Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (22 page)

Without hesitation, she climbed onto the edge of the
bed and mounted me. I slipped inside her impassioned womb easily , like she had
been expecting me.  She claimed that she had, all of her life.  We
fit like a hand in a glove with my girth and her tightness. She gasped at first,
but it quickly turned into an impish grin as she seductively bit her bottom lip
and winked at me.

“Nice.   Dapper Carter,” she whispered. 
 Then she picked up the pace, going from a slow grind to a power drill,
bouncing perfectly on my lap. I laid hands on every inch of her perfect body. 
I even found a nasty scar on her lower back.

“Where did you get this scar from?”

“Jamil Hawkins’ punk ass in fifth grade pushed me
into a pole.  I kicked his butt for it though.”  She was a tough Brooklyn chick under that sugary exterior and I liked it.  I was always known as a
pretty boy with an edge and she was equally a pretty girl with an edge.  Occasionally,
I would dig my nubby fingernails into the groove of her back and she would
growl. We kissed passionately with every deep stroke, careful not to disengage
the centripetal energy between us.

“You are so fucking wet.”  She was sloppy wet
too. 

“The sloppier the better,” she maintained, stating
that she liked the sound of her pussy sloshing with each stab of my dagger and
I wasn’t going to argue with her.  I thought I was fucking dreaming.

She was mischievous, and playful, but she also knew
when to be submissive. I stood up with her still attached to my joystick and pinned
her against the wall. 

“You like that?”  I taunted. 

“Uh-huh,” she groaned. I rhythmically impaled her
for several minutes, making sure to put my best foot forward and leave an
impression in her mind as well as well as in the bottom of her pussy. She cried
with pleasure.  The only bright spot about feeling the need to please
women was that I was good at it. 

“You sure you can hold me up this long?”

“You’re a lightweight.  I deal with chicks wayyy
bigger than your little ass.”

Rain couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred
twenty five pounds, but like all women she always felt like she needed to lose
five pounds.   I flung her onto the bed, careful not to slip out of
her vice-like thighs and in one continuous motion I started to do what I do
best— missionary style… bumping uglies.

I loved looking into her eyes with each heartfelt
thrust. I couldn't help but wonder to myself embarrassingly if I were in love.
Was
this how it really felt to make love?
She whispered my name over and over,
which was driving me up the wall with passion. I didn’t care about being called
“Daddy” or “Baby.” I wanted her to say my name and remind me how much she enjoyed
me being inside of her. And she did just that.

“It’s your pussy, baby,” she called out.  Rain reminded
me over and over how it was “my pussy now.”  Whatever.  I appreciated
the pledge, but things change and nothing was written in blood.  It seemed
like women were programmed at birth to say two things that most men can’t
resist.  Her first word is usually “Daddy” and her first sentence is “It’s
your pussy, Daddy.”  Weak-ass mothafuckas responded to that type of shit,
but I was beyond it.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed the ego boost and not to
mention I was relieved that Rain’s language was just as filthy as mine.  Rain
and I we went through six condoms in three hours. I had been taking ginseng regularly
and eating right, so my libido was through the roof and I was drilling holes
these days.

Beloved made sure to let me know how much she
appreciated me taking her advice in the supermarket. It was a win/win situation
for both of us.

When she first jumped on board after terminating our
foreplay, it caught me so off guard that I wasn’t able to jimmy up. Needless to
say, I withdrew my panting penis before climaxing. But even if I wasn’t fast
enough, I rationalized to myself that if Rain got pregnant, it wasn’t the worst
thing that could ever happen to me. That was stupid, I know.  After six orgasms,
the last of which being mutual and simultaneous profession of our newfound love,
Rain flopped into the oversized pillows quivering.

“That was incredible!” She praised. I sat up on the
edge of the bed and sat there quietly.  “What's the matter?”

"I can't say."

"Here we go again.  Sure you can."

"No, I can't. You're going to laugh."

"No, I won't. I promise.  So spit it out,”
she snapped mildly agitated.

I turned around, teary eyed. "I think that was
the first time I ever made love."

Her face scrunched up like she wanted to laugh. She
thought better of it, though. "You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Wow! I guess I will take that as a compliment."

She began to rub my back in that big sister sort of
way and finally the silliness of the situation became too much for both of us
and we burst out laughing.

"Girl, you might have to go. I don't know if I
can handle that shit you got between your legs. Is that Haagen-Dazs?”

"You sure you don't like Ben &
Jerry's?" she teased.

"I don't like Ben
or
Jerry. Trust
me."  A sonorous groan escaped from deep down in my belly. “I’m not
gay!”

"I knowww.  No gay man could do what you
did with your tongue to my clit.” It was called “doing the alphabet”. I would
trace each letter of the alphabet with my tongue as I taunted her clitoris. She
was going crazy by time I got to the letter
K
. “You're a different type
of man, and it’s good to see a brotha in touch with his feminine side. It's
refreshing."

"Not every woman seems to share your sentiment.
I've decided that if being a man means being emotionally unavailable, then I
don't want to be a man." That sounded so corny to me, but not to her. Then
I decided to get serious on her. Usually that doesn't work at this stage, but
my gut told me Rain was different. I deserved her.

"So where do we go from here?"

"I don't know. Can't we just enjoy each other and
let things happen?"

She was using my own shit against me. That's okay,
though, because I was willing to do whatever it took to be with Rain, including
going slow.

"Of course, we can. But first I've got a
question for you. A woman goes to her mother's funeral and meets what she
thinks to be the man of her dreams and falls in love instantly. However, she
leaves the funeral and fails to get his phone number and fears she will never
see him again. So she goes home and kills her sister. Why did she kill her
sister?"

She answered without hesitation. "Because she
was hoping to see the guy at the funeral again. Duhhh!"

I was finally relieved. She was the first person I
ever met beside myself to pass the psychopath test. The test was administered
to prisoners, and not by coincidence most of them knew the answer right off the
bat. If you know the answer to the riddle, it is determined that you think like
a psychopath; hence, why prisoners know the answer.

“You got it right without even thinking hard. 
You're a little bit crazy, aren't you?”

“Just a little,” she said, laughing it off. And she
was just freaky enough to keep me interested but not turn me off.

"I want you to know that I'll never hurt you. I'll
never let you down. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she
warned.

"I don't."

Rain looked me straight in the eye, pulled no
punches. "Can you do everything you say you can?"

Every mistake, every one-night stand, every
meaningless lie led me to this moment. I responded with the most certainty than
ever and answered with a resounding, "Yes I can."

"I'm going to hold you to that. But we have a
little business we need to take care of."

"Oh, God! Don't tell me you’re a prostitute,
too?" I shuddered.

“No, don’t be silly.”  She instantly processed
the information I just inadvertently divulged.  “Too?”

“Long story.  Anyway, as you were saying?”

You said you've been divorced for two years,
right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to need to see your divorce
papers."

I laughed. She didn't.

"You’re serious?"

"As a heart attack. A girl has to protect herself."

Whatever she needed. I got up and began fumbling
through my junk drawer of papers.

"I'm also going to need to see proof of an HIV
test, your driver's license, birth certificate, and social security card. I
need to make sure you are who you say you are. As a matter of fact what's your
momma's maiden name?"

Friday Is Better

So things were going promisingly between Rain and me.
She was everything I had ever hoped for in a woman and more. My friends say I
met the right woman and she changed my life. They're wrong. I changed my life, and
then I met the right woman.

Case in point, I was waiting for the bus to go to downtown
Brooklyn when a hood rat chick covered with tattoos and wearing long men’s
basketball shorts, a Mohawk, Air Jordan’s, and rocking a wife beater stepped to
me. My other vice when it comes to women.  I know I can have any woman I
want, not to mention I have the woman of my dreams, but something about fuckin’
with hood rats still fascinated me.  Probably because they didn’t give me
any play when I was younger citing that I was a square.   

She couldn't have been more than twenty-four, but
you know the story. The older we get the younger they get. I wondered if I
would ever reach that point, especially since I've always liked older women.
Doesn’t
everybody want a new car? 
Nevertheless, I dug her style and found her
look extremely erotic.

“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting my cell phone
conversation with my new sweetie, Rain.  I put Rain on hold for a moment
to oblige the young lady.

“Yes.”

“I was wondering if I could take you to dinner?”

       “Let me call you back.”  I
told Rain when I decided to engage this fresh, spring water in conversation.

       “Take me to dinner, huh?”

       “Of course.  This is the
twenty-first century and women do it all the time.”

       “Not the women I date.”

       “Then you’re dating the wrong
women.  You are
fine
!  I’ll take you to dinner then home for
dessert.  You like whipped cream?”

       “Who doesn’t?”

       “So what day is good for you?
Friday or Saturday?

I had to give her props for using my own shit
against me.

“Friday is better.”  I declared.

Caesar always told me never drive a car without a spare tire. This
brings us to Dapper Carter’s seventh rule:
The only thing better than
pussy is NEW pussy!

But not this time!  There is an exception to
every rule.

"I'm really flattered that you want to take me
to dinner,” I said. “However, I'm just starting off a new relationship and I'm
very happy and I want to give this thing every chance to work. You understand,
don't you?"

Dapper Carter’s eighth rule supersedes the seventh.

 
Rule number eight:
Whatever it is you
want in life, that's what you've got to give.

 
If you want
affection, you have to give affection. If you want attention, you have to give
attention. If you want love, you've got to give love. You don't always get it
back from the people you give it to, but it will eventually come back. And when
it does, don't fuck it up!