Remember the ‘Relationship without a Title’ guy? Well, lets call him Clark. As you know, things started out pretty casual with Clark and I, the sex was hot, the wine was smooth, and the pillow talks were strong. As time progressed we found ourselves stepping out of the bounds of casual sex and began making drunken pinky promises that we’d never forsake one another. Promising that honesty would always reign supreme even at each other’s emotional expense. We built proverbial contracts and licked each other into commitment.
Well plot twist, issa liar.
He told me he would always have my back. He told me that he loved me. He told me that I was special. He told me I was the best he ever had. He told me he would always have my back He told me he loved me He told me that I was special He told me I was the best he ever had. Hetoldmethathewouldalwayshavemybackhetoldmethathelovedmehetoldmethatiwasspecial. HETOLDMETHATHEWOULDALWAYSHAVEMYBACKHETOLDMETHATHELOVEDMEHETOLDMETHATIWASSPECIAL.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.TOLD.ME.HE.ME.HE.ME.
I’m going crazy.
Clark changed me forever, but let’s back track the story.
The fact is, I’ve been, “the other woman,” many of nights, sitting on the phone, listening to a scorned woman cry out my name in tears of bitches and accusing me of being everything but God's child. On the rare occasion the women would artfully restrain themselves, clearly bursting at the seams, but remaining calmly composed enough to get through interrogating me – questioning their boyfriend's (and sometimes girlfriend's) relationship to my vagina.
If I’m honest, my ego and self-importance is what kept me on the phone. I’d gather myself in my blankets and listen to their rage as if I wasn’t the one that caused it. I’ll be the first to acknowledge that my shrivel of validation rested in the thrill of making other women’s men ejaculate…
I considered myself a triple threat; good pussy, good conversation, and good looking. I wanted to exercise my powers the way Curry exercises his 3 point magic. If being a home wrecker was my only talent than I would be hard bent to give that up. I wanted to go to the big league, I wanted to find rich men that I could dazzle with my wit and whisk away. I didn’t care that I was insecure or that I left behind me a litter of bitter women, I wanted to win at something, and I wanted to be happy.
Don’t get me wrong, I felt pity and concern for the “main” woman or wife, but any guilt I had wasn’t enough to placate my whore ambitions.
But Karma had other plans.
Karma had arrived to the party with ten layers of makeup and gradually detaching weave (bad glue in). I’m being shady about the girl, sure, but I can admit she was reasonably attractive, and fully qualified to man snatch.
She was young and vibrant. She reminded me of me in my younger, early bed hopping days. I’ll give karma a real name, let’s call her Tammy, Tammy was Clark’s fauxbest friend that was about to ruin everything as I knew it.
When Clark introduced Tammy to me as his long time best friend of 10 years, I naively did not bat an eye, instead, I figured any friend of his would be a friend of mine. So with that we all gathered together at Clark’s house, along with a couple other friends of his, we drank, we laughed, all the while plotting on what our new budding friendship would hold.
Dizzy from wine and a good time you could only imagine how off put I was when she blurted out randomly that she wanted to fuck my Clark….my dude, my boo thang, my man of the hour.
The room stopped, and it seemed everyone was waiting for my reaction, but I Beyoncé’d my way through it and smiled gracefully, keeping the conversation light, I opted to have a discussion with her once the night ended.
After everyone resigned for the evening, Clark going to bed, and the others going home, I volunteered to walk Tammy to her car, anxious to finally get the scoop on her earlier outburst.
She invited me to have a chat with her in the car, as it was clear her comment needed a discussion that wouldn’t be suitable in the cold of the night while both of us were wearing thin dresses, and I in sandal heels.
I eagerly sat my ass in the passenger seat and on cue thunder began to clap outside, and heavy rain enveloped her SUV. I followed the earth’s prompting and jumped into the storm, “so what was up with that comment earlier?”
She flipped her weave, no longer did it lay on her breast, but now swayed across her back as she moved her head theatrically explaining her intent.
Tammy advised me that her and Clark almost slept together, that they had a heated night a couple days ago and one thing lead to another in typical passionate fashion. She told me all the details, replaying it with a small smirk, holding her long acrylics to her face in fake horror as she watched my growing discomfort. She pretended to soothe me, she masked as a friend.
I struggled to play coy as I wanted her to feel comfortable divulging.
I encouraged her to keep talking, promising in polite words that I wasn’t going to slap her face in.
She exhaled in fake relief, batting her eyes at me, Tammy expressed that her confession was in the spirit of sisterhood and that she wanted to be honest with me about her and Clark’s late night fun.
I was livid yet I never wanted to be the one to blame, “the other woman,” shit I was the main one who touted the evils of condemning us! I was, “the other woman,” spokesperson! Yet, here karma Tammy was stabbing me repeatedly in the chest, while I sat confused about every decision I had made up until this point.
Once she was finished telling all, I thanked her for being upfront all the while I wanting to choke her out, because for the first time I noticed she had titties and ass and that Clark liked those things, and that he might have liked those things enough to creep. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to make her smirk disappear.
I could see that her ego hid under the guise of sisterhood and transparency, but really she was reveling in a feeling that I was all too familiar with. She was seething with power, her pussy was pulsating with victory as I crumbled in the passenger seat.
To top it off, this girl had the nerve to present her information as a gift, advising me that I should thank her for not taking him from me and that it was her kindness that allowed him to remain my midnight selection.
I visualized myself snatching her tracks out, but decided to let gravity continue to do the pulling as it was clearly working so well. I stared at her bad closure and her thick makeup wondering why he lied? He told me he hated girls who wore too much make up, he hated girls that represented everything Tammy was, the glorious Instagram THOT. She was beautiful, but nothing I aspired to be and I was shocked that in this moment I was questioning whether my beauty was enough. Was my personality and pussy enough? Was I really a triple threat?
I had never been on this side of the game, and had always preached to women how foolish it was to be upset with, “the other woman,” yet for the first time I understood why it was hard to be the bigger person.
The uncomfortable truth is that, “the other woman,” represented our demise. “The other woman,” represented power. “The other woman,” controlled the devout woman’s fate and ultimately, “the other woman,” made a choice that would cement our futures.
Tammy had sprinkled dust on Clark and I’s pinky promises, dissolving any future to be had.
I couldn’t think straight, I could feel everything at once yet nothing at all; anger, envy, sadness, rage, frustration, confusion, ego…. and a sense of numb.
Heat ran through my veins.
My heart beat ferociously against my pink, begging to be released from the trappings of flesh and bone.
The rain outside didn’t exist.
The car was the only thing between me and getting an answer.
I opened the car door as she pleaded that I hear his side of the story and that I not judge her to harshly.
Sucking back tears that I refused to feed to her glutinous ego, I bid her farewell thanking her again for her honesty.
I ran up Clark’s cheating stairs, I opened his philandering door, and woke him up out of his unfaithful slumber.
“Clark.” I called his trifling name.
He turned over.
“So when were you going to tell me you were fucking with your best friend?”
He looked at me with the Kirk Frost, I-got-caught face.
Before he could reply I was breaking down on the edge of his bed, “How could you do this to me?!”
I let the basic bitch words I thought I’d never utter run down my lips. I kept trying to compose myself and let him speak, let him explain, but all I could keep saying is, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”
I told him every detail that Tammy provided and didn’t wait for him to respond. I asked him question after question only to answer it myself.
“So I wasn’t good enough? No, obviously I wasn’t. The sex wasn’t enough? Obviously not. I cared about you soooo much, how could you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Why would you do this??”
And before I knew it tears were rushing down my face with my rumbling cries to accompany them.
I tried to run, but he stopped me, grabbing me by the waist, wrapping his arms around me, begging me to give him a chance, to trust him again.
And all I could think is how I should have questioned how an attractive man and woman had managed to remain platonic. I should have questioned their friendships longevity. I shouldn’t have believed anything he’s ever said.
I should’ve known that I could never be enough.
And there it was, my true thoughts even as a former side chick, bubbling out of my soul and into my lap for all to view. I had never thought I was good enough. I had reclined in the seat of a side chick to hide my fear of going for more, I had kicked my feet up in an ephemeral position to ease having to be more than a trick. It’s easy to trick the human desires. It’s not so easy to show up as woman not built on ploys, but authenticity. And Tammy karma had shown me the truth that night.
There was no glory in side-chicking or deception, only pain and illusion.
Since this incident, Clark and I are baby stepping our way back into friendship territory. I have a lot of soul searching to do before I can be anybody’s anything.
It should go without saying that my side chick chronicles end here, because I get it now, I never want a woman to feel how I felt that day, and I am officially out the game.
- Litsha Leeper
My name is Litsha Leeper, but if you stray away from convention feel free to call me Amazon. I write about things you can relate to and also things that make you want to sit far away from me. Find more of my work at thasamedifference.com
Here at The Breakup Queen we pride ourselves on sharing stories of queens just like you every week! Unsure about what to write? It's simple.
Tell the story you needed to hear.