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The thing is, we were homies before we started dating. I’d say our bond was even tighter back then. Because we had a different type of trust for each other. We protected each other. Once the clothes came off and feelings were involved, party over. Things drastically shifted. For the worst. I got the worst of him, just as he did with me. Which is why I wish we never went there in the first place. We should’ve just stayed cool. Playing goofy board games, taking best friend trips, and getting catfish tacos over at Tasty’s. Anything’s better than all the tension. Even if I can play that game with the best of them.
“Is that all you needed from me?”
“Um, yeah, looks like it,” I say, quickly grabbing a hundred dollars from my purse to hand off to him, “Thanks for the help.”
“Nah, I’m good. Keep your cash. This one’s on me.”
“You sure? That was a lot of work. You should be compensated.”
“If we were on the same page, you could do that another way.” His beady eyes shoot towards my exposed thighs, licking his lips like a dehydrated dog.
My face instantly balls up like I just ate a bunch of nasty sour candy. I knew that was coming. Exhibit A: why looking to an ex for help is crazier than crossing the intersection at Appleton blindfolded. It almost always leads back to sex with him. I swear if most men were allowed to run the country, the national bird would be a damn vagina. Can’t even be nice to these niggas anymore. They’d rather have their nose in your ass than take physical money.
“Well, we’re not,” my hands are pressed on my hips to further emphasize my point, “Which means I’m not. Sorry not sorry.”
Mekai simply stands there, icing me down with a cold look. A million thoughts are spewed with just a stare, neither of us really moving. Ugh. He thinks he’s really something. With his tattoos, 360 waves, and diamond grill piece in his mouth. I should go brush his hair forward, just to mess his shit up. Fucking asshole. Lucky for him, my phone buzzes in my hand, causing me to briefly look down.
“Damn. You’ve got a new nigga already, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“If somebody else is fucking you, just say that shit. Instead of acting all funny with a nigga.”
I’m dumbfounded, silently staring through him. If looks could kill, Makai probably would’ve been wearing a toe tag already. His audacity has me stuck in a sea of stupid all over again.
Because there’s seriously no way he asked me that.
“Makai, who I choose to let pound my pussy is my business. And my business only. It stopped being yours after you chose to be a sneaky two timer. Remember that? So, if you don’t want the money, thank you for your services. And I bid you goodbye.”
The egg on his face could serve an entire army. I’m unmoving in my thought process. He can either take it or get the fuck on. Even if he takes it, get the fuck on.
“Man, whatever,” he hisses, “Just remember, I know you better than anybody else. The good. The bad. The ugly. So, I can be your best friend. Your lover. Or your worst enemy. Your choice.”
He’s so funny. Talking like he’s some kind of gangsta or something. Makai wouldn’t know shit about being a gangsta if Al Capone bit him right on the ass. The only reason he owns a gun in the first place is to scare raccoons away from his trash at night. He can fight. Sure. That doesn’t mean he’s a gangsta. He’s more of a pussy obsessed, crash-out dummy. Those are the types you take advantage of. And if he really knew me, he’d know I don’t take well to threats. Never have. Never will. Something my last lover had to learn the hard way.
“Well, you’re definitely one of those,” I say with my back turned to him for a second, “And let’s just say, I didn’t plan on going to brunch with you for best friend Fridays at Mangos anytime soon.”
That’s the final nail in his egotistical coffin.
“Yeah, aight. Fuck this shit, man. I’m out.”
I turn back around right on time to see Makai dramatically leave, slamming the door behind his six foot ass. A fog of embittered nigga is left in his wake, floating around for me to hit with a sage later. Typical narcissist. Dipping out on accountability with his overacted victim routine like usual. It’s amazing how men have so much to say until they know pussy is off the table.
“Bye Makai,” I sing, waving obnoxiously, “Get home safely. Thanks again.”
Leaving is the best thing he’s done for me in a long while. With that pimple no longer on my ass, the focus is directly on the person who texted me. Morgan. The fine little honey from the grocery store who absolutely stole my soul.
Morgan: Hey. I’m just making it home from my homegirl’s house. Now the focus can be on you.
Me: Oh my. That sounds good to me.
Now there’s someone who can have all my attention. Hell, her husband too. Crazy as that is to say. Coming from the same woman who used to turn her nose up at threesome porn. It’s amazing how quickly a mindset can change. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m single and climax deprived.
Mainly because my sex life with Makai was so fucking boring, I’m looking to really sow my oats. Find out who I really am.
That’s the issue with sleeping with a man who only knows two positions and thinks foreplay consists of thirty minutes of titty fucking. Sometimes, it was decent. Most times, I was really struggling. It’s not like he wanted to improve either. If you ask him, he was a stud in the bedroom. Putting it down better than Brian Pumper on a honey pack. Can’t tell that man shit.
Well, that doesn’t cut it with me. I need pleasure. Real pleasure. Attached to the wildest fucking known to mankind. It’s time to explore my true self. Experience something new. Tap into my kinky side to really know what I like. Considering there’s so much I’ve still yet to experience for myself. Hell, I want to be kissed like somebody means it. Have my clit devoured like a cherry. I want to be spanked, choked, and tossed around the room like a Caesar salad. I want somebody’s dick plunging down my throat like it belongs there. I want to ride a woman’s ice-filled mouth while doing the splits. Straight up disgusting levels of sex. Which makes now the perfect time.
