Page 69 of The Man Handler

He laughs, removing his jacket, then pulling off his brown Timberland boots. “You crack me the hell up with all of your little rules.”

“Well, that may be so,” I say, opening my robe and letting it fall from my frame. “But this is where you chose to be; this is where you wish to be, so my little rules must not be a problem for you.”

“Hell, baby,” he says, stepping out of his boxers, “you can have as many rules as you want as long as you keep serving up the pussy and wetting this”—he grabs his cock and swings it back and forth—“dick up as good as you do.”

His cell phone

rings. He lets it go into voice mail.

I roll my eyes. Men are so fucking stupid. I have told him over and over again, when he’s with me and his woman calls, answer the damn phone. Continue doing what you do when you’re not creeping with me. Don’t change up your routine. But, this mofo disregards what I say every time.

“Why didn’t you answer?” I ask. But at this point I could really care less.

His phone rings again.

He ignores the question and the call, taking me by the hand and leading the way upstairs. When we finally get up to the bedroom, he sits down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread apart. He rests his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together, and sighs. I sit next to him, reach for his semi-hard dick and begin stroking it until it thickens.

“Why can’t I get this shit at home?” he asks, turning his gaze on me. “Instead of a bunch of bullshit,” he blurts out.

I stare at him, let go of his dick. “If you’re not happy with her, why do you stay?”

He looks at me as if what I’ve asked is incredulous. As if the answer should be obvious. “I love her.”

I blink, blink again. If that isn’t the weakest, lamest, most overused excuse in the world.

“But you’re sitting here.”

“What does me loving her have to do with that?”

“Yeah, okay, if you say so. If cheating on your woman is love, then do you, boo. But obviously, you’re not happy.”

He scowls. “I never said I wasn’t happy. I simply can’t stand her mood swings and shit, and her being stingy with the sex. Other than that, I’m good.”

“So then why are you sitting here again?”

“For some pussy.”

“And why is that?”

He sucks his teeth, leaning back on his forearms. “What’s this? Twenty fucking questions?” He huffs, looking down at his dick resting on the left side of his stomach. “You gonna take care of this dick or what?”

“Yeah,” I say, taking his cock back in my hand. I flick my tongue over the head, plant slow, wet kisses along the back of its shaft, then abruptly stop, letting go of it again, “after you answer my question.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. If you want your dick wet, you’ll answer the question.”

“I’m here tryna get some pussy, because I ain’t getting it at home.”

“Hmm…very interesting,” I say, getting up from the edge of the bed. I walk over to one of my walk-in closets and pull a satin robe off one of the brass hooks. I slip it on, then tie it tight across my body.

He frowns. “What you put that on for?”

Now, before I go off on his ass, let me vent for a minute. I already know that, in life, you get what you get, when you do what you do. But, dammit, please tell me what in the hell I ever do to have to listen to a damn man whine and complain about what it is his woman doesn’t do. Okay, okay…usually, I’m all ears. But, tonight, at this very instant, I am not in the mood to hear shit except his balls slapping up against the back of my pussy. But he wants to bitch about shit that makes me no never mind, and it has fucked up my mood. It’s bad enough I really wasn’t up to seeing his ass tonight anyway. But, because I let my pussy talk me into letting him come through, I got to listen to this shit. Sorry, baby…not tonight.

“Because,” I say, facing him with my hands on my hips, “obviously you need a relationship therapist; not pussy.”

And before he can open his mouth to say anything else, I put him out. Tell him to get his shoes on, stuff his dick back into his boxers, and to get the hell out of my house; and to never, ever, ring my goddamn doorbell again unless he’s coming here to fuck, not vent. And I mean it. When I say I’m not in the mood for any chitchat, only fucking, that’s the hell what I mean. Don’t come here with the extras!

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