Page 9

9

Raya

I think I have to suck Ace’s dick tonight.

My Aunt Tori—my daddy’s sister—once taught me that men are simple, and that all you have to do is keep their belly full and their balls empty.

When my mother learned of this, she cussed Aunt Tori out and refused to let me see her for a few months. I never forgot that, though, and generally, I’ve found it to be true.

I filled Ace’s belly with beef stew, sourdough rolls, and salad. He was nice enough to thank me, but I can tell something’s gnawing at him.

As he cleans the kitchen, I watch him, wondering if the stew was too salty or something.

Maybe I should have come over here in my underwear instead of trying to be funny with this t-shirt.

But he laughed, so that has to count for something.

Maybe it was something I said? Maybe the thing about Aniya?

No. That can’t be it.

It takes me a few more agonizing minutes to realize it might not be about me at all.

“You know what? I’m sorry,” I say. “I was so busy cooking, I forgot to ask how your day was.”

He wrings out the sponge, setting it on the counter next to the dish soap. He uses that ugly green Palmolive. I hate that smell, so I make a mental note to replace it.

“I mean…it was frustrating,” he says, sounding tired. “Had a couple of setbacks that have to be fixed. It’s whatever.”

I poke my lip out in sympathy. “I’m sorry, babe. Anything I can do?”

His cheeks lift like he’s never been asked that a day in his life.

“Nah. Dinner was enough.”

I nod, but he sounds defeated.

Yeah.

That settles it.

Fellatio.

It’s not my favorite thing to do, I must admit, but I’m game if that’s what it takes to cheer him up. And get me a ring one day, but, you know, baby steps. I just hope he doesn’t try to return the favor, because the only thing weirder than a woman disliking blowjobs is a woman disliking getting eaten out.

I have my reasons.

“I’ll be upstairs,” I announce. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

His slow blink excites me. “Yes, ma’am.”

I go straight to his room and undress, shivering from the slight chill in the air. I stare at the goosebumps on my arm and will Ace to hurry up so I can get this over with.

Fuck. I hate this.

I hate the expectation. The unspoken rule that when a man is stressed or annoyed, a woman is supposed to fix it with her body. Men get to sulk, withdraw, be deep in their feelings, sit in their own fucking misery without a single thought as to how it affects everybody around them, while women get to fix it. Women get to absorb it like the sponge Ace used to clean up the mess in his kitchen.

But that’s what a good woman does.

She knows when to get on her knees, and when to open her mouth.

I know it’s bullshit. I think most women do. But we do it anyway, because we know what happens when you don’t.

At the sound of his footsteps, I put my game face on.

It’s showtime.

He trudges in, stopping short when he sees my naked body sitting at the foot of his bed. His jaw is still clenched, his shoulders tight, but below the waist, he seems happy to see me.

He approaches me slowly, finally coming to a stop an inch away from my face. He’s read this story before; he knows how it ends.

The tension in his muscles shifts from frustration to desire, his breath slowing, his fingers flexing.

Yes, baby. Become normal again.

His hand instinctively grips the hair at my crown. It’s like he can’t help himself. In response, I hook my fingers in the elastic waistband of his gym shorts and tug them down, slowly and seductively. I almost laugh when his dick pops out. It reminds me of the old Jack-in-the-box toy my grandma used to have.

I lean in to kiss the tip. Apparently, this awakens his latent affection for me; he grazes my cheek with his thumb while he stares longingly into my eyes. I feel my irritation slipping away, because this is the exact reaction I wanted. The subtle surrender. His realization that no matter how fucked up his day was, he still has this .

I hate that I love it.

As I swirl my tongue around the head, I feel myself relaxing. In fact, my eyes close, and I moan quietly when he throbs against my tongue. It’s not that it feels good to me physically, although he probably thinks that. It’s the other secret thing we don’t admit.

There’s power in this, and it’s the power that feels good.

I never took a psych class, but I do remember learning about Pavlov’s dogs. I’m sucking his dick so I can rewire his brain. He has to associate pleasure with me. He has to associate his best moments, his happiest moments, with me. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, or who he’s with, he has to know that when life gets hard, I’m the only one who can make him feel better.

That’s how you keep a man like Ace.

You make yourself the solution before he even knows he has a problem.

“Sssshhhhhhhit…” he hisses as his grip on my hair tightens.

I stare up at him with my best doe eyes. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” I say. “You want me to make it bet—“

“Yes,” he says before I can finish.

I slide my hands up the back of his thighs, slow and deliberate. His breath catches, and I smile, because I know I have him.

When I suck him into my mouth, he exhales sharply, his shoulders dropping, but only slightly, because he’s still fighting to hold onto the stress.

Stupid.

Men are so desperate to win, they beat themselves. But the way he’s twitching in my mouth lets me know his body has already thrown in the towel.

Good.

His eyes are clouded with lust as he watches me, but there’s something else. Just a flicker of it, and it nearly makes me laugh.

Control.

He’s standing over me, he’s in the power position. It just makes sense that he thinks he has it. But he doesn’t.

He shudders as I up my pace. My eyes water and my jaws ache, but I’m not a quitter. I have to give him credit; he’s trying to be a gentleman. I know he wants to fuck my face, but that’s not his way, at least not the first time. He wants me to think he has manners, because he thinks I give a fuck about that.

He’ll learn.

His groans get louder; his grip gets tighter. I move a hand from his thigh to his balls. I massage them, suck him, and moan until his body stiffens and he shoots all of his frustration down my throat.

Ugh.

Who decided this shit should be thick and salty?

But I’d be lying if I said I’m not turned on.

I go home after we fuck, just like I did the first time. I would give anything to spend the night, but it’s too soon. I need him to feel my absence.

Besides, I need to check on daddy and film my next live.

His bedroom door is closed when I get home. That means he’s already asleep. I’m sure he pretended to be tired on purpose so Faith would put him to bed early.

Daddy avoids me whenever he can.

The old stairs creak loudly under the weight of my footsteps. That sound, like something ancient and brittle is dying, filled me with dread when I was little. But I’ve rewired my own brain. My heart no longer races when I hear it. My hands no longer tremble. My mouth no longer feels like cotton. Nowadays, the creaking makes him flinch in his pathetic little wheelchair, anxious and mute and paralyzed with fear.

I love that for him.

Sometimes I walk around on purpose, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but exercise my pettiness.

In my room, I change into a fitted pink top, smoothing it over my waist as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look good. Soft. Sweet. Marketable.

It’s feeling like a pastel kind of night, so I select my muted palette, my fingers grazing over the buttery shades like they’re my beloved children (if I actually liked children). I fire up my ring light, and the glow washes over me, blurring my imperfections, sharpening my features. I lowkey look expensive, or at least like somebody who should have way more than 981 followers.

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

I tilt my head, giving myself a once over. It’s not like I’m lacking. I have the looks. The high cheekbones. The perfect juicy pout. The kind of skin people spend thousands of dollars to get. I have the products—some of them luxury. PR packages from Fenty , for fuck’s sake. And I’m interesting.

It’s not that I want to be a full-time beauty influencer. It’s just…why aren’t I, already? Girls with less than me, with absolutely nothing special about them, blow up every day. Some plain Jane in her boyfriend’s hoodie who sits on live in bad lighting and swatches drugstore lip glosses can wake up to 50k followers while I struggle to hit a thousand after three years.

It’s not fair.

Maybe I don’t like to admit it to myself, but every now and then, I feel like I deserve the spotlight. I feel it all the way down in my bones. Sitting in the shadows of everybody else’s light just feels…wrong. It’s like something in the universe forgot to align for me.

I was meant for more.

Period.

I scrub what’s left of my makeup off, rubbing hard enough to feel the sting. Then I retreat to my vanity, my oasis in this house, the place where I create my own reality and make myself into someone worth watching.

Then I press “Go Live.”

“I’m gonna do something different today, you guys. I’m gonna talk to you about something important.”

I smooth the primer across my skin, pressing it in with my fingertips like I’m sealing in a dark secret. My face is a canvas, my past mistakes covered over in one swipe. If only life worked like that.

“I wanna talk about men.” I pause for dramatic effect as my viewer count ticks up by three. “And dating,” I continue. “And love. And not the corny kind of love. I wanna talk about real love. The kind that snatches you up by the throat and refuses to let go.”

I reach for my foundation. “Dating is so stupid these days, y’all. Like, all this bullshit about talking stages.”

I dot the foundation onto my face, blending it in with a damp sponge as I lean into the camera.

“What is there to talk about? Your favorite color? Your favorite food? Your childhood trauma? Booo, shut up.”

Four more viewers, and a comment.

Tan5320 facts lol

I smile. “Lowkey I kinda feel like, by the time I’ve decided to give you my number, I can already see us together, so what are we even doing here? Just fall in love with me already and stop wasting both of our time.”

I roll my eyes as I blend concealer under them. “Dudes out here needing six to eight business months of ‘good morning, beautiful’ and meaningless fucking small talk just to figure out if they’re ready for something real.”

I draw my contour, carving out my cheekbones, turning from left to right so my viewers—all thirteen of them, now—can see exactly what I’m doing.

“I say we bring back whirlwind romance. That irresponsible type shit. Let’s fall hard and fast. Two weeks in, let’s declare our undying love. Let’s develop an unhealthy attachment and make reckless decisions. Let’s trauma bond. Drama’s fun, right? Let’s fucking go! Because honestly,” I say, blending perfect shadows onto my face, “you either want me forever, or you don’t. And if you don’t, I need to know sooner rather than later so I can ruin your life accordingly.”

noribrown9000 girl whut lol

I laugh as six more viewers join the party. “Call me crazy if you want, but at least I’m honest. All of you ladies out there want the same things I do. You just don’t wanna admit it. You’re still playing nice with these nig—excuse me, with these men out here. Nice girls finish last. Matter of fact, nice girls die. How ‘bout that?”

asia2360@ who hurt you? face is tea but you maybe should talk to somebody

I reach for my shadow palette, sweeping muted mauve onto my lids. “Hurt? I prefer to say I’ve been taught. Because that’s what pain is, right? It’s a lesson. You only touch a hot stove once, right? Actually…what does that meme say? ‘ Some of you bitches are very dumb ,’ so I take that back. Most of you only touch a hot stove once.”

Eight more viewers.

I smirk as I pack shimmer onto my lid. “If a man likes you, he’s showing up. He’s planting himself in your life, growing roots, and daring you to excavate his ass.”

strangerdanger6 it's giving stalker ??

“No, baby. That’s not stalking. That’s initiative.”

I let the word linger while I grab my eyeliner.

“Anyway, the moral of the story is if you like somebody, apply pressure. If you want something, take it. If you feel like life is passing you by, grab it by the throat and make it submit to you.”

I stare into my mirror and examine my work.

Flawless.

I don’t look anything like what I’ve been through.

“And that’s all I have to say about that,” I say, popping open my lip gloss. “But can we talk about this Fenty heat?”