman’s man?”
I’m thinking to myself that the answer should be obvious, but apparently it’s not. “Because I can,” I state. “And trust me, if it wasn’t me fucking him, it’d be somebody else because your man ain’t satisfied with only you. There you have it. So, again, sounds like you need to make some decisions.”
“Bitch, I already made my decision. I’ma fuck your nasty-trick-ass up when I see you. Jamil ain’t going nowhere and neither am I.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head. It kills me how women want to lash out at the other chick. My fucking another woman’s man isn’t personal. I don’t even know these women, nor do I want to. I can’t tell you what they look like or how the hell they’re living. But what I do know is, a woman stuck in denial, or blinded by fear, or desperation, or some type of pathological love will never be able to wrap her mind around that idea that she’s in a fucked up situation. And that’s exactly why men keep doing the shit they do because some women are always stroking a man’s ego, stepping out of character, acting all indignant, playing themselves over their trifling asses. That shit ain’t cute. Sometimes I just want to snap on these dumb ass birds.
“Bitch,” I snap before I realize it. “Wake the fuck up! You can call and threaten me all the hell you want, but when all is said and done, yo
ur man is still going to cheat on your dumb-ass. I’m not the fucking problem—”
“And you fucking my man ain’t the solution either, bitch. If bitches like you didn’t make it so easy for a man to cheat, maybe he wouldn’t be so pressed to do it.”
I take a deep breath. She needs to catch it hard, I think. “I’ma tell you this one more time. I don’t want your fucking man, Sweetie. Never have, never will. Yes, I fucked him. Not once, not twice, but any fucking time I felt like riding his dick, or having his tongue stuffed up in my ass. See, dear, while I’m fucking your man, you’re the one looking like the damn fool. Because you keep taking him back. And that’s your prerogative.
“But I’ma give it to you like this: If I don’t fuck him, there’s always another chick in line who will. So either check your man, or step to the back of the bus, and shut the hell up! And yes, your man, the one you’re so hard-pressed to hold onto, has had my pussy smeared all up over his face on more than one occasion, and then came home crawling up in your bed. So, tell me… how does my pussy taste?”
“Bitch, I swear on my four kids, I’ma fuck you up.”
“Okay, and how many times are you gonna keep saying that? Do what you need to do. Bottom line, your man is a fucking cheater. And the person you need to be directing your energy and attention on is him, not me. But since you have nothing better to do than calling me with this shit, I’m gonna enlighten you ’cause it’s obvious you’re young, and dumb, and don’t really know any better.” I pause, taking a deep breath. I really don’t want to go in on her, but she’s bold enough to keep calling my house, so guess what? She’s got to get it. She was the one who stopped taking care of herself; she’s the one who does nothing to look good for herself, or her man. Just sits around stuffing herself with slabs of chocolate and tubs of ice cream, then wonders why she can no longer touch her toes, and needs more than one roll of tissue to wipe her elephant ass. Duh…’cause you fat and nasty!
And her and the rest of these women who have the nerve to go to bed wearing frumpy nightgowns or oversized nightshirts and raggedy ass head rags, and big-ass drawers, got the nerve to question why their men don’t want to fuck them anymore. Uh, duh…’cause you all are hot, sloppy messes! So what, you have kids now. So what, you have to manage the house. So what, you have to work. That has nothing to do with keeping yourself together. Pamper yourself. Push back from the table. Pull out some sexy lingerie, if not for your man, then dammit, for you! I mean…what the fuck?! Be sexy for you! If not, it’s going to be a fly-chick like me who’s going to give your man something to think about, and something to remember. So, sleep if you want, but once again, you’ve been warned.
Humph. If everything is so damn solid at home, why the hell are these silly-ass bitches calling around trying to track their man’s whereabouts? Why the hell are they making excuses and blaming someone else for their fucked up relationships? What they need to do is get the hell off of Fantasy Island, take the damn blinders off, pull the dick from out of their asses and see the shit for what it is. Not for what the hell they want it to be.
And if the dumb bitch is really that invested in being (or staying) in a crazy, fucked up relationship, then she needs to do herself a favor and not call the side chick’s fucking house, or mine. Instead, get herself some side dick, and go get her fuck on. Hell, if he can do it, then, dammit, why can’t she?
These chicks might view me as the bitch on the side, or the grimy, homewrecking ho, (and that’s all fine and dandy) but I’m not the one stressing over a nigga, sniffing his boxers, and running his pockets every time he comes home. I’m not the one crying and begging for him to stop his doggish ways. I’m not the one playing Dick Tracy, trying to crack codes and find missing clues that will lead to where her man is at one, two, three o’clock in the damn morning, this time.
I decide telling her all this is not going to make any difference, so I let it go. “I feel sorry for you,” I finally say. “And I almost feel sad for you.”
“Ho, don’t feel sorry or sad for me. I’m good. Jamil ain’t going nowhere and neither am I. So like I said, back-up off my man ’cause he ain’t leaving me for you.”
I laugh at how crazy she sounds. One thing you need to know about me—I don’t think, or feel, or believe that I’ll eventually fuck her man, or anyone else’s, into loving me enough to leave his family for me. Like I said before, I’m not looking for love, and I’m damn sure not expecting it from some mofo who can’t keep his dick in his pants. A man like that has no damn integrity, if you ask me. So why the hell would I want him? Only a delusional bitch would entertain that mess. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing a damn cheater can do for me, except fuck me as needed, on my terms—period.
So, it’s crystal clear to me that this chick hasn’t heard a word I said. I’m done. And I’ve had enough of going around in circles with her. I purposefully yawn in her ear.
“Well good for the both of you. There’s really no need to continue with this utterly ridiculous conversation.“
“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 op
en. 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!
