Bootleg (6 page)

  Y
ou don’t want to live out your fantasy with your wife. A friend of mine once said, “Why can’t he get freaky with me? I’m his wife. Why does he have to go outside of our relationship? I can be just as freaky.”

The reason is every man wants to believe that his wife is a good girl. In bed, you don’t want to talk to your wife like she’s a prostitute, at least not for an extended period of time.

Imagine him saying, “Take that, you nasty ho. You like that, you dirty freak? Ya mama ain’t teach you nothing, did she, you stank bitch!”

After a while, the man is going to start thinking, “Damn, I married me a stank ho! I’ve got to find myself a good girl.”

It’s a good thing women don’t talk to their men like that in bed. Our egos just couldn’t handle it. Imagine your woman saying, “Oh yeah, come on, ya fatherless faggot. Oh yeah, sling that little pencil dick. Hurt me, tiny balls!” You’d be in therapy.

  W
omen have enormous power over men, including whether or not you should keep a friend. Thing is, they’ll achieve this without actually telling you to drop him. My wife is a master at this.

Wife
: Where are you going?

Me
: Just going to meet up with Preach at the bar.

Wife
: You’re gonna hang out with him?

Me
: Well, yeah, that’s my boy. We grew up together, why?

Wife
: He gives me the creeps.

Me
: What do you mean, the creeps?

Wife
: I don’t know. It’s something about the way he looks at me makes me feel really uncomfortable.

Me
: Uncomfortable like how?

Wife
: No, that’s your friend. I’m sorry I even said anything. You go on and be with him. I’m don’t want to come between y’all.

When I finally meet up with Preach I got an attitude. I sit down and stare at him for five minutes without saying a word. Preach can feel all the tension.

Preach
: Hey, man, everything all right at home?”

Me
: Why are you so concerned about what’s going on in my house? You trying to bang my wife?

Preach
: Damon, what are you talking about? We’ve been friends for ten years!

Me
: I know what you’re up to, man. You’re one of them creepy motherfuckas that be looking at his friend’s wife behind his back. Get the hell away from me. And stay away from my wife before I kill you! You damn creep!

  M
y wife’s number one complaint with me is that I don’t know how to communicate. Can you believe this? I want to know what the hell I’ve been doing for the past eighteen years, talking to myself?

I think what she means is I don’t sit around crying with her. I try to explain to her that a man communicates with actions. If I keep a roof over your head, food on the plate, car in the garage, diamonds on your fingers, Guccis on your feet, that’s my way of saying “I love you.” That’s what I’m communicating. I don’t do that for no other woman. I love you, and you should know that.

Now, if I was unemployed and broke, then I should have plenty to say. I should be writing poetry and singing songs about all I want to get you, but I can’t get you because I’m too busy communicating with your silly ass.

  I
hate marriage counselors. This is the biggest scam in the world. Someone figured out a way that women can do the things they love best at the same time: talk and spend money. So they said, “Let’s charge them one hundred an hour to force their husbands to sit and listen to them.” But all the husband can think about is how much money he’s spending, so you never have his complete attention:

Doctor
: Mr. Johnson, did you hear what your wife said?

Man
: Yes, I heard what she said. She says the same shit at home.

Doctor
: Well, how do you feel?

Man
: I feel like I should get a rebate.

It’s amazing how polite everyone becomes in front of the counselors. It’s like you’re trying to impress him as a couple. Your mannerisms change. Every answer begins and ends with a “yes, honey,” or “no, sweetie pie.” You start wondering why you are there in the first place. Till you get to your car and start calling each other your other pet names, like, “bitch” and “motherfucka.”

All the counselors think about is how they can extract more money from you. Their intentions are to get you separated from each other and convinced that you need some individual counseling, in order to work on personal issues. Sounds like a lot more hundred dollars in his pocket, doesn’t it? And if kids are involved he’ll tell you that they need counseling, and so will the dogs and cats, and you can’t forget the fish because they are affected by the breakup, too. My advice: Work out your own problems so that money problems don’t become another one of your problems.

  T
here was a period in my marriage when I took my wife for granted sexually. The problem was, it was there all the time. I’d come home from work late, and she’d be in the bed with just a T-shirt and panties on. She was so tempting and sexy. I’d just roll her over and push it in. No fore-play—getting it in was the foreplay.

Sometimes she’d be sleeping and I’d have to sneak it in. I’d inch her drawers down. Just enough to get some room to maneuver. If she stirred, I’d softly sing to her, “Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop …” Because I didn’t want to have to “make love.” I just wanted to get it off. It wasn’t always easy, though. I mean, sometimes she’d turn over, and I’d have to get up out of bed, walk around to the other side, and get started all over again.

If I got caught, though, it wasn’t funny. In the morning she’d give me that look, as if to say, “You could have at least pulled my panties back up. My ass was freezin’ last night—thanks to you, Quickdraw.”

  T
ne of the weirdest experiences you can have is making love during the pregnancy. You’ll do it to try to keep the peace in the house, but there’s really nothing erotic about it. ‘Cause your wife will swell up. Everywhere—stomach, feet, hands. I’m talking Free Willy.

By the ninth month, my wife gained forty pounds and I barely recognized her. First couple of months it was cool because I psyched myself out. I’d look down at her stomach and think, “Maybe she had a couple of beers or something.” But those last couple of months, she got so big she’d have to rock just to get up out of chairs. She’d wobble toward me and say, “Make love to me … What’s the matter? You don’t find me sexy anymore?”

I’d say, “Have you seen your drawer size lately?

“That’s okay,” she’d say, panting. “We’ll use them as a sheet. Come on, make love to me.”

Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I’d tell her to go into the bedroom and turn off the lights. Then I’d go into the bathroom with porno magazines, trying to get it up.

She’d get a little impatient waiting. “Damon, are you coming in here or what?!”

I’d say, “All right, baby, hold on, I’ll be right there. Just let me see what it’s supposed to look like.”

  I
don’t think a man should be in the delivery room when his wife is giving birth. It’s very selfish on the woman’s part to want him to be there, subjecting him to the same pains she’s having. If the woman would take a second and think about it from the man’s perspective, she’d understand what I’m talking about.

The guy’s standing there next to his wife, doing his duty. He’s breathing with her, holding her hand, giving her ice chips, encouraging her. That’s fine. Suddenly his wife’s vagina opens up and something the size of a watermelon pops out. He’s going to freak out, seeing it get all abused. How’s he ever gonna eat that again? That’s like going to McDonald’s and watching somebody spit on your hamburger, throw in on the floor, kick it around, and then serve it to you—you ain’t never gonna eat there again.

On top of that, a man will feel very insecure about himself. I think that’s why a lot of men faint in the delivery room. It’s the shock of knowing that she was faking all those moans. My wife screamed and
moaned with this eight-pound baby like she’s never screamed and moaned before. I mean, it was for real. There’s just no way my dick (which I haven’t figured out how to weigh yet) could get even close to doing the same thing to her.

Anyway, the baby came out with this coat of stuff on it. I didn’t know what it was. I was afraid to touch the baby. My wife actually wanted me to catch him. Yuck! I couldn’t do it. Poor guy was hanging by his umbilical cord waiting on me because … I fainted.

  I
thought that after I got married, I would be able to stop masturbating. Right after the wedding I said to myself, “Damn, I’m married now. I don’t need to jerk off anymore.” Then about two weeks later, I said, “Damn, I’m married now. I need to jerk off!”

But, really, sex was never a problem until my wife and I had kids. Before them, we’d do it anytime, anywhere, anyplace, and with anything—we were porkin’!! That’s how we got four kids. My wife would be cooking dinner and I’d walk up behind her and say, “Hey, baby, what you doing? Looking all good, come here.” Then I’d pull up her skirt and start hitting it. We’d get creative, doing it all over the kitchen, on the floor, on the table, even get her ass on top of the refrigerator. It was aggressive sex, wild, with all kinds of hollering and yelling and moaning. We were so noisy we’d set off car alarms.

It isn’t like that anymore. The kids are always around. Now it’s like a race and we’re there playing that game Red Light, Green Light. I put it in and
start counting, “Red light, green light, one, two, three,” hoping to get done before any of the kids come in and catch us.

Now we got to act like we aren’t doing it. We’ll be in the bed on a Saturday morning, just rubbing, and one of my boys will walk in.

“Good mmmmmorning s-son. You need help with your homework? Grrrrrrreat! Why don’t you go get your stuff and I’llllllllll m-meet you in a fffffew minutes? What am I doing? Ahhhhh, nooothinnnng. Jussst keeeeepin your mammmaa warrrgggghhhh, warmmmmmmm.”

Sometimes the kids affect my sex life without them even knowing it. I come home from work horny, ready to have sex. I’d walk up on my wife, and go to kiss her.

Wife
: Get off me. You need to go talk to your damn kids, ‘cause they are getting on my damn nerves. You better talk to them.

Me
: Okay, baby, I’ll talk to them. Now come here and give me a kiss.

Wife
: No. I’m not in the mood, get off me.

Me
: What did I do?

Wife
: You look just like them. That’s what you did. Now get off me, ‘cause I am tired of all of y’all’s shit.

Finally, I’d wear her down and we’d be having sex, but she’d still be complaining.

Wife
: I told that little daughter of yours that if this is the attitude she’s taking to school … Wait, move it to the left … yeah, right there. Anyway, I told her I will not accept these kind of grades… faster… because your father works too hard … wait, slow down … for you to not to be cooperating. What’s the matter, Damon? Are you having problems at work?

  M
y wife used to teach aerobics. I’d watch the results come home and I’d think to myself, “All right, I hope you’re ready to carry some more kids.” She wasn’t happy about getting pregnant with our fourth child, but it was her fault, walking around the house looking all good. I’d look at that ass, and I’d say, “Take that, girl, see you in nine months!”

She kept inviting me to see her teach, but I never made the class. It’s not that I wasn’t proud of her or didn’t want to be supportive. It’s just I can’t stand in a room filled with titties and ass and watch them bounce around and pretend like I don’t see anything. If I go to her class, I can’t be disrespectful and look at other women. I got to look her in the eye the whole time.

And these days women come in the gym with virtually nothing on. They have a sticker over each nipple and a string up the ass and that’s the outfit. Then the exercises they do are very suggestive and the music they play sounds like porno. And my wife will be saying things like, “And up, and down, and in, and out… Up, and down, and in, and out… And spread your legs … hold … release …” I figure, halfway through this class, I’m gonna have my dick in my hand, and she ain’t gonna be happy about that.

  M
y oldest son, Damon, just turned sixteen. It’s scary seeing him grow up. The boy’s tall, got big feet. And you know what being a teenager means. He’s playing with himself. Now I have two masturbators in the house—and one of us has got to go! See, I know he’s doing it because the boy spends most of his time in the bathroom. He comes home from school looking real sad.

“Hey, Damon, how was your day?” I ask.

He looks real unhappy and doesn’t say hi or anything. He just makes a beeline straight to the bathroom. Then he comes out five minutes later all relaxed, with a big smile.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” he says, all bright and cheery, trying to shake my hand.

“Boy, I don’t want to shake your hand!” I mean, I want to be supportive and all that, but there’s a line I just can’t cross.

Knowing what it’s like to be jerking off in the bathroom at that age, I really enjoy messing with him. I play with the doorknob when he’s in there.

I’ll knock on the door, saying, “Hey, Damon, everything all right in there?”

“Uh, yeah, Dad, everything’s fine. I’m almost done.” His voice is all nervous.

But I’ll keep on, trying to throw his rhythm off, “Can I get you anything—some toilet paper, some lotion?”

One day, I’d like to do something really mean but it’d be fun—kick the door open and not even acknowledge what he’s doing. I’ll just say, “Wash your hands, it’s time to eat.”

He’ll come to the table, embarrassed and uncomfortable. I’ll just sit there and stare at him. Then I’ll say something like, “What’s the matter, you’re not gonna eat your sausage?”

It’s such an awkward age for him. He’s growing so fast, and now he’s even big enough to start wearing my clothes. He’s so insecure about his size. His hands go past his knees, so he keeps them inside his pockets so his arms look normal. His voice is changing and cracking. And he’s got three hairs on his nuts. He kinda has to jerk off, just to build self-esteem. He just abuses it, though. Anytime there’s something he can’t handle, he goes to play with himself.

“Spaghetti
again?
I’ll be right back,” he’ll say, marching off to the bathroom again.

I feel bad for him because he has started something that he’s never going to be able to stop. Once you start playing with your knob, you’re in it for life. You’d think with technology as advanced as it is, they could invent something to help you to stop jerking off. They have a patch that you put on your arm and it stops you from smoking. Why can’t they invent a patch you put on your nuts that can relieve stress and keep you from
jerking off? They can call it Dickatine. It simulates an orgasm when you get stressed out.

Then when you get into a car accident and you jump out of your vehicle all upset.

“Man, what’s wrong with you? This is a brand new car. I ought to beat your motherfu—”

And then the Dickatine kicks in:

“Oh my God … oh damn … hold up … hold up … don’t touch me, don’t touch me oh damn … aaaaarrrgghhhhhaaaahhahiahaiaiagyyahyyya … Hey man, I’m sorry, it’s just a car…. Look, can I offer you a patch?”

They can’t really invent anything like that because it would become the new drug on the street. There would be patch houses all across America. Neighborhoods would declare war against them. Self-righteous leaders would say, “These patch houses are ruining our community and we’re not gonna … oh God, oh shit. Don’t touch me! Aarrrhggaghajumba-layashuckakakakakahhgg … Oh man. What the hell was I talking about? Let those kids have their fun. I need a cigarette.”