Her: Part I

I never understood what it was about orgasms that made women so fucking clingy. After sex, all I ever wanted to do was have a cold beer and watch some tv. Before Jasha, as soon as I came, I would saunter into the kitchen and enjoy a Budweiser while the random broad I had knocked down that night slept in my bed.

Alone.

I wasn't that big on cuddling and I never got sleepy afterwards, just thirsty and bored. I didn't understand the so-called beauty and bonding that came from making love but I reveled in the carnal pleasure received from random fucking.

So you can imagine the tedium of this semi-spooning exercise she always had me in. She'd cum and then trap me in her former-track-star thighs that would wrap around my back and then fall asleep. I hated that shit.

I loved fucking her though. Her pussy was the perfect combination of vice-grip tightness and and broken faucet moisture. The aforementioned thighs ran up to curvy hips, a taut stomach and an ass that would have you convinced her mother was half-thoroughbred. A perfect pair of C-cupped breasts and nipples the size of gumdrops made her body the perfect buffet for my hungry libido to get its fill. Not to mention, she was always down to fuck. No matter if I lasted five minutes or if we were in the middle of a marathon session, she never once complained. Hell, she never even said "Harder!" or "Faster!" just "Yes! Give it to me, daddy!" or "Damn nigga! I love this fat ass dick!" Then after she came, she would use her thighs to keep me from leaving her bedside. At first, I absolutely hated that shit but after a while I grew accustomed. She would fall asleep moments after sex while I stayed awake staring at the ceiling.

That was our only problem. Well I take that back... that was our only problem besides the real problem.

Despite the undying love this woman had for me, I didn't love her.

I simply couldn't.

Not because of anything she did. She was admittedly perfect.

But I had never managed to love anybody after my aunt passed away. After that, I kept everyone and everything at an arm's length. They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but that's the biggest piece of shit I've ever heard.

My parents passed away when I nine years old. We had just moved down to North Carolina from the Bronx when a brown Buick tore into the front of our minivan and my father was killed on impact. My mother died on the way to the hospital. Nobody would take me in other than my Aunt Claire. I didn't have much family other than her anyway and she ended up being all I had ever needed.

She used to say I was quite the charmer when I was younger. Whenever her friends would come over to play bidwhist, I would be right there smiling and telling them how beautiful I thought they all were. There weren't many Black girls my age in the neighborhood. The women, in turn, became the only interactions I had with the fairer sex besides the minimal ones at school. But regular teenage girls intimidated me more than the grown women I encountered on an almost daily basis. In fact, resources for sex were so grim, I lost my virginity to my aunt's 37-year-old friend, Olivia, the summer before junior year. Strange as it may sound, those were the best of times for me. You couldn't stop me from smiling.

That all changed when my aunt told me that the reason she was so tired all the time was due to the cancer that coarsed through her veins and completely took over her body. She died less than a month later and after that, nothing could save me as I refused to love another person.

EVER.

I turned my affections towards inanimate objects. Things that, even if I lost them, could be easily replaced. Jewelry. Money. Cars. I loved my 2008 Chevy Tahoe. Navy blue, fully loaded with leather seats, mp3 player and a nice set of 24 inch rims. I felt like a million bucks in that motherfucker. It was the only thing I could say that was really a decent purchase after I looked back on it. The best part about it was if I ever got into an accident and lived to tell about it, I could just go back to the dealership and duplicate it to my liking.

When Aunt Claire passed, she left me her house and $47,000. The money went towards the truck obviously as the house was already fully furnished. I had always loved her house. With three bedrooms and three bathrooms, it was more mansion than anything. Surprisingly, it was still a home of warmth. The house opened up to a two-story foyer that led to a long hallway. The kitchen was always stocked with my favorites like Little Debbie snack cakes and Campbell's Tomato Soup. On Sundays, the house smelled of my aunt's famous cinnamon rolls. Outside was a big backyard surrounded by woods to give you a sense of security and also to provide shade in the sweltering North Carolina summers.

It wasn't until the following summer, that I actually left that house. Until that point, I'd been too scared to leave. I'd only left because I was running low on money. I was 19, a little less than educated and had bills that needed to be paid. So I did what anybody else in my position would have done: I sold drugs.

I had just really got on my grind a few months ago and the money was coming slowly but surely. On this particular morning, I had just left the dope house and was riding down the boulevard with the sun barely peeking over the top of the buildings downtown.

I hadn't told Jasha about my current occupation because I didn't want her to think I was some average nigga selling weed to buy cheeseburgers combos or trying to stunt at the club like I was a somebody. I knew in my heart I'd end up doing great things but the average hood bitch is only about what they can see you doing now. Trying to sell a broad your pipe dream was like a Jehovah's witness talking to a gangbanger-- they weren't trying to hear that shit.

So, I just told her I worked security at a few strip clubs around town. At least then she could think I had a regular job. The late hours and constant stench of cigarette smoke actually helped corroborate my story so she never questioned me.

Upon returning to the house that morning, I smelled pork bacon and French toast. I walked into the kitchen to see Jasha swaying her ass in grey cotton shorts to Anthony Hamilton blasting over the speakers. I tiptoed up behind her and gnawed softly on her neck.

"Stop Antonio," she moaned. "You gotta get outta here before my boyfriend gets back."

"Oh, so you got jokes now huh?" I laughed.

"Oh baby! Its you!" she said feigning surprise and shock. "I thought it was my other boyfriend."

"Mmmmmhmmmmm. Good morning."

"Good morning, baby," she said kissing me passionately. "I'm so glad you're home. We need to talk."

"The only thing I wanna talk about is you coming out of these little ass shorts," I replied running my hands along her flat stomach. "Watchin' all them hoochies shake they asses all night got a nigga horny as fuck."

"In a minute baby. I really need to tell you something. Just take a seat in the living room, I'll be in with your breakfast in a little while. Then after you eat, I'll let you beat this pussy up. Deal?"

"Ok," I shrugged, playfully slapping her right ass cheek. "Don't take too long, girl."

Upon walking into the living room, I clicked on the television to catch the 8 am SportsCenter coming onESPN. To my surprise, they were running a story about one of my old homies, Chop. Dude was two years ahead of me so like most people after graduation, I hadn't seen him in a while. Turns out, he'd parlayed his 6-4, 290-pound frame into a football scholarship at Clemson University. Dude was one of the best defensive ends in the nation.

"Damn," I said. "I'm so caught up in the grind out here, I aint even know my nigga was killing shit. I know his paper is about to be real long."

I watched for a few more minutes until a commercial break ended the segment on Chop. I rose to walk into the bathroom. Before I could make it the door, Jasha ran in and blocked the entrance.

"Baby, you can't go in there!"

"Damn babe. You just drop a log or something?" I chuckled. The look in her face told me she was worried about something much more serious than the stench from her latest bowel movement. "Damn girl. What's wrong? You got the kinda look on your face like you about to tell a nigga some bad news."

Her eyes shifted to the floor and she ran her fingers through her locks. Reluctantly, she sighed and proceeded to open the door. As it creaked open, I glanced into the small bathroom and seemingly everything was in order. No dead bodies. No foul stenches. That's when I saw it. Out of my periphery, the most horrifying thing imaginable lay in my crossheirs and the pure horror of it made me pass out...




...to be continued...