Page 13 of The Man Handler

“Nigga, please,” I say, laughing. “You are not my man, nor will you ever be. So trust me, the last thing I have is an attitude. But for you to think you can roll up over here with a stiff dick in your hand and I’m supposed to drop down and wet it for you is a bit much.”

“It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m not here for you to wet this dick. I can get it wet at home, if I want.”

“Oh okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “So, then, why are you here, again?”

“I told you. I wanna plant this tongue up in that tight pussy. But you on some other shit, tryna beef ’n shit.”

“Mitchell, the last thing I’m doing is beefing with you. I don’t beef with nobody else’s man, baby, trust me. I dismiss ’em.”

“So, then why am I standing out here going back ’n forth with you instead of being inside wetting that clit up?”

I tilt my head, smiling. I love it when men think that they are the masters of the sex game, and are the ones to plot on the pussy instead of it being the other way around.

We know that it is really the woman who chooses the man. She knows the minute a man walks into the room whether or not she wants to fuck him, marry him, or strictly be friends. She has already sized him up; already checked out the competition or lack thereof. And has already made up her mind how she wants to proceed. To fuck, or not to fuck! Too bad most men missed or overlooked the memo. It would probably cut down on a lot of unnecessary foolishness.

I blink, blink again. I sift through the series of questions I typically ask a man before I ever fuck him, and wonder if I might have missed a few with Mitchell prior to squatting over his face and lowering my sweet pussy down on his mouth. I recall each question I asked him, and his responses: Do you eat pussy? Yes. Eat ass? Yes. Love your dick and balls sucked? Hell yeah! Are you circumcised? Yes. Can you fuck more than one round? Yes. Well, most times. Ever fuck a chick in the ass? Nah, not yet, but can’t wait to try. Can you give it to me freaky and nasty? Most definitely.

Truth be told, when I ask these questions, if the answer is “no” to more than three, there’s no further discussion. If he answers “yes” to at least three, then I might take his number, depending on what he looks like. But, if he answers “yes” to all seven, then nine times out of ten, I’m going to fuck him on the spot, or at least within the first two weeks, depending on when my last dose of dick was. In Mitchell’s case, I fucked his tongue on the spot because that’s what I wanted from him. To eat this pussy like it was going to be his last meal on earth. And that’s what he did.

Speaking of which, when a man eats my pussy, I typically prefer the sixty-eight because it gives him full access to my pussy and asshole. I also like it when he lies on the bed with his head back over the edge and I straddle his face and smear my pussy all over his lips, which is how Mitchell usually loves to eat me.

However, there are other times when I enjoy the standing sixty-nine. This is another position in which Mitchell is skilled at delivering his tongue game. It always gets me off quick. There’s something about being hung upside down, swallowing a dick, that drives me wild. Although I did have a bad experience a few years ago when the mofo I was serving got the shakes and his knees buckled. Next thing I knew, I had hit the floor. The fool dropped me on my damn head. I had a headache for days behind that. Needless to say, I never fucked or sucked him again after that.

But tonight, standing here remembering how wicked Mitchell’s head game is does nothing for me. My clit doesn’t jump at the thought of having him between my legs, so I know for certain he will not get in. Period! At this very moment, he disgusts me. And I am certain he is officially axed from the fuck squad.

“Uh,” I finally answer, looking him dead in the eyes, “because the last time I checked I paid the mortgage here, and I let who I want up in here, when I want them up in here. And tonight, you are not welcomed. So I suggest you take your hectic ass back home to your little wifey and wet her, ’cause this pussy is not available to you, not tonight or any other night. I suggest you call first the next time you catch yourself trying to creep.”

He stares at me with a dumb-ass look on his face. He stands there for a few minutes just looking at me, then swipes his big hand over his mouth, and pulls at his chin hairs, realizing what I’m saying. “Oh, shit. You really not gonna let me in, huh?”

Oh my God, this nigga is dumber than I thought. “No. Now have a good night.” I shut the door in his face, leaving him standing out in the night air. He rings the doorbell again. I shut off the porch light, then the lights in the living room.

“Fuck it, then,” I hear him say as he stomps down the sidewalk to his car. “Crazy bitch!” I watch him from the window and laugh at his ass as he slams his car door and speeds off. Niggas, I think, closing my curtains and making my way upstairs to my bedroom.

Ugh, let me tell you something else about men before I go to bed. Most men don’t appreciate any damn thing they obtain too easily. Believe that. If you want to keep them interested, then you have to stimulate them mentally and learn to give them a challenge. Trust me. Men love a challenge. If you give in to their temper tantrums when they don’t get their way, or their threats to move on to the next chick, then they’ve won. You’ve opened the door to being manipulated into doing any and every-damn-thing they want. The more they want, the more they’re going to demand. The more you give, the more they’re going to take. And once they know you can be manipulated, they know they have you wrapped around their finger. And guess what? At the end of the day, they’re not going to have one ounce of respect for your ass.

However, if you’re a woman who is like me, a chick who’s simply doing her thing, a chick whose only interest in a man is to fuck him, suck him, and send him on his merry motherfucking way, then you can truly not care less about what he thinks about you when it’s all said and done. He ain’t playing you, and he ain’t manipulating you into doing jack you don’t already want to do. I have messed plenty of niggas’ heads up by fucking them, then dismissing them all in one breath. I’ve even gone as far as acting like I don’t know ’em when I run into ’em on the street.

I remove my clothes, then go into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I am done, I pull my hair back, stare at my reflection for a minute, then shut off the light. I climb into bed, wondering what would happen if every woman in the world went on a pussy strike. Basically shut down all fucking and sucking for one year. Oh, hell no! That’s too damn long. Okay, maybe for sixty days. Well, maybe for a month. Okay, okay, let’s start out with two weeks. Anyway, what would men do?

Perhaps masturbate until they got dick burns on the palms of their hands. Or go on a raping spree. ’Cause most men can’t live without pussy. Not for long. So the clincher would be that every woman would be strapped and loaded, and if a mofo tried to bum rush her for some pussy, he’d be shot on the spot, or at the very least be pistol whipped and castrated. The mere thought is quite entertaining. I think men would literally lose their damn minds if they couldn’t get their dicks wet. If women had the will to shut their legs, seal off the pussy, and let a nigga know who really has the control, he’d act like he had some damn sense. Imagine that.

The thought cracks me the hell up for almost two minutes. But then reality sets in and I suck my teeth, knowing it’ll never happen in this lifetime ’cause there are a lot of women who’ll cut a chick for some dick, who can’t live without the dick. Humph, I think, cutting off the lamp on my nightstand, women better start realizing the power of that wet box between their legs, and learn how to fuck a man into submission.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s 9:15 in the morning, and I am sitting bored shitless in a mandatory staff meeting. Shari Flemmings, who works in Human Resources, and Mark Lennon, the executive director of operations, are standing in front of us, talking. Actually, Mark is the one doing all the talking. Shari’s standing there looking like a damn porcelain doll with all that foundation on her face, nodding every so often as he discu

sses the upcoming strategic planning the organization will be having over the next few months. Today, for some reason, she seems a bit scattered, nervous almost, and I’m trying to figure out why she’s so distracted. I’m sitting in my seat wondering why this chick is even standing up here while he is talking about this process. Although I’ve hardly had much interaction with her, I’ve always thought she was a well-put-together woman, not to mention being a sistah! Girlfriend is always articulate and to the point when she speaks. But today she is different. I can’t put my finger on it as I watch her eyes dance around the room like tennis balls.

Mark, a very handsome, very rich white man, in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair, green eyes, and a lean runner’s body, goes into this long, drawn-out explanation of why the board of directors feels now is the time to do an assessment and evaluation of the organization as a whole.

“Throughout this process,” he says, looking around the room, “we will be taking a look at all of our existing services provided in each department within the company, seeing how we can enhance them and provide more effective ways of meeting our clients’ needs. We will also be taking a look at those departments that are not being utilized to their full potential, seeing how we can strengthen them…”

My God, as good-looking as his ass is, that nasal voice of his is giving me a headache. I look around the huge conference room, watching the faces and actions of everyone assembled there. I spot Miss Hooch over in the corner, staring out the window. Nahdirah is sitting two seats over from me, writing something on her notepad. Definitely not notes. Her ass is probably doodling, I think, shaking my head. On my left is Everett Wells, one of the computer techs who works on the second floor. He sort of reminds me of the actor Sean Blakemore. I keep my face forward and occasionally cut my eye at him, smiling to myself. There’s only one word to describe this six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-something-pound, chiseled, chocolate delight, and that is delicious! Mmmph. Under different circumstances, this man could get it. You best believe if I were the type to fraternize in the workplace, he’d be the first one on my list of people to fuck. Just by the way he walks, the way he sits, the way his slacks hang in the front, tells me he is most likely one of them Mandingo dick mofos, or he has some really extra-large balls. However, since I do not, nor will I ever shit where I eat, I ignore his advances and invitations to dinner, “or whatever.” But that doesn’t mean I haven’t already fucked him in my mind.

The scent of his cologne forces me to inhale deeply. I try to figure out the fragrance. Sean John? Unforgivable? I think, shifting in my seat. I feel his eyes on me, but I ignore the tingling sensation his gaze causes against my flesh. Right at this moment, I wish he wasn’t sitting so close to me. I wish he wasn’t someone who worked in the same building as me. Wish he didn’t take up space in my many fantasies. I know he smells my lust, know he wants to get my attention. I cross my legs, pinch off the desire to have his tongue lost between my thighs, and focus on Mr. Lennon.

“…This is a very exciting time for us as we approach another decade of being one of the most innovative, cutting-edge technological companies in the country. And with your help, I am hoping that we can continue to raise the bar…”

---