The ex called me last night. I was just pulling into the parking lot of the local Target Store. I intended to be in and out in a matter of a couple of minutes, since the only thing that I needed was some coffee pods for my Senseo® coffee maker. As per usual, she took the liberty of giving me a list of things to “pick up” for her since I was already at the store. So, instead of a quick in and out purchase, I spent 30 minutes roaming the expanse of a disturbingly brightly lit big-box retailer, piling groceries, toiletries and even towels into a cart. Then, since Target doesn’t sell news papers or the particular kind of diet iced tea that she drinks, I had to stop at CVS to buy those items before driving back across town to take them to her.
Now, since her call came in around 10:00 P.M., and our daughter is away at school, I had a good idea that she wanted something other than iced tea and towels. I figured that her “man” was out of town, or something, because there is no way in hell that I would traipse my black ass from a Target in the suburbs to her house, in the city, if her X-Box loving boyfriend was lying around her house. Sure enough, when I pulled into her driveway, his mid-80s Olds Cutlass (read: hoopty) was nowhere to be seen.
I can’t really justify saying that I actually hate the brother. I don’t really know him. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, and then only fleetingly. My impression of him as an unambitious simpleton, who, at 29, is still perfectly content to work at Kinkos, is a product of--let’s call her--Debra’s frequent complaints. It is safe to say that I am “hating on him.” Although, I rarely voice this sentiment anymore, except in whispered grumblings under my breath, I’m more than a little jealous that he is, for all intents and purposes, living with my ex-wife. I try not to dwell on the fact that he has the run of the very same house that my ex put me out of some five years ago. I’m also annoyed that she seems to have a completely different set of acceptable behaviors for this guy than she ever had for me. I’m not talking about the quasi-D/s stuff. I’m talking about basic expectations that most women would have of a man living with them. For instance, if Debra is to be believed, he can’t fix anything around the house. If something breaks, she still calls me. This was fine when my daughter was still living at home (and there wasn’t another man living there.) Now, however, it just serves to highlight this guy’s privileged position in her life. She has flatly told me, on more than one occasion, that her man (who is six years her junior) “isn’t there to clean the gutters.” The implication is that she keeps him around because he can “put it down” in the bedroom.
Now for the weirdness; while it pisses me off that Debra doesn’t want me as her man, it also sends me into a fever of sexual excitement knowing what she does want. Contrary to what virtually all non-black women (and even a good proportion of sistas) routinely say, Debra makes no secret of the fact that she loves very well-hung men. And, I am driven to sexual distraction knowing that she loves to get big-dicked. At one point, during the period when our marriage was falling apart, she told me that she needed a man with no less than a fat nine inch dick. I hate bring race into this, but I’ve noticed a tendency in the white media to pretend that such things are of little importance to women, and that women certainly never say such things out loud. Having, years of experience overhearing the banter of black women around a card table, I know that is utter bullshit. Sistas sitting around a card table talk as scandalously, if not more so, than men in locker rooms.
Debra is well aware that this turns me on. For most of our marriage, she was fucking whomever she pleased. Initially, we had a normal vanilla relationship. I knew that she liked big dicks (e.g., when we were dating I made an inadvertent reference to my “fat dick,” and she asked me who told me that my dick was fat.) However, to my knowledge, she never cheated on me until we temporarily separated. We had been having an ongoing fight for a week or so. Eventually, I packed my stuff and went to stay at my cousin’s house. She actually initiated our reconciliation. I remember this as though it just happened (it was actually around 15 years ago.) She came over to my cousin’s place one night when I was the only one there. We talked and talked. Clearly we both wanted for me to move back home. Then, she dropped a bombshell on me. She told me that she had been going out to the clubs with her girls, and that she had met some guys. By met, she meant fucked. Her exact words were “I love you but I can’t be faithful to you anymore.” It was shortly thereafter that she told me the thing about her needing nothing less than a thick nine-incher. She told me this as I was licking her pussy (certainly my absolute favorite sexual activity.) Ordinarily, she is reticent about describing sexually graphic situations. However, when I’m sucking her clit, the filth just flows from her mouth.
This brings us back to last night of night. She came to the door wearing a sheer nightgown, but wrapped in a blanket as well. It was around 9°F last night. As soon as I saw her, I wanted to go down on her. I stood at the door and made to hand her her bags and leave, but she asked me in. After putting away all the crap that I bought her, she made me a cup of coffee and we settled on the couch. She was watching some reality show (I don’t watch television, so I can’t be sure what it was). Of course, I began to make advances, holding her hand, rubbing her neck etc. Since she didn’t push me away and because I was caught in the maniacal grip of the kind of overwhelming horniness that only she can inspire in me, I began to kiss on her on her shoulders and to touch her breast (she’s a thick sista of the tigo-bitty variety). Still, she didn’t arrest my forward progress. So, I kissed my way down from her breasts to her stomach, and slid down off the couch and onto my knees between her legs. She scooted down and put one leg up on the arm of the sofa. At that point, I plunged my head into her crotch and inhaled the musk of her fat black pussy. She lifted up off the couch so that I could remove her panties (of which I also deeply inhaled.) I was slightly surprised to see that she was shaved (or waxed) completely bald. That isn’t my cup-o-tea, but I figured that her man must like it. As soon as I tasted her pussy, I was gone. I hadn’t been in that position in a few months. I ate her pussy like I was starving until she came in my face.
After she recovered, she turned off the television and took me up to her bedroom (i.e. our old bedroom.) I sucked her pussy through several increasingly intense orgasms. I don’t know if a big dick does this to her also, but after a couple of rounds of back to back orally-induced orgasms, she always squirts. There is some argument as to the composition of the fluid when a woman squirts. There may well be women whose ejillulate is composed purely of fluid from their Skene’s gland. That isn’t the case with my ex. When she begins to have really gut-wrenching orgasms—the ones where she’s making faces like she’s in labor and her pussy looks like it’s turning inside out—she unleashes a torrent of hot salty urine, in this case right in my face. I, of course, being the sick bastard that I am, love this.
I ended up spending the night with her, and while she didn’t let me fuck her, I did get to orally worship her for most of the night and again this morning. In the midst of my oral servitude, she told me how she had finally met her match a year ago. He was a young Nigerian dude (not the boyfriend) whom she met at a club and took home the same night. According to her (and she is knowledgeable about these things) he had the biggest dick that she had ever seen. She described how he had to work it in her and how much lubricant (which she rarely ever needs) they had to use. He fucked the shit out of her. She said that his dick as so big that it was painful, but that she doesn’t mind suffering for a big dick. All of this business had my comparatively insignificant six inches about as hard as advanced differential calculus. When she went on to tell me that later that night, she had to go to the hospital (I shit you not) I nearly came in my shorts.
I’m sure that being a virtual slave to my ex-wife’s pussy isn’t the healthiest of situations. I enter into relationships with other women, but it’s never as emotionally or sexually intense as my dysfunctional attachment to Debra. Moreover, she is the mother of my child. So, irrespective of what she does or how she treats me, I regard her as something of a Madonna. It would probably be better if I curtailed my contact with her. Now that our kid is away at university, there is really no reason, that doesn’t strain the bounds of socially acceptability, for me to see her. This woman is my heroin (as in the opiate.)