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 Pyramids, visit the Valley of the Kings, and go to the museums. I hope I’ll be able to experience all that Egypt has to offer, including some African dick, I think, getting back in bed and finally falling to sleep.
When I awaken at six a.m., I quickly jump in the shower, then rush around the house trying to get dressed. And now it’s nine-fifteen, and I am on my way to my OB-GYN appointment. My stomach is in knots. And I feel the beginnings of a headache emerging. Ho, I know you ain’t getting cold feet. As much as you like to fuck, you don’t need to be thinking about being bogged down with no crying-ass baby. “Hell, no,” I snap, veering off the Garden State Parkway ramp towards South Orange Avenue. “I’m almost eight weeks. The sooner I get this over with, the better off I’ll be. I’ll be able to get on with my life.”
Bitch, please. You shouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Your ho-ass is supposed to always be on point.
“Mistakes happen,” I rationalize.
Yeah, ho, and mistakes kill. Next time, before you let your hot ass get caught up in the moment, make sure you strap the nigga up or you’re gonna end up with something you can’t scrape outta ya ass. A reckless ho is a dangerous ho.
I make a right turn onto Old Short Hills Road, then follow the road until I reach my doctor’s office. I find a parking space, then go toward the posh brick and glass building.
When I enter my doctor’s office, I give the receptionist my name, then take a seat and wait to be called. While I am waiting to see the doctor, I pick up a few brochures off the wooden coffee table and read some information about STD’s, and HIV.
OhmyGod, the statistics are really scary. Every time I read that AIDS is now the leading cause of death for African-American women between the ages of 25 and 34, I get sick to my stomach. And when I read that out of the 166 estimated numbers of babies born with HIV each year, 104 of them are African-American; then to read that non Hispanic blacks between the ages of 19 and 24 were 20 times more likely to be infected than any other racial group, really had my stomach in knots.
Yeah, ho, just like I said, mistakes kill. Sex is glorified and glamorized by the media, in music and books. And your ho-ass don’t make it any better. Morning cum, afternoon cum, evening cum, you need it. Want it. Love it. And you know you could use a hot dose of dick cream down your cum-loving throat to get your day started. All you think about is sex, sex, sex. And no matter how responsible or safe you’ve tried to be, look at your dumb ass now. Knocked up.
Oh, please. There’s nothing wrong with loving, or enjoying, sex. There’s nothing wrong with being uninhibited. The key is (and will always be) to be totally responsible for your choices. And to be completely honest with yourself and your partners about what your needs are. You are always going to need, want and crave sex. I’m sorry, boo, but you love dick!
I sigh. A full-fledge headache is pounding in the center of my forehead as I try to fight off the voices in my head. I pick up another pamphlet. This one provides information on the different stages of an abortion: Manual Aspiration, four or five weeks from last menstrual; Vacuum aspiration, seven to fifteen weeks from last menstrual; Dilation and Evacuation, fifteen to twenty-four weeks from last menstrual. As I continue reading the procedural process of each type, it is clear to me the longer you wait, the more complicated the method. Oh my God, I think, who in the world would deliberately have an abortion at six months of pregnancy? I don’t think I could do it. I take a deep sigh, thankful I am still in the early stages of pregnancy.
So what you gonna do, kill an innocent child now because your ho-ass done fucked up? That’s a life growing inside of you. How can you be so fucking selfish?
Ho, please. Selfish my ass. You doin’ the right thing. Your ass ain’t ready to be no damn mother. You too busy chasing dick to be tied down to a child you don’t want. Hell, you the type of bitch who would probably get all depressed ’n shit, then try to kill the little fucker in its sleep. So, fuck all that dumb shit; get the little crumb-snatching bastard scraped out, sucked out, or whatever! And keep it movin’.
Nonsense, you can still get your fuck on, and be the ho-freak you are and still be a decent mother. You’d just have to be able to balance the two. And be very careful who you let in and out of your house, and bed. You’d have to cut back on fucking a bunch of stray niggas. Find one or two steady dicks and stick with fucking them, instead of being so damn greedy.
Please, ho, you know you’d be bored with the same ole dicks; get real. I bet you if a man pulled out his dick right now, you’d drop down and take the head of his cock in your throat while your tongue lapped every inch of his shaft, slipping a finger or two into his ass, working his hole and sucking his dick until he couldn’t take it any longer, until his body shook and he exploded a thick nut over your tongue, down your throat, over your lips and onto your chin. Then you’d continue to suck and lick him until you got every drop of his sweet, sticky dick milk. ’Cause that’s exactly what a messy, cock-sucking ho like you does.
Oh, give me a fucking break. That’s still not a reason to have an abortion.
“I’m going through with it,” I whisper, looking up at the ceiling. “The last thing I want to be is some man’s baby momma.” I close my eyes, pulling in a deep, exasperated breath.
That’s right; good answer. You won’t be able to use your pussy for a while, but come tomorrow, you’ll be back sucking dick and taking it in the ass like the greedy, dick-loving ho you are.
OhmyGod, you selfish bitch! And you don’t think Garrett should have a say in all of this? He is the child’s father. He has a right to know.
Please, you stupid ho, only if you are keeping it. Other than that, you don’t have to tell him shit. It’s your body. You don’t want him or that little thing growing inside of you, anyway, so let it go.
All this back and forth dialogue is starting to make my head spin. “I don’t need this shit right now, so will you please shut the fuck up!” I scream in my head. “I’m getting rid of it and that’s all there is to it.”
“Bianca Rivers,” the nurse calls out. I let out a bittersweet sigh of relief, standing up. She smiles. “Right this way. Doctor Krishna is ready for you.”