Mama always told me to take everything a man says with a grain of salt. “They lie, even when they don’t have to, just to get you to sleep with them.”

Spice makes everything taste better, and Kenton’s tongue is like crispy, fresh out of the grease steak fries topped with Lawry’s seasoned salt.

When I ask him if I look fat, he actually says yes, and I wonder if it’s a lie, some sort of reverse psychology that’ll make me have sex with him.

But I can’t get out of those tight-ass jeans fast enough, and he doesn’t even realize he’s won. He assumes our date night is ruined, walks down the hall, back to the living room where NBA 2k16 waits for him on the Xbox.

It deflates me a little. Men, they give up so easily. Come back. Fight me for my prize, but then that sounds too much like rape, and I think I start to understand what Mama really meant in her bitter, misandrist sort of way.

I creep behind the couch in nothing but my panties. How sexy would it be to lasso my pants leg around his neck? I don’t want to hurt him — just choke him a little for calling me fat. He’ll enjoy it. He once said he was a masochist in a previous life so I’d let him spank me. He’ll get what he wants today, but this time, I’m in control.