He hate me July 28, 2009

His reputation preceded him, as is often the case with big personalities.  I didn’t really get to know him until I was about seven.  Memory isn’t my strong point, but I’m pretty sure we met on a Friday.  Lots of poignant events in my life had a way of happening on Fridays, so we’ll stick with that for now.  I liked him right off the bat.  Everybody did.  Sometimes, even with the very young, you know when they have “it.”  That thing which makes people take notice.  My mom thought my infatuation was so cute.  My dad, so him as trouble, so he was not nearly as amused.  He tried to steer me away, but I was smitten, so it was too late.

I just wanted to be around him and hear his voice, even then.  I would drop everything to listen to him.  He wanted to be my man, and had told me as much.  I let him be just that.  My young fantasies always involved him.  My first slow dance was with him.  He needed love.  My love.  Who was I to say no?  There were other crushes, but he was my constant love.

After years of being tight, out of the clear blue, he called me a bitch.  It stunned me.  Have you ever had your mother unexpectedly smack the hell out of you, and all you can do is give that hard blink?  Saying it was hurtful enough, but everybody heard him.  In my embarrassment, and my inability to process it, I explained it away.  My dad gave me the knowing, “I told you so,” lecture.  My mother suggested that I leave him alone.

He made an effort to make up for it, so I gave him another chance.  I was his sister; his queen.  We would go on for hours about building, not only ourselves, but all black people.  We could talk about Malcolm an dHaile and the beauty of our black origins.  He said I was his beginning and his end.  His words made me move as he spoke to my needs.  He knew me.  We grew together.  As we grew, his intentions became more explicit.  I remember the day my father found the words he’d penned for me and angrily threw them in my face.  He could never understand our thing.

Young love, however, eventually grows restless.  Rather than fight a losing battle, I set him free to be the person he felt he needed to be.  Of course we kept in contact, and I didn’t always agree with the things he said, or the manner in which he said them, but I understood why he was so damned angry.  Though I set him free, others were more selfish.  They stifled and took from him.  Any efforts he made to grow were met with disdain, disinterest, and derision.  I stayed in his corner, because that was all I knew to do as far as he was concerned.  I felt partially responsible, because it all started with him trying to give me a voice when I lacked words.  He was my champion.  The guilt that came with abandoning him was unbearable.

Anger with what the world was throwing at him caused him to lash out at me again.  He was much more vitriolic.  I was never enough of anything.  Not pretty enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my lips weren’t thin enough.  So he would parade his new girls that met his qualifications.  There were certainly enough of them.  It was as though he could not miss an opportunity to showcase his disrespect.

The girl he loved since pigtails was replaced by strippers and porn stars, and one at a time was never enough.  He needed all of them, and so many were willing.  They loved him for the same reason I loved him.  For that shine he had within.  We retained contact when I became a mother, but it was always so strained.  How could I let my kids in his company?  I couldn’t.  Not often.

Despite the hurt, I still would light up when he called.  You do that with old loves.  You don’t forget who they were.  Especially when who they were was so sweet and good.  When consider someone mine, it’s hard for me to see things any other way, even when the writing is on the wall.  Sadly, the dashing figure in the shiny suits and the dark shades morphed from the person I know, to the person I knew.  True to form, even now he puts up bravado, but I know him too well to not recognize that he is lost, and unable to figure out where he’s going.  The way he treats women, whom he once regarded as his sisters, is nothing short of disgusting.  And since they know who he used to be, they think there’s still a chance.

And even after all this time, he reminds me that he used to be an excited youngster who could render me paralyzed with amazement.  I’m talking about someone who was beautiful, who was bold, who was black.

“Cuz who I’m talkin bout y’all is hip-hop.” (c) Common

And I STILL love him.

But he hate me.

The kind you don’t take home to mother July 28, 2009

I’m not the kind of girl to kiss and tell.  It’s not out of prudishness or shame.  It’s just not something that I do.  Not everything needs to be subject to full disclosure.  That being said, I’m a girl with girlfriends, and you know how girlfriends talk.  One of the best of my besties happens to be my cousin who, for the purposes of this blog, will be known as Stylista (her steez is nothing short of epic).  Last night, Stylista and I were talking about a guy that I used to kick it with back in the day who we’ll just call “Leibovitz.”  I laughed so hard (and I’ve also been reading Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, I figured I would share.

The unconventional a bit of a “thing” for me.  Crooked noses, scars with stories behind them, big ears – I like my dudes slightly flawed.  And his front tooth was crooked in the cutest way.  At least so I thought when I would see him every day after school.  Slightly older than me, much cooler than me.  I would sometimes walk just a little slower so that maybe he would notice me.

No dice.  For years in fact.  And then one day, totally randomly, he spoke to me and we became fast friends.  Though it was long since the days of the high school crush, he never got around to fixing that tooth, which I still found adorable.  What’s the harm of good convo with a cutie?  Therefore, when he invited me to dinner, how could I not oblige?

The food was good.  We laughed and talked.  He would occasionally punctuate his sentence with enough blush-worth compliments to come off as sweet, yet not creepy.  Two beautiful black people having a good time.  Yeah.  That’s what’s up.  We were having such a good time, after dinner, we opted to get a couple of daiquiris* and chill on the Lake.  We got to the Lake, and since it was a weeknight, it was quiet.  Everything was all good until he walked up behind me and kissed me on my neck.  And breathed on my neck.

I had been celibate for well over a year at this point.  Truth be told, I had gone on dates during that time and had no qualms with my lack of peen.  But he was singing in my ear, which is something I usually find incredibly corny, but the hood moonshine made it sound sodamngood.

We were kissing and he whispered something.  My response was, “Huh?”  He repeated it, a little louder, but still at a whisper, and I said, “Huh?”  (My random deafness has killed the mood on more than one occasion.)  So he slipped my purse from my shoulder and reached in it, to which I thought, “Am I really at the point in my life where my dates rob me?”  He then fished out my keys, jingled them at me and took my hand, leading me to the car.  I hurried to  stick very close to him, because despite the fact that we were holding hands, in my drunken and now horny stupor, I had convinced myself that his plan was to ditch me and steal my piece of shit car.  Which, by the way, had a hole in the brake line, so I had about 50,000 bottles of brake fluid in the back which I had to add to the car EVERY TIME I stopped it.  All I was doing was going down the short list of people I could call with the message, “Horny, drunk, on the lake and my date stole my car, check for accidents on your way.”

Once I was safely in my death mobile, growing up with good southern christian guilt, I couldn’t help but think that we were going to plow into something and meet a fiery doom because I was going specifically to fornicate.  That didn’t stop me from planning to fornicate the sanctified monkey snot out of him.  I’m not necessarily the girl that always “finishes,” so I planned to hit his artsy ass with some of the futuristic, then be on my merry way.

Um…

I’m still pretty sure that I will need therapy for some of the things that went on that night, so I won’t go into ALL of the particulars, but I did have a “that shit really does happen in real life!” moment.  Three hours later, my no-no waved the white flag.  I watched him mop *don’t ask*, huddled in the corner, with my arms wrapped around my knees thinking “I just want to go home and see my family.”

But I couldn’t move, because my clothes were by the front door.

And the side door.

And on the sofa.

And I was too scared to ask where my draws were.  I tried to blend into the wall like a sexually depleted chameleon, and not say anything.  If I said something, he would remember I was there.  If he remembered I was there, he would try to touch me again.  If he touched me again, I would get horny again.  I was pretty sure that though I didn’t have a heart condition, if I had one more orgasm I would die, and that would be some fucked up shit for my dad to see on my death certificate.  “Cause of Death:  Hyper-Orgasmia.”  No thanks.

He said something about me being in no condition to go home, so we got in bed and I pretty much stayed on orange alert until I heard the soft sounds of snoring.  My no-no breathed a sigh of relief and I passed out.

The next morning, we exchanged our pleasantries and I had to hustle home.  I still had to get dressed for work, being that I had not planned to spend the night out.  After a night of nympho-yoga, I was out of it, so at lunch time, when I saw his number on my caller ID, I thought I was hallucinating.  Aren’t freaks the hit it and quit it variety.  I kind of didn’t expect to hear from him again, EVER, much less hours after parted ways.  He spoke of the good time he had, his hopes that I had the same, and another rendezvous was scheduled.  And another.  And another.  Every meeting left me more traumatized than the one before, and yet, I couldn’t stop.

BECAUSE

THAT

SHIT

WAS

THE

BOMB

And of course, as is not uncommon in the case of attractive men that are smart, good company, and possess the ability to turn me into a walking nerve ending, I started to like him.  Too much.  And it ended.  I’m human, so I was really broken up about it because it was a fun time. Ultimately though, I was mollified by the notion that this heartache was extending mercy to my no-no. And if you ever wonder, this is pretty much the point in my life where I abandoned all notions of political aspirations.  I’m also rather concerned about gaining any fame whatsoever.  Just…yeah…uncomfortable conversations there.

*Daiquiris in New Orleans, and the hood spots especially, are NOT the punk drinks that they are in other places.  Some of them will not only give you hair on your chest, but make you spontaneously sprout balls, but I digress.

** Author’s Note:  Hood daiquiri + Celibacy + Throwback Crush + Lake = Panty Evaporation.  Trust me…I’ve done the research.

A little levity July 27, 2009

I saw my mouth in the dentist’s camera, and it looked like 25 years of getback.  I wondered how long I was running around looking like Austin Powers.

For some reason, Lane Bryant makes their undies extra huge.  I don’t wear panties that don’t fit.  At all.  Ever.  But for some reason, and this is ONLY specific to undies from the big girl shop, my draws from them always look like car covers.  WTF?

I took myself on a date last Friday, and I didn’t put out.  There’s something sad there.  Once I said, “Bitch, so you know how much I paid for those mussels,” I decided the tone had just become too hostile, so I went to bed.

I think I like to drive places because that means I don’t have to hold in my farts.

Strategic boob crack sweat is sexy.  Like, say I’m on a lunch date in the heat of summer accompanied by some fine ass man with whom I share unbelievable sexual tension.  Then, boob crack sweat is like the straw that broke the horny camel’s back.  I have a male friend who once referred to it as a “compass.”  Unfortunately, strategy is not my strong point.  No.  I always seem to get it in my boss’ office.  Who happens to be male.  And likes the peen.  Nothing sexy about that.

After seeing “The Hangover,” I’m really hoping there was some CGI work done on that Asian guy’s penis.  Because, really?  External clitoris.

It’s hard for me to find a situation that good Chris Rock or Dave Chappelle quote wouldn’t enhance.

The remakes are killing me.  Tron?  Fucking Tron? Some shit really shouldn’t be touched.  Have the geeks taken to the streets and begun setting themselves on fire yet?

If you have not yet done so, PLEASE go to YouTube and look up Meth & Red’s response to the Nas/Kelis child support fiasco.  And after you do that, before you “weigh in” (because niggas love to weigh in on shit that doesn’t concern them in the least), go to vladtv.com and take a look at Star and Buc Wild’s response.

I’m sure there’s other stuff on my mind, but it’s almost 11.

Smooches

The Me I Keep July 21, 2009

Moreover, I have boundary issues with men.  Or maybe that’s not fair to say.  To have issues with boundaries, one must have boundaries in the first place, right?  But I disappear into the person I love.  I am the permeable membrane.  If I love you, you can have everything.  You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family,  my dog, my dog’s money, my dog’s time — everything.  If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family.  I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check.  I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.

– Elizabeth Gilbert - eat, pray, love

The first time I read that, I cried until I curled in a ball.  I cried because this skinny white girl, whom I had never met – who, at first glance, I couldn’t imagine that she wore the same KIND of shoes as I, much less walked a mile in them – summarized my personality (and ergo, my dilemma) to a tee.  And the thing is, I’m not just like that romantically; with family, with friends, with homeless people on the street.  I’ve been known to give a person the sandwich out of my hand, the drink out of my cup, 50 cents of the last dollar in my purse, the earrings out of my ear, the shoes in my trunk…anything.  You need a ride from West Bumblefuck because your man decided to show out in public, I’ll pick you up and peel off when he decides to try to punch my window in.  (True story:  Big Pimpin – RIP – jumped the neutral ground; or median for you non-New Orleanians).   If I have it to give, it’s yours, because the truth in my life is that I’ve always been blessed with more.  And I don’t like being without, and I can’t stand to see others being without.  And when it’s gone, it’s gone (because nothing is endless), but I do my damndest to make more; more food, more money, more time.

More love.  There’s always more love.  And my love is a geyser.  And I’m boundlessly optimistic.  Loving you, is enough for me to decide that you are worthy.  Until you prove yourself unworthy, I put a pit-bull lock jaw hold on that feeling.  I’m not going to dismiss you based on what the last cat did, because the last cat is history and you are so now.  And I’m not going to let you wonder if I love you, because who knows if there will even be a tomorrow, so you have to know today…RIGHT NOW.  And, really, in real time, I guess it seems like a good idea, but on paper, it sounds so damned overwhelming.  It’s a safe bet that when you’re on the receiving end, it IS so damned overwhelming.

Dave Chappelle spoke comically of when keeping it real goes wrong, and I’m the poster child for it.  One male friend told me that for a homeboy, my frankness is funny and pretty spectacular.  For a dude that I’m trying to date, however, it’s too much.  Because:

I believe the less men know upfront the more they are willing to work at getting to know you.

And that stung, because I’m a rather transparent chick.  I’m not the hidden agenda girl.  If I like you, I’ve told you.  If you didn’t seem to be with it, you don’t have to worry about me telling you twice.  I’m the girl who will say, “Oh, by the way, I like purple and Junk Food t-shirts,” because I figure there are a million and one things on your plate.  Agonizing over a present for me doesn’t have to be one of them.  So my challenge?  I have to learn to be the study guide instead of giving away the test.

My other issue:

The REAL irony about you, to me, is that you act very much like a dude.  You think like a dude and you often say things that a dude would say.  I think cats don’t know what to do with you.

I never told my friend this, but when he said that, it really made me cry.  Reading it again is sort of getting me a little teary now.  Because when it comes to amour, I always feel like the lone acquaintance at a party of bosom friends. One wrong move, and the situation becomes, “Who invited her?”  Quite often, more often than makes me comfortable, I find myself being on the business end of a blank, “Um, so now what?” stare from the guy du jour that I thought was the bees knees.  Or at least I did, until he looked at me like  I was some ghetto unicorn where instead of a horn, a chicken wing grew out of the middle of my forehead.  I mean, it sounds really interesting, but where would you put it?  I was told that I need to “try reigning in this Camille Paglia/May West/Angela Davis thing you’ve got going on.”

And so, I’m going to do that.  No, really.  I’m going to do that.  When EVERYBODY tells you the same thing, they’ve got to at least be partially right, right?

So, I’m sifting myself.  Searching for the me I let go, and the me I keep.