Chapter 1
As of January 1, 2016 at approximately 2:30 a.m., I, Naomi Elaine Henderson (I was named after the famous supermodel, Naomi Campbell) am officially done with black men. Now, before you go giving me the side-eye, labeling me a traitor and a self-hating black woman, I have to let you know that I have given all that I have to give to the brothers.
I have acted as mother, nurse, teacher, cheerleader, and lover to the men I’ve chosen to date over the last ten to fifteen years, and time after time, I’ve found myself exactly where I am at this very moment- looking like a damn fool once I get played again.
I’ve been on a mission to find a good black man, because contrary to the belief that they don’t exist, I know they’re out there…somewhere.
A determined soldier of love, I’ve suited up in my armor more than a couple of times and gone to war, only instead of searching for weapons of mass destruction, I’ve been searching for a soulmate, a protector…preferably one that’s around 6’2, with smooth dark chocolate skin, full, juicy lips, muscular arms and shoulders, and a big dick. I have fought a good fight on the frontlines on the battlefields of black love, but every time I think I’ve come close to reaching my target, he would evade me, once again. When the bomb dropped around me and I realized that I’d been sleeping with the enemy, I would wait for the smoke to clear, dust myself off, and get back out there to give it another shot, because I know there’s a black man out there that God created just for me.
But this time, I’m waving my white flag in surrender, because I give up. One of the quotes that I live by-‘If you keep doing what you’ve been doing, you will keep getting what you’ve been getting’- came to mind at that very moment. I have continuously dated black men, and all I’ve kept getting in return was lied to, used, dragged through the mud, and thrown out to the curb like day old garbage once they had no use for me anymore. It was time to end that cycle, and it was going to end now.
I sighed heavily, kicked the silk purple comforter off of me, and climbed out of bed, then made my way to the bathroom. I flipped on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked as miserable as I felt. I stared at my swollen black eye, and got angry all over again. I have never been hit in the face in my life, but as people say, there’s a first time for everything. The first time I got punched in the face happened a few hours ago, when my now ex-boyfriend, Anthony’s wife came home to find me and him sixty-nining in their bedroom.
Hold up, pump your brakes. I know y’all are already saying to yourselves, ‘that’s what you get,’ but I’m not a home-wrecker or one of these dumb ass girls who thinks it’s cute to mess around with a married man, bragging about being a side-chick like their really doing something. That fool told me he was single and looking for a wife when I met him over six months ago. He had all the credentials that I’d mentioned earlier that I was looking for in a soulmate, and I’d gotten stars in my eyes as soon as he said I was wife-material.
That was all I needed to hear. I’d located my target, but the mission wouldn’t be completed until I had a wedding ring on my finger and shared his last name. I’d started buying wedding magazines after we became an official couple about a month after we met and started on a new mission: Operation Walk Down The Aisle. I had organized a well-coordinated plan of attack to complete my mission, and I was so close to getting what I wanted, I could taste it. However, in a matter of seconds, my target slipped right through my fingers again.
Our relationship had started off slow, because Anthony told me he’d just gotten out of a serious relationship and he didn’t want to rush things; but once he let go of whatever reservations he had about taking things to the next level with me, our courtship played out like we were the main characters in a cheesy chick flick, like my personal favorite, Brown Sugar, starring Taye Diggs’ sexy ass. Anthony had wined and dined me, took me on expensive trips for the weekend, sent me beautiful bouquets of flowers- just because- and we cuddled and talked for hours after some of the best love-making I’ve ever had in my entire thirty-seven years of life. We rarely went to his place, because he said he was doing some home renovations- for when we got married and I moved in with him; so it was fine that when we did choose to stay in, we always came to my apartment. I never questioned him about it.
Anthony worked construction, and he was often out of town on jobs; so when my calls went straight to voicemail often, I never thought twice about it…he always called me back when he had time. It never occurred to me that he was married or had a chick on the side- or that I was the chick on the side- until earlier tonight:
It was New Year’s Eve and we’d gone to dinner and a stage play, then surprisingly, he suggested that we go back to his place. I was down with that…I wanted to see the new place I would call home after we were married anyway.
When we walked inside his place, it didn’t show any signs of being renovated. There were no boards or power tools lying around. There were no boxes full of home décor waiting to be put away. I didn’t see ladders in the middle of the floor, or wires and cords hanging from the ceiling. I didn’t even see paint buckets or cloths to protect the furniture. Everything looked neat and tidy, rather than cluttered with things you’d expect to be strewn around when remodeling was being done.
“I thought you said your place was being renovated?” I’d asked him as we sat on the living room couch.
“Yeah, about that. The company I was planning to hire to do the renovations suddenly wanted more money, after they’d originally quoted me one price, and I want to do a little more research to find out if I can get a better deal, so I put the remodel on hold for a while,” he’d told me while simultaneously unzipping my jeans and pushing them down to my knees.
Anthony was extremely frisky and didn’t seem to be in the mood for talking. We’d kissed passionately as he undressed me. He seemed to be in a rush, which was odd, because when we were at my place, he always liked to go slow and take his time when it came to getting it on.
“Slow down, baby,” I said. “You’re acting like you’re in a big hurry.” He squeezed my breast a little too aggressively while he kissed that certain spot on my neck that always made me melt like butter in a scorching hot skillet whenever his lips touched it.
“I am. I’ve wanted to make love to you all night. We can talk later,” he’d said while lifting me into his arms and carrying me upstairs into his bedroom after he’d gotten all my clothes off. I wondered why he’d only taken his shirt off and still had his jeans on, but in the heat of the moment, I hadn’t asked him.
In the bedroom, I was expecting some foreplay, but Anthony wanted to get straight down to business. He’d paused long enough to unzip his pants, push them down over his waist, and remove a condom from his back pocket. He prepared to wrap his erection up, but I’d had other plans. I took the foil wrapper from his hand and tossed it over my shoulder.
“Oh no. I’ve had a taste for some chocolate all day, and I’m going to get me some, now,” I said pushing him onto his back on the bed and positioning myself between his legs. I stared at Anthony’s magic stick for a minute, admiring how it stood straight in the air at attention, the slight little curve upward, and the fact that it wasn’t too skinny, nor was it too thick. I salivated as I looked at every little vein in it, imagining tracing them with my tongue, which I planned to do. Anthony had the prettiest and most lickable penis I’d ever seen, if there was such a thing.
“Well, are you gonna suck it or stare at it all night?” Anthony asked as he sat up on his elbows and looked down at me impatiently.
“I’m definitely gonna suck it, baby,” I’d said. I slowly licked it all over first, savoring it like I would a fudgsicile in the middle of August. I took my time enjoying the chocolatey treat. A hiss escaped Anthony’s lips as I wrapped my cherry red colored lips around his shaft and began greedily sucking him into my mouth. I never used to like to give head all that much, but there was something about Anthony’s dick that just made me crave him in my mouth. I would even daydream at work about sucking his dick. I didn’t even need food anymore. Anthony’s dick sufficed just fine as my breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, and dessert. When I became his wife, he would never have to beg me to give him head, that’s for damn sure.
I used my tongue to tickle the underside of his shaft as I pleasured him. He grabbed the back of my head and held it in place as he watched his stick slide in and out of my mouth. Normally, I hated him holding my head because it felt like he was forcing me, and I wanted to be in control; but he tasted so damn good at the moment, I’d allowed it.
“Damn, Naomi,” he hissed as he continued to watch me. His face indicated that he was in awe of my skills. Listening to him moaning and softly calling my name only made me aim harder to keep going. I’d sucked him like my life depended on it. Minutes later, he began shaking uncontrollably as he climaxed. After that, we maneuvered our bodies around on the bed, until we were in the sixty-nine position, so we could give each other simultaneous oral pleasure. Anthony had wanted to just get to the sex, but I hadn’t gotten enough of tasting him. I could have sucked him all night and been totally satisfied.
As the clock struck 12 o’clock and cheers and fireworks erupted in the air outside, indicating 2015 was gone and 2016 had arrived, I erupted in a different way. Our soft moans and groans steadily grew louder and bounced off the walls as we orally sexed each other…so much so, that neither of us heard the front door open, or the sound of stilettos click-clacking up the staircase. I’d been trying to hold back from releasing a second orgasm, but the tip of Anthony’s tongue tickling my clit, along with his long fingers penetrating my wetness, pushed me over the edge. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer.
Just as I’d been about to climax, the bedroom door flew open and a woman yelled, “Oh my God! What the fuck is going on, Shawn?”
I’d looked up with a confused look on my face to find a tall, plus size, beautiful woman staring angrily down at us with her hands on her hips and a look that indicated she was ready to kill us both. Who the hell was Shawn? She had to be in the wrong house. But how had she gotten a key? Anthony pushed me off of him so hard and fast, I fell to the floor.
“H-hey baby, what are you doing home?” he stuttered nervously, shifting his eyes between her and me as he hastily pulled up his jeans.
“Da fuck you mean, what am I doing home? I live here, fool. The question is, what the hell are you doing, fuckin’ this hoe in our bed?”
“I-I uh…” Anthony stuttered, while trying to come up with an excuse, not that there was anything he could possibly come up with at that moment that would get him out of trouble after being caught with his pants down, literally.
“I am sick and fuckin’ tired of catching you with these damn bitches, Shawn. You promised me after the last time I caught you with another woman, that you weren’t going to do this shit to me again,” the woman yelled.
I drilled a hole in the side of Anthony’s head with my eyes as if asking, ‘Who is this woman, and what is she talking about? And why the hell does she keep calling you Shawn?’ while discreetly reaching for the sheet off the bed to cover my naked body with.
“Baby, I-I can explain. I…”
“Save it! I’m done with your excuses, Shawn. It’s one thing to catch you in a hotel room having sex with another woman, but y’all up in my house…in my bed? Helllll to the nah; I’m not forgiving this shit.” She went on a rampage, throwing any and everything she could get her hands on at his head, while he ducked and dodged. She lunged at him, slapping him in the face as he tried to shield himself from her blows.
“Chill out Lisa, damn,” he said grabbing her wrists so she couldn’t hit him again after her fist connected with his lip.
Wrapping the sheet around my naked body, I finally managed to get a word in. “Anthony, who the hell is this woman, and why is she barging up in here like she owns the place?” In hindsight, I realize that instead of trying to get answers from Anthony, I should have just ran my ass up out of there while I had the chance.
The angry woman turned and stared at me. Her nostrils flared as she looked me up and down, and she reminded me of a raging bull. She started towards me, and I realized that I’d just stupidly put myself inside the bullring with a deadly, agitated beast, and I had no fucking weapon to protect myself with. I nervously looked around, trying to map out an escape route.
“He’s my husband, bitch, and his name is Shawn, not Anthony; and you’re the third tramp I’ve caught him cheating on me with since we’ve been together.”
While I was still trying to register what was happening and figure out a way to get out of the line of fire that I’d put myself in, she punched me dead in the face with her fist.
“I’m so tired of you tricks disrespecting me; but you’re about to learn today, that you don’t fuck a woman’s husband in their home or in their damn bed,” she’d yelled while grabbing me by the hair and dragging me around the bedroom.
I yelped in pain as I tried to pull away from her, but the grip she had on my weave was just too tight. She managed to rip all the Brazilian Remy out of my head, while I struggled to get away from her crazy ass. I honestly didn’t know Anthony, oh my bad, Shawn was married, and I told her that, but she wasn’t trying to hear all of that at the moment. She was too busy whipping my ass.
“Lisa, that’s enough; you’re going to hurt her,” Anthony, or Shawn, or whatever the hell his name was yelled as he tried to pull her off of me.
“And if you don’t get your damn hands off of me, I’m gonna hurt you next,” she screamed, elbowing him in the gut. Turning her attention back to me, she grabbed a fistful of my natural hair and began yanking on it, since most of my hair extensions lay in a tangled mess on the bedroom floor. She delivered blow after blow to my face and head as I struggled to get away from her and shield myself from her fists.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Anthony managed to grab Lisa around the waist and held her in a bear hug, while he jerked his head to the left, indicating that I should run like hell before she got loose again. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me down the stairs, damn near tripping and killing myself in the process. Luckily, Anthony had removed my clothes downstairs, so I grabbed them and my shoes as I made my way out the front door. I was glad it had gotten dark and nobody saw me as I ran my naked ass around the side of the house and got dressed as quickly as possible, then I got the hell out of dodge.
So yeah, that happened tonight, and I refuse to waste another precious moment thinking about Anthony’s cheating ass. I hope Lisa beat the hell out of him after I ran up out of their home. I opened the mirrored cabinet and looked around until I found some type of headache medicine. My scalp was on fire after having my sew-in ripped out of it. After I tossed the pills into my mouth, follow by a few handfuls of water, I studied the bald spot in the top of my head. I had put off paying my cable bill so that I could get my hair done. That had all been for nothing, seeing as how Anthony, I mean Shawn’s wife had pulled it all out before I even had a chance to show it off.
With another heavy sigh, I flipped the light off and made my way back to my bed. I’m sure some of you are thinking, that’s just one incident…not enough to make me give up on dating black men, right? Wrong. It’s not just one incident. It’s one of many incidents…more than I care to remember. I have always been the type of woman who preferred being in a relationship. Yes, I know how to be on my own and take care of myself…I didn’t need a man for that. But, I’ve never liked being single for long, and whenever one relationship ended, I was quickly climbing up the rungs of the ladder to the next one. Unfortunately, preferring to keep a man in my life, has led me down a road filled with nothing but lying, broke, manipulative men, one after another.
I took a moment to reflect on my dating history. Before Anthony, there was Andre- a guy I’d dated for six months before he decided to fill me in on the fact that he had been born a she named Andrea. Somewhere along the way, Andrea decided that she much more preferred to live her life as a man. More power to her, if that’s her choice; but it would have been nice if she’d told me that before I’d gotten involved with her. And before you even fix your mouths to ask how did I not know Andre was a woman…well, he’d told me that he had lost a lot of weight prior to meeting me- almost one hundred pounds to be exact- and he still felt self-conscious about his body, because there was a lot of excess skin left from the weight loss. Because of that, we always made love with the lights off. How was I supposed to know that Andre’s big dick came courtesy of a strap-on penis?
Before Andre, there was Maxwell- a thirty-something, wannabe rapper who thought he was going to lie up in my house day after day, not working or helping me pay bills, while he tried to become the next Rick Ross, or whoever the hell these rappers are that he listens to. NOT! Well, actually I did allow him to stay with me for a little while. I mean, he seemed to be actively looking for work at first, and as long as the brother was trying, I was willing to work with him. He did find a job, eventually…it just wasn’t a legal one. Look, I don’t knock nobody’s hustle, okay; but the man I plan to marry needs to have a legit 9-5, not one that involves him standing on a street corner day in and day out, smoking up all the product that he’s supposed to be selling. I wasn’t supporting that shit, and he had to go.
I could literally go on and on telling you about the many good-for-nothing men (and one woman I thought was a man) that I’ve dated, but I don’t have that kind of time or energy right now. The point I’m trying to make is, I’ve given black men all that I have to give and then some, but they just keep coming up short.
I’m sure somewhere in the world there are many successful black men, who have their shit together and are looking for a beautiful black queen to settle down with.
Unfortunately, none of them seem to live in Little Rock, Arkansas. The select few who are about something, are already spoken for or gay. Since I don’t plan on moving from here any time in the near future, I don’t have much to choose from. Either I stay single, become a lesbian, date other races, or keep going through drama like I just went through with Anthony. So, from this moment on, I’m done dating black men. I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with women, nor am I completely open to interracial dating; but I have to do something, because being single for the rest of my life in not an option.
I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It was times like this when I really wish my mom, Carolyn were still here, God rest her sweet soul. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. Unfortunately, breast cancer had taken her away from me two months into the fall semester of my last year of college, at the young age of forty-five. After she passed away, I didn’t have the will or desire to finish my college education and become the English teacher I’d planned to be. My mother had been a high school English teacher too, and she’d been elated that I was following in her footsteps. Her biggest dream was to see me graduate college, but I just couldn’t do it after she died. What was the point? She wouldn’t be there to see me get my degree, anyway.
So, I’d found a job as a secretary and settled into a small, but affordable apartment. Maybe one day I’ll go back and finish college, but right now becoming a teacher is not as important as finding myself a husband. Yes, my priorities are screwed up, but it’s important that I have a husband on my arm for my twenty year high school reunion, which is in a few months. There is absolutely no way I can attend this function without a diamond on my finger. Why? Because Laura Nixon-Bradley will be there, and when she starts throwing it up in my face that she married a famous doctor, who had whisked her away to Houston, Texas- the big city- while I’m still stuck in country ass Arkansas (her words), I can show her the rock on my ring finger, and shut her bougie ass right on up.
Laura and I had been best friends in high school back in the mid- nineties…that is, until a guy she liked, liked me instead. I knew Steve had been Laura’s crush ever since our freshman year, which is why when he started flirting with me, I made it my business to stay as far away from him as possible. But then, at the end of our junior year in high school, both Steve and I managed to get jobs at the same burger joint, and I was around him daily, whether I wanted to be or not. We flirted constantly while we worked everyday after school, and even though I still tried to ignore him because Laura liked him, I couldn’t deny that he was kind of fine.
One night, he offered to drive me home after work. Instead of taking me straight home, we drove around for a while, eventually coming to this remote spot down a dirt road where a lot of kids went to make out and have sex. When we made it to the spot, he turned the car off, but left the radio on. I knew I should have told him to take me straight home after work, but I didn’t. Instead, we had sat in the car talking. One thing led to the next, and before I knew it, we were rolling around in the backseat, fogging up the windows while we listened to R. Kelly’s latest baby-making c.d. All I remember is that one minute we were listening to R. Kelly singing about ‘keeping it on the down low,’ and by the time the song was over, I had lost my virginity to Steve.
Being the young, immature boy that I’d always thought most guys my age were, Steve told the entire boys locker room what had gone down, and word got back to Laura. From that day forward, she hated me for stealing her man. She made it her business to one-up me, every chance she got. By the time our ten year reunion came around, she was happily married to her rich, good looking, award winning plastic surgeon husband. Dr. Evan Bradley had performed surgery on a few famous Hollywood stars, and Laura made sure we all knew that. I’d attended the reunion solo, because I was in between men…again. The smug look on her face as she bragged to me about her fabulous life in Houston made me sick.
“I see you don’t have a ring on that finger, Naomi,” she’d said. “What, you still can’t get a man? Why not do what you’ve always done- take someone else’s. You’re not getting any younger, and you’re getting a little chubby, too. You’d better hurry up and snag a man while you still look halfway decent; you know there’s not much to choose from in country ass Little Rock,” she insulted me with a smirk on her face.
Nope, there was no way I was letting that happen this time. I was determined to have not only a man, but a husband on my arm…so I could prove to Ms. Laura that she’s not the only one who had something to brag about. And Anthony would have been the perfect piece of eye-candy to rub in her face, had he not already had a wife. Married or not, Laura wouldn’t have been able to deny that Anthony was fine as hell. Unfortunately, I’m back to square one- manless with egg on my face and a black eye, courtesy of Lisa’s fist.
Now, I had to start all over and try to find another decent man that I could settle down with. I had dated so many guys, but none of them turned out to be worth a damn. This crap was getting real old. Why can’t black men act right? They’re always running around talking so bad about the sistas- we’re too selfish, controlling, loud, emasculating, demanding, blah, blah, blah; but we wouldn’t have to be any of these things if they acted right themselves.
All I know is, I’m tired of them…all of them. It seems like the men who are no good, are looking for a handout from some naïve woman, and the few that do have it together, aren’t looking for a sista. The struggle is definitely real for a single black woman wishing to get married these days, because the pickings are slim to none. I’d never even thought about hooking up with a white dude before, but maybe it’s time for a change, because these black men are tired, and putting up with them and the games they play, is for the birds.
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