Single Husbands (2 page)

The law cannot make any married person accountable; it merely grants an immeasurable tool with no accountability. In fact,
singles have more enforceable rights than married individuals. Hmm, how many married women by law can make the husbands take
care of the kids physically and/or financially? Any divorced woman or single parent who is not receiving child support means
she fucked the wrong broke-ass man.

Every license in America, except a marriage license, has built-in requirements for renewal, or else it does what? Expire.
A marriage license is granted in perpetuity. So when a couple decides to get married, they need to think logically if the
commitment is one they’re willing to keep forever. Forever… ever? Hmm. Not many couples stay married forever, and the
ones that do? A lot of them are unfaithful, unhappy, and they die unfulfilled. A woman who defers her dreams for many years
to care for her husband and kids can suddenly find herself abandoned, alone, and divorced. I wonder if the fine print on a
marriage license lists children as an asset or liability. What good was the marriage license when you receive a divorce decree?

I encourage every woman and man to really think about what I’m conveying. Define marriage for yourself. Write your own vows.
Maybe what you want isn’t marriage at all but a mutually dissolvable cohabitation agreement and a power of attorney granting
your partner certain rights, should you become mentally, financially, and/or physically incapacitated. Couples may want—and
I highly recommend—one joint bank account (calculated on a percentage of each person’s income or a 50/50 split) to meet the
household expenses and two individual accounts in case shit don’t go your way. At least you won’t have to worry about your
spouse running to the bank to close out the joint account after you’ve had an argument.

More important, as my daddy told me, “Speedy, always have enough money to leave. There’s nothing worse than being in a relationship
that you desperately want out of but can’t afford to go.” Now I don’t know if my dad told me that because he’d beaten my mother
until she killed herself or what, but I listened to his words of wisdom.

When my ex-husband laid hands on me, immediately I had him arrested, removed from our residence, divorced him, and started
dating men who cared about my son and me. I’ve met some really nice men along my journey through life. When my soul mate proposed
to me, I gave back the ring. He felt because he was the man he had the right to physically discipline my son. Fuck that! Beat
your own damn kids that don’t fucking live with you. I refused to allow any man to beat my child or me. A big dick and a set
of balls don’t make a man the boss in HoneyB’s world. For me, a man has got to come, and have cum, with integrity. People
need to know who or what they honestly care about before getting married. Know your core value system and share your values
with your mate.

The piece of paper the marriage license is written on came from a living tree that once upon a time, (before it was chopped
down… killed) released life-sustaining oxygen to human beings who destroy most everything around them, including other
human beings. Why do people carelessly and vindictively hurt one another? A pussy pocket is the
only
pussy a man can ever own. And, ladies, if you want to own a dick, take a trip to the pleasure store and buy one.

What did Oprah say on one of her shows? “Hurt people hurt people.” I hope you take this message to heart, and the next time
you feel like hurting someone, you have a change of heart. In our paranoia-driven, socio-economic, political, conscious-less
culture, marital status, just like money, ranks above health and happiness.

Are you happy with yourself?

Are the women in this novel happy? What the women in this novel get is what they have had all along. Instead of dating a single
man, these women voluntarily licensed…
Single Husbands
.

Single Husbands . . .

Three men who married for all the wrong reasons.

Herschel Henderson said, “I do,” to have access to his wife’s money, Lexington Lewis vowed for his better and her worse, and
Brian Flaw meant until death do we part. Herschel has a mistress that he sexes more than his wife, Lexington is making love
to as many women as he can at the sex clubs, and Brian is fucking women of every ethnicity because he’s a man who loves pussy.
The one thing these men share is despite being married, none of them will give up the sexual freedom they enjoyed as single
men.

E
motionally unavailable… to all women, except his mother and his wife.

The countless number of women he’d fucked before saying “I do” easily doubled during his ten years of marriage. Pussy was
his vice. Anal sex too. Damn, his dick hardened as his eyes beheld his wife easing her red thong out of the crack of her butt,
then over her ass. Irrespective of his discreet infidelity, he’d kept his wedding vows; he’d kept all of them.

He didn’t marry his wife’s mother. He’d married her daughter. Yet, somehow, Michelle’s mother deemed it her responsibility
to hold him accountable to his vows. Perhaps because her husband hadn’t kept his vows, or maybe she wanted a happier life
for her daughter than the one she’d had. Framed by his wife’s mother, hung by him on their coral reef–painted bathroom wall,
centered above their double vanity, were his exact words:

I, Brian Flaw, take thee, Michelle Thibodeaux, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward,
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part,
and thereto I pledge thee my faith.

Brian’s passion for life and his marital commitment were straightforward. His desire for love juxtaposed with his insatiable
appetite for sex created a dichotomy that perpetuated an internal struggle within him. There was absolutely nothing his wife
could say to keep him from being attracted to, and having sex with, other women. Nothing.

His lustful struggle, all too common among married and single men, was one that most women found incomprehensible. A hard
dick needed to rest its head in a pussy. Brian was a grown man with no intention or desire to live up to anyone’s expectations,
except his father’s. Brian’s life was his own. Not his wife’s. His decision to share his dick with other women, and to share
his life with his wife, was a conscious commitment to share, not to give.

Reared in the South, New Orleans to be exact, Brian was taught by his wealthy parents that sharing was a good thing. “Share
with your sister. Share with your brother. Share with your friends. Share with those less fortunate.” His wife knew he had
a philanthropic heart when they’d met at a charitable fund-raiser hosted by Les Gens de Couleur Libres, The Free People of
Color of New Orleans. Brian’s primary purpose for attending the event was to meet his future wife, a woman whom his dad would
approve of.

Considering there was a shortage of men at the event and everywhere Brian had traveled, his sexing multiple women was quite
gratuitous, fulfilling a greater humanitarian purpose. If only in their orgasmic moment, Brian sexed more women into happiness
by selflessly making them come, preferably first.

Brian’s upstanding ways were deeply rooted in his upbringing. Unlike many New Orleanians, he wasn’t the descendant of slaves.
His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, dating back to the 1800s, were free French-speaking men— Republicans, lawyers,
and journalists—part of the Comité des Citoyens speaking out about
Plessy
v.
Ferguson,
writing about
Brown
v.
Board of Education,
constantly fighting for separate but equal rights for blacks.

Brian came from a legacy of light-skinned, successful, thinking men who would rationalize their behavior and the aggressive
discipline of the white people around them. His ancestors declared success teaching—more often preaching to him—that “Light-skinned
Creoles unequivocally married light-skinned Creoles.” His forefathers constantly reminded him, “The darker the skin, the harder
the fight for constitutional rights.” Unanimously, the first time in Flaw history, every voting member of three generations
of Flaws voted for Obama.

Everything was both debatable and negotiable. Respect ranked second on his patriarchal list of values, right below family
values and above self-preservation. With freedom came liberties. And the Flaw men came rather frequently. The one forbidden
rule was no bastards were allowed in the family tree. Flaw men took impeccable care of their kids and their wives, no exceptions.
Brian’s eyes scrolled from his wife’s smile down to her protruding shaft.

“Baby, my pussy is puckering,” she purred, spreading her lips for him to witness her arousal.

He lusted for a lick of her coconut-tasting secretions, thinking,
That’s mine. I own that shit right there. Her lips, her clit, the blood engorging her shaft, even her orgasms, exclusively
belong to me.

Pussies. Suckable. Fuckable. Spankable. Lovable. Big. Small. Fat. Tight. Strawberry. Creamy. Cherry. Vanilla. Raspberry. Juicy.
White chocolate. Blissful. Neapolitan minus the chocolate. Wet. Dry. Hot. Loose. Sweet. Fishy. Every pussy other than his
wife’s was just a pussy, a warm place to dip his dick for a minute until he made his way back home to his wife and kids. Family
was first, always.

Like his father, who’d stayed married to his mother for over forty years, marrying Michelle was Brian’s greatest investment.
No amount of money could yield a greater return than the love of, and from, his wife. She was his everything.

Eagerly Brian wanted to slip the head of his hard dick inside his wife’s sweet, hot, juicy, fleshy volcano and make her pussy
erupt with white, creamy cum hotter than the bubbling praline mix his grandmother constantly stirred atop her gas-burning
stove whenever his family visited her and his grandfather in Amite, Louisiana.

His wife’s moans. Her shivers. Her whispers. Her pleasure was his gratification. “Take care of home first” was his family’s
mantra. Its creed included sexual satisfaction. Brian’s stiff tongue circled inside his watering mouth, then relaxed behind
his teeth. Slowly his lips parted, curving upward at the ends as he stroked his chin then smiled, watching his former Louisiana
pageant queen step into the shower. Brian danced in behind her, then closed the door.

Beholding her immeasurable beauty, he admired his wife as she tilted her head backward, allowing the warm flow of water to
glide over her pale face then in and out of her mouth.

“Your flight to Houston departs at two o’clock from Miami International,” she said, swiping the water away from her eyes.
“Your driver will be here at noon to pick you up. Don’t forget to review the most recent stats and articles I e-mailed you
on Marcus Monty. You know he’s going to sign with you. We’ve already claimed that. Those other sports agents can’t handle
him off the court like you can, baby. Be sure to take your vitamins. I’ve laid them out for you and packed a daily supply
in your carry-on. And most important, kiss the kids good-bye as soon as you get out of the shower, because your mother is
picking them up in a half hour. Oh, and my mother reminded me to upgrade our cell phones with the new GPS, so I did yours
last night,” Michelle rattled.

Staring at his wife’s tantalizing lips, he hadn’t heard most of what she’d said and definitely tuned out everything after
he’d heard her say “mother.” Standing beside his wife underneath his separate showerheads, Brian closed his eyes, then exhaled
a long “ahhhh.” Then he said, “I love you, woman,” thankful that he had a competent and considerate wife. No matter how exhausting
or demanding her day was, Michelle always made time for the little things that she didn’t have to do, like keeping his schedule.

His wife became quiet. At times, their silence spoke louder than words. The energy swarming around his heart was all for her.
Energy. Brian separated his feelings for his wife into three categories: Love. Sexual. Spiritual. The three could at some
point exist independently, intermingle, or consume him all at once. There was never a time when at least one of his feelings
for Michelle was not present.

The water glazing over her kissable, thin lips made his dick stand tall, damn near touching his navel. Lathering his body
with Very Irresistible shower gel for men, Brian realized Michelle was the irresistible one, not him. His parents were crazy
about her the minute they saw her, knowing their grandchildren would be light-skinned with good hair too. Closing his eyes
again, he felt her magnetic spiritual energy beaming toward him. Slowly opening his eyes, he peered at his wife, teasing her
protruding bubble-gum-pink nipples.

Brian smiled, then whispered, “Damn, that’s my shit.”

“Yes, it is, baby,” she reassured him. “And this is mine,” she said, squeezing his dick.

Not exclusively, but yes. His dick was her dick. “I miss you already,” Brian said, pressing his lips against hers.

Closing his eyes once more, he imagined sprawling his fingers over the crown of Michelle’s head right before bearing down,
guiding her to submissively kneel before him. He loved whenever his wife demanded that he take total control in the bedroom,
insisting, “Take me, Brian. Fuck me any way you want.”

Anything he wanted to do with or to his wife was okay with her, except inviting another woman into their bedroom. He agreed.
With a woman as amazing as his wife, he didn’t need another pussy spread across his face in her presence. A ménage à trois
with two other women would be nice to experience one day.

There were times when Michelle would let him say, “Bitch, give me my pussy. Sit this sweet fucking watermelon pussy on my
face and rotate it in my mouth.” Watermelon “Eat some now, save some for later” was his favorite candy. Sometimes he’d say
to her, “I want you to come hard or you gon’ make me take this big-ass dick and fuck the shit out of you.” Then he’d cup his
palm and slap her firm ass until it blushed the way he liked it, and say, “Answer me.”