Hate the Game, Not the Player

Today will be a week since getting played.

To think about it and put every inconsistent, pussy ass nigga stint Deondre has pulled on me into perspective, last week’s cancellation shouldn't be a surprise.

Faye is baffled herself.  I think everyone who is working laborious hours at getting me an orgasm is baffled.

Even my close male friend doesn't understand dude's malfunction.

“Maybe he's gay,” a friend stated as though him being a FAF (faggot ass faggot) would bring solace to the situation.

“Maybe he actually cares, or is afraid of hurting you,” another friend declared.  The thing is I'd rather be bowlegged with a slight limp after good sex than deal with how I feel now.

I feel like a complete fool.  I allowed myself to become vulnerable for a man with a well-known fuck ‘em and leave ‘em track record. I made it through undergrad, countless frat parties, long evenings alone with him at work, states apart with only phone sex as a comfort, and managed to not become a notch on his list.

But now, I'm just like the others except those chicks actually got fucked in the process.  Well I guess I got fucked too, just not where it counts.

Faye tried to cheer me up yesterday with the old "Everything happens for a reason" speech.  And I know she has a valid point, but its just like when I had to decline admission into Howard because of finances; no one wants to hear their hopes and dreams have been deferred because everything happens for a reason.

So what is my reason?  Maybe dude has a horrible infection or virus. Maybe I would have gotten pregnant.  Or maybe I would have experienced the best sex of my life with a man who has a ride or die girlfriend and also intends on marrying her within the next year.

Shit, maybe I would have lost the game and fell in love.

Fell in lust.

Shit, just fallen for his smooth ass game.

I never have regrets, only mistakes made and it is official readers Deondre was a huge mistake.

Like I said, last Monday was so predictable.  I was just too blinded by the feeling of my throbbing clit.  Couldn't process reality because every thought was on his thick, black dick.

Everyone has tendencies, but Deondre's ass has straight up nigga propensities. 

He is and will forever be a fuck ass nigga.

A dawg.

A womanizer.

A punk ass bitch.

(excuse my moment of typing rage)

But for real, he has always been this way so what made me think him being older and more educated would change his doggish mentality.

His law degree has only amplified his dangerous propensities. Now the nigga can prey on women in all arenas. He can seduce a judge into an extension, a female juror into a conviction, a prosecutor into a plea, and the courtroom audience into his bed.

Oh, the nigga is amazing!

He has been inconsistent since day one.  Do you know that nigga left the country without telling me.  His only response was, "Baby, you were the first person I called when I got back.”

WTF?

He also flipped on me in public and called me a hallucinating bitch.  Told me that I was crazy and was done dealing with me.

Again WTF?

And each WTF? is aimed at what the fuck was I thinking when I continued dealing with him after all this time.

I was thinking about his dick.  He knew what he was doing that day he invited me to his school and on the 4th floor in the law library showed me a picture of him naked.

Full frontal.  Shaven low.  Dick and balls.  Just how I like it.

You talking about your girl had to rush home and change her panties.

Moist.

Wet.

Please it was like a fucking flood between my legs.  I would have fucked his ass right then and there, raw, I was just that horny.

Once he showed me the photo and sent it to my phone to use for those late nights when he couldn't talk, it was over.

And it wasn't just the photo.  It was the years spent trying not to succumb to his charm.  It was the relentless effort made at being the baddest bitch and treating him like ultimate shit.  It was Lisa pulling me away from him at every frat party as though a simple conversation would lead to us fucking in his green Mustang convertible.

So the sexual tension of 4 years combined with my present sexual frustration has clouded my judgment.  I became his fool, his toy and have absolutely nothing to show for it but some of the best material I've written in years.

I guess tragedy truly is comedy at its best.