Man Swappers (4 page)

“Ooooh, we love Saint Lucia,” Persia coos, snapping me out of my mini-daze. “So, tell me, Royce from Saint Lucia, how old are you?” She’s eyeing him like he’s a thick, slab of juicy baby back ribs. She licks her lips.

“Twenty-three,” he says, rubbing his dimpled chin.

“You involved with anyone?” I ask.

“Nah, not at the moment.”

Persia grins. “Well, in that case,” she says flirtatiously, “we’ll have you to go.”

He laughs.

“I’m dead serious,” Persia says, tilting her head. She keeps her gaze locked on his. “Have you ever fantasized about being in a foursome?”

He shakes his head, blushing and visibly caught off-guard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He nervously glances around the restaurant to make sure no one is hearing this. But, of course, the nosey-ass fart across from us has his hairy ears all pressed into our conversation, ear-hustling.

“Oh, that’s okay. You probably couldn’t handle us, anyway. We’d eat you alive, baby.” Persia and I laugh.

Paris sucks her teeth. “Listen, ignore her. I’ll have French toast, scrambled eggs, hard, with cheddar cheese, and grits.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding relieved. He looks over at me. “Do you need more time?”

“Give me the same,” I add. Persia rolls her eyes and orders pancakes and a vegetable and cheese omelet. When Royce returns with our food, Persia starts in on him again.

She reaches over and touches his arm. “Do you think we’re sexy?”

He nods, grinning. “Hellzz yeah,” he snaps excitedly before catching himself. He looks around the restaurant to make sure no one overheard him. Of course, the two nosey bitches sitting at the table next to us glance over at us.

Persia motions with her finger for him to lean in to her. She lightly blows into his ear, speaks to him in a low, seductive tone. “And we have real good pussy, baby. Imagine the three of us without clothes on, stretched out on a bed butt-naked, legs spread wide, mouths open, tongues wagging—all waiting on
you
. For you to experience anything you’ve ever wanted to experience. Do you think you ready for something like that?”

He smiles uneasily, taking the three of us in. I smile at him.
Paris stays focused on her meal as if she’s not hearing any of this. His face becomes flush from shock and nervousness. For a moment, I think he’s about to break out in a sweat. Although he tries to play it cool, Persia has put him on the spot. Something she enjoys doing to men.

“Listen,” Persia continues, deciding to let him off the hook. “How about you slide us your number when you bring us our bill? Then we can talk more privately.”

“Cool-cool,” he says, grinning. “I gotta handle the rest of my customers, but definitely will.”

“Make sure you do,” she says, smiling at him. He turns to walk off and bumps into the back of someone’s chair. We watch him walk off, chuckling. “You see his sexy ass grinning like he hit the damn Jersey Lotto?” Paris eyes her. She shrugs. “What?”

Paris huffs. “Just once do you think we can go out without you recruiting or tryna round up the next batch of dick? Damn.”

“Okay, your point?”

“The point is exactly what I said. You need to stop being so damn extra with it. And exercise a bit more discretion. Geesh.”

“Paris, puhleeze. Don’t sit here and try to get all prudish on me,” Persia responds incredulously. “We need to keep our options open. A freak has always got to be ready for new opportunities that may arise. And this freak stays prepared, okay? Thought you knew.”

“Well, maybe a freak needs to learn when to open and shut her damn mouth sometimes, instead of inviting every damn Charles, Dick and Nut in.”

Persia frowns. “Bitch, what the fuck’s wrong with you this morning? I’m not bleeding and neither is Porsha, so I know your ass is not on the rag, either. So what the fuck is it with all this bitchiness?”

Paris sighs. “Nothing; let’s drop it.”

“No, let’s
not
drop shit. If there’s something you need to say, then say it. So we can address it and—”

I look around the room and notice a few people trying to get their ear-hustle on. I cut in. “
And
how about we not get into this right now.” I blink, looking over toward the door. Two chicks walk through the door, and I roll my eyes. “Roach alert,” I say, jerking my head over in their direction. Persia and Paris follow my eyes.

“Damn, this bitch,” Persia says. “And her Road Kill.”

I laugh. “That bitch looks like a damn possum.” It’s our cousin, Zena, and her friend, Ameeka, one of the sideshow rodeo hoes she hangs with.

Persia laughs. “Let’s hope she doesn’t see us.”

“Nope, not so lucky,” Paris says, throwing her hand up in a Miss America hand wave. Zena waves back, then says something out of the side of her mouth to Ameeka as they make their way over to us. Aside from the fact that she’s still holding on to shit that happened in 2000—when we were seniors in high school, Zena has a love-hate relationship with us, particularly Persia. She’s never gotten over the fact that the guy she had a high school crush on asked Persia to go to the senior prom with him. And Persia not only went, she fucked him, knowing Zena had a thing for him.

“Bitch, please. He ain’t your man,” Persia had told her when Zena had confronted her about it at our family’s annual picnic.

“Yeah, but you know how I feel about him.”

Persia bucked her eyes. “Well, does
he
know how you feel?”

“No.”

“Exactly. So until he does, it’s open season. So get on up outta my face ’cause I’m going. And if he acts right, I might let him hit
it.” The next thing I know, Zena slaps her and they start going at it. Paris and I stood and watched the two of them slap, kick, punch, and bite each other until two of our uncles ran over and broke it up. Then all four of us got whipped by our mothers for fighting. Well, they got their asses beat for fighting. Paris and I got ours tore up for watching. Now, here we are eleven years later, and this bitch is still holding on to the shit. And she ended up getting him, and eventually marrying his ass any-damn-way.

“Bitch, you fucking my leftovers,” Paris reminded her the day Zena announced she was engaged, and demanded that Paris respect her relationship. “So, whooptie-doo! Big dick for sure, but the nigga can’t fuck but for a hot second. So, enjoy!”

Needless to say, we didn’t get an invite to her wedding.

“And the drama begins,” I say, shaking my head as she approaches the table.

“Well, isn’t this cute,” Zena says, giving Persia and Paris phony-air kisses and waving at me, “the three of you over on this side of town. What brings you High-end Divas over on this end;
recruitment
? Y’all still doin’ each other’s men?” She says this as a dig, of course. Her friend snickers. We can’t stand this bitch with her Cookie Monster face, either.

Persia eyes Ameeka. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you over there snickering about when I saw your man two weeks ago all hugged up. And it wasn’t with you. So looks like we aren’t the only ones sharing a man”—she snaps her fingers—“okay?” Ameeka gives her a look of disbelief, opening her mouth to say something. Persia puts her hand up to stop her. “Save it. You can play stupid if you want. But what you need to do is handle your own situation before you try and snicker at us.”

I can tell she’s pissed. But the truth is the truth. “Zena, I’ll be over at our table,” she huffs, storming off.

Persia, Paris and I laugh. “Trick,” all three of us say at the same time.

“I see why he cheats on her with that big-ass, oversized face of hers,” Persia continues. She acts like she doesn’t hear us. But the place is only but so big, so of course everyone up in the restaurant has gotten an earful. Most of the patrons look on with amusement; others with disgust and annoyance that we are disrupting their meal.

“Now, girls,” Zena says, tossing her micro-braids over her shoulder. She has a forehead and hairline like that
Essence
chick, Susan Taylor. “That wasn’t nice.”

I eye Zena. “Girlfriend, you started it.”

Persia rests her forearms up on the table, looking Zena up and down. She scrunches her nose up like Zena’s a pile of hot horse shit. “And, since you came over here trying to be messy, tell me. Does your hubby know that that last baby of yours isn’t even his?”

Zena’s eyes pop open in shock. “W-w-whaat? Who told you that shit? I-I-I don’t know where y’all got your information from, but you need to go back and check your facts.”

“No, sweetie,” Persia says. “You need to request a blood test so you can have
your
facts ’cause we already know what it is. How long was hubby over in Iraq? And how long was he home before you announced you were pregnant again? And how many months later did you drop that baby?”

“Mmmm, let’s see,” Paris states, counting on her fingers, “One, two, three...” She shakes her head. “It just doesn’t add up. You said the baby was full-term, but he was born a month earlier. So how is that full-term if it’s supposed to be your hubby’s?”

“Y’all can sit here and think and speculate what the hell you want. All of my kids have the same daddy, and it’s Aaron—
my
husband,” she adds for emphasis, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You know what. I’m not even doing this with you bitches today.”

Persia tosses her hand up at her, flicking her wrist, dismissing her. “Then don’t. See ya.”

Persia and I laugh as Zena walks off to join her low-budget-ass friend. It really pisses me off how bitches like her are so quick to judge us for doing what we do when they’re worse than us. Shit, we aren’t doing anything you and any other bitch hasn’t been doing, or known to do—passing the dick around.

“I can’t stand that bitch,” Persia sneers as the waiter finally comes back over to see if we want, or need, anything else. Persia shifts her attention back to him, smiling. Her frown is immediately replaced with a warm, inviting smile. She tells him he can bring us our check, then watches him walk off. “I bet you his young-ass got some good dick.”

“He might,” I say, watching Paris ruffle through her bag, then pulling out a pack of Cobalt chewing gum. She offers us some, then tosses it back into her bag.

Persia continues, “But I bet you he can’t handle one of us, let alone all three of us. We’d have that poor boy strung the hell out, and you know it. The last thing we need is a damn junkie on our hands.”

“Yeah, girl,” I agree, nodding. “We definitely don’t need that.”

In spite of her mood, Paris chuckles, rolling the stick of gum into her mouth. “My treat,” she says, pulling out her AMEX card. “Y’all heifers are too much.”

“But am I lying?” Persia asks, laughing.

Paris and I shake our heads and say at the same time, “Nope, not at all.”

When he returns to our table with the check, Persia pulls out her wallet and tosses a ten on the table. I do the same. And as if on cue, the young Caribbean stud slides Persia his number written on the back of a card as she slides out of the booth.

She leans into his ear and whispers, “I hope you have a big dick,” then heads for the door.

Persia
CHAPTER THREE

I
’m not sure what the hell was going on with Paris and her moody ass this morning, but I was three seconds from screaming on her. Sometimes she can be such a fucking stick in the mud when she gets on her bullshit. Luckily, we’re sisters and we’re extremely close and, no matter what, I’m going to love her. But, damn it, sometimes she can be a real bitch! Well, shit, on second thought...so can I. So I guess we’re even.

But that hooker Zena. She’s a waste of space. If she wants to live in lies, then that’s on her, but this sista here is going to always be true. And the truth is I
enjoy
fucking the same men as my sisters. I realize that a woman who doesn’t understand our thinking is going to think it’s nasty. That it’s trifling. That it’s downright despicable and repulsive. I get it. All the holier-than-thou-self-righteous hoes think sharing a man is sinful. Why? Because my sisters and I are open about doing it? Mmmph. Well, answer me this: Would it be better if we randomly shared a man, acting as if it wasn’t happening, like so many other women do? Should we play dumb, and stupid, and settle for a man knowing he has other women on the side? Mmmph. No, I don’t think so! What we women should do is take back our power. Hold them accountable for their behaviors, and stop making excuses for why they do what they do. Shit, it’s obvious why they do what they
do—because they can. So we have to stop letting them get all up in our heads, stressing about what (or who) the fuck they’re doing. Because truth of the matter is a man’s going to do what he wants no matter how hard we try to stop him, or control him. And cheating is one of those things that most men are going to do
at least
once.

Although having more than one woman is something most men only dream of, yearn for, there are plenty more men who actually do live it. So knowing this, my sisters and I have empowered ourselves to give men the opportunity to have more than one woman. So what’s so wrong with that? Is it the fact that we’re sisters connected by genetics and blood that makes it dirty? Or would it be more acceptable if we were simply three women fucking and sucking and fighting over the same man, acting as if we didn’t know about the other?

Well, understand this. The difference between what my sisters and I do from what any other woman who has ever shared her man has done is this: we willingly and openly accept it for what it is. We allow men to indulge their animalistic need to mount and mate with more than one woman—
closely
monitored, of course.

Yes, we are the scandalous triplets in our family. And our own mother has the nerve to still be very
appalled,
as she called it, when she learned of what we were doing. And, even now—to this very day, she’s not able to let it go.

“Girls,” she had said, sitting down at the head of the dining room table with her arms resting on the table and her hands clasped in front of her. We were in our senior years at Howard University, almost twenty-one; and, in our minds, grown. “I’m hearing some very disturbing rumors...”