Friday, November 24, 2017

Chapter 13: What If You're Over My Sh*t?

Kyle Forks shared Herbie Penton’s post.
Friday at 12:22 AM * Atlanta, GA

Marc from the hood my nigga! We hood niggas be rockin that shit!!

TO: Marc Isles
SUBJECT: My book
So, I've made my dream a reality! Remember when I told you that I'm turning my diary into a bestseller? Well, I'm almost finished. I figured I didn’t need a big-time editor. I don’t need someone telling me that I should drop the chapter about Vivian and me finding two Chanel bags (in pristine condition!) for $40 apiece (do you remember that?!). I don’t need an editor telling me that I should expand the chapter about you and I having sex inside your Challenger because sex sells (do you remember that night outside of In-n-Out Burger?).

Speaking of sex, we have a good sex life, don’t we?

You know, I hate to say this, but it seems like guys from bad neighborhoods always eat pussy exceptionally well. I know, I know, it's unladylike for me to say that but, I'm just saying…
In my book, I call guys like you (guys who perform sexually acts the way God intended) Hustle Dicks. 

So, when you read my book, and you notice that term in there, don't be alarmed.

You know what I particularly like about sex with you? You screw like you mean it. From the very beginning, it’s like you have a single goal and that goal is to be the best. I want you to know that I appreciate that. So, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve cut and pasted the Hustle Dick chapter below.
Remember that I am Simone, Jax is you, and Vivian is Vanessa. Enjoy. (FYI, the following snippet if copyrighted.)
Chapter 19 Hustle Dick
             “Simone,” Vanessa said tonight while we were at another barbecue. “Why are you obsessed with this guy?” I stole a look at Jax. He was sitting with his best friend, a few of their friends, and a group of L.A. girls that came up for the barbecue. They were all drinking Heinekens, laughing at something that no one else was privy of hearing.
             “I’m not obsessed with Jax,” I told her.
“You realize that about ten guys have approached you tonight and you're attracted to exactly zero?” She put her fingers together in the ‘okay' symbol and looked at me through the O shape. “What's he giving you that somebody else can't? It damn sure isn't attention. We came here tonight, and he said hi, gave you a half hug, and then put a wine cooler in your hand. That's it. Now he's over there with the Ratchets.” She pointed to the L.A. girls.
Why do I like Jax so much? I don't know. Maybe it's the classic case of someone not wanting you; therefore, you want them enough for the both of you. Usually, your attraction for them fades once the guy or girl shows interests in you. But that's not the case with Jax.
The one moment Jax shows a genuine interest in me is when we're in bed together. There's an attentiveness that he gives me that is so unlike his character; I end the night wondering who the real Jax is. Firsts things first, when Jax begins an evening where sex will be imminent, he always takes me to get something to eat. Usually, we head to a diner. A diner. An L.A. boy taking me to a diner for burgers, fries, and malts is so nostalgic that I'm already ready to sleep with him. Jax explained to me that L.A. loves the seventies: music, cars, pimps, and oddballs. And the seventies were all about diners. I love the sixties, and that era was all about diners too. So there Jax and I are, sitting at a diner, in the same booth, spiritually in two different eras. Me: the before. Jax: the after. And yet, somehow, we look right together.
Of course, while Jax and I are at the diner, we barely touch our food. Why? Because Jax, as elusive and reserved as he is, is actually talking to me about things. He becomes interested in how I grew up. Where I've vacationed. Which grade I want to teach when I graduate. He wants to know all about the designer-clothes-for-the-lowest-price-possible game that Vanessa and I play. He's interested in hearing about the $40 Chanel purses we found at some old lady's estate sale. He wants to know if she was too old to recall that Chanel is a formidable designer. He wants to know if Vanessa and I bolted to the car, with our tires screeching as we sped away with our purses. He thinks it's smart to buy quality clothes for cheap. He thinks it's strange that two girls who grew up on country clubs are so frugal. He thinks my stories of eccentric old widows with big red-framed glasses are funny.
             He smiles at me.
             He laughs with me.
             He learns about me.
             I’m usually the one who suggests that I go home with him. In fact, I’m always the one who suggests it. He never has to ask me because I’m always craving the attention he gives.
Miraculously, every time we have a date and then end up at his house, his roommate is always out for the night.
We always enter the house through the kitchen door, and I always plop my Vera Bradley overnight bag on the kitchen counter. He always grabs us something to drink, and it's always a wine cooler. 
             Where’s the liquor? I want to yell. I thought that’s what gets people in the mood! But he never offers any. I take a sip or two before excusing myself, my Vera Bradley in hand. I always head to his room to freshen up first. I'm not a big lingerie girl; I'm into shoes. So, after I freshen up, I head out of the bathroom with just a pair of Louboutins on. He's always in his room, fiddling around with something on his computer. I notice how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are, how good he smells, how cool he seems.
             I’m the one who walks over to him.
             He looks up from his computer, looks me over, and flashes his eyebrows at me.
             And then it begins.
             Jax generally picks me up to straddle him, before our mouths begin to attack each other. There’s a hunger to our pre-sex kiss. It’s as though our mouths are saying ‘Finally! These two have been driving me crazy.’ By this time, I’m ready for him to just toss me on the bed and FUCK ME HARD. But he doesn’t. Not yet. His hands grip my ass. Hustle Dicks love a nice ass. Jax always sits me on top of the desk in his room first. He then drags me to the edge of it by my legs and spreads them the furthest they were created to go.
             He goes to work.
             When Jax’s on his knees in front of me, he could be there a good fifteen minutes. In theory, that’s a long time. When I think about how much energy it takes to eat pussy, with gusto, for fifteen minutes straight, I almost pass out from exhaustion.
His personal goal is to make me orgasm four times. I usually can give him a good three. If the fourth one comes, I'm always astonished that I had it in me. Jax taught me that the first time a woman orgasms doesn't feel as good as the second time. Strange, but for some reason, that second orgasm ALWAYS feel better. Not as strong as the first, but so much better.
After a while, he'll stand up, have me straddle him, and he'll walk to the bed. All the while I'm frantically undressing him, sliding off t-shirts, and struggling with jean buttons. He's kicking off Converse and taking off his watch. By the time he plops me on the bed, he's completely naked. 
             And this is when it gets strange.
             He doesn’t fuck me.
             He looks at me and then eases his body on top of mine. Body on body. The fragrance notes of my perfume and the notes of his cologne in a marriage of sorts, becoming a blended family.
He takes his time with me. Kissing me with passion, but with slow passion. Easing inside of me. Stopping if I tense up and then slowly spreading my legs if I've clenched them. He lets his fingers intertwine with mine. He's not a pounder; he's a digger. And so, every in and out seems to be him going deeper… and deeper… and deeper still. Long strokes.
             In bed, he takes my advice seriously.
Go hard.
Don’t stop.
He’ll crash his groin into mine when I tell him to fuck me. Or, depending on the position, he’ll crash his groin into my ass.
             This is Hustle Dick.
             Whatever I want, all I have to do it let him know. And he’ll get it done, no matter what.
-There you go. Hope you enjoyed it!

TO: Rachel Isles
SUBJECT: My book
I try to give you want you want. That’s all I’m trying to do now. You want a certain life. I want a certain life. We both want the same life. Right now, I’m going hard when you’ve asked me to go easy. For once, I can’t do what you want me to do, Rachel.


562 Comments 2.1K Shares

Pre-order What If You're Over My Sh*t? Here!

Why Are We Afraid To Have It ALL?