Sex & Relationships
Happy National Side Piece Day

The sun beams into your eyes and they pop open. The light instantly causing your hangover to bang like an 808 to your temples. You look to your left and see an empty space, still perfectly made, beside your wrinkled sheets. B.O.B. is resting comfortably on the pillow beside you. There’s an empty fifth of liquor and a shot glass on your nightstand. Your sappy, Fuck-Him-I-Don’t-Need-Him playlist is still playing softly in the background.

Your phone vibrates and you check your notifications–it’s from him. He’s on the way over. Checking your breath, you smell like you had a makeout session with a shit-breathing dragon. You look in the mirror and see peach cobbler crust in the corner of your mouth and your eyes. Time is winding down and you only have about ten minutes before that key enters the lock to your home, and you have to be ready.

Before your mad dash to the bathroom for your hygiene regiment, you check the date on your phone. Yep… it’s YOUR day. National Side Piece Day! February 15th, the “Til-Dawn-Do-Us-Part” bae holiday.

Unlike those other side pieces who don’t know their place, who spent their nights in holding cells for destruction of property, disturbing the peace, or assault and battery, you knew that you had to wait your turn. This ain’t your first rodeo. And today is a better day than Valentine’s Day because, aside from the half-priced candy, picked over teddy bears, and wilted ass roses, his guilt for leaving you to be with her is gonna have him pulling all the punches to get back in your good graces. Because, as we all know, “happy side piece, happy life,” right?

You leap into the shower to wash the alcohol and desperation from your skin. Get out and brush the hot damn from your tongue. Rip off your bonnet and pull your flexirods from your hair, slay your face at NASCAR speed, use his fave Bath and Body Works lotion and body spray, and slip on a robe over the Victoria’s Secret you bought weeks ago.

Then you slide down your hallway just in time to be sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels, nonchalantly, when the door opens, with your “I woke up like this” turned to the max.

He comes in with a bag of breakfast from IHOP and sets it on the counter, walks over and tries to kiss your cheek, but you move your face away, feigning disgust. You can’t make it that easy. His “hey baby” and “I missed you” fall on deaf ears as he pulls out the food, or at least you pretend they do. But your grizzly bear stomach growl betrays you. Hoping he didn’t hear it, like a kid who just passed gas in a room full of his peers, you grimace and turn around, seeing him smiling at you.

Stick a fork in you, you’re done. Putty in his hands. Smiling like a goofy ass teenager as he makes his way over to you with his hands behind his back. You eagerly await the reveal.

A teddy holding a rose with the price sticker barely removed and an assorted box of day old chocolates has you ready to do handstands against the wall. As a matter of fact, you’re not hungry anymore. You get up and saunter your way down the hall, your ass switching beneath your barely there robe in a come hither rhythm… and he follows… but then, you remember…

“Oh shit! B.O.B.!” You pick up the pace and race to stick your battery-operated companion into the nightstand drawer, just before he makes it to the door.

You sexy pose against the nightstand, slick sliding it closed, and wait for him to come to you, blushing because he’s standing there admiring your beauty. He walks over and pulls the tie loose on your robe, his eyes showing his approval of your choice of lingerie, and kisses you like you’re the only woman for him… then…

Well the rest, we know. And after you’ve sweated out your hard press, messed up your weave, or banged the curls out of your head on the headboard (is that’s why it’s called that?) and possibly gargled a few of his future generations, you’re back on the couch, eating microwave heated eggs and sausage. Watching some mushy ass movie, cuddled up like lovers until…

His phone alerts. Yep, like a blaring car alarm, the reality is made known that your time is up. He’s gotta go back to her, and no amount of begging, pleading, bitching or nagging is gonna change that. So, you suck it up, watch him go shower with the scentless soap he makes sure you keep on deck and redress, maybe after one more back bender. Then you put on a brave smile and see him out.

But, as soon as the door’s closed and locked, before he’s even out of sight down the street, the waterworks start. You debate taking a knife to that damn cheap ass bear he bought you, some bleach to the clothes he has in your closet and drawers. Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez his shoes. But, you know that tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that, when he hits you up, you’ll be right back here. So, why make a mess you’re gonna have to clean up?

Instead, you wipe your snotty nose on the sleeve of your sexy robe, walk to your freezer, snatching it open and realize you don’t have any more ice cream. Check the wine rack and see that you two just polished off your last bottle of Moscato. Look at the empty box of chocolates in the trash can. Running down your hallway like Red did when Debo stole his chain, you throw yourself on your bed and bawl your eyes out. Breathing the scent of his cologne in your sheets only makes you cry harder.

A few hours later, your phone alerts with a message. He says he’s sorry and that he loves you.

And the cycle continues…

Why do women do this to themselves? Maybe it’s the ratio of heterosexual women to men and the way we outnumber them, making “a good man” had to find, and easy to share. Maybe it’s a self-esteem issue. Maybe it’s cyclical and they come from a long line of “other women.” The issue has been up for debate for some time and, although I know the answer, I’ve already broken enough of the code of silence writing this piece.

But I wanted to share this little peek into the world of the Side Piece, the most demonized woman in existence. She’s just a woman in love with the wrong man. You’ve never been there? Yeah–that’s what I thought.

Also–and this is the most important one–yeah, she knows about his main woman and still deals with him. But, before you step to a side piece in the future, you might wanna consider this: He’s the one who owes you loyalty. So, save the “check ya man” sentiments for someone who cares, aight, boo? Even better, check yourself about your man. Hell, both you and ole girl deserve better than that.

How am I so well-versed in the innerworkings of the life of a side piece?

Because I used to be one.

Being a side piece is like being in solitary confinement with a ghost of an imaginary love. And ever since I escaped that prison, I make sure I don’t demonize the ones who are still locked up, and I help anyone who wants to escape.

And I’m sure there are some male side pieces out there too, but it doesn’t count because men will fuck anything that– I was going to say that men will fuck anything moving, but then I remembered that there is an entire multi-million dollar industry that makes rubber sex dolls for men to have sex with, so being a side piece is an upgrade for many of them.

So, happy Side Piece Day to the sistahs who haven’t broken free yet. If no one else loves you, I do.

About the author

Joi Miner is a 35-year-old wife and mother from Montgomery, AL (currently residing in Birmingham, AL). She began her career as a performance poet and motivational speaker in 2000 and has since founded Poetic Advisory, LLC and has made a name for herself, not only in poetry, but in fiction, as well. She has four poetry collections, nine novels, and several anthology publications under her belt. Find out more about Joi Miner at

Related Posts