Page 78 of The Man Handler

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, yo

ur 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.

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