Authors: Mary B. Morrison
Whos Loving You
Maneater
(with Noire)
Sweeter Than Honey
When Somebody Loves You Back
Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
He’s Just a Friend
Never Again Once More
Soul Mates Dissipate
Who’s Making Love
Justice Just Us Just Me
Coauthored with Carl Weber
She Ain’t the One
Mary B. Morrison writing as HoneyB
Sexcapades
Presented by Mary B. Morrison
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders
(an anthology of fiction written by thirty-three sixth graders)
With much love, respect, and admiration for my wonderful son,
Jesse Bernard, Jr., to all the single mothers like myself…love yourself first,
and to King MaxB Byrd, our loving baby Yorkshire terrier.
Date:
Given To:
Given By:
Personal Message:
Please take time to learn who you are. Know that you are worthy of greatness. You do not need validation from anyone, for those who judge you know not the content of your heart. They do not know the unpaved roads you’ve traveled. In the still of the night and sometimes in broad daylight, while no one was listening to your cries, you found the strength within and the faith to sustain the challenges you, yes, you, have overcome.
No matter what your journey, you have so many reasons to be proud of yourself. Go on and smile. You know it’s true. Respect yourself. Love yourself. Your true value derives not from your bank account, your house, your car, or the clothes you wear. Your self-worth is predicated on how well you know yourself, how well you treat yourself, how much you love and value yourself.
Hear me when I say, “No one will ever treat you worse than you treat yourself,” and no one should treat you better. When times get hard—we all experience hard times—and there seems to be no way out…keep breathing. Live another second, hold on another minute, hang in there another hour, and with each passing moment, know that your internal beauty is the pure essence of the greatest love, because without you; without your womanly nurturing, your motherly instincts, your ability to breathe life into every living human being; without women, men would cease to exist.
Don’t let men brainwash you into believing they hold the power in a relationship. They don’t. Giving birth is the highest power of procreation. Men can’t do that. So, ladies, don’t have babies for men who aren’t worthy of your power.
I hope you enjoy reading
Who’s Loving You
as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Honey
L
ove sucks!
I swore on my sister’s grave, I wished I’d never met him. His voice had lingered in my mind with crisp clarity every damn day, like he was standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.
“Baby,” he used to say to me, and I would answer, barely above a whisper, “Yes?” Seductively, he’d say it again, “Baby,” in a tone that quieted me. “Yes?” I’d say softly. We’d go back and forth: then his long fingers and strong hands would gently caress the side of my face and massage my ears.
I’d quiver whenever he’d moan, “Ummmm, you’re fucking incredible. You know that? And I’m not talking about your bedroom skills. Baby, you are an amazing woman.”
His eargasms would make cool waterfall secretions flow from my pussy, wetting my lips, before he’d ease his hand between my thighs, pressing his middle finger against my clit. He was left-handed. I’d heard Dr. Oz say on
Oprah
that left-handed people were smarter, more balanced, and better capable of processing information than those of us who were right-handed. His index and ring fingers would straddle my shaft, nestling in the crevices of my lips, as he strummed my black pearl with his middle finger. That was my favorite finger.
Gasping at the sound of his voice in my head, I knew…I was incredible. But no other man had told me that. No other man had said to me, “I love you.” Grant was my first. I let the tears fall, then closed my eyes, visualizing our moments together, lifting my lids to see only me, surrounded by olive painted walls, bright lime cabinets, dark forest granite countertops, and a kitchen floor covered with new hundred-dollar bills that had been permanently laminated into clear ceramic tiles.
Green was my favorite color. I loved walking on men and money. I’d admit I was a little extravagant. A grand total of one million dollars—in hundred-dollar bills—was embedded in every floor of my home, including the bathrooms. Some preferred to walk on sunshine. Money was my visual reminder of where I’d come from. I wasn’t proud of how I’d stepped on and over a countless number of people to get where I was.
Live and Let Die
was my favorite James Bond movie and my motto. Standing in front of the kitchen counter, I slid an already sharp knife along the steel sharpener.
Grant had been my joy. We’d loved sharing Cherry Garcia ice cream while watching
The Boondocks
DVD series, and making love. In between orgasms, we’d laugh at Huey, Riley, and their granddad. One time we stayed in bed all day, eating, sleeping, and fucking until we wobbled like ducks when we made our way to the bathroom for a much-needed piss.
“Quack, quack,” I’d teased him.
“Quack, quack, quack,” he’d tease me back.
Then, suddenly, our relationship had faded to dark. He was out of my life, as if I had frantically awakened from the best dream of my life. Shutting my eyes, I fought to go back to him, to go back to sleep and pick up where we had left off, before he left me. I tossed and wrestled with my empty bed. I opened my legs, easing the memory foam pillow between my thighs, then pulled my red satin sheet around my erect nipples, trying to forget he was no longer mine. Opening my eyes, I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring at a blue crystal bowl filled with red potatoes.
How could my past ruin my future? I had tried my damnedest to give that man my best, and he had slammed the door to his heart in my face, as though I was a Jehovah’s Witness trying to save his spiritual behind so he would become the one-hundred forty-four thousandth person to make it…Where? To Heaven? Wherever that was. Who’d been there? What did they do to get in? Mistreat others?
From hot to cold, within seconds he had swatted me away like I was a fly landing on his food, regurgitating shit. I’d meant nothing to him. It was as though he’d truly awakened to a stranger.
Words were powerful beyond measure, but his silence hurt me more. He’d made me make myself go crazy. Wow. Love or the lack thereof could do that. Make one go crazy.
“Answer your damn phone. You wrong for this shit, Grant! Dead wrong!” I yelled. I grunted loud enough to release my frustrations, but not so loud that someone in the house would come running to my aid with a straight jacket. My house had thirteen bedrooms. Twelve upstairs. Mine was the only one downstairs.
“I should kill him. Goddammit, son of a bitch!” I screamed. Sucking the stream of blood oozing from my finger, I threw the knife, the potatoes, and the crystal bowl in the damn trash can. “Fuck this shit!”
Love hadn’t hurt me. I was clear that I’d hurt the one I loved. Now I was the one suffering. Every time I got angry, so angry that I could harm Grant, something bad happened to my ass. Unzipping the first-aid kit, I pulled out a bandage.
“He probably has some other bitch in his bed, sucking his dick right now, while I’m over here trippin’ on unresolved issues that I can’t control.”
Not by myself.
As I wrapped the Band-Aid tightly around my middle finger, thoughts of the way we had constantly been together replayed in my mind, reminding me of the irreplaceable love I’d lost. Where was I going to find another six-foot-five, 235-pound, twenty-eight-year-old, successful black man with a body sexier than any Chippendales dancer I’d ever seen? Grant was my man, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let him leave me. I just knew some ex-chick or someone hoping to be the next chick had been waiting for me to fuck up so she could move in on him, with him.
“Not on my watch, bitch! Get your own man!” I grunted.
Each morning I reached out my hand to touch him; rolled over, expecting to kiss him; opened my eyes, longing to see him. I called out his name, but he wasn’t there to answer, “Yes, Honey?” as he had so affectionately done. Had he been sincere when he’d said, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me”? I wanted another chance. Hell, I deserved the opportunity to explain why I’d lied. Not everything I’d told him was a lie. Actually, most of what I’d shared about my past was the truth.
“Grant, listen to me,” I said. “Are you seriously going to take someone else’s word over mine? So what if Benito is your brother! Hell, your own mama don’t like his ass. I can’t believe you’re upset with me about something that happened before we met. You’re not making any sense. Okay. Answer this one question. ‘Do you still love me? Yes or no?’”
I wasn’t getting the answer I wanted; he wasn’t here to respond. All of this vacillating in the kitchen, talking to myself, had to stop. One minute I loved him; the same minute I hated his ass to death. I stood topless and barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, text messaging him:
Baby, it’s not what you think. Please call me.
I was trying to give him the impression I was being patient with him, but my patience had run out a long fucking time ago.