Man Swappers (33 page)

Porsha walks in. “What are y’all in here talking about?”

“President Obama, who else?” I tell her, shaking my head.

She backs out of the room. “Oh, no thank you. I want no part of this conversation. Call me when y’all are done.”

I laugh. “Girl, take me with you.”

“Mmmph, whatever,” Persia snorts at the both of us.

“Where are you going?”

“To fix me a damn drink,” she huffs over her shoulder, switching her way out the door. “Talking about this shit has got me hot.”

I laugh, pressing the
PLAY
button and resuming my show. “Well, you might as well fix me one, too, ’cause listening to you is gonna give me the shits if I don’t have one.”

She laughs. “Well, get over it. I’ll be right back with it.”

“And don’t come back in here with any more of that Obama mess. I don’t wanna end up going to bed with a damn headache. I want to catch up on my show, have a drink, and take it down for the night, peacefully.”

She flicks her wrist at me. “Whatever.”

The doorbell rings. I glance at the time on the lower right corner of my laptop. 8:24
P.M.
I wonder who’s coming here this time of night. And I know we’re not planning on fucking anyone tonight.
I go back to watching the rest of the show without giving it another thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Porsha comes waltzing back into the room, saying, “Girl, look what the wind blew in.” She’s carrying a tray with a pitcher of white sangria and four wineglasses on it. I glance up to see what she’s talking about.

“Heeeeeeeeeey, Diva,” Felecia says, spreading her arms wide open as she struts in the room. I’m surprised to see her. It’s taken her almost two months to finally get over here so we can get the gossip.

I slide my laptop over onto the sofa, getting up. “Ohmygod, girl, where in the hell have you been, Cuz? It’s been ages.” We hug.

“I know,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “It’s a damn shame we don’t stay in touch. It’s so good to see you.”

“Yes, it is. Good to see you, too.” I give her another big hug, then step back, taking her in. She’s stylishly dressed in a denim
dress that grazes her knee and a pair of black, four-inch ankle booties. She’s wearing a black lace front wig with strawberry blonde highlights. It’s bone-straight with baby hair around the edges, and hangs past her shoulders. “Girl, you’re looking fierce as ever. And I’m loving the do.”

“You know how I do it, boo,” she says, flinging her hair over her shoulder. “It’s the silky Yaki, girl; got it on sale for three-hundred-and-four dollars.”

Porsha cuts her eyes over at me, filling the glasses with wine. I’m sure she’s thinking what I’m thinking:
Why the hell is she always wearing wigs?
I don’t think I can ever recall a time when she’s worn her own hair out. Not even as a teenager. Weaves, wigs and head wraps; that’s all we’ve ever seen. Shit, now I have to wonder if she even has any hair of her own.

“And you’re wearing it well,” I say. “So how are you? What’s new? I’ve been meaning to get over to the shop but every time I plan on coming down there, I end up getting sidetracked.”

“Girl, you know I understand. But, umm, everything is everything. Things down at the salon are good. Pasha’s busy with getting ready for her wedding. And as you can see,”—she spreads her arms open—“I’m doing faaaaabulous.”

I smile, taking her all in. “So it seems. We really need to do better with staying in touch, though.”

“I know,” she says, taking a seat on the sofa. I close my laptop, moving it off the sofa and sitting it on the floor, then sit next to her. “It really makes no sense.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Persia says, waltzing in the room. Porsha hands Felecia a drink, then Persia and me.

“Yes, I am,” Felecia says lifting her glass. We follow suit. “To us.”

“To us,” Persia, Porsha and I say in unison, clinking our glasses with hers. And for the next hour we sip and chat it up about little shit. Vacation spots, the boutique, the salon, family, mutual acquaintances,
and the upcoming wedding. But, outside of talk about the salon and the upcoming nuptials, she’s still very tight-lipped about anything else that has to do with Pasha.

“And I know I’m gonna see y’all at the wedding, right?” Felecia asks, downing the last bit of her wine.

“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t miss it for the world. Here, let me top you off,” Persia says as she graciously gets up and refills Felecia’s glass. A sly smirk curls her lips. We all know Felecia’s an undercover lush, so we’ll keep her glass filled until her tongue starts to loosen. In the meantime, we keep the conversation light.

“How’s Aunt Harriet doing?” Persia asks, settling back in her chair.

“Chile, Nana is Nana; still feisty as ever.”

And spewing scriptures I’m sure
, I think, smiling.

Porsha asks, “Is she still forcing you and Pasha to go to church with her?”

Felecia laughs. “Girl, you already know. Every chance she gets.”

“Some things never change,” Persia replies, shaking her head, laughing with her.

“Isn’t that the truth? I love Nana dearly. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her. I try to spend as much time as I can with her.” She takes a sip from her drink, then asks how our parents are doing. I tell her they’re doing well; that they’ll be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary in November. “Wow, forty years. That’s amazing. I don’t think most couples last longer than four to six years these days.”

“Mmmph,” Persia grunts, leaning up and setting her glass up on the coffee table. “You better try four to six
months.
You know like I do that most people in relationships are in the
wrong
relationships with the
wrong
people, trying to make it right, doing all the
wrong
shit.”

“Giiiiiiiiirl,” Felecia says, shaking her head, “you better preach.
I don’t understand that kinda shit. I mean, if you’re with someone who you
know
is bringing stress into ya life, why put yourself through all the aggravation? Let that ass go.”

Persia replies, “Because misery loves company. And the fear of being alone outweighs the need for peace of mind.”

“And common damn sense,” Felecia adds.

“Speaking of relationships,” Porsha says, reaching for the pitcher of sangria and refilling her glass. “What’s up with you and your man, Miss Lady? Y’all still together?” She pours more into mine as well.

“Thanks” I tell her, taking my drink, then shifting back into my seat to get comfortable.

“Chile, Andre and I are doing wonderful. Four years strong, and still counting.”

“Wow, four years,” I say in between sips of my drink. “Time sure flies.”

“Yes, it does,” she agrees. “Half the time I don’t know where it goes.” Persia wants to know when he’s going to put a ring on it. “Who knows when that’s gonna be? That’s on him. Don’t get me wrong. I would love to marry Andre. But I don’t put any pressure on him. I love him, and I know he loves me, so whether we get married or not isn’t gonna change anything. We have a really good relationship.”

Hmmm, that’s what they all say
, I think, pressing my lips to my glass.
Until they find out he’s fucked her best friend.
“Well, it definitely sounds like you’re in love, girl. I wish you nothing but happiness.”

She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Thanks. I truly am.” She glances around the room at us. “Now what’s going on with you divas? Who y’all loving or should I say
doing
? ’Cause I know how y’all like to get it.” She laughs.

“Girl, we’re loving life and doing us,” Porsha answers for the three of us.

“And if someone worthy comes along in the process,” Persia adds. “Then maybe we’ll love him, too.”

“So in the meantime, y’all just keep sharing men?” Felecia asks, although it feels more like a statement than anything else. She twists her body in my direction. “Triple the fun.”

I nod.

“And fun it is,” Persia says, raising her glass to her.

Felecia raises hers as well. “I heard that, girl.”

“That’s right. Three freaks in the sheets are always better than one, okay.”

Felecia laughs. “Seems like you all have been freaking men like that for quite a long time.”

Porsha laughs. “Yeah, it’s been several years off and on; more on than off in the last five, though. And, hey, it works for us.”

“Well, shoot, if y’all like it. I love it. Do you. I don’t give a damn what people do in the comforts of their own sheets; as long as they ain’t doin’ my man.”

“I know that’s right,” Persia says.

Felecia continues, “I don’t know how y’all do it, sharing men and whatnot. I’m too selfish for that shit. I’d end up wanting to cut a bitch and fight his ass if he gave her more dick than he was giving me. I’m the kind of woman who needs to have my man all to myself.” She pauses, taking a sip of her drink. She licks her lips. “Any woman sharing another woman’s man has some real fucked-up self-esteem, in my opinion.” She quickly realizes what she’s said and tries to clean it up. “No disrespect meant to y’all, but that’s how I feel. Not that I’m implying I think any of you have low self-esteem.”

“Oh, and no disrespect taken,
Hun
,” Porsha says, shifting in her seat. I glance over at her, hoping she doesn’t curse her out before we find out the filth on Pasha. The two of them have been known to get into some very heated conversations, particularly
when Felecia has had one drink too many. She’s the type that doesn’t care what comes out of her mouth once she’s liquored up. “Our self-esteems have always been on high, boo.”

“Oh, okay,” Felecia says, giving her one of those if-you-say-so looks. “You don’t have to convince me. Y’all are truly the exceptions to the rule because most of the chicks I know who fuck around with someone else’s man have some deep-rooted issues.”

“Well, we don’t have that problem,” Persia informs her. “My sisters and I have always been very comfortable in our skins. What we do has nothing to do with self-esteem, or some traumatic life experiences. Shit, bagging a man of our own has never been a problem for any of us.”

“Exactly,” Porsha states. “There’s no jealousy between us and no fighting over a man because
we
agree to fuck him on our terms. Not his and definitely no one else’s.”

Felecia takes it all in, then asks, “So what happens, let’s say, when you meet a guy that one of you wants to fuck but the other two doesn’t; then what?”

“Then nine times out of ten we won’t fuck him,” Persia answers for the three of us. “Well, I know I don’t. Porsha and Paris can speak for themselves.”

“No, you’re right,” Porsha says, pouring another drink. She refills Felecia’s glass, too. “We definitely won’t fuck him. No matter how fine he is.”

My secret romp with Desmond last week down in Atlantic City immediately pops into my head. Fucking him, again, was exactly what I needed. He made love to every inch of my body, slow and tender. Made sure I got exactly what I asked for. As rough around the edges as he appears, he’s a gentle, attentive lover. And, although I still haven’t given him my cell number, I’ll definitely fuck him again, and again, and again. Strong hands, muscular arms, chiseled
chest…yes, Lawd, I’ll fuck him down. Whew, he had my pussy singing.

“Umm, what are you sitting over there smiling about?” Porsha asks, eyeing me. All three of them have their eyes glued on me.

“Yes, do share,” Felecia says, twisting her body in my direction.

I shake my head. “I was sitting here thinking about some of our encounters over the years,” I lie, smiling wider.

Persia sits up in her seat, fanning herself. “Girrrrrrl, and we definitely have some stories to tell. Mmmph.”

“Ooooh, I bet y’all do,” she says, laughing. “’Cause y’all some real freaky bitches.”

We all laugh. Persia starts telling Felecia about one of our sexapades. The time we fucked a NFL football player while vacationing on Saint Lucia. We were staying at the Windjammer Landing Villa Beach Resort, where he was staying as well for a wedding he was attending. Six-six, two hundred forty pounds of solid man muscle. When Porsha walked back up into our villa with him in tow—bare-chested, wearing a pair of swim trunks and Louis Vuitton flip-flops, my pussy immediately moistened. And I knew Persia’s did as well, the way she started twisting in her seat. We had been on the island for over a week without any dick or suitable prospects and we had been getting antsy. So when Porsha walked in with him we knew we’d hit the jackpot. We encircled him, then pounced on him like starved lioness, devouring every inch of him. Porsha and Persia sucked his dick while I sucked on his balls. Then we alternated sitting on his face, grinding down on his tongue, anticipating getting fucked with his thick seven-and-a-half inches. But, unbeknownst to us, pussy wasn’t what he had in mind. He wanted ass. That was his fetish. That was his desire. And that’s what we gave him. Deep and fast, we rode down on his cock, keeping his mouth stuffed
with titties and pussy until he had us squirting out of our cunts and asses. We fucked him two days in a row, and would’ve fucked him for the rest of our stay there had he not come out of his face asking us to eat each other’s pussies.

Felecia grimaces. “Ugh, no, he didn’t ask y’all to do some perverted shit like that. And that nasty motherfucker couldn’t see that y’all were sisters?”

“Yes the hell he did,” Persia responds. “And his ass was dead serious, too.”

Porsha chimes in. “Girl, he was really trying to take it over the edge with that shit. Then he kept pressing the issue when we told him we didn’t get down like that.”

“He even offered to pay us,” I add, shaking my head.

Felecia’s eyes pop open. “Oh, wow…how much?” She asks this as if the amount would’ve made a difference. I tell her ten grand. “Ten thousand dollars? And all y’all had to do is eat each other out? That’s a lot of money to turn down.”

I blink, then frown.
Bitch, you must be sick!

“No thank you, boo,” Porsha says, “There’s not enough money in this world for something like that to go down.”

Felecia eyes her, then cuts her eyes over at me and Persia. “Hmmm…now back to these sexapades. Y’all have never licked and lapped on each other, or wanted to?”