Page 53 of The Man Handler

“Damn, baby,” he says, practically whining. “I was hoping to see you tonight.” I roll my eyes. “What about tomorrow night?”

“Actually,” I say, flipping down my visor to check my eyeliner, “I was thinking more like one day next week.”

“Well, how ’bout I come by and we just chill?”

“Umm, that sounds wonderful, but I’m not really in the mood for a man tonight.”

“Oh, word? I can dig it,” he says, sounding rejected. “How ’bout you hit me up when you ready to get it in then?”

No, nigga, how ’bout I erase you from my list, I think. “I will,” I say, flipping up the visor, then shutting off the engine. “Thanks for calling.”

“Aiight,” he says. “Later.”

I hang up and get out of my car, walking towards the entrance. There are about ten people standing outside, which tells me the place is crowded. I go inside and walk up to the podium, and I am greeted with a wide smile. “Hello, Welcome to the Olive Garden.”

Hello,” I respond. “Can you tell me how long the wait is?” She says it’s a fifteen-minute wait. I decide to stay and give her my name. “I’ll be outside,” I tell her.

“This will light up,” she says, handing me a wooden disc, “when your table is ready.”

I go outside and sit on one of the benches. I am glad it’s warm out, almost like summer. There are three chicks, two black and one white, sitting on a bench not too far from me. I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation, and roll my eyes up in my head as one of them is saying something about being tired of dating broke men. The other two agreed. I literally almost pass out when I hear her say she agreed with her mother that as long as a woman is spreading open her legs, she should never be broke.

I cross my legs, thankful I have my shades on as I roll my eyes again. I get so tired of hearing women talking about needing or wanting a man for his money. That shit is so tired, and played out. I mean, really. Enough already. I want so bad to chime in and tell her to get the fuck over herself and stop looking for handouts.

We are living in the twenty-first century and more women need to learn to be self-sufficient, and self-reliant, and stop playing the damn damsel in distress role. Stop settling for that gold digger mentality. It’s really sad, and fucking disturbing, that there are still a lot of women who buy into that archaic way of thinking that a man should take care of her. As long as women hold onto that belief, they will always be dependent on a man. And when shit doesn’t work out, she’ll be a prisoner of her own choices—trapped, miserable and damn desperate to latch onto another cash cow before day’s end.

Hell, my thing is, get your ass up and do something constructive with your life besides breeding a bunch of damn babies, and gold digging. Get an education, pursue a career, and stack your money. ’Cause at the end of the day, if a man ever decides to walk out on you with the next chick, or if he takes ill, you still need to be able to stand. As far as I’m concerned, don’t rely on a man to do shit for you, except provide you with some dick, and maybe a little companionship.

Ugh! I am so glad my cell phone rings to give me something to do besides listen in on their pathetic conversation. It’s Mitchell. “Hello.”

“You ready to see me?” he asks, chewing in my ear.

I pull the phone away from my ear and frown. “What?”

He repeats himself.

Lucky for him the lights start flashing on my wooden puck. “Listen, delete my number.” I hang up before he can say another word. I don’t know how the hell, or why, his woman puts up with him, I think, getting up from my seat to go inside to enjoy an extended lunch. Poor thing!

As I follow

the hostess to my seat, I decide I will take the rest of the day off. It’s too nice to be holed up in somebody’s office. I will go home and lounge around, listening to music and watching movies. Then tonight I will give myself a pedicure and a facial, before luxuriating in a hot, steamy bath with candlelight and soft music. I am not in the mood to be bothered with anyone else’s man today. But come tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll have my sweet, tight pussy wrapped around someone’s stiff dick.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

You know, after sitting here giving all of you nasty peeping toms an up-close-and-personal look into my life, confiding in you, sharing all of my deepest thoughts, dreams, my sexapades, freaky fantasies, sex tips, and even some of my fears as if you were my dearest friends, I realize I know nothing about any of you. Other than the fact that most of you like all this nasty shit I’m telling you, ya’ll are a bunch of strangers to me. Hell, no! On second thought, a bunch of voyeuristic freaks, that’s what ya’ll are.

Humph, and what’s even more crazy is that this realization reminds me that I don’t have one female friend with whom I can laugh and talk and share secrets. And it also reminds me of the reason why. Because, like I said before, most females can’t be trusted when it comes to telling them your personal business, especially phony-ass females. Like I mentioned before, they’ll smile up in your face, and be plotting on how they can take your spot. I’m not having that. I did it once, and the trick tried to fuck my ex. So, now you know why I hate when a woman runs her damn mouth about her relationship or her man to her so-called friends. I did that shit once—confided in a bitch about my relationship, and it cost me, dearly. I lost what I thought was a good friendship, and a relationship with a man who claimed he loved me. Then again, in hindsight, I really didn’t lose out on shit. If anything, I gained. And finding out the truth about both of their asses saved me a bunch of drama in the end. Still, the whole ordeal was painful. To be betrayed by someone whom you thought you could trust. After all the times I had her back, bailed her out of situations, gave her a shoulder to cry on—hell, even lean on, unconditionally loved and cheered for her, and…still, that wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

And when that trick-bitch turned around and tried to fuck my ex, Vaughn, I knew then I would never, ever, trust another woman with anything personal again. I started picking up on what she was doing when she kept popping up over my house, unexpectedly. And it just so happened to be any time Vaughn’s car was in my driveway. And she’d be prancing in wearing practically nothing. Making it her business to let him know what was what with her ass. A few times, I caught her ass eyeing him, and licking her lips, trying to be sly with it. No, I didn’t say shit at first. See, I learned sometimes you got to know when to sit back and watch what the fuck is going on around you. And that’s exactly what I did until I got tired of the show. Then I called her ass on it. And the bitch had the fucking nerve to say, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’d ask me something like that. That shit is nasty, and disrespectful. You know I wouldn’t do no shit like that.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’d do,” I had snapped. “But what I do know is you been coming around here every time Vaughn’s car is outside—just popping up, like you were in the neighborhood, knowing damn well your motherfucking ass lives all the way across town. I also know that the last four times you dropped by, you made it your business to sit across from him so that every time you opened and closed your legs, he could get a glimpse of your pussy—”

“Bianca, now c’mon, girl,” she urged, slamming her hands on her hips. “You are really starting to bug now. I can’t believe you are going to stand here and accuse me of trying to get with your man. That’s really stretching it. Please, he is cute and all, but he is not my type. And you should already know that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Karen, do me a favor and save that shit for someone else. A pussy has no motherfucking conscience, and you know like I know that a horny bitch will fuck another woman’s man without any thought. And I don’t care what you say, you wanna fuck my man.”

Then this bitch had the audacity to go into an Academy Award winning performance and start shedding tears, talking about how hurt she was that I would come at her like that, accusing her of trying to disrespect our friendship and my relationship. Lying bitch!

“You’re like a sister to me,” she had the fucking nerve to say. “I don’t know what you think you saw or heard, but I’m telling you, I would never do no shit like that.”

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