Single Husbands Page 22

  HoneyB Tips

  If you’ve never been to a sex club or swingers club and are considering going after reading Single Husbands, here are my suggestions:

  1. Know what pleasures you want to derive from going to a sex club before you get there. Don’t set your expectations high on your first visit. In fact, I recommend being a voyeur on your first visit or joining in with a small group in a private room. Most folk can sense the amateurs right away, so chill for a moment. Act like you’re a veteran.

  2. Be safe. There are so many places to choose from. Do your online research ahead of time. Ladies, invite a friend to go with you. I find that most people—men and women—want to experience a sex and/or swingers club at least once. So trust me, don’t hesitate to ask that friend to go with you.

  3. If you’re planning your first visit, don’t ask the person you’re dating, or the person you’re attracted to, to go with you. Ten times out of ten, it’ll ruin your relationship beyond repair.

  4. Be prepared. Read the acceptable attire and club rules online before going to the club. Almost all clubs require you to bring your own alcohol. For the BYOBs, you can also premix your drinks to your liking, but you will probably be required to let the bartenders on duty serve your alcohol to you.

  5. If it’s a club you’ve never visited, I highly recommend that you call ahead (there should always be a phone number listed online) with your questions. Drive by the club during the day. Ask to tour the club, preferably during the day, but definitely before you pay. I’ve found some clubs unsanitary. Just like a restaurant, always check the restrooms for cleanliness and hygiene supplies. Also, check the showers. Most people don’t use the showers at the club, but you want to make certain they’re clean. This signals the standards for the club.

  6. Bring your own condoms—ladies especially. Your body is your responsibility. Trust me, some guys will try to hit it raw, especially in the private rooms. Don’t let them. Most clubs provide condoms but they may not supply quality brands. Also, if you’re doing a ménage à trois, and the guy is double-dippin’, make sure he changes the condom between penetrating others. Trust me, he won’t care, but if you don’t know the other person (and even if you do), you don’t know what, if any, STDs they may have.

  7. Ladies, do not go to sex clubs with your man just to appease him. Neither of you will be happy. I observed a threesome at a sex club where the man anxiously wanted to fuck both his woman and their invited partner, another female. His woman clearly did not allow him to perform oral copulation or vaginal penetration with the other woman the entire time. However, in the dressing room, I observed this same man begging to taste the woman’s pussy before his woman came in. And, yes, the woman did allow the guy to do so. A man is going to get his; so, ladies, you should too.

  8. Get your sexy on! Your body type or size only matters if it matters to you. There is somebody for everybody at the sex club, and a lot of men are curious about plus-sized women. They specifically want to have sexual experiences with all types of women.

  9. Beauty starts on the inside. Don’t go to a sex club if your self-esteem is low that day. Go when you’re ready for the overall experience. Don’t worry about how others will judge you if you tell them you went to a sex club. It’s your life. Tell them what HoneyB would say, “Don’t waste your life trying to live mine.”

  10.Be great to yourself and live in the moment.

  Honey Bits

  Ladies, do you wanna look better… just a little bit? Do you want to get sexy… just a little bit? Test a small area of your body to avoid allergic reactions. Well, here are a few of my Honey Bits:

  Put your best face forward. Smile often, it’s free. If your face is bland like mine, I do recommend permanent makeup. Nothing drastic. Start off slow. I jumped in and had my eyebrows, eyeliner, and lips done the same day. That was way too much. Focus on one area at a time. And do get referrals and recommendations from previous clients before having any services done. Ask your girlfriends. Some of them may have permanent makeup and you don’t know it.

  Exfoliate your face and body twice a week. If you can’t afford facials and body scrubs, there are do-it-yourself products you can buy. The grocery store has the best natural products. Fresh lemon juice and sugar mixed is the best hand scrub. Rubbing the inside of fresh peaches in circular motions on your face and body works wonders. One cup of plain yogurt mixed with a tablespoon of turmeric, located in the spice section of your grocery store, tightens your skin. Leave it on for ten minutes, shower off, and you’ll notice a tighter and smoother feel immediately.

  Take care of your hair. Licensed stylists don’t always know what’s best for your hair. Don’t be reluctant to ask what products are best for you. Shampoos that are alcohol-based will dry out your hair. Use a silk shampoo. And make certain your conditioner has protein in it. If you have locks like I do, and you’re experiencing hair loss or damage, I highly recommend you e-mail Davette Mobry of Beverly Hills in San Antonio, Texas, at IBraid@satx.rr.com.

  HoneyB Safe: Don’t Get Stung

  I can’t say that every woman wants to fuck a professional athlete, so I’ll speak for myself. This particular person is definitely high-profile, so I won’t disclose his identity. Based upon this novel, Single Husbands, trust me: the obvious is not so obvious. Don’t waste your time trying to decode names, places, or characters in this or any of my novels, trying to figure out my sexual partners. Actually, his name is insignificant; the situation I found myself in was jaw-dropping.

  I wanted to sex one of the players on this team for years, so when I had the opportunity, I did, but I didn’t necessarily fuck the one I fantasized about the most. The man I had sex with, on about a half-dozen occasions or so, was wonderful, from oral copulation to deep penetration. He had a great personality, sense of humor, and commitment to his family. I never wanted to be his woman or his wife. I was in control and very clear about our friendship with benefits.

  Now, I’m not the kind of woman to bring drama to any man’s front door. Never have. Never will. It’s not productive or necessary, because there is a plethora of dicks hanging around longing for a pussy to get into. But when this man—whom I considered a friend—called himself, putting me, HoneyB—a single and uncommitted woman—in check, he’d basically fucked up, and fucked with the wrong woman. I’m about as nice as women come (and cum), but nonsense and bullshit from men (irrespective of their status) with double standards, I can’t digest or comprehend.

  I’m going to paddle doggie-style into this situation. This piece is not written with malicious intent; which is why I will not mention his name, but he’s smart. He’s never confronted me again. Did he not remember that I am from New Orleans, Louisiana? Southern women are the most loyal group of women, until you cross us. Once a man screws up, I will pull out the pushpins, the voodoo dolls, his baby picture, call the two-headed lady, and whip out the grigri bag on his ass if I have to. Just ask my ex-husband if you see him. I treat men the way they treat me. No better. No worse. I’m a Virgo and I don’t believe women should be submissive to men. Partners, yes. Submissive, hell no! What for? Don’t get me started.

  Anywhoo, my flight landed and I headed to my favorite rental car agency, National. I love being an Emerald Club member at National Car Rental because I get to select the car of my choice. It’s with the same discerning discretion that I choose my lovers. After signing my car contract, I saw a familiar face walk in. This woman, I don’t label her as a friend, but we’d seen one another on several occasions. Retrieving our cars, we headed to our hotel on the waterfront, checked in, and later met at the bar for drinks.

  I’m not shy, and for anyone who knows or has hung out with me, they realize that I play hard and work harder. Anyway, we were joined in the bar area by a gentleman whom we both knew and everyone was having a funtastic time. I gave them a glance at a photo of my Brazilian wax. Anyway, judging by the expression on the gentleman’s face, I said, “Oh, you’ve seen this picture before? Your boy showe
d you, huh?”

  Without getting a verbal response from him, the woman said, “Oh, my gosh. That’s why he was so persistent in having me send him a picture. You started this.” She was referring to my at-that-time lover.

  We laughed and continued drinking. But knowing that the guy sitting at the table with us was a personal, way-back friend of my lover, the woman looked at me kinda intrigued. The short of it was obvious. We’d fucked the same guy. The difference between us was she was white and had been married for almost three decades.

  Over the next three days, we hung out together and she probed for information about my interactions with him. She told me about how he fucked this fat woman (by the way, a different personal friend of mine told me plus-sized sistahs got it going on, so I’m just reiterating what I was told) but couldn’t get to her pussy, so he fucked her in the crevice of her thigh, and I told her about how he’d fucked this eighty-year-old woman who practiced Tantra. The old lady had sucked his dick and had made him come instantly. So while he couldn’t disclose this story to a lot of folks, he told me he went back to the older woman to see if she could do it again… and she made him come again.

  The white woman had mentioned that she overheard him call her a “pink toe,” aka white girl, to one of his friends shortly after he’d finished fucking her, and I briefly mentioned my ménage à trois with him. Our stories went back and forth and she begged me not to tell him, because she wouldn’t want anything to get back to her husband.

  “Not a problem,” I said, and meant it.

  Well, after being back home in the Bay Area for a few days, I received a phone call from him that kinda went something like this.

  “I’m calling to say I’m disappointed in you. What right did you have to discuss our business with anyone else? You don’t know who she knows or if she knows my wife. That’s why I was skeptical about getting with you in the first place. You’re not the media, but you do have the ability to put things out in public with your books.”

  I listened until he was finished talking, then told him, “You need to be disappointed in your damn self. I am sick and tired of married men fucking around, then trying to control the situation and everyone involved in it. Once you fuck somebody, the situation is out of your control.” He should’ve learned that from the mistake of another professional athlete on his team.

  And, yes, I did say he’s married. Don’t act like it’s just me, when both Oprah and Barbara Walters publicly announced they had been involved with married men too. Some of y’all too, so shut your “I’m a born-again Christian, I don’t do those things no more so I’m better than everybody else” mouths. Anywhoo . . .

  Ignorance is amazing. This man still said he was disappointed in me, and who he fucked was his business. He was grown and he could be with whomever he wanted.

  No doubt that was on the real, but I told him, “If you’re concerned about what others are going to say, you need to stop fucking around on your wife.”

  It stuns me how men, in their minds, justify their infidelity. Now, granted, I don’t need a man to meet my financial obligations. I can have sex and keep it in perspective. I honestly enjoyed having sex with this man and would have continued. I never called him the next day, next week, or even the next month after each time we had sex; that’s how I roll. Have fun, take the dick and run.

  If I was in his hometown or near where he was, I’d give him a shout-out to see what was up, or vice versa. In fact, on our last rendezvous, he phoned his secretary to say he was gonna be late to a meeting (he had to drop off the kids) just so he could fuck me early one Tuesday morning before I left town. We sat and talked about what was happening in our lives; then we had sex. It was great and just what I needed before heading to the airport, and exactly what he wanted before starting his workday.

  I know where he lives and he knows where I live, but he’s never been to my home and I’ve never been to his. My rule of thumb for married men is “If I can’t kick my heels up at your house, you can’t kick it at my place.” Married men have to meet me at a hotel—and not just any hotel, a nice hotel—and they have to pay for everything. Now, don’t go judging me when I done told y’all both Oprah and Barbara Walters admitted to being involved with married men. It happens, and married women need to stop pretending that it doesn’t happen. I’ve never thrown a man down, whipped out his dick, and raped him until I came, but I would like to. My point is, married men—just like the characters in this book—are heavily pursuing single and married women for sex.

  This note is for married men who do fuck around. It pays to keep the woman outside of your home happy so she doesn’t wreak havoc in your life, because—oh, yes, indeed—like it or not, women have more power than they exert. So don’t mistake a woman’s kindness for weakness. A smart man will take time to find out what a woman wants, even if she doesn’t want or need a thing from him. Too many athletes think that because they have big dicks (some of them are buff but have little dicks, ladies; but the man I’m talking about has one of the biggest, prettiest dicks I’ve ever seen) women should be grateful to be with him. Bullshit!

  My other note to married men is to stop talking so damn much about your wife and kids. This man constantly talked about his wife, kids, in-laws, special occasions, birthdays, holidays, barbeques, his dogs, horses, his multiple houses, and how he had to hook up with me later after he’d called his wife from the home phone. He disclosed where her favorite hangout spot was (which is one of my favorite places too) so we couldn’t meet there and where his favorite spot was. I knew exactly where he lived. I knew one of his favorite restaurants, where he’d ordered takeout for our ménage à trois. I mean, if I had ill intent, he’d voluntarily given me all the information I needed to know to screw up his personal life, including an eyewitness.

  But I never brought drama to his front door. Never. Ever. My motto is “Never fuck around with anyone who has nothing to lose.” The best thing he could’ve done was not fuck that particular white woman and he shouldn’t have tried to check me, HoneyB.

  Men need to realize that whether they like it or not, whether it’s his woman or his wife, women are in control. Ladies, don’t let any man check you over some bullshit. And, fellas, you need to think with the right head. Never piss off the woman that can bring drama to your front door. I’m reiterating this, because men don’t hear shit we say the first time. You might want to believe that your wife would never accept another woman’s word over yours, but that’s not always true.

  I was extremely considerate of this guy by not mentioning him by name. But I could tell you what his dick looks like, what his ass feels like, and what he tastes like… but I won’t.

  Acknowledgments

  I thank the Creator for blessing me with you, the person who has chosen to read Single Husbands. I pray your life is filled with self-love, peace, and prosperity. FYI, HoneyB is my scintillating pseudonym; Mary B. Morrison is the name my parents gave me at birth. I write under both names.

  Always and forever, I thank my son, Jesse Bernard Byrd Jr., for all the priceless moments we share together, simply being mother and son. Remember, no one can deny what you deserve, for what they hold is theirs to keep. Nor can anyone control your destiny. Stay focused. Keep making great accomplishments. I am always proud of you.

  My world of writing wouldn’t be the same without my scintillating editors, Karen R. Thomas and Selena James. My wonderful agents, Andrew Stuart and Claudia Menza, I appreciate all you do.

  Both of my parents have made their transitions into eternity—my mother when I was nine years old, and my father when I was twenty-four years old. They blessed me with the greatest siblings—Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel.

  Much love to Richard C. Montgomery, George Pearson, Roy Campanella, Felicia Polk, Marissa Monteilh, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Emma Rodgers, Vera Warren-Williams, Michele Lewis, Kim Mason, Eve Lynne Robinson, Mother Bolton, and Sarah Brown, aka Indie Jackson.
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  Feel free to hit me up with a piece of your world at www.MaryMorrison.com. Peace and prosperity.

  Unconditionally Single

  by Mary B. Morrison

  Prologue

  I’ve been single all my life.

  The day I entered this world, the second the doctor severed my umbilical cord, I had to make it on my own. Crying. Screaming. Like most kids, I did what I had to do to get attention.

  Obviously, my mother fed me, changed my diapers— basically, she did what she had to do for me, but not much more. I guess she’d grown tired of catering to me and my sister or doing for us instead of taking care of herself. I didn’t ask to be here. She could’ve prevented our pain and suffering. But no. She decided to have not one but two babies for men who didn’t want her. Yet, she wanted her life to be hers, I supposed.

  My mother’s new man became her new priority. Kicking me out of the house when I was sixteen, she was done sacrificing for me. Sitting in the funeral home, grieving over my sister’s casket, I never understood why my sister got to stay home until she’d died.

  Survival was a skill I’d learned early in my lifetime. Like I said, I had to make it on my own. My only other option was to join my sister. I wasn’t ready to die, then or now. A few major mistakes here and there. Marrying two abusive men for the wrong reasons. I did what I had to do to live another day.

  I said, “Fuck you!” to any “holier than thou” motherfucker who degraded prostitutes. Did they think they were better? Fuck them. They were different. Definitely not better. Maybe they had a better life. Parents who gave a fuck about them and shit. Bet they weren’t homeless like me.

  After two divorces, I chose to become a prostitute. Not the kind that walked a beat in 100-degree heat on the back streets, sucking dicks and turning tricks for twenty bucks. No, that wasn’t where you’d find Lace St. Thomas.