She Ain't The One. Carl Weber

      After getting my parking ticket from the valet, I glanced at the entrance of Zanzibar. There had to be at least a hundred people waiting in line to get in. And from what I heard from my new coworkers about the waterfront clubs in D.C., that meant at least an hour’s wait. I wasn’t worried about that, though, because not only was I on the guest list, I had a VIP pass waiting for me at the door, thanks to fine-ass Monica, the head bartender.

      I’d met Monica about two months ago, after sharing a plane ride from New York to D.C. That wasn’t the only ride we shared. We also shared a cab ride back to her place, and about a half hour later, I rode that ass to sleep. I know I sound full of myself and perhaps a little arrogant, but I put it on her so good, she’d been blowing my phone up ever since. I’d been trying my best to avoid seeing her again, giving her one lame-ass excuse after another, but for some reason she wasn’t getting the hint. Funny thing is, I probably would have hooked up with her right away if it wasn’t for the fact that she was one of the worst pieces of ass I’d ever had. Can you say, stiff as a board? I swear to God the girl did not move one muscle the entire time during sex. If she was any indication of what the sex was like in D.C., I was going to have to rethink my relocation to the nation’s capital.

      I know what you’re thinking—If Monica was so bad in bed and I was trying so hard to avoid her, why the hell was I meeting her at the club? Well, the truth is, she called me from a blocked number and caught me off guard. She offered to put me on the guest list at the club and give me a pass to the VIP lounge. I figured, what the hell…why not give her another shot? It couldn’t get any worse than the first time. Besides, my divorce had just become final, and I was in the mood to do some celebrating.

      When I walked up to the front of the line, it had to be about a five-to-one ratio of women to men waiting to get in. I could feel the women staring at me, and I felt like a movie star. I even heard one woman whispering, “Who is he?” to her friend.

      Her friend answered, “I don’t remember his name, but I think he was the guy who played in that movie with Monique, what’s his name, Jimmy Jean-Louis.”

      “Oh my God! That’s him,” the first woman replied. “Damn, I got to give him some of this pussy.”

      I glanced at the woman and gave her a wink. She was fine as hell and could get a lot more than a one-night stand if she played her cards right. It looks like Monica’ll be going home alone tonight.

      You see, I kinda fancied myself as a player. Not trying to brag or anything, but I was a good-looking guy, five feet eleven with baby-smooth chocolate skin and, for lack of a better phrase, “good hair.” I guess I gotta thank my mama for that. She was from Trinidad, and everybody knows that Trinis got good hair. Well, to make a long story short, I’d never had a problem with women falling all over me; it was guys I had a problem with, and as usual, they were hating.

      One brother who was standing in line by the door actually had the nerve to say, “Who the fuck is that?” to the bouncer right after I told him my name and he gave me an orange wristband to get into the VIP area and let me into the club.

      Once I got into the club, I made my way over to the main bar to find Monica. It was crowded, but I spotted her pouring drinks on the other end of the bar as she danced awkwardly to the music. I immediately busted out laughing. Now I knew why she was so bad in bed—the girl had absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. Just watching her dance reminded me how bad the sex was; I was about to fade back into the crowd when she spotted me.

      There was no question that she was on me hard because, the second she saw me, she stopped what she was doing and headed toward me, grinning from ear to ear. I had to give her some credit, though. She may have been terrible in bed, but she sure was a pleasure to the eyes. I could see the jealousy in half the guys sitting at the bar as she approached me. If they knew what I knew, they wouldn’t have been jealous at all; they probably would have bought me a drink in sympathy—’cause every guy knows there’s nothing worse than a bad piece of ass.

      “What you drinking, handsome?” Monica leaned over the bar.

      I couldn’t tell if she wanted a kiss or just wanted me to see her cleavage. Whichever one it was, I wasn’t interested. “Hennessey,” I replied as I took a step back.

      She