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Stephanie knows Amaya is my whole world. And her packing her shit and taking my daughter with her almost had me wanting to beat her ass.
Even though she moved like forty-five minutes away—and I got to see Amaya on the weekends, it felt like she’d kidnapped her and ran off to another country. Coming home and seeing my daughter’s closet and dresser drawers cleaned out had my head all fucked up.
I’ve been in my daughter’s life since the day she was conceived. I cut her umbilical cord. I held her in my arms before her own mother did. I got up in the middle of the night and fed her when Stephanie was too exhausted to nurse her. So, no, I’m not leaving. Not without my daughter. Period.
So, yeah, it’s no secret. She knows that the only reason I’m still with her is because of Amaya. That’s her only leverage. Our daughter. And she knows she has me by the balls. She knows if we didn’t have Amaya, I would have bounced seven years ago.
That’s when the shit started getting crazy with us. Or maybe it was always crazy, but in the beginning, it was all good, at least that’s what I want to believe. So I didn’t pay most of her bullshit any mind because she had a little waist, fat ass, looked good in the face. And she was putting it down in the sheets.
So by the time I started noticing it, it was too late. She was pregnant with Amaya and I wasn’t going anywhere. Period.
So I married her.
Big fucking mistake.
Seems like once she got that ring, and had Amaya, she got real loose. She started getting careless with her mouth, cursing me out in the streets and around my daughter. She started thinking it was okay to jump up in my face. And, like now, back then I put up with the shit because I wanted to be in my daughter’s life, by any means necessary.
And, I will be.
So I’m fucking stuck, for now.
And I suffer in silence.
And, while Stephanie’s drinking and eating herself into piggy heaven, getting all fat and sloppy, I do what I gotta do to be a full-time father to my daughter. I make sure Amaya has what she needs. I make sure shit around here gets done, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I take out the trash, and clean the crib, and do my daughter’s and my laundry, and handle the groceries and everything else, leaving Stephanie to her own demise.
So in a word, I’m married to an educated, lazy-ass, loud-mouthed bitch, who is all too comfortable with her tore-up weave and her fake lashes, flopping around the house in funky-ass sweats and oversized shirts and those ugly-ass Chinese slippers with the rhinestones.
Now. You tell me. Who the hell wants to come home to that shit every night?
Not me.
Like I mentioned, I don’t even sleep in the same bed with her. One, she hogs the bed. And, two, she snores like one. Sleep apnea or not, the bitch looks like Hannibal with that breathing apparatus strapped to her face at night.
And yet, she wonders why I don’t wanna fuck her. Not that we don’t fuck. Just not on the regular. And only when jerking out this nut isn’t enough.
Yeah, I can’t stand her ass. But, fuck. I’m still a man with needs. And I still have a dick that gets hard, and horny.
And she’s still a piece of ass, who’s laying up in here not paying one motherfucking bill. So, uh, yeah, the least she can do is roll over and get up on all fours whenever I’m feeling generous enough to grace her with a few hard strokes.
So when I give her this hard dick—after I’ve gotten myself aroused thinking about fucking someone else—it’s a pity fuck. A hard, dirty pounding—from the back; always from the back—out of anger and desperation and fucking disgust.
It’s fucked up to say this, but I can’t fuck her unless I’m thinking of someone else. I close my eyes, imagine I’m somewhere—anywhere else but here, with her—then beat her shit up wishing it were her face. Smacking her ass, hard and rough, is the only time I aggressively put my hands on her.
Every time I fuck her, I try to beat her ovaries up. Try to gut out her uterus. Sometimes, I even grab her in a chokehold while I’m hitting that shit from the back, wishing I could snap her fucking neck. That’s how bad it is. That’s how deep my hate for her runs. But then I think about Amaya and keep from snatching her breath.
And the irony is, she loves it. Begs for it.
Her pussy gets real wet when I yank her by the hair and try to snatch her scalp off. Or when I manhandle her.
“Yes, nigga, ooh, fuck me! Beat that shit up! Aah! Aah! Aah! Yassss! Yasss! I know you hate me, nigga. But you love this pussy…”
Yeah, okay, if she only knew.
True. I used to love the pussy. Used to.
All that pussy is to me, now, is a wet hole. A convenience. A cum-dump. And it being at my disposal when I’m high and horny enough to wanna put my dick in it is all I care about.
Here’s another crazy thing. After I beat that shit down, she’s good for a few days, up whistling and smiling and trying to be nice, wanting to fix us.
