Having a sister in love is a nightmare.

It should end there, but it doesn’t. Having a sister in love and thinks everyone should be, too. Barf. With a track record like mine, I’ve learned a few hard life lessons. When it comes to men, I’ve learned they fall into two categories. They’re either trying too hard at pretending not to be assh*les, or their assholes trying too hard to be assh*les. That’s it. So, when my sister convinced me to go on a blind date, I never expected him. Or to find out he wanted to be there as much as I did–which wasn’t at all. The date sets off a series of events that changed my life forever and it’s all because my sister loves love.

Published Under (Pen Name): Tonya Anders

Word Count: N/A
Genre: African American, Contemporary Romance
Sub Genre/Tropes: MC, Biker Fiction, Blind date,
Available Formats: Ebook

Status: Releasing Fall 2024

Content Warnings: 

Crude Language

Dark Humour

Stalking

Acts of Violence

Cheating (NOT between main characters)

Alcohol use

Gun Violence

Sexual Content

Binding

Breaking of the fourth wall

Mention of Sexual Assault (but none  occurs on page)

ONE

“I said niggas ain’t shit and I meant it. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.” 

I’ll never again be that girl. You know, the one that throws caution or the good sense my momma gave me to the wind. The one time I did, I promise you–it wasn’t worth it. Which is why I vowed to never again allow my nose to be that wide over some dick. Mind you, the dick was mediocre at best. Kegel exercises really are that bitch. Being with that man, I called myself, expanding my horizons and trying something different. The fuckboy taught me a valuable lesson. Different ain’t fo’ me. I’ll get back to that in a minute. The shit that boy put me through had me ready to accept my fate and start loving orange.

Anyway, I’ll never again be the bitch who will allow a man to become more than what he’s earned. I’ve lived enough life and witnessed and done enough dramatic, window-busting, tear-spilling dramatic ass shit to know that’s not something I want for myself. I’m grown. Being a bitch in love works in the movies, but in real life–naw. Niggas ain’t shit and they serve their purpose and none involve being in my face for longer than it takes to nut. 

The sigh I released was heavy as I stared at nothing while thinking about my sex life or lack thereof over the last year. I can admit that yes, maybe happy, healthy, stress-free relationships exist. I can also keep it honest and say that a bitch who can catch and hold a good man is a bitch that’s been through some shit. For those that fall into love with ease–that’s special and rare.

Ask any woman you know how most niggas these days operate and they fall into a minimum of one of these categories. They are toddlers who need a momma, momma boys who can’t leave their momma’s titties alone, or fuckboys who use their dicks as weapons and spread it far and wide. The fuckboys I avoid like the plague. The toddlers are a close second. And Mamma boys eliminate themselves. They fear my vibe. My being a strong woman who expects her man to do and have as much as she does is not something they are ready for. If a man doesn’t have his own and needs, his hand held every second of the day, they know they aren’t for me. Those fuckboys though–them niggas get caught doing shady foul shit, and either lie or act bitch made when caught. The fuckboysthink their stroke game is on point, like it’s the answer to all our prayers and problems. Call me a hater if you want, but niggas are dickmitizing liars and manipulative users who have no problem using our vaginas as a battering ram to fuck us into submission. They promise us the world only to leave us swinging by their dicks, unsatisfied and wondering how you got there. I’m just not willing to end a single mother of two-point-five kids, a dog named Jelly Bean, and a big house that isn’t a home but an unhappy yet beautiful prison. Niggas ain’t shit. So they can fuck right off. Especially the fucker I left lying on his dining room floor, bleeding like a stuffed pig.

I won’t lie and say I’m above being dickmitized, because a good dick down can make me silly. A dick down that has my toes curling, makes me speak tongues, has me orgasm so hard I soak the sheets, and puts me to sleep is one I’ll hold on to despite the red flags. Now there are always consequences to a good dick down from a fuckboy. Which is why I’m trying to be a better woman and refrain. My eyes are wide open. I’ve learned these truths the hard way. Most niggas are good at hiding behind good dick and pretty lies, before ultimately showing their asses.

***

Remember, I said I was going to tell you about the fucker I called myself dating last year? Well… 

Now I know on Valentine’s Day most of the female population expect their man to buy expensive gifts and have reservations set at a high-end restaurant. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I’m not most girls. I’m a Netflix and chill kinda gal. Me being me, I wasn’t about to get all gussied up just to Netflix and chill. I thought my ass was being reasonable when I told my man I didn’t want to do anything over the top. In that nigga’s head he’d heard I didn’t want to see him–at all on Valentine’s Day. His dumb ass assuming shit is the reason I caught him fucking the ugly of some bitch on his dining room table.

So real quick, real fast listen…

There I was excited to surprise my boo thang for V-day. After I was done handling everything with business and catching a few outstanding bonds, I was ready to chill and get it in with “my man”. I’d made the effort to order and pick up from my favorite Chinese food place and even brought along my favorite movie with me, my favorite actor Denzel. Baby the way I would… Oh wee! All I’m saying is I’d never be opposed to being a sugar baby for that man. Not nevah.

Back to my story of why niggas ain’t shit. The night was all about getting mine, a full but still flat belly, and Denzel because who doesn’t love Equalizer and orgasms? Anyway, I let myself into said boo thangs house–he trusted me enough to give me the door code, so why not use it? The gag was–as soon as I crossed the threshold, my eyes narrowed because my spidey senses started tingling. The unmistakable aroma of my favorite Inks Customs candle scent of sandalwood, vanilla, and fresh sage permeated the air. I know I know… I’m supposed to love flowery crap because I’m a girl, whatever sue me. This scent is soothing, subtle, and fresh. My love for it will never falter, unlike the fuck nigga that had my pressure up. 

Anyway, where was I… 

Oh, I smelled my favorite candle, which normally wouldn’t be a problem except that the nigga hated the scent and complained anytime I lit one. My eyes narrowed further as I made my way into the space, seeing tea lights lighting the entryway that led to the dining room had me following their instructions. I can’t lie. The ambiance and low jazz had me vibing–because aww. For two point five seconds, I thought maybe he wasn’t the worst fuckboy in the history of fuckboys. That he set something up for us. I was trying hard to live in that delusion. But I knew better. His ass was a burger at a fast-food, let’s pay half–zees kind of nigga. Which was a red flag my ass ignored, because I knew he made good money. So, I let it go. 

With a shake of my head, I continued further into the house and toward the dining room. What had me quickening my pace was the unmistakable sounds coming from said dining room. My brain short-circuited, and my steps faltered. I went from Arctic chill to lava hot within seconds. Somehow, my feet kept on moving. And I’ll be damned. The scene before me as I stood in the entry of the dining room had me frozen in place–gawking at the scene playing out. 

Yes, I’m not ashamed to say I stood there watching because he who shall not be named and his ugly friend were going at it like this was going to be the last fuck of their lives. They were huffing, puffing, moaning, and groaning like they were getting paid for a prime porno spot on the Pornclubs’ website. I can’t even lie and say that I wasn’t impressed by the minute man’s stamina and also a little turned on. I’m not saying he was a one-pump chump, but I’m not–not saying he wasn’t. He had to be in a mood, sober and focused on giving me what I needed more often than not. He wasn’t. He was mostly vanilla–all missionary, but his tongue game saved him more than a few times. I chuckled at the thought of our mediocre sex life. Which, fortunately for me, hadn’t caught either of their attention. The fuckboy was focused. And she couldn’t see me. Her eyes were covered. What nearly took me out was how loudly she was squealing like a pig being led to slaughter. 

She was definitely faking.

I’d continued to watch for a good minute. I scanned the room, taking the scene. Shocked even more by what I saw because where the hell was dis nigga when we were chasing the waterfalls? What I was witnessing was hot as hell. They had my panties a little damp. Pissed or not, they put on a good show.

What had me looking at him differently was the fact that he was into that freaky shit. He had her hands bound behind her back, leaving enough space between her hands to grasp the binds and control her movements. His other hand was on the back of her neck. Have you ever heard the saying ass up, tits out? That’s exactly how she was positioned on top of the dining room table. She was ass up, belly flat on the table with one leg hoisted up to give Mr. Man room to work. It was some erotic shit. A loud grunt pulled at my attention and pushed me into no the hell this nigga ain’t playing in my face and think he was going to survive the night mode. 

I stood to my full height and watched as his face began to twist and screw up, signaling he was close while sweating like a stuffed pig. The fake moans and his dog-like grunts made me chuckle–loudly. Which had the show coming to a halt. After a little scrambling, some squealing was not sexual. Words were exchanged, fists were thrown, threats were made, and I… Well, I was taken out in cuffs.

After two hours in lock-up that night, I went home, iced my knuckles, and watched my man Denzel whoop some ass and reorder my Chinese. And my battery-operated boyfriend, Denzel, got me right. At least I can remember his name. So yeah, that night taught me a valuable lesson. It also taught me that having an attorney on retainer is not a bad thing. Because niggas ain’t shit and they will put you through it, especially if you embarrass them by whopping their asses.

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