What's Love Gotta Do with Marriage follows three friends who suffer from marital troubles. Every marriage has secrets, but not all couples know how to master keeping them hidden. All it takes is one person gutty enough to expose the truth and all hell breaks loose.

Momma said, “Show me a faithful man, I’ll turn water into wine by the blink of an eye.” Since a young girl, I was taught to fight for my family, no matter how high the stakes were. How could I not follow in feeble footsteps laid before me at the impressionable age of seven when I heard momma begging daddy not to leave her for the woman who’d given him two outside children?

Straight out the wombs, coached and trained a woman should sacrifice everything for her husband and children. For a long time, I still heard my momma’s voice, “That’s what strong women do.” Surrender my dignity, and self-respect all in the name of preserving deep rooted family values. Ideals passed down from the mothers of all mothers.

“Endure to the end,” they said. “Close your mouth and let his ass cheat in peace ,” they said. It was as if the ancestors were guiding the fuckery as I prepared to lay down my life for a man who could care less if I lived or died.

What was the thing older women said? “A real woman knows the power of her words and knows how to keep peace in her home.” Blah, blah, blah — some philosophical dogshit written by a man to justify him cheating on his wife. I’d bet my last dollar!

Although still quite painful to admit, a year ago, I was one of those women. I worked. I cooked. I cleaned. I inspired the man. I supported his dreams. I forgave. I endured. I sacrificed and fucked him on que. Guess what? My husband still found an excuse to invite and welcomed other women into our bed and marriage.
Since the beginning, it was written that we lived in a man’s world. A woman’s opinion didn’t matter when it came down to her husband. A woman’s purpose and only importance to her man was barefoot, pregnant, and available for his every beck-and-call. Stone aged morals that ruined me as a millennial.

A woman’s orgasm wasn’t even considered back in the day. It was the man sexual desires fulfilled and satisfied. A woman was to lay on her back and let her man fuck her into a continuous, senseless cycle as the history of men dominated her. To justify and validate his sole purpose of existence.

Well, this woman had enough! Tired of waiting to be chosen. Waiting for him to propose. Waiting for him to do right and get his shit together. Waiting for him to jumpstart his career and then we could finally start a life together. Waiting for him to decide if it was me he wanted, or some other raggedy bitch his dick accidently slipped into.

Those days were no more! It was time for us women to recognize our power and it started with me! I just wished I’d recognized it a whole lot sooner.

Same shit, just a different day became the story of my life. I’d much rather be in Paris somewhere, giving a mean walk on somebody’s runway. But, no, there I was yet again trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents; fucking around with basic ass rappers. The real money was on the runway and the shit was getting old. It kept money in my blinged-out clutch, paid my parents’ mortgage, but didn’t pay enough to give me the kind of lifestyle I knew I was born to have and deserved to live.

Trap niggas didn’t appreciate real art or the finer things their money could buy. Hell, most — apart from some I did like and listen to — barely spoke coherent English as my bony ass twerked on command to music I didn’t understand because of mumbling. I’d much rather book a shoot with the hottest in the game. It didn’t matter if it was Rap, R&B, Country, or even Pop. Hell, if Taylor Swift’s copycatting-Beyoncé-ass would’ve retained me, I was showing up. Giving nothing but ass, expertise, and experience. I never discriminated when it came down to securing my bag. I would’ve done fake ‘Chella in a heartbeat!

Miami Beach was full of want to be rappers and underground prospects. At that point, I’d seen and heard them all. The video vixen they all called on to save the day. Naomi, no last name was needed. The best in the game to ever grace the Miami nightlife scene. I’d been doing that shit for two years by then. Although, I desperately missed modeling the authentic way. The way that afforded me the lifestyle I craved, quenched my appetite for the finer things, and brought my parents their dream home.

Twenty-four years old but I’d already lived a life most fifty-year old’s wouldn’t dare to even dream. Fortunate enough to start a modeling career at the age of fourteen but lived on my own since fifteen. Traveled the world, I conquered, and was forced to grow up. I've seen and did shit, a normal fifteen-year-old would’ve never done and shouldn't have; truth be told. But it was all true, I lived in the fast lane and enjoyed the thrill. Like the savage I was, took the good with the bad. The high with the lows. The ugly truth that came along with the modeling industry; sex, drugs, mayhem, and even murder.

My runway career ended at twenty-two; when I could no longer get booked because of my height. Pretty, chic, five feet-six inches, and lean enough for bikinis or bare, but wasn’t tall enough for the prestigious gatekeepers who kept the runways on lock. I never quite understood that one about top-notch designers. I was the best if I must say so myself.

Graced a couple of major sports magazine covers. The prettiest bitch compared to others only chosen because they were five-eight or taller. I could sell sex to the Pope if I had to. Yet, wasn’t good enough to do the job I believe I was born to do; be a Fashion Super Model. So yeah, at that point, I guess anyone could say, I settled. Settled for less pay. Settled to be some niggas trophy in a damn music video.

That day I had had enough. At the end of my rope and decided, if I couldn’t do better than a damn video, I’d prematurely retire from modeling altogether. Not all money was good money; as some seemed to believe. Don’t get it twisted, Naomi was always about my coins and would’ve done just about anything to make shit happen. But when I already lived the kind of lifestyle I lived. Saw the shit I’ve seen; luxury and the best of the best. How could I not want better than what rappers were only willing to give me? The top vixen in one of their videos which garnered more exposure and airtime. A hundred dollars an hour for said video. And if he liked the way I twerked my ass, I could spend the night with him and three other bitches he also liked.

I was beyond done with the fuckery. I went from making five hundred an hour or ten stacks a day for catalog shoots. To a hundred an hour or fifteen hundred for music videos and that was only on a good day. Also, the mere fact that my name carried weight. I had three more videos booked for the month. I figured, after I fulfilled my contracts, I had better start thinking about other shit I could do that consisted of me making a profitable income. One I could be satisfied with. A challenge I wasn’t sure how I’d master at the rate I’d been going as of late. Don’t get it twisted, I wasn’t near broke. However, the stash I put away when popping, slowly deflated. I could not just sit back, do nothing, and drown in rainy days. If I had to get wet, I made damn sure it would be profitable and worth my wild.
After a long day of shooting and watching silicon asses, I planned to head towards the bar inside the hotel. Cam, the hottest rapper in Miami, rented the pool area and filmed that day. The hotel was glad to accommodate his vision. They closed it off to the guest so Cam, his entourage, and models — such as me — could do what they’d came to do; make silicon asses clap and a bomb ass video.

After my takes were done, I turned to walk away and was caught off guard when a nigga’s hand met my ass. My elongated neck gave a knee jerk reaction, eyes scolded the perpetrator as fire spewed from my reckless tongue. I realized it was no one other than the boss man himself, Cam; The King of Miami. He knew if his ass had been anyone else, I would’ve given him the business. Wouldn’t have hesitated to read his ass like the millionaire he was. Thought men like him could have or buy any and everything that possessed a pussy.

Cam was a real rapper; music pretty decent, too. One of the few I bumped in my whip. I understood everything he said. He spoke good English and was considered as Miami’s Tupac. “Leaving already?” he gave a sneaky ass grin with beaded ass eyes.

Cam and I went way back. Although he’d been in the rap game a minute, he was young like me and of relevance. One of the first musicians I ever worked with. For that reason alone, he held a special place in my heart. But that didn’t mean I let his ass get away with murder. Nothing came easy with me. Damn sure nothing free, and Cam knew it.

“I would watch that hand if I were you.” Still rolled my eyes. Just to let his ass know I was still that bitch. No matter how cool we were or how many video’s we’d done together, he too had to pay to play.

“And if I don’t?” he pulled me into his muscled tatted chest. “When are you going to stop playing these games and let a real nigga take you out? You know I been wanted your pretty ass since I first laid eyes on you.” He smiled with the top grill filled with platinum. I never understood why rappers rather wear their money in their mouths instead of investing or some other shit. But knowing Cam, he wasn’t the typical Miami underground rapper. He had nice teeth and would only sport the blinged grill for the thug image in his videos. Cam also had his own record label. Word on the street — he owned more than a couple rental properties throughout Miami.

“A slap like that again gonna cost you another fifteen hundred. My job here is done,” I teased, turned back around, and headed towards my clothing. Of course, Cam followed me. He was used to getting what he wanted. I knew that from day one. The reason I always gave his sexy ass a hard time. “Go on, now. Ain’t with the shits today. You know that baby momma of yours around here lurking somewhere. Surprised she ain’t spotted you yet.”

“Nigga ain’t worried ‘bout that. Tryna see what you wanna get into.”

I put my hands on what little hips I had. “Cam, all these beautiful ass women around here, why are you messing with me? You can have any one of them you want. Sure they dying for you to take ‘em to your room later.”

“That’s just the thing, though. Ion want no damn pookie-heads or key-rats. Looking at who and what I want.” Cam walked closer and put his hands around my waist; forcing my hands to drop. “Stop all this playin’ and get wit' a real one. You know what it is, love.”

I couldn’t even front if I wanted to; Cam was a rich catch. Any girl in the industry would’ve loved for someone like him to give them the attention he tried to give to me. But I knew all too well what came along with that kind of flattery. I was beyond done with messing with those type of guys. Not only was I at a place wanting something different, I needed different in my life. Hooking up with Cam was not it; although it was enticing.

Slowly moving his hand, I sassed. “I told you, touch me again it was gonna cost you.” My hands fell back on my hip bone.

“Yeah, yeah, around two stacks. You always say that shit. Kill that noise. I spend that in a millisecond on bullshit. So, tell me, beautiful. What it’s gon’ cost a nigga to slide deep in that wet-wet? Damn, you know how bad a nigga wanna hit.” Cam ass was hardheaded. No matter how many times I said no, the more he heard try harder. He placed his hand on my midriff again and kissed my neck.

“Boy, cut it out.” I cutely tittered. “I am not ‘bout to go back and forth with your ass today. I got things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like another shoot,” I lied. I tried to get my ass out of there and go to the damn hotel bar.

“With who?” both eyebrows cocked. “Cancel that shit and hang with me for the rest of the day. I gotchu,” he promised. “Ain’t none of these nigga’s outchea gon’ spoil you like I would. You know that shit. I don’t know why yo ass still playin’.”

“As tempting as it sounds, I don’t play about my money and you know that. Neither do I flake on clients who’s expecting and depending on me.” I kept the lie going. Cam did not want to let my ass leave.

“Who is it? I’ll call that nigga and cancel myself and he better not hold it against you or he gon’ have to see me. Who the King of Miami?” Cam finally let me loose just so he could flex his muscles.

“You, babe. You’re the king and that’s why I fucks witcha.”

I was born to flex. She like morning sex. We like boarding jets..." he teased and tried to fill me up.

"Quuiiit!” I tittered, “but for real Cam, I gotta go."

" Aight. I’ma let you go this time, but next time you spending the entire day with me; even if I have to kidnap your ass!” he taunted, all while undressing me with bedroom eyes, and slowly bit his bottom lip.

Amused on the inside, I knew Cam only joked about the whole kidnap thing. Although hood as they come, he always respected me as a professional model. “Again, quite tempting but uhm — maybe you won’t even have to. I could just go willingly.” I decided to throw the dog a bone. Anything to get my ass out before I changed my mind.

“Word?” he was surprised. “What’s the catch, though? I know your ass ain’t just agreeing for the hell of it. How much? How much it’s gon’ cost a nigga?”

“Hmmm for you…” teasing, I paused and pretended to think of a price. “Add two zeros to that stack.”

“A hunnid grand — nigga doing more than just sticking it in. I want a full-service package; including spending the weekend. Then I can do whatever I want to you,” Cam jested but was serious as a heart attack.

He watched me dressed although I still had on swimwear. Slipped back into ripped blue jeans, a white tube top that only covered my breast and a multicolored, silk Kimono robe with the dash of red which complemented my stilettos.

“Oh, weekends too? Better add another zero.” I kept the joking going.

“Your lil’ ass play all day. I’ma let you go so I can get back to the money. But aye — if you serious, you got the number. Get at a nigga,” Cam winked before finally walking away.
What's Love Gotta Do with Marriage
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The Kimono Robe was mentioned several times in What's Love Gotta Do with Marriage. The leading ladies bonded during several occasions; different parts of the book. One of the characters gifted each of them with the robe as a significant moment of their sisterhood.

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