attention to those he wouldn’t mind having a fling with, or invite into a ménage à trois with himself and Jacqueline. And as he watched the women swaying to the exotic vibe of the music, his mistress was able to sneak in between his legs and stand there.
“Come on, baby, let’s dance,” she teased him in her yellow silk dress and matching heels.
Jacqueline Herrera, a Dominican and black hybrid, with deep, beautiful brown skin, dark eyes, a curvaceous body to kill for, and long, thick hair that flowed past her shoulders, was Shareef’s latest possession.
He liked his women exotic. Why settle for anything less if you could afford it? And he could afford it. So he told her what she wanted to hear.
“You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.”
He had only two rules for his women. Rule number one: “You never hold out on me.” Rule number two: “If I hear about or even think that another man is touching you, then it’s over with, like that.” He snapped his fingers in her dark eyes to make sure she got the point. If she was to be his chosen mistress, then there was no room for a compromise. It was his pussy, and his alone.
Jacqueline responded accordingly, “Only my man can touch me. I’ve always been that way.”
So Shareef told her, “Well, from this moment on, until you can’t stand me, or until I can’t stand you, I’m your man.”
And that was it. The chick was in the bag.
However, at the club that night, Shareef wasn’t feeling much of anything.
Jacqueline asked him, “What’s wrong?”
He shook it off and took another sip of his Corona. He didn’t even answer her.
She said, “So, you don’t want to dance with me tonight?”
“Nah,” he told her.
“Well, I’m gonna dance.”
“Go ahead and dance then. That’s what you’re here to do.”
She looked down at his dead energy and said, “Well, what are you here to do?”
He looked up into her eyes and said, “I’m here to watch you.”
She paused and stared at him.
He added, “Then I’ma watch you dance again in front of the windows at the condo.”
She heard that and grinned.
“You’re a freak,” she told him before she moved toward the dance floor.
Shareef mumbled, “Yeah…so are you.”
He proceeded to watch his mistress as she teased him with her curves, her dance, her silk dress, her lips, her hair, her yellow heels, her eyes, her smooth shoulders, and her zest for life.
And while Shareef watched her and analyzed how her seductive moves worked in perfect tandem with the exotic music, he told himself, I remember when Jennifer used to be that fun. But his wife was now an older woman and a mother of two, where Jacqueline was twenty-three and single with no children. Was it that simple an assessment? And if it was, then no wonder so many passionate older men went crazy for young mistresses. They just wanted to continue to watch the dance, even if they rarely joined in.
A T 7:28 IN THE MORNING , the early waves of the Atlantic swept up on the beaches where joggers ran by themselves or with their dogs. Up on the twenty-seventh floor of his building, Shareef looked east, out into the vast ocean from behind the two-story glass window. He sat in a reclining hammock chair in only a pair of blue boxers. A tall glass of orange juice was set on the floor beside him.
Florida was lovely. And to have a high-rise condo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean was heaven on earth. Shareef had a good life indeed. But the good life was never enough for a hustler. And at the end of the day, Shareef was still a hustler. That’s why he was always up so early. He hustled through grade school with his quick wit and ideas. He hustled through high school with athletics and aspirations. He hustled through college with philosophy and the need for a lifelong mission. And now, as a grown man, he hustled his stories. But if the story hustle was no longer an inspiration, what hustle would replace it?
Jacqueline looked down on Shareef’s
“Come on, baby, let’s dance,” she teased him in her yellow silk dress and matching heels.
Jacqueline Herrera, a Dominican and black hybrid, with deep, beautiful brown skin, dark eyes, a curvaceous body to kill for, and long, thick hair that flowed past her shoulders, was Shareef’s latest possession.
He liked his women exotic. Why settle for anything less if you could afford it? And he could afford it. So he told her what she wanted to hear.
“You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.”
He had only two rules for his women. Rule number one: “You never hold out on me.” Rule number two: “If I hear about or even think that another man is touching you, then it’s over with, like that.” He snapped his fingers in her dark eyes to make sure she got the point. If she was to be his chosen mistress, then there was no room for a compromise. It was his pussy, and his alone.
Jacqueline responded accordingly, “Only my man can touch me. I’ve always been that way.”
So Shareef told her, “Well, from this moment on, until you can’t stand me, or until I can’t stand you, I’m your man.”
And that was it. The chick was in the bag.
However, at the club that night, Shareef wasn’t feeling much of anything.
Jacqueline asked him, “What’s wrong?”
He shook it off and took another sip of his Corona. He didn’t even answer her.
She said, “So, you don’t want to dance with me tonight?”
“Nah,” he told her.
“Well, I’m gonna dance.”
“Go ahead and dance then. That’s what you’re here to do.”
She looked down at his dead energy and said, “Well, what are you here to do?”
He looked up into her eyes and said, “I’m here to watch you.”
She paused and stared at him.
He added, “Then I’ma watch you dance again in front of the windows at the condo.”
She heard that and grinned.
“You’re a freak,” she told him before she moved toward the dance floor.
Shareef mumbled, “Yeah…so are you.”
He proceeded to watch his mistress as she teased him with her curves, her dance, her silk dress, her lips, her hair, her yellow heels, her eyes, her smooth shoulders, and her zest for life.
And while Shareef watched her and analyzed how her seductive moves worked in perfect tandem with the exotic music, he told himself, I remember when Jennifer used to be that fun. But his wife was now an older woman and a mother of two, where Jacqueline was twenty-three and single with no children. Was it that simple an assessment? And if it was, then no wonder so many passionate older men went crazy for young mistresses. They just wanted to continue to watch the dance, even if they rarely joined in.
A T 7:28 IN THE MORNING , the early waves of the Atlantic swept up on the beaches where joggers ran by themselves or with their dogs. Up on the twenty-seventh floor of his building, Shareef looked east, out into the vast ocean from behind the two-story glass window. He sat in a reclining hammock chair in only a pair of blue boxers. A tall glass of orange juice was set on the floor beside him.
Florida was lovely. And to have a high-rise condo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean was heaven on earth. Shareef had a good life indeed. But the good life was never enough for a hustler. And at the end of the day, Shareef was still a hustler. That’s why he was always up so early. He hustled through grade school with his quick wit and ideas. He hustled through high school with athletics and aspirations. He hustled through college with philosophy and the need for a lifelong mission. And now, as a grown man, he hustled his stories. But if the story hustle was no longer an inspiration, what hustle would replace it?
Jacqueline looked down on Shareef’s
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