Man Swappers Page 3

  “Oh, that’s okay. You probably couldn’t handle us, anyway. We’d eat you alive, baby.” Persia and I laugh.

  Paris sucks her teeth. “Listen, ignore her. I’ll have French toast, scrambled eggs, hard, with cheddar cheese, and grits.”

  “Okay,” he says, sounding relieved. He looks over at me. “Do you need more time?”

  “Give me the same,” I add. Persia rolls her eyes and orders pancakes and a vegetable and cheese omelet. When Royce returns with our food, Persia starts in on him again.

  She reaches over and touches his arm. “Do you think we’re sexy?”

  He nods, grinning. “Hellzz yeah,” he snaps excitedly before catching himself. He looks around the restaurant to make sure no one overheard him. Of course, the two nosey bitches sitting at the table next to us glance over at us.

  Persia motions with her finger for him to lean in to her. She lightly blows into his ear, speaks to him in a low, seductive tone. “And we have real good pussy, baby. Imagine the three of us without clothes on, stretched out on a bed butt-naked, legs spread wide, mouths open, tongues wagging—all waiting on you. For you to experience anything you’ve ever wanted to experience. Do you think you ready for something like that?”

  He smiles uneasily, taking the three of us in. I smile at him. Paris stays focused on her meal as if she’s not hearing any of this. His face becomes flush from shock and nervousness. For a moment, I think he’s about to break out in a sweat. Although he tries to play it cool, Persia has put him on the spot. Something she enjoys doing to men.

  “Listen,” Persia continues, deciding to let him off the hook. “How about you slide us your number when you bring us our bill? Then we can talk more privately.”

  “Cool-cool,” he says, grinning. “I gotta handle the rest of my customers, but definitely will.”

  “Make sure you do,” she says, smiling at him. He turns to walk off and bumps into the back of someone’s chair. We watch him walk off, chuckling. “You see his sexy ass grinning like he hit the damn Jersey Lotto?” Paris eyes her. She shrugs. “What?”

  Paris huffs. “Just once do you think we can go out without you recruiting or tryna round up the next batch of dick? Damn.”

  “Okay, your point?”

  “The point is exactly what I said. You need to stop being so damn extra with it. And exercise a bit more discretion. Geesh.”

  “Paris, puhleeze. Don’t sit here and try to get all prudish on me,” Persia responds incredulously. “We need to keep our options open. A freak has always got to be ready for new opportunities that may arise. And this freak stays prepared, okay? Thought you knew.”

  “Well, maybe a freak needs to learn when to open and shut her damn mouth sometimes, instead of inviting every damn Charles, Dick and Nut in.”

  Persia frowns. “Bitch, what the fuck’s wrong with you this morning? I’m not bleeding and neither is Porsha, so I know your ass is not on the rag, either. So what the fuck is it with all this bitchiness?”

  Paris sighs. “Nothing; let’s drop it.”

  “No, let’s not drop shit. If there’s something you need to say, then say it. So we can address it and—”

  I look around the room and notice a few people trying to get their ear-hustle on. I cut in. “And how about we not get into this right now.” I blink, looking over toward the door. Two chicks walk through the door, and I roll my eyes. “Roach alert,” I say, jerking my head over in their direction. Persia and Paris follow my eyes.

  “Damn, this bitch,” Persia says. “And her Road Kill.”

  I laugh. “That bitch looks like a damn possum.” It’s our cousin, Zena, and her friend, Ameeka, one of the sideshow rodeo hoes she hangs with.

  Persia laughs. “Let’s hope she doesn’t see us.”

  “Nope, not so lucky,” Paris says, throwing her hand up in a Miss America hand wave. Zena waves back, then says something out of the side of her mouth to Ameeka as they make their way over to us. Aside from the fact that she’s still holding on to shit that happened in 2000—when we were seniors in high school, Zena has a love-hate relationship with us, particularly Persia. She’s never gotten over the fact that the guy she had a high school crush on asked Persia to go to the senior prom with him. And Persia not only went, she fucked him, knowing Zena had a thing for him.

  “Bitch, please. He ain’t your man,” Persia had told her when Zena had confronted her about it at our family’s annual picnic.

  “Yeah, but you know how I feel about him.”

  Persia bucked her eyes. “Well, does he know how you feel?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. So until he does, it’s open season. So get on up outta my face ’cause I’m going. And if he acts right, I might let him hit it.” The next thing I know, Zena slaps her and they start going at it. Paris and I stood and watched the two of them slap, kick, punch, and bite each other until two of our uncles ran over and broke it up. Then all four of us got whipped by our mothers for fighting. Well, they got their asses beat for fighting. Paris and I got ours tore up for watching. Now, here we are eleven years later, and this bitch is still holding on to the shit. And she ended up getting him, and eventually marrying his ass any-damn-way.

  “Bitch, you fucking my leftovers,” Paris reminded her the day Zena announced she was engaged, and demanded that Paris respect her relationship. “So, whooptie-doo! Big dick for sure, but the nigga can’t fuck but for a hot second. So, enjoy!”

  Needless to say, we didn’t get an invite to her wedding.

  “And the drama begins,” I say, shaking my head as she approaches the table.

  “Well, isn’t this cute,” Zena says, giving Persia and Paris phony-air kisses and waving at me, “the three of you over on this side of town. What brings you High-end Divas over on this end; recruitment? Y’all still doin’ each other’s men?” She says this as a dig, of course. Her friend snickers. We can’t stand this bitch with her Cookie Monster face, either.

  Persia eyes Ameeka. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you over there snickering about when I saw your man two weeks ago all hugged up. And it wasn’t with you. So looks like we aren’t the only ones sharing a man”—she snaps her fingers—“okay?” Ameeka gives her a look of disbelief, opening her mouth to say something. Persia puts her hand up to stop her. “Save it. You can play stupid if you want. But what you need to do is handle your own situation before you try and snicker at us.”

  I can tell she’s pissed. But the truth is the truth. “Zena, I’ll be over at our table,” she huffs, storming off.

  Persia, Paris and I laugh. “Trick,” all three of us say at the same time.

  “I see why he cheats on her with that big-ass, oversized face of hers,” Persia continues. She acts like she doesn’t hear us. But the place is only but so big, so of course everyone up in the restaurant has gotten an earful. Most of the patrons look on with amusement; others with disgust and annoyance that we are disrupting their meal.

  “Now, girls,” Zena says, tossing her micro-braids over her shoulder. She has a forehead and hairline like that Essence chick, Susan Taylor. “That wasn’t nice.”

  I eye Zena. “Girlfriend, you started it.”

  Persia rests her forearms up on the table, looking Zena up and down. She scrunches her nose up like Zena’s a pile of hot horse shit. “And, since you came over here trying to be messy, tell me. Does your hubby know that that last baby of yours isn’t even his?”

  Zena’s eyes pop open in shock. “W-w-whaat? Who told you that shit? I-I-I don’t know where y’all got your information from, but you need to go back and check your facts.”

  “No, sweetie,” Persia says. “You need to request a blood test so you can have your facts ’cause we already know what it is. How long was hubby over in Iraq? And how long was he home before you announced you were pregnant again? And how many months later did you drop that baby?”

  “Mmmm, let’s see,” Paris states, counting on her fingers, “One, two, three...” She shakes her head. “It just do
esn’t add up. You said the baby was full-term, but he was born a month earlier. So how is that full-term if it’s supposed to be your hubby’s?”

  “Y’all can sit here and think and speculate what the hell you want. All of my kids have the same daddy, and it’s Aaron—my husband,” she adds for emphasis, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You know what. I’m not even doing this with you bitches today.”

  Persia tosses her hand up at her, flicking her wrist, dismissing her. “Then don’t. See ya.”

  Persia and I laugh as Zena walks off to join her low-budget-ass friend. It really pisses me off how bitches like her are so quick to judge us for doing what we do when they’re worse than us. Shit, we aren’t doing anything you and any other bitch hasn’t been doing, or known to do—passing the dick around.

  “I can’t stand that bitch,” Persia sneers as the waiter finally comes back over to see if we want, or need, anything else. Persia shifts her attention back to him, smiling. Her frown is immediately replaced with a warm, inviting smile. She tells him he can bring us our check, then watches him walk off. “I bet you his young-ass got some good dick.”

  “He might,” I say, watching Paris ruffle through her bag, then pulling out a pack of Cobalt chewing gum. She offers us some, then tosses it back into her bag.

  Persia continues, “But I bet you he can’t handle one of us, let alone all three of us. We’d have that poor boy strung the hell out, and you know it. The last thing we need is a damn junkie on our hands.”

  “Yeah, girl,” I agree, nodding. “We definitely don’t need that.”

  In spite of her mood, Paris chuckles, rolling the stick of gum into her mouth. “My treat,” she says, pulling out her AMEX card. “Y’all heifers are too much.”

  “But am I lying?” Persia asks, laughing.

  Paris and I shake our heads and say at the same time, “Nope, not at all.”

  When he returns to our table with the check, Persia pulls out her wallet and tosses a ten on the table. I do the same. And as if on cue, the young Caribbean stud slides Persia his number written on the back of a card as she slides out of the booth.

  She leans into his ear and whispers, “I hope you have a big dick,” then heads for the door.

  Persia

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’m not sure what the hell was going on with Paris and her moody ass this morning, but I was three seconds from screaming on her. Sometimes she can be such a fucking stick in the mud when she gets on her bullshit. Luckily, we’re sisters and we’re extremely close and, no matter what, I’m going to love her. But, damn it, sometimes she can be a real bitch! Well, shit, on second thought...so can I. So I guess we’re even.

  But that hooker Zena. She’s a waste of space. If she wants to live in lies, then that’s on her, but this sista here is going to always be true. And the truth is I enjoy fucking the same men as my sisters. I realize that a woman who doesn’t understand our thinking is going to think it’s nasty. That it’s trifling. That it’s downright despicable and repulsive. I get it. All the holier-than-thou-self-righteous hoes think sharing a man is sinful. Why? Because my sisters and I are open about doing it? Mmmph. Well, answer me this: Would it be better if we randomly shared a man, acting as if it wasn’t happening, like so many other women do? Should we play dumb, and stupid, and settle for a man knowing he has other women on the side? Mmmph. No, I don’t think so! What we women should do is take back our power. Hold them accountable for their behaviors, and stop making excuses for why they do what they do. Shit, it’s obvious why they do what they do—because they can. So we have to stop letting them get all up in our heads, stressing about what (or who) the fuck they’re doing. Because truth of the matter is a man’s going to do what he wants no matter how hard we try to stop him, or control him. And cheating is one of those things that most men are going to do at least once.

  Although having more than one woman is something most men only dream of, yearn for, there are plenty more men who actually do live it. So knowing this, my sisters and I have empowered ourselves to give men the opportunity to have more than one woman. So what’s so wrong with that? Is it the fact that we’re sisters connected by genetics and blood that makes it dirty? Or would it be more acceptable if we were simply three women fucking and sucking and fighting over the same man, acting as if we didn’t know about the other?

  Well, understand this. The difference between what my sisters and I do from what any other woman who has ever shared her man has done is this: we willingly and openly accept it for what it is. We allow men to indulge their animalistic need to mount and mate with more than one woman—closely monitored, of course.

  Yes, we are the scandalous triplets in our family. And our own mother has the nerve to still be very appalled, as she called it, when she learned of what we were doing. And, even now—to this very day, she’s not able to let it go.

  “Girls,” she had said, sitting down at the head of the dining room table with her arms resting on the table and her hands clasped in front of her. We were in our senior years at Howard University, almost twenty-one; and, in our minds, grown. “I’m hearing some very disturbing rumors...”

  “What kind of rumors?” Paris asked, shifting in her seat.

  “Things that I dare not believe about you girls. I didn’t raise y’all to be no loose girls. So I’m hoping they’re not true...”

  My sisters and I looked at each other, already knowing where the conversation was headed. “You hope what isn’t true?” Porsha asked, getting impatient. Our mother, love her dearly, has a way with dragging shit out instead of getting to the point.

  “Well...” she paused, trying to find her words. A practice she rehearsed over and over to keep our father from storming up out of the house when she said something he didn’t like. Out of the three of us, my patience level is the shortest. And when it comes to nonsense I am much more vocal about it than they are.

  I huffed, glancing down at my watch. “Mom, will you please spill it already? Geesh. Say what you have to say and stop beating around the bush.”

  She ignored my irritation, squinting her eyes at me. “Persia, don’t get mouthy with me. Now, like I was saying, I hope these rumors being spread about y’all are nothing but the devil and his lies.”

  “MOM!” I yelled, getting up from my seat. “This is ridiculous. Will you, please. Get. To. The Damn. Point.”

  “The point is your Aunt Lucky called here, then your Aunt Fanny, to tell me they heard the three of you have been sleeping with each other’s boyfriends.” Lucky and Fanny are two of her gossiping-ass sisters, Lucille and Francine, who enjoy rattling off everyone else’s business, except their own. They are always somewhere meddling. The only aunt who had any sense was my Aunt Penny—my mother’s youngest sister. She packed up and moved to Arizona, far away from all of their asses.

  I rolled my eyes up in my head. Paris and Porsha glanced over at me, shaking their heads for me not to get into it with her. “That’s old news.”

  “Old news?” she repeated in disbelief. “What in the world do you mean, it’s ‘old news’? It’s new news to me. And y’all know how I am about gossip and rumors.”

  Yeah, you like dishing it, but can’t stand to be on the receiving end of it. “Well, what we do isn’t a rumor,” I informed her. “It’s a fact. I thought you were gonna say some mess about one of us being pregnant, or having a disease or something.”

  Porsha and Paris snickered.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said, getting up from her seat. “Say this isn’t so.” She looked around at each of us, waiting. “One of you had better open your mouth and tell me right now that your aunts have been calling here with a bunch of hot trash lies ’cause I know damn well none of my daughters would be so goddamn trifling to do some ho-ass shit like that.”

  My sisters and I blinked, blinked again. It was very rare that we heard our mother use that kind of language. Out of her four sisters, she is the prim, proper, prissy one, despite being born in Newark
. Despite being raised in the projects. She was the one who made sure her three daughters went to private schools instead of public schools, and moved us far away from the hood because she wanted better for us. Always a lady; always turning the other cheek—for most things, we knew she was pissed about this. But we also knew that, whether it struck a nerve with her not, we were okay with what we were doing.

  “Mom, Persia’s right,” Paris stated. “It’s true.”

  Our mother threw her hand up over her mouth, shocked that we were open about it. She stared at us, long and hard. It was almost as if she would have preferred we’d denied it. “Why in the world?”

  “Because all three of us...” Porsha tried to explain, pointing at Paris and me, “...have been in relationships with guys who have either cheated on us, or tried to, so we decided to take matters into our own hands by allowing any man we become involved with to have more than one woman—the three of us.”

  “And on top of it,” I added, grinning, “he gets to experience some of the greatest, freakiest sex he’ll ever experience in his lifetime.”

  I’ll never forget the look on her face when I told her that shit. It looked like she was on the brink of a heart attack. All the color in her honey- brown complexion drained from her face. She was flabbergasted. She shook her head in disbelief. “So, let me get this right. My three daughters,” she glared at us, “like fucking the same men. Is that what the hell I hear y’all saying to me?” We nodded. “Ohmygod, I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit.” In melodramatic fashion, she clutched her chest, shaking her head. “Oh, so I guess y’all down between each other’s legs licking each other, too, huh? Just doing all kind of sinful shit.”

  We frowned. “Ugggh,” we said in unison. “We share our men, Mom. That’s it. We’re not lesbians and we aren’t licking each other.”

  “And we always use condoms,” Paris added like that would make a difference.