Page 2 of The Man Handler

Um, wait a minute. Before I let you get too deep into whom I am and what I do, I have some questions for you: Is it really as hard as most women say it is to find a good man? Are all the good men already taken? Is there really a shortage of good, decent men in the world? Is the black man really an endangered species? Or is there simply an abundance of lonely, miserable, sex-deprived women out here?

Now, before you respond, let me start off by saying I understand that no man is gonna respect any woman who drops her drawers and throws up her legs to the first man who smiles her way. If you’re an easy lay, that’s all you’re going to be seen as, a quick piece of ass. So don’t start getting all emotional when he starts dissing you, or acts like he doesn’t know you after you’ve swallowed his nut. Take it for what it is, a fuck. If you a ho, say you a ho. And stop all the damn fronting. Chicks kill me catching feelings when a man calls them out of their name, or tries to pass them off to one of his boys. Uh, newsflash: He nutted in your mouth, sweetie. No, he’s not gonna kiss you. No, he’s not gonna make you his girl. The minute you let a man run up in you, the minute you swallow his babies, you played yourself. So stop all the damn whining and begging. Do you. Get your fuck on, and keep it moving. Luckily for me, I don’t have that problem. ’Cause I don’t give a fuck about a man’s respect. Only what’s hanging between his legs!

Between you and me—and yes, I’m an opinionated ho—I think the problem is that women have become so desperate to have someone in their lives, and in their beds, (out of fear of being alone) that they settle for a lot of unnecessary bullshit from men. As far as I’m concerned, women are responsible for the shit they choose to put up with from a man. There’s no point complaining about his ass when (nine times out of ten) you already know, or at least have an idea of, what you’re deal

ing with. That’s not to say that there aren’t some women who truly have no clue as to what their man is into, or capable of. But once the truth is revealed, they are responsible for their decision to leave or stay, or take his ass back. As far as I’m concerned, if they stay, then their dumb asses deserve to get whatever heart-ache and grief his trifling ass continues to bring them. If they take him back, they deserve what they get. So each of you stop the damn tears, and take the shit and piss he throws in your face like a grown-ass woman.

I often wonder how many women buy into that “It’s better to have a piece of a man, than no man at all” mess. I bet there’s hundreds of thousands, maybe even a few million women who embrace that distorted foolishness, causing them to shed tears, lose sleep, and fight to hold on to a man whom they love more than they love themselves; women who sacrifice and lose pieces of themselves for the sake of having a man in their lives, no matter the cost, no matter the loss. A part of me wants to feel sorry for them, wants to be able to empathize with them; but because I’ve never been there, I can’t bring myself to develop any level of understanding as to why any woman would choose to keep a man in her life who emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, and (most times) financially drains her.

But for the ones who do, does this make these chicks stupid? Does it make these women victims of their own hearts? Does it mean they lack self-love? Are they bombarded with insecurities? Do they feel trapped?

I mean, really. Why in the hell would any sane, rational woman put up with that shit? Hmmm…maybe she’s not sane. Perhaps that’s the damn problem. Her ass is downright crazy for thinking she doesn’t deserve better! Ugh! I need to go lie down. This shit has given me a damn splitting-ass headache. Later!

CHAPTER TWO

At the moment, I have three steady men (not including Garrett and Maurice) who are on call whenever and however I need ’em. I call ’em my three sex charms because I fuck ’em in threes. Three’s a charm, and I keep my pussy wrapped around their dicks like a tennis bracelet. Not only are diamonds a girl’s best friend, so is a thick, stiff dick. And that’s exactly what all three of ’em have.

First, there’s sex charm #1: Jamil. He’s five-eleven, 195 pounds of lean muscle, packing a solid seven-and-a-half inches of thick beef. I met him while standing in line at Commerce Bank. He’s a Gemini, moody and unpredictable. One minute he’s blowing my phone up, scratching and sniffing around like a dog in heat, hounding me for some more of this pussy. The next minute, he’s as cold and distant as an Alaskan polar bear. Probably because of all the stress he catches from his six baby mommas and the chick he’s currently living with. By the time he shells out child support for his ten kids, he barely has enough money for himself. And he knows not to ask me for anything. His financial state is not my problem. I have no sympathy for his dumb ass, which is running around breeding with everything moving. And the crazy mofo’s talking about he wants to have three more. Go figure. I guess he’s gonna try for a baker’s dozen. Humph. Whatever! The only thing he can do for me (at the moment) is eat my pussy, and serve me the damn dick.

Next is sex charm #2: Wade, a six-foot-three, 215-pound solid hunk of smooth, milk chocolate with long lashes wrapped around the most entrancing pair of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen on any human being. Hanging between his chiseled thighs is a thick, eight-inch dick with enormous veins running along the shaft and a big mushroom head, and attached to this beautiful chocolate dick is a set of huge, hairy balls. His dick sort of reminds me of a miniature baseball bat, narrow at the base, thick at the shaft. Just looking at him makes my pussy tingle with delight.

Wade is a college graduate and owns his own landscaping business. I’ll admit, if I were ever looking for a steady piece of dick, he’d definitely be the one. Okay, well, maybe one of the ones. Besides the fact that he’s intelligent, fine as hell, and has no children and no chicks, he eats pussy like it’s the only thing on the menu, and he can fuck practically all night. That’s exactly how I like it. Usually after he’s finished digging my back out, I can still feel him inside of me for at least two days, and then can’t fuck anyone else for another three. That’s how good he wears this pussy out. The only problem: he’s twenty-five. And that’s entirely too damn young. For a relationship, that is.

Last, but definitely not least, is sex charm #3: Mitchell. Mitchell is six-one, two-hundred pounds, and the color of midnight with a ten-inch dick that curves to the left. And he’s freakier than a mutha. The last time we were together, he poured chocolate syrup in the crack of my ass, then licked and tongue-fucked my asshole clean. I almost lost my mind. He can get it almost anytime he wants it. However, I won’t let his freak-nasty, ass-eating self kiss me.

And of course, there’s Garrett, who comes through once every two weeks or so. Well, uh, that’s what he used to do. Lately, it’s been every chance he can get. I’m not too sure what that’s about. But he keeps coming—in more ways than one. And I keep on spreading open my legs and fucking him.

Anyway, then there’s Maurice whom I fuck once or twice, sometimes three times a year due to his work, travel, and family obligations. And now there’s Wendell, who is still new on my dick list. But before Jamil, Wade, and Mitchell, there were Tyrone, David, and Solomon. And before them: Reggie, Carlos, and Martin. And before them: Cedric, Eli, and Thomas.

Okay. For those of you who might not have picked up on it, I fuck my men in threes. And I usually rotate ’em in threes. Basically, I change my men about as many times as I change the oil in my car, practically every three thousand miles. Or every three months, whichever comes first. I drain ’em, dump ’em, then move on to something fresh and new. It’s the only way to go. So, basically, I’ve never had an issue getting a man. Now, getting rid of his ass is sometimes another story. One we’ll get to at another time.

Oh, you wanna know why I fuck ’em and rotate ’em every three months? Well, because in my experience, it takes about three months before a mofo starts trying to check for you like he’s your damn man, or before he starts getting too damn comfortable and starts expecting shit from you, or thinking you want something from him, or before he starts trying to move his ass up in here. Sorry, boo-boo, I’m not having that shit under any circumstances. I don’t care how good he digs my back out. A man is only good for three things: Fucking, fucking, and more fucking! Other than a stiff dick, there’s nothing he can offer me. At least I’m honest about that, and I let them all know from jump what the deal is. He doesn’t have to worry about me trying to get him to pay my bills, or keep my hair and nails done. I’m more than capable of doing those things for myself. And I expect him to be able to do the same for himself. No, you can’t get a ride. No, you can’t get a hot meal. No, you can’t stay the night. No, you can’t move in. No, you can’t use my address or have your mail coming to my house. It ain’t gonna happen. I’m not running a bed and breakfast, a motel, or a damn shelter. So lick the clit, serve the dick, and be on your merry way. Sine qua non, bottom line: I want his ass out of my house before sunrise. No exceptions!

Please. Say what you want. Some dudes don’t seem to understand what the hell “no strings attached” means. Hello. It means, let’s fuck and have a good time without you trying to crowd my space, be all up in my damn face questioning me like I owe you something, or trying to keep tabs on me. Negro, get a grip!

And I’ve also found that within three months, whatever drama a man has in his life will eventually find its way into yours if you’re not on point. That’s why it’s always best to fuck ’em and dump ’em within ninety days. Come to think of it. I’m really starting to believe that there really are some things money can’t buy. And, baaaaaaby, let me tell you. Hassle-free dick is one of them!

Anyway, back to my three current charms. All three of ’em have been in my bed, oops, I mean my life, for almost three months. But, like with everything else in life, eventually all good things must come to an end. Sadly, nothing stays the same. And neither does the dick. Hitting this pussy comes with an expiration date.

Okay, before I forget, I’m gonna let you in on something else. There are a few things I’ve learned along my sexual journey, and they are: 1) A stiff dick has no conscience. It’ll fuck anything moving if it can get away with it; 2) Most men lie about the size of their dicks (which is why I carry a ruler); 3) A big dick doesn’t guarantee a good fuck, and a small dick doesn’t guarantee a bad one; 4) An itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie, short, short dick can’t hit it doggie-style; 5) A man with good dick isn’t necessarily a good man; 6) You can’t judge the size of a man’s dick by his shoe size, hand size, or by the size of his nose. Those physical features don’t mean shit; and 7) Old dick is no different from young dick. It may look different, but with the lights out, it’s still dick. It’s the man attached to the dick that’s different.

I’ve also learned that most men lie about themselves, and about what it is they really want from you. They’ll say whatever they think you want to hear to get whatever it is they want from you. Because a man calls you all the time doesn’t mean he can be trusted. Because he comes through to fuck you all the time doesn’t mean he’s your man, or that he wants to love you. And it definitely doesn’t mean he wants to get to know you better. It usually means he’s only interested in you wetting his dick. So don’t get caught up in trying to make it out to be more than what it is, a fuck.

And I’ve also discovered that most men think sucking on your titties and slapping you on the ass is foreplay. Or that a few tongue laps around the clit is all it takes to have you begging for the dick. Well, that may work for some women. But a woman like me needs a bit more to get it going. See, for me, great sex begins with great foreplay. And great foreplay begins with seduction. Stimulate the mind, arouse the senses, tantalize and

tease the body, or find yourself on the receiving end of a miserably lousy fuck.

However, always keep in mind this tidbit: The thrill of seduction sometimes lies in the chase rather than the conquest. In layman’s terms: Sometimes it’s best not to fuck ’em. Masturbate to your fantasies and keep it moving.

Anyway, I say all this to say that some men get so caught up in solely fucking that they don’t even consider whether you’re enjoying it. I mean, damn. I don’t mind being fucked when that’s what I’m asking for. But don’t be a selfish fuck. I mean, really. How tired is that? But some men really don’t give a fuck about it being good for you too. As long as it feels good to them, as long as they can get their shit off, to hell with making sure we get ours. But I’m not the one. If he’s popping a nut, dammit, so am I. Trust me. And that’s exactly why I have a sign hanging over my bed that reads: “My bed, my pussy, my way! Either fuck me the way I want, or fuck off!” And I make sure every man who enters this bedroom reads it out loud. And if he can’t read, then I read it for his illiterate ass.

Make no mistake. Be a lazy fuck if you want, and find yourself tossed out with a hard dick, depending on my mood. If I am extremely horny or feeling generous, then I will make him stop, roll him over on his back, straddle him, slide down on his dick, and ride him like there’s no tomorrow, then throw him out. And that’s exactly what I did to Benson’s punk ass three nights ago. He’s thirty-five, five feet, 185 pounds, with nine and a half inches of dick. And he claims he doesn’t have a woman. But I know he’s lying. Shit. Dude doesn’t have to lie to me. What the hell do I care? I don’t want him. The only thing I want is to be fucked right. Fuck me the way I want, or you get dismissed. And that’s what it is. Ugh! Every time I think about it, it makes me want to scream. How the fuck you think you gonna lay up in my bed and not feed my pussy right?

Anyway, I leaned forward with my titties sweeping back and forth across his chest as I pounced and galloped up and down on his dick, fucking him until his eyes rolled back in his head. Let me tell you how I had him moaning and calling out my name, telling me how good this pussy is. My juicy hole slurped all over his dick, sucking the nut out of him. And when I was done, I rolled over onto my back and without giving him a second glance, I told him to “Get out!” And you want to know what this mofo had the nerve to do? He looked at me like I was crazy. He didn’t say it, and I didn’t give him a chance to. That look was all I needed.

“No, negro,” I snapped, “you the crazy one, tryna half fuck me! Now see yourself out, ’cause your services are no longer needed.”

Dude grabbed his shirt, hastily putting on his clothes, then walked out the bedroom. “Fuckin’ bitch,” I heard him mumble as he stomped his way out into the hallway, then down the stairs and out the door, slamming it so hard that the windows upstairs rattled. Like I gave a fuck! Yeah, I had probably bruised his ego, okay, and? Humph, some men are like spoiled-assed babies, pouting and whining when their little feelings get hurt. Whatever!

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