Some say what you don’t know can’t hurt you and what you do know will. In this situation, both wound up being true.
Anonymous told to Ida Harris:
Damon and I had been down since age 26. We were approaching our 5-year milestone in the relationship when shit hit the fan. I mean, we basically grew up together, making all the strides that young people in love do. We went from being financially irresponsible to maintaining a home and paying bills on time, and being wild and carefree to being mature and responsible adults. It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t totally bad either. There were definitely some hiccups along the way that caused disruption in our union.
He liked pussy — mine and other women’s. He was a serial cheater, but there were also times he was monogamous and as sweet and attentive as could be. I know this because I was a serial snooper. I could crack any case, code, or password, on any situation, conversation, cell phone, or email like I was an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Long before social media, I was the true definition of a follower. I tracked the voicemail and text message exchanges he had with other women so keenly that I knew when some potential ass was coming his way long before he did — and like Inspector Gadget, I was on the case, making sure I infiltrated and disrupted that shit every chance I got.
My closest friends advised me to leave the relationship and seek therapy because it was toxic. But I loved him as much as I hated the drama, and in some way, I was as addicted to this vicious cycle as Damon was addicted to fucking around. We operated in this dysfunction, for about two years before we both decided to grow the fuck up. We made a pact to rebuild our relationship, be exclusive and move forward honoring one another in healthy ways. Much to my surprise, Damon did a complete 180 degree turn. I started receiving random forget-me-not notes that he’d leave in different places around the house; in the bathroom, under my pillow, in my panty drawer. He planned romantic dates and adventurous outings like kayaking and rock climbing; he took me to his job’s holiday parties and art exhibits; and he’d sneak home from work and fuck the shit outta me on GP.
I couldn’t have been happier until an afternoon stroll in the park was interrupted by a young woman who bumped into me aggressively without as little much as an apology. As I went to check her rude ass, Damon became passive and asked me to “chill out,” when it very clear this woman was in the wrong. As I looked him up and down, questioning his actions, the woman got all loud and rah-rah. She ran up on him, pointed her finger in his face, and screamed:
“Don’t you have something to tell this heifer?”
I went from mean-mugging him to tossing my pocketbook to the ground ’cause clearly ole girl was looking for an ass whoopin’, but I paused dead in my tracks as she dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out a hidden object. I was down to lay hands on her, but I wasn’t no fool, trying to get shanked over no nigga. My fallback made her even more hype. She began threatening Damon while waving the object in her hand:
“You gonna tell her or am I gonna have to tell her?”
She repeated the question five times over before yelling, making a scene, and drawing a small crowd. So I became indignant and joined in the spectacle, promising to kick her ass after I finished with his. I, too, got in my soon-to-be ex man’s face and popped beacoup shit: “You got something to tell me nigga?” I drilled him like the ace detective I was:
“Chill out, just fucking chill!” he hollered back at me. I was enraged that he was telling me to back down as if I was the one who set this shit off.
“You got three things bitch: And that’s — 1. Me – 2. Fucked – 3. Up!”
I yelled as shit began to get real. We got so loud, four police officers started making their way over to area we argued. Before they got really close, my man snatched the object from the chic’s hand and dropped on bending knee and said “Heifer, I want to spend the rest of my days with you. Will you marry me?”
I accepted, but I couldn’t help thinking that there I was, a grown ass woman about to scrap like a dog in the street with another woman over a man. Albeit, one who loved me so hard he hired a comedian and put on a whole production to surprise me with a wedding proposal. I was completely throwed. I never saw it coming, neither did the onlookers who were standing around being nosy. They applauded and cheered for us as my now-fiance hugged me and wiped the tears and snot goatee that formed around my mouth.
I knew I’d have to change my heathen ways. Right then and there, I made a promise to stop being so quick to pop-off, to calm the fuck down, and to never snoop through his things again. Even though we had made the pact to respect and honor one another — I was the one who defaulted. I kept peeking at his call log and texts when he was sleep and checking his online account to check for any communication he may have deleted. I also called back anonymous numbers. I betrayed his trust, but I was determined to catch up to him, match his fly, and love him respectfully in the same manner he honored me.
I had major growing up and work to do.
Slowly, but surely, I weaned myself from looking at Damon’s phone. I no longer snooped through his online account and I would not so much as peep over his shoulder when he scrolled or texted on his phone. I stopped checking his pockets altogether. It took a minute to shake the impulse, but I did it. I was maturing into a woman who respected her man. And my focus on him freed up time and energy that could be spent on me. I went back to school to get my master’s degree in education. I started building a life for me outside the one I had with bae.
Damon kept his end of the bargain, too. He worked hard for us all week on the overnight shift. All he wanted was some sloppy head when he got off in the mornings and before he went to work at nights and my undivided attention on the weekends. Of course, this was right up my alley, until it no longer was. It was like he wanted my head to live in his lap. Even if I was asleep he’d tap me on my shoulder, waking me up to bless him. One morning, I actually woke up with his dick in my face. And sucking him off was a challenge on days I had class because sometimes it took him forever to nut and that interfered with my morning routine. When I brought it to his attention, he laughed and joked:
“I am your morning routine,”
I chuckled with him, but to a fault he was right. I never said ‘no’ to Damon; not ever. Now, here I was on my knees giving blowjobs twice a day, five times a week. I became his human pacifier. As a reward for not cheating on me, I obliged him and his needs. Something had to give.
One morning, I decided to put my foot down. He stepped out the shower and approached me — dick in hand — ready to get served. As I walked away, I turned him down for the first time ever in our relationship.
“Not today, my guy. I got shit to do,”
He started whining, but I resisted and started getting dressed for the day. He dropped to his knees with his hands clasped begging me hit him off. “No babe, I can’t.” I stayed firm. He tugged at my tights till he got them below my knees. And he grabbed at my panties, before moving them to one side and making love to me with his mouth. Let’s just say my ‘no’ to giving him head for the day — better, yet the week — was null and void.
To my relief, the two weeks following were different. Bae seemed to be giving me a break and I was there for it. We talked and cuddled more. Plus, my mouth felt like what I’d imagine an overused rubber band would feel it. In the third week, I broke down and offered to top him off and he declined, telling me his dick was sore and bruised from getting it caught in his zipper. My first thought: He cheating again. My second thought: punch him in the throat; the third — CHECK 👏🏾 HIS 👏🏾 SHIT!
I searched every coat, shirt, and pant pocket he owned and came up with nothing. I searched his online account — not a thing. I broke into his cloud, and nada. I waited for him to fall asleep then eased out the bed, tiptoed to his side, and snuck his phone from the nightstand. Quietly, I kneeled to the floor and rolled under the bed to do my investigations in secret. I scrolled through 2,053 emails and 7,831 text messages dating back six months — and not a goddamn thing that suggested he was cheating. Still, I knew that nigga was up to something. When Damon left for work the next night, I went through his closet, his drawers, and then his storage in the basement — and that’s when I found it. He had a whole ass iphone tucked away in his shit and it was active. I used his usual password, our engagement date, to unlock the phone. I sat down with the phone and opened the only text thread and read through it with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes. What I saw broke my fucking heart in pieces:
Apparently, Damon was alerted when I accessed the phone. He came home and packed his things. The next day, he only talked briefly, telling me he loved me and that he’d wait for me to get whole with myself. He kissed me on the forehead and left. It took a whole year for him to trust me and another year for us to get back together. I learned the hard way about violating people’s privacy. I also learned that all niggas ain’t shit and some niggas can change if they want too. Mine did.
I be writing. I’m aiight with standard English, but poetic with Black Vernacular. I’mma dope dealer, too.