Cairo - The Man Handler

I often wonder how many women buy into that “It’s better to have a piece of a man, than no man at all” mess. I bet there’s hundreds of thousands, maybe even a few million women who embrace that distorted foolishness, causing them to shed tears, lose sleep, and fight to hold on to a man whom they love more than they love themselves; women who sacrifice and lose pieces of themselves for the sake of having a man in their lives, no matter the cost, no matter the loss. A part of me wants to feel sorry for them, wants to be able to empathize with them; but because I’ve never been there, I can’t bring myself to develop any level of understanding as to why any woman would choose to keep a man in her life who emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, and (most times) financially drains her.

But for the ones who do, does this make these chicks stupid? Does it make these women victims of their own hearts? Does it mean they lack self-love? Are they bombarded with insecurities? Do they feel trapped?

I mean, really. Why in the hell would any sane, rational woman put up with that shit? Hmmm…maybe she’s not sane. Perhaps that’s the damn problem. Her ass is downright crazy for thinking she doesn’t deserve better! Ugh! I need to go lie down. This shit has given me a damn splitting-ass headache. Later!

At the moment, I have three steady men (not including Garrett and Maurice) who are on call whenever and however I need ’em. I call ’em my three sex charms because I fuck ’em in threes. Three’s a charm, and I keep my pussy wrapped around their dicks like a tennis bracelet. Not only are diamonds a girl’s best friend, so is a thick, stiff dick. And that’s exactly what all three of ’em have.

First, there’s sex charm #1: Jamil. He’s five-eleven, 195 pounds of lean muscle, packing a solid seven-and-a-half inches of thick beef. I met him while standing in line at Commerce Bank. He’s a Gemini, moody and unpredictable. One minute he’s blowing my phone up, scratching and sniffing around like a dog in heat, hounding me for some more of this pussy. The next minute, he’s as cold and distant as an Alaskan polar bear. Probably because of all the stress he catches from his six baby mommas and the chick he’s currently living with. By the time he shells out child support for his ten kids, he barely has enough money for himself. And he knows not to ask me for anything. His financial state is not my problem. I have no sympathy for his dumb ass, which is running around breeding with everything moving. And the crazy mofo’s talking about he wants to have three more. Go figure. I guess he’s gonna try for a baker’s dozen. Humph. Whatever! The only thing he can do for me (at the moment) is eat my pussy, and serve me the damn dick.

Next is sex charm #2: Wade, a six-foot-three, 215-pound solid hunk of smooth, milk chocolate with long lashes wrapped around the most entrancing pair of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen on any human being. Hanging between his chiseled thighs is a thick, eight-inch dick with enormous veins running along the shaft and a big mushroom head, and attached to this beautiful chocolate dick is a set of huge, hairy balls. His dick sort of reminds me of a miniature baseball bat, narrow at the base, thick at the shaft. Just looking at him makes my pussy tingle with delight.

Wade is a college graduate and owns his own landscaping business. I’ll admit, if I were ever looking for a steady piece of dick, he’d definitely be the one. Okay, well, maybe one of the ones. Besides the fact that he’s intelligent, fine as hell, and has no children and no chicks, he eats pussy like it’s the only thing on the menu, and he can fuck practically all night. That’s exactly how I like it. Usually after he’s finished digging my back out, I can still feel him inside of me for at least two days, and then can’t fuck anyone else for another three. That’s how good he wears this pussy out. The only problem: he’s twenty-five. And that’s entirely too damn young. For a relationship, that is.

Last, but definitely not least, is sex charm #3: Mitchell. Mitchell is six-one, two-hundred pounds, and the color of midnight with a ten-inch dick that curves to the left. And he’s freakier than a mutha. The last time we were together, he poured chocolate syrup in the crack of my ass, then licked and tongue-fucked my asshole clean. I almost lost my mind. He can get it almost anytime he wants it. However, I won’t let his freak-nasty, ass-eating self kiss me.

And of course, there’s Garrett, who comes through once every two weeks or so. Well, uh, that’s what he used to do. Lately, it’s been every chance he can get. I’m not too sure what that’s about. But he keeps coming—in more ways than one. And I keep on spreading open my legs and fucking him.

Anyway, then there’s Maurice whom I fuck once or twice, sometimes three times a year due to his work, travel, and family obligations. And now there’s Wendell, who is still new on my dick list. But before Jamil, Wade, and Mitchell, there were Tyrone, David, and Solomon. And before them: Reggie, Carlos, and Martin. And before them: Cedric, Eli, and Thomas.

Okay. For those of you who might not have picked up on it, I fuck my men in threes. And I usually rotate ’em in threes. Basically, I change my men about as many times as I change the oil in my car, practically every three thousand miles. Or every three months, whichever comes first. I drain ’em, dump ’em, then move on to something fresh and new. It’s the only way to go. So, basically, I’ve never had an issue getting a man. Now, getting rid of his ass is sometimes another story. One we’ll get to at another time.

Oh, you wanna know why I fuck ’em and rotate ’em every three months? Well, because in my experience, it takes about three months before a mofo starts trying to check for you like he’s your damn man, or before he starts getting too damn comfortable and starts expecting shit from you, or thinking you want something from him, or before he starts trying to move his ass up in here. Sorry, boo-boo, I’m not having that shit under any circumstances. I don’t care how good he digs my back out. A man is only good for three things: Fucking, fucking, and more fucking! Other than a stiff dick, there’s nothing he can offer me. At least I’m honest about that, and I let them all know from jump what the deal is. He doesn’t have to worry about me trying to get him to pay my bills, or keep my hair and nails done. I’m more than capable of doing those things for myself. And I expect him to be able to do the same for himself. No , you can’t get a ride. No , you can’t get a hot meal. No , you can’t stay the night. No , you can’t move in. No , you can’t use my address or have your mail coming to my house. It ain’t gonna happen. I’m not running a bed and breakfast, a motel, or a damn shelter. So lick the clit, serve the dick, and be on your merry way. Sine qua non , bottom line: I want his ass out of my house before sunrise. No exceptions!

Please. Say what you want. Some dudes don’t seem to understand what the hell “no strings attached” means. Hello. It means, let’s fuck and have a good time without you trying to crowd my space, be all up in my damn face questioning me like I owe you something, or trying to keep tabs on me. Negro, get a grip!

And I’ve also found that within three months, whatever drama a man has in his life will eventually find its way into yours if you’re not on point. That’s why it’s always best to fuck ’em and dump ’em within ninety days. Come to think of it. I’m really starting to believe that there really are some things money can’t buy. And, baaaaaaby, let me tell you. Hassle-free dick is one of them!