Tonight, I’m really not in the mood for this shit. I take a deep breath. Now, when a man breaches the rules of engagement, like continuously coming here unannounced, putting hickeys on my damn body, trying to check for me, catching feelings, or getting sloppy with his creep, then he has to be shut down, quick, fast and in a damn hurry. Bottom line: A careless man is an absolute liability.
I have no time or patience for a raggedy mofo who has the potential to bring me drama. And this is exactly why I like to stick to my ninety day rule of simply fucking ‘n dumping them. But, every so often, as you already know, I seem to get swooped up in the funnel of bullshit, like right now.
“Listen, stop buggin’,” Jamil says, huffing. His ear is pressed to his cell, and I can hear screaming on the other end—a female’s voice, which tells me this conversation is a domestic dispute. Now, normally, when I’m in the mood for some fast, rough, furious fucking, I like it when there’s a little trouble in paradise because then the men I’m fucking will try to take their frustrations with their women out on my pussy. But, today, I am not in the mood for having my snatch beat up because shit isn’t going right at home. And here lately, Jamil seems to be caught up in a lot of home drama. “I already told you no, so why you keep asking me the same bullshit. Look, I gotta go.” He hangs up, tossing his cell on the sofa. I eye him, watching him kick off his boots, then removing his shirt. “Always fucking bitching,” he mumbles, stripping off his jeans. He doesn’t have on any underwear, so his dick swings freely.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to start his whining. He eyes me. I smile to myself, knowing he doesn’t want to have a repeat of what happened a few weeks back when I tossed him up out of here.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “Ole girl bitching again. C’mon”—he walks up and grabs me by the hand—“let’s go upstairs. I don’t feel like talking about it. I really want some pussy without all the extras, feel me?” His cell phone starts ringing again. He ignores it, pulling me by the hand. “I ain’t beat.”
All of a sudden, my cell starts ringing. My first thought is that it’s one of my sex charms, or one of the strays I straddle from time to time. But, the number is restricted, so I don’t answer. I let it go into voice-mail. Two seconds later, it rings again. The number is still restricted, but for some reason I pick up thinking maybe it’s important.
“Hello?” I say.
All there is on the other end is a bunch of heavy breathing, then silence. I hang up.
“Yo, you tryna wet this dick up or what?” Jamil asks in back of me, clearly annoyed that I am not already naked and pouncing down on his dick. “You standing there bullshitting. I gotta get home in an hour or so. And you know how I like to put work in when I come through.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, placing a hand on my hip. “I understand you pissed and all, but don’t take that shit out on me. You get this pussy on my time, not yours. You don’t like it, then get up and take your ass home. Right now, I’m trying to figure out who—”
My cell rings, again. I pick up. “Hello?”
Whoever it is hangs up. I take a deep breath. Now, I don’t know much, but one thing I do know is when someone keeps calling your house, or your cell, and hanging up, it’s usually the work of some nutty-ass bitch.
My cell rings again. This time the caller is bold enough to reveal their number. “Hello?” I say, getting agitated. Now, I know I could easily ignore the call, but I don’t want to. My intuition tells me that it’s a woman who is calling me—just like the last time, and I want to know who she is, and which one of the men I’m fucking is the cause behind this foolishness—again.
“Bitch, I know you been fucking my man, and when I find out who you are, I’m gonna beat ya motherfuckin’—”
“Um, who is this? And how’d you get my number?”
“I’m Jamil’s woman,” she snaps into the phone. “That’s who da fuck I am, bitch! And I know that motherfucker’s over there. So, put him on the phone.”
“Oh, really? Well, that’s nice to know.”
I cut my eye over at Jamil, who is sprawled out in the center of my bed, playing with his dick and rubbing his balls like he has no care in the world.
“So are you fucking Jamil or not?”
“You said you knew I was. So if you know that already, why you asking? But since you asked, yeah, I am.” There was no sense in lying. Please, he’s not my man, so what do I care. Besides, they all know if they don’t want to get aired out, then don’t get sloppy. Apparently, Jamil’s retarded ass didn’t pay attention to the memo.
“Well, I tell you what. You fucking with the wrong bitch’s man, ho. And I’ma serve that ass when I catch you.”
Here we go with this “when I catch you” shit again, I think, rolling my eyes.
“Listen, sweetie,” I calmly say, taking another deep breath, “I don’t know how you got my number, but I’m going to ask you nicely not to call me again.”
“Or what?! Bitch, I’ma call you as many times as I want. As a matter of fact, I’ma call you every fucking day. And when I find out where you live, it’s on, bitch. Believe that! So, if Jamil’s there, you need to either put him on the phone, or tell him to bring his sorry ass home before I cut up all of his shit and toss it out on the streets. And he has fifteen minutes to get his ass home.”
Getting caught up in a back and forth argument with another chick over, or about, her man isn’t serious for me. There’s always more dick where his came from, so she can have him. That’s my thinking. So, getting all nasty and stressed out by cursing the chick out is usually not necessary. But from time to time, I allow myself to get sucked in, then have to bring it to ’em. And I can already tell this bitch’s the type that’s going to keep pushing the envelope and force me to eventually serve her.
“Well, I appreciate the warning,” I state sarcastically. “And after I’m finished with him, I’ll be sure to pass the message along and send him on his way. You have a wonderful night.”
I hang up, then turn the phone off.
“Who was that?” Jamil asks.
No, this motherfucker did not just part his lips and ask me no shit like that. Now, normally, I would simply throw a mofo out, but I want my pussy ate, and I want it done by Jamil. So that when I do throw him up out of here, he goes home with my nut on his breath. I shake my head and remove my silk robe, prancing my naked ass over to the bed. I climb in, ignoring his question.
“It’s ’bout damn time,” he says, leaning up on his forearms. “You so worried about who the fuck’s calling you when you got a nigga in ya bed with a hard-ass dick ready to clock in.”
I smile, taking a bottle of lotion from off of my nightstand and pouring a glob of it into my hand. I grab the base of his dick. I squeeze it, then glide my hand up and around the head of his dick while working his balls with my other hand. I decide to give him a nice hand job. I lean in and swirl my tongue around his nipple, then lightly pull it with my teeth until it hardens.
“Oh, shit,” he moans, reaching between my legs and rubbing my pussy lips. “Damn, I want some of this.” I ignore him. I continue jacking him off with deep, fast strokes. “Ah, shit, you ’bout to make me cum.” He tries to pull my hand off his dick, but I tighten my grip. I bring him to the edge of pleasure, then I abruptly stop. I lap around his balls with my tongue a few times, while slowly stroking his cock. “Damn, baby, why you fucking with me? C’mon and put them pretty lips on this dick, and stop playing.”
“You want me to wet this dick up?” I ask, gliding my lips along his shaft, then replacing my lips with my hand, stroking it.
“Yeah,” he grunts, pumping his hips, “but you fucking playing ’n shit. C’mon and get up on this dick, girl.”
I lower my voice to a sensual whisper, “Your dick feels so big in my hand, Daddy. I can’t wait for you to ram this hot cock all the way up in me. I want you to make me scream, baby. Can you do that for me, big daddy?”
“Yeah,” he says, panting. “I’ma fuck you good.” I deepen my strokes on his dick. I press up into the fleshy part between his balls and ass and massage the area. His breathing becomes raspy and quick. “Ah, shit…”
“You wanna feel how wet you make this pussy?”
“Yeah, baby…I’m ready to fuck…”
“Put your tongue in my pussy, first,” I say, swinging my legs around over his body, then straddling him with my back facing him while still jerking him off. I lower my pussy down on his face. He sticks his tongue in, and I commence to riding it like it’s a runaway train. He’s lapping and licking all around my pussy, then he mounts his mouth onto my clit and sucks on it like it’s one of the sweetest, juiciest peaches he’s ever eaten. “Oh, yes,” I moan. “That’s right, eat this pussy all up, Daddy.” Munch, munch, nigga! ’Cause as soon as I nut in your motherfucking mouth, I’m putting you the fuck out!
Between you and me, I wish I were on my period ’cause I’d serve Jamil a nice bloody treat without giving it a second thought just for being so fucking stupid. Trust me. I would serve this nasty, no-good mofo the red rag special all night.
Jamil pulls open my ass cheeks and devours my whole pussy. My clit throbs, and I can feel the beginnings of a nut building up inside of me. That’s right, gobble that shit up you stupid-ass fuck ’cause it’ll be the last time you get it.
“Uh, uh, uh…Oh…oh…Mmmm…” Jamil’s long tongue is giving my pussy and clit a good licking, and it is causing me to hyperventilate. I grind down on his mouth and rock my hips back and forth. “Oh, yes…Oh, yes…like that…keep sucking on my pussy,” I whisper, squirting warm juice onto his tongue, rolling my eyes up into my head. He obliges and slurps it all up. I lean forward and brace myself on his legs so that I don’t topple over onto the bed. I steady my breathing, then lift myself from off his face, getting off the bed. His cock is rock-hard. And I ignore its bouncing want for attention. I slip into my robe, then stand in front of the mirror and brush my hair.
“Where you going?” he asks, raising his body up on his forearms.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I answer, looking at him in the mirror as I speak. “You are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Uh, duh, it means get up and get out, that’s what.”
“Oh, hell no!” he huffs. “Not this shit again.”
“What shit is that, Jamil? Me putting your black-ass out again?”
“I ain’t going nowhere,” he sulks, defiantly flopping back on the bed as if he’s about to have a tantrum. “Fuck that. I done ate your pussy and you got my dick hard as hell. Hell, no! I want some pussy, some head, something.”
I turn to face him. His dick is pointing upwards awaiting a long, wet ride. I decline. In all honesty, I hadn’t give much thought beyond getting my pussy eaten by this long-tongued idiot. I really didn’t factor in what might happen after I toss him out, since this is the first time I’ve had to actually deal with a chick calling me when her 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. 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, your 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.