My Best Friend and My Man Page 6

  —7—

  SEAPHES

  I love to fuck and I’m good at it. Not bragging. The truth. A lot of men brag about being good in bed, but this is how to know for sure. If a man fucks a woman one time and never has to call her again, that’s when you know you’re good. If you fuck her right, she’ll be calling you damn near every weekend saying, “Hey, my DVD player is acting up, can you swing by? I won’t keep you long.” Interpretation: my stuff needs to be sucked, you want to lick it?

  Oh, believe me, I’ve heard it all. I put it on these women just one time, and all of a sudden, their car needs an oil change, their refrigerator is leaking. “My cable is acting funny,” they say. You get the picture. These women couldn’t care less about getting stuff fixed—they just want to fuck. They want a skilled man to love ’em like they’ve never been loved before. Young, old, tight body, tens, banged-up faces, don’t matter. All women want a man to hold ’em at night, to listen to them bitch about their problems, a man who will be there to rescue them if they’re stranded on the side of the road.

  Problem is, I don’t want to be the fix-it guy anymore. I think it’s about time I settled down and pick the one. You know, the one woman in the world who captures your heart in such a way that you ain’t thinking about being with anybody else. Just her.

  Truth be told, I’ve been there before. Twice. I’ve met two women in my lifetime who caught my attention so tough I iced the others.

  My first fiancée’s name was Murenthia. Yep, a ghetto-ass name for a ghetto-ass woman. That was back when I was going through my ghetto bootie phase when I got caught up by all the trashy BET Uncut videos. The message in these videos was to get ass and get lots of it. And Murenthia’s ass was so big she could’ve rented it out as a shopping cart at Sam’s Club. You could’ve balanced two plates and a couple of drinks on that fat ass. I was blinded by her, too. Because what sane, intelligent man would’ve proposed to a woman who didn’t have a real job? She was “in-between” jobs, and for some odd reason, that didn’t bother me. Say what? All Murenthia had to offer was her juicy, fat ass. And that didn’t look to be changing—she was lazy as a dog with a broken leg. She loved to lie around as if she was crippled, refused to cook, and despised housework, because “I can’t stand getting my hands dirty.” But the woman had tons of energy when it came to partying, smoking weed, shopping for skimpy clothes, and getting her three-inch nails done. Guess who paid for all that?

  “The man is supposed to pay,” she’d whine. “My mama always told me that.”

  “Well, what is the woman supposed to do?”

  “She supposed to let her man pay, that’s what. Why you getting smart? I’ll leave your ass.”

  “Don’t leave me, Murenthia! You’re too sensitive sometimes.” Then she’d smile and suck a brotha’s dick like it was going out of style. She loved to suck me for hours, and I also loved that she was addicted to taking it from the rear. I’d get her ready and would use half a bottle of baby oil and pour it all over her big fat round ass. The oil made things so slippery you were never sure where your dick would end up. But that’s about the most fun I had with this chick. Being in bed all day. We’d be in the house so long I’d get cabin fever and feel disoriented, bumping into walls and needing to sit down and get myself situated. And that’s when I realized I couldn’t marry a woman like Murenthia. Why I gotta marry her just to get a piece of that fat ass?

  I asked for the ring back.

  “My mama said never give the ring back, why you trying to play me, Seaphes?”

  “You knew you weren’t going to marry me. Just be nice and give back the ring.”

  “You must think my mama raised a fool. I’m taking this bitch to the pawn shop. Hell, I need money for nails and hair since you ain’t hooking me up no more. A sista’s gotta do what the man won’t do.”

  I never talked to her dumb ass again and feel embarrassed that I actually used to tell her I loved her.

  The second woman’s name was Sapphire. I called her Fire. She was about five feet one inch, but walked like she was six feet two and strutting down a runway. She had her own life, made six figures, kept busy with her social circles, earned two degrees, had A-1 credit and no babies in her part of the family tree, and didn’t live with her mama and daddy plus her extended family. Fire cooked for me when she felt like it (which was usually every Sunday afternoon), and she got her nails and hair done every two weeks. No matter how much I fussed at her, she’d disagree with me if I was wrong, she’d ignore me if I was right, and she never emotionally broke down if she didn’t hear from me in three days. Fire could suck dick, too (not that dick-sucking is number one, but she had insane skills). This woman made ear-shattering noises when we fucked, too, and that’s much better than humping on a woman who is silent and stiff for two hours. (I mean, what’s that about? Give me something to work with, clap your hands or whatever, to let me know you’re having an okay time!)

  When you added up everything she brought to the table, Fire was all that. Made this boy run for the nearest jeweler, plunk down seven grand for a diamond engagement ring, the whole nine yards. When the big day came, I took her out on a dinner cruise and she acted unimpressed. Said she’d been on cruises much better than the one we were on, but when I asked if she ever got an engagement ring better than the one I’m giving her, she was like, “Seaphes, don’t play. What you talking ’bout?”

  “Here, woman,” I told her. “I love you. Will you be my wife?”

  “You can’t do better than that?” she asked, but I could still see her fingers trembling as if she was freezing cold. Fire held out her hand, and I slipped the ring on her finger. Thank God it fit perfectly. Thank God she said yes, thank God…but just because a woman says yes doesn’t mean she’s your wife. Fire wore the ring, flashing it proudly like it was a Rolex, but this woman took her sweet time about making wedding plans. She was on a career track and needed to stay focused, so she said. She told me, “We can be engaged for a couple of years, no need to rush.”

  I said, “What the fuck?”

  She said, “You heard me. Let’s take our time.”

  I said, “Why? You not sure you wanna do this?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “you know I wanna do this, but I wanna do it correct.”

  I didn’t know what that was all about, but I took her advice and took a crack at chilling, not getting my drawers in an uncomfortable bunch, and let my woman have her way. First sign that something was twisted was when I’d introduce Fire as my future wife, but she was still calling me her “significant other.”

  “Fire, why can’t you call me your fiancé?”

  “I just hate how it sounds.”

  “Well, I hate how ‘significant other’ sounds.”

  “Oh, man, stop whining. You sound just like a woman.”

  I shut my woman-sounding ass up. I could only hope she was going through a temporary insanity phase. That she’d wake up, think long and hard, and realize how good she had it.

  Check out my résumé.

  1. I am an employed African American man who doesn’t live with his mother.

  2. I do not have any wayward children running around.

  3. I am not attracted to my sex.

  4. I pay my bills on time, no repos, no foreclosures, none of that.

  5. I pay for dates, no going dutch, no letting her pay taxes or tips. I pay it all.

  6. I know how to take a woman someplace to eat besides Luby’s or Red Lobster. I’m not opposed to Ethiopian, Jamaican, French, soul food, Italian, seafood, or sushi.

  7. I have never been arrested. I pay my speeding tickets. There are no warrants. I don’t punch in for weekend jail time.

  8. I know how to switch out a lightbulb and fix a flat tire. (Don’t laugh. Some so-called men act like they can’t do anything on the maintenance tip and won’t lift a finger to even try.)

  9. I still open doors for women instead of letting the door slam in their faces because I foolishly think women are so independent that
they don’t require a man to have manners anymore.

  10. I love to fuck and I’m good at it.

  Now, I stopped at ten but could have added at least ten to twenty more. Bottom line is I have umpteen admirable qualities that any woman can see. But Fire? Fire still dragged her feet. She was moving so slow that after eleven months with still no more talk about a wedding I said, “Fuck it.” I fucked her one last time, then I broke our engagement. Told her to keep the ring (she did), and I took a couple of months to reevaluate the situation. What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t she rushing me to the altar like most normal women?

  And I figured it out—she was just too independent. There’s something to be said for someone who can show you a little vulnerability, who can feel like someone who might want or need you around once in a while. Her mind wasn’t even on me, and it certainly wasn’t on our wedding. I like a girl who’s got her own thing going on, but not when that’s all she’s got room for. Well, I found out the truth a few months down the road.

  I was at a crowded Greek restaurant with one of my boys. We were having a good time, and it was something I needed and I was feeling real good just talking to my boy. Later on, who struts inside the restaurant but Fire with two other people? All of them sit at a table near us. I see her, but she never sees me watching her sit comfortably close to someone who I now realize is her significant other.

  The two locked eyes several times, smiling widely and laughing together.

  They sat shoulder-to-shoulder and ate gyro sandwiches and pork chops from each other’s plates.

  And when they moved their heads in together and kissed each other on the lips, sticking wet tongues inside each other’s mouths, that’s the moment I got over Fire.

  Because if a woman I love is kissing another woman in public, then she’s not the woman for me. So Fire did me a favor, with her undercover lesbian/bisexual/carpet-munching ass. The end.

  So that’s the past. Terrible. I need a different type of woman, someone who can appreciate a good brotha like myself. Someone who won’t take advantage of my kindness, dogging me out just because she thinks it’s her God-given right. I need a woman I can fall in love with, stay in love with, and know she’s not on a mission to disrespect me and break my heart. I’ve got some rules:

  No stalkers (meaning no women who call me twenty times a day and do drive-bys to find my car because they want to know where I’m at every second).

  No women who know the ins and outs of DNA tests.

  No women who won’t work because they’re “too cute for all that” (no woman is that cute).

  No women who go from sugar to shit in five seconds (at least pretend like you’re emotionally stable).

  No women who judge me solely based on my zodiac sign (I’m an Aries by, the way, and yep, we’ve got to be in control).

  No women who have the nerve to ask for money and I’ve only known them for a few days (do I have stupid written across my forehead?).

  I could go on and on until the sun reverses the way it turns, but you can figure it out. I have these standards, my little wish list: I want a woman who’s honest, has integrity, and is a good listener. I want a woman who has the sweet side but knows how to speak up if I say something certifiably stupid. Basically it just adds up to this: I want a woman whom I can love and respect and who will love and respect me back. That’s where I am right now. Expunging the old and preparing for the new.

  I think it’s time for your boy Seaphes to date smarter. Take my time and find a woman who once and for all deserves to be part of the Hill family.

  And I won’t stop until I find her.

  —8—

  VERON

  I am an active member of a book club and have been for the past three years. Our next monthly meeting will be held the third Sunday in March, and I’m hosting, so I get to pick the book we’re going to discuss. And it’ll be fun sprucing up my apartment so it is comfy for the twelve members.

  Of course, Demetria is the one who invited me to visit the club in the first place. “It’s the bomb, girl. We just sit back, let our hair down, eat good food, and spread all our business. It’s very therapeutic.” I was skeptical at first. I don’t exactly consider spreading my business something that’s therapeutic. But I was hooked from the moment I walked in the door.

  The thing that makes a club successful is the members. The main chicks are Gladys, a sassy, shapely sista who has been divorced two times, so she knows all the ins and outs of dysfunctional relationships. Then there’s Tweetie, who’s always smiling, positive, demure, and considerate. Tweetie has the huge shoulder you gotta cry on when you’re going through hell—no judging, just loving. I’ve also bonded with Mia, a Puerto Rican cutie who acts as if the world revolves around her. I don’t think she’s ever paid a bill in her life, and believe me, she wants to keep it that way.

  Every book club has a member who loves to spread negative energy. For us that would be Fonya. (Who the heck would name their child Fonya?) She never agrees with anything the other members say, even though she rarely finishes reading the books. She’s often broke and always begs us to pass along our books to her.

  And who can forget Elle? If I could trade places with anyone besides Demetria, it would be Elle. She’s confident, stylish, upwardly mobile, and is engaged to a gorgeous hunk of a man named Darius. They make the perfect couple. Neither of them has ever been married. They’re fresh, unspoiled, and ready to support each other. Their love for each other sickens me at times. But I force myself to watch so I can model myself after people who are doing the damn thing the right way.

  So today I sent out a group e-mail to let the book club know that my pick for March is Why Men Love Bitches. I’ve already started reading the book and figure it will make for great discussions.

  Demetria agreed to come over and talk about the book with me tonight—it’s Sunday, one of the rare days when she takes a break from Thaddeus and her other men to spend time with friends.

  “Girl, I am not dumb,” she told me one time. “I know better than to always lay up with my men, neglecting my girls, and only coming around them after I’ve kicked a guy to the curb.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” I told her. “I know I’d never get a chance to see you if you didn’t specifically make time for me.”

  “I lost a really close friend because I chose a man over her,” Demetria said. “Her name was Wanda. She begged me not to get too chummy with this guy, but I figured she was a hater and I iced her. Imagine how bad I felt when only two short months later, my dumb-ass boyfriend was busted for selling two pounds of cocaine to an undercover cop, got arrested, and had to do a bid. I tried to reconnect with Wanda, but she never answered or returned my messages. I was really hurt, and I learned my lesson. So now I always leave time to hook up with family and friends, and if my man is too possessive or can’t understand, well, too bad for him.”

  Now, when I see this other side of Demetria, the caring side, it makes me able to tolerate her more snarky side. I know she has a good heart, even though her bluntness jars me at times. At any rate, I am having fun today reading my book-of-the-month, and I can’t wait to discuss these relationship issues with Demetria.

  I manage to read and outline four chapters when my cell phone rings. I look at the display and smile a little. I take the call, but don’t say anything.

  “Veron, stop playing games,” Ferris says. “C’mon, baby girl, I didn’t mean to act like an ass. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  I quietly giggle and settle back on the couch, pressing the phone close to my ear.

  “I miss you. I haven’t even been able to eat, sleep, nothing since you dumped me.”

  “I didn’t dump you,” I say.

  “Baby girl? You finally talking to me?”

  “I just wanted to hear what you had to say. But I’m not talking to you.”

  “Awww, baby, it’s so good to hear your voice. But look what you’ve done to me. I’ve lost three pounds, haven’t been in
the mood to go to church.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t let lil’ ole me come between you and your God. Plus, big as your church is, there are plenty of single women. I’m sure you can find someone else.”

  “Don’t want anybody else. I want you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why else would I put myself through this? You hang up on me all the time. I waste my minutes calling you and leaving long voice mail messages.”

  “Oh, so calling me is wasted minutes?” I say, insulted.

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that trying to win you back is costing me. I–I even got you a real nice present, but you not even decent enough to let me bring it by. You acting so different you got me wondering that you might pack a gun now or something.”

  “Ferris, why would I waste my time shooting you? Huh?”

  “Why you treat me so bad after all we’ve been through? I mean, what have I done?”

  “You know exactly what. You disrespected me.”

  “If you think I did then all I can say is I won’t ever do that to you again. I promise. Shelly is through, anyway. She was just some crazy girl who begged me to take her to the concert. But I ain’t got time for all that. She’s not my type. And she can’t compare to you, for real though.”

  I thoughtfully chew on my bottom lip. But no, if the girl hadn’t gotten sick on Valentine’s Day, Ferris wouldn’t have called me at all. And that’s unacceptable.

  “I don’t like playing second fiddle to any woman, Ferris.” I spoke clearly and strongly. “I must be number one.”

  He gasps. “That’s the only way I would have it, Veron. You are my number one.”

  “Your number one what?” I ask, feeling a mixture of strength and weakness. Number one fool? Doormat?