Shattering the Myth by Zane Page A

ago.
    Her appetite is insatiable and undeniable. SHE can never get enough when SHE appears. As for me, I am still nervous, but hopefully one of these days, SHE and I will become one and settle down with one man who can satisfy both our needs. Until then, SHE will just continue to have her fun, ruling the weekends, and I will continue my boring-ass weekdays. One thing is for sure, though. When I masturbate now, I have multiple orgasms and enjoy my body in ways I never imagined before. Maybe SHE and I have already become one. Or have we?
    Side Note: The female character from this story is the main character from a novel I have in progress entitled Nervous. Nervous will be the second in a series of novels featuring a prominent African-American psychiatrist named Dr. Marcella Spencer. Dr. Spencer deals with an array of clients suffering from different forms of sexual problems. The first in the series is my novel Addicted , available from Pocket Books.

Wrong Number

    â€œI’m sorry, you have the wrong number!” It started with a wrong number and ended with the fuck of a lifetime. It was about seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, hump day, and I was worn the hell out after a hard day at the office. My live-in boyfriend, Tony, wasn’t home yet. It was his night to play basketball with the boys at the gym. I was sitting there on the couch with my legs up, sipping on a glass of red wine and watching Judge Judy while I was waiting for my chicken breasts and baked potatoes to finish baking.
    At the time, Tony and I had been living together for a little over a year, and it was all good. Things were going well between us. The lovemaking was very satisfying. I don’t know why I did what I did, and I’m not trying to make excuses for it. All I can say is, I had fallen into kind of a rut. Let’s face it, shit happens!
    When the phone rang, I figured it must have been my mother or one of my girlfriends but had no idea, since the caller ID was in the bedroom. I picked it up and said, “Hello.” The man on the other end of the line said, “Hello, may I please speak to Stacey?” I told him, “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number!”
    He then asked, “Is this 555-2269?” and I said, “No, this is 555-2268.” So he said, “Sorry, my mistake. Have a good evening!” and I replied, “You too. Peace!”
    Now, you would have thought that would be the end of it, but naw. About a half hour later, Judge Judy had gone off, and Real Life Stories of the Highway Patrol was on, where they show people getting their asses arrested and shit in real life. They have cameras all up in their faces. It’s mad funny to me for a person to not only get caught in the act, but cold busted on TV in front of millions of people as well. Anyway, I had just taken the chicken out of the oven and thrown a pouch of boil-in-the-bag rice into a pot on the stove when the phone rang.
    I assumed the same thing I did the first time, must be my mother or one of the girls. Wrong again, because he called my ass back. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but I ended up flirting with him on the phone for over an hour. He had a deep, mesmerizing, sexy-ass voice, and frankly, the shit turned me on.
    Why I told him my name was Amber, I have no idea. Probably because it was the logical response to him telling me his name was Rob. He just made me feel so comfortable and at ease. There I was, kicking it with some stranger on the phone about everything from the latest Puff Daddy and the Family CD to our respective careers to my hair appointment the next day. He and I talked about the fact that there are so few black barbershops and hair salons in our predominately white New England town. I happened to mention that I used a stylist named LaLa at this salon called She Thang over on Twelfth Street.
    Even though the conversation was stimulating, I finally told him I had to go because it was getting late.