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I really want him? Once a cheater, always a cheater. That’s what they say.
Maybe, just maybe, Yemi will come see me again one day.
Trisexuality
Zane
When I was in my thirties, you could not tell me shit about my sexual prowess. I “assumed” that I had “been there and done that” and that there was nothing new under the sun for me to experience. I was black, beautiful, successful, happily single, and ready to make my first million by the time I was forty. What can I say? Things change.
By the time I hit forty, I was married to a complete asshole, I had put on about twenty pounds, my mortgage company was in bankruptcy because of the shitty-ass economy caused by a president who was more concerned with starting wars than taking care of shit at home, and instead of having my first million, I was struggling to make ends meet.
Carl was wonderful when I first met him over the internet on sisterswhocravebigdicks.com. He seemed to have it all together. Then again, everyone over the internet has their shit together. He claimed to be an up-and-coming music producer with a stable of artists that would put all others to shame, and he boasted about having a lavish home on each coast. I lived in Seattle and he spent most of the year in Los Angeles. Carl was older than me and knew how to play the ultimate game. He had mastered exactly what women wanted to hear and what women wanted to feel.
On our first date, he flew me to meet him in Chicago. That should have been clue one, that he did not want to show me either of his homes. We stayed in a three-star hotel—I was expecting a five-star—and we went to restaurants like Uno and Applebee’s throughout the weekend, which should have been clues two and three. He rented a Toyota Corolla and I was expecting some sort of luxury vehicle. Clue four. Granted, I had heard all the horror stories about women who had met men via the internet and found themselves caught up in some complete bullshit. However, Carl seemed halfway decent at the time, even though everything that he had told me was not adding up.
By the time the weekend was over, I was addicted to the dick and nothing else mattered. We were married less than six weeks later. That’s when I began finding out the truth. Carl did not have a home on the East Coast but he did have a grandmother in Brooklyn who lived in one of the last buildings in New York with rent control. He would visit her twice a year, only because she gave him money to come and spend time with her. Carl’s home in Los Angeles was a duplex, and he shared it with three other trifling-ass men. Instead of us living there, he moved to Seattle with me since I had my own business—and my own home. Mind you, up until the time we got hitched in a chapel in Vegas, he was insisting that I would have to relocate so that he could build up his music empire. Oh, yeah, the stable of artists. Check this out. He did have some artists, but none of them had a lick of talent. One woman, who called herself Isis, could not sing her way out of a paper bag. This dude Pookie Poo was a rapper who looked like he needed to keep a paper bag over his head at all times. There was not a chance in hell that women would swoon over him. He looked like he had so much sugar in his tank that the only way women would throw their panties at him would be for him to borrow them and put them on his own ass.
Needless to say, my life went downhill after that. Carl would lounge on the couch while I went to my office day after day trying to acquire mortgage loans in a housing environment where prices had fallen an average of 10 percent, foreclosures were at an all-time high, and things were pretty much at a standstill. I finally had to file bankruptcy for my LLC and do something else. But what was something else?
It took me all of two weeks to figure it out. Because of all the stress that my marriage and failing business had put me through, I had put on some weight, but I was still above par in the looks department. One of my friends from college had been urging me to join her in a lucrative business venture. Dawn had always been sex-crazed. I had no idea how far she would take it though…until she started dawnsdelight.com and did sex shows over the internet. Dawn had her town house decorated like a brothel, and she—along with a few other women—were making a mint fucking for the voyeuristic people of the world. I had no idea how much they were making until Dawn broke it down for me. She said that if I came there two days a week, I could make six figures a year with ease.
Now, Carl’s dick was still good, but he was unappealing to me, lying up on the couch playing video games and eating kettle corn all day and night. There is nothing worse than a man trying to kiss you with remnants of popcorn all up in his grill. That shit is not sexy at all. The prospect of getting back at him for all his lies was intriguing. He had lied about everything that he was about. Why shouldn’t I fuck for money? It wasn’t like he was paying any bills, and I was nobody’s mother so I did not have to worry about my offspring finding out about it.
I called Dawn up and told her that I would accept the position on one condition. I had to wear a mask. She said that shit was out. Men—and women—wanted to see boldness, they wanted to see what true freaks looked like, and I would look plum silly with a mask on while everyone else was “baring their souls.” She made it sound like some kind of love story. It was pure fucking.
I had watched them “perform” a few times to try to convince myself to do it. All my life I had fucked one man at a time. Well, I did date two men at once back in the day, but it got confusing because I could not keep my lies straight. I have to give it to men. Keeping up with a pack of lies with various lovers can be a full-time gig. I had spent fourteen hours over this dude’s house once, and three weeks later, he asked me when I was going to give him some more pussy because he had not gotten any in months. I was like, “Um, excuse me, but do you not remember me in your bed a few weeks ago?” He replied, “Damn, I had a memory lapse for a second. Of course I remember. That shit was good, too. I was on point that night with my dick action, wasn’t I?”
Whatever! He never saw my ass again and I refused his calls.
Anyway, now I was about to embark on some new-frontier madness. I was about to open myself up to fuck strangers for cash. I was about to do things that I had never conceived of doing before. I was about to become a “trisexual.”
On my first day “at the office” Dawn introduced me to a brother named Adonis. He was already naked and chilling on a sofa when I walked into the room. I had never met a man while he was nude, with his dick sticking straight up in the air, while he was smoking a joint. I started trembling. His dick was fourteen inches if it was a centimeter, and I had never experienced more than nine. I had never broken out a ruler but I was comfortable with those figures. What I was not comfortable with was the thought of having to limp back to my car at the end of the day.
Cornelia, one of the “worker bees,” came in the room wearing a nightie. Before I could even say, “Girl, what’s up? I haven’t seen you in a minute,” she was on her knees slobbering all over Adonis’s dick like it was her life force. Dawn had taken her position behind a camcorder and was moving around like she was an award-winning director, catching the action from various angles. I stood there in amazement, wondering how in the hell Cornelia could get so much dick in her mouth.
This went on for a good fifteen minutes, until Adonis shot off a load that would have impressed even the biggest porn star.
Dawn looked at me and said, “Your turn. Take off your clothes and get jiggy with it.”
“Get jiggy with it?” I asked, appalled. “What do you mean?”
Cornelia, who had a faceful of semen, gawked at me. “Oh, so now you’re gonna play dumb?”
I pointed at Adonis. “You expect me to suck dick after her?”
All three of them answered in unison, “Yes!”
“But I can’t suck that dick!” I stated in shock. “Look at the size of that thing!”
Cornelia stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I just sucked it. What, you think you’re better than me?”
Adonis smirked. “Look, if you didn’t come here to get fucked, take your dead ass home.” He was imitating the Parliament/ Funkadelic phrase that p
eople chanted at concerts: “If you didn’t come here to P-Funk, take your dead ass home.”
Before I knew it, another half dozen people were in the room, chanting, “If you didn’t come here to get fucked, take your dead ass home!” Apparently this was a regular routine because they really got into it. It was like when someone is celebrating a birthday at a restaurant and the entire wait staff comes over to sing “Happy Birthday”; except they were mocking me, daring me.
That shit worked like a charm. Next thing you know, I was naked, sitting in between Adonis’s legs with a toss pillow under my knees, and doing my best to suck the skin off his elephantine dick. I never even liked to drink after other people; now I was sucking dick after other people. I gagged, I choked, I had trouble breathing, but I kept going. He told me to play with his balls; I nearly yanked them off his body. He told me to finger his ass; I stuck two fingers up there and tried to give him a prostate exam.
