Heaux Tales Part One: The Master Chef with Bullies, Baby Mamas, and B.S.

“He was everything I craved… and everything I didn’t need. I left hungry for love but finally full of truth.”

🎵 Mood: “Love Galore” – SZA ft. Travis Scott

“Why you bother me when you know you don’t want me?”

It started like most messes do — with a facebook story post and a soft smile. I wasn’t doing too much, just showing skin and peace. And apparently, that was enough to summon the wrong one at the right time.

He slid in my inbox like butter in a hot skillet — smooth, sizzling, and seasoned just right.

“Damn… you look like home.”

And like a woman who’s been starved of real love, I let myself believe I had finally found someone who saw me deeper than the surface. Someone with flavor, ambition, and thick forearms.

He was a master chef — a man who cooked like he was born in the kitchen and fucked like he never wanted to leave the bedroom. And the first night he fed me? Baby… I left full in every way. I didn’t know if I wanted to lick the plate or the man who made it.

The sex?
Spellbinding.

“He fucked me like I was the answer to every question he never asked out loud.”*

He didn’t just stroke — he spoke in tongues with his hips. He knew my body like we we’re lovers in a past life. Like he was praying with every stroke and trying to bring me closer to heaven.

Yea, right before the trip to hell we were about to embark on.

And for a while, I thought maybe this was what love could feel like. Full plates. Warm kisses. Love songs and deep strokes.

BUT. Let’s get into the resume:

• Breeds American Bullies, but the only thing multiplying was drama and delusion.
• Oh — and he doesn’t have his own place. Nope. He rotates between his dad’s couch, his ex girlfriends house, and his so-called mobile home that’s been “under renovation” for 5 years, and two months with zero visible updates. Sir, that trailer ain’t mobile and barely a home.
• Three baby mamas — one friendly, one silent, and one surprise child he just found out about.
• AND THEN THERE’S MS. MONEY BAGS — the ex. Not a baby mama, just a well-funded stalker with too much time and too many screenshots. She had money, clout, and connections — but none of it could keep him. And that made her hate me.

She looked at me like I was beneath her, but still stalked my pages like I was the one with the power. All that money, and she still couldn’t buy the one thing he gave me freely — his attention.

And he did give it. Consistently. Passionately. Recklessly.
We made love like we were trying to erase all the pain we hadn’t healed from. Part of his trauma came from this crazy ass obsessed ex. Her wrath went from him to me.

“She hated me for free, and I was over here just trying to eat my leftovers in peace.”

She stalked me like it was her nine-to-five… Hated me on sight. Claimed I “wasn’t on her level” and threw shade from behind her designer bag while still stalking my Facebook, TikTok, and IG like it was her favorite Netflix show.

“Not my fault sis had to buy love while all I had to do was show up, smile, and be me.”

I was so beneath her — and yet, he still wanted me. Not the money. Not the “status.” He wanted this vibe. This energy. This cheese.

Because baby, the way that man fucked me? Whew. Like he was in competition with himself. Like he was trying to win an award every time we touched. It was passionate, filthy, addictive — and distracting as hell. He didn’t have much, but he had rhythm, strength, and enough bedroom charm to make you forget he had no damn bed of his own.

“He made love like he was making a last impression, every single time — and maybe he was.”

But in between the moaning and meals, I was slowly losing myself. Making excuses. Telling friends he was “figuring things out” when deep down I knew I was just another couch he was crashing on — emotionally, physically, financially.

Eventually, I woke up. I realized I was romanticizing potential instead of recognizing reality.

But despite the broke-ness, the drama, the red flags waving like a parade…

I stayed.

But eventually, I had to come back to reality.

He was fine. Talented. Sexually gifted. But also broke, unstable, non-committal, and dragging chaos behind him like a carry-on bag.

“He gave me passion, but no peace. Love-making, but no real love.”

And once the plate was empty and the high wore off, I saw him clearly: a master in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the art of manipulation. But a man without a plan, a place, or a clue how to treat a woman like me.

Deep down, I wanted more than orgasms and oxtails.
I wanted love. Stability. Safety. And that man couldn’t give it to me. He was survival disguised as seduction. A walking red flag wrapped in tattoos, broke dreams, and bomb dick.

I stayed longer than I should’ve. Hoping my softness could change him. Thinking maybe this was the part of the story where he got it together for me.

But it wasn’t.

I was done the day I realized I was starting to question my worth just to make sense of why I was tolerating his.

No argument. Just a blocked number, a burned sage bundle, and a prayer for strength.

“Never again.”

🥀 Tale Takeaway: “Some men are just character development — so thank them for the content.” You can’t build a future with a man living in the past — especially one who packs his baggage into every woman he visits.

Don’t forget to like, follow and share. Until next time xoxo.