AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You must’a bumped your damn head if you think I’ma be in bed with another muhfucka, letting him smash you.”
“Oh really? But it’s okay for you to put your dick in whatever wet-hole is willing to open for your nasty-ass. Fuck that, Roselle. If you can fuck new pussy whenever you feel the urge to, then I should be able to go out and catch me some new dick whenever I want to.”
Roselle’s jaw twitched.
“So, what are you suggesting?” Dr. Dangerfield interjected. “An open marriage?”
Brenda glared at Roselle. “Maybe. He knows I am very open-minded. I don’t have a problem with him screwing another woman. My problem is, him doing the shit behind my back. And my biggest problem is him running out and fucking some white woman.”
Roselle scoffed. “Oh, okay. So all roads lead back to that, I see.”
“Yes,” Brenda snapped. “All roads lead straight to that white bitch. Of all the beautiful black women out here, you had to go out and fuck some skinny white bitch.”
Roselle met her glare, but said nothing.
“So had she’d been a skinny black woman,” Dr. Dangerfield probed, “would that had made a difference?”
Brenda inhaled. “Yes,” she pushed out. “No. Shit, I don’t know. I mean I would have still been angry with his ass, but not livid to the point of putting him out and trying to run him down in my car.”
Dr. Dangerfield forced her lashes from blinking. “Excuse me? Am I hearing you correctly? You tried to . . .?”
“Exactly,” Roselle stated. “She was way outta line for that.”
Brenda scowled. “Outta line my ass, Roselle. At least I didn’t bleach and burn your shit, too. I neatly packed your shit and put it out on the curb. You’re lucky I didn’t run you and that bitch down like I wanted to.”
“C’mon, Bren,” Roselle said calmly. “And fuck up your life? What about our ki
ds? Your salon? I know you were hurt, but damn.”
Brenda sighed. “In that moment, I didn’t give a fuck.” She shook her head. “All I saw was red. Now, I’ll admit. I’m glad I didn’t get to either one of you, because you’re right. I have kids to think about—even if you don’t—and a career, and a life outside of you and your cheating.”
Dr. Dangerfield pursed her lips. “And what was it about your husband cheating on you with a Caucasian woman that had you so enraged?”
Brenda gave her a hard stare. Black women had been fighting since the beginning of time; fighting to hold on to their men. First, slavery, where their men had been snatched from them, then drugs and prisons, and now—more than ever, they had to worry about their men running off to be with some white woman. She couldn’t believe that this obviously educated, seemingly strong, black woman was sitting here asking her that. Did she not know the plight of . . . She shook her head quickly deciding she wasn’t in the mood to educate or enlighten her.
“I watched my father walk out on my mother and his three daughters,” Brenda offered, “and I saw what that did to her. A strong black woman who held her man down, bore his children, loved him through all of his failures, praised him on every accomplishment, helped put him through grad school—she wrote his papers, researched his thesis—while she worked two jobs and still made sure his meals were cooked, his clothes were pressed and his house clean. She would come home dog-tired and still she made time to stroke his ego, rub his back, nurse his ailments, and sex him down . . .”
“She sounds like an amazing woman,” Dr. Dangerfield said thoughtfully.
“She was.” Brenda sighed, and then she shook her head, feeling the sting of fresh tears. “She’d never recovered from that level of betrayal. She died broken-hearted. And that bastard still lives and breathes with his precious little white whore.”
Roselle reached for Brenda, but she swatted his arm away.
“No. My mother, though not perfect, loved that man. But—guess what? That wasn’t enough and the minute he’d had enough, the minute he became bored, he packed his shit and left her. He walked out on me and my sisters for another woman—a white woman!” She swiped a fresh string of tears from her cheeks. “So excuse me, motherfucker, if I have an issue with you fucking some white bitch!”
“But, baby, I didn’t walk out on you for one,” Roselle offered softly.
Brenda glared at him, her nose flaring. “The moment you stuck your dick in one, you might as well had.”
Twenty-Four
Desire . . .
Coveting, craving—those were things attached to desire.
It was a life force. It was the strong sense of wanting something, needing something, longing for something, even when that which was longed for was not necessarily good for us. And yet many would still indulge themselves. Feed their libidos. Quench their lust. And then . . .
Want more.
