A Hard Man is Good to Find! Chapter 2

by James W. Lewis

Reject #2

Lawrence. The reverse of “big things come in small packages.”

With visiting my family in LA through the holidays, I hadn’t done that much socializing. After New Years, I got back in the game with a hair and fashion show at the DoubleTree hotel not far from my apartment. Charlotte and I went. That’s where I met Lawrence.

I really don’t know what I saw in him. Maybe it was his boyish smile, despite the slit between his top front teeth. Maybe it was the “Nawlins” dialect. It could’ve been the CK cologne that seized my nostrils while we watched the runway.

Or maybe I was just overdue by a month and I needed a tune-up and my “knobs” tweaked. Who knows?

I kicked it with him for about two weeks. Being Navy, he was deployed at least five out of those fourteen days; otherwise, I probably would’ve kicked his butt to the curb sooner.

I actually thought this one would last longer than it did, but it only took one night to mess that up. Yep, just like that. How? Check it:

It was a Saturday afternoon. He had invited me to a cookout at south Mission Beach Park. It was an unusual January weekend, even for San Diego: clear skies, 60-degree weather, light breeze. He played basketball most of the time, while me and a few other females either played Dominoes or sat at the rusty bleachers and watched them play.

We ate Louisiana dishes—boudin, gumbo, jambalaya—courtesy of Lawrence’s ability to sniff out Cajun treats here in the West Side. We tore that stuff up--and we got our drink on. I’m not too proud of that ‘cause I musta downed three bottles of Heniken in a four-hour period. Lawrence was a funnel, knocking back eight of them bad boys.

We left around seven. I don’t know how that fool managed to DUI his way back to my neck of the woods doin’ eighty miles-per-hour in his Explorer, but he did. We were some lucky mofos.

But your brain just ain’t on a swivel when the good stuff is in your system, ya know? I know Lawrence’s brain wasn’t cause he stopped at Ralphs grocery store to restock on some gin tonic. Shoot, I ain’t gonna lie -- I told him to bring a sista back a bottle of Midori melon. I was feelin’ just about right—but I wasn’t there yet.

Got in the apartment a few minutes later. A sista only got one TV, so we went straight to the bedroom.

Hold up – it didn’t go down like that ... yet.

While he fiddled with my VCR tapes, I dipped into the kitchen, came back with two glasses.

“Ima put in a Def Jam tape, a’ight?” he said.

I handed him a glass. “’Go ‘head.”

We lost the shoes, laid upright against the headboard of my bed, and watched old Def Jam. Lawrence had this high-pitched cluck disguised as laughter. I didn’t have to watch the tape to get my giggle on.

Yeah, we were chillin’, but things got a little weird not too long after that.

I remember the last time I saw the digits on my clock it was something like 8:54. My eyes had that heavy, dirty, itchy sensation, and I couldn’t take no more of trying to keep my eyelids open. I think two glasses of Midori murdered the rest of my brain cells ‘cause my lights went out and I was somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, lying on my back, riding a surfboard--butt ass naked.

Girl, I don’t know how I got out there; didn’t care, either. All I know is my legs were spread on each side of the board as salty moisture splashed on Virginia and Claudia. Had this big ole’ grin on my face each time a gush of water would slip up in between my thighs ‘cause for reason, that shit felt damn good.

I don’t know why, but I kept saying, “water ain’t deep enough ... water ain’t deep enough ... water ain’t deep eno--”

Then I heard, “Ima go deep, fo’ sho’. You ain’t got ta worry ‘bout dat.”


When I heard that, the ocean and the surfboard disappeared. I heard somebody screaming at some girl that she didn’t have to call. A soft cushion under my head somehow replaced the hard wood that was just there seconds before.

Couldn’t figure out what was going on, but I could tell it was my heart rumbling inside. I almost pried open my eyelids, but at that moment, I gasped. A gentle massage circling within my moist triangle stirred the same depth of pleasure that Virginia and Claudia experienced way out in the Pacific. I was still in a tug-of-war between consciousness and unconsciousness. Being in that half-subliminal state magnified the jolts that ransacked my body. Now that was wild.

My mind got back to normal. Didn’t have to open my eyes to know what was going on.

I said, “you got any ... damn ... any condoms?”

“Oh, fo’ sho’.”

This fool. That “fo’ sho’” crap was killing the mood. Smell of that Heniken on his breath wasn’t helping, either. Sneaky bastard was slick, though—I’ll give him that. Homeboy had taken my jean shorts and panties off, working his two fingers until my hormone floodgates came gushing. Even got Claudia nice and stiff and Virginia seeping a gang of “sweat.” That was probably the reason why I dreamed about the ocean.

When I thought I would explode, Lawrence jumped out of the bed for some reason. I said, “hey, where are you going?”

“Gotta go to the bath”—clu-clunk!

That fool’s shorts were around his ankles and had gotten his feet tangled up. Once he slammed into my bathroom door, he bitch-slapped the bathroom vinyl. I had to cover my mouth ‘cause I almost screamed. Drunk ass.

It took him a while to figure out how to stand again. Bangin’ against my toilet, the wall, towel rack, my little trash can. Damn.

“Don’t be messin’ up my bathroom, now,” I said.

He finally stood upright. “I won’t.” After struggling with the doorknob, he closed the door.

I was wide-eyed and alive by then. Saw my TV still on with Usher still telling some girl she didn’t have to call. When I turned to the clock on my dresser, I almost freaked when I saw 11:28. Knocked out for 2 ½ hours, girl. I figured Lawrence had been, too.

So anyway, I was laying there, shirt still on but everything else on display, so I covered myself up with the sheets. Alcohol still had me a little woozy-wobbly, but my hormones were dropkicking that sensation out the way—until I heard this: “Brrraaaatt!”

I whipped my head around; had my face all crunched up. Didn’t process the noise at first. I was like, hold up. I did not just hear this fool fart? In my bathroom? Funking up my Mango Mandarin fragrance?

I just smacked my tongue and shook my head. Even turned up the TV volume to muffle the nasty butt blasts vibrating from my bathroom. Sounded like a hoopty with a bad engine up in there.

If there’s one way a man can douse my fire, that’s one way to do it.

Nelly’s new jam was on the tube talkin’ ‘bout it getting hot in “herre”. That damn sure didn’t agree with my situation at that moment. I was watching TV, cradling my head in my hand, ho-humming along and starting to think twice about what I was about to get into while this fool’s asshole flapped and sputtered. He needed to kill that noise quick.

But that ain’t nothin’ compared to what he did when he came out.

Right when he opened the door, BET took it back a couple of years with that song “Back that Azz up.” I don’t know if leftover alcohol was still “twirking” a brotha’s gears too tight ‘cause that fool turned his back to me and started wobbling his bare butt cheeks like those ghetto hoochies on the TV! I kid you not, girl. Homeboy did a Luke dance--bending down, spreading his legs, had his hands on his knees. Had his booty clappin’ like his cheeks were giving a standing ovation.

I was stu-pe-fied, you hear me? Thinking, uh uh. No, this fool ain’t buttnaked in my bedroom in front of my TV trying to drop it like it’s hot! And he got his drawels on my bathroom floor!

My jaw was damn near touching the sheets, eyes so wide they hurt. I just lay there, watching this crackhead do a Freaknik rendition. Lawd, was I that desperate?

Check this out, though: this fool did a goofy spin move and faced me. Shit got real sticky after that.

This fake ass “Ginuswine” was turning his knees in out, trying to do the Butterfly. Yes, the Butterfly! Remember that? Snappin’ his fingers, face pushed in tight like somebody was jabbing a stick in his back. He had a goofy ass grin. I guess he was feeling good about finally getting some real coochie and the fool had to celebrate. Probably been a while. I don’t know.

But then his legs parted. He was in the middle of a goofy-lookin’ Humpty Hump kinda dance. His eyes were closed. My eyes went down.

And I almost fell the fuck out.

A scream rushed from the bottom of my throat, but I quickly put my hand over my lips and clogged it in my mouth. What I saw scared the hell out of me. Actually, what I didn’t see scared the hell out of me.

All I saw was bush.

I almost passed out. I thought he was a woman! I was like, holy missing nut-sack, Batman! He has a coochie, too!

I had to rub my knuckles against my eye sockets … hard! Blinked a few times, too. My vision ain’t 20-20, but it ain’t 20-200, either. I saw nothing that should have been hanging down, you know what I’m sayin’? Girl, my nose would be a foot long if I was lyin’. I said to myself, “ain’t this a bitch? This man is a transsexualvestite!”

He was talkin’ ‘bout, “you like this, don’t you? Yeah, you fixin’ to get a taste of this sowsauge meat heah.”

“Sow”-suage meat?

I was too busy leaning forward, trying to find the pig in the blanket behind a crop full of hay. It was dark in my room ‘cause he had turned off the light, so it took me a while. I wouldn’t have seen anything resembling a penis if it weren’t for him doing some dance move where his little wee-wee peeked out of the woods, flipped up and tapped his belly.

I swear I wanted to put out an All Penis Bulletin for that brotha because the dingaling? Ha! That thing was null-and-void!

I don’t think you heard me.

The brotha was lack-ing!

Can you say, “extra belly button?”

Damn shame. How you gonna bring the buns to the party and forget the hamburger meat?

At first I shook my head ‘cause I kinda felt sorry for ol’ boy. But, as he continued on with his solo bump-and-grind, something began to stir inside me. I lowered my eyebrows. Started balling up the sheets under my fists.

I was getting mad!

I didn’t get mad ‘cause he was doing the Butterfly in front of the TV; I got mad ‘cause he had the nerve to bring that hairy toothpick to my house! As horny as I was, I didn’t want to get down like that!

I even had the thought to get up, slip on the Reeboks and pajamas, and drive to his mama and daddy’s house so I could backslap them for making a son with a pencil dick. Dag-nabbit.

I was a little drunk, girl. Don’t mind me.

As he walked toward the bed (finally!), something stirred inside me again. I had a finger on my lips, submerged in a “hmmmm” moment. Why? I was thinking that maybe I was overreacting.

I might be judging the brotha a little too soon, I thought. He is drunk—acting the fool and all. Maybe I’m being too hard on him. He might have a lot of action in that “joystick,” too. Like they say, it ain’t the size of the bat, it’s how you swing it.

So I pushed all that nonsense out my head and got ready to do the damn thing, ya know? Before he unwrapped the Trojan, I had already convinced myself he had some magic in that little wand of his. Yup, I was ready. Lawrence was fixin’ to service me with a smile, right?

Sheeee-it. Wrong.

Tell me something: Why do men refuse to explore the terrain and go straight to the caves? There’s plenty of earth to cover before it’s time to grab the shovel and start diggin’, you know what I’m sayin’? Does a sista need to get a billboard to let these fools know women want and need foreplay up in here? I mean, damn. You know what I’m talking about. That’s irritating as hell, huh?

Fool didn’t kiss me or give my two babies lip service. Thimble dick didn’t even attempt to give me three-play for that matter. Shoot. He just skipped over the foreplay and went right to the “play.” Freakin’ bastard.

Before he disappeared inside—wearing a raincoat, of course—I caught this lopsided, drunken grin. He then exhaled, his breath damn near caving my eyes in. Damn! I ain’t never seen a man so happy to get some coochie!

So he was moving all around, trying to work circles--but he was like a ballet dancer with a broken foot. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t the best I’d had, either. I happened to glance over at my alarm clock on my nightstand: it was 11:34. Within seconds—yes, seconds!—he started making these weird pig noises. It was so funny. For a second I thought I was in kindergarten ‘cause he was breaking down the vowels for a sista, talkin’ ‘bout, “Aaaa … eeee … iiii”—he’d throw in a “damn” and “shit” here and there--“oohhh … uuuuuuu!”

Then homeboy got ta twitchin’ and shakin’. I was like, I hope this fool ain’t ‘bout to have a seizure up in here. He went spasmodic on me, girl, I ain’t lyin’. Wiggling all around, shooting spit missiles all up on my forehead, gruntin’. Ugh! Talkin’ ‘bout, “Patuuuh! Patuuuh!” I know my stuff is good, but good enough to make a man convulse?


I was just looking at this fool, not even into it, thinking he was fixin’ to blow up. Had my legs all spread, like he was Mr. Long Stroke or somebody.

Yeah, right.

His eyes got so wide they looked like cue balls with black dots in the middle. He reminded me of Michael Jackson in “Thriller.” Ha! Gritting his teeth, throwing his tongue every which-a-way and all that mess. Homeboy needed an Exorcist with all those ugly fuck faces he made, girl. Even his arms were jerking. I thought the song “Planet Rock” was playing the way he pop-locked. I would’ve been scared if it wasn’t so damn funny.

While focused on the fun only he was having, you know what happened next. I could see it comin’—almost literally.

With one last growl … splash.

All gone.

You woulda thought he got finished running a triathlon the way he collapsed on my chest, heaving and struggling for air. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I was gonna get this fool off me.

I blew a long sigh, then turned to the clock: 11:35.

And it had just clicked to that.

Ain’t that some shit? Couldn’t even call ol’ boy a two-minute brotha. Damn, not even a minute-in-a-half brotha. I got a new word for brothas like that: Nano Negro. That’s just about how long it lasted. A nano second. I’d rather have a sixth toe and then wear sandals to the beach than be a Nano Negro.

Damn shame, huh?

But guess what? Just when I didn’t think he could top his Nano Negro achievement, he did. I pressed my hands against his sweaty, sticky chest, just about to push him off when I heard another deep, long, hog snort. It was a little different this time.

I stopped for a moment. I can not believe this.

This mofo fell asleep. On my chest.

I turned to the clock: 11:36. And it had just clicked to that.

This brotha done shot his load, then shot himself into a deep sleep. He had been between my knees and was now gettin’ some ZZZs … all in a matter of two minutes.


As bad as I wanted him out, I wasn’t about to let that fool drive home as drunk as he was, ya know. I just pushed him off me, nudged his body to the edge of the bed, until … ka-klunk!

Can you believe that fool still didn’t wake up?

When I looked over the edge of the bed, he was laid on his belly in front of my nightstand, face turned to the side, knocked the hell out! He had a crooked Charlie Brown grin. Guess that fool got what he wanted.

Somehow the condom rolled off his toothpick onto my bed. Left me to pick it up. Ugh!

You know what I did? I picked up that nasty thing and dropped it on his pimpled butt--right on the crack. Yes, I did! My buzz was ‘bout gone, so I just didn’t give a damn. All them horny blood cells that had a sista fired up earlier shriveled up and went beddy-by--just like ol’ boy laid up on my floor.

Yeah, I let him sleep it off. But by six in the morning? Sheee-it. Girrrrl, you’d better believe he caught a one-way ticket the hell out my comfort zone. And you know I decontaminated my bathroom with some Citrus Blend sweetness, too!

Funky ass.

Now, I’ll admit, I was a little rough on ol’ boy. Thought about giving him a second chance, but that forty-five day restriction he got killed that noise. Yeah, I found out later the ship he was on pulled in for one night, then went right back out the next day. And he was supposed to be on that bitch.

Base authorities got in that ass when he tried to get through the front gate. Oh well.

Couldn’t possibly get worse than that, right?

A Hard Man is Good to Find! Chapter 2 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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