Free Sweeter Than Honey by Mary B. Morrison

puttin’ it down. You can be late one time. For me. Can’t cha?”
    “No, I can’t.” I never wanted to find out what Valentino meant when he’d said, “Not nine-oh-one.”
    Sympathizing with B’s desire to continue pleasing me, I said, “Aw, baby. Mama’ll make it up to you when she gets back. Promise.”
    “But you won’t be back for six hours. What am I supposed to do?”
    Jack off! I don’t care! “Get a job so you’re not sitting around the house all day and night. Besides, you know what’s going down this weekend. I may be three hours late.”
    “Three hours late!”
    “Just like you, I was accustomed to a certain lifestyle before we met and I still am. Business before pleasure. Besides, somebody’s gotta pay the bills,” I said, tiptoeing to my bathroom. Closing the door, and then pressing the lock, I turned on the shower and waited for the steam to emerge. Before stepping inside the fog, I glanced over at my large white porcelain tub, wishing I had time to soak in some hot bubbly water.
    Unexpectedly my thoughts shifted. I whispered, “What makes women cold-hearted toward men?”
    Lathering my white exfoliating gloves, I wondered what could make a man so angry that he’d walk into a woman’s job, a woman he once made love to, and hate her so much that he’d douse her with gasoline, strike a match, set her ablaze, then walk away like nothing happened. I was so pissed when I read that article on abuse in Essence magazine. Those women in Prince George’s County living in big ol’ beautiful mansions driving expensive cars had the same problems as me, a little girl who’d grown up way too fast in Flagstaff, Arizona.
    One thing Sunny had taught me was that the stronger women had to protect weaker women from abusive men.
    “Fuck!” A needlelike jolt darted through my breast. “What the hell was that?”
    “You okay in there?” Benito asked, jiggling the doorknob.
    “I’m fine. Too much hot water,” I lied, stepping out of the shower, massaging my back.
    I was glad I had B. The way he swaggered when he walked. Dragged certain words when he spoke like, “I love you, Lace.” How he laughed deeply from his stomach each time I said something funny. And the way B grabbed my booty when I shook it in his face. No man’s stroke of my silky hair was softer. I adored how Benito’s muscles bulged when he voluntarily took out the trash. How his thigh muscles hardened when he picked me up. I liked the simple things about our relationship maybe because I’d never had a real relationship.
    Rinsing my body, I lathered again, careful not to scrub too hard.
    Benito was a charming motherfucka. Most athletes were. But eventually the charm wears off, the lies unfold, and a woman has to either be honest with herself or her whole life becomes one big lie. But I wasn’t waiting in vain. Benito wasn’t like that. He was honest with me all the time. B wasn’t perfect but he was my perfect man.
    Tearing a piece of floss, I glided the string between my teeth. Once I stopped wasting my time waiting for Benito to fuck up, our relationship grew stronger. The less I cared, the more he loved me.
    Stepping out of the bathroom, I wrapped my body in an oversized towel, thankful I now lived a life better than most of the men I’d serviced. Watching Benito sprawled across my bed was divine. For once, a real man was in my bed. It was hard not to love B. But that was how dumb shit happened. Whenever I forgot, believing everything was right, shit happened. Usually to me.
    I watched Benito with his thighs spread stroking his dick. Why did he do that shit every time he knew I had to go to work? His broke ass needed to earn his keep.
    I smiled, then said, “I love you, B.”
    All six feet four inches, two hundred and twenty pounds with muscular quarterback thighs. Full succulent chocolate lips. Nice teeth that were slightly uneven but perfect to me. Although his NFL career was over, Benito still hadn’t decided what he