Single Husbands (29 page)

And, yes, I did say he’s married. Don’t act like it’s just me, when both Oprah and Barbara Walters publicly announced they
had been involved with married men too. Some of y’all too, so shut your “I’m a born-again Christian, I don’t do those things
no more so I’m better than everybody else” mouths. Anywhoo . . .

Ignorance is amazing. This man still said he was disappointed in me, and who he fucked was his business. He was grown and
he could be with whomever he wanted.

No doubt that was on the real, but I told him, “If you’re concerned about what others are going to say, you need to stop fucking
around on your wife.”

It stuns me how men, in their minds, justify their infidelity. Now, granted, I don’t need a man to meet my financial obligations.
I can have sex and keep it in perspective. I honestly enjoyed having sex with this man and would have continued. I never called
him the next day, next week, or even the next month after each time we had sex; that’s how I roll. Have fun, take the dick
and run.

If I was in his hometown or near where he was, I’d give him a shout-out to see what was up, or vice versa. In fact, on our
last rendezvous, he phoned his secretary to say he was gonna be late to a meeting (he had to drop off the kids) just so he
could fuck me early one Tuesday morning before I left town. We sat and talked about what was happening in our lives; then
we had sex. It was great and just what I needed before heading to the airport, and exactly what he wanted before starting
his workday.

I know where he lives and he knows where I live, but he’s never been to my home and I’ve never been to his. My rule of thumb
for married men is “If I can’t kick my heels up at your house, you can’t kick it at my place.” Married men have to meet me
at a hotel—and not just any hotel, a nice hotel—and they have to pay for everything. Now, don’t go judging me when I done
told y’all both Oprah and Barbara Walters admitted to being involved with married men. It happens, and married women need
to stop pretending that it doesn’t happen. I’ve never thrown a man down, whipped out his dick, and raped him until I came,
but I would like to. My point is, married men—just like the characters in this book—are heavily pursuing single and married
women for sex.

This note is for married men who do fuck around. It pays to keep the woman outside of your home happy so she doesn’t wreak
havoc in your life, because—oh, yes, indeed—like it or not, women have more power than they exert. So don’t mistake a woman’s
kindness for weakness. A smart man will take time to find out what a woman wants, even if she doesn’t want or need a thing
from him. Too many athletes think that because they have big dicks (some of them are buff but have little dicks, ladies; but
the man I’m talking about has one of the biggest, prettiest dicks I’ve ever seen) women should be grateful to be with him.
Bullshit!

My other note to married men is to stop talking so damn much about your wife and kids. This man constantly talked about his
wife, kids, in-laws, special occasions, birthdays, holidays, barbeques, his dogs, horses, his multiple houses, and how he
had to hook up with me later after he’d called his wife from the home phone. He disclosed where her favorite hangout spot
was (which is one of my favorite places too) so we couldn’t meet there and where his favorite spot was. I knew exactly where
he lived. I knew one of his favorite restaurants, where he’d ordered takeout for our ménage à trois. I mean, if I had ill
intent, he’d voluntarily given me all the information I needed to know to screw up his personal life, including an eyewitness.

But I never brought drama to his front door. Never. Ever. My motto is “Never fuck around with anyone who has nothing to lose.”
The best thing he could’ve done was not fuck that particular white woman and he shouldn’t have tried to check me, HoneyB.

Men need to realize that whether they like it or not, whether it’s his woman or his wife, women are in control. Ladies, don’t
let any man check you over some bullshit. And, fellas, you need to think with the right head. Never piss off the woman that
can bring drama to your front door. I’m reiterating this, because men don’t hear shit we say the first time. You might want
to believe that your wife would never accept another woman’s word over yours, but that’s not always true.

I was extremely considerate of this guy by not mentioning him by name. But I could tell you what his dick looks like, what
his ass feels like, and what he tastes like… but I won’t.

I thank the Creator for blessing me with you, the person who has chosen to read
Single Husbands
. I pray your life is filled with self-love, peace, and prosperity. FYI, HoneyB is my scintillating pseudonym; Mary B. Morrison
is the name my parents gave me at birth. I write under both names.

Always and forever, I thank my son, Jesse Bernard Byrd Jr., for all the priceless moments we share together, simply being
mother and son. Remember, no one can deny what you deserve, for what they hold is theirs to keep. Nor can anyone control your
destiny. Stay focused. Keep making great accomplishments. I am always proud of you.

My world of writing wouldn’t be the same without my scintillating editors, Karen R. Thomas and Selena James. My wonderful
agents, Andrew Stuart and Claudia Menza, I appreciate all you do.

Both of my parents have made their transitions into eternity—my mother when I was nine years old, and my father when I was
twenty-four years old. They blessed me with the greatest siblings—Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina
Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel.

Much love to Richard C. Montgomery, George Pearson, Roy Campanella, Felicia Polk, Marissa Monteilh, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Emma
Rodgers, Vera Warren-Williams, Michele Lewis, Kim Mason, Eve Lynne Robinson, Mother Bolton, and Sarah Brown, aka Indie Jackson.

Feel free to hit me up with a piece of your world at
www.MaryMorrison.com
. Peace and prosperity.

Unconditionally Single

by Mary B. Morrison

Prologue

I’ve been single all my life.

The day I entered this world, the second the doctor severed my umbilical cord, I had to make it on my own. Crying. Screaming.
Like most kids, I did what I had to do to get attention.

Obviously, my mother fed me, changed my diapers— basically, she did what she had to do for me, but not much more. I guess
she’d grown tired of catering to me and my sister or doing for us instead of taking care of herself. I didn’t ask to be here.
She could’ve prevented our pain and suffering. But no. She decided to have not one but two babies for men who didn’t want
her. Yet, she wanted her life to be hers, I supposed.

My mother’s new man became her new priority. Kicking me out of the house when I was sixteen, she was done sacrificing for
me. Sitting in the funeral home, grieving over my sister’s casket, I never understood why my sister got to stay home until
she’d died.

Survival was a skill I’d learned early in my lifetime. Like I said, I had to make it on my own. My only other option was to
join my sister. I wasn’t ready to die, then or now. A few major mistakes here and there. Marrying two abusive men for the
wrong reasons. I did what I had to do to live another day.

I said, “Fuck you!” to any “holier than thou” motherfucker who degraded prostitutes. Did they think they were better? Fuck
them. They were different. Definitely not better. Maybe they had a better life. Parents who gave a fuck about them and shit.
Bet they weren’t homeless like me.

After two divorces, I chose to become a prostitute. Not the kind that walked a beat in 100-degree heat on the back streets,
sucking dicks and turning tricks for twenty bucks. No, that wasn’t where you’d find Lace St. Thomas.

I was in an air-conditioned ranch house, with my own room, servicing my johns for eleven years. I had no shame in what I had
to do. Survive. Recession. Depression. Didn’t matter. Pussy was always in demand. I made lots of money prostituting. I earned
more money after I quit to become a madam. Experience served and paid me fifty grand… a night.

Overseeing thirteen high-priced, drop-dead gorgeous escorts who earned us $10,000 an hour made me wealthy, and my boss, Valentino
James, wealthier. I enjoyed my job. Most of the time. Until my top escort dropped dead after being shot in the head by my
boss.

Men. They thought they ruled the fucking world, when, in fact, all they did was fuck up their world and everybody in it. Truth
be told, women are wiser than men. I supposed… until I fell in love with Grant.

Illegally, I inherited $50 million from my ex-boss, and I unexpectedly experienced multiple heartaches caused by the man I
loved. Perhaps I was better off by myself, but there was a part of me that wanted to get married. I wanted to love someone
who loved me for me. Settle down. Have a few babies. Live a peaceful life. No matter how hard I tried, shit continued to happen.

My boss wanted his millions back. Fuck that. I thought I wanted my man back. Forget that. Neither one of them owned me. Unconditionally,
this was my life. The fact that I had a pussy between my legs didn’t mean I was less than a man. A man wasn’t shit without
a woman. I learned that prostituting. I learned a lot more about men when I was a madam. They wanted free pussy, but they
were willing to pay for good pussy. Sexy pussy. Tight pussy. Experienced pussy. Hell, bad pussy could make a dime if it was
attached to the right mind.

It was my prerogative to pamper my pussy any way I damn well pleased. Sometimes a woman had to be sweet. Sometimes she needed
to be bittersweet. Then there were times a woman had to be a straight-up bitch. I’d mastered all three.

If I had to suck a dick or shoot a man in his damn head, I wouldn’t hesitate. A woman unsure of herself would miss out on
opportunity after opportunity, lying in her grave, wondering,
What if?

Curled in the fetal position, kidnapped, locked in the back of some motherfucker’s SUV, I had what my assailants didn’t know
I possessed, but they would soon find out. I had my gun. They’d kidnapped the wrong bitch. The minute they opened the trunk,
I opened fire.

What the fuck? Not these two fools! I should’ve known.

First, I fired at my ex-boss, Valentino, the one without the gun. He jumped in the wrong direction for him, right for me.
One of the two bullets I fired at him hit his ass in the side. Then I shot Benito Bannister, my ex-man, the idiot with the
gun. Valentino was stupid for letting Benito have the gun. Benito had never shot or killed anyone. They deserved to die. Both
of them.

“Fuck!” I underestimated that idiot Benito.

We exchanged fire.
Pow!
I got his ass too. Right in his shoulder, although I aimed for his head, right between his eyes.
Pow!
My gun fell to the ground. I didn’t realize I’d been shot until blood soaked my red jacket. I couldn’t feel a thing.

“Let’s go, nigga!” Valentino yelled, getting in the driver’s seat. “Lock that bitch in the fucking trunk! I’ma personally
kill her ass execution-style!”

Not if I kill you first,
I thought.

Benito reached for my legs. I kicked this stupid ass in his face. What smart attacker would lean face-first into his subject?
My stiletto punctured his chin.

“Nigga, let’s roll. The fucking cops are coming!” Valentino yelled.

“Damn, Lace. You gon’ pay for that shit,” Benito said, gripping the trunk.

I’d stopped answering to Lace when my sister died. I’d buried myself and assumed her name, Honey. Exhaling, I heard the sirens.
For the first time, I was happy to hear police sirens. Jumping out of the trunk, I picked up my gun, then yelled, “Punk!”
firing at the SUV, shattering the back window. I looked down at my shoes surrounded by a puddle of blood. My blood. I wanted
to throw up but couldn’t. Frisking my body, I couldn’t feel where I’d been shot.

“Drop the gun!” were the last words I’d heard before my body collapsed to the ground. I figured, if the police thought I was
dead, they wouldn’t shoot me.

My Pussy—My Prerogative

by Mary B. Morrison

My pussy

My prerogative

The last time I’d checked

My pussy was attached to me

Not some wannabe lover

Claiming my pussy

Was his pussy

And reciting the same line

To the other

Pussy in his face

After I cum

He’s gone without a trace

You see this pussy

That’s between my legs

Is attached to a head

With brains

That can drive a man insane

My pussy

My prerogative

To give

Or to keep

To remain celibate

To sell a bit

Or to creep

Or to freak

To snap

Or to wrap

Around a man’s head

In and out of bed

Unconditionally

My pussy is

My prerogative

Wanna taste

Wanna slide into first base

Second? Seconds?

Third? Thirds?

My pussy has the first and final words

On whether your dick’s worthy

Not

If your dick is dirty

Your pockets are dry

You’re a selfish lover

Your back hurts

You cum before my pussy gets wet

You leave right after your cum is dry

Don’t ask me why

I refuse to let you fuck me

Just take your dick

And let my pussy be

Free to choose

The right stroke

The right man

The right lover

The right dick

Unconditionally

For as long as I live

It’s my clit

My pearl

My pussy

My world

My prerogative

Cum correct

Or don’t cum at all