Kismet

by Raynesha Pittman

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Kismet is a predetermined or unavoidable destiny. It is not identical to Karma. With Karma, you get back what you dish out. Fate is not that friendly. Savannah James is a successful, revenge-seeking entrepreneur who hasn’t forgotten the feeling of growing up poor, or all the drama and hurt that came along with it. She plans the perfect plot to avenge her past, fueled by the "What goes around, comes around" theory also known as Karma. But what happens when you take Karma into your own hands and seek revenge by methods of sex, lies, deception and seduction? Fate steps in, knocks you off your high horse while your feet rest comfortably in the stirrups of satisfaction, and drags you back to the reality that you are not in control! Is it Karma or Kismet? You decide!

Release date: March 28, 2017

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 304

Sample

I should wake Tyrone’s sorry ass up. For the last two months, he’s been talking shit about what he would do to me if I gave him a chance. Three and a half minutes after that “chance,” he rolled over and went to sleep. I’m so tired of these extralarge, Magnum-wearing, five-good-strokes-giving niggas always bragging about their dicks like they’re the cure for cancer or the solution to world peace. I haven’t witnessed a dick do anything but get hard and nut.

Men seem to think that if they have made one woman scream their names or come, they can do it to every woman they sleep with. The truth is that most of us fake it so we won’t hurt their egos. The male ego is complicated and, in some inexplicable way, it’s connected to their dicks, which I’ll never understand.

Don’t twist my words. I love dick and have screamed out many names in pleasure. What I’m saying is this: Different strokes for different folks. What worked for Jan might not work for Jane, so don’t be mad when I say it isn’t good. You can’t use the same strokes on me that you use with every other woman you’ve been with and think I can’t detect how you have mastered the position.

If you insist on stroking me with your routine stroke, you got the wrong woman. I’m twenty-nine years old. I couldn’t give a damn about a man’s ego. I want to be satisfied, and prere-hearsed moves aren’t going to get it. If he isn’t capable of satisfying me with the natural flow of the mood we are in, he doesn’t deserve to spend another second inside me.

When I was younger, I would do all that fake moaning and back scratching. Hell, I was the best orgasm faker in the world . . . until it hit me that he was truly enjoying it and I was better off masturbating. Those days are over. I have a thirty-second rule now. If I haven’t gotten wetter, started shaking to where I can’t control it, or had the urge to pull him in deeper within the first thirty seconds, he has to get the fuck off me. The only flaw I’ve found with this rule is that there are no warning signs if he’s a two-minute man. That’s how Tyrone got away with three-and-a half-minutes.

Yes, I’m mad about it because I could have been under, or on top of, somebody else tonight. Everything in me told me not to fuck Tyrone, but my pussy has a mind of her own, so I let her have her way and went ahead and slept with Keisha’s baby daddy. Listening to Keisha’s broke, food stamp-selling ass brag about sex with her son’s father was one of the reasons I wanted to fuck him in the first place.

I wanted to see if he was really as good as she had said. “Tyrone does this” and “Tyrone does that.” She promoted his dick like Don King would promote a Tyson fight.

I believed her since Tyrone had the math of a man that could handle his business in bed. He was six foot one and 195 pounds of pure muscle, black as midnight, bowlegged without the handicapped walk most bowlegged men have, and well-groomed for a man who never left the hood.

Most don’t have time to hit a barbershop every two weeks, but Tyrone did. He kept the old, Steve Harvey perfect edge up with more waves in his hair than the ocean. He possessed deep dimples that complemented his face, leading to a sexy, perfect, white smile, surrounded by LL Cool J “Doing It Well”-era lips.

Tyrone was always in a new white, Pro Club T-shirt, rocking the newest pair of Jordans or classic high-top Chuck Taylors with fat laces. His way of dressing would look broke and immature to me on any other man, but on him, it was mouthwatering.

What I found to be most sexy about him was when he was on the basketball court in his wife beater, sweating hard and panting heavily from smoking too much weed while trying to talk shit after losing.

How does that add up to being able to handle his business in bed? Do the math. Basketball has four quarters, and he never used a substitute, which equals stamina. He talked shit whenever he was losing or had lost, which meant he had a winning mind frame. How many men you know want to lose in the bed? My point exactly. That shoe-size myth most women judge men by meant nothing to me. I’ve slept with a lot of size twelve- and thirteen-inch feet and learned that they don’t do shit but untuck the sheets at the foot of the bed. It must be embarrassing when your shoe size is twice the size of your condom filler.

Keisha had made Tyrone out to be a dark chocolate, boxer-wearing Superman, whose superpower was his ten-inch long, two-inch wide dick. Looks like my pussy was kryptonite because I ended up with a no-stamina-having Clark Kent. Nothing about those three minutes was super.

Guess my math was wrong. I forgot to subtract the fact that my pussy is platinum compared to the miles Keisha has on hers. I could slap that heifer for lying to me like that. What Keisha failed to realize about me is that I haven’t considered her a friend since high school, which led to my final reason for giving Tyrone some. That slut slept with my first boyfriend, Kevin, and took his virginity while we were dating. She convinced him that I would never give it up, so he had sex with her at his father’s house while his dad was at work. Payback was coming. I just didn’t think it would take that long to get it. We were kids when it happened, and I might be wrong in some people’s eyes, but I don’t give a damn. Each ho has her day, and for Keisha, today was that day.

Something about the thought of sex and revenge made me want Tyrone even more. I am not the only woman on this earth who has used sex to get revenge, and I won’t be the last to use it either. When our man cheats on us, what do we do? We go sleep with somebody too. Even men use sex for revenge. What do they do when we don’t pay them enough attention, but our so-called friend does? They have sex with her, and, when we find out they slept with her, the first reason they give is, “She was there for me when you wasn’t.” That’s a form of revenge for not putting him first. Let’s not pretend that sex and revenge haven’t gone hand in hand.

This ho, Keisha, was known for sexing everybody’s man. She didn’t need revenge to give your man some. She did it because she wanted to sample something new, like wine tasting. All the guys around our way wanted to sample her too. Her mother was Mexican, and her father was black, so she had bright yellow skin, light brown eyes, hair that fell to the middle of her back, and no ass at all. But she had double-D breasts, and she spoke English and Spanish fluently, so once she reached thirteen years old, she became the girl every guy wanted, and it seemed she wanted every guy.

If you had a working dick, you were Keisha’s type. The sad part about it is she was in love with Tyrone. But, like the saying goes, “You can’t make a ho a housewife.” Due to Keisha’s ho status in my old neighborhood, she couldn’t expect anything more than an occasional quickie from her son’s father.

I can’t stand Keisha or her two homegirls, Christina and Melinda. I’ve slept with their baby daddies too, but they had more to offer me than Tyrone. At least they paid a bill or wined and dined me. Tyrone’s ass was broke with all that small-time dope dealing, and his neighborhood rap career wasn’t shit. Where I grew up, everybody raps and hustles. There wasn’t a big-time dope dealer in our area because there were about fifty small-time ones who shared customers, and all fifty of them had gotten a piece of Keisha.

Keisha hooked up with Tyrone after I went off to college, so I don’t know all the details of their past relationship. From what Tyrone told me, they hooked up after a barbeque, had sex in the backseat of his Caprice, and three months later, she told him she was pregnant. Seven months later, DNA proved little TJ was his. Keisha had reached a hood rat’s dream. She was given food stamps, medical, dental, Section 8, and child support. Now that’s just his side of the story.

Too bad Tyrone doesn’t have a real job to actually pay child support. He could have been somebody worth having a baby by if he wouldn’t have fucked himself up. Tyrone had a full basketball scholarship to USC. He lost it when he decided to drive around in his car while his so-called friends did drive-bys. He was arrested and given the most time because he was the oldest, and it was his car. Tyrone didn’t pull the trigger, but that didn’t mean anything to the university. They snatched up their offer without listening to his side of the story.

The youngest guy in the car, Will, was also sentenced. He was sent to a juvenile correction center for a few years while he fought his case. After two years of fighting, he was sentenced to camp, where he got his mind right and got on his feet. When Will came home, he got his juvenile record sealed and went to a junior college where he took up criminal justice. He now works downtown at the criminal courts building as a sheriff.

I wish there was a fairy-tale ending for Tyrone, but he got caught up in the thug life and started selling drugs. He had the chance to close his record and get back on the right foot, but selling all that small-time dope got him arrested one too many times. In my opinion, it’s never too late to get yourself together. You have to want it like Will did. I wonder if Will’s sexy ass is still single. I have to make sure I put him on my things-to-do list next week if he still is.

I got out of the bed to go lock myself in my bathroom with Big Jamal, my faithful vibrator, to finish up the job since the thought of Will’s sexy, ex-football-playing ass had gotten me back wet. It hit me that this waste of a condom is at my hideaway spot and his sorry ass drove here. I could, therefore, kick him out and go home to get ready for my workweek.

“Tyrone, wake up,” I said, sounding as nice as I could because he had drooled all over my satin sheets and didn’t deserve—or earn—the right to go to sleep in the first place.

“Tyrone, I need you to leave . . . now. I just remembered that I need to finish up my reports for work on Monday. So I need to head home, boo.”

He rolled over with that sexy-ass smile and said, “Come here, beautiful, and let me eat that pussy before I go.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming out, “Hell, no,” but, once again, I let my pussy call the shots, and then flew on my back.

“Okay, Tyrone, but that’s it. Then we have to go.” He agreed.

Besides my thirty-second rule, I have a head rule. Never turn down an offer to receive head unless they needed visible dental work, had rotten breath, or a tongue ring. A lot of people don’t take time to sanitize their mouth jewelry, and I don’t want whatever bacteria that are living on it swimming around in me.

Men don’t ever turn down head and will quickly tell you to suck it. They say, “Suck my dick” to everything. When you’re arguing, “Suck my . . .,” when you’re trying to put them in the mood . . . “Baby, just suck it; it will get hard,” so, why can’t we do the same? I know it isn’t “ladylike” to walk around saying, “Lick me” or “Eat me,” but it should be an unspoken requirement.

He dragged me to the edge of the bed by my hips, spread my legs apart, and started at my ankles, sucking and licking me slowly. He seemed to know what he was doing. He made his way down to the folds of my legs, nibbling softly and licking his own lips to put on a show for me since I was watching. My pussy jumped, and I was instantly ready to feel his tongue on my pearl. He gripped my butt with his left hand and said softly, “Grab the back of my head, baby, and show me where you want me to put my mouth.”

As if I was scared he would withdraw his request, I grabbed the back of his head, just a few inches above his neck, closed my eyes, and led him to the lips that protected my pearl. He kissed up and down my lips, then, using his tongue to separate them, he made it to my pearl tongue. That’s when I confirmed Tyrone wasn’t shit.

He couldn’t even do the simple task of giving me head correctly. He kept coming up for air like he was drowning. I know I’m known for soaking through a mattress or two, but I didn’t know I needed to supply niggas with life jackets.

“Hell, no!” I heard the words come out of my mouth and at this point, I wasn’t going to stop them. “What the hell was that, Tyrone? How in the fuck did you expect me to find pleasure in that shit?” I was waiting on an answer.

Instead, he snapped, “What the hell you mean, you uppity-ass bitch? You have been complaining since we hooked up earlier. First, the damn food at your favorite, expensive restaurant didn’t taste right ’cause your favorite cook wasn’t there. I tried to be nice to your petty ass and pay for that expensive shit and never heard the words ‘thank you’ come outta your mouth. What did your too-good-for-the-hood ass do next? Oh yeah, you made me drive an hour and thirty minutes from LA to meet you up here on the Pacific Coast Highway ’cause you like to see the ocean while you’re getting fucked, instead of paying sixty-five dollars and going to the Snooty Fox on Western like I had planned. Fuck your college degrees and your good-ass job. You’re still Na-Na to me, the little tomboy with the jumper from the park, and if you weren’t fucking all them bitches on the down low, you would know a good man when you saw one, you dyke bitch.”

See, the old me would have flipped over the bed and tried to fight him. That person died when I moved out of South Central, LA. Instead, I thought I’d give him a piece of what he gave me.

“First off, quick draw, the fastest nut shooter from the west, my name is Savannah, and it’s called a chef not a cook. Second, I was born on the East Side. That doesn’t restrict me to do what East Siders do. I don’t have sex on ten-dollar an hour sheets, Mr. Small-Time Trapper six years in a row. I know where I’m from, and I’ll be dead or dying before I go back there to live, so get your tired ass out of my $600 a night time-share air and hit the 10 freeway back to your EBT-card atmosphere. Do you need gas money? Or did your probation officer give you gate money when you got released? Your mouth still smells like an inmate named Big ‘D,’ so don’t question my sexuality until you get yours in check.”

At that moment, Tyrone jumped out of bed, threw his clothes on, grabbed his keys, said his last, “Fuck you, bitch,” and left.

On the ride back to Malibu, which was only twenty minutes away from my rental property, I kept replaying what Tyrone had said to me over and over again.

“You’re still Na-Na to me, the little tomboy with the jumper from the park.”

It wasn’t the anger in his words that was bugging me, but the fact he called and still saw me as Na-Na, the little girl who should have been a boy because of her basketball skills. I have worked hard to be the opposite of that little girl, and he was too blind to see it. His broke-ass opinion really didn’t mean anything to me. It’s just that those were the people who needed to see my change the most. I lost all the chubbiness I had as a child and am now 165 pounds of pure thickness. My waist is a size 10. Due to having toned thighs and hips, I wear a size 12. Besides the $5,700 I spent turning my A-cups to DDs, I am all natural.

I’m five foot seven with a peanut butter complexion, and my eyes are slanted like I have Asian heritage. I used to wear a 1990s Toni Braxton short haircut, but I grew it out to a shoulder-length, layered cut. I get a manicure and a pedicure once a week so my feet and hands could be as soft as my butt. I’m not a swap meet or flea market shopper. I only place designer clothes on this body. I don’t mean hip-hop designers like Fetish or Ecko Red. I’m talking about Armani and Dolce suits. I relax in DKNY. I do own a few Apple Bottom, Rocawear, and Dereon items, but that is mostly to blend in when I’m around company that wears those labels. To be honest, I love House of Dereo. . .