The Man Handler Page 7

  Oh, please! Don’t even go there. I know what you’re thinking. You’re trying to figure out what makes me any different from the women I’m talking about. Well, for starters, I don’t hang around a bunch of chicks, or gossip with them. I’m not impressed by what some other chick’s man is doing for her, or to her. Nor do I need to sit around, plotting on how I can have what she’s getting at home. There are too many men out here more than willing to give up the dick (even step out on their chicks) without me needing (or having) to sleepwalk him. Besides, I don’t want another woman’s man any damn way. Like I’ve already said, I only wanna fuck him, then send him home.

  Okay, you know what…before things get out of hand between us, I’d better clear up a few things. I know some of you will never, ever, comprehend how I’m any different from the home-wreckers, mistresses, and whores. I really don’t care. But I’m going to enlighten you, anyway. So let me break it down for you, something I should have done from the gate.

  See, the Other Woman, which I will never be, is the dizzy chick who is claiming another woman’s man as her own. In her cluttered mind, she shares a special type of relationship with him. In her own sick, twisted way, she feels deeply connected to him. She’s the chick who doesn’t involve herself with other men ’cause she’s faithful to her man, you know, the one she’s sharing with the wife or girlfriend. She may or may not be interested in actually breaking up his home, but there is a part of her that fantasizes about building—and having—a life with him. Whether she admits it or not, she wants him for herself. But knowing that dream may never come true, she settles (or accepts) the role of his mistress and gladly embraces those moments when her man can sneak away from the wife and kids for more than a few hours or a night. Unless she works with him, she may not see him regularly, but they will talk on the phone, email, or text daily. She lives and breathes for his calls. And for the most part, she’s okay with hearing him whisper sweet nothings into her ear about how much he misses her, needs to see her, wants to be with her. She plans her whole life around him. And using the excuse of a business trip, she’s happily in tow, wrapped in her lover’s arms like she is the real first lady. Oh, joy!

  Now the Jump-off is exactly that. A chick who jumps on and off the dick. She’s not interested in taking him from his woman; she doesn’t want to have his babies or meet his family. She only wants to borrow him for his dick, then send him on his way, nothing more, nothing less. If she’s strong-willed, she’ll never allow emotions to get in the way of her need for a good fuck buddy. Hell, most of the time, she’s in a relationship herself, and it’s usually with someone who can’t seem to handle her in the bedroom. So she seeks out extracurricular sexual activity. Yes, she’s using him. But he’s using her as well. Both parties get what they want without hassle, so it’s a win-win situation. Unfortunately, most jump-offs get dick-whipped, then start disrupting the rules of engagement with the “why-can’t-you-leave-her-for-me” bullshit. And before you know it, they submissively fall into the “other woman” category, or leave their own men for their fuck buddies.

  The Ho (which is what I am) doesn’t usually have a man, and doesn’t necessarily want one. She only wants to fuck. Typically, she fucks more than one dude at any given time. She might even let him bring a friend along, but she’s not going to let him or anyone else disrespect her. She’s usually mad cool, very discreet, and extremely private. She’s typically well liked, and knows how to fuck a dick. And dude may or may not put all her business out on blast.

  But the Whore, aka the Slut, or Smut…forget it. This bird is downright nasty and trifling. Her name is all out on the streets. She’s the chick who will fuck and suck almost anybody, anywhere, anytime, anyplace. She likes it all, and usually gets passed around like a forty-ounce and a blunt. Nut, nut, pass. Nut, nut, nut, pass. She’ll let a nigga bust in her face, make her swallow his cum, allow a group of niggas to circle jerk on her, fuck her in the ass, double-fuck her—you know, slam a dick in her ass and pussy at the same time, fist fuck her, spit on her, piss on her. You name it, she’s gonna let them do it to her. And then she wonders why she can’t get a man. Hell, a prostitute has better luck at getting a man than the whore does. ’Cause at least with a prostitute, fucking is a paid event. It may not necessarily be something she likes, but it’s a means to an end. However, a whore gets pleasure from solely being on her back or on her knees for free. And she has the worked-over, stretched-out snatch to prove it.

  Now, I am sure there will be some who will want to argue with me about what I’m saying, but who gives a damn! This is the world according to a ho. It doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks about it. It is strictly my opinion. This is going to have to be another area in which we agree to disagree. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ton of emails to get to and a desk load of work to finish before I get the hell up out of here today. We can catch up later. Until then…peace, love, and happy fucking!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Iguess even after I’ve broken the shit down for you, some of you are still scratching and shaking your heads, wondering what type of woman would willingly spread her legs and knowingly fuck another woman’s man. What kind of woman would stoop so low that she’d purposefully disrespect another woman’s relationship? Well, I’ll tell you again who she is. She’s unscrupulous, scandalous, devious, and merciless. She’s the harlot, the whore, the slut, the tramp, the trick, the skeezer, the strumpet, the skank, the jezebel, the ho; she is your neighbor, your friend, your sister, your mother, your aunt, your cousin, your coworker, your enemy. She is the type of woman who doesn’t give a fuck about you or your relationship. That is the type of woman who will fuck your man.

  You fear her? So you should. Your man has been in her bed; she may have been in yours. He has licked her in places that should have been reserved for only you, has fucked her in every position imaginable, has tasted her, explored her, enjoyed her, then has come home to you. She has hooked him by the balls and has conquered him. She stands boldly in your face or silently behind your back, smiling, lending you a shoulder to cry on, lurking in your shadows, anticipating the moment when your man becomes weak, when she crumbles his resolve, then fucks him relentlessly.

  So before I move on, I have one thing to say: Listen up! For all you chicks without a clue, no man wants a woman who can’t suck dick, can’t take dick, and is downright scared of dick. And he damn sure doesn’t want a dry, lazy pussy. You’d better learn to drop it like it’s hot, and make that shit do what it do: Snap, crackle, and pop! ’Cause if you don’t, it’ll be a freak like me who’ll turn his ass out.

  And for the love of sweet, black dick, women, keep the kat house clean and the hairs clipped and trimmed. Having a wild, musty, damp jungle between your legs is not chic. You don’t know how many of your men I’ve heard complain about how nasty some of your snatches are. Or that your sorry ass has on mismatched panties and bras. The only thing I can do is shake my head. See, that’s exactly what a man gets when he deals with you low-budget, Conway, Dots, and Walgreens bitches. ’Cause it’s a two-dollar ho who doesn’t care about her pussy hairs being wrapped around the edges of her panties or nothing matching. But a classy chick or a chick who takes pride in her look and hygiene (even if she’s a ho) is always going to step out of her clothes with her pussy on point and a sexy, color-coordinated set of undergarments. Believe that.

  Well, since I’m on a roll, here’s something else to think about: When it comes to women and sex, men want the whole package in a woman. Otherwise they’re most likely going to go out looking for everything she lacks in someone else. So if your head game is serious but your sex is whack, your man is going to be looking to fuck someone who can slay the dick. If your sex game is tight, but your slob job is weak, he’s going to be out looking for someone who can handle a skull-fucking. Bottom line: In order to be a great fuck, you have to be good at everything, or damn near close to it. You need to know how to be a classy chick in the streets, and a slutty freak in the sheets. Of cour
se, some will dispute this, and that’s fine and dandy. Again, this is the opinion of a certified ho who has probably fucked enough men to know what it is they want and don’t want—whether they’ll openly admit it or not.

  Since I’m sharing, I might as well tell you some of the many things men love about me, the things that keep them coming back for more. Men love it when I get on all fours and slowly crawl toward them real sexy-like, with a come-hither look, enticing them, urging them to lie back and allow me to indulge their fantasies. They love it when I lick my lips, whine, and beg them for the dick. They love it when I make my fat, perfectly round ass dance for them, one cheek at a time, clapping and popping. They love it when I taunt them and tease them, slowly, sensually, rotating my hips and thrusting my pelvis at them. Or when I wildly toss my hair, pout my lips, and swing my hips toward them. They love it when I narrow my eyes into seductive slits and sensually suck on my fingers, or when I peel the skin off a banana, then swallow it whole, pretending it’s their dick going deep down in my throat. They love it when I use my warm tongue to lick all over their balls. Men love it when I moan and make slurping noises while sucking their dicks. They love it when I bend my knees and slowly spread open my legs, teasingly pulling open my pussy while licking my lips. They love it when I whisper and whimper for them to “fuck this pussy;” when I tell ’em in low, chant-like groans to “make my pussy cum.”

  These sexual gestures cause their dicks to swell and ache in anticipation of what they want the most: to taste this sweet, wet pussy and to feel their dicks engulfed in its warmth. Some of you should try it sometimes. It might keep some of your men from straying.

  You see, while I’m fucking a man, I make him believe that I care about his needs and wants, even if there’s no truth to it. I stroke his ego, and do whatever it takes to make him feel important; to make him feel special. For that moment, I become his healer. I release him from his frustrations. I unlock his imagination and take him places mentally and sexually where most women dare not venture. I give him the illusion that he is in control. But we both know it is the vise-like, suction grip of my thick pussy that forces him to weaken at the knees and bust his nut against his will. And when I’m done with his ass, he leaves out of here with a smile on his face, feeling like he can conquer the world.

  Men also love the fact that I’m positive, confident, beautiful, and extremely comfortable in the skin that I’m in. They love it that I know what I want and how I want it, and that I’m not afraid to demand what I want. They love it when I tell them to fuck me from the back, to pull me by the hair, and slap me on the ass. They love it when I tell them to talk dirty to me. When I taunt them, incite them, to fuck me harder. When I look over my shoulder and gaze at them, licking my lips. They love it when I slam my pussy back at them and say, “What, is that all you got?! When you gonna fuck me? When you gonna make me feel the dick, nigga? When you gonna bang this pussy up, huh? Why you teasing me? When you gonna put it in and give me the dick, huh?”

  Oh, it drives them over the edge when I challenge their ability to fuck, when I make ’em feel like they’re not slaying the pussy right. All the while, I’m smiling inside, watching their faces contort with pleasure, purpose, and exhaustion all at once.

  Yes, men love it when I make them work for the pussy, when I make ’em work for that nut. No matter how many times I make a man feel chumped, he wants more, he needs more, he craves more. By the time I’m done fucking him, he walks out of here feeling like a champion of the pussy, no matter how much of an illusion it is.

  Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been told by all the men I’m fucking, or have fucked, that my pussy is “da bomb.” They love how hot it gets, how wet it gets, and how tight it grips. So that should explain the line of men wrapped around the corner trying to get a ride in this pussy.

  I also believe that who I am as a woman is what drives men crazy. Men are usually already turned on by my physical beauty way before I ever spread open my legs and pull them into my love cove. I seduce them mentally. So by the time I give them a taste of what’s between my legs, they’ve already worked themselves into a sexual frenzy. The fact that I make it my job to help men realize (and oftentimes maximize) their “fucking” potential—or at the very least, expose them to new experiences—is a big part of why they keep wanting more.

  I am not the least bit surprised when my doorbell rings at almost midnight, and I open the door to find Mitchell standing there with a silly-ass smirk on his face. I can tell by the glassy look in his eyes that he’s been drinking. Wrong answer!

  Besides, the last time he was supposed to come through, his sorry ass was a no-show, no-call. But it was all good. I sweat no man. Believe that. As far as I’m concerned, what one man is unable to do, another will. And when all else fails, I keep my bullet and a vibrator on standby, charged and ready to take the edge off.

  I sigh, swinging the door open. “Why are you here?” I ask, holding the door and blocking the doorway to keep him from coming in.

  “Damn, baby, a nigga can’t get a hello? You gonna let me in or what?”

  “No, I’m not letting you in,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You were supposed to come through two weeks ago when I called your tired ass. But you didn’t, so you’re shit out of luck. Go ring someone else’s bell.”

  “C’mon, baby,” he whines. “Why you gotta be hard on a brotha. Ole girl’s been on her bullshit lately ’bout me hanging out…you already know my situation.”

  I glare at him. “Nigga, you have me confused. I don’t give a fuck about your situation. You only get one time to stand this pussy and ass up; then you’ll never get another sniff of it again. I mean that. And you knew this from the gate. I have no time for any of the lame excuses, and there’s no need to give any because you ain’t my man, and will never be. The rule is and has always been you come when expected, not when you feel like it, or you get the ax. I don’t care how good the dick or the tongue is. There are no rain checks. And I’m not offering up no drive-thru pussy where you can place your order whenever you get around to it. So your black ass has been scratched off the list.” I let out a disgusted grunt. “Then you have the nerve to ring my damn doorbell this time of night like you got it like that.”

  “Listen, baby,” he says, trying to get up in my face. “I had to wait until my girl took her ass to bed before I could sneak out. I’m sorry ’bout the other week. I know I shoulda called, but I got caught up. I’m here now and I promise to make it up to you. But I only got thirty minutes or so, so instead of you standing here wasting most of it, stop playing games and let me in.”

  “Um, excuse me,” I say, putting my hand up to stop him from getting too close. I feel myself about ready to scream on his ass. “I’m hardly playing games with you. I’m being real as hell. Now, what the fuck you think you gonna do with me, or for me, in thirty damn minutes?”

  “Eat that pussy, baby,” he boldly replies, gliding his tongue across his bottom lip. “I’ve missed all that sweet, juicy pussy.”

  Now under different conditions, I would have eagerly swung open the door and let his happy ass in without blinking an eye ’cause Lord knows he can eat the hell out of some pussy. But thirty minutes? He can’t be fucking serious. Besides, my mind is already made up. Like everyone else I choose to fuck, he knows the house rule. Call first. No exceptions. I don’t do walk-ins. This pussy is by appointment only. What the hell is wrong with these mofos, thinking they can waltz in and out of here like they got it like that? Just because I’m fucking you on a regular doesn’t give you any special privileges. See, that’s why I like one-night stands. Everyone plays their position without all the damn extras. There are no expectations. No questions asked. I get what I want. They get what they want. I go about my business. They go about theirs. And we’re all happily fucked.

  I twist my lips up. “Humph, so you’ve missed this deep, wet pussy, huh?” I ask, fucking with him.

  “Don’t play, girl,” he says, grabbing at his dick. He has on a
pair of sweats and I can tell he isn’t wearing any underwear. “You know what time it is.” He glances down at his hardening dick as he stretches it through the fabric of his sweats.

  “Yeah, I know what time it is,” I respond, smirking. “It’s too bad you don’t.” He tries to come in, and I quickly push him backward with the palm of my hand. “Oh, hell no,” I snap. “You done banged your damn head. If you think you gonna come up in here and get some pussy, you are out of your retarded-ass mind.”

  “Look,” he starts, “I ain’t come here to beef. I’m sorry I haven’t called. And you feel neglected. But like I said, shit’s been hectic. You know I’m always thinking ’bout you. It’s just that sometimes my girl is on my back ’n shit so I gotta stay close to home to keep the peace.”

  “Beefing? Nigga, I have no emotional ties to you to beef with you. So who said anything about me feeling neglected?”

  “You didn’t have to. That’s the only thing that explains your shitty attitude.”