The Honeymoon, Finale

(The following story is Part 7 of the third segment of a trilogy beginning with The Wedding and The Engagement. This is the final segment. All of the fictional characters here were created and developed in earlier segments of the trilogy. Please read those segments for context and premise before continuing)

 

The Honeymoon, The Aftermath

 

Kevon: Kevon Simpson here. Five years after marrying the most beautiful, vivacious woman this side of Beyonce, I’m getting divorced.

It’s my own fault, really. I fell prey to the oldest dodge in the world. Working late one night, tired and hungry, my guard down, a female co-worker and I did the deadly deed.

I was profoundly sorry for this rank infidelity and immediately approached my wife to confess. Bad move. Fellas? If you can get away with something, DO so. There was no way Cynthia could have found out my misdeed. There was no affair; it was just that one night. This Christian confession thingy is vastly overrated. It’s dangerous, really.

Cynthia flew into a rage at the news. She started tossing plates and glasses around. She cussed me a blue streak. She said this was the last part of Mrs. Hotbox that I was ever going to see. She kicked me out of my own home!!

Two days later she was serving me papers. No pre-nup in place, my lawyer tells me I’m fucked.

Our only child is actually a godson, Nigel, who is the biological son of Artie Jay and Lisa Winchell. Nigel is four, now, and lives in Seattle with his mother. A more spoiled child never existed, unless it is Jennie’s daughter Imani, who is only two. These two children lack for nothing. They are the centers of attention for a group of upwardly mobile buppies, all of whom are trying (and failing) to conceive, and all of whom lavish their unrequited desire for parenthood upon the aforementioned toddlers.

Artie and Terry are still together, but just barely. Artie insists upon visiting his son in Seattle. Lisa dangles Nigel before him like a golden diadem. Artie wants to be a good dad and he wants to be a good husband, but Terry won’t marry him as long as he’s on the hook for child support. She claims she’s seen where that road leads. And Lisa is making sure that Artie pays more than his fair share. It’s a nightmare.

Imani, too, is a child support baby. Jennie got knocked up by some pooh-butt. She refuses to reveal his identity. If he spends fifty bucks a month on the little girl I’d be surprised. No matter. Imani has the support of all The Fellas, as does her mother. It’s not like Jennie needs the money. She runs her own small business. She’s doing well, as far as I can see. She bought a home last year. Whenever I visit her, she looks prosperous and happy.

I just want my wife back. I can’t blame her for being angry. If she’d cheated on me, I’d be angry, too.

Meanwhile, I’m living out of a dingy motel room. I’m still paying the hefty nut on my lakeside condo. And I can’t even live there!!

On weekends I hop in my car and drive across the state to visit Imani. She really is the light of my life. “Uncle Kev” she calls me. I swing her around and throw her up in the air. Her squeals of delight soothe the hurt in my heart. We play peek-a-boo. She hops on my back and pretends I’m a horse. I whinny appropriately.

All this happens while Jennie works quietly in her study. I guess having me there to distract her daughter is a welcome relief. At the end of the day Jennie cooks us up a nice meal. We dine and laugh together. Imani goes to bed promptly at 7 p.m. I read her a bedtime story. Then Jennie and I sit around and talk. We’ve known each other for the better part of our lives. Our friendship is rock solid. We stay up late watching football or SNL. I sleep on the couch. The first thing I see when I open my eyes on Sunday morning is Imani’s face two inches from my own. She doesn’t want to wake me, but she wants to be there when I do awaken. Jennie is still asleep in her bedroom. I get up and make French toast and bacon for the little girl. We play all day. All too soon it’s time for me to leave. Sometimes Imani cries at my departure, sometimes not. In my heart I always cry. I love them. My life is in shambles because of a single indiscretion. Jennie and Imani are the only constants I have.

Jennie: Jennie Louis here. I don’t usually poke my nose into these salacious, tattletale stories, but I feel it’s time for me to speak up.

If you’ve been keeping up with this narrative, I know everybody and everything. If a thing CAN be known, I know it. I’m not nosey. Well, yes. I am. People just seem to want to unburden themselves while I’m in the room. What am I gonna do? Not listen?

As one of The Fellas, we (as a group) are supposed to be open and honest with each other about everything. That’s not always the case. We usually pungle the things we want known and withhold the things we want withheld.

I’ve been withholding something. I like Kevon. I’ve liked him since we were in school. I never told him I liked him because, what, I’M THE GIRL. It’s up to HIM to make that first move. He never has.

And so the next thing I know, he’s getting married!! I was a little hurt, but not heartbroken. I said I LIKED him. I didn’t say I was crazy in love with him. I wanted him to be happy.

I didn’t say anything about Terry holding a torch for Artie. That was Terry’s business. I also never told Terry about my thing for Kevon. That was MY business. Even though she’s my friend, I didn’t think my “like” was comparable to her “love”.

A girl might like a guy for any number of reasons. Looks. Personality. Muscles. Money. Dick size. Rep. Flash car. Hair grade.

It usually boils down to this deeply shallow maxim:

“What can he do that makes other women jealous of me?”

That’s why broke-ass, fat, ugly niggas don’t have women running after them. Biggie Smalls was not broke.

I liked Kevon because we laughed nicely together. He had all those other things I mentioned, of course, but I convinced myself that it was the laughter. I don’t like thinking of myself as shallow. Kevon and I would get together and laugh at everything. We played the Dozens against each other, you know, not in a mean spirited kind of way, but just to see who had the quickest, wittiest comebacks. Then we’d analyze the barbs for effectiveness and originality. We became, like, siblings.

I went to his wedding and wished him well. I didn’t think much of his wife. She seemed kind of cuntish to me. She seemed like the type who’d keep a nigga or three on the down low, but complain if Kevon did the same. There was something about her that I found dishonest.

Kevon liked her, though. He said Cynthia was the best piece of ass in four counties, a freak of gargantuan proportions, a never ending orifice of joy. When I offhandedly advised him that the thrill of pussy fades after four years or so, and asked him after his plan for that event, he pooh-poohed my advice, as if Cynthia’s pussy was so gloriously transcendent it would nullify the longstanding wisdom of the four-year rule.

I sighed.

When Kevon returned from his honeymoon he was more excited about marriage than ever. He called to regale me with wild tales of their sojourn in Aruba. He encouraged me to visit the island and learn to kite surf. He said he was enamored of the people and the culture in that Caribbean nation. He even suggested that he’d befriended a waiter at some beachside bistro, a guy named Trevor. He thought Trevor and I would make a good couple.

A WAITER. Hmmmmmph.

This was five years ago. Now the nyugga is getting divorced. You know, Artie predicted his marriage wouldn’t last long. Artie thought that Cynthia was a bit too persnickety for Kevon, which is a nice way of saying “She’s a cunt.”

In between then and now I got knocked up. Let’s not get too much into that. I have a little girl named Imani. She’s two. I’d tell you about Imani’s dad, but there’s not much to tell. I shouldn’t have fucked him. That’s all you need to know.

Speaking of children, Artie Jay has a child out in Seattle named Nigel. Yes, he smashed that girl Lisa and knocked her up at Kevon’s wedding. Artie is another one whose nose gets out of whack at the scent of pussy. He was telling me the lurid details of his assignations with Lisa in real time. She blew him in a public conference room! Meanwhile, I’ve got to keep a lid on the fact that MY best friend Terry has the hots for HIM.

Fortunately, things turned out for the best. Terry approached Artie at the reception to tell him of her longstanding devotion. Just as I’d predicted, he admitted the hots for her, too. They got together that night and have been together ever since. Artie even moved to Dallas to live with her.

Lisa’s pregnancy threw a monkey wrench into their plans. At first, Terry was livid. She called me to complain. I reminded her that she knew Artie and Lisa were going rawdog at the wedding. She knew the risks.

“It’s not like he cheated on you,” I told her.

That calmed her down. She was still upset, though. She had some uncle, she said, that got jammed up paying child support for his kids, and ended up living in his parents’ attic. I asked her how many kids he was paying for? Five, she said.

“Well, Artie only has one!!” I said.

Terry is adamant. She doesn’t want Lisa in her life. Nigel pretty much guarantees that Lisa is going to be there always.

Terry refuses to go with Artie when he visits Seattle. This creates resentment on Artie’s part, inasmuch as he feels that Terry isn’t supporting his fatherhood. It creates suspicion on Terry’s part, inasmuch as she isn’t sure that Artie and Lisa aren’t rehashing their earlier behavior.

“You could fix both those things by going to Seattle with him,” I advised.

She refuses.

They’re still together, but the bickering over Nigel pretty much ensures that Artie and Terry are short-termers. The four-year rule is fully in play.

Dumbass Kevon confessed some extra-marital tryst to his wife and got kicked to the curb. Rather than moving back into her “nicely appointed condo”, Cynthia kicked Kevon out of HIS “nicely appointed condo”. He’s living out of some shitty motel, and continues to pay the mortgage on his home while SHE lives in it!!

It wouldn’t be ME.

On weekends, Kevon has taken to driving across the state to visit Imani and I. I like him, and he likes my daughter, so there isn’t any conflict. When he comes it’s like having another kid in the house. He plays with Imani and I get to work without having to tend to my baby every five minutes or so. Every single mom in the world will tell you the value of such a diversion.

Kevon sleeps on the couch. If he’d ask to sleep in the bed with me I’d let him. If he’d ask me for more I’d let him do that, too.

But he doesn’t ask. So we remain just friends.

Lisa Winchell: I fully intend to take my boyfriend Artie Jay back from the woman that took him. Let’s get that straight from day one.

Let’s also get another thing straight. As you might imagine, my sexual history has been rife with spontaneous, unprotected incidents. I’ve been pregnant several times. I’ve had the clap. I’ve had chlamydia. I’ve had several abortions. These are just the facts of anyone’s active, multiple partner sex life.

When I popped up pregnant after Cynthia’s wedding, there were only three possible suspects: Javon (my lover in Sacramento), Artie (my lover in Pittsburgh) and Fred Lamont aka Mandingo (my wedding gift to Cynthia).

It could not have been Javon. Our last sexual interaction occurred the day after my last menstrual cycle. I would have known way sooner if it had been Javon.

Mandingo always pulls out. It could not have been him. He didn’t cum in my pussy.

That left one suspect–Artie.

And it didn’t matter, really. I intended to have this child. I also intended to keep the pregnancy as secret as possible. Of course I would tell Nikki and Cynthia. But I told those two to keep a lid on it until after the actual event. I’d tell Artie then. I had my reasons. Living in Seattle kept me away from all the people who might take an untoward interest in my pregnancy. I had Chuck; I didn’t plan to travel as I grew great with child.

Five years on I have a son. I’ve named him Nigel. Artie didn’t demand a blood test; he accepted the responsibilities of fatherhood as I knew he would. He’s a good guy. He rushed to Seattle as soon as I told him of Nigel’s birth. Teralynn did not attend.

Over the years I’ve skillfully manipulated Artie via his visitation rights. He has to fly to Seattle to see Nigel. I don’t allow Nigel to fly to Dallas. He’s too young to fly by himself. I made sure that Artie fell in love with his son. And who wouldn’t love Nigel? He’s adorable! Artie is the only one of my lovers I ever allowed into my home. That was deliberate. I wanted him to think I was being pragmatic about his relationship with me, even though I knew he was living with Teralynn. I cooked for him while he visited. I picked him up at the airport. I took him back to the airport. We took Nigel out to any number of venues in order that he might be culturally acclimated. Of course, Artie stayed in a hotel. He didn’t sleep over. That, too, was deliberate. If I gave him too many liberties he might easily see through my game.

The two of them, father and son, were delightful together. They played and wrestled like a couple of lion cubs. Nigel always looked forward to Artie’s visits. He cried when it was time for his father to leave. Artie would hug and kiss him and promise to be back. In between those times the three of us behaved like a perfect nuclear family. This, too, was part of my plan.

Artie started telling me of cracks in his relationship with Teralynn. She would poke her lips out and behave petulantly in the days before Artie planned to fly to Seattle. When he returned to Dallas she’d author days of silent treatment. He said he always offered her the option of flying to Seattle with him. She’d decline. As a result, Terry had no relationship with Nigel. This pissed Artie off. I loved it!!

Terry and I both knew the time would come when Nigel would be able to fly to Dallas alone. My hope was that Nigel would see he, Artie, Nikki and me as his nuclear family. I hoped he would see Terry as an interloper.

We weren’t there yet. Every time Artie visited Seattle I always prayed he’d come alone. I wanted him to see the perfection of our relationship. Too, I knew he was a man. At some point during his visits he was going to want some pussy. All men do. When he cracked that lid open I was going to say no. Not a hard no, you understand, but a no based on principle. I’d be looking out for Terry’s “interests”. LOL!!! Nope. I’d be leading him down the path to ME. One day he would ask again. He’d get another no, but this no would be a tad softer, as if I’d reconsidered the last offer and found it tempting.

I planned to give him five no’s until I gave up the scootie. Five is a good, round number. He’d get a kiss on the third no and a fingerbang and maybe a blowjob on the fourth. One day I knew he would come to Seattle and not return to Dallas. I just had to bide my time. Terry’s petulance in the face of Artie’s visitation was my biggest selling point.

I was betting that Artie would see his blood as a larger factor in his future than Terry’s pussy. I was betting that his relationship with Nigel would grow to overshadow his relationship with Terry. They’d been together for five years. Pussy grows old after four. One day, I was sure, it would occur to Artie that he could have new pussy, ME, and his son in a single package. Of course, my pussy would grow old in time. But by that time I figured I’d have my man. We’d become old friends. He’d be off the hook for child support. And, if we argued too often, he’d conclude “it’s cheaper to keep her”.

If you’re a single woman with child, you know this game. If you’re a single man with child, this is how game is run.

Nikki knew the plan. She wasn’t all that thrilled about it. We lived in a one-bedroom downtown condo. If Artie and I got back together, it meant that one of us, either she or me, needed to move. Nikki wasn’t thrilled about the fact that I’d allowed access to our condo, either. We had a standing rule–no lovers allowed. PERIOD.

I argued that Artie and I weren’t lovers so, technically, the rule wasn’t being broken. I also argued that we’d have to purchase larger living quarters anyway because Nigel needed his own room. He can’t sleep in our bed forever.

Artie wasn’t thrilled about Nigel’s sleeping arrangements. He was sure that Nikki and I were making his son “effeminate” by having him sleep in the bed with us. Secretly, I agreed with him. Nigel had to have his own space. Our condo was too small, especially if Artie moved in.

So here’s the deal. Nigel is four, now. Since Nigel’s birth, Artie has made two moves. I’ve rebuffed him both times, according to the plan I outlined above. The next move he makes will bear fruit, as will the move after that. His third move will get him some pussy, hot and sloppy. And then I’ll start agitating for a decision.

Terry has to go.

Teralynn: I’m about to be too thru with Artie Jay. Every time I turn around he’s flying off to Seattle to “visit” with his son. Who schedules visitation EVERY damn weekend? When do I get MY weekend visitation?

Let me back up.

When that COW called to tell us about the little boy, the child was already a week old!! Who waits that long to tell a man about a pregnancy? What man accepts parentage of a little boy, purely on a woman’s word, without getting a blood test? Artie and Lisa had three good fucking days behind them. They went rawdog; I knew that much. The little boy was born on time. I couldn’t dispute that. I just think it was fucked up how the whole thing panned out. Artie and I were doing so well!! And then this COW drops this bomb on us, no warning, no nothing!

Up until that moment I thought Artie and I were headed for marriage. We’d looked at rings. We had a roadmap for the ceremony. Everything was in place!

Once the little boy came into the picture all that changed. Artie agreed to pay this COW $1800 a month in child support!! Add that to the amount of money he was paying to fly back and forth to Seattle EVERY DAMN WEEK and you can imagine what was left over to pay OUR bills. I’d be lucky if Artie asked me out to eat at Whataburger. I was paying OUR bills. The rest of OUR money went to the COW.

Was I mad? You damn BETCHA.

I couldn’t bring myself to fly to see the little boy. I reckoned that if I’d added my airline tab to our bills, we’d soon be out on the street. As it was, I was paying half of Artie’s airline bills.

And who knew what he and that COW were doing all alone in Seattle? Yes, he stayed overnight at a hotel (I made sure to see the receipts). But I wasn’t there. Anything could have happened between them. This woman BLEW him in a public conference room! D’ya think she WOULDN’T blow him in a Starbucks, with a papoose straddled across her back?

I know how these things work out. One day he’ll knock at her door to pick up his son. She’ll answer the door butt ass naked. He’ll see her pussy. His dick’ll get hard. The next thing I know, I’m sharing my hard-earned dick…WITH A COW.

Every time he left for Seattle I got mad. I started getting mad days before he would leave, too, and I would be mad for days after he returned. That left us Wednesdays to make up and be civil. We bickered and waged cold wars the other six days of the week, two of which he spent in Seattle.

This is no way to have a relationship. Artie and I have been doing this for almost four years now. We’re dangling at the ends of our ropes. He claims I don’t support his attempts at being a father to his son. I claim he is being played by a woman who hates me and wants to see our relationship fail. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.