to “control that crazy bitch.” I pulled the trigger again and screamed, “Shut up, punk, before I give you something to cry about.” He must have realized I was serious because everything got quiet. “That’s more like it. Now listen and listen good. I want both of you gay mothafuckas out of my house by the time I get back. Otherwise, I’m shooting y’all fags for real!” I decided it was time for me to bounce before one of the neighbors called the police.
I couldn’t get out of that house fast enough. I took the stairs two at a time and grabbed my purse from the table. A retired couple who lived across the street was standing on the porch. As soon as they saw me coming out the door with a gun in my hand, they raced back in the house.
I climbed into my Lexus and peeled down the driveway and onto the street. A mile up the road, the tears began to fall and I angrily wiped them away. “Don’t you dare cry over that gay bastard.”
I was driving, thinking over everything that had happened, and trying to figure out how in the hell I missed the warning signs. I hear women all the time talking about how they had no idea their man was on the DL, and I always say to myself, “what the fuck ever.” The signs were there. Hell, most of the time I could spend five minutes with a man and could tell he was gay. Yet I had no idea about my own husband. But then ours was a weird relationship from the start.
Our marriage was a one-night stand that turned into a five-year commitment. We’d barely dated a month before he proposed. My ass was unemployed and about to be homeless. With two little kids, that was not an option. So when John proposed, “marry me now and love me later,” I jumped at the opportunity.
And that’s what your stupid ass gets.
Yep, I should have left him years ago. Quit talking about it and be about it, that’s the shit I say to my friends all the time, yet I didn’t follow my own advice.
I was ten miles from home, speeding down the highway, when my cell phone rang. I looked down and saw I had a private call. I bet you five dollars and a Long Island iced tea it’s John’s gay ass.
“What?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d not share those pictures.” He said the words so slowly that it gave me an eerie feeling.
“That depends,” I stated calmly.
“Depends on what?”
“On how much you plan to pay, mothafucka!” Even with the windows down and the wind whipping across my face, I could hear Shemar yelling something in the background. “Tell that fag to shut the hell up!”
John covered the mouthpiece and mumbled something, then came back. “Sorry, he’s upset, too.”
“Who give a fuck how that fag feels?” I screamed. This was some straight-up soap opera shit.
“Don’t be like that,” he scolded.
“Don’t tell me what the fuck to do before I come back over, shoot both y’all gay asses, and then plead temporary insanity.”
“Listen, Renee, we can work this out if you’d give us a chance. I love you, Renee, but I’m not going to lie to you, I love Shemar as well. You didn’t mind sharing me before, so what’s different about now?”
“It was your idea to start swinging with other couples, and it was you who thought you weren’t satisfying me sexually, so you invited Shemar to fuck me while you were in the room watching. Nowhere in that conversation did you say you would be fucking him as well. Huh? Tell me, John, because not once in the five years that we’ve been married did you mention anything about being gay.”
“I’m not gay,” he barked defensively.
“Then what the fuck would you call it?”
There was a brief pause before he answered, “I would call it . . . liking variety.”
“And I call it liking dick!” I was screaming so hard the lady in the next car was staring nervously at me. I flipped her off for not minding her own business. “I’m divorcing yo gay ass. And according to our prenuptial agreement, if either of us catches the other in a compromising position, the other gets paid. And I’m getting ready to milk yo ass!”
“And what about the men you’ve been with? Remember, I have home videos,” he reminded me.
“Yeah, and your bitch ass is in every one!” I was no fool. From the first day we started trying to add a little flavor to our marriage, I made sure every time John pulled out the camcorder, he was in that home movie as well. All the things that we had done with Shemar and the others started racing through my head. Hell, I even sucked Shemar’s dick. Oh my goodness! I’m going to be sick. I was so nauseous my dinner tried to come up. I choked, then pushed that shit back down.
“Are you okay?”
“Hell nah! What the fuck? I just walked in on you fucking another mothafucka in his ass and you have the nerve to ask me if I’m okay?”
My response was met by a wave of silence.
“Renee, I don’t know what else to say other than I’m sorry and hope we can work this out.”
“What the hell is there left to work out?” This shit was so unbelievable I didn’t know what to think or how to react, and that’s rare for me. Never in a million years would I have expected to walk in on my husband, or any man for that matter, banging another one in his ass. I don’t even watch boy/boy adult videos. I got sick watching Brokeback Mountain. “I want my monthly allotment doubled and don’t even think about canceling my insurance benefits. You got one hour to pack yo shit and get the fuck out of my house. Oh yeah . . . and take them sheets with you!” I screamed, then ended the call.
Tears were running down my face. I don’t know why I was crying over that fool.
John had never been good in bed. His thing is too little and he spends more time tweaking my damn nipples like they were knobs to a transistor radio than anything else. Nevertheless, he was rich and I told myself it was a small consequence for everything he had given me. Big-ass house. New ride. Private schools for the kids, and money in my own personal bank account. In exchange, all I had to do was give him some pussy three times a week. It was easier in the beginning, but the last three years, I started feeling like it was too much damn work. Hell, if I wanted a job, I would have gone out and applied for one. So to escape, I started writing and was now a published best-selling author of erotic romance. What I wasn’t getting in my bed, I was getting in my books, and plenty of it. And when that was no longer enough, I started fucking around with every Tom, Dick, and Jerry I came in contact with. But after a while, I still wasn’t happy.
Somehow, John sensed my misery, and two months ago, he invited Shemar to our bed for a ménage à trois. I thought cha-ching, I had hit the jackpot. Shemar and I would fuck while John sat back, beating his meat and watching. Then John and I started swinging with other couples. The husband was banging me while John was poking the man’s wife. I thought I was getting the best of both worlds. Only the joke was on my black ass.
I guess I can’t blame anyone but myself. I should have known that it was too good to be true. That’s what I get for thinking I was getting something for nothing. I’d been talking about leaving John for years, and now that the time had come I had to quit talking about it and be about it. Starting right now, my life was beginning anew. A tear streamed down my cheek because I wasn’t sure if I even knew where to begin.
2
Danielle
I turned the burner down low on the stove, then moved up to my daughter’s room to tell her it was time for dinner. After knocking on her door and not getting an answer, I stepped in and found the room empty. Hearing water running in the bathroom at the end of the hall, I realized Portia was taking a shower.
Seeing dirty towels on the floor, I reached over and grabbed them. No wonder I can’t find half my damn towels. They are here, buried in Portia’s room.
I