Daddy Long Stroke

Truth be told. It started out as inquisitiveness. I was bored. I was lonely. I was fucking horny. And tired of sucking and fucking dildos, pretending they were Jasper’s dick. So I went on Nastyfreaks4u.com, a new website that’s been around for about two years or so. About a year ago, I had overheard one of the regulars who gets her hair done down at my salon talking about a site where men and women post amateur sex videos, similar to that on Xtube, and also place sex ads. So out of curiosity, I went onto their site, browsed around on it for almost a week before deciding to become a member and place my very own personal ad. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything to come of it. And a part of me had hoped nothing would. But, lo and behold, my email became flooded with requests. And I responded back. I told myself that I’d do it one time, only. But once turned into twice, then twice became three more times, and now—a year-and-a-half later, I’m logged on again—still telling myself that this time will be the last time.

I stare at my ring finger. Take in the sparkling four-carat engagement ring. It’s a nagging reminder of what I have; of what I could potentially end up losing. My reputation for one—as a successful, no-nonsense hairstylist and business owner of one the most upscale hair salons in the tri-state area; winner of two Bronner Brothers hair show competitions; numerous features in Hype Hair magazine, one of the leading hairstyle magazines for African-American women; and winner of the 2008 Global Salon Business Award, a prestigious award presented every two years to recognize excellence in the industry—could be tarnished. Everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve could be ruined in the blink of an eye.

My man, for another, could…will, walk out of my life. After he beats my ass, or worse—kills me. And I wouldn’t blame him, not one damn bit. I know better than anyone that as passionate a lover Jasper is, he can be just as ruthless if crossed. He has no problem punching a nigga’s lights out, smacking up a chick—or breaking her jaw, so I already know what the outcome will be if he ever finds out about my indiscretions. Yet I still choose to dance with deception, regardless of the outcome.

As hypocritical and deceitful as I’ve been, I can’t ever forget it was Jasper who helped me get to where I am today. He’s been the biggest part of my success, and I love him for that. Nappy No More wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for him believing in me, in my visions, and investing thousands of dollars into my salon eight years ago. Granted, I’ve paid him back and then some. And, yes, it’s true. I put up with all the shit that comes with loving a man who’s been caught up in the game. From his hustling and incarcerations to his fucking around on me in the early part of our relationship, I stood by him; loved him, no matter what. And I know more than anyone else that I’ve benefited from it. So as far as I’m concerned, I believe I owe him. He’s put all of his trust in me, has given me his heart, and has always been damn good to me. And, yes, this is how I’ve been showing my gratitude—by creeping on the internet.

He won’t find out, I think, sighing as I remove my diamond ring from my hand, placing it in my jewelry case, then locking it in the safe with the rest of my valuables. Jasper had given me this engagement ring and proposed to me a month before he got sentenced while he was still out on bail. He wanted me to marry him before he got locked up, but I wanted to wait until he got released. Having a half-assed wedding was not an option. But, they’ll be no wedding if I don’t get my mind right and stop this shit, soon! I’ll stop all this craziness once he gets home. This is what I tell myself; this is what I want to believe.

How many dicks have I sucked over the last year? Ummm, honestly, I wish I could tell you. Truth is I try not to give it much thought. Thinking about it would make me feel guiltier than I already do. Every time I walk back up in this spot and crawl back up into bed with thoughts of Jasper, every time he calls me and tells me how much he misses me and loves me and can’t wait to get home to me, every time I sit in front of him at a visit, or when he looks into my eyes and he kisses me—it fucks with me. It eats away at my conscience. But, is it enough to make me stop? It should be. I swear I had hoped, wished, it would be. But it hasn’t. Something keeps luring me right back on my knees sucking down another nigga’s dick.