Man Swappers (32 page)

“You like how Pleasure’s pussy feels on that dick?” I ask, cupping my right titty, then licking the nipple.

“Aaaah, fuck…oh shit…yeah, this some good-ass pussy…uh, uh, uh…y’all got a nigga’s head spinning…”

“Fuck us, nigga! Beat the pussy up…” Paris taunts, pinching her nipples. “Make my pussy cry…uhh…mmmm…”

“Aaah, shit…goddamn it…

For the next forty-five minutes, Paris, Persia and I fuck every inch of Irwin until he is literally slurring his words. He wanted to fuck a room full of strippers, and that’s exactly what we gave him. Three hot, slutty-ass strippers who we let fuck us in the pussy, ass and throat. Drained and wobbly, he doesn’t stumble up out of here until almost three in the morning.

Porsha
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

L
ord, puhleeeeeze don’t let this day turn into a nightmare
, I think as Paris pulls up to the elegant country house known as the Manor in West Orange. Amidst its hand-carved ice sculptures and ornate flowers, the restaurant is considered one of the best places to dine in this area. And I must agree. It is wonderful. And it’s where our mother wanted to meet for Sunday brunch with the three of us; something we haven’t done in over a year. And, relunctantly, Persia and I agreed. I suppose this is Mother’s peace offering. But right at this moment, I’m anything but peaceful. I’m on pins and needles, hoping she doesn’t say or do anything that’s going to set Persia off. She’s already on edge, anticipating a conflict. And honestly, I believe it’s what she wants. A reason to make a scene and curse our mother out. Growing up, that seemed to always be Persia’s mission; to do and say things to antagonize her. I’m silently praying that today isn’t one of those times.

We’ve all been quiet for the most part of the ride here. Persia’s stared out of the passenger window and I’ve been texting, well sexting, back and forth with Emerson. He has my pussy sizzling with anticipation for what’s to come later today. I can’t get enough of him. My pussy, my body, my lips long for his mouth, his tongue, his touch. Thoughts of his hard-body pressed against the softness of mine makes me want to pull out my mini-vibrator, pull my panties to the side and fuck myself right here in the backseat.
I press my thighs together. Text him, let him know how wet I am. Let him know how horny I am.

Paris glances at me through her rearview mirror, then cuts her eyes over at Persia, who’s in the vanity mirror gliding a coat of lipgloss over her neatly painted lips. “Geesh, girl, you over there acting like we’re about to walk into a funeral.”

Persia grunts, flipping up the visor, looking over at her. “Mmmph. More like walking into hell.”

“It won’t be that hot,” I say, smiling at the picture he’s just sent of his hard dick. He tells me it’s all mine.

“Please,” Persia says, craning her neck to look at me, “that woman’s a dragon and you know it.”

Paris waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever. Let’s go in and
try
to have a nice time.” She opens her door and hands the attendant her keys as we step out of the vehicle. The three attendants blink, then do double-takes as we walk by. The three of us, heeled, bagged and dressed like runway models, flash them smiles, making our way to the door. “Persia, can you at least try to give Mom the benefit of the doubt? Don’t go in with a shitty ass attitude, looking for something to go wrong, please.”

“Yeah, Persia,” I tease. “Don’t start pissing on fires that aren’t lit, yet.”

She huffs, glancing over her shoulder to get a quick look at the young, buffed Italian guy who’s standing outside with an older woman waiting on their car. “Fine, but the minute she cranks it up, I’m going to get up and walk out. And if she goes too far, I’m going to embarrass her.”

Paris huffs. “Persia, stop being such a bitch; damn. We haven’t even gotten to our table and you’re already picking a damn fight.”

“I’m not looking for a fight. I’m stating a fact. But, whatever. I don’t even like this stuffy ass place. I would’ve preferred Sweet Basil’s instead.”

“Well, get over it,” Paris says as we walk into the restaurant. “It’s not always about you.”

Our mother is already inside, waiting. She glances at her timepiece when she sees us. It’s twelve-twenty five. We have a twelve-thirty seating. “You must’ve driven,” she says to Paris knowingly, as Paris walks over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Otherwise…” Paris shoots her a look that keeps her from saying more.

“Hello, Mom” I say, kissing her. She greets me, kissing me back.

“Hello, Mother,” Persia says, half-heartedly.

I can tell Mother’s taken aback that Persia doesn’t give her a kiss as well. Paris squints at her. I raise my brow. And she acquiesces. Mother smiles and says, “The three of you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” we say in unison. There’s a nervous energy between us, the four of us apprehensive and cautious. Remembering the last time we met for brunch at Galloping Hill in Union and how it ended. Everything was going good up until Mother, being her opinionated self, felt it necessary to remind us of how nasty she thought we were for still sleeping with the same men. Well, that didn’t sit well with Persia.

“No, Mother,” Persia had said through clenched teeth. “What’s nasty is you staying with a man you knew was a whoremonger. So what if he was your husband and our father? You still knew he was shoving his dick in other women. What, were you that damn dick-whipped? Or were you so desperate to hold onto him? You have a lot of damn nerve, always judging us.”

Needless to say, Mother was embarrassed. Persia stood up and practically told her to kiss her ass, then spun on her heels and strutted out the door with Paris and I following right behind her.

So today, we try this again, hoping for a better outcome. I bring my attention back to Mother; tell her how lovely she looks. Even Persia agrees. She’s wearing a beautiful cream pantsuit with a silk emerald green blouse. Her neck is adorned with the emerald and
diamond choker the three of us bought her for her fiftieth birthday. Her shoulder-length hair is neatly coiffed in a French-roll.

After two rounds of mimosas, Paris, Mother and I are relaxed, having lively banter while we feast on shrimp and lobster. And Persia is sitting here being…shitty. She keeps glancing at her watch like she has someplace better to be and rolling her eyes up in her head anytime Mother opens her mouth to say something. This childish shit is starting to really get on my last nerve. Mother also notices it.

“Persia, so how are things going with you?”

“Fine,” she answers curtly.

“How’s the web design business going?”

“Good,” she answers, shifting in her seat. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Your father’s home,” Mother offers, squinting at her. “Were you—”

I cut her off before she says something to escalate the growing tension between the two of them. I ask her how Aunt Fanny and Lucky are doing. Ask her when’s the last time she’s spoken to Aunt Harriett. She tells me everyone is doing well. That she spoke to Felecia and Pasha’s grandmother a few days ago. How she wants to have all of us attend Sunday service the day after Pasha’s wedding.

Paris and I start shaking our heads. “Gotta love her,” I say.

Persia grunts, mumbling something under her breath as she pulls out her cell. She starts texting.

Mother stares at us and smiles. “I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I’m really glad to have…” Mother looks at Paris and me, then cuts her eyes over at Persia. “…the three of you here with me,” Mother says, lifting her flute. “Hopefully this is a good start to a new beginning.”

Paris and I raise our glasses. “Hopefully,” the two of us say in unison, watching as Persia scoots her chair back and stands up.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” she says sarcastically. “I’ll be back.”

The three of us watch as she walks off to the front of the restaurant. Mother waits until she’s out of view, then says in a hushed voice, “I’m done trying with that girl. She could have kept her nasty ass—excuse my French, home. I’m tired of her shit. All she—”

Paris gives her a disappointed look, cutting her off. “Mom, don’t. Not today. So far everything’s been good between us. Let’s not…” She hops up from her seat, holding her stomach with one hand and her mouth with the other. She races toward the bathroom.

I excuse myself, pushing my chair back and getting up from the table. “I need to go check on her.” I don’t wait for her to respond.

I walk into the bathroom and find Paris in one of the stalls, leaning over the toilet throwing her guts up. I walk in; rub her back. There’s a film of sweat on her forehead. “Ohmygod,” I say, rushing out of the stall. I grab paper towels and wet them. Go back and place them across her forehead. “Paris, we need to get you to the hospital.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she says, standing up. She looks pale.

“Sweetie, you don’t look good,” I say, touching the side of her face. She feels warm.

“I need to lie down,” she says, walking over to the sink. She splashes water on her face.

“Girl, I hope it isn’t food poisioning,” I state, handing her three paper towels.

“No, I don’t think that’s what it is. You and I had the same thing. I’m coming down with something; that’s all.”

“C’mon, girl, let’s get you out of here.”

When we return to the table, Mother is at the table with a concerned look on her face. And Persia is still missing in action. “Is everything alright?” She gets up from her seat. “You don’t look well at all.”

“I’ll be fine,” Paris says, grabbing her purse. She apologizes for having to leave. Tells Mother she’s going to have me take her
home. That she’ll call her later. Mother gives her a hug, kisses her on the cheek.

“Don’t worry about it. You get home and get some rest.”

“Have you seen Persia?” I ask, scanning the room.

Mother tosses her hand in the air, dismissively. Says Persia walked toward the table but turned on her heels when she noticed Paris and I weren’t there. “Check the men’s room. She’s probably up in some man’s face as usual.” Paris shoots her a look.

I roll my eyes, pulling out my phone to text her.
Bitch, where r u?

I reach into my clutch and pull out a hundred dollar bill. “Mother, here’s money toward the bill.” She hands me the money back. Waves the waiter over and tells him to bring the check.

“Brunch is on me. You get your sister home. I’ll call later to check on her.” She gives me a hug, kisses me on the cheek, then whispers in my ear. “Thanks for coming.”

It is in that moment that I realize how much I’ve missed her. How having a better relationship with our mother is just as important to me as it is to Paris. I smile. Hug her back. “I had a nice time. I’ll talk to you later.”

Mother closes out the check, then gathers her things as well. Tells us she’ll walk out with us. Persia texts back. Says she’s with Royce heading home. I huff. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s Persia?” Paris asks.

“On her way home,” I tell her, looping my arm through hers and helping her out of the restaurant. She gives me a confused look. “Don’t even ask. I’m so over her ass right now.”

Paris
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A
week after brunch with our mother, I’m downstairs in the den with my laptop propped up on my lap catching up on season one of
The Good Wife
online, anxiously awaiting season two, when Persia storms through the room disrupting my moment. I’m still annoyed with her for how she acted, but she’s not fazed. Persia only cares about what Persia cares about. Herself, first; Porsha and me, second; and President Obama, third.

She plops down next to me. “I’m so sick of these tea-bagging motherfuckers fucking with Obama. Girl, they need to leave that man alone and let him do his damn job.”

I press
PAUSE
on the screen, and look up from my PC, shaking my head. The way Persia carries on anytime someone says anything negative about Obama, or does anything to undermine him, you’d think she was related to him. She takes the shit way too personal, like it’s an attack on her. “Who’s fucking with your boy now?”

“Who else, them snake-ass Republicans! They make me fucking sick. They’ve been fucking with him from day one, and the shit’s getting old. Hating-asses. They’re a bunch of bigots and shady motherfuckers.” She shakes her head. “I swear. This is one fucked-up country. It’s no wonder motherfuckers laugh at us. Instead of trying to work as one government, they’d rather tear us down just to be fucking spiteful.”

Ohmygod! All I wanna do is watch the rest of
The Good Wife.
Not get into a long, drawn-out debate with her ass. I’m so not in the mood for this. Not tonight.

She leans forward, clutching her stomach. “Ohmygod, I’m gonna be sick. If the Republicans end up back in office, they’re gonna fuck us over worse than they already have.” h

I laugh. “Girl, hopefully that’ll never happen. “But to be on the safe side, we all better be out at them polls to ensure it doesn’t. Obama has been catching heat from day one. Everything going wrong in this country is his fault. They fail to see the shit that he’s already done since being in office. But, it’s not enough. No matter what that man does, there’s always going to be someone pointing a finger at him, blaming him for something. As long as he’s President, he’ll always be under the microscope.”

She frowns.
“Why?
Because he’s black?”

“No. Because he’s a man who isn’t taking sides. For him it isn’t simply a black thing, or a white thing. It’s a people thing. And he’s about holding everyone accountable, particularly those in politics and other positions of power.”

She grunts. “Mmmph. And you mean to tell me that nothing them haters put him through has anything to do with the fact that he’s black?”

I shake my head. “No. Not all of it.”

“Yeah, right,” she replies indignantly. “You and I both know it’s all about race. So don’t even try to sugarcoat it. This is a racist country, boo. It’s what it was built on. And you know it.”