A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND
by
James W. Lewis
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
James W. Lewis at Smashwords
A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND
Copyright © 2011 by James W. Lewis
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN: 978-0-9827193-4-3 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9827193-5-0 (Ebook)
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Dedicated to Mommy:
Thank you for your unique form of “punishment” that led to this!
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A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND
CHAPTER 1
Girl, I need to holla at you for a minute ’cause a sista has serious issues. Well, actually, one major issue. You’re probably gonna look at me like I’m crazy after I tell you all of this. You don’t mind sittin’ back for a minute while I spill it, do you? I’ll tell you straight up, I’ve been known to yack folk’s ears off. Mouth be running at times, so you might wanna grab a caffé latte and somethin’ to munch on, all right?
Well, my issue comes in a dark chocolate-delight package of 100 percent testosterone ... damn ... with a body built like an NFL wide receiver, firm rock-hard Terrell Owens-ish ass ... lawd! And he makes damn near six-figures as a computer analyst!
Okay, okay. Stop right there. You probably got your lips all twisted up, rolling your eyes, about to slam the book on me and what not. Talkin’ ’bout, “yeah, right, here we go again. The men in these books are always off-the-charts fine.” I hear you and all, but I’m telling you, it’s true!
I’m talkin’ bleach-white teeth, a damn near Barry White voice, and the smoothest bald head I’ve had the pleasure of rubbing my hands on. Quite simply, the man can trigger a dozen micro-orgasms with a simple smile and “hello.”
But even though he’s an Ebony Man of the Decade candidate, I’m debating on seeing him again. I just don’t know if I can stand him anymore, let alone make our relationship work. That, girlfriend, is the issue.
You’ll see what I’m talkin’ ’bout later on. But before I say anything more about him, let me tell you the crazy scenarios I found myself in before I met him.
* * * * *
I hadn’t been to a nightclub in months. Just got tired of the scene, ya know, same ol’ faces, same ol’ routine, same ol’ bullshit. Every time I stepped foot inside a weekend hot spot, I felt like worm bait among a sea of piranhas. Screw that. I’m nobody’s bait, so I kept my ass home.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved the attention men showered on me. What woman wouldn’t? But the shit just got old after a while, ya know. Well, at least for me it did—especially since I knew most men in meat markets disguised as nightclubs just wanted a piece of my sirloin steak for a midnight snack. Horny toad freaks.
It got to a point where weekend dates with Netflix and pizza became the norm for my oh-so solo life. Not that I was complaining. Just got used to that pattern.
One Friday after work, I found my girlfriend Charlotte standing against the door of my Subaru, blocking my entry. The way she had her arms spread against the window glass, I thought she was hiding something.
This heifer done lost her mind, I thought. I set my hands on my hips and said, “Ho, what the hell are you doing?”
She stared at me with beady, dark-brown eyes. Wrinkling her forehead, she crunched her eyebrows together, trying to look mean and shit. Had this crazy look like a woman determined to make a point.
Charlotte took in a deep breath. “Look, Michelle. I’ve been trying to get you to go out with me for I don’t know how long now. I’m tired of my girl tellin’ me she don’t wanna go out. You know I don’t have long before my next pregnancy test has that plus sign on it.”
I shook my head. How this girl gonna play the pregnancy card? Charlotte and her husband, Greg, had been putting in work for the past two months to knock her up. She was trying to get the clubbin’ out of her system before the nine-month wobble.
Charlotte rambled on. “You need to get your ass out and have some fun. Why you all stuck in your apartment all the damn time, messin’ around on Facebook? You know I don’t like hangin’ with—”
“Aw’ight, aw’ight!” I threw my hands up in surrender. “Damn! I’ll go out with you tonight!”
As you can see, I didn’t put up much of a fight. I had actually gotten the itch to wiggle it on the floor again, but let Charlotte think she had convinced me.
Homechick adjusted her stance and exhaled with an exaggerated “you rescued me” look. “Woo!” she said. “Thank you! ’Bout time!”
She wiped her forehead, even though it didn’t show a lick of sweat. So damn silly. Always acting the fool, crackin’ me up. That’s my girl, though. Best friend for five years.
After we ironed out the details, I drove to El Cajon, got my hair braided, then headed home. I looked good with my shoulder-length braids, but after four hours of my hairdresser twisting my hair and yanking my scalp, mini-headaches pounded my cranium with the throb knob on high. I thought about lazing in front of the TV and calling it a night, but didn’t want Charlotte having a fit. I took a couple of aspirin and sucked it up. Couldn’t punk out on my girl—I’d never hear the end of it.
At my Mission Valley apartment, hip-hop jams from 90.3 restored the boogie in my hips and snap in my fingers. I ordered homegirl in the mirror to have a good time tonight.
I showered, ransacked the closet, and grabbed the tan mini dress that cuddles all my goodies. I had to make sure the brothas checked me out until their eyes hurt, ya know? And, shoot, why not put my hourglass on blast? My mama gave it to me!
I wiped the dust off my brown pumps, slapped on a touch of blush, and coated my thick lips with Red Seduction. A dab of Chanel perfume around my neck, arms, and the slit between my two babies blessed my body with a classy fragrance.
Once I put in my diamond earrings, I checked out the finished product in the mirror. Hell, I shot through the Richter scale, I’m not gonna lie. I felt like a woman about to break a few hearts and crush an army of egos with my fine self. It had been a while since I got dressed up like this for a night on the town.
Charlotte came by my apartment around 10:45 and we rode in her black Navigator. My girl rocked a black halter and purple skirt with a slit on the side. Never one to wear a lot of makeup, she only needed a hint of diamond-shine lip gloss to complement her baby-smooth, honey-coated complexion. Her bump-n-curl showed every bit the hundred or so dollars she paid for it.
That’s one lucky girl. She can go to a meat market with her single friend looking so fresh and so clean and her husband doesn’t even flinch. Greg’s a mature, laid-back brotha who’s got it together—a sales supervisor during the day, aspiring novelist at night. Charlotte’s clubbing doesn’t sweat him ’cause he knows where his wife will be by two in the morning. Of course, her three-to-four hour absence gives him plenty of quiet time to bang out the novel he’s been working on for half a year. The ultimate marital win-win.
We got to the club fifteen minutes later. Soon as I heard Usher’s jam “OMG” vibrating the room, it was on! As we made our way to the bar, brothas eyed Charlotte and me as if we were two plates of Roscoe’s chicken and waffles. A few brave ones stepped to us, trying to get their Mack-Daddy-Pimp game on. The bling from Charlotte’s two-carat rock clearly publicized her marital status, but some dudes still tried to slip weak lines like “Where yo’ man at?” or “Why he let a fine woman like you out by yo’ self?” Same ol’ bullshit. Fools that pushed up on me too hard saw the back of my head or palm of my hand.
Charlotte and I found a table by the dance floor and sat down amongst a pack of horny two-legged hounds. Among the canines, I met my first mistake.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
Reject #1
Gerald. Now that was one bold nucca.
While I babysat her drink, I watched Charlotte on the floor with this Paul Pierce lookin’ dude ... you know, the basketball player. As I sipped on an Apple Martini while swaying to an Alicia Keys cut, I caught a few brothas targeting me, but none moved my way. Probably waiting for that liquid courage to creep into their systems so they could throw me a tired line.
Fools were so obvious, licking their lips and stroking their chins as they stared at my legs, probably scheming up ways on how to “dance” between them. Damn shame. I say again, horny toad freaks.
Right as Alicia’s song ended, the DJ broke it down with Jodeci’s “Love U 4 Life,” one of my all-time favorite slow jams. I guess Charlotte wasn’t feelin’ the song ’cause she unwrapped herself from “Paul,” waved him off, and walked back to the table. Had his ass standing on the floor, palms in the air, looking like “huh?” She was wrong for that. Funny, but wrong.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find a brotha in a smooth cream-colored suit and derby standing over me.
He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. “Would you like to dance?”
Nice and polite, like a true gentleman. Sometimes, that’s all it takes. Say it right, do it right, you in there, ya know? Can’t be grabbing my arm all rough like you payin’ property taxes on me and shit, spewing some mess like “yo, shorty, you wanna dance?” Damn, I hate when guys call me “shorty.”
I glanced at Charlotte and she waved me on with that “go ’head” look in her eye. We then swapped purse-watching duties.
So I said to him, “Sure.”
I stood up and he took my hand as we edged toward the floor. He looked pretty nice in that fly suit. Not only that, the brotha sported my favorite men’s fragrance: CK One cologne. I can inhale that masculine mist all day every day.
After telling me his name, of course he tried to drop game on me, sayin’ I looked fine, smelled good—that kinda stuff. You know brothas be gettin’ their Mack on at warp speed minutes before the club lights come back on, huh? Ha! Shoot, most men will say and do anything to make sure they end the night with some girl’s face buried in a pillow.
After a couple of songs, I got a better look at Gerald. Hmmm, not bad. Clean cut. No facial hair. Bald fade. Dark-brown skin. He wasn’t Taye Diggs or anything, but definitely doable.
We exchanged numbers. To my surprise, he didn’t roll up on me much, either, trying to push his luck. He took my number, kissed my hand, and stepped out. Pretty smooth.
Charlotte and I left sometime after midnight and in minutes I slipped knee-deep in some rapid eye movement, girl. Knocked the hell out, you hear me? The drinks and late hours had me damn near comatose by the time Charlotte dropped me off. I hadn’t stayed up that long in a minute, so ya girl couldn’t hang. I’m not ashamed to admit it, either.
What I am ashamed to admit is that I messed with Gerald. This fool!
Gerald and I kicked it for about three weeks after we met at the club. We did the safe stuff like dinner and movies—even checked out a preseason NBA game. If not with Charlotte, Gerald became my back-up buddy.
I liked Gerald. He was funny and all, a gentleman at times—which is why I’m still shocked at what that fool did. Or tried to do.
One night after catching a play in downtown San Diego, a sista decided to not roll home solo. Truth be told, I had an itch that needed some scratching, so it was time to close the loop with Gerald. Even though I didn’t feel any love connection, I had a feeling Gerald would make a fine D.A.D.
What? You know what D.A.D. stands for! Every single sista I know has an after-hours “friend” on speed dial, aka Dial-A-Dick. You know, the plumber you call when you need a hard snake to unclog your main valve in the middle of the night. Don’t front, if you ain’t got one, you know somebody who does.
Anyway, after he strapped on a Trojan, he went to work, doin’ the doggy style thing. It had been a minute since a man stroked my kitty. Felt damn good, too, and I knew it wouldn’t have been long before I hit the big O. Everything was kosher—until Gerald tried to stick his bat into the wrong dugout.
Yeah, you heard me right. Apparently Gerald got tired of the front door and tried to break in through the back.
And, no, it’s not like he slipped out then tried to hit the right target again. Homeboy knew exactly where he was aiming that thing.
“Oh hells no!” I screamed.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m down for some agreed upon freaky-deaky, but not some unapproved sneaky freaky deaky. And this here? Sneaky as they come. Ain’t no damn way, let me tell you. Penile enemas will never become a dish on Michelle’s menu, you hear me? Not that kind of party, Charlie. I guess Captain Ahab wanted to conquer the seas by sailing through uncharted channels. Well, that fool rocked the wrong boat.
I yanked my butt forward. “Muthafucka, what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
He tilted his head, looking like little Gary Coleman, talkin’ ’bout, “Huh? Whatchu talkin’ ’bout?”
Yeah, he wanted to do some “Different Strokes” all right. But not with this chick.
“You know what the hell I’m talkin’ ’bout!” I yelled. “You do that shit again and I will Lorena Bobbit your ass, you hear me?”
Can you believe this fool got mad? Rolling his eyes, making “pssst” sounds and shit. “Aw’ight, aw’ight,” he said. “My bad.”
With that settled, we went back to the task at hand. Face in the pillow, I assumed the position once again.
Now you’re probably wondering why I kept on after he tried to pull a sneak move like that, right? Shoot, why do you think? A sista needed some, simple as that.
But not that bad.
Granted, he was working it, and, girl, I was definitely feeling it. Moans reached a high pitch. Sweat saturated my pillow. My arms jerked, thighs shook, cries grew louder. A man hadn’t taken me to my peak in months, and damn it, I almost got there! I was about to explode when…
That dirty muthafucka pulled out and tried to dig inside my booty hole again.
No more of that bullshit. I swung my body to the side, flipped over, and karate-kicked that fool square in his chest. Yes, I did! The Bionic Woman couldn’t have moved as fast.
“Nigga, I done told you, I ... you know what ... get out! Get the fuck out! Now!” I never drop the N-word, and I’m ashamed that I did, but I had reached the peak of pisstivity.
I don’t know if he thought negotiating would help or what ’cause this idiot had his palms up, talkin’ ’bout, “Chill out, woman! I’m sayin’ though, if you just let me do my thang, I think you’ll like it. I did it with these three other females and they all liked it. I got more rubbers in case it rips. You need some lubricant, huh?”
My jaw dropped. Oh, no he didn’t. More rubbers? Lubricant?
That triflin’, ignorant, wannabe pooper scooper actually went there. Ugh! I swear I felt steam billowing out my ears. And like I really needed an inventory of the nasty ass hoes he’d run through. Disgusting!
I caught another reflex and tried to kick his nuts out his back, but he sidestepped my hot foot. That fool’s lucky. I highly doubt kids would’ve been in his future if I’d made contact.
“What the hell?” he yelled. “Damn, I thought you was a freak! Kickin’ me in my chest and shit. You trippin’! Aw’ight, aw’ight, I’m out.”
Can you believe that? This nasty fool thought I was a freak. What the hell kind of freak was he thinkin’?
Since he slammed my front door, I haven’t seen nor heard from Gerald. Hope I never do. Man, what a wild night. How do you even face a person after that? You’re right, you can’t! Guess I need to tape a “Do Not Enter” sign on my booty for future reference.
Girl, I wish I could say my love life took a turn for the better after the Booty Bandit, but it really didn’t.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
Reject #2
Lawrence. The reverse of big things come in small packages.
With the whirlwind blur of the holidays and visiting family, I hadn’t done much night life mingling. I blame that on Gerald the Anal Invader. After him, the idea of socializing with the weaker sex just didn’t appeal to me, but then came New Years, and I decided to end my short boycott of men. I got back in the game with a hair and fashion show at the Doubletree hotel not too far from my apartment. Charlotte and I went. That’s where I met Lawrence.
I really can’t say what I saw in him. Maybe the boyish smile turned me on, despite the gap between his top front teeth? Maybe the “Nawlins” accent rang my bell? Hmmm ... don’t know, really. Maybe because he smelled good. Or maybe I just needed a “tune-up” and all fluids checked.
I kicked it with him for about two weeks. Being in the Navy, he had deployed out to sea at least five out of those fourteen days; otherwise, I probably would’ve kicked his butt to the curb sooner. I actually thought this one had the potential to go the distance, but it only took one night to mess up that fantasy. Yep, just like that.
One Saturday afternoon, Lawrence invited me to a cookout at Mission Beach Park. The January weather was unusual, even for San Diego—clear skies, sixty-degree weather, light breeze. He played basketball most of the time, while a few other females and I gossiped over a game of Dominoes.
Lawrence had done a great job scoping out all the Cajun treats here on the West Side, and dinner was all Louisiana-style dishes—gumbo, jambalaya, boudin. We tore that stuff up, boy, and got our drink on. I must’ve downed at least five bottles of Heineken in a four-hour period, a little much for me. Lawrence became a funnel, knocking back about eight of them bad boys. I had a good time, though.
I admit, he shouldn’t have driven at all—and I shouldn’t have let him—but we managed to get back to my neck of the woods in his Explorer. Yes, I know! Very dumb move on my part. We were pretty lucky the guys in blue didn’t cross our path.
But the bad decisions continued since the Heinekens drowned a few of Lawrence’s and too many of my brain cells. Shoot, he even stopped at Ralph’s grocery store to pick up more brain cell killing booze. I ain’t gonna lie, I told him to bring a sista back a bottle of wine. I felt just about right, but wasn’t quite there yet.
We got to my apartment a few minutes later. A sista has only one TV, so we went straight to the bedroom. While he fiddled with my DVDs, I dipped into the kitchen and returned with two glasses.
“I’ma put in one of these old Def Jam DVDs, aw’ight?” he said.
I handed him a glass. “Go ’head.”
We lost our shoes, laid upright against the headboard of my bed, and watched the DVD. Lawrence had this high-pitched cluck disguised as laughter. I didn’t even have to watch the DVD to get my giggle on. Listening to him was comedy enough.
Yeah, we were chillaxin’, all hugged up and comfy. Next thing you know, my lips touched his and ... well, what can I say? One thing led to another.
I think the last glass of Midori murdered the rest of my brain cells ’cause all I wanted was him and “it.” Normally I wouldn’t have any man’s funky ass on my bed after playing basketball, dried sweat caked on his body and all, but at that point, I was like “fuck it.”
He unzipped my pants, working two fingers between my legs, my sugar walls all nice, wet, and more than ready. “You got any ... damn ... any condoms?” I asked.
“Oh, fo’ sho’.”
This fool. That “fo’ sho’ ” crap was killing the mood. I admit, the taste and smell of Heineken-breath didn’t help either, but I had it, too—and like I said, I was in “fuck it” mode. Let’s-just-do-this-and-I’ll-deal-with-the-consequences-later type thing.
You’ve been there before, right? I’m sure.
Anyway, when I thought I would explode from the finger action, Lawrence jumped out of bed.
Trying to catch my breath, I sat up. “Where you goin’?”
He replied, “Gotta go to the bath—”
Clu-clunk!
Girl!
That fool’s shorts had wrapped around his ankles, tangling his feet. After he slammed into my bathroom door, he bitch-slapped the tile floor with his belly. I had to cover my mouth ’cause I almost screamed. Drunk ass. It took him a while to figure out how to stand again. Bangin’ against my toilet, the wall, towel rack, my little trash can—damn!
“Don’t be messin’ up my bathroom, now,” I said.
He finally stood upright. After struggling with the doorknob, he closed the door.
With the remote, I turned off the DVD and switched the channels, landing on MTV2 and watching an old school Missy Elliot video. I noticed the clock on my dresser said sumn’ like 9:32. While in my shirt but everything else on display, I covered myself with the sheets. Alcohol still had a sista somewhat woozy, but now that he had revved me up, I was ready to go at it—until I heard this wretched sound:
Brrraaaatt!
I whipped my head around, face all crunched up. Didn’t process the noise at first, then I heard it again.
Aw damn.
This fool was sitting on my toilet playing the fart symphony. Funking up my Mango Mandarin fragrance, too!
Ew! I smacked my tongue and shook my head, turning up the TV volume to muffle the nasty butt blasts vibrating from my bathroom. He sounded like a car with a bad engine up in there.
Cradling my head in my hand, I watched another old rap video, ho-humming along, ya know, thinking twice about my eventual rendez-screw with Lawrence while his asshole flapped and sputtered. He needed to kill that noise quick.
But that’s nothing compared to what he did when he came out.
Right when he opened the door, they took it back with that Juvenile song “Back That Azz Up.” Leftover alcohol must have twirked a brotha’s system ’cause that fool turned his back to me and wobbled like those ghetto hoochies on the TV! I kid you not, girl. Homeboy had his booty cheeks clappin’ like a standing ovation.
I was stu-pe-fied, you hear me? This jackass—emphasis on “ass”—was standing butt naked in front of my TV trying to drop it like it’s hot!
My jaw dropped, eyes so wide they damn near popped out the sockets. I just lay there, watching this low-budget exotic dancer. Lawd, was I that desperate?
Then this fool did a spin move and faced me. Fake ass Ginuwine started doin’ the Butterfly. Yes, the Butterfly! Remember that ancient dance? He had a goofy ass Sweet Dick Willie look, too, ’bout to break a sista off with a lil’ sumn’ sumn’. Ha! Damn shame. I guess he felt good about finally getting some coochie and the fool wanted to celebrate. Probably been a while. The way he was acting, I could see why.
Rotating his legs to the beat, homeboy disappeared in his Butterfly zone. He even closed his eyes. Meanwhile, my eyes traveled downward.
And I almost passed the fuck out.
A scream rushed from the bottom of my throat, but I cuffed a palm over my lips and captured it in my mouth. What I saw scared the hell out of me. Actually, what I didn’t see scared the hell out of me.
I only saw bush.
I had to rub my knuckles against my eye sockets hard! Blinked a few times, too. My vision’s not 20-20, but it ain’t 20-200, either. I saw nothing that should have been hanging down, ya know?
Then he opened his mouth again. “You like this, don’t you? Yeah, you fixin’ to get a taste of this sausage meat heah.”
Sausage meat?
I leaned forward, trying to find the pig in the blanket behind a crop full of hay. I swear, I wanted to put out an APB—All Penis Bulletin—for that brotha ’cause the dingaling was lack-ing! Can you say, “extra belly button?”
Damn shame. How you gon’ bring the buns to the party and forget the meat?
At first I shook my head ’cause I kinda felt sorry for him. But as he continued on with his solo bump and grind routine, something stirred inside me. I lowered my eyebrows, balling up the sheets with my fists.
I was getting pissed! Not because he blocked the TV, but because he had the nerve to bring that hairy toothpick into my house! With me hornier than an out-of-work porn star, I wasn’t sure that little thing was gonna cut it. Part of me wanted to get up, slip on my Reeboks, and drive to his mama and daddy’s house so I could backslap them for making a son with a pencil dick.
Alcohol had jacked me up, now. Don’t mind me. I’m just being silly.
Anyway, after about a minute of his old-school Bobby Brown humpin’ mid-air act, Lawrence strolled toward the bed. Crazy as it sounds, something stirred inside me again. As repulsed, angry, and drunk as I was, I still wanted some penile refreshment. Yeah, I know it don’t make much sense. A cocktail of hormones and alcohol strips away all good sense.
So against my better judgment, I got ready to do the damn thing. By the time he unwrapped the Trojan—I still had some good sense, now—I had convinced myself Lawrence held special talent in that little wand of his. Like they say, it ain’t the size of the bat, it’s how you swing it. Yup, I had psyched myself up. Lawrence was fixin’ to service me with a smile, right?
Wrong!
Before he disappeared inside I caught this lopsided, Charlie Brown-lookin’ grin. Damn! I have never seen a man so happy to get some coochie!
He was moving all around, trying to work it, but did his thing like a ballet dancer with a broken foot. I wanted to ask if it was in all the way, but stopped myself. No need to make a brotha feel any smaller than he already was. I happened to glance over at the clock. 9:45.
Within seconds—yes, seconds—he started gruntin’ like a pig. So damn funny. For a moment he reminded me of kindergarten ’cause he broke down the vowels for a sista, talkin’ ’bout, “Aaaa ... eeee ... iiii!”—he threw in a “damn” and “shit” here and there, then returned with, “oohhh ... uuuuuuu!”
Then homeboy got ta twitchin’ and shakin’. He straight went spasmodic on me, girl. Wiggling all around, shooting spit missiles all up on my forehead. Ugh! I know my stuff can blow a brotha’s mind—but good enough to make him convulse?
I just stared at this fool, not even into it, thinking he was fixin’ to blow up. Had my legs all spread, like he was Dr. Long Stroke or somebody.
Yeah, right.
His eyes got so wide they looked like cue balls with black dots in the middle. He reminded me of the “Thriller” video. Ha! Homeboy needed an exorcism with all those ugly ass fuck faces, girl. His arms even jerked all out of whack and shit. I thought the song “Planet Rock” was playing the way he pop-locked.
While focused on the fun only he was having, you know what happened next. With one last grunt, growl and grind combination—splash!
All done.
Damn. You woulda thought he’d just run a marathon the way he collapsed on my chest, heaving and struggling for air. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I was gonna get this fool off me.
I released a long sigh, then turned to the clock. 9:46.
And it had just clicked to that.
Ain’t that some shit? Couldn’t even call ol’ boy a two-minute brotha. Barely a minute brotha, really. I have a new word for brothas like that: Nano Negro. That’s just about how long it lasted—a nanosecond.
But guess what? Just when I thought he couldn’t top his Nano Negro achievement, he did. As I pressed my hands against his sweaty, sticky chest to push him off I heard another deep, long, hog snort.
I shook my head. I can’t believe this. This mofo fell asleep. On top of me!
I turned to the clock and saw 9:47. And it had just clicked to that. Wow.
This brotha done shot his load, then shot himself into a deep sleep. He had “parked” between my knees to get some ZZZs. Asshole.
As bad as I wanted him out, I didn’t want to make the same mistake I did earlier and let that fool drive all drunk-e-fied. So I pushed him off me and nudged his body to the edge of the bed, until ... ka-klunk! He rolled smooth off the side.
Can you believe that fool still didn’t wake up?
When I looked over the edge of the bed, I found him lying belly-down in front of my nightstand, face turned to the side—knocked the hell out! A coochie-induced coma did him in.
Somehow the condom had rolled off his toothpick onto my bed, staining my sheets with leftover drip. Ugh! Nasty! So you know what I did? I picked that thing up and dropped it on his pimpled butt—right on the crack. Yes, I did! And he still didn’t wake up!
My buzz had slipped away, so I didn’t even try to finish myself off. All them horny blood cells that had a sista fired up earlier shriveled up and went beddy-bye—just like Mr. Coochie Slaya from Da Himalayas lying on the carpet.
Yeah, I let him sleep it off. But by six in the morning? Girl, you’d better believe he caught a one-way ticket the hell out my comfort zone. And you know I decontaminated my bathroom with some Orange Action Lysol! Funky ass.
Oh, well. Bye, bye Lawrence. Enough of him.
Now, it couldn’t have gotten any worse than that, right?
* * * * *
CHAPTER 4
Reject #3
Gene.
Cute and smart. Dame shame.
Met him at the African-American Cultural Fest in the San Diego Repertory Theatre. At that point, I was ’bout fed up with man-boys, but forced myself to keep it movin’. Post-Lawrence, I’d gone through a string of minute-and-a-half dates. You know, guy asks you out, you go to the movies, during the date he does something you don’t like, and you step—never to be seen or heard from again. Not that it was a complete dry spell. I’ll admit, I committed a couple of one-night hit-and-runs that I’m not too proud of. But I kinda thought Gene would end that long streak of never-wills.
Not to be, though. Gene didn’t even get out the gate because I’m telling you, that fool definitely takes the cake out of every man I’d met before him and since!
Diane, a sista from the Human Resources department at my company, invited me to the festival. I’d seen a flier on her desk, commented that I wanted to go, and right then and there we made plans to do our thing together. Charlotte didn’t roll with us ’cause her and Greg had reserved a cabin in Big Bear for a weekend getaway; no doubt trying to get the most out of Greg’s baby juice supply.
At first glance, Gene looked like a nice, free-spirited, poetry-reading kinda brotha, sporting shoulder-length dreads that resembled the braids I still had. I noticed him among the thirty or so people in the Hip Hop session I attended, where we discussed the evolution of Hip Hop and current generation of rappers. It got heated at times, especially when we debated rap lyrics and use of the N-word. Gene had everybody’s foreheads wrinkled up ’cause that fool had vocabulary for days. Shoot, I’d never heard the word “invidious” until I met him.
The intellectual Cornel West-type always had a special turn-on button for me and homeboy definitely held my attention. Diane kept nudging me, whispering in my ear, talkin’ ’bout, “he’s looking at you, girl!” Yeah, I saw him. Caught him shining that easygoing smile my way a few times, and every time I saw him smiling, I would shoot one right back.
After several hours of workshops and speakers, the festival organizers moved the tables and chairs against the wall and pushed the stage curtains back to reveal a DJ standing over a pair of turntables. He spun an old LL Cool J record and within seconds, heads nodded. Guys and girls hooked up, booties bumped, and before you knew it, all that intense energy from the session dissolved into the positive vibe of an old-school house party.
Diane and I didn’t play the wall too long. A buff brotha with a bald head and Todd Bridges face swept her onto the dance floor.
Gene stepped to me next. He asked, “Would you like to dance, sista?”
I nodded. Once we hit the floor, we embarked on a fantastic voyage back to the late 80’s and early 90’s.
We had one good-ass time, you hear me? The DJ rocked jams I hadn’t heard since the Jheri curl days. Gene had me cracking up with dead-and-buried dances like the Roger Rabbit and the Smurf. Sweat drenched my face and arms ’cause I danced so hard. I was wavin’ my hands in the air like I just didn’t care.
Then the DJ slowed it down. I almost fell out when he bumped New Edition’s “Can You Stand The Rain.” I love that song!
Gene and I stayed on the floor, got our groove on, did the small talk thing. Of course, I checked him out. Damn cute. Cleft in his chin, bedroom eyes, toned build. Breath was a tad tart, but I forgave him for that ’cause we danced for an hour straight without drinking any water. Mine probably had that onion smell, too. A few breath mints took care of that, and eventually, cups of H20.
I had so much fun, dancing my spine out and stuff. The good time had to end, though.
After our two-hour journey back to the good old days, Diane, me, Gene, and Diane’s Todd Bridges decided to call it a night. After they walked us to our car, Gene pulled out a brochure.
I checked it out. “The African American World History museum?”
“Yes, I was hoping we could experience it together.”
Experience it, huh? “Well,” I said, “I’ve never been to a black museum. Um ... that sounds fun. When?”
“Around noon tomorrow. I own a house off Market Street, so I’m five minutes away.”
“You have a house, huh?”
He smiled. “Yeah, little teeny-tiny house, two bedroom. Figured we could meet up there and go in one car. It’s hard to find parking in Old Town.”
Little teeny tiny-house. Hmmm. A brotha with equity, it seemed. That impressed me. I definitely wanted to see how homeboy was livin’.
“Good idea,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”
He smiled. I got directions to his house, we traded cell phone numbers, and that was that. I was looking forward to a laid-back afternoon with Gene, getting my cultural and educational juices flowing and what not. Man, was I wrong.
* * * * *
I parked in front of Gene’s house. He had described it to a tee; it looked more like an oversized tree house than someone’s residence. Really cute, though. It kinda had a turn of the century look.
Gene came running up from a cross street, huffing and puffing. It looked like he’d jogged halfway around San Diego and fell in the Pacific Ocean. Sweat drenched his white Heart of San Diego Marathon t-shirt and he wore a red and white bandana tied around his dreads.
Even though he told me to come by his house by 12:00—and it was 11:45—I didn’t make a fuss ’cause he wasn’t ready. I figured he’d shower, change clothes, slap on some Speed Stick, and we’d be out. I was thinking no more than twenty minutes.
Funny how you expect one thing and the opposite happens.
He took in a breath and smiled. “Hey.”
I returned the smile. “Hi, Gene.”
He went up the steps to his porch, fumbling around with his keys at the door. “Just finished a five-mile run. I thought I’d make it back before you got here.”
Five miles, huh? I thought. Not bad. Shoot, I could barely run a mile without dry heaving. I love me a man who takes care of his body.
He inserted his house key. “You’re looking beautiful.”
A sista had to blush. First time a man called me the other B-word in I don’t know how long. I wore a light blue blouse and jeans, nothing special. As long as I looked good to him, I was fine.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling all hard, tugging on my braids and stuff.
Gene opened the door. Soon as I walked in a big whiff of underarm, feet, and ass funk rushed me. I was like, “Hel-lo!”
I stopped at the entrance. That smell had a sista’s nose all seized up. Before I said anything, he said, “I had chitlins and pigs feet this morning.” He walked over to a table and grabbed a can of air freshener. “I know most California folk aren’t used to this smell. Sorry about that.”
Damn right I wasn’t used to that smell. He fumigated the living room with a heavy dose of Glade. Even though I have roots in Texas, chitlins and pigs feet just ain’t my thing.
I walked toward the tan leather couch, holding my breath ’cause he sprayed so much it burned my eyes and stung my nostrils. “Uh ... stank ... I mean, thank you.”
He placed the spray on the kitchen counter. “No problem. Make yourself at home. There’s Apple juice in the fridge, glasses above the sink. Help yourself. I’m going to change.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I watched him disappear down a short hall.
After a minute or so, I got somewhat used to the funky fresh megamix, so I meandered around the room. Ran my hands over an African Congo mask on the wall, smiled at the itty-bitty dining table outside the kitchen, checked out the family pictures on a corner desk—you know, the usual nosy stuff. First and second-place trophies clogged a table underneath a dozen or so marathon awards stuck to the wall.
Didn’t have much in the humble abode, but he had a nice place. Perfect for a bachelor, I guess. Despite the smell, he kept the joint spotless. Not bad for a single man.
I sat on the couch and grabbed an Ebony magazine from a nearby magazine rack.
I barely got through the first article before Gene reappeared talkin’ ’bout, “You ready to go?”
When he came out, my eyebrows flew the hell up; my bottom lip fell the fuck down. He wore a beige sweater and dark-brown khaki pants, but that ain’t what got me. What got me was how fast that fool came out. I was like, hold up. I know this man didn’t take a shower that quick. Did I even hear water running?
I leaned back, gazing up at him while he tugged on the hem of his sweater, smoothing it out. I didn’t know how to approach the situation ’cause I’d never been in it before. I was tongue-tied—a million wrinkles must’ve creased my forehead.
He broke my trance when he asked, “You all right?”
I shook my head, then blinked a few times. Somethin’ damn sure wasn’t right.
I had to say something, but didn’t know where to start. “Dang, you ... uh ... take showers really fast. I didn’t even hear the water running.”
He chuckled. I didn’t find anything funny, though.
Gene sat next to me and grabbed a bottle of lotion off the table. “You have something in your braids,” he said.
That fool did not just sidestep my comment. I wasn’t about to let it go ’cause the shit riled me up a bit, but I had to tend to the hair first. “Where?”
He leaned closer to me. While I tugged at my hair, he pulled a piece of lint out.
“I got it. Just some lint. It’s no big thing.”
Skkrrrr! I slammed on the brakes—not because of what he said. It was the renegades of funk that jetted out his mouth. His booty breath had pop-locked toward me, all up in a sista’s grill. Made my eyelids flutter.
He had hardly said ten words when my nostrils suffered a knee-jerk reaction—just like when I first walked in the house. I’m talkin’ breath so strong I swear if we were in a restaurant, the toxicity would contaminate the food.
While outside, I was too busy checking out his porch. Had I known about his breath then, I probably wouldn’t have gone into the house. His tart breath was clearly an everyday thing and I’m sorry, Michelle can’t handle a man with a nose-splittin’ case of halitosis.
Still, I had to know what was up, so I went back to my shower comment. “Um ... you got one of those showerheads that don’t make a lot of noise or somethin’? I was, uh, thinking about getting one.” Such a lie.
He shifted his eyes from side to side, scratching his neck. “Oh, uh, I didn’t take a shower. I just freshened up. It might seem different, but I’m one of those brothas who loves the intrinsic quality and olfactory beauty of human musk. Au naturale, if you will.”
What?
Now, you know I laughed in that fool’s face, right? Those fake-ass Harvard words didn’t impress me, either. He could not have been serious, but he was! After I calmed down, I asked, “In other words you don’t mind going outside funky?”
He smiled. “Well ... uh ... I guess you could put it like that.”
I froze. I truly did not know how to respond. I mean, damn, how do you? He wasn’t funky while we danced—even after dropping a gallon of sweat. Why was he funky now?
While dissecting his words, out of nowhere he said, “I usually bathe about three times a week. I just like to be in my ... uh” —he looked around, trying to find a good enough answer somewhere around that damn room, I guess— “my most natural, basic, human state. No soap, deodorant, toothpaste—nothing to taint my body. Most of those products are filled with harmful chemicals, you know.”
It took me a few seconds to gather my senses. No shower? Are you kidding me? And this mofo had chitlins and pigs feet for breakfast, but he couldn’t brush his teeth?
Oh hells no. I rubbed my nose, acting like it itched. “Gene?” I said. “Excuse me, but didn’t you just run five miles? In the sun? When it’s seventy-sum degrees out?”
Then I saw them, girl. Got a real good look. The one thing that makes me cringe the most: Jacked up teeth.
His teeth weren’t chipped or criss-crossing at different angles like laser beams in a sci-fi movie—that wasn’t the problem. No, I mean his teeth were littered with black dots. The hell! They looked fine in casual conversation, but when this fool threw back his head and busted up laughing for some reason, I peeked inside. Teeth looked like dice, girl. I kid you not. When he opened his mouth I thought I was looking at a craps table.
Lawd.
You remember those Saturday morning “Schoolhouse Rock!” cartoons from back in the day? Well, meet Yuck Mouth in the flesh. Who knew it was based on a real person?
He said, “I’m sorry, but you have this goofy look on your face!”
Homeboy held his belly like I said something hilarious. You woulda thought Cedric the Entertainer was up in the house. Then he continued, “It’s okay, I swear! I showered yesterday and changed my shirt and shorts. I’m good to go.”
What? I thought. Showered yesterday? Changed my shirt and shorts? Did he want a cookie for that? Damn it, what about ... his underwear? He did take the time to change those drawers, right?
Guess again.
I said, “You changed your shirt and shorts. That’s it? You didn’t change anything else?”
He still looked at me like he didn’t understand. Steady rubbing lotion all up and down his arms. Wow. Don’t need lotion if you ain’t ashy. Can’t be ashy unless you make contact with a heavy dose of water.
You know what he said? “Yeah, that’s all I changed. I was just anxious to go. Are you ready?”
I dropped my head. Lawd, why am I meeting all these rejects? Did he really just ask me if I was ready?
Yeah, I was ready—ready for somebody to jump out the closet and yell, “Surprise!” This couldn’t be real. It had to be an early April Fool’s joke, a late Halloween prank ... something, right?
Nope, it wasn’t. It was real—another man with issues. Issshhhooos, you hear me?
I didn’t respond. I just turned my head away, mouth all open, thinking:
OK, let’s recap: This grown ass man has stank breath; too many visits from the cavity creeps; cannot prioritize his showering cycle; said he didn’t want to taint his body with deodorant or soap; and is wearing underwear that probably got fungus and fleas all up and down the crack of—
No! I couldn’t do it. Hell no!
I don’t care how nice a man is to me. He could bring me flowers, buy me diamonds, pay my bills—I don’t give a damn. If you can’t wash yo’ own ass? Bruh! C’mon, now! You don’t need to be all up in my area code.
I couldn’t believe it. Just could not believe it.
That was it for me, girl. I saw the front of the door while that fool saw the back of my head. Since he couldn’t understand good hygiene, a sista had to say “Goodbye, Gene.”
After stepping outside into the fresh air—well, fresher than inside the house—I got in my car and zoomed away, leaving him on the porch, calling my name. I didn’t want to hear it.
Never saw Gene again.
Still, I went to the museum by my damn self. Didn’t call nobody to join me, just went. I’m funny like that sometimes. If a plan falls apart with someone, I’ll just do whatever I was supposed to do by myself. No need to waste a trip somewhere when one person can’t make it. In this case, I couldn’t make it with this particular person. Gene had other priorities that needed immediate attention.
Got back to my empty abode, all by my lonesome. Now, don’t get the wrong idea, I wasn’t one of those sistas with tears on my pillow because the man fairy hadn’t knocked on my door. I don’t mind being alone, but I admit, sometimes having a man around is nice. So damn quiet in my one-bedroom apartment at times, too. I like filling the air with a perpetual flow of conversation and bed squeaks, ya know?
Shoot. Maybe I was getting lonely.
Hadn’t had anything steady in a while. My last relationship lasted two years, but I broke that off sometime ago. He’s not even worth discussing. Let’s just say the little head made most of his decisions. Punk ass.
I couldn’t help rewinding images of the men I’d met recently. Damn, talk about cream of the “slop.” An Anal Intruder, Mr. Thimble Dick, Captain Funkie Azz, damn! I mean, really, what is wrong with the male species? I couldn’t believe my luck—or lack thereof. Was this really the dating pool I had to swim in? These were the city’s most eligible bachelors? I was like “throw me a friggin’ life raft ’cause I’m tired of floating around in this shit!”
I’d had enough. No more dumb ass men—at least for a little while.
Time to get my damn priorities straight, like school and working out. I’d been lollygagging about finishing my degree and slacking hard on my fitness. Too hard. The hardcore—uh, more like softcore—evidence of my jelly belly showed, too. Michelle was getting pudgy.
I patted the little pooch that used to be washboard. Damn shame. That last thing I needed was a gut. Used to go to my complex gym after my weak New Year’s resolution, but stopped after a couple of weeks. I don’t despise the gym; I’m just not a huge fan of it. But you gotta handle your bidness in order to maintain what ya got, ya know? And there I was, thirty-one years old pushing thirty-two, so maintaining an hourglass was going to be a lot harder.
I said, “Forget this. I’m getting my butt together.”
I decided right then and there to do some major reconstruction. Not just for the health of my body, but for my mind as well.
So you know what I did? I set three goals: eat better, exercise more, and finish my Bachelors degree. I only had one semester left to get my piece of paper, but had put off those last few courses because ... hell, I don’t know. Had a few issues with a school loan and kinda got burnt out on school, too. Then I was like “I only have one semester, so I’ll get to it when I get to it.” And I guess I eventually convinced myself I was “too busy.” Yeah, right. Not too busy to mess around with stupid men, though. Yup, my priorities were all jacked up.
That was it; I’d made up my mind. Men, clubbing, junk food—all that unnecessary clutter—got put on the backburner. I was ready for a project with guaranteed returns.
Time to focus on me, dag-nabbit. ’Bout time!
* * * * *
CHAPTER 5
Three months later
“How ya like me, now?” I said to homegirl in the mirror. I was ready for swimsuit season!
Checking myself out had become a daily thing since I committed to 24 Hour Fitness three months before. I’m not gonna lie—it was tough at first. Even though my apartment complex has a small gym, I figured the only way I’d stick to a workout regimen would be to pay for it. Hate seeing my dollars go to waste, so a sista psyched herself up, got some new gear, filled up the iPOD with new jams, and got all Donna Richardson up in that place.
And it paid off ’cause my body was firm, tight, and sex-a-licious. I would even say I’d become Serena Williams-like.
Well ... not quite. That’s pushing it, but dammit, I was on my sexy way.
I felt pretty damn proud of myself. For too many months, I’d wasted time on mess that didn’t pay dividends for me, mostly on men—but not much of anything for Michelle. Well, I’m happy to report I finally got my priorities in order—it’s all about Michelle’s future and health. Sometimes, women have to do that. We need to say, “Bump everybody else. I’m doing some things for my damn self to make me happy.”
I’d traded my Burger King, Taco Bell and Popeyes eating plan for homemade salads, protein shakes, lean meats, and fruits. Hit the gym after work every Monday, Wednesday and Friday—the same days as my classes. That worked out just fine. After my workouts, I’d shower, dress, and by six o’clock, get a three-hour dose of edumucation.
I got down and got it done! Did everything I said I would do within a three-month window. And wouldn’t you know it? Last time I stood on the scale I was twenty pounds lighter! Not only that, I finished my classes! I could finally see myself in a black gown with degree in hand.
I think I can brush my shoulders off now.
* * * * *
One day at work, Charlotte called to ask if I could escape for fifteen minutes ’cause she wanted to talk about something important. I was due for a break anyway, so I told my supervisor, Ms. Cawlings, I was stepping out for a little while. Charlotte and I agreed to meet in the lobby. After my three-floor descent down the stairs—no more elevators—I scanned the lobby for Charlotte. This scraggly FedEx man was walking my way with a package in hand when he damn near tripped over his lips as his jaw hit the floor. His quick pace stutter-stepped almost to a halt.
Of course, I knew where his sudden trance came from. I had my new hourglass on blast again in a gold V-neck tee and dark-brown mini skirt. Just like all the other fellas that peeped when I walked by, I turned and caught him checking out my legs, too. Since I toned everything up, I’d seen more twinkles in mens’ eyes than I could count. These fools weren’t subtle at all, each one looking like they wanted to throw me to the ground and booty-smack me like a damn paddle. Nasty freak-a-zoids.
Charlotte stood from her chair. “Damn, girl. You see how hard that fool was staring at you?”
I huffed. “Don’t pay that man no mind. He’s a horny ass dog. He can’t help it.”
She wrapped her purse around her shoulder. “Yeah, but damn. It looked like he wanted to chew off your clothes and slobber you down.”
I pushed the glass door and stepped outside. “Like I said–-a dog. Ruff, ruff.” Charlotte laughed.
We walked to the small courtyard beside the building and found an empty bench. As we sat down, Charlotte said, “You’re not going to believe what I saw on HBO last night.”
I took a sip from my bottled water. “Fool, is this what you pulled me out of work to tell me?”
She banged her fist on the carved stone table. “Just listen girl, damn!”
I played along. “All right, what did you see?”
“Thank you!” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Greg fell asleep with the TV on, and when I woke up in the middle of the night, there was this old, crusty, bushman on the TV standing in front of a pail of water with a stick in his hand.”
I frowned. Had no idea where she was going with her Bushman story, so I just nodded.
She said, “I found the remote and was about to turn the TV off when I noticed him wrapping this bamboo-lookin’ stick around the pail handle.”
I took another sip. “And why was he doing that?”
She smiled. “It wasn’t a stick, girl. Well ... in a way, it was.”
She turned and swerved her head around, looking for God knows what. I did the same thing, wondering if I missed something. Nobody stood within earshot of our conversation. Just a couple of joggers in the distance running the dirt trails that circled our building.
I turned to her. “Well, what was it?”
She leaned toward me, cuffed a hand over her lips and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It was his thing.”
I threw my head back. “What?”
“I’m not lying, girl,” she said, struggling to hold back chuckles. “I swear this thing was as long as my leg. I was like, ‘what the hell am I watching?’ Then I noticed it was HBO. Probably Real Sex or something.”
“Hold up, hold up!” I cried, waving my hands, getting all loud and ghetto. “That man used his—”