Monday, June 29, 2009

Excerpt from One Taste by Allison Hobbs


ABOUT THE BOOK


A provocatively explicit account of an unhappily married couple whose passionless union causes them to seek alternative sexual satisfaction in scandalous ways.

Regina Wheeler married her high school sweetheart and has never experienced sexual intimacyâ?¯with any other man. After many years of being dutifully married to Matt and suffering from short-lived and predictably boring sex, Regina begins to wonder what she's been missing.

Constantly rejected and ignored by an inattentive wife, Matt on the other hand, starts what he thinks will be a passing fling with a street-wise, much younger woman. But fiery passion unexpectedly ignites and Matt instantly becomes hopelessly addicted. It turns out that one taste is not enough for him.


EXCERPT




CHAPTER 1


Regina Wheeler brushed her hand against the expensive bronze metallic leather clutch and shivered as instant euphoria coursed through her body. Designer handbags, clutches, totes, and shoulder bags were her passion—an obsession of monumental proportion. She could eye spy a knockoff with just a glance. Her designer collection hung on the backs of three of her closet doors, were stacked in boxes on shelves inside closets and drawers in the spare bedrooms, and there was even a secret stash in the basement.



She couldn’t resist fondling and inhaling the soft leather once more before paying for the stylish clutch.



Unfortunately, she wouldn’t have the luxury of putting her latest acquisition on display in her bedroom where her eyes could feast upon it. Not wanting to hear the words “Another expensive bag?” from her husband’s lips, Regina would have to conceal her purchase. This new beauty would have to be hidden in the basement with the rest of her prized possessions—dozens of colorful bags covered with protective plastic.



And when she decided to carry the metallic clutch, Matt would roll his gaze to the ceiling “Is that new?” he’d ask, suspiciously. Regina would reply ever so innocently, “No, honey. I bought this last year.” He’d frown and mumble in dissatisfaction, but her denial would quash an endless sermon about frivolous spending and how they needed to tighten their budget. At that point, Regina would solemnly agree to cut back on spending and the bronze metallic clutch would join the other beautiful bags displayed in their bedroom.



At home, Regina clicked on the basement light and bounced down the stairs. One of these days she and Matt were going to invest in getting the basement remodeled to give it a finished look—add a powder room, plasma TV, pool table, the works. Matt always complained that if it weren’t for all the money Regina spent on her obsession the basement could have been refinished years ago.



She stood for a second at the cedar closet, ran her hand across the surface in reverence. Treasured possessions that had belonged to her son—his favorite toys and items of clothing that she’d cherished and was unable to part with—were stored inside the cedar closet, which was kept padlocked.



She kept her collection inside that sacred place, also. It was a good hiding place; her husband would never go snooping inside the cedar closet. Too many painful memories were locked within.



In fact, her husband hardly ever descended the basement stairs. He didn’t have the time to fiddle with the manly tools and gadgets that occupied the basement. Working a full-time job, running a business, and training employees was more than enough work for one man, he’d told his wife. So Regina, finding herself unable to fit another item inside the cedar closet, figured she could hide the narrow box containing the bronze clutch in the storage area where her husband kept his neglected tools.



She rearranged some of the gadgets and pushed the box to the back of the shelf where it would be undetected. Though the box was small, she couldn’t push it out of view; something was in the way. Standing on her tiptoes and stretching her arm as far as she could, she used the tips of her fingers to retrieve a package that crinkled as she pulled it out of its hiding place.



It was a shiny bag with a T-Mobile logo. Regina snatched open the bag. Curious and slightly disturbed, she scrutinized the packaged cell phone. The state-of-the-art device came equipped with internet access and a host of features. Matt must have intended to give the phone to his seventeen-year-old nephew, Eric.



Regina frowned in thought. Matt had already given Eric a cell phone. Granted, the manufacturers came out with newer models at a rapid rate, but she and Matt didn’t make the kind of money required to keep up with modern technology. She was surprised that Matt, usually frugal to the point of being obnoxiously stingy, would go behind her back and secretly give his nephew a more expensive, upgraded model. Sure, Eric was his favorite nephew but it wasn’t as if he were their own son.



Our son. Regina’s eyes watered instantly. Her little boy—her baby—would have been close to Eric’s age now. He’d be in high school. She wondered how he’d look—how he’d behave as a teen. Would he have remained as sweet, as good-natured as he’d been as a child? Frowning, she shook her head, trying to rid her mind of painful memories. But it was too late—images of her little boy’s face began to flash like a fast-moving slide show.



“Devon,” she cried aloud as she was hit by a pang of yearning so severe it was almost disabling. Clutching her heart, Regina slumped against the storage bin.



Though she was alone in the house, Regina wept quietly. Her tears, like her designer bags, were kept secret. Crying over a son she’d lost ten years ago was considered unhealthy. “Life goes on,” well-meaning friends had told her.



Life goes on? Maybe so for other people. Even Matt had found a way to cope. He seemed to have replaced Devon with his nephew, Eric. He played surrogate father to Eric, participating in all his academic and sporting events. Regina was fond of Eric but she couldn’t bring herself to dote on him as Matt did. It seemed unfair to Devon.



It took an hour for the sobbing session to end and when she finished crying, feeling purged, she straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes. She glanced at the T-Mobile package and shrugged. She’d pretend she didn’t know about the phone and wait until Matt was ready to reveal why he felt the need to indulge Eric with yet another hi-tech phone.

Matt had been employed at Boeing Helicopters in Ridley Park, Pennsylvania, since he was eighteen years old and right out of high school. Now, a year shy of his fortieth birthday and feeling that life was passing him by, Matt had invested his life’s savings and had even taken out a loan, for which Regina had co-signed, to start a commercial cleaning business. He had a staff of four—three men and one woman—all recovering substance abusers.



Every evening at five-fifteen, Matt pulled up in his van and picked up the foursome on the corner of Ninth and Central Avenue in Chester, Pennsylvania. From there, he transported them to various commercial businesses in the tri-state area, where they were on a tight schedule to get the work done and then move on to the next building.



He usually dragged back home around midnight and was up again at six in the morning to start his day job at Boeing. It was grueling, but having his own business gave him a sense of purpose and seemed to brighten his life.



Though Regina had little faith in Matt’s ability to succeed in the cleaning industry, his renewed zest for life was worth every dime of their joint life savings that he’d sunk into the business. She could sleep easily at night because her pension at her job as a marketing manager at an insurance company, as well as her 401K account, were the back-up plan.



With Matt working such long hours, Regina’s life had become a little more tolerable. The best part of having a husband who worked sixteen hours a day was that he was too exhausted to harass her at night. Well, at least not as often as he used to. For the first few years of their marriage Regina—having had only one sex partner in her life—thought Matt’s undersized penis was normal.



Early in their marriage when sparks didn’t fly, she’d hoped that in time and with a little more experience, their love life would escalate to hot and steamy instead of remaining lukewarm. And boring. He’d been a premature ejaculator from the beginning of their marriage, but Regina had learned to accept that as well.



It took two years for her to even admit to her husband that she’d never achieved an orgasm. He looked at her with utter shock. “Why not?” he asked accusingly as if there was something wrong with her. The sudden tension in the atmosphere caused Regina to back down. Sparing her husband the humiliation of being told that his equipment as well as his bedroom skills were lacking, Regina mumbled that she didn’t know why she had never reached a climax. Protecting her man’s ego, she took the fall, which resulted in the unspoken conclusion that she, and not Matt, had a problem.



Over the years, Matt did nothing to improve their sex life. He continued to rush through foreplay and never bothered to experiment and find her pleasure points. After one sloppy kiss, he’d run his hands impatiently over her breasts, squeeze her thighs, and then penetrate. After a few thrusts, he’d ejaculate. His body would jerk spastically. He’d groan so loud and for so long, Regina often feared that neighbors would think Matt was being attacked by a violent intruder and consider it their civic duty to call 911. With all that post-intercourse commotion, one would have thought Matt had been stroking her long and hard.



Now he had a new dysfunction. In addition to being undersized and prone to pre-ejaculation, Matt could not maintain an erection. He’d urge her to “play with it.” And when her half-hearted hand job failed to keep him hard, he’d straddle her, rub his little dick on her tits, turn her over, and try to stuff it between her buttocks. When he finally became semi-erect, he’d quickly turn her over on her back and pant like an animal as he desperately tried to force himself inside her. His semi-erect dick would slip out of her opening and Matt would quickly, desperately, stuff it back in.



She supposed her husband’s dick problems had desensitized her. Since he couldn’t deliver the goods, it would seem the decent thing to do would be for him to go on about his business and leave her alone. Sex with her husband had become worse than just an unpleasant chore. It was torture.



Until six months ago. That’s when she’d finally put her foot down and threatened to move into another bedroom if Matt didn’t get treatment. He needed Viagra or something for erectile dysfunction. “Go see a doctor or leave me alone,” she yelled, putting an end to what was beginning to feel like physical abuse.



Looking forlorn, Matt insisted his problem was stress related. A temporary situation.
Perhaps it was. Regina no longer cared. Having a limp penis humping hard against her vagina was a kind of torture she was no longer willing to endure.



At thirty-eight years old, Regina was at her sexual peak. She yearned to be aroused by extended foreplay. Her body ached for a substantially sized penis with girth and length that could produce heart-pounding, toe-curling orgasms.



Though she’d thought about cheating, seeking out a secret lover who could provide her with good sex was something she could not bring herself to do. Stuck in a passionless marriage, Regina sadly accepted that she and Matt would grow old together. And most likely, the location of her G-spot would remain an undiscovered mystery.

“Are you planning on upgrading Eric’s phone?” Regina asked as she piled left-over spaghetti onto her husband’s plate. To hell with waiting for Matt to bring up the subject.



Matthew Wheeler cocked his head and stared at the forkful of sauce-covered pasta. “What?”



“The new cell phone in the basement,” she informed him. “It’s for Eric, isn’t it?”



“Oh!” He nodded enthusiastically and shoveled in the food. Between chews, he added, “Yeah, you know how he likes all the latest gadgets. He told me the phone we bought him back in September is already obsolete.” Matt laughed heartily.



We? Regina gave Matt a disapproving look. “I fail to see any humor in this.”



“What?” Matt asked with a shrug.



“Since you started your business, you’re constantly complaining about money. We have to tighten up our spending—isn’t that what you tell me?” So why would you buy that boy a new phone just because he likes new gadgets? Didn’t you give him money for clothes, a cell phone, and an expensive laptop at the beginning of the school year?”



Matt held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. I know I go overboard for Eric. But he’s my only nephew…”



Regina glared at Matt.



“All right. I’ll take the phone back tonight; there’s a little strip mall with a T-Mobile store near one of my buildings. I just thought Eric would get a kick out of the new phone.”



Regina shook her head. “He has a mother, you know. Why do you have to indulge his every whim? Can’t your sister contribute anything for Eric?”



Matt’s face hardened. The subject of his irrational commitment to his sister and her son was touchy, an off-limits topic that Regina rarely approached. But today she felt righteously indignant. She had to hide handbags bought with money she earned while Matt doted on someone else’s child.



“Did I tell you Eric’s going to be working with me this summer when he gets out of school?” Matt said, cheerfully.



“No, you didn’t mention it,” Regina mumbled, lips pressed together in irritation. “What does that have to do with the new phone?”



“The new phone is on my plan. I can communicate with Eric at no extra charge. It’ll really come in handy if he’s working at one building while I’m at another. As soon as he learns the ropes, I plan to make him supervisor.”



Regina rolled her eyes. “That boy’s never done one day of hard labor. Eric needs to focus on getting into college, not learn the necessary skills to supervise a pack of conniving lowlifes. My God, Matt, he’s just a teen-ager. He’s not emotionally prepared for the drug-related antics of your work crew.”



“What antics?” Matt asked, his voice rising. “What do you know about my employees?”



“I know that they’re all drug addicts and alcoholics.”



“My employees are all in recovery, Regina,” Matt said defensively. “They’re trying to get their lives together and they’re doing a fine job.”



“And their labor is cheap. That’s the best part of the deal, isn’t it?” she said sarcastically.



“What’s the real problem, Regina? Are you upset because I’m spending so much time away from home or are you jealous because I latched onto something that has the potential to change our status in life—something I can leave Eric.”



“I’m not jealous. I realize long hours are part of the process. As far as your nephew’s concerned, maybe it’s comforting for you to play ‘pretend pop,’ but it hurts me deeply that you hardly ever speak your own son’s name.” For a moment Regina was quiet. “Would it kill you to say Devon’s name once in a while?”



“What’s there to say? Devon’s gone,” Matt said bitterly. “What do you want me to say?”



“That you miss him,” she said with a whimper.



Matt didn’t answer. Regina leaned against the counter and stared at the kitchen floor.



Matt finished his meal in silence. Regina immediately turned around and began stacking dishes in the dish washer. Their marriage was failing—had failed years ago. Were they headed for divorce court? Regina wanted to cry. Her husband’s love for her was so sincere and they’d endured all the bumps in the road that life had thrown their way. But most important, he was faithful. Had always been. How many women could make that claim?



She loved her husband, but she no longer desired him sexually. She hated the sexual part of their relationship. And she despised the fact that he’d replaced their son so easily.



Matt cleared his throat. “I just remembered. I have to get an oil change before I pick up my crew. With all the miles I’ve been putting on the van, I don’t want to take any chances and mess up my engine.” He attempted to speak in a neutral tone, pretending there wasn’t tension in the room.



He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, reached in his pocket, and peeled off three fifties. “Buy yourself something a new purse or something.” Giving his wife a sad smile, he laid the money on the kitchen table.



It was his way of saying he was sorry about his seeming lack of regard for their son’s memory. Regina nodded sadly and turned back to the dishwasher. Matt patted her back apologetically and threw down another fifty on his way out the door.

Regina went upstairs and put the money Matt had given her inside her Coach Patchwork Denim wallet. She’d add five hundred more and buy the Valentino braided tote that she’d been lusting for. Even the prospect of spending money on a prized possession that she wouldn’t have to hide did nothing to elevate her mood.



Grappling with a barrage of negative thoughts, Regina sat on her bed, clutched a pillow to her bosom, and rocked. But the rocking motion did not soothe her. She felt agitated. So agitated she snatched the pillow away from her chest, folded it, and stuck it between her legs.



Squeezing the pillow with her thighs, she closed her eyes and imagined being plundered by a vulgar faceless man who was hung like a horse. He forced himself inside her, smacking her face when she pleaded for him to be gentle—to have mercy. It was a wickedly delicious fantasy that made her juices overflow and soak through the pillow case.



During her fantasy, she used crude language, making sexual demands she’d never made with her husband. “Fuck me with that big dick. Split my pussy wide open,” she shouted as her vaginal muscles contracted rapidly. “Goddamn!” she screamed as she exploded. Her face was twisted in a grimace, her heart pounding loudly and pumping so hard, it frightened her. Gasping for breath, Regina rubbed her chest in a circular motion. Finally, the spasms subsided and Regina was catapulted back to the reality of her own bedroom, lying in her marital bed with a pillow stuffed between her legs.



She let out a long sigh. Her life was so sad. Pitiable. Her husband was sexually disabled and refused to seek help. She was so deprived she’d resorted to fucking a damn pillow. Ashamed and feeling hopeless, she flung the pillow to the floor and quickly grabbed another, this time placing it on her face to muffle her sobs. She was certain that she loved her husband. After twenty years of marriage, he was like an extension of her, like an arm or leg, and she couldn’t imagine life without him.



But she was dying inside. And it was Matt’s fault. He didn’t care that his limp dick had never given her an orgasm. He was perfectly content to continue their macabre sex dance. She’d talked about it and talked about it until she was blue in the face, but Matt was in denial. He said he was going through a phase—that he anxious about his new business venture. Whatever! The fact remained that she was an unfulfilled woman who was locked in a sexless marriage.



Sleeping with another man for sexual satisfaction was out of the question. How could she ever look at herself in the mirror if she broke her marriage vows? And despite everything, she really loved Matt.



Regina exhaled. She’d just have to exercise more patience. In the meantime, she’d try to figure out a way to coerce Matt into getting professional help. He really needed to see a doctor. A sex therapist. An acupuncturist. Hell, she’d send him to a hypnotist. Perhaps the power of suggestion could help him keep his dick hard.


CHAPTER 2

Matthew Wheeler inspected the first four offices that Theo had cleaned. The trash bins were emptied with fresh liners tied around the rim, desk tops gleamed, and not a speck of debris dotted the carpets. Except for the telltale scent of alcohol that permeated the air, Theo had done a superb job. “Theo,” Matt yelled over the noise of the vacuum cleaner down the hall.



Theo shut off the vacuum cleaner and stepped out into the hallway. “Whassup, boss?”



After working in a factory for damn near twenty years, being called “boss” was music to his ears. His heart instantly softened toward Theo. “Man, I can smell liquor in every office you cleaned.”



“I ain’t…”



Matt held up a hand. “Theo, you’re supposed to be in recovery, man. The state pays me for the work you do. I could lose my contracts if somebody finds out you’re drinking on the job. If you want to drink after work, that’s your business.” Matt narrowed his eyes. “If I smell liquor on you again”— he inhaled—“I’d hate to do it…but I’m going to have to let you go. ”



“My bad. I’m gonna get it together. I needed a little taste to take the edge off.”



“Take the edge off after I drop you off. All right, man?”



“Sure thing, boss. Thank you, Mr. Wheeler.”



Matt smiled inside, but kept up a stern demeanor. “Now, go back over all the rooms you cleaned and spray some of that pine-scented deodorizer.”



“I’m on it.” Theo rushed to his cleaning cart, grabbed the spray, and began fumigating the four offices that held the lingering scent of cheap whiskey.



Matt walked past one of his other workers, Doug Faison, and gave the man a nod of approval. Mr. Faison, as everyone called him, was in his mid-fifties. He’d suffered two cocaine-related heart attacks. Not wanting to be responsible for the man’s third heart attack, Matt gave him the easy task of lobby detail. All he had to do was empty and line a few trash bins, straighten out the magazines in the rack, dust and polish the mahogany desk, and wipe down the glass-topped end tables. No heavy labor for Mr. Faison.



The floor man, Langston Belgrave, was a big strapping man—built like a heavyweight fighter. Strong as an ox, he did the work of three men. It was said that the man had Indian blood. Matt didn’t doubt it. A good-looking man with high cheekbones, a ruddy reddish-brown complexion, and bone-straight black hair that hung past his shoulders, Langston had the look of an authentic American Indian. Everyone called him “Cochise” and the name suited him perfectly.



Wearing earphones while bobbing his head in time to music only he could hear, Cochise lifted his chin in greeting when Matt approached. He moved rhythmically as he pushed the buffer across the shiny conference room floor. Cochise put in a hard day’s work that more than made up for the slow-moving Mr. Faison’s sluggish and uninspired cleaning.



Onika Brandt, the only female member of the crew, used slow motions as she cleaned the metal door frame of the sliding doors at the main entrance. With her back to Matt, she stretched a long sinewy arm as she wiped the metal ledge at the top of the doors. There was indifference in her movement as if her mind was on something more interesting than the cleaning task at hand.
Tall and wiry and without any curves, there was nothing glamorous about Onika. Her face was average. Her chin-length hair was worn in a simple wrap. More often than not, she pulled her hair back into a plain ponytail. But despite her uninteresting physical characteristics, Onika had sex appeal. And a lot of attitude. She was tough and sassy with a swagger in her walk that hinted at more than just a trace of wildness. Yes, Onika was tough, but she was soft and sugary where it counted.



Matt crept behind her, cozying up to her as he wrapped his arms around her tiny waistline and then inched his hands up to her breasts. Onika squealed in surprise as he cupped her nugget-sized breasts.



Spinning around, she said, “You scared the shit outta me.” She swiftly pulled off the rubber gloves and wrapped her arms around Matt’s neck. “You better stop sneaking up on me like that,” she warned with a mischievous smile and then quickly brushed her lips against his.



Matt tried to prolong the kiss, but Onika pulled away. She wagged a finger at him. “I’m serious. Don’t sneak up on me like that. You might give me a heart attack or a stroke or something.”



“You’re too young for that, baby.” He gazed at her longingly. “Humph, if I keep messing around with you, I might end up stroking out.”



Onika blushed. “Aw, you’re not that old, Mr. Wheeler.”



His eyes dimmed. “After all this time, you’re still calling me Mr. Wheeler.”



“You’re not old, Matt,” she corrected, awkwardly. “You’re just right.”



“Prove it,” he challenged.



“Is it break-time, yet?”



“It is for you. Put your cart away and meet me in the chairman’s office in ten minutes.”



Ten minutes later, Onika knocked. “It’s open,” Matt said softly as he swiveled in the dark-brown leather executive chair. The darkened room was softly illuminated by the glow from the brass desk lamp.



She walked around the desk and climbed on Matt’s lap, straddling him. He raised her uniform and was delighted to find she wasn’t wearing panties. He lifted her off his lap and placed her upon the enormous mahogany desk. She sat on the edge of the desk, facing him.



“Spread your legs, baby. Let Daddy get you in the mood.”



Onika pulled her knees apart. She leaned back, her palms pressed against the smooth desktop. Her parted legs dangled over the polished mahogany wood. Still seated, Matt scooted forward and bent his head. He kissed one thin thigh and then the other, working his way up to her mound. He nipped at her pubic hairs, pulling them softly with his teeth. Matt knew Onika loved it when he pulled her pussy hairs. Her moans of appreciation excited him.



Trying to have sex with his wife was a monumental task. His dick didn’t want to cooperate. Regina blamed him for his erection problems and wanted him to seek help. Matt gave a snort. All he had to do was sniff Onika’s pussy and his dick stirred to life. One taste of her delicious nectar gave him a bulging erection.



Matt released her pubic hairs and pressed the tip of his tongue against her clit. He kept his tongue still, encouraging Onika to gyrate against it. When her juices began to trickle down his chin, he thrust his tongue between her folds, sucking and slurping until her moans escalated to a pitch that was entirely too loud. “Be quiet, baby,” he cautioned.



“It’s so good. I can’t help it,” Onika whined.



“You gotta be quiet,” Matt whispered. “The fellas might come running up here thinking somebody’s hurting you.”



Onika giggled and pulled Matt’s head back to her hot spot. But he stiffened his shoulders, resisting the urge to suck her sweet moisture.



Onika raised a brow. “Why’d you stop? I was just getting started.”



Matt softly smacked her thigh and tugged at her arm. “Get up.” He lifted her off the massive desk. “We’re gonna switch places; I want you to sit on Daddy’s face.”



He loved referring to himself as “Daddy.” Onika was only twenty-years-old and her youth made Matt feel good. Offering oral sex was something he’d never done with his wife. Eating pussy had never seemed appealing. But Onika kept his dick hard and he was happy to suck her clit. The girl’s juices were like a sex drug. She was driving him crazy. Had his heart thumping with love.



Matt stretched his body across the desk. Onika climbed over his broad chest, lifted her dress, squatted over his face, and then lowered herself.



He pleasured her with his lips and his tongue. Her arms flailed; her fingers clenching and unclenching as she clawed at the air in an attempt to grab hold of something—anything. Finding nothing to grasp, she bent forward. Tilting her ass upward, she grabbed the edge of the desk and humped Matt’s face.



Onika rubbed her pussy against his lips, his nose, and his forehead. Then she rotated her hips. Fast. Without restraint. Like she was an electric mixer and Matt’s face was cake batter.
Her body tensed. She lifted up, but Matt pulled her back onto his face. “Smother me, baby,” he whispered into her bushy mound.



“Yo, that’s enough pussy eating. I’m ready for some dick.”



“Just a little longer,” he begged. Obliging him, Onika resumed squatting on his face, this time completely covering his nasal passage with her vagina.



“I can’t breathe,” Matt gasped. He thrashed as he struggled for air. Onika scooted up until her pussy brushed against his eyelids and her ass covered his nose. He tried to throw the slender woman off, but Onika maintained the position. “Baby, I can’t breathe.” His chest heaved as he tried to catch a breath of air.



Finally, she eased off his face. She looked at his groin and gave a self-satisfied smile.



“It’s hard, baby. Daddy’s ready for you,” Matt said, gasping.



Onika slid off the desk and got down on the thick carpeted office floor. Lying spread eagle, she waited for Matt.



Instead of mounting her, Matt collapsed beside Onika. “You gotta get on top, baby. You wore your old man out.”



“Stop saying that, Mr. Wheeler,” she admonished with a giggle and then climbed on top of him. She aimed his stiffness into the center of her wet vagina. “Ain’t nothing old about you,” she whispered as she lowered herself onto his slippery but short pole. As soon as he penetrated, he ejaculated. He shuddered violently and emitted loud orgasmic moans, forgetting his request that he and Onika keep their voices low.



“Damn!” he murmured in disgust when he finally caught his breath. “I hate it when I cum quick. I told you I’m too old for you. You need a younger man. I can’t do anything for you,” he complained.



Comforting him, Onika put her arms around Matt and kissed his lips. “It’s gonna get better, Mr. Wheeler. You lasted a lot longer this time.”



“How much longer? A couple of seconds?” Matt sounded near tears. “You deserve better. Go on and get yourself a young man; somebody that can hang for hours.”



“I don’t want nobody else.”



“Well, I’m not gonna mess with you anymore, Onika. I’m tired of embarrassing myself.”
A knock on the door startled the pair. “Who is it?” Matt said gruffly.



“It’s Theo. You want me to clean in there, Mr. Wheeler?



“No, I got this one. Finish up the second floor.”



“I’m finished. I was looking for Onika. She’s supposed to wipe off all the telephones and clean the inside and outside of the cabinets on the second floor.



“She’s on break,” Matt bellowed. “Can’t you cover for her?”



“No problem, boss,” Theo said and hurried away from the chairman’s office.



Lying on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms, Matt gave Onika a long, impassioned kiss.





Breaking the kiss, he searched her face. “Are you sure you want me?”



“You know I do. Why do you keep asking me that? Don’t I show you how I feel?”



“You sure do, baby,” Matt said. “With my problem and all…well, I can’t help wondering if I’m pleasing you as much as you’re pleasing me.”



“Mr. Wh…” she paused when Matt gave her a look. “I mean, Matt. I ain’t never had nobody like you before. I’m not even worried about our little sex problem. We’ll work it out.”



“What about the fact that I’m a married man? Doesn’t that bother you?”



Onika shook her head. “No, I can deal with it.”



A relieved grin covered Matt’s face. “Baby, you’re too good to be true. Seriously, you’re everything I ever wanted in a woman. I promise you, nothing is going to interfere with our relationship. Not my marriage—my business. Nothing. You’re number one.”



Onika beamed. “Aw, you’re so sweet.”



“I’m serious, baby. Every second of my spare time I have is gonna be spent with you.” He cradled her chin. “You got me whipped. You know that, don’t you?”



Blushing, Onika nodded.



“All right, let’s get downstairs and act like we’re working before Theo comes up here again.”



Matt pulled Onika up. He kissed her again. “Oh yeah, look under the desk.”



She furrowed her brow and bent to look under the desk. She picked up the T-Mobile bag and let out a delightful shriek when she uncovered the new cell phone.



“Thank you, Matt. You’re so sweet.” Onika covered Matt’s hand with kisses.



“I’m tired of getting a busy signal every time I call you at the Recovery House. The phone is already charged and I put my cell phone number on lock; all you have to do is push a button to stay in touch.”



“Matt,” she said softly. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I was out there messing with that stuff for so long; I never had much of nothing and I damn sure never had a cell phone that wasn’t a throwaway or one I didn’t steal off a sucka. I never had a legitimate hookup.” She smiled at her gleaming new phone. “Thanks, Mr. Wheeler.”



Being called Mr. Wheeler made Matt bristle, but he held his tongue and gave Onika a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Poor Onika had started getting high when she was just sixteen and Matt hated that the young woman had experienced such hardship and seen so much ugliness in her short life. He intended to give her far more than just a cell phone. Onika was proving to be everything he desired in a woman. She deserved major props for being so patient with his erection and premature ejaculation problems.



He often kidded about being an old man, but in reality he felt he was too young to start taking Viagra. More than likely, his problem was psychosomatic. Having sex with the same woman for over twenty years had given him some serious dick problems.



However, with Onika in his life, Matt believed it would be just a matter of time before he was back on top of his game, stroking that thing and laying pipe for hours. Without a doubt, Onika was the antidote to his sex problems. And if he didn’t watch himself, he was going to be completely strung out. Oh hell…who was he fooling? Onika had him whipped and he loved it.


If you enjoyed this excerpt and would like to purchase the book, here is the link to the book on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Taste-Strebor-Quickiez-Allison-Hobbs/dp/1593091788/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1246331962&sr=1-1

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Excerpt of The Kat Trap by Cairo

"The Kat Trap...spellbounding and page-turning urban erotica with a plot that keeps you lusting on the edge of your seat." -- Risque, Red Light Special

"Cairo has crafted a wicked web of words in his sexually charged, drama-filled debut." -- Nakea S. Murray, "3 Chicks on Lit" radio show

A sexy, raw debut novel about the life of a young murderess who lures her victims to their own deaths by seducing them.

Ghetto-born and street-raised, Katrina -- or Kat for short, is a self-proclaimed hood goddess. With her in-your-face razor-sharp attitude, alluring charm, and exotic beauty, Katrina is vivacious, vicious, and unsuspectingly dangerous. Detached from her emotions, she has no time for regrets. The product of a neglectful mother and an incarcerated father, Katrina is willing to do whatever it takes to climb -- or kill -- her way out of the hood.

Calculated and cunning, Katrina already has two bodies on her hands by the ripe age of twenty. When a mysterious man invites her to join his multi-million dollar "work-for-hire" network of professional assassins, it becomes the opportunity of a lifetime. The first female killer on his team, she travels all over the United States and fulfills the bloody requests of her every client. With each murder, Katrina feels more and more powerful -- killing turns out to be an addictive aphrodisiac for her and the rush of violence is the only thing that satisfies her insatiable libido. Before killing each victim, Katrina tempts them with her irresistible, delectable charms -- and not one of them can resist.

Disturbingly witty and devilishly enticing, The Kat Trap is an edgy, fast-paced urban drama with fascinating psychological elements that demonstrate how anger and bitterness can perpetuate self-destructive behaviors. Readers will be enthralled by Kat's deliciously criminal world of money and glamour, shocked by her cutthroat ambition and ruthlessness, and accosted by her physical and sexual prowess.





Excerpt from
The Kat Trap
by Cairo

Chapter One


They say the closest ones to ya are the same ones who’ll sneak up behind ya and stick the knife through ya. Sleepin’ on me is your biggest mistake. Close ya eyes, and ya’ll find ya’self in a river of blood. One for the money, one for the nut, one bullet to the skull . . . nigga, what?!


My name is Katrina, Kat for short. Voluptuous, vivacious, and vicious—at five-feet-eight, a buck-twenty-five, I’m that bitch. Be clear. Fine, fly, and fabulous with a wicked brain game and a fat, wet, deep pussy so good it makes a nigga shake the minute I wrap my walls around his dick. I’m that chick with the small waist and the Hottentot Venus ass: big, round, and juicy. The kinda ass that makes a nigga’s jaw drop and his neck snap every time I walk past. Niggas love it when I make my bootie bounce, shake, and clap for ’em. With my cinnamon skin, shoulder-length hair, thick lashes wrapped around chinky eyes, I am a hood goddess. I’m that chick the bitches bow down to, and niggas worship. I was born and bred in Brooklyn, a product of one of the most notorious housing projects known for drugs and murders. If you’re an uninvited or unwanted guest, beware. You might get in, but you comin’ out either slashed up, beat down, or bodied.
I’ma keep it real cute for ya. Ain’t shit sweet ’bout life on the compound—the hood, the concrete jungle. It’s ruthless. Game recognizes game. And ya either learn to play hard or get played. Ya either eat or be eaten. It’s that simple. Make no mistake: The hood don’t give a fuck ’bout you or the next chick. And it definitely ain’t beat for what the next nigga’s into. You either handle ya business or get handled. Ain’t no way ’round it. I ain’t tryna make excuses. It is what it is. I learned how to handle mine without sellin’ my ass, or suckin’ a string of dicks in alleyways or up on somebody’s rooftop. I studied the game, watched its playas, and mastered the rules without stuntin’ on the next bitch, or hustlin’ a nigga off his grip. I ain’t have to claw or scheme my way up to nobody’s top. I’m from Brooklyn, baby! I kicked open the muhfuckin’ door of opportunity, smashed out its windows, and fuckin’ snatched my spot ’cause I’m that bitch.

So, if ya lookin’ to hear me spit some whack-ass story ’bout some fast-assed little ho from the hood stretched out on a pissy mattress in shit-stained panties, eating dry-ass cereal out of a dirty-assed plastic bowl watching cartoons on a busted-ass black-and- white TV while counting roaches, then you got the wrong one. If ya wanna hear ’bout a bitch goin’ hungry ’cause her moms sold her food stamps to get high, nope . . . not gonna get it. If ya lookin’ to hear ’bout some young chick who got her ass beat with extension cords, razor straps, and switches because she was too hot in the ass, then ya might as well step now, ’cause that ain’t what I’m here to serve ya. Yeah, we had roaches, okay . . . who didn’t? But I never got my ass beat, always had food to eat, and I ain’t never laid around on no pissy-assed mattress.

Uh, yeah, a bitch was born poor. Yeah, my moms was clockin’ welfare, and? Her ass still worked, though. And she gave me what she thought I needed, which—outside of food and a roof over my head—was close to nothin’. Fuck what I wanted. No, she wasn’t on crack or dope or a fuckin’ drunk. Maybe she shoulda been. But I can’t give ya no fucked-up tales of watchin’ her smoke up, shoot up, or snort up. And I can’t tell ya jack ’bout no tricks or johns runnin’ up in her pussy all hours of the day and night. Sellin’ her ass wasn’t her thing. Yeah, she went through men like water, and moved one in after the other . . . okay, and? That’s her story, not mine. She did her thing, and I learned to do mine.

Yeah, I knew . . . uh, I mean, know, who the fuck my father was/is, so? It ain’t like the nigga ever did anything for me. Besides hustlin’ and robbin’ niggas, the only good thing he ever did was donate his nut to my moms, a half-Spanish, half-black chick who spit me outta her hairy pussy when she was sixteen. Other than that, goin’ in and out of prison and breakin’ my mom’s heart was the only thing his sorry ass was good for. Be clear. I ain’t hatin’ on dude. He was a street nigga who tried to get in where he fit in. From breakin’ into cars to burglaries to drug dealin’ to numerous parole violations to runnin’ with known felons to fuckin’ any unsuspectin’ trick willin’ to spread open her legs and her wallet, he was a rebel, down for whateva.

The hood raised him. Bitches praised him. And the streets and pussy were what turned their backs on him when his black ass got popped fifteen years ago. Now he’s on lock for another ten years for an aggravated assault he didn’t commit, and drug charges for shit that wasn’t his. But the nigga ain’t a snitch. Turnin’ state’s evidence on his niggas was outta the question. That’s the code he lived by, and one he’d proudly die by. That’s how the real niggas get down. So fuck what ya heard ’bout me needin’ him. A bitch can’t miss what she never had! Other than sharin’ the same DNA, the only thing dude and I will ever have in common is our love for the benjamins. Believe that!

So, you wanna know what’s really good with a bitch like me? Then I’ll tell ya. I’ma give it to ya straight, no chaser—as real and as raw as it gets. I fuck for sport. But I murder for business. And because most muhfuckas are so driven by lust and the desire for good pussy and a slow, wet dick suck, it doesn’t take much for me to lure ’em into their own death traps. My mission is simple: Wet a nigga’s dick, then put a bullet in his skull, or in his chest, just before he cracks his nut. That’s right. Send his ass to his grave with his eyes rolled up in his head and a smile on his face before he ever knows what hit his ass.

Make no mistake. This shit ain’t ’bout love. It ain’t ’bout revenge. And it surely ain’t personal. In this business, there’s no time for compassion or sympathy. And there’s no room for regret. It’s ’bout clockin’ that paper. And a bitch like me gets paid by the body. Welcome to the Kat trap, muhfuckas . . . it’s ’bout to get poppin’!

Chapter Two


“Lay back, nigga, and let me wet your dick with my pussy,” I said, mountin’ my target for the night, then slammin’ my hot, wet snatch down on his long, black cock. I leaned forward, brushin’ my perfectly rounded titties with their Hershey kiss nipples against his lips as I galloped up and down on his brick-hard dick, positionin’ myself so that the shaft of his pole stroked my clit while I rode him down into the hotel mattress. I slowly lifted up, used my pussy muscles to milk the head of his dick, then slammed back down. I repeated it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Bounced and twirled my hips, buryin’ e’ery thick inch of him deep inside me until I had the nigga beggin’ me, until I had him practically slurrin’ his words.

“You like this wet pussy, nigga? You like this pussy grabbin’ ya dick?”

“Uh . . . uh . . . Oh, fuck yeah! Oh, shit! Ride that dick, baby.”

I glanced over at the digital clock on the oak wood nightstand. It read 11:42. I had been fuckin’ dude for almost forty minutes and was determined to cum for the third time before I sealed his fate. Murder made me no never mind. I didn’t ask no questions, didn’t want no answers. The less I knew, the better. The only thing I needed to know was: when, where, and who.

Easy cum, easy go, I thought as I took in my target’s face. The nigga had the nerve to be fuckin’ fine. Deep, dark chocolate-coated, broad-shouldered nigga with waves that spun so deep a bitch could get seasick just starin’ at ’em. His eyes were slits of lust, his face slick with sweat as he thrust upward, matchin’ my rhythm stroke for stroke, stabbin’ my pussy, stokin’ the fire that ignited inside me. Damn! And the nigga had some good dick. Too bad that in another few minutes it’d be a wrap for his ass. I didn’t give a fuck. Wasn’t shit I could do about it, even if I wanted to. His time on this earth was limited. The motherfucka was on borrowed time, and didn’t even know it. Oh, well.

The clock ticked in my head. His life meant nothing to me. I didn’t give a fuck whether or not he had a wife and kids, and I definitely didn’t give a fuck how his family’s world would be after tonight. The only thing I cared about was gettin’ my fuck on, bustin’ a nut, and puttin’ this snitch-ass nigga outta his misery. My pussy got hotter and wetter just thinkin’ about my next move. “You ready to nut for me, big daddy?” I asked, clampin’ my pussy around his throbbin’ dick.

“Damn, ma, you got some killa pussy. Ah . . . uh. Shit. This pussy is mad tight. Yeah, baby. Just like that. Got my dick wetta than a muhfucka,” he said in between his moans, grunts, and groans.

If you only knew, I thought, smilin’. “That’s right, make my pussy cum, nigga,” I whispered into his left ear. “Fuck this pussy. Give me that nut, daddy. Yeah, nigga, just like that . . . fuck this pussy . . . Mmmm, give me that nut.” The lower I spoke, the harder he jabbed his dick in me.

“Oh, yes,” I moaned. I sucked on his ear lobe, then stuck the tip of my tongue into his ear.

“Oooh, daddy, this dick feels so good. You ready to give me that hot nut?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m ’bout to spit. Oh, shit. Damn, girl.”

I cut my eyes over at the clock again. 11:52. I quickly gazed down at the unsuspectin’ victim beneath me. He was ‘bout to bust his dick milk. I smiled. And in one swift move, I reached up under the pillow and pulled out my shiny black silencer gun.

“Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I’m cuuuuming, baaa—“ Theessrrpp! Before he could finish, before he could get his nut off, I shot him dead center in his forehead. Mission complete, I thought, pullin’ myself up off this dead nigga’s still stiff dick.

I stared at his lifeless body, silently admired his perfectly chiseled abs and his big, black dick, then yanked off the condom and dropped it into a Ziploc baggie. I licked my lips, watchin’ his nut spurt and run outta the tip of his dick. I shook off the thought of lickin’ it up from ’round his big, hairy balls, diggin’ into my Gucci satchel and pullin’ out a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol and a pack of wipes. I started wipin’ him down. Leavin’ a trail of clues that could potentially lead back to me was not an option. I was a stickler for details and there was no room for bein’ sloppy, which is why I always did my dirt solo.

When I finished wipin’ all the evidence off the corpse sprawled out in the middle of the bed with his dick slick from his own juices, I pulled the sheets from underneath him, rolled them up in a tight ball, then stuffed them in a bag. I glanced at the nigga lyin’ on the bare mattress one last time before picking the spread up from off the floor then tossin’ it over his body. I had seen enough, and needed to get the hell outta there. I had about twenty minutes before the “clean-up” crew came through to dispose of the body, or do whatever the fuck else it is they did. I just knew I wasn’t trustin’ no niggas I didn’t know or hadn’t seen before to make sure my fingaprints and pussy juice wasn’t still lingerin’ all over the place.

I went into the bathroom, wiped my soakin’ wet pussy with some tissue, then used several baby wipes to give myself a whore bath. When I was done, I quickly dressed, slipped on my white gloves, then slid my feet into my Jimmy Choo mules. I straightened my burgundy wig, then applied a fresh coat of burgundy-wine lipstick to my full, soft, made-for-dick-suckin’ lips. Satisfied that everything was dusted off and in place, I shut off the bathroom light, then strutted toward the door. On my way out, I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost didn’t like what I saw starin’ back at me: the slanted, hazel eyes of a cold-blooded killa. I shook the image from my mind, and pressed out the door and toward the elevators.

Growin’ up, a bitch had dreams. I dreamed dreams of being rich. And baggin’ a
fine-ass hood nigga with a big black dick and fat pockets who would love me, and fuck me, and get me far the fuck away from the roaches that crawled all over the walls and from all the dirty dishes that overflowed in the sink ’cause my moms was too motherfuckin’ stressed ’bout life and no-good muhfuckas to ever give a fuck ‘bout what I was doin’. I dreamed dreams of being loved and wanted and needed ’cause a bitch was special. But then I woke the fuck up and realized that dreams ain’t real, and that love won’t always love you back, and that the only way to keep the dirty-ass nigga with his nasty-ass fingers and grimy ass hands off ya ass and titties, the only way to keep the duck-ass nigga from smackin’ ya moms up, was to stretch his ass.

Yeah, a bitch had dreams. Being a murderer was never one of ‘em. But it quickly became my reality the night I sucked a young nigga on the come up’s dick and gave him some pussy as payment for a gun to kill my mother’s sorry-ass nigga because I was tired of him creepin’ into my room, suckin’ on my titties, and eatin’ my pussy. I guess I should be grateful that the old nigga just jerked his long, black dick while lickin’ my clit instead of tryna run it up in me. But I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d want to feel my young, tight, hairy pussy wrapped around his dick. And I swore I’d never let that happen. So, I snuffed his ass. And fuckin’ that young nigga and lettin’ him bust this pussy open was far better than lettin’ some nasty-assed nigga steal the little string of innocence I had left.

Say what ya want. In my mind, the payoff was well worth it. I got what I wanted, and dude got himself a taste of some virgin twat. But after it was all said and done, I promised myself that I would never, ever, again, suck another nigga’s dick or give up my pussy to get shit again. And I meant that! If I fuck or suck a nigga it’s ’cause I want to, not ’cause I need to.

Anyway, I’ma tell ya some foul shit. A part of me thinks my moms knew what time it was, but she wanted to act like she was stuck on stupid or some shit and ignore it. Sometimes I thought I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me. Guilt. The fact that she was tryna pimp me, her only child. Maybe it was regret I saw. Maybe it was just my fucked-up imagination. Well, whether or not there was ever any truth to it—not that she would ever admit it—is neither here nor there. I handled the nigga my way by lurin’ his ass into a darkened stairwell for some pussy, then shootin’ him in his head. His eyes were wide open and filled with shock and panic when his brains splattered against the cement wall. I looked down at his lifeless ass with a smirk on my face, then left him lyin’ in a pool of blood. I was fifteen. At that moment, somethin’ in me changed. It opened my eyes to the power of pussy, and showed me just how far a nigga—young or old—would go to feel it, taste it, and try to possess it. And a bullet to his head is the only thing that would stop his muhfuckin’ ass from tryna claim it.

So, hell the fuck no! I didn’t choose this life—this muhfuckin’ life chose me. I was pushed into this shit. As a result, it has become my callin’, a way of life that has evolved into a way of bein’ for a bitch like me. Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t makin’ no excuses, and I ain’t lookin’ for no sympathy. I accept life for what it is: unfair, with a set of fucked up rules you either live or die by. And no matter how many dreams a bitch dreams, ain’t shit comin’ true unless ya get on ya grind and make shit happen ’cause life don’t give a fuck ’bout you or no whack-ass fairy tales.

I stepped off the elevator, strutted through the lobby of the Marriott, then quietly slid out the revolvin’ glass doors, unheard and unnoticed. When I reached my rental—a blue Ford Taurus—and was safely behind the steerin’ wheel, I pulled off my wig, took out the blue contact lenses, then flipped open my cell, pressed speed dial, and waited for the voice on the other end.

“Yo, what’s good?”

“I know why the caged bird sings,” I stated, startin’ the car, then pullin’ out of the parkin’ lot and onto the highway. It was the code I used to let him know when a job had been completed.

“That’s what it is. I’ll get at you.”

“Same spot?”

“No doubt. One.”

Click. I pressed the end button and disconnected the call, along with my emotions.

I drove in silence. I didn’t wanna hear shit. The only thing I wanted was a hot shower, some sleep, and to be back on that plane first thing in the mornin’, headin’ to Jersey. I couldn’t wait to get home to collect the remainin’ half of the hundred gees I had comin’ to me for smokin’ that nigga back at the hotel. Not bad for a day’s work, I thought, headin’ to my hotel suite on the other side of town. Murkin’ these crab-ass niggas is as easy as snatchin’ candy from a baby.

The followin’ afternoon, I was home chillin’ in my two-story condo in the suburbs of Jersey, standin’ at the mahogany island in the middle of my walk-in closet, waitin’ for the whir of the counter machine to finish totalin’ my money. Snoop Dogg’s “For All My Niggaz & Bitches” blared through my Bose surround sound system. Oh, hell naw. Somethin’ ain’t right, I thought. But I knew what I saw. It totaled my paper at forty thousand dollars. I knew shit wasn’t wrong with the machine, but I recounted my money anyway. Nothing changed. I stormed outta the closet, snatchin’ up the cell on my nightstand. I punched in his number and waited. The deep voice answered on the third ring. “What’s good?”

“My motherfuckin’ money, nigga!” I snapped, turnin’ down my stereo. “That’s what the fuck’s good. Now where’s the rest of my shit?”

“Yo, chill, ma,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “I got you.”

“Nigga, chill my ass. I want my motherfuckin’ shit. And I want it today. And I want another ten for you tryna finger-fuck me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, soundin’ like he was ready to raise up. “You buggin’ for real, ma. I said I got you. And that’s what it is.”

“Buggin’ hell, muhfucka! I tell you what, bring me my shit and the extra or we got problems. And that’s what it is. This is like the third time you tried some bitch shit on me, and I’m not the one. So, you betta buy a vowel and get a fuckin’ clue. Now what’s it gonna be, ’cause another body don’t mean shit to me.”

“Aye, yo. You tryna write a check you ain’t gonna be able to cash, baby girl. So watch how you come at me. I said I got you.”

I wasn’t tryna hear shit he had to say. I paced the floor, burnin’ a hole in my white Persian rug while clenchin’ my fist. On the real, this nigga really had me swole. My mind was made up. If this fat, black muthafucka didn’t have my money by day’s end, I was gonna stretch his ass. I didn’t give a fuck how many goons he had in his camp. I’d just lie in wait until the right time—I didn’t give a fuck if it took weeks or years. I would smoke his ass, real talk. There were two things you didn’t fuck over: my money, and my pussy. Try it if you want, and you got hell to pay.

I screamed on his ass. “No, nigga! You watch how you handle ya business. I ain’t one of them sucka-ass bitches you fuck with. My name ain’t Wonder Bread, and ain’t shit soft on me but my ass. Now, like I said, I want my shit . . . today!”

“Hold da fuck on,” he snapped. I pulled in a deep breath, then counted to ten. I heard muffled sounds in the background as he attempted to cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I welcomed the momentary silence. I knew the nigga really didn’t wanna beef with me. I was the best thing on his squad. Bein’ the only female on his team, as far as I was concerned I was his most valuable asset. And one of the baddest killers he had. Not only was I sexy as hell, I was reliable, dependable, and with the promise of a good fuck and dick suck, I seductively lured my marks into the Kat trap, then served them the heat—clean and swift. Of course the fuckin’ was a perk he acted like he wasn’t aware of because he’s never confronted me about it. But I knew he knew what time it was. Bottom line, no one suspected a chick like me was capable of slumpin’ muhfuckas. But I was. And I had no problem killin’ again, so dude had better play his position real quick, or he’d be next on the list to get earthed.

This fat, black, six-foot-three, three-hundred-and-thirty pound grizzly bear’s name is Cash. I met his ass at that spot the Brooklyn Café back in ‘03. The nigga approached me after peepin’ me mop a bitch’s ass across the dance floor for tryna shine on me in front of some niggas. Wrong move!

He was sitting at the bar when I walked over to order me a drink. Fightin’ that ho had a bitch’s throat dry. “Yo, ma, I dug how you handled ya’self out there,” he had said, eyein’ me real hard, lickin’ his lips like he was tryna suck my panty liner.

“Oh word,” I responded real easy-like. But in the back of my mind I was thinkin’: Why the fuck is this crusty, black muhfucka lickin’ his lips at me? I know this beast don’t think he’s L.L. or some shit.

He smiled, showin’ a top row of big teeth and big red gums. I yanked my neck back, tryna check my frown. “Yeah. You stomped chick’s back in.”

“Next time I’ma slice the bitch’s throat,” I snapped, tossin’ my fresh-to-death wrap—compliments of this Dominican spot up in the Bronx—and lookin’ him dead in his frog eyes. “Ain’t no bitch gonna talk greasy ‘n shit, then think shit’s sweet. I got somethin’ for that ass.”

I really wasn’t beat for all the chit-chat. I just wanted to wet my throat, get my dance back on, and chill with my girls. But, he insisted on tryna lean in my ear. “I hear ya, ma,” he replied, rubbin’ his chin. “I’ve been checkin’ ya all night. You seem like a real thorough chick. Where you rest?”

“Brooklyn,” I said with much ’tude. “Why?”

“How ’bout I buy you a drink, and we find us a spot to politic.”

I twisted my lips. “Nigga, I know you ain’t thinkin’ a drink is gonna get ya black ass some pussy.”
He laughed. “Chill, ma. I ain’t on it like that. Don’t get me wrong, you some real eye candy and I’d love to tap that ass inside out and all. But this is on some strictly legit shit.” I twisted my lips.

He flagged the bartender. “Get this beauty whatever she’s drinkin’.”

I smiled. Obviously, the nigga didn’t know just how deep my throat was. I ordered me two double-shots of Remy, peeped my girls gettin’ their drop ‘n pop on out on the dance floor, then followed dude to a corner table. As soon as we sat down, he got right to the point.

“Dig, how you feel ‘bout makin’ some real cheddar?”

I tossed my drink back. Although I was already sittin’ on cake thanks to a sudden windfall, a bitch was still boostin’. It was cute and it kept me laced, but that shit wasn’t pullin’ in no real paper. I wanted more. A chick like me, bein’ an opportunist, needed to step her game up and stack some real cheese, but pushin’ or holdin’ or transportin’ somebody’s weight wasn’t ever gonna be it.

“What ya talkin’?” I had asked, raisin’ my naturally arched eyebrow.

He leaned in real close, wrapped his thick arm around the back of my seat, then spoke into my ear. He said again he was diggin’ my style, then told me ‘bout a “work-for-hire” operation he ran, and how he was lookin’ for a thorough chick to be on his team.

“Hmmm,” I said, takin’ my second drink to the head. I studied dude’s swagger. He was ugly as fuck, but was dipped and paid. The nigga smelled like real money. And I wanted in. I peeped his Rolex, smilin’. “Order me another round, then let me sleep on it. A bitch don’t like to make any decisions when I’m gettin’ my drink and smoke on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you definitely the real deal. Here’s my card. Hit me when you ready.” He slid me his business card, then turned to step. He turned back around. “Yo, ma, you gotta name?”

“Katrina,” I said. “Kat for short. And you?” “Kashmir. But the streets know me as Cash.”

When the bartender returned with my drink, I smiled, liftin’ my glass. “I’ll get at ya.”

“Do that,” he replied, walkin’ off. I watched him give a few niggas pounds, then disappear out the door.

A week later, I called his ass and we spoke briefly. Then, the next day, we met for dinner at Junior’s in Brooklyn to discuss and finalize his offer. The paper was right, and it sounded sweet. Now, here I am, four years later, still fuckin’ with his slimy ass. Usually he was on point, but lately the nigga had been slippin’ and I really wasn’t feelin’ it. I didn’t give a fuck who he was, or how he got down for his. As far as I was concerned, the muhfucka could get it, too.

There were fifteen of us on this nigga’s money clip, and he received anywhere from five to twenty contracts a month, sometimes more. And he got paid well for the delivery of services; services that we carried out. The blood from my work was on my hands, not his. He had better recognize who kept him sittin’ his stankin’ ass up on his throne.

The longer he kept me on hold, the more heated I got. Dude was caked the fuck up and was on some real bitch shit tryna pinch corners with my paper. I’m sorry, but I was not diggin’ it at all! I was gonna have to make a major move, and soon, before I ended up shuttin’ his lights out.

“Yo,” he said, yankin’ me from my thoughts, “I’ma have that for ya in ‘bout an hour. You know where to go.”

“Yeah, muhfucka,” I said, suckin’ my teeth.

“Oh, and check this out. The next time you come at me like that, I’ma forget I don’t put my hands on bitches and knock ya fronts out, ya heard?”

“Don’t fuck with my money, then,” I warned.

“You heard what I said,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. It almost sounded like his nasty ass had his hand down in his pants playin’ with his shit. The thought made me sick to my stomach. “Watch how the fuck you come at me. You work for me, not the other way around. Don’t get the game fucked up.”

I knew I was playin’ with dynamite comin’ at his neck like that. This muhfucka was a real shiesty-type nigga. I knew that the moment I jumped on his team. I also knew he could be real shady if pressed, and had no problem settin’ that ass up lovely if he felt disrespected or played. But, at the moment, I didn’t give a fuck!

“And I’m the one out here puttin’ heat to these muhfuckas, so don’t hit me with that bullshit. I ain’t the one. Play ya position, cowboy, and have my shit. I deliver ya bodies on time, and I expect my paper delivered on time, in full. And I ain’t tryna hear shit else. So don’t try ’n dry-fuck me.”

“I done warned you,” he snapped, “and you still yappin’ ya fuckin’ jaws. You’se a crazy bitch.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut on his ass. “I’ll be glad when I’ve stacked enough money to get the fuck outta this shit once and for all,” I said out loud, slippin’ into a pair of sweats and a hooded shirt. I need a fuckin’ blunt, I thought, searchin’ for my stash. Fat muhfucka got my nerves rattled. I lit the blunt, then took a long drag, inhalin’ deep, allowin’ the smoke to flow through my nose and mouth simultaneously. I really hate fuckin’ wit’ these snake niggas, I thought, takin’ another deep, long pull before puttin’ it out. I’ll smoke the rest of this shit later. I grabbed my purse and headed out the house to collect my loot.

Forty minutes later, I was back in the same spot I’d started out from, watching the money counter count and total the rest of my money. Twenty thousand. I smiled, placin’ it in the floor-to-ceiling safe with the rest of my paper. It was like Bank of America up in this bitch. And I was lovin’ it. I stood there and stared at the rows of bills neatly stacked. The smell made my snatch tingle. I just wanted to fuck, and rub my pussy over every single bill. I pinched my clit, then clamped my legs shut before slidin’ my hand between my legs and slowly rubbin’ my pussy. A bitch was in heat. I needed to be fucked, deep, long, and hard. But there wasn’t one nigga on my roster who I wanted to come through and slay me. I wanted some new dick. I sucked my teeth, then walked into a smaller walk-in closet and opened up a chest full of sex toys. I pulled out a ten-inch dildo, then climbed up on my king-sized bed, spread open my legs, and slid it in and out of my hungry hole, deep-fuckin’ myself until my cum-soaked pussy dripped a stream of hot, sticky juice down the crack of my ass. My pussy lips flapped around the width of my manual dick as I used my other hand to press on my swollen clit, pullin’ the dildo out of me e’ery so often to lick and suck my sweet cum juice off my rubber companion. I want some dick! I screamed in my head. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” is the last thing I remember chantin’ and screamin’, before I closed my eyes and fucked myself into a deep, well-needed sleep.

If you enjoyed this excerpt of The Kat Trap by Cairo, you can purchase the book on Amazon.com at this link: http://www.amazon.com/Kat-Trap-Novel-Zane-Presents/dp/1593092288/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1246244159&sr=1-1

Thursday, June 25, 2009

When Rolling Dice Makes You Wonder if Your Man is Gay

Dear Zane,

I have been following your books since I was nineteen. Now I am twenty-five and I am even more infatuated with your work. I am engaged to be married in December of this year. My fiancé and I have been living together for three months. I have always heard that you do not know a person fully until you live with them. One night, we were playing with some sex dice. It was his roll and the dice landed on “lick my ass.” He did the unthinkable. He laid on his back and wanted me to lick his asshole.

I did not know if I should do it or run the other way. Do not get me wrong; I am a freak, but I think he has gay tendencies. I asked him about it; he told me that he had been molested as a child. My question is: am I tripping because my future husband is freakier than I can handle? Or is this something I should keep an eye on?

Signed,
Not So Sure


Dear Not So Sure,

I am not sure that you are so much concerned about your future husband being freaky as you are about him possibly being gay. Wanting to have your asshole licked, particularly during a game that calls for that very thing, is not all that suspicious. Let’s face it, it was not like he was the one that was going to have to do the licking, the dice had spoken, and he was simply complying. I remember when we used to play Truth or Dare when I was younger and the bottom line was this; either you did the dare or you lost. The prostate being played with is a great turn on for men, both straight and gay. That is not a defining act.

However, what worries me is his response that he was molested as a child. Not only might he be bisexual and eventually cheat on you with another man, he also might get caught up in a vicious cycle and become a sexual predator himself. If he was abused by a male family member, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he might equate those actions with love. Since you are getting married, I assume that you plan on having children. You need to think about long-term repercussions.

Between now and December, I would get some serious pre-marital counseling and possibly even have him seek therapy on his own. Before you react though, ask him more details about his molestation and try to gauge how much it has affected him. I see this as a much more serious matter than who is the freakier one.

I am not trying to scare you but I assume that you emailed me wanting my candid opinion. Too many people avoid and ignore warning signs early on in a relationship. In less than three months of living together, I am sure that you have learned a lot. While many people object to living together before marriage, I believe it is essential. Until you cohabitate and settle into a degree of “normalcy,” you never know what you are truly getting yourself into. Do not brush this off lightly. Everything happens for a reason, and so did those dice landing on “lick my ass.”

Blessings,
Zane

Marriage and Sex

Dear Zane,

Thank you for the books, manuals, television shows, etc. Your freedom and expression of sexuality for women is AWESOME! My wife is an avid reader of your books for entertainment and she loves the plots and storylines. I asked if the books turned her on, or make her want to open up sexually. She replied, “Not really,” but she enjoys the stories a lot. I asked if we could watch the show together; she loves it as well. We have determined that we have totally different sex drives. According to her and her friends, she is normal; I am on the extreme end.

We have passionate sex, MAYBE, once or twice weekly. The statistics say that the pace is normal for married couples in their late 30s, but I would like it more. My wife is sexy and beautiful; I express that to her as much as possible. I clean the kitchen every night; I bathe our young son, and prepare him for bed. I do everything that I can to share in the household duties. She shows me her appreciation often. We argue about the frequency of sex, not the quality, and it has become a sour subject for us to discuss. She believes that sex is on my brain too much; that I should accept and deal with what we have sexually. She claims that some of her friends only have sex, at best, once or twice a month. That works for them, but not for us. We have been together for twenty years and married for twelve. We have a “good” marriage, but I am sexually frustrated. I cannot express myself openly with my mate; I feel like something might be wrong with me. Should I seek counseling or therapy? Thank you in advance for your words. Please advise.

Signed,
Marriage and Sex

Dear Marriage and Sex,

I do not believe there is something wrong with you. People go through different stages in live, and so do their sex drives. You have been with her for twenty years and you are not even forty yet. I get the impression that the once or twice a week thing has not always been the case. If your son is still young enough to have to be bathed, then she may still be experiencing issues with postpartum depression. Trust me, I have been through that firsthand and it is no joke. There may be many contributing factors.

The good thing is that you are happy with the quality of sex but just want more of it. I guess that I am wondering what you do to initiate it and whether or not she flat out refuses you. I do not think you need to seek individual counseling but I do believe the two of you should go together. It is amazing, how people will take the advice of a stranger but not comprehend what is being said when the person closest to them in life says it to them. You seem like a great man. You said your marriage is “good” and that is wonderful. She may just be going through some things. Pressuring her for more sex might throw her into a defensive mode. Why not go more subtle and start doing things to her that you know she will not be able to resist. Sometimes fewer words and more action gets better results.

Blessings,
Zane

Full of Resentment Toward a Parent

Dear Zane,

I respect your advice and I hold your opinion highly. I am 22-year-old female, in college at an HBCU, and have a very good head on my shoulders. I have had a very good childhood, and my mother put me in the church at a very young age. Good morals and values are instilled in me. Here is the thing; I am a lesbian. My girlfriend is 27 and I love her dearly. She really treats me wonderfully, and I am happy with her. My father is pretty easygoing so I am not too worried about him. My mother is the Holy Roller. She is so heavenly bound that she is no earthly good.

I reside on campus and only come home to see my daughter. My parents keep her while I am in school. I visit during school vacations and in the summer. She has heard the rumors about my lesbianism and has even seen notes or overheard me talking on the phone to women. I believe that she is in a state of denial. If she sees something on television with two women, she will look at me and tell me that if I am living like that, I am going straight to hell. I will not be blessed. I am a sad, sorry, nasty ass person. I am disgusting, etc.

She also says that she will not allow me to raise my three-year-old daughter around that behavior. I will be a negative influence, and a bad role model for her. She also says that two women cannot raise kids and that we—myself, the kids, and my girlfriend—will not be successful and productive in society. She condemns me with every scripture in the Bible and is disgusted by the mere thought of two women being together. I could go on and on, Zane. I am not asking her to accept it or condone it. I am not asking her to be in my cheering section either. I do not bring it around her, nor do I discuss it with her. I treat my parents with the highest respect, and I would never disrespect them. I love them. I know that it will hurt her deeply if I decided to say fuck her feelings and do what I want to do, but I do not want to be her puppet.

I am the only child and my parents have run my life from the beginning. Everything that I have done has been for the happiness of my parents, but my mother is the forceful one. She is the one who wants things done her way, and you are going to do it or else. Zane, do I suck it up and get married to man, acquire the house, the car, the kids, and the dog with a white picket fence? I fear that, if I do, I will hold a lot of resentment toward her because I would not be happy. I am already feeling that way since she has run my life for the past twenty-two years. I want to do what I want. I take care of my daughter and I would not place her in a situation that I was not sure of. I want to be with my girlfriend, without the backlash of my mother. I feel as if she is hanging over my head and I have to constantly seek her blessing for anything, and for every decision that I make. She expects me to ask to her for approval, too. I love my mother, Zane. She is a really good mother who will do anything for me, and she only wants the best for me. I realize that, but I want to be able to live my life without being sentenced to death. Hell, every time we are in the same room, I do not want to do what she wants me to do. I do not want to find myself in my 50s, resenting my mother because of what I have done to please her.

How do I go about this? Do I go about this? I do not want her to speculate, guess, or assume about me any longer. I want her to know, for sure, from me. I cannot tell her from my lips. She accuses me of being a lesbian, but then she does not want to know. She did not raise a homosexual, according to her. It is damaging our strong mother-daughter relationship. Help!

Signed,
Full of Resentment

Dear Full of Resentment,

Yes, you should go about telling your mother the truth. She already knows; you simply need to confirm it. By no means should you marry a man and live a life full of pretenses. That would not be healthy for anyone involved, especially you. Your mother is in a state of denial but she will have to deal with it. You are her daughter—her only child—and as long as you are not engaging in criminal behavior (homosexuality is far from that, in this country) and more importantly, as long as you are happy, she should be happy for you. You cannot, and should not, force yourself to be someone that you are not.

Your parents have much to be proud of when it comes to you. You are a good mother, getting your education to better you life, and they have raised you right. What you do in the privacy of your bedroom should not matter. Sure, it will be an adjustment for your daughter but most states allow same-sex couples to adopt these days. Loving another woman does not make you a bad parent. It is important for our children to see us express love, so they know how to express it themselves when they get older. The same goes for hate. When they see it, they mimic it. That is why racism continues to exist. Children learn from their parents.

The fact that you resent your mother means that something has to be done. You cannot avoid the situation and you have to come back to see your child. She loves you or she would not be helping you to raise your daughter. Some grandparents do not want their grandkids to darken their doorstep, rather less live with them. That is truly a blessing, that they are willing to assist you with her care. Get this monkey off your back; life has enough other drama in store for you. Once your mother accepts it, and I believe that she will eventually when faced with the truth instead of speculation, she will still love you.

Blessings,
Zane

When Your Mate Gets Sick and Turns Into a Bastard

Dear Zane,

I am a 34-year-old woman with three kids. I have been involved with an older man—49—for five years. He got sick at the beginning of this year and I have been there for him. He has family but they do not do anything for him. He has been staying with his sister since he has been sick and she and I do not get along. In the past, he has helped with my kids and everything. But since he has been sick, he has become a very evil man. I tell myself that he is sick and that is all there is to it. I do not like being around him. When I do not come when he calls me, he thinks that I am out cheating on him. I tell him that I have three kids to take care of. I have missed days from work in order to care for him. I do love him but it is getting to be too much for me to handle.

Now that the kids are out of school, I am catching hell. I have to find activities for them to do, as well as take care of him, and I want to scream. Two weeks ago, my girlfriend and I went to the beach for the weekend. I met this guy; he was so nice and understanding of my plight. We talked for hours and had lunch together, just talking. But I feel like I would not mind taking it to the next level—sexually.

Should I feel bad because the man that I love is sick, evil and verbally abusive toward me? The man that I met is making me feel special and great. I do not know what to do. I do know that I am tired of being mistreated and abused by the man that I love. I need your advice to steer me in the right direction. Thank you.

Signed,
Ms. What to Do

Dear Ms. What to Do,

Wow, this is a tough one—even for me—but I will try to assist you. It is hard when those we love become ill. I had to take most of the day to think about how I should respond. The easy answer would be for me to say not to allow a man to mentally abuse you and to break it off immediately and do you; including doing the other man if you want to. However, after much contemplation, I am not going to say that.

This man has been there for you for five years. According to you, he has been good to you and your children, and you love him—dearly. Cheating is never cool. It is an easy fix, an escape from reality, but it is never a good move. That is for many reasons. First, you would not want someone to do it to you. Second, the person you are cheating with has questionable morals as well as yourself. Thirdly, at the end of the day, it normally amounts to nothing. Sure, you just met the other man a couple of weeks ago…on a romantic ass beach excursion at that. You had what I call a “vacationship” without the sex. Now the two of you are vibing, contemplating making plans, and the honeymoon stage of a budding relationship is in full effect. The problem is that you are already in a relationship.

Back to your current lover. Have you truly confronted him about your feelings? Or are you letting it all build up inside of you like a knot? He deserves a chance to rectify his actions. Why? Because you have known him long enough—five years—to realize that this is not normal behavior for him. When people get sick, they deal with it in different ways, and throughout different stages. Between denial and acceptance reside anger and depression. If this man is used to being independent and now has to depend on others for his basic care, he may be angry. If he feels trapped inside his own body that has betrayed him, and his girlfriend fifteen years his junior seems to be preoccupied—even if it is with her own children—he may be depressed.

Physical illness often begets mental issues. Hell, my kids and my man run for the hills when my period hits every month. My attitude is unbelievable. See if any of the medication that he is taking causes mood swings. Trust me, drugs can cause everything from hallucinations to bitchassness. If you were the one sick, if you had to have a mastectomy, and found yourself feeling like less than yourself, what type of basic human kindness would you expect people to exhibit toward you? Now I am not saying to accept the situation as is—I am saying to try to change it. That other man might look like a green pasture at the moment but remember, the other side of grass is dirt. Do not base your decision on one man because of what is happening for another. Two weeks of light banter cannot compare to five years of a serious relationship.

I am wondering why, after five years, the two of you are not living together or married, but that is another issue altogether. Go over there and talk to him—candidly. Express your love for him but tell him that he is systematically destroying your relationship. If he still continues to act the same way and makes no sincere effort to change; if he does not understand where you are coming from; if he flips the script and makes you out to be the villain, then you may need to end it. Keep in mind that your kids are attached but that is still no reason to stay. Just be prepared to take them through an adjustment period, because there will definitely be one.

Blessings,
Zane

Young and Needing

Dear Zane,

I want to thank you for writing those wonderful books. They have brought a lot of excitement into my sex life. I have a problem, and maybe you are the only person who can help me with this. I am nineteen years old and I have had three sexual partners since I was sixteen. Each one of them has been good but only one has made me climb the walls—if you know what I am saying. I am currently not in a relationship with anyone for many different reasons but my problem lies with my current mate. Even though we have not been sexually active as of yet, he gives me hints that he wants sex. I am a firm believer that you have to get to know someone before you just have sex with him. Like young and confused, I love having my pussy eaten but I do not think that he does that. Is there a way that I can ask him without being so blunt about the situation?

Signed,
Young and Needing


Dear Young and Needing,

You are averaging a partner a year so be careful. I am glad that you feel you should get to know someone before you sleep with them; you should. You state that you have a mate but you are not in a relationship. I am going to assume that you are casually dating but remain noncommittal and are simply going with the flow. That is a good thing; we should never rush matters of the heart.

Part of getting to know someone involves gaining information about their sexual past. Even at your young age, you have a sexual history and it is vital that both partners enter a situation with their eyes open. It is also important to be sexually compatible. Too many people wait until it is too late, when they are emotionally attached, before they deal with that issue. I would suggest that you have a candid discussion with the young man about his sexual history, his preferences, the things that turn him on and off, and whether or not he has ever contracted a venereal disease. Also, when was the last time he was tested for HIV. You need to be tested as well. It only takes one time to get pregnant and one time to catch something. They sell the tests in drug stores now. Do not be ashamed to buy one. A purchase does not imply you are positive; it proves that you are positive about living a fulfilled life.

Blessings,
Zane

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Dead Beat Dads

As I sit here cooking Father’s Day dinner for my own father, I cannot help but wonder what “Dead Beat Fathers” do on Father’s Day; including the ones who fathered my children. So I decided to do a blog about it. I hope that some dead beat fathers actually respond to it but I seriously doubt it. Most are too full of bitchassness to put themselves out there like that.

What do they do on Father’s Day? Do they lay in the bed all day watching television, playing video games, or sleeping through a Sunday before their work week? If they work. Do they go to church and praise the Lord, knowing good and damn well that they are one of the biggest demons walking the face of the earth? Do they play “Daddy” to their current woman’s children? Let the kids cook them dinner? Give them presents? Take them out to a restaurant? What do they do?

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Willing To Receive Oral Sex But Not to Give It

Dear Zane,

I am only fifteen years old and while I realize that I am a little too young to be reading your books, they are so interesting to me. I do not do the things that are said in your books but they do open my mind to new things that I would like to experience when I get older. Not only that, but your books do teach a valuable lesson. Well, the ones that I read so far. I am writing to you because I am young and confused. Today’s generation is growing up so fast and they want to try all of these things because they are influenced by their surroundings. I am one of these people.

Recently, I lost my virginity to a boy that I had known for some time. I realize that is young, and everybody says this, it just happened. I am not in love with him; I know the difference between love and lust, so you could say I am in lust with him. I told him that I would not have sex with anyone else until I am eighteen. The problem is that he wants me to perform oral sex on him. I have had my vagina eaten before and it was good. I would like him to do it to me, but he has refused unless I do it also. I understand that and I do not like refusing his wishes but that’s something that I will definitely not engage in until I get married. Yet, he constantly asks me every time that we have sex.

I miss having my pussy eaten and I went to a person’s house. He did it but also wanted to have sex with me. I was not having that. I am so confused. I am not addicted to sex and I do not like doing it behind my mother’s back, but I do like it a lot. The boy is kind of older than me. I think that all of this is going to blow up in my face soon. I have a gut feeling and I am not sure what it is; it is just bad. So what do you think I should do? Cut sex off until I am old enough to take responsibility and all the extra stuff that comes with it? Or stay with my one person that I have sex with and find someone else to do what I miss?

Also, can a person that has so many sexual fantasies stay away from sex for so long?

Signed,
Young and Confused

Dear Young and Confused,

Always follow your gut. It never lies. Be thankful that you have not ended up pregnant and count your blessings. You are not prepared to become sexually active. You are curious and that is normal but like you said, there is much responsibility involved. First of all, having oral sex can give you HIV. I seriously doubt that young man used a dental damn when he ate your pussy. Apparently there have been at least two who have gone down on you. The man you are with, who is older, is not going to settle for not having blow jobs. He has made that clear. Nor is he going to please you orally, which is fair. The person who is eating you out is not going to go without sex for long, either. You are playing with fire. Do not put yourself in the position to be raped. That might be the bad thing that you sense. Men—especially younger men—do not like women to play games with them sexually.

Your best bet is to concentrate on your education and hold off on sex, until you realize what you truly want. As for the fantasies question, many people start fantasizing about sex years before they engage in it—myself included. You do not have to act upon those feelings just for the sake of doing something with random men.

Blessings,
Zane

She Needs a Second Opinion: NOT!

Dear Zane,

I love the new APF book. I have been with this guy for two years and a half-month. He says that he loves me but we never spend his days off together and we never go out. His reasoning is that he is trying to save money to open his own business. Yet, he has no problem buying $200 champagne. I have never been to his home; he claims that he lives with an uncle and that he does not want to disrespect his uncle’s house by having an overnight guest. He loves to come over to my apartment, but can never spend the night. The sex is good but not worth the drama. I dumped him after I watched a woman and a child pick him up from work. I called him right as he was getting into the car but he did not answer. When I questioned him about it, he claimed that it was his cousin. I was really falling for him but the bullshit, not so much. He claims that I have been hurt in the past and that I am looking for every reason to break up. Since you have always been on point with your advice, I wanted to hear your outtake on this issue.

Signed,
Need a Second Opinion

Dear Need a Second Opinion,

You do not really need my opinion; you need me to cosign on what you already know deep down in your heart. That was his woman, and more than likely his child, in that car. He was going home with them to have dinner in their home. There might be an uncle but he does not live with him. Overnight guests prohibited or not, in two years he could have invited you over to watch a movie, eat dinner, meet the invisible uncle, or sit on the front damn porch and watch cars drive by.
You have already fallen for him, totally, and his bullshit, despite what you say. You have allowed this travesty to continue for more than two years. He comes over to your apartment, lies up with you like you are his personal hooker, purchases you expensive champagne to get into your drawers, and then rolls out. He spends his days off with his woman and child. He takes his woman and child out. He is not trying to be seen with you because it is too risky. If you take one more phone call from him, you have no one to blame but yourself. Do not worry about getting closure. Just close your legs. There is no need to have some conversation where he tries to make it seem like you are being delusional. The writing on the wall could not be clearer. You are his piece of ass on the side. Pure and simple. The only question now is, what are you prepared to do about it?

Blessings,
Zane

He Was Coming Back for Dinner and You Haven't Seen His Ass Since

Dear Zane,

I have a situation on my hands and I cannot take care of it. My sister’s boyfriend’s brother wanted to start a relationship with me. He cares about me; he loves me very much. He’s an older man, has three kids, and two troubling baby mommas. He told me not to worry about them; that they would not start any drama. One of the baby mommas found out about me and got jealous. One weekend, we made plans to go out and he got locked up. She lied and pressed charges, claiming that he hit her. Because of her, he spent forty-eight hours in jail. I got upset; I thought it was shady and wrong. A couple of weeks later, he was leaving town for a job interview. Somehow, his baby’s momma found out and set him up. Once again, he was in jail but this time, he was held on a $400,000 bond. She sent me a text and told me that I would not be getting anymore of his loving, or money. I told her that she would not either. You have kids and he cannot take care of them since you cannot let go of the past. He posted bail—his mother helped him out—and the day after, he came to see me and we chilled for a while. My sister and I planned to make dinner for him and he told me that he was coming back. Since that day, I have not heard from or seen him. I have moved on with my life, found someone new, but everyone thinks that I am wrong for that. I do not think so. Can you help me?

Signed,
What to Do


Dear What to Do,

The first thing you should do is thank God for removing that man from your life; seriously. He is what I call the perpetual victim. Everything is someone else’s fault. If they gave him a bail of close to half a million dollars, he more than likely committed a serious felony. His baby momma’s may not have been lying about him hitting her, but last time I checked, they did not set that kind of bail for that type of act. His mother is an enabler for helping to bail him out. You are willing to believe everything that comes out of his mouth. His baby’s momma is willing to fight over a no-good man. That’s right; no good.

Darling, if he has that kind of bullshit going on in his life, you do not need to be a party to it. Taking care of his children has nothing to do with someone getting over the past. A real man takes care of his children, no matter what. He laid down with those two women, and was not responsible enough to use a condom. He fathered those children. Now you want to make it your issue. Those kids will always be his kids, and those women will always be connected to him. That is, if he is a real man.

All of that aside, the real point here is that he told you that he was coming back for dinner and played a disappearing act on your ass. He has not called. He has not seen you. That means he does not want to see you. For those telling you that you did the wrong thing by moving on, tell them to worry about themselves. You would be a damn fool to even give your decision to find someone else two seconds worth of thought. What do they expect you to do? Give up your current man and sit and wait for the trifling ass man to show up?

The next time someone approaches you with that nonsense, block it out. I commend you for deciding to find someone new. Hopefully you are making better choices, though. Women tend to be attracted to the same type of men over and over. Make wiser decisions. Love does not have to come with drama and bullshit. Life has enough of that to offer without having to deal with it at home.

Blessings,
Zane

Monday, June 15, 2009

Young and Sprung

Dear Zane,

Let’s begin by saying that I’M SPRUNG. The truth is, I have been “friends with benefits” with this man for about four years. I am now nineteen and he is twenty-two, going on twenty-three. Over the past four years, I really meant it when I said “friends with benefits.” Occasionally, he would come over, talk, fuck, talk some more, fuck some more, and then leave. He would text me during the times when we did not see each other. But, as you would guess, I fell in love with this guy. Although we never had a real relationship or anything, he was the one person that I always felt comfortable around. I could talk to him about anything. I always noticed that he was on his “grown man;” always working, getting offered higher positions, and going to school to be an accountant. He also takes care of his little girl—by another woman.

He has the looks of a man that I want, shit, that I NEED, in my life. Standing six-two, dark-skinned, built, tats on both arms, and he always has the fresh cut and the cutest butt I have ever seen. He became the love of my life. Lately, over the past year or so, I placed all of my cards on the table and told him how I really felt. I wanted to talk about becoming girlfriend and boyfriend. For the first week or so, everything would work out. Eventually, we would always fall out and go back to simply being cool. I realized the cause of most of the falling outs, but, sometimes, I felt like he was pushing me away. When we are getting along, he tells me how much I have matured and how much he likes me and wants to see me, etc. Weeks later, I am still acting immature and looked upon as being a playa. At one point of continuing back and forth, I had had enough at least three times. I completely blocked him out of my head; at least, I tried to.

During the Super Bowl, he sent me a text and I gave him the cold shoulder. He claimed that he needed to talk to me face-to-face. That day did not come soon enough since I was now in college. He was in another city, working, taking classes, and being a father. On February 13th, he sent me a text and wanted to see me. He knew I was back home but something told me avoid him so I did. Ten minutes later, I received a longer text from him stating that he loves me the way that I am, that he does not want me to change, and, at the end he said, word for word, “I guess I’m just trying to say I love you.”

That made me the happiest girl ever. I felt like he realized that I loved him and he loved me. The question still remains: Why can’t we be together? Now, until this very day, we are only friends. I have finally stopped trying to make something work with him, if he is not willing to try and be with me. We became better friends my last month in college, texting every day nonstop, talking all day long, and chilling together when I got back home, etc. Although I still wanted to be with him, I noticed that our relationship was working out better this way. Since I have been back home, we hardly text. Seeing each other has not even come up; at least, not on his behalf.

When I told him that he had changed, he said that he did not want to crowd me. Yet, I still do not know what he meant by that. Zane, I am writing to ask you for hellified advice. I read your book, Dear G Spot, and your responses to relationship confusion and communication problems. Zane, I am confused. There has not been a night where I have not fallen asleep, dreaming about all of the things that I wanted to do to him. Shit, there has not been a morning, afternoon, or evening when I have not dreamt and fantasized about him.

Although I want him to be MY MAN and no one else’s, I do not think he wants that. I believe that he is happy where he is; wherever that may be. Sometimes, I still think he is with his baby’s momma but who knows. If you were in my position, Zane, what would you do? It seems like I cannot have a good relationship without wanting to still be with him, or being willing to cheat on my boyfriend because I would rather have him near me—even inside of me. Tell me straight up. Should I give up or try at least one more time?

Signed,
Young and Sprung


Dear Young and Sprung,

You ask me what would I do, and I am going to tell you, but I understand why it may not make sense to you. I remember when I was your age; when I still believed that with enough time and effort, with enough compassion and by exhibiting enough support, that any relationship could work out and any man would eventually appreciate me. Now I am much older and I realize that is not the case. You love him and part of him probably loves you; I do not doubt his sincerity in his text message. But something is holding him back. He knows that you are there and readily available to be in a committed relationship with him. You have asked for that very thing, over and over to no avail. Trying one more time will probably only leave you feeling dejected and upset.

Thinking about him constantly is not something that you can turn off like a faucet. Some people still fantasize about others years after the fact. What you do have to do is give yourself a reality check. For whatever the reason, whether he is overwhelmed with “grown man” business, overwhelmed with fatherhood, overwhelmed with bills, still engaged in intimacy with the mother of his child, or someone else, he has opted not to be with you. You implied that you have asked to get together since you came home from college, presumably about a month ago. He has not shown interest in that. You cannot make someone be with you. Even if you went to him, fell down on your hands and knees and begged him, even if he felt sorry enough for you to give it a shot, it would not be of his own doing, and it would not last.

Trust me, there are other fine men. There are other men who you would want to be your man. This young man is not for you. It is extremely difficult to change the dynamics of a relationship, especially after four years of being friends with benefits. Just because you want to take it to the next level, he is not required to do that, and he does not owe it to you to do that. There has been a lot of going back and forth. You have hooked up for sex, hooked up for love, and not hooked up at all. Things are not panning out. You have to clean out your closet. You have to open yourself to the possibilities of other men—good men. But you cannot expect another man to put himself on the line when you are still caught up. Cut off communication with him for awhile. It does not need to be permanent but you are being delusional and as long as you feel a connection to him, you are going to hold out false hope. You are in college in another city. By the time you go back to school this Fall, become a new person. Be ready to socialize, to meet intelligent young brothers who have things in common with you, and to be open to loving someone else.

Blessings,
Zane