Not all toys are meant to be played with” – Unknown

Barbie was my bitch. As long as I had her in my toy box I was straight. I had several versions of the conventional blonde-haired blue-eyed Barbie, but also had several of her melanated friends, because mom. My mother insisted that my sister and I include a healthy variety of dolls from all ethnic backgrounds – especially Hispanic and Black dolls – or as she would say “Dolls with color”. In hindsight, I see why she did this – little brown girls need to see beautiful representations of themselves in all aspects of their lives, especially when playing with their Barbies fantasizing and living vicariously through them.

Needless to say the first love interest for my Barbie dolls was brown. When I was ALLOWED to have a male doll (I didn’t get one until I was 9 years old – I guess my parents didn’t want me to make my dolls “have sex” until I was of a certain age, who knows) I made it loud and clear that I didn’t want Ken. I wanted his better looking milk-chocolate complexioned counterpart, Steven. Steven had a twinkle in his eye, defined abs & pecks, and what appeared to be a tightly coiled Afro (that was actually plastic, but gave the illusion of a tightly packed Afro). The minute that I received him (and a stark white Ferrari) for my 5th grade graduation I made him the ladies’ man.   I made him have sex with all my Barbies because they were in need of it. 

As I got older and eventually gave up playing with dolls (which in hindsight I played with longer than most little girls – not because I enjoyed playing with dolls per se, but because this was my time to create grand and fictitious lives for them. I went from having dolls with blissful marriages, to having dolls with marital issues.  I made my dolls find life after love, creating blended families, to having dolls become successful bosses of whatever empire I devised at that time. Anyway, I digress…) and got more into teenage shit; reading books, writing short stories, and BOYS of course.  As the years passed, my fascination for boys increased and I eventually lost my virginity to one at the tender age of 17 to my then boyfriend (on prom night, how cliché *palms face*).

Well into my twenties I found myself still playing with toys, but they weren’t toys that you’d give to your child. Babeland ( a sex store (at the time solely located in NYC), founded by women, had become my new Toys R Us. They offered a bevy of adult toys – vibrators, handcuffs, dildos, whips, edible panties, sex games, sex books etc. You name it, they had it.  They were the premiere sex shop for all your adult toy needs.  


I was 24 years old when I’d FINALLY parted ways with the leader of all fuckboys. I chucked a deuce to the spoiled trust fund having, acne-prone, shallow, label obsessed, hilarious, charismatic, not-even-that-cute, weed head that I dated for six years.  When we met (I was 19 at the time) he was known as a ladies’ man at work and wooed a countless young ladies – including me. I stayed with him for six years too long and broke up with him, eventually dating men that I felt were of a better caliber – attractive, educated, fit, honest, ambitious, go-getters. I was determined to make up for lost time and found myself dating more men than I knew what to do with. Before I knew it, these men became my toys.

I didn’t fuck all of them (not even half of them),  but I definitely allowed quite a few of them entertain me because I DESERVED IT – well at least I THOUGHT I did.  The attention was my reward for surviving a six year bid with a fuckboy (that I later found out regularly cheated on me (screwing the girl of the hour with the fattest ass – RAW!) and habitually lied to me with no remorse) while using countless fuckboy machinations to keep me under his spell. God truly protects babies and fools because he protected me; I walked away from that relationship without contracting any STD’s/STI’s. Now, where was I?  Oh yes – men becoming my toys.  As fucked up as it sounds, I chose to reward myself with men – men that wanted to wine and dine me, spoil me, (and for a lucky few) pleasure my body to no end, and treat me the way that I should’ve been treated all those years (years that I didn’t know my worth and was too busy feeling like I couldn’t do better).

These men became my toys.”

I’d just returned from my first solo international trip to the UAE (Dubai) and Southeast Asia (Thailand & Cambodia) when I met Eric* – by happenstance. That Saturday’s brunch had been planned somewhat last minute with the intention of getting my two girlfriends (one visiting from out of town) and I together to connect; catch up, rehash my trip, and enjoy each other’s company over a good eats and cocktails before the holidays got in the way. We met up at NoBar (a now defunct quaint black-owned restaurant that served American fare – whatever the fuck “American food is”) where I arrived late (because as previously mentioned in my post Me – I am THAT late friend).

I arrived full of excitement with animated and descriptive stories to share, because there’s ALWAYS a story with me.  My friends had already finished their meals so I ordered the chicken and waffles and a cocktail in an effort to play catch up. What was supposed to be a two hour brunch turned into almost five hours get together in this restaurant, because were were wotless**.  We took pictures with our waiter at our table and anywhere else in the restaurant, drank complimentary shots, and ordered additional food because hunger set it in again. I was personally good on entrees, I wanted dessert, but learned that the restaurant didn’t serve any until the dinner menu started (about and hour later). So much for that, or so I thought…

Upon returning from the ladies’ room I locked eyes with him. Eric appeared out of nowhere behind the counter and I was immediately entranced. His smoldering looks caught me off guard, briefly hypnotizing and paralyzing me in the process. I took him in completely, slowly focusing on his entire being; his intense dark brown eyes were framed by full, naturally arched (to perfection) thick black eyebrows.  He has a super low buzz cut and a neatly trimmed goatee. I continued to size him up and smirked with satisfaction, realizing his approximately 5’11” framed slightly husky body (clad in a simple black graphic tee and dark denim jeans) was the perfect compliment to my slender 5’7” frame. *Bites lips as I reminisce over his fine ass*.  As the trance broke, I came to and realized he’d been speaking to me for a few seconds. “Hey, you ladies want some cake?”, he asked with the most sincere slightly southern twanged accent. I gave him a warm smile as I responded in the affirmative and he smiled back at me with a smile just as endearing. 

A few minutes later he walked over to our table (as my girlfriends and I cackled over inside jokes) with homemade pound cake drizzled with warm salted caramel and whipped cream – all prepared by him. Sweet tooth satiated. I learned three things at that moment: (1) He was the chef at the restaurant, (2) he could cook and bake (the cake was really good and I don’t even like caramel) pretty good, and (3) he was BALLSY AF. 

Before leaving the table he informed us that he sold homemade cakes & pies and also worked as a private chef when he wasn’t working at the restaurant.  After disclosing that information he singled me out with a seductive glare asking for my number before telling me that he wanted to cook for me. This was a major gamble – most men are intimidated by large groups of women due to a fear of being rejected, but not him.  I could’ve shot him down where he stood, but he didn’t seem to care.  He stood there confidently as if he already knew my response was going to be yes.  Two weeks later he prepared one of the best meals I’ve ever had (in honor of my birthday) for my girlfriend’s and I at my friend’s place in the Kensington section of BK.


We flirted a little that night, but nothing transpired. He cooked, I ate – the end. Days later I started to receive periodic phone calls and/or text messages from him, but I curved him for weeks. Eventually I gave in when he offered to cook for me at my place.  This house call lead to a pot of homemade vegetable soup and a rather steamy make-out session on my then cranberry microfiber lip shaped love seat.  As we made out, I did that thing that all heterosexual women do, I went for “the feel” to see what he was working with and learned that he working with A LOT.   My interest piqued even more, but I didn’t act on it.  Instead I curved him, that night and for the better part of a year. How many other house calls had he made that week? That month? That year? I deemed him a player and started to dodge his texts and calls. He was respectful and could cook his ass off, but I was hesitant to trust him – I didn’t want to be another notch on his belt.

Fast forward to a year and a few weeks later, I wound up in St. Thomas (read more about that experience here and was having the time of my life. At this time I was making plans to return to the states for my sister’s engagement party in late April and was unsure of my departure date when out of nowhere I received a series of text message from Eric.  I hadn’t heard from him in months and found myself happily and pleasantly surprised to receive communication from him.  He was vacationing in nearby Puerto Rico and wanted to visit me in the USVI.  He learned of my whereabouts as he followed me on Instagram (where I documented my time on the island).  Access denied – again I curved yet again. I don’t know why, but at that moment I knew I didn’t want to see him there – I guess I didn’t want to bring sand to my sand box.  However, being the persistent man that he is he didn’t stop there.  He insisted that he be allowed to pay me a visit when I returned to the states to simply cook for me.  I said yes. 


My body woke up on its own on that unseasonable warm early May morning. I laid bra-less in my bed clad in lightweight black & taupe tribal sweatpants with a bright coral-colored tank. The sleeveless top was the perfect contrast to my sun-kissed bronzed skin – my perfectly tanned skin was still glowing (as I’d just returned from St. Thomas a few days prior.  My phone vibrated, it was him. “Shit, I forgot I told him to come over today”, I thought. “Hey Missy [he always called me this], I just got above ground, I should be there in about twenty minutes”. You would think that courtesy call would’ve caused me to get out of my bed get dolled up in anticipation for his arrival right? Nope. I didn’t even shower. This was JUST a meeting amongst two acquaintances that would end in me eating a delicious meal, THAT’S IT.

I rolled outta bed, brushed my teeth and washed my face. I didn’t have anything to do because my apartment was immaculate (considering I hadn’t lived there for months and had cleaned it impeccably before my departure), so I sat there and waited. Twenty minutes later he phoned me to let me know he’d arrived.  I went down to open the door for him and smiled at him as he was climbed the steep steps leading to my front door of my brownstone.  “Wasn’t this dude supposed to cook for me? Where are the groceries” I thought to myself as I noticed he was empty handed.  I stood there (shamelessly still dressed in what I rolled out of bed in) and admired his polished appearance – a navy blue Yankee fitted adorned his head and a gray & navy varsity jacket, blue denim jeans, and brown oxford shoes completed his understated style. We embraced when he reached the top of the steps then I invited him upstairs to my place.

I almost forgot how attractive Eric was as he took his hat off and sat on the left side of my gray microfiber sofa. He was newly bald – he opted to shave his head completely a few months back and allowed his beard to grow in even fuller. NICE. It seemed that time apart did our respective bodies good. My frequency was hella elevated as I was still operating on island vibes and my body looked incredible. The pescatarian lifestyle that I adapted while in St. Thomas caused me to slim down in all the right places and gave me an overall glow. Eric appeared have put on a few (good) extra pounds, enhancing his already husky physique.

We caught up; we smoked, we ate (I cooked something super simple for us to eat as he hadn’t had groceries to prepare my meal), we laughed – then organically – we kissed. Maybe it was the weed, but my God that kiss sent all kinds of tingles to every nerve ending in my body. The kisses intensified and after a few minutes I knew that I wanted him.  Mid kiss he stopped me to let me know that he wanted to leave and go purchase groceries for my welcome back meal.  We both knew good and cot damn well groceries weren’t the only thing that he was leaving my apartment to buy. His departure allowed me more than enough time to shower and get dressed in proper attire. Nothing fancy, after all I was in MY own apartment. I opted for a pair of black leggings and an over-sized off-the-shoulder lightweight cream top. He returned within the hour and never did make it to my kitchen….

The kissing ensued again, this time even more intensified. I throbbed for him in complete anticipation of what was about to happen. We made our way to my bedroom and he disrobed me, taking me in in the natural light as dusk started to set in. I felt incredibly vulnerable, but ready. He started to unbutton his shirt and I assisted him, all the while never allowing my lips to part from his – then he stopped me.  He laid me back down and looked at me with lust in his eyes akin to a wild animal about to pounce on its prey.  He went from my lips, to my breasts, to my stomach to my left inner thigh, and to my right. Eventually he found his way to my…. “IS THIS WHAT I’VE BEEN MISSING?”, I thought to myself as he proceeded to pleasure the ENTIRE FUCK out of me. I lost count of how many times I came, but I know that it was a lot.  Just when I thought that I couldn’t take anymore he slid his Magnum condom covered penis in with slight resistance – I was tight and I moaned in ecstasy, as I received him again and again. I could barely handle him in missionary, but that didn’t stop me from obliging his request to enter me from behind (not anally, but from a different position).  Even as I write this I shudder and throb. The pleasure that I experienced during our first sexual encounter was amazing. He continued to pleasure me until I begged him to stop. His stamina was one that I hadn’t seen in years, I guess young D (oh yeah – that part, Eric was five years my junior) from a stealth lion (a Leo) will do that to you .

He didn’t stay as he’d made evening plans, but asked to return the following evening. After the performance that he’d just put on me I readily agreed and so begun our sexually charged relationship.


I never knew what to expect with Eric, I think that’s what made our sex so incredible. No two times were ever the same. I recall lying in my bed sharing an L with him as he massaged my body from neck to toe with baby oil. As I laid there with my eyes closed receiving head from him I, I heard velcro detaching from something, then I felt something cuffing around my left ankle. My eyes opened and I started to sit up, but he insisted that I lie back down as he continued to pleasure me. I heard velcro again – this time the sound was followed by something else being cuffed around my right ankle. “What is this?”, I recall asking him. To which he replied, “I want to have my way with you Missy.” My eyes remained fixed on him as I watched him inch closer to my lips with his. It was at this moment that he cuffed my left wrist, then my right. I have no idea where the bondage apparatus came from or how he found the time to put it on my bed, but I didn’t care. He blew me shot guns (of weed) as I laid there insanely horny. My nipples were as hard as rocks and my clit was just as aroused. Eric had one goal – bring tears to my eyes from pleasuring me.

First he used my vibrator on me as I convulsed over and over again from orgasm. When I didn’t think that I could take anymore he used his tongue and mouth, repeatedly flicking and sucking on it until I climaxed again… and again… and again. Nirvana, I’d experienced nirvana and cried tears of unfathomable joy while he did it.  As I begged him to stop he removed the cuffs from my legs and turned me over. I lied down on my stomach and he entered me from behind. The titillation was unfathomable. He whispered the nastiest shit in my ear while repeatedly plowing his huge penis in and out of my vagina while simultaneously stimulating my clit with his fingers. I cried as I came because the sex was that good. He achieved his goal and I experienced a sexual enlightenment that has yet to be topped to this day.

The thing is nights like that were the NORM with Eric. Was I always placed in cuffs, no. Sometimes I was blindfolded and gagged, sometimes I was free. Sometimes I ran the show, sometimes I let him. The thing is we shared a connection that to date I have yet to share with ANYONE. On more than one occasion I recall simply thinking about something that I wanted to be done to my body (during sex) and Eric would do it.  If I craved a tender kiss at the nape of my neck with the rubbing my clit  (while he hit it from behind), he did it. If I longed for him to lick and gently bite my breasts as I rode him, he did it. If I fantasized about him picking me up mid coitus, he scooped my limber ass up and did it. If I wanted my ass spread apart while he hit it from the back (for deeper access) he did it. If I thought it Eric kissed it, sucked it, fucked it, rubbed it, licked it, bit it, squeezed it, and/or swallowed it. He became one of my favorite toys from my toy box and I enjoyed him to no end.

This one again/off again relationship of ours lasted for years. I would fall of the face of the earth at times because I was dating other men and didn’t engage in sex with more than one man at a time. While Eric was a fantastic fuck, he wasn’t a man that I allowed myself to completely fall for. He was young and still getting himself together and was in no position (financially) to court me the way that I was accustomed to. Not to say that everything is money, but having the basics is important (a steady place to stay and a consistently working cell phone for starters) to me.  I never faulted him for what he didn’t have, but I knew deep down inside he was insecure about what he lacked.


Eventually “this toy” grew tired of his place in the toy box.  Being taken out for my pleasure and amusement and placed back said box once playtime was over no longer worked for him. Eric morphed into Buzz mo’phuckin Lightyear and attempted to escape every chance that he got. This toy wanted to be taken out o f the house for show and tell – he wanted to meet my family and friends, but I wasn’t so sure about that. I wanted him to remain one of those toys that you only played with in the house, but he had other plans.

They always say the girls with great pussy are the craziest, but now I think – scratch that I KNOW that dudes with grade A dick are just as if not crazier.  BAT SHIT CRAZIER. Peep game….

Earlier this month I made plans to attend the well-known monthly dance party, Target First Saturdays @ the Brooklyn Museum with one of girlfriends, J,  – because that is THE place to be at the beginning of every month. Eric tried to invite himself over to my place earlier that day, but I declined his invitation because I wanted to go out and dance, mingle, and enjoy myself OUTSIDE of my bedroom. Target First Saturdays meant an evening of dancing to the music by the hottest DJs while being immersed in a sea of dope vibes, surrounded by beautiful melanted women and men. It was the men that I was especially checking for when I attended the party that night.

As expected the crowd was huge (Target First Saturdays had done a collaboration with Everyday Ppl and featured DJ Moma on the 1’s and 2’s). J and I finagled our way to the VIP area of the party and proceeded to dance alongside the stage. The tunes were great, the energy was electric, and as expected – the bearded brothers were out in droves. As I danced to afrobeats, I felt a body settle behind me. “I reeled one in” I thought to myself as I smiled. Before my excitement heightened I turned around to see who was attempting a dance with me. Buzz. Fucking. Lightyear.  Eric stood there with a smug smile on his face before erupting eerily creepy cynical laughter. “Hi Missy, are you surprised to see me?” I stood there in complete and utter shock, but played it off as I didn’t know what other surprises he had up his sleeve. “What, what are you doing here? Are you alone?”, I asked nervously. He was. In a sea of well over one thousand people he found me.

I two stepped for a few more moments than created distance between him and I. I don’t do pop-ups, ever. I found his unsolicited visit to be bizarre, especially after I’d TOLD his overly zealous ass that I had plans with my girlfriend that night. Maybe he wanted to make sure I wasn’t lying to him. Who knows. I didn’t know, nor did I care.

After about thirty minutes, J and I decided to make a beeline towards to exit to avoid the huge rush to the doors once the party ended. I told Eric that I was leaving and that I would catch up with him another time. He asked to kiss me on the lips and I denied him. He was ballsy enough to pop up on my ass, but he still knew the rules of engagement – no public displays of affection unless approved. He kissed me on the cheek and asked to see me later that evening. I informed him that I would be out and about, but that I would call him should I get in at a relatively decent hour.

Instead of following the crowd to Casablanca (a well known lounge in the Stuy) for the after party, we went to a neighborhood eatery to break bread and sip tea. Hours passed and we closed the restaurant down. She went home and I received a ride home from the restaurant owner (as he’s the homey). I was still awake as it was still early so I called my neighbor and resident dance partner to see if he’d made it to Casablanca. As expected, he did and shared a full recap of the vibes there. We stayed on the phone for about 30 minutes (as I received two – three missed calls from Eric) before I bid him adieu so that I could wind down for the night. As I ended the call, my phone ring yet again. I was under my covers with my lamp on atop my bedside nightstand. “Hey Missy, I see that you’re still up”, he greeted. I was and humored him in conversation for about 3 minutes until it got weird, yet again. “What would you say if I were outside your house right now”, he asked. I sat up and promptly turned my lamp off. “Was this nigga outside of the brownstone?” I thought to myself as I climbed out of the bed to check. “You’re not outside, you wouldn’t just show up here” I said as I peeked through the window. Not only was he outside, but he was outside with that same grin he had on his face when he popped up on me several hours prior.

Access denied. I reamed him out for showing up on my doorstep like a sad puppy and told him to take a taxi back to wherever he came from. That was the beginning of the demise of us. Feelings were involved and he no longer obliged my requests to keep our relationship behind closed doors. Do I fault him, of course I don’t – but I do know that I clearly defined the dynamics of our relationship at the beginning and during our many rendezvous together.  We no longer see each other because I couldn’t give him what he wanted – my all.  I guess I learned a valuable lesson from dealing with Eric, not all toys are meant to be played with.


(1) *Eric’s name has been changed to protect his identity.  (2) **Wotlessness is a West-Indian term that pretty much having the time of your life without a care in the world – giving zero fucks about what anyone says or thinks about you. In short – unapologetic liberation.


Stay Wild,

Marissa C.