Page 37 of The Man Handler

“Well, that’s too bad,” he says, walking towards the door. He looks at me over his shoulder. “’Cause I am.”

“Then you were looking in the wrong place, and definitely in the wrong face.”

He grimaces as if I’ve said something hurtful. As if I’ve tossed a bucket of hot shit in his face. He gives me a painful stare, then says, “I guess I was.” And with that said, boyfriend walks out the door, and closes it behind him. Easy cum, easy go, I think, walking over to lock my door. Two down, and one more to go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Let me share a little something with you. See. I believe there are women who spend their lives wishing and praying for a knight in sparkling, shining armor—or a handsome prince charming galloping up on a white horse to sweep them off their feet. And, interestingly, I believe that many of these women are actually fortunate enough to snag such a catch. However, there are also, I believe, women who sit home night after night, alone and lonely, praying and crying for someone—anyone—to rescue them from their miserable situations. Even some of them are lucky enough to meet their saviors. Then there are women who, sadly, even after finding whom they believed to be their perfect “fairytale” man, they find themselves still sitting around wishing and wondering and praying and crying, hoping for shit that will never come true. So they go through life turning a blind eye to the naked truths that the men they have given their hearts to have fucked them over. Humph!

Then there are women who aimlessly sit at the feet of their men, who come to them by command and not by choice, forced to be slaves to the men’s egotistical, self-centered, selfish whims; to be prisoners of lies and mind games. Many of these women are aware of this, and yet they stay, making excuses and justifying their men’s actions. There are still others who are stuck in deep-rooted denial, blinded by the illusion of love, and will willingly ignore and/or pretend, making choices that keep allowing their men to violate and disrespect them. And that’s their business. But, make no mistake, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever allow myself to be lured into believing that I have to idly sit, and take whatever bullshit a man feels compelled to dish out. I’m sorry, boo-boo, I know women have their reasons for why they do what they do—even if it appears out of desperation, but I cannot sympathize with any of ’em. And I damn sure can’t wrap my mind around why they’d compromise themselves or allow themselves to be victimized. Fuck that! I will never allow myself to stay in a fucked-up, miserable situation with a man, hurting, just for the sake of saying he’s mine.

Trust and believe. I’d rather keep rotating dick and have peace of mind, than have a piece of a man and have to put up with a bunch of his bullshit and be stressed the fuck out, losing mad weight with my hair falling out and bags under my eyes. No, no, no…not gonna happen, trust! ’Cause at the end of the day, when it’s all said and done, with all of his cheating and lying and manipulating, is the motherfucker really yours? Better yet, is he really worth all the damn trouble? And if you’re going to answer, let’s be perfectly real about the shit. Unfortunately, most of you know like I do that many of you won’t be able to keep it funky with the truth because your dumb asses are so damn stuck in denial, and blinded by your own emotional neediness. But I’m not one to gossip.

Anyway, when I bring a man into my bed, at least I already know who the hell I’m sleeping with. And, most times, it’s somebody else’s man. Someone I would never consider keeping in my life. And I accept it for what it is: a stiff dick and a wet tongue to be used at my discretion. So, the question is, do you really know who’s in your bed? Now, you don’t have to answer that with me, but it’s definitely something to think about.

My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I walk over to the dining room table to get it. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually answer calls that come up on my caller ID as blocked, restricted or private, and I’m not exactly sure what compels me to start today, but I do. I press the green phone button and accept the call, walking back over to the sofa. I plop down.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Bitch, how long you been sucking my man’s dick?”

“Excuse you? Who’s this?”

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” the voice on the other end snaps. “And trust me. When I find out who the fuck you are, I’m gonna beat your slutty ass, bitch!”

See. This is the only downfall about fucking another woman’s man. You have to expect shit like this to happen from time to time. Some dick whipped bitch, talking out the side of her neck about what she’s going to do to me when she catches me. Sometimes I entertain the calls; other times, I hang up. But, today’s this chick’s lucky day. I feel like playing. What cracks me the hell up is that some of these women really think they done snatched up the door prize. The shit is hilarious to me, and, at times, downright sad.

I shake my head, and say, “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both, bitch!” she snarls.

I laugh, which only incites this crazed woman more.

“Bitch, what the fuck is so funny, hunh? Let’s see how funny you think shit is when I got you picking up your damn dick-sucking jaws, you trifling bitch!”

“My, my, my…aren’t we mighty hostile,” I say, taunting her.

“Hostile my ass!” she snaps. “Answer the question, bitch. How long you been fucking my man?”

I sigh, shaking my head. I clear my throat. “Um, ’scuse me, boo, but would you be so kind as to tell me what man has you so stressed out, calling my home making ridiculous threats, and accusing me of fucking him?”

“Don’t fucking worry about all that,” she snaps. “Just stay the fuck away from my man. He’s mine, so go out and find yourself your own, and leave mine the FUCK alone, bitch!”

I laugh again, sitting back on the sofa. “Oh, trust, sweetie, the last thing I’m worried about is a man, especially yours. And maybe you should learn how not to as well.”

“It’s bitches like you,” she huffs, “that make it easy for men to cheat.”

“Wrong answer, sweetie,” I say, crossing my legs. “It’s bitches like you that make it easy for men to cheat by constantly taking their cheating-asses back, denying that shit in your relationships ain’t right, and for always blaming everyone else but the men you dumb ass bitches keep letting fuck you over. So, don’t call me with your bullshit, bitch. I’m not your problem. Your mother-fucking man is.”

“You fucking, slutty-ass ho, who the fuck do you think you talking to?”

In my mind’s eye, I can see this bitch foaming at the mouth like a pit bull. I must have really struck a nerve.

“You, you dizzy bitch,” I snap, getting bored with this little phone game I’m playing with this chick. Although I’m really not mad at her, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bitch call me talking shit and I don’t check her ass. I don’t give a fuck if she does think I’m fucking her man. If she wanted to confront me about him, she should have come at me some other way. All this extra shit is uncalled for. And now that I’m thinking about it, I should hang up on her retarded ass. But, I won’t. “You called me with your fucking sob story,” I continue. “So obviously I’m talking to your dumb-ass. Now, what is it you want from me again?”

“I want you to stay away from my man,” she states. It almost sounds like the bitch is begging. “If he calls you, hang up. If he comes by, don’t let him in.”

“Oh, okay. And how is it you know that it’s me he’s fucking?”

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