Is it interesting to read about other people having sex (not me)?

February 01, 2005 - 7:21 p.m.

I haven’t really talked about Belle here for awhile because I was pissed off at him and yelled at him a few weeks ago. I was in the middle of composing a really nice story about him in my head but then he drove with me to go visit my brother and along the way he told me of a girl he had met.

Belle works with a girl named Eve who is a young, beautiful 21 year-old club girl. She has a whole harem of pretty coke-diet club girlfriends, and they all go out to the bars and get men to buy them things. Sometimes Belle goes out with them, the only guy in the group. One of Eve’s girlfriends, who is a 21 year-old black stripper, took a liking to Belle. A stripper named Tiffany. Come on now.

Belle tells me that out of nowhere, Tiffany calls him one Saturday and asks if she can come over to his house and hang out. He, of course, says yes, so she comes over and they’re on the couch and they start making out.

Belle tells me, “I’ve never been with a black girl before so I didn’t know what to expect. I was picturing National Geographic titties, you know. Long, low, African. But they were really nice, they were perfect.”

I interject, “Well, duh, she’s a stripper. How much money would she make if she had National Geographic titties?”

He continues, “Then I was worried about her pussy too, but it was very, very nice. It was smooth, and sealed shut, but then it just opened wide up like the Bat Cave.”

Me: “HA HA HA HA HA!”

Belle: “Yeah, so you know…one thing lead to another and I fucked her.”

I started yelling. “You fucked that HOOKER?? WHAT the FUCK is WRONG with YOU??”

He defended himself: “What’s the big deal? I haven’t been laid in forever and I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”

I flew off the handle, and we were in the car driving for an hour so he was trapped and had to sit there and listen to it. “Do you think this is funny? Do you think you’re cool because you fucked a stripper? Well lemme tell you, it is nothing to be proud of. I understand that you need to get laid, but why did you have to scrape the bottom of the barrel, the dregs, and choose this bedraggled, gold-toothed trollop, who is one step up from a hooker? Why couldn’t you find someone NORMAL?”

“Jesus, calm down. She isn’t a slut. She’s a really nice girl and she doesn’t even look like a stripper.”

“DUDE DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED. We are not going to have the ‘stripper’ conversation. You know they’re fucked up. Howard Stern makes his living by bringing as many strippers onto his show that he can find, asking them if they were molested, and proving that every last one of them has bats in her belfry!”

“I know, I know.”

“You’re better than this! This is not you - fucking hookers is not what you are meant to be! You don’t even know how to have meaningless sex! You’re a big soft idiot that wants to be snuggled and spooned! I can’t believe you would lower yourself.”

If you think that I was being too hard on Belle, it’s only because you don’t understand the unique relationship we have. The shit I have been through with that nigga. Our bond is very similar to the love that is shared between a parent and child during those dirty, poopy, pukey times. The snot, the scabs, the diarrhea. All of those vulnerable, humiliating moments that you shared with your Mama, that hopefully, you will never share with anyone else for the rest of your life. That’s what binds us. Our relationship has transcended just friendship, and ex-boyfriend/girlfriend friendship. We are family, we are blood.

It is this blood kinship that causes us to hold one another to very high standards. We keep each other in line and crack that whip when the other one does something stupid. If you think for one minute that Belle hasn’t stomped me into the ground on several occasions, you’d be wrong. This is the guy who berated me in the middle of a diner during the brunch rush, until I was broken and crying into my banana-nut French toast.

He was bawling me out because he didn’t approve of the guy I was dating at the time.  “How can you be with someone who you know is not good enough for you?  Are you lonely?  What’s wrong with you?  I expect more from you, and the longer you’re with him, the more respect I lose for you.  I can’t even look at you.”

I know what you are thinking, but you’re wrong so put a sock in it.  Our screaming at one another is not a thinly veiled expression of our unrequited love for one another.  Duh.  We are so passed that nonsense it ain’t even funny.  All balls are on the table and we talk frankly about the possibilities and -non- of us having a relationship, EVER, EVER in this lifetime and the answer is: No.  Lemme spell it out for ya’ll:  Belle + Shawna Mooney = Certain Death, Apocalypse, we’re bringing you to hell with us.  Together, we both dream of suicide.  Apart, we’re like Magic.

Last weekend Belle and I were hanging out and he says to me:

“So I told my mom that I had sex with that black girl.”

“What?? Why would you tell her that?”

“Because, she knew I was hurtin’ so I wanted her to know that I got laid.”

“God. What did she say?”

“What do you think she said? ‘Aye, no! How could choo, with a Negra? You lower jerself, deescusting!’”

“Now, that’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

“I know, right?”

“Although, the Negra IS a cock-sucking whore.”

“True dat, true dat.”

I took Belle out for a huge sushi spread because now I think that I’m rich, and he says that I owe him for all these years that he’s put up with me. Afterwards he took me grocery shopping at Cub Foods so I needn’t starve anymore. In the produce section, while I was trying to decide between snow peas and green beans, he said, “Oh SHIT! I forgot to tell you what happened!”

It seems that Belle was at work talking to Eve and he told her how Tiffany had come over to his house. He told her, “Yeah, so uh…yeah, we fucked.”

Eve: “Really?? Oh my god that is so cool! I’m so happy for you! I’m going to ask Tiffany what she thinks about you.”

Later, Eve reports back to Belle that she had asked Tiffany how their “date” went and Tiffany replied, “Well, you know. I let him eat my pussy and he was real good at it. So I guess maybe I’d let him eat my pussy again.”

Me: “WHAT?? She denied fucking you?? She tried to act like you just licked her snatch?”

“Yeah! And none of that shit even happened! I didn’t eat her pussy!”

This whole conversation is happening in produce, because I was frozen still and hanging on his every word. People walked in and out of our conversation, inspecting lettuce heads.

“You didn’t? But you said she had a beautiful pussy?”

“What are you, crazy? You think I put my mouth on strange vagina? That’s disgusting, that’s like putting my mouth on this floor.”

I’m shrieking and jumping up and down and I totally have the Home Alone face. It’s thrilling because I am a haggard old woman and it isn’t often that I hear stories of escapades with hooker sluts.

Belle continued, “Yeah, but she had no problem putting her mouth on me. She inhaled me. Over and Over. She had a huge mouth, made for dick sucking, and big lips. Then I fucked her and she came in less than five minutes.”

Me: “What a fucking SKANK. How is she going to deny you?”

“I fucking hate that bitch.  I feel so used.  How can she not claim me?  I’ll tell you this, I ain’t never calling that bitch again.”

“Right.  But uh…if she called you out of the blue, for a booty call, you’d fuck her again, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably.”

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