Page 47 of The Man Handler

Jefferson Ave? I think. I haven’t lived there in over four years. Hmmm. I close my eyes and try to narrow down which dudes from my past knew me when I lived in Elizabeth. I sigh, realizing it’s too damn many to try figuring out. I finish reading:

We need to talk, baby. Word up. I miss fucking that throat and pretty ass of yours. It’s been a minute, and I’m ready to tongue-fuck that hot pussy, then bang that fatty out. Holla back!

Marquise

Marquise? The name’s not familiar. And I’m really not interested in exerting any energy in playing the guessing game. Obviously, there’s a reason why this nigga hasn’t been able to get at me—I’ve moved on. He might have been one of those niggas who my girl Jaguar Wright sings about—a nigga with good dick, but no damn common sense. Humph.

P.S. in case you might have forgotten who I am, I’ve attached a picture to help jog your memory. Hopefully, it’ll get your sweet juices flowing, and have you ready to wet this dick!

Of course curiosity gets the best of me, and I press the little white ball on my BlackBerry, then scroll down to open attachment, and press. In less than a minute a picture of a chiseled torso pops up on my screen, I scroll down to see the rest of the picture. And almost fall out of my chair. In between a pair of muscled thighs is a long, meaty, reddish-brown, shiny dick with a bright red bow tied around the tip of its thick mushroomsized head. Immediately, I start drooling. But, unfortunately, I still can’t figure out who this mystery nigga with the mouth-watering dick is. So, what do I do? I press the button to reply.

I quickly type: Beautiful dick, but I still don’t know who this is. Of course, in my head, I’m wondering if he knows how to use it. I finish typing: A picture of a pretty dick tells me nothing about who you are, boo. So you’ll need to try again. And for the record, I’m not sucking dick, but I am serving up a deep dish of this hot pussy to a man with a long, wet tongue. If that’s you, then you need to hit me up with a phone number. I press send, then toss the device in my Tumi messenger bag.

If he replies back with a phone number, which I trust he will, I might call—and perhaps fuck—him. Then again, I might not. It will all depend on my mood, and what the hell he looks like. ’Cause for me, a nigga with a pretty dick is fine and dandy, but if the shit is attached to someone who looks like a fucking Troll doll or one of the Flying Monkeys, then you might as well keep it moving. I know, I know…we already had this discussion about looks not being everything. And maybe for you they’re not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Another week passes. The weekend is almost over. And baby, baby, baby…let me tell you. You don’t know how happy I am to report that today is the first day that my asshole doesn’t feel like it’s engulfed in flames. What a damn relief! Anyway, it’s Sunday, and rainy. What is it about the rain that makes some people horny? I mean, it’s been raining like cats and dogs all damn day. And I am horny as hell. Basically, any time it rains, it puts me in the mood to be fucked deep, long, and strong. I can’t explain it. It also makes me think back on some of my rainy day and night sexapades. Like the time it was thundering and lightning and pouring down, and I was getting fucked deliciously on the hood of an ex’s car. Or the time I was in the Bahamas on a private beach with this dude I had met in the middle of a rainstorm, and he ate my pussy, then fucked me until dawn. Mmmmph. Lord knows I love me some rain!

I’m telling you. It really brings the freak out of me. Oh my God! There’s nothing sexier than lying up in bed being pressed down into the mattress by a wide-shouldered, strong-backed, dick-slinging man. And, last night—well, early this morning—that is exactly what I had in my bed. Baby, let me tell you. Up until almost five o’clock this morning, I got slayed lovely!

Last night, I made up my mind that it was time to recruit some new dick. So, after lying around the house most of the day, I decided to go out. I showered, put on a cute Baby Phat jean outfit with nothing underneath the jacket, and rocked a pair of four-inch Gucci heels. Sprayed some Pasha behind my ears and on my wrists, then gave myself the once-over in my floor-length mirror. I was satisfied with my look. My hair and face were tight, and the frame was right. Between you and me, I knew I’d have no problem getting some dick. Hell, I never do. Especially not with measurements like mine: A curvaceous 36-24-38. Yes, I’ve been blessed with nice C-cup breasts with large, Hershey Kiss nipples, a small waist, and a fat, soft ass. And being pretty in the face definitely adds to the package. Not bragging, baby; simply sharing.

Anyway, I figured the best spot to find some dick was to go to a titty bar. So I drove to Cinderella’s in Elizabeth, paid my money, ordered a shot of Henny, then perched my apple-bottom ass up on a stool at the bar and took in the scene. A few dudes tried to holla at me, but they weren’t what I was looking for. So I dismissed them. I mean, I wanted some dick, but a girl still has to be picky. I’m not that pressed to accept any ole thing. I wanted something tall, dark, and fine. The minute I spotted him walking through the door with three of his boys all dipped in jewels, I knew he was the one. I decided I’d have him in my bed before morning came. I eyed him as he walked around to the other side of the bar. I studied him, watched him toss a few dollars up on the stage at one of the dancers.

A smooth, brown-skinned chick with a small waist, wide hips, full breasts, and a face like Herman Munster was up on the stage shaking and bouncing her ass. A skinny chick was at the other end of the bar with her legs pulled all the way back over her head, giving everyone a full view of her pussy. Then there was another chick working extra hard to get a group of brothas to give up their dollars. Seems like the deeper you are in the hood, the uglier and rougher the dancers look. Some of them chicks really have no business being on stage with stretch marks, and razor, cut and knife marks all over their bodies. Ugh.

Anyway, I flagged the bartender and asked him to send my prey a drink on me. When the bartender pointed over in my direction, he raised his glass and nodded. I smiled. He whispered something in one of his man’s ears. They glanced over at me, but I pretended not to notice. Five minutes later, he approached me.

“What’s good, ma?”

I sized him up, licking my painted, glossy lips. He is five feet, eleven inches (I know this because I asked him) with broad shoulders, long, thick fingers, a wide nose, and big, brown, dreamy eyes. His smooth, flawless skin is the color of milk chocolate. Yes, he was definitely the one. After about ten minutes of small talk, I got right to the point.

“You, and what’s hanging between your legs,” I answered. Shit, I had no time for dilly-dallying. Like I said, a ho was trying to fuck. I told him straight out what I was looking for. He didn’t flinch. Just licked his lips, then parted a sexy, wide smile.

He shifted his weight from one foot the other. I guess he thought I was joking, because he stood there, looking me in my face like he was waiting for the punch line. When he realized there was none, he widened his smile and started rubbing his dimpled chin. Yeah, he was de

finitely the one. I let him know I was ready and that I had a wet, fat pussy that was throbbing for a stiff dick. You know some men bitch up when a chick like me comes at ’em direct. I was glad he didn’t. Hell, life is too damn short to be beating around the bush.

“Oh word? It’s like that?”

I nodded. “Sure is. You married?” I asked, looking him in the eyes. If his eyes shifted around the room, then I would know he was lying. They didn’t.

“Nah, baby.”

“You got a girl?”

“Yeah,” he said, placing his arm on the back of my chair. “But we in the middle of some shit right now. You got a problem with that.”

“Nope,” I answered. “Your problems with her are no problems of mine.” Then I continued my interview by asking the rest of my list of questions.

“Damn,” he said, laughing. “Am I interviewing for a position?”

I twirled my straw with my tongue, then slowly slid it into my mouth and sipped my drink. I licked my lips, then gazed back up at him. “Yes, you are. It’s for a position between these thighs,” I responded, swiveling the barstool towards him and opening up my legs for effect. “And the position requires someone who knows how to rock a pussy.”

He smiled, nodding his head. “I see.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. But do you wanna feel?”

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