A Hard Man is Good to Find!

by James W. Lewis

Chapter 1

Girl, I need to holla at you for a minute 'cause a sista got some serious issues... actually... one issue. You're gonna look at me like I'm crazy after I tell you all of this. You don't mind getting your chill on while I spill it, do you? I'll tell you straight up I've been known to yack folk's ears off. Mouth be running like Flo Jo at times, so you might wanna grab a Cafe Latte and a bag of Tortilla chips, all right?

Thanks, girl!

Well, my "issue" comes in the form of a thirty-six-year-old, six foot four, two hundred and five-pound, milk chocolate man. He is built like a pro athlete with four-percent body fat and works as a computer analyst with a damn near a six-figure income. So far, so good, right?

He has all of his teeth, a sexy baritone voice, and the smoothest dark-skinned baldhead I've ever had the pleasure of rubbing my hands on. Quite simply, the man is a walking orgasm.

All that, and I'm debating on seeing him again. I just don't know if I can stand him anymore, let alone make our relationship work. That, girlfriend, is the issue.

Crazy as it sounds now, you'll see what I'm talkin' 'bout later on. Before I tell you more about him, let me drop the crazy scenarios that led up to meeting him.


September 11 made me so afraid of public places that I buried myself in my apartment. A month-in-a-half had gone by since then, but I didn't want to go no freakin' where, especially at night. Reports about some stuff called Anthrax didn't help matters either.

One Friday afternoon after work, my girlfriend Charlotte stood against the door of my Subaru, blocking my entry. The way she had her arms spread against the window glass, I thought she was trying to hide something.

I was like, this heifer done lost her mind. I set my hands on my hips and said, "Ho, what the hell are you doing?"

Her goofy butt stared at me with beady, dark-brown eyes. She wrinkled her forehead, frowning and shit. She had this crazy look like she was gonna make damn sure I would listen to whatever the hell she was about to say.

"Look," she said, "I've been trying to get you to go out with me for I don't know how long now. I'm tired of my girl tellin' me she don't wanna go out, and you know I don't have long before my next pregnancy test has that plus sign in it."

I shook my head. How this girl gonna bring up the pregnancy thing? Her and her husband Greg had been putting in work for the past two months to pop out a kid or two, so she'd been trying to get the clubbin' out of her system before the nine-month wobble dance.

She rambled on. "You need to get your ass out and have some fun. I know you scared of another attack...can't say that I blame you...but we need to--"

"A'ight, a'ight!" I cried, cutting her miles-per-tongue velocity with a hand over her lips. "Damn! I'll go out tonight!"

As you can see, I didn't give up much of a fight. I had actually gotten that itch to wiggle it on the floor again, but I made it seem like she convinced me.

Homechick dropped her arms, exhaling with an exaggerated "you rescued me" look. "Woo!" she said. "Thank you! 'Bout time!"

She wiped her forehead, but didn't show a lick a sweat. That girl is so damn silly. Always acting the fool, crackin' me up. That's my dawg, though. Best friend for five years.

After we ironed out the clubbin' details, I took a trip down to El Cajon, braided my hair at The Braidery Hut, and headed home around 8:30. I was the shiznit with my shoulder-length locks, but after four hours of my hairdresser Alicia twisting my hair and yanking my scalp, mini-headaches pounded my cranial with the throb knob on high. For a minute I thought about lazing in front of the TV and calling it a night, but I didn't want Charlotte having a fit. I just took a couple of aspirins and sucked it up. Couldn't punk out on my girl.

At my Mission Valley apartment, hip-hop jams on the LA station 100.3 The Beat restored the boogy in my hips and the snap in my fingers. I felt good, so I shed myself of anxiety build-up and ordered homegirl in the mirror to have a good time.

I showered, ransacked the closet, and grabbed the tan miniskirt that cuddles all my swollen "tastiness." I had to make sure the brothas checked me out until their eyes hurt, ya feel me? And, shoot, why not put my powerhouse hourglass on blast? My mama gave it to me, you know what I'm sayin'? It had been a while since I got my groove on, anyway.

I wiped the dust off my brown pumps, slapped on a touch of blush, and coated my thick lips with red seduction. Dabbing Chanel perfume around my neck, arms--and in the slit between my two "babies"...gave my body a classy fragrance. Of course, I swished a little freshness around my homegirls, "Claudia" and "Virginia." Couldn't leave them out.

Once I put in my diamond earrings, I checked the mirror. Shoot, I was off the Richter scale. I felt like a woman about to break a few hearts, crush a bunch of egos, and "fossilize" a gang of swinging ding-dongs.

Charlotte came by my apartment around 10:45. My complex is two blocks away from the 8-highway, directly behind Fashion Valley mall and four blocks from Mission Valley mall. Danger zone for a woman with an itchy finger on the Visa.

We rolled in her black Navigator. Had the inside of that joint reeking with feminine fragrance. My girl rocked a purple skirt with a slit on the side. A hint of facial powder over her honey complexion complemented her diamond gloss. Her "bump-n-curl" showed every bit the $100 she paid to get it.

That's one lucky girl. She can go to a "meat market" with her single friend looking fresh, free, and freaky and Greg won't flinch. Greg's a mature, laid-back brotha who's got it together. He works as a sales supervisor during the day, aspiring novelist at night. Charlotte's clubbing doesn't sweat him 'cause he knows where his wife will be by two in the morning...if she knows what's good for her. Plus, he trusts me. Of course, with her three-to-four absence, it gives him peace to bang out the novel he'd been working on for half a year now.

Anyway, we got to the club fifteen minutes later. Soon as I heard Missy Elliott thumping through the room, it was on! I didn't have any wild thoughts of some terrorist blowing up the joint 'cause Hip-Hop music produced an inner vibe that squashed all worries. Shoot, about freakin' time.

Brothas eyed Charlotte and me as if we were fresh meat. A few of them stepped to us, trying to get their Mack-Daddy-Pimp game on. The gleam in Charlotte's two-karat rock clearly publicized her marital status, but some dogs still tried to slip in weak lines like "Where yo' man at?" or "Why he let a fine woman like you come by yo' self?" Same ole' bullshit. Fools that pressed on me too hard saw the back of my head or the palm of my hand.

Charlotte and I found a table by the dance floor and sat among a sea of horny dogs. Some of them got a trip to the floor; others got a headshake and a stroll back to the wall.

Among the canines, I met my first mistake.


Reject #1

Gerald. That's one bold nucca.

I hooked up with Gerald when he asked me to slow dance. Before he stepped to me, I was sitting at our table, watching my girl on the floor with this Lawrence Taylor lookin' dude. I stood duties as purse watcher. That was cool with me 'cause I was concentrating on my Long Island Iced tea while swaying to a Dru Hill cut.

Brothas kept schemin', of course. Looked like a hundred of them stacked the wall. I caught a few of them staring, but none of them moved my way, probably waiting for courage to creep into their systems so they could slip a weak line on me. I even noticed some guys licking their lips and stroking their chins. My legs were crossed, so I bet they were trying to dream up ways to get between them. Damn shame. Horny ass two-legged dogs.

Right as Dru Hill's song ended, the DJ broke it down with Jodeci's "Love You For Life," one of my all-time favorite old school jams. I guess Charlotte wasn't feelin' the song 'cause she unwrapped herself from ol' boy, waved him off, and walked back to the table. Had his ass standing on the floor, palms in the air, looking like "Huh?" That was wrong.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. Saw a brotha in a smooth creamed-colored suit and derby. Had that Nate Dogg look.

He leaned toward me. "Would you like to dance?"

Polite and simple. Sometimes, that's all it takes. Say it right, do it right, you in there, ya know? Not no, "hey shorty, you wanna dance?" crap. Damn, I hate that.

Charlotte had just sat down. I looked over at her. She waved her hand at me, had that "go 'head" look.

So I said, "Sure." We switched purse-watching duties right then and there.

Gerald took my hand and we eased our way to the floor. I thought he looked nice in that fly suit. Pretty clean-cut, too...no facial hair. And the brotha was sporting my favorite men's fragrance: CK cologne. I love to cleanse my nostrils with that stuff.

Of course he tried to drop game on me, telling me I looked nice, smelled good...that kinda stuff. You know brothas gotta get their Mack on at warp speed when they know the club lights about to come on. In the meat market, most men say and do what they can so some girl's face will end up buried in a pillow that night.

After a couple of songs, the lights flashed back on and I got a good look at him. Cute. Medium build. Bald Fade. Dark-brown skin. Large eyes.

Wasn't no Taye Diggs, but he was cool. Doable.

We exchanged numbers. To my surprise, he wasn't all up on me, either, trying to push his luck. He just took my number, kissed my hand, and was out. Pretty smooth.

Charlotte and I left a little after midnight. By 12:30, I was knee-deep in rapid eye movement, girl. Knocked the hell out. Long Island teas and AM hours had me damn near comatose by the time she dropped me off. I hadn't stayed up that long in a minute, so Michelle couldn't hang.

Gerald and I kicked it for about three weeks. Did the safe stuff like the movies, had dinner a few times--even went to a sports bar and checked out a preseason Lakers game, my favorite team. If I wasn't hangin' with Charlotte, he became my "road dawg."

One particular Friday night after watching this hilarious play called "Diary of a Black Woman" in downtown San Diego, a sista decided she wasn't rolling home solo: it was time for some "refreshment."

Yeah, we'd been hanging out, but we weren't making no love connection or nothing like that, so I figured I'd make him my new 1-900 until I got tired of him--ya know, see how the booty work.

What? You know what a "1-900" is, girl! Every single sista I know has an after-hours Maintenance Man on speed dial. You know--when you need a hard screwdriver to unclog your main "valve?" Lights coming on yet? If you don't have one, you know somebody who does. Don't front, now.

So anyway, after he strapped on a Trojan, we were in the bed, doin' the doggy dog thing. It was feelin' good and all that stuff, right? I was in my zone, head buried in my pillow, concentrating on him taking me there, blah, blah, blah. Everything was kosher--until Gerald turned batboy on me and tried to slip his bat into the wrong dugout.

You heard me right.

Dookie Kong got tired of the front door and tried to break in through the back.

That fool tried to redefine "anal-retentive."

And, no it ain't like he slipped out, then tried to hit the right target again. Homeboy knew exactly where he was aiming that thing. Tried to get deep and dirty.

I screamed, "hells no!"

Now, there are a lot of things I can tolerate, but this here? Uh-uh. Enemas are not and will never be on Michelle's menu, you hear me? It ain't that kind of party, Charlie. I guess Captain Ahab wanted to conquer the seas by sailing through uncharted channels.

If that was the case, that fool was rocking the wrong boat.

I yanked my butt forward. "Muthafucka, what the hell do you think you're doin'? Don't you ever try that again!"

He tilted his head to the side, looking like little Arnold, talkin' 'bout, "Huh? Whatcha talkin' 'bout?"

Yeah, he wanted to do some "Different Strokes" all right, but I wasn't the one.

I let him know that a sista couldn't roll like that. "You know what the hell I'm "talkin' 'bout! You do that shit again and I will pull a Lorena Bobbit on you, you hear me?"

This fool made a face like he was mad. Rolling his eyes, making "pssst" sounds. He said, "A'ight, aight. My bad."

Face in the pillow, booty in position, and we back at it again.

Now you're probably wondering why I kept body-body rockin' with him after he tried to pull a sneak move like that, right?

Shoot, why do you think? A sista needed some, simple as that.


He's working it--I'm feeling it. Moans reached a high pitch. My arms started jerking, thigh's started getting numb. He was taking me to a place I hadn't been in months and damnit, I was almost there! Sweat saturated my pillow... I was about to explode when...


That muthaphukka pulled out and tried to pry inside my booty hole again.

My head fired up. Now, I rarely do this, but this time, I had to do it, girl. I had to drop the N-word 'cause I reached the peak of "pisstivity." "Nigga, I done told you, I... you know what ... get out! Get out! Now!"

I don't know if he thought negotiating would help or what 'cause this idiot had his palms up, talkin' 'bout, "Chill out, girl. I'm sayin' though, if you just let me do my thang, I think you'll like it! I did the same thing with three other females and they all liked it. I got some more rubbers in case it rips. You want me to get some lubricant?"

Oh, no he didn't. Get some lubricant?

That triflin', ignorant, wannabe pooper-scooper actually said that. Ugh! I swear I saw steam waving out my ears. And like I really needed to know his personal inventory of nasty ass hos he'd been with. Disgusting!

Makes you wonder where all those ding-dongs out there been, huh?

I turned and tried to kick his nuts out his back, but he sidestepped my thrust. That fool's lucky. I highly doubt kids would be in his future if I made contact.

"Hell wrong with you?" he said. "Damn, I thought you was a freak! A'ight, a'ight, I'm goin'."

He thought I was a freak. Oh... my gawd.

After he slammed my front door, I ain't seen Gerald since. Hope I never will. How do you even face a person after that? Man, that was wild. Guess I needed to tape a "Do Not Enter" sign on my butt cheeks. Nasty freak.

After Gerald, I met Lawrence.

Girl, I really wish I hadn't.

A Hard Man is Good to Find! by James W. Lewis

© Copyright 2003. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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