NOT SO SHRIMP DICK!

It never ceases to amaze me how one person can spend almost their entire life with someone and still learn new things about them every day.

It’s been almost 20 years of entanglement with my long-standing on-again, off-again partner O. We officially met on a sunny afternoon shortly after I turned 18. I’d notice him checking me out over the past four years since I moved to 1st Avenue, but my intense tunnel vision had kept our paths from crossing until one fateful afternoon. He caught me just as I was waiting for the light to change; he complimented me, introduced himself, asked for my number, and the rest was history. It’s been over 17 years, and no matter how much time passes from one hook up or boyfriend to the next, he never ceases to amaze me. He’s always been supportive, encouraging, occasional ball-buster, a great voice of reason, and a great partner.

Because I only recently moved into my own place, all our encounters over the years had been brief and at his place. It was a breath of fresh air to finally not have to get up and leave after sex. I could just sit back and relax after I locked the door and sent him on his way. Oh! How I love watching a man leave.

One day he was over my place, and I told him that I’d invite him over for dinner one night, since I’d never cooked for him, and he didn’t make it to my housewarming (despite being the 1st person to get me a gift). Going over the foods he liked and disliked, he said he didn’t eat shrimp because he was allergic, and I was flabbergasted. He swore up and down that he had told me before, and I just didn’t remember. But being a radical seafood lover (especially when it came to shrimp, and over the past 5 years – oysters), I could’ve sworn I would’ve remembered a detail such as that. God, forbid I see him after a visit to City Island (true New Yorkers know what I’m talking about), his life would be over. From that moment, I put it in my mental Rolodex that he was allergic to shrimp and to be careful when I invited him over in the future. I just didn’t think that the future would be so soon.

On a dull Friday afternoon, he called me when he got home from work and asked me what I was doing; I told him I was eating a salad. He joked about me finally getting on my fitness shit, and he told me he would come to see me. It was then that I told him I was eating a shrimp Caesar salad, and as bomb as my pussy was, I didn’t want him to die from a kiss. He said he didn’t care and that he was on his way. As he hung up the phone, I reminded him that it also meant I couldn’t suck his dick. He replied that he’d rather his dick swell up than his throat close up. Men?!?!

I finished my salad, swallowed some warm water, then used some mouthwash, and in less than 20 minutes, he was at my door. 

He pushed my body up against the counter in my kitchen, pulled open my robe, and began licking, teasing, and biting my nipples. Maybe the risk of anaphylactic shock inspired him to be more aggressive because this was a new man in the new year. Quite abruptly, after he got his fill, he stopped, went into my living room, and he had the nerve to sit in my spot. I straddled his hips as he went back to licking and sucking my nipples. I avoided his lips until he pulled my face to his, and we kissed deeply. I ran my tongue along his neck and ears when he started to indicate that I had touched a nerve. Enjoying his reaction, I continued flicking my tongue into his (very clean) ear until he had enough. I sucked at his nipples, kissed down his chest, licked at his navel, and I made my way to his long thick dick. When I pulled his pants down, his dick stood at attention, like it was waiting for me, or better yet, my mouth. 

I started on him slowly; I swirled my tongue around his tip, then I licked up and down his shaft, and then I took him into my mouth. His moans and squirms confirmed that I was doing a fantastic job pleasing him, and if he walked home with a swollen dick, he’d be happy. I rode him on the sofa until he came with perfect timing, and I continued to ride him until he resurrected. 

He said he wanted to fuck me on my bed. To be honest, I didn’t want to as my new faux fur bed set was white. I swiftly threw down my wet blanket (a microfiber blanket I ordered from amazon to protect my sheets when I squirt), and we got to business. We kissed passionately as he thrust into me repeatedly until he came. When it was all done, there was a bit of blood from my period breaking through (he didn’t mind, though). He was a little lightheaded as it had been years since we had sex back-to-back. He hit his leg on the platform of my bed, got dressed, fell on his way home, and called me to say I put a curse on him. 

I ensured him putting a curse on him was the farthest thing on my mind. I only wanted to avoid giving him shrimp dick.  

The Gray Side!

There comes a time when one realizes that they are officially getting old. 

I realized that not only was I getting old, but my southern parts had officially crossed over to the gray side.

I started waxing almost a decade ago. Not only was it less of a headache to keep clean razors around, but it also helped me have fewer outbreaks brought on by the microtears using a razor would cause. Over the years, I’d had an array of wax technicians, my favorite being Stephanie. I followed her from EWC to a salon in Washington Heights. I even made the trek to her home in the Bronx during the pandemic. Ultimately the commute was too much for me, so I had to part ways. 

The thing I loved about Stephanie was that we got really close. I mean, you kind of have to be when your labia and booty-hole are spread open, and hair is being ripped from your body. She knew damn near everything about me, and I learned a lot about her. One of the reasons I stayed with her for so long was that she, hands down, has given me the best Brazilians. 

Here’s the thing; full Brazilian waxes can cost anywhere from $50-$75 depending on the location, tax, and tip. After shelling out that much money and enduring much discomfort, the last thing you want to do is go home and find tiny stray hairs. There’s a reason why people go to the same wax person once they find a good fit instead of bouncing around. When I first worked with her, I had to let her know to pull back the folds of my labia to get those pesky hairs, and after a time or two, I never had to mention it again. It was a match made in heaven. 

When I could no longer make the journey, I returned to my local stomping grounds. I enjoyed walking through Central Park to get my wax, then getting a burger and cocktail next door at Bareburger. But when I returned to working in the office, it was no longer convenient for me. I changed my location from the UWS to a Times Square location closer to my job and easy to go during my lunch break.

I had an appointment scheduled the week after I got sick with Covid. Naturally, I had to let my hair continue to grow since I had to quarantine. Two weeks passed, and I was finally able to go and get my wax.

I arrived downtown, checked in, and waited 15 minutes for my appointment; the lady didn’t come out. I asked the desk associate how much longer she would be, to which she responded, “she’s finishing up.” Another 15 minutes passed, and I grew livid. I asked the desk lady again if she could knock on the door and notify her that she had a client that’s been waiting for 30 minutes. It was only after I made a fuss that the desk clerk let me know I could be seen by another wax technician –Like really Bitch!–

The lady that performed my wax was sweet. I wanted to make sure she did a thorough job, so I gave her full permission to get up close and personal with my pussy. Peel back the skin and rip the hair out. I thought she took care of it (as many times as she passed over certain spots). But when I got home and finally used the bathroom, I was annoyed, to say the least. 

It started with a finger graze by the opening of my vagina; I could feel stray hairs just chilling. Annoyed, I began pulling the ones I could out with my index and thumb fingers. A few longer than usual curly hairs had serious staying power, and then I pulled out one single solitary gray strand. 

FUCK! My pussy is getting old!!

Now, I know it’s superficial as I get no complaints about my biological sex. My partners love to eat, finger, feel, and anything else you could imagine my pussy. But a fucking gray hair. How am I supposed to get over that? I could blame the fact that, of course, I’m getting older, and it’s only natural. But I blame the wax lady. 

My pussy would be as bald as a newborn if she did her job correctly. So, instead of just enjoying the beauty of my wax, I have to pull out a new razor and make sure all the stray hairs that survived the battle lose the war.

Usually, I wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But I gave the woman an 20% tip. I shouldn’t have to fix what I already paid for, but I’ll do what I need to and tip her less next time. And before she commences to consider the wax done, I’ll be sure to do my own visual and physical inspection. Because that’s the last time a gray bitch will take real estate on my pussy.

My Covid Experience

It would be my luck that a white-lie becomes my reality. 

If you read my last post of 2021, you know I vehemently despised my then job. A potential company asked me to do a project to show the Friday before Christmas, and I wanted a day to get it done. On Wednesday, I started playing the “I don’t feel well” card to call out fake-sick on Thursday. I stayed up late on Wednesday, and when I woke up on Thursday, my chest was itchy. I didn’t think much of it since I’d taken a Covid test the day before, and it returned negative. I figured it was just a reaction to me overexerting myself days prior. 

That Saturday, I ran my first 5K, in Brooklyn, since the beginning of the pandemic. After that, I was at the mall in New Jersey. On Sunday, my mother and I went to the Spa. Monday, I met my guy friends for a drink after work, and Tuesday, I was walking around downtown all day without a mask. I was asking for trouble, now that I think about it. 

Nonetheless, I woke up and started working on the project. One of my partners stopped by, and we had a little romp. When he left, I returned to working on the project. By the end of the day, I felt like crap, and by Friday morning, I felt worse than crap. In the evening, I got a rapid test from my friend, which returned positive. I told my partner and commenced to start my quarantine. 

Here’s what I learned during my quarantine. 

1-         Coming home after a long day is enjoyable. Not being able to leave your house is a few notches away from torture. 

2-         Elderberry juice is DISGUSTING. But, every morning, I had a shot with a chaser of OJ to make it tolerable.

3-         I thoroughly enjoy cozy socks, robes, and fuzzy throws. 

4-         Door Dash and Whole Foods were actual life-savers! What have I been missing?

5-         And lastly, when I’m sick, sex is the LAST thing on my mind! 

I could care less about sex when my body aches, head hurts, sinuses are clogged, and my chest is congested. You could imagine my annoyance when any of my partners wanted to talk about sex. Especially when I’m trying to fight off a virus that has killed millions of people. SERIOUSLY! READ THE ROOM!

By the second week of my quarantine, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I had to get out of the house. Since I got Covid, we canceled going to my brother’s house. And since the gas still was off in my mom’s building, I volunteered to make some Christmas dinner. I needed broccolini, and since no one would deliver it, I walked to Fairway. I walked the 20+ blocks (masked the entire way) and got some fresh-fuel exhaust ridden-air. I got my groceries, came back home, made dinner and coquito, then watched A Christmas Story. Mom came and got their food; we bumped elbows, then she went back home.

After being home for 13 days, I finally started to feel better. On Tuesday, I waited an hour in the cold, got two PCRs at different locations after my at-home test was negative. After the test, I got a latte and walked back home. I worked on the follow-up project that I presented the following day, only to hear that there may still be more steps. Wednesday, one of my partners called me, but I ignored his call since he hadn’t called me for Christmas or in a few weeks to ask how I was doing. 

Another thing I learned during Covid is that people, especially men, can be extremely self-centered. I got a few “feel better soon” and “take care of yourself” messages from the usual suspects. I even got a few “let me know if you need anything” from some partners I didn’t expect it from. And from others, I got messages of their disappointment regarding my sickness and how I wouldn’t be a sex kitten. My illness didn’t matter as much as their blue balls.

Anyway, by the time I was feeling better, it was the week of the New Year. Even though I was sick, I must say it was a joy to have spent my first Christmas in my apartment alone. I’ve always wondered what it would be like, and although I wasn’t in the best health, I still made the best of it. The same goes for the New Year; I may have brought the year in at my brother’s house, but I was with my family. And when I got back to the city, my dad passed my doorway, and I settled into my place in the new year happily alone. 

Over the weekend, the results finally came back from my separate Covid tests. One was positive, and the other was negative. With two out of three coming back negative (including the at-home I took Friday morning), I was confident that I was negative. 

However, since I did test positive for one, and I didn’t want to go back to work, I took full advantage of that result and made that the reason I couldn’t return to the office. 

Today, Friday, January 7th, 2022, I’m happy to say I was offered the job. I submitted my two-week resignation letter. And because my former company wanted to live up to their asshole reputation, they accepted my resignation “effective immediately.” Can you say PETTY?

Anywho, at least this way, I get to enjoy another week of peace and walk into the new company 110% refreshed. 2022 is off to a good year!

2021, WHEW! IT’S BEEN QUITE A YEAR!

First, I want to apologize to all my readers for not being consistent. I know I ain’t shit, and I must do better. With so many new and positive things to talk about in 2022, I plan to give you non-stop me. Forewarning, the content going forward won’t be as juicy as it once was. Not only has pandemic dating proven to be an extremely unenjoyable pain in my ass; I just don’t care to invest time into the bullshit anymore. A bitch finally got smart and knows when her time is being wasted and she (meaning me) won’t do it anymore. But trust and believe I will find a way to keep you entertained no less.

Now, for 2021, a lot has happened so let me catch you up.

Obviously, we all ushered in the New Year during a pandemic. I was lucky enough to spend it with my family and partner for the second year in a row. I was looking forward to enjoying 2021 with blind optimism, but by March I was unfortunately laid-off. To be honest, I was more pissed that I was laid off in 2021 (you know when the government had stopped giving the extra $600 per unemployment check). If I had been laid off at the beginning of the pandemic, I would’ve racked up. But no; my company kept some of us employed and dropped our salaries by 50%. When I tried to file for partial unemployment, I couldn’t get it because I was – you guessed it – still employed. 

Anyway, I wasn’t without a job for too long. In April the fashion Gods saw fit to shine down on me and bless me with a new company and all my autopay-bill prayers were answered. Have you ever started a job and knew on week one it wasn’t for you? Well, that was me every single week for the first 6 weeks. 

I went in for the interview on Tuesday, was emailed on Saturday morning (while I was away visiting my family), and asked to turn around a project for Monday. Luckily, I had my laptop, so I threw together a project and had it done for Tuesday when I got back to the city. I went in for the interview, was hired on the spot, and was assigned my position in Hades. I could feel the job draining me of my happiness with every project we were asked to do. No longer was one lunch cocktail enough, somedays I needed two! Every week I thought about quitting. And for a solid month, my blood pressure was dangerously high. 

Luckily, I had planned a trip to Jamaica with my friends that was a much-needed break from the shit storm. Jamaica was a fun time in the sun. I very briefly enjoyed a one-night-stand with a local that worked at the hotel (and when I say brief- I mean brief!) At least I checked that off the list. I tried an edible, and after feeling like I was in the sunken place, decided to keep my vices to alcohol and sex. I got amazingly drunk every day, masturbated nightly (and sometimes daily), got burned sitting by the pool, and transformed into a shedding snake by the time I got back to NYC and back to Hell.

Back from vacation, I pushed through the day-to-day, week to week. We worked from home on Fridays, so after our 10 am zoom, if there was no project to work on, I took full advantage and did absolutely nothing. This pattern sufficed for a while then, just as I was beginning to feel overwhelmed again, my friends were planning a trip to Covidtown, USA (Miami, FL). Needing to get out of hell and fly into dodge, I resurrected the dead. 

You see, my biological father passed away in October 2020, when I was with my previous company. I never speak on the living in such a manner, but there’s nothing wrong with stating a fact. I told them my father passed away and that the funeral services were down south (all of which, technically did happen – just not when I said it did).

As luck would have it, I was approved for my apartment a week before I left for Miami. I got my keys on Friday, measured the space, went shopping for paint and ordered my furniture over the weekend, and prepped for my trip the rest of the week.

Miami was amazing and the company I was with made it that much more enjoyable. Drinks, kissing random women at murky-water pool parties, long summer strolls, dinner at the Versace Mansion, oysters on the beach, walking around half-naked, and masturbating daily; Miami was all that I hoped it would be. 

When I finally got back, it was time for me to set up home. Every night, after work, I came home and painted my apartment. Every day while I was at work, my mom sat in my apartment to monitor all the repairs that needed to be done (Boy! There were a lot of repairs). But, teamwork makes the dream work, and with my building maintenance getting very familiar and annoyed with my face things finally came together. I put a significant dent in my credit score furnishing my apartment, but I can honestly say when I wake up in the morning and come home at night, I couldn’t be happier with what I see. 

With everything finally set up, I hosted two separate housewarming parties. I finally made fried chicken wings and macaroni & cheese (Black Card intact!!!) And all the things I couldn’t buy, my guests came all the way through. Two weeks later, I was finally able to host my first ever Friendsgiving, with a handful of my friends passing out on my sofa. And after hosting three separate events, cooking, and cleaning, I’m good for a while (LOL!).

2021 was winding down to be a good year, then alone time took on a whole new meaning and necessity. When they say “don’t will certain things into existence” they fucking mean it. 

I only lied about being sick on Wednesday so I could have off on Thursday to work on a project for an interview on Friday. I took a random covid test on Wednesday (just for shits-n-giggles), that came back negative, so I thought I was in the clear. When I woke up on Thursday feeling a bit off, I didn’t think much of it; but, by Thursday night and Friday morning it was obvious I was sick. I got an at-home test from one of my friends and it was positive for Covid (Just my luck!) Not wanting to fully F-up my holiday plans I decided to wait in the cold for yet another official PCR test and on Monday those results concluded that I did have Covid. 

Thankfully there is a silver lining to the madness. Since I do now live alone, I’m no risk to my family or friends. Door Dash and Amazon have been a saving grace. And with today’s visual options, I have plenty to watch. I did want to indulge in a bit of alone time in my new place, and I guess this is how fate saw fit to finally sit me down. I still hope to bring in the new year with my family and friends. So, I’m wishing for a negative test in time. 

Here’s to 2022… may I have a new job and bring it in Covid Free.

See you all in the new year. 

TalesOfToney: True Stories of Dating, Love, Polyamory, Sexuality, and Herpes

From Behind The Glitter Curtain: An Erotic Memoir is Available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and AppleBooks

It had never occurred to me to see myself as a victim. On some level, we have been conditioned to see victims as a clear black and white line. However, in this new era, and growth of the “Me too” movement, and the understanding of spectrum behavior, I realized that I too have been in many me too situations.

I never wanted to be a victim of rape, so, more often than not, when I found myself in a sexual situation where I didn’t want to move forward, I conditioned myself to agree to the act to avoid being violently raped. Sure, I could’ve left. But the fear of being pulled back into a room and forced pushed me to consider engaging as my only option. And, when your options seem extremely bleak, they don’t seem like options at all. 

It recently occurred to me that I was once a victim of coercion. During my recording of the How I F*ck podcast, the host asked me about my first sexual encounter after being diagnosed with herpes. 

I was at the house of a guy I was dating, we were watching a movie at his home, and I hadn’t disclosed my status to him yet. Eventually, the moment arrived when he wanted to have sex, but I didn’t want to have sex. I told him I didn’t want to have sex. But he proceeded to push forward. In the final moments of the tug-of-war, as he was not taking no for an answer, I made a choice not to be a victim of undeniable rape. But in turn, and with years of breaking down rape culture, I became a victim by another name. That name is coercion. 

Although I never saw myself as such, it took years of education to learn that consent is freely given and can be taken back at any time. One sexual encounter does not guarantee you access forever. And the inability to remove consent or not feeling safe enough to withdraw consent means that the act falls on the spectrum of rape culture.

The Spectrum.

It takes a powerful person to acknowledge that all they thought they knew is now questionable and, in many cases, outright wrong.

I grew up at the height of the rap era. Women in bikinis, shaking their asses. Strip clubs and pool parties were the focus of every video, and bottles of Dom sprayed across the weaves of every moist bodied video vixen. It’s hard for men and women growing up in this era to realize that those scenes played a pivotal role in what we now know as rape culture. 

You can even take it back to the 70s and 80s with a cult classic like Revenge of the Nerds. In the movie, the main nerd character donned a mask to trick his crush into having sex with him. Let’s not forget the blacked-out date-rape in Sixteen Candles, or the peeping Toms in Porkys, or the attempted car rape in Back to the Future. 

Sometimes what people bitch about as “cancel culture” is calling out fucked up shit. (I challenge you, go back and look at these movies and tell me you’d want your daughter in those roles). 

I’ve experienced having my ass grabbed when I was 14 at a street festival. I was followed on the six train in NYC on my way home from college. My elementary school friend and I were even followed on our walk to school by a pervert who fondled himself from a (not so far) distance. Even receiving unrequested dick pics in my phone (I swear that book is coming); it’s all problematic. 

But the worst, by far, was when I was exiting my building and rushing to get into a cab when a man approached me. Because I didn’t make time to stop and talk to him (you know, because I was getting into a taxi), he felt entitled and enraged enough to threaten my life. 

“I should shoot you in the back of your head bitch!” Were his words, to be exact. Not knowing if he meant it or not, as the driver pulled off, I slid down in the back seat.

This altercation still sits with me because I had no clue how to respond. I still don’t know how I would react if it were ever to happen again. The nerve of a total stranger to feeling so confident and comfortable to threaten my life simply because I didn’t stop to engage in his advances.

I hate to go down this road, but I’m going to do it anyway. 

As a black woman living in NYC, most of the disrespect I’ve experienced was at the hands of black men. Black men who will call me cute one minute, then turn around and call me a bitch when I ignore them. It’s been black men that have followed me for a block to get my attention and turn disrespectful when I deny their advances. It’s been black men in passing that feel they had ownership to my body, so much that they saw fit to reach their hand out to touch me. WTF!!!

For those men fixing their mouths to say the “That’s not me” bull shit, you’re missing the point. 

It doesn’t have to be you. But it’s happening to your daughters, sisters, cousins, aunts, mothers, friends, etc. It’s happening. Ask the women in your life if they’ve ever been verbally assaulted, followed, threatened, cat-called, coerced, or inappropriately touched. If they tell you yes, I challenge you to listen to them, then consider what measures you can do as a man to change the pattern of negative behavior.

The black man-child that shot at those women dining outside, those women could’ve been your sister. The black man-child-cowards that beat up the black woman at the liquor store in NYC, that woman could’ve been your daughter. 

How do you, how do we change the cycle for the next generation? How do we change the culture of rape, entitlement, and violence towards black women? We can’t continue to march and fight for the same black men that turn around and victimize us in the streets and the homes.

Some great black men do not perpetuate these acts of violence. However, those who do, do it so loudly, boldly, and proudly that they often overshadow the good men.

As a “good” black woman, I don’t want the least desirable of us being the standard for all of us. So, all the “good” black men need to be louder and more visible than the toxic and problematic ones. 

You’re tired of the black male generalizations; me too. So, FIX IT!