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mystorymylifemywords · 5 years

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Gaslight

He was trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. He didn't understand why he was questioning his memory, why he couldn't fully trust his instincts, or why he felt so tied to a woman he knew didn't care for him. He didn't see the verbal abuse despite living it, day to day. He didn't feel the manipulation despite obviously having his strings pulled. He knew he had to walk away, but he couldn't because the gaslight was still on and he didn't know how to turn it off....

When the relationship began, it was on the rocks. He was accustomed to having to fight for relationships. Actually, he wouldn't know how it felt to be in a relationship without having to fight for it. Basically, as soon as he saw her, the verbal abuse began. He doesn't know why he didn't walk away in that moment. Comments about his clothing, his accent, his sense of humor, and other things became the new normal. He was so mentally weak and fragile, he didn't leave because he needed to feel wanted. He thought he could get through to her. His ignorance tried to fix her. His ego didn't want to leave once he believed the jar was loosened.

He knew he was a broken man when he began talking to her. Years prior, he allowed a woman to make him believe he couldn’t do better than her. He kept reaching out and she kept spitting in his face after bringing him within range to do so. She played bait and switch with her love and intimacy while he always played the patsy. Her mean-spirited games drove him to the point of a near fatal nervous breakdown. One night, while sitting in his car, he pulled his gun from the glove box, opened his mouth, and placed the barrel on his tongue. The only thing that stopped him from pulling the trigger was the sound of police sirens in the background. It made him think about his father and what he would encounter when the police brought him to identify the body.

Months of counseling brought him back to a sunnier place. However, the dark cloud of his past was always near. He learned it wasn't just the girl who almost made him break. It was also his mother. He hated her. As a ‘tween, she callously laughed at his tears after his father told him about their impending divorce. He didn’t understand how someone could be so cruel to a child who did nothing to deserve such actions. He lost trust and respect for all women at that moment.

He met his current mate through a mutual friend, but they didn't start regularly communicating until they saw each other at a party. The chemistry was instantaneous. They laughed at each other's jokes and bonded over pop culture. They seemed like kindred spirits. At that party, it was the first time a woman's gaze turned him on. She looked past his eyes, into his soul, and massaged his ailing heart. His hopeless romanticism was vulnerable and she caught him like a fish in a barrel. Since the feeling was new, he thought he was on the road to relationship success.

After the party was over, she asked him to follow her to her suburban apartment. In his head, a million thoughts were racing at breakneck speed. When they arrived, his carnal instinct took over as soon as she closed the door. He aggressively kissed her on the mouth and she obliged. His aggression pushed her against the wall just past the doorway. As his lips and tongue explored her mouth, his hands unbuttoned her shirt. As he worked his way down the black silk blouse, he could feel her erect nipples through her non-padded bra. Her small stomach was moving in and out with erotic emotion. His lips moved down to her neck and he lightly bit her while pulling her hair to expose more skin. She moaned, exuberantly. His hands made their way to her to her

bottom which was covered by a light grey skirt. He slowly unzipped the skirt and, as it fell to the floor, the warmth and moisture from her concealed vagina escaped into his chest. He squeezed her bottom, which elicited the same moan he heard moments earlier. Slowly, he pulled down her black lace panties. The moisture, excretion from her vagina made the cotton patch temporary stick to her lips. The sight of turning her on so quickly aroused him more than he would lead on.

He licked her clit. Her hands clamped down on his shoulders as her back arched and a rush of fluid escaped her body. The sweet, salty lubrication enticed his already raging libido. He needed to make her cum. He needed to have the feeling of being in control for the first time in a very long time. As his tongue and lips caressed and massaged her exposed genitalia, his hands reached up and gently rubbed her nipples in a circular motion. When he noticed her weakening knees, he picked up her small frame and carried her into the bedroom.

While in his arms, he furiously kissed and bit her neck. Simultaneously, her hands attempted unzip his trousers and loosen his belt, but he was too tall and her arms too short. She bailed on her advances and allowed him to continue to do as he pleased with her body. He delicately dropped her on the bed. She looked at him lasciviously through the darkness of the room. Her eyes glowed and burned with passion. She wanted to feel him inside of her.

She could hear him loosening his belt and the crinkle of the condom wrapper being opened. She felt his aura approach the bed and lean over. His tongue licked her clit, once again, to make sure she was still aroused. When she gasped and gently shook, he knew it was okay to enter. Gently, yet confidently, he slid his prophylactic-covered penis inside her. Once again, her back arched and she moaned, euphorically. The warmth of her vagina was overwhelming. As soon as he was fully inside her, he felt the rush of semen attempt to escape his loins. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and then began his stroke.

Slowly, he stopped worrying about his orgasm and concentrated solely on hers. He changed his rhythm to match her heartbeat and zoned in on different parts of her anatomy to simulate. He needed to find her spot. He needed her to know this was the last first time she would feel a new being. He found her spot on the right side of her neck, near her collarbone. When he hit it, she came hard, which made him cum, simultaneously. When he pulled out, the condom and the base of his penis was covered in sticky, white vaginal fluid. While staring at a sight he's only seen once, he could feel her going through the aftershocks of her orgasm as the bed randomly rumbled. He got up and went to the bathroom to wash off. When he returned, he found his clothes in front of the bathroom door. She told him he should leave. She enjoyed having him over, but she did not feel comfortable with him staying at her place, overnight. However, she wanted him to call her, in the morning. The power he thought he had was usurped in 5 minutes and all he could do was nod his head.

Sex on the first night together was the biggest mistake he ever made. His sensitivity and vulnerability got the best of him. He opened himself up and allow her to control him. His love of lust took control of his heart and willfully gave her his veins. They were playing two different games. He was playing checkers while she was playing chess. She was always two steps ahead

and knew how to put him in check. Her vagina was the pawn that protected her heart, the queen. He was just trying to get to end of the board without being caught and earn being called her king.

The second time they saw each other, they argued. It was a petty argument that had nothing to do with him. He didn't know it at the time, but she constantly deflected her issues upon him and convinced him the issue was his own. At this time, she was having a personal issue with a lifelong friend. Her friend was in dire straits and the stress of seeing someone she loved in pain pushed her to lash out on the easiest target. He was always that target. To make up with him, she rode him until he came inside her. However, to further show her power, no post-coitus cuddling would take place. She always stood from the bed, reached into her nightstand, and grabbed a baby wipe. She wiped her cum from her vagina and proceeded to go to the bathroom to relieve and wash herself. When she returned, he would always attempt to kiss her and she would always reject him. It took her months to allow him to stay the night after they had sex.

She always used sex to appease him. She thought she was being a good girlfriend by giving him her body, but only on her terms. She made him buy lubrication because her vagina would dry up during intercourse. It was at those moments when he knew she’d checked out. It was a disheartening feeling. She was emotionless and callous on most occasions, but it was magnified in the bedroom. She called him selfish for wanting to touch and kiss her, but her refusal to allow the one she claimed to love to touch her show a devious, vindictive selfishness he had yet to encounter and could not completely place.

She was consistently mean and disrespectful to him for one reason or another. None of them were ever valid. He was polite and courteous to a fault. He made sure to show his chivalrous side when they were in public, but she made it difficult. He would gently pull her shoulder to get her to walk on the inside of the sidewalk and she would forcefully tell him to get off her. She would intentionally walk ahead of him so it would not appear they were together. The one time when he didn’t open a door for her because he was making small talk with an older woman who thanked him for allowing her to cut in line to meet her family; she made sure he knew her displeasure when they were seated at the restaurant. Her selfishness was all that mattered. She verbally berated, emasculated him in a condescending whisper to the point of him balling up his first and wanting to throw a punch. His better judgment took over and cooler heads prevailed.

This was a microcosm of their relationship. She wanted and needed control. She was too stubborn, selfish to give it up. She never took responsibility for her actions. It was always someone else's fault. She took her past out on him. Things that he did would be connected to her past while he stood ignorant to stories and actions he had yet to learn. She was a narcissist in its purest form, a god in her own eyes. She was perfection in her world of one.

Arguments were a battle of futility. He was never right when it came to his memory. He started to question his own thoughts. He prided himself of remembering events, in detail. Now, he didn't know if what he was saying was correct. His brain, his thinking became fuzzy. His mind was his most powerful gift. Past events began to blur as if a time paradox took place and history was changed. His memories were being erased. He was lost and confused. He was living inside a

Flashpoint. He would cry himself to sleep because he didn't know what was happening to him. All he knew was her. He wanted her. He needed her. However, it hurt to be with her.

He wasn’t without fault, of course. He knew he was overly touchy feely. His lust for the female form drove him to do things which he found to be out of his nature, but she found to be part of personality. From time to time, he would solicit women from his past for nude photos and late-night rendezvous. He wasn’t getting what he wanted from his girlfriend and the thrill of being caught enticed him. He felt what he was doing was okay because she didn’t really love him, but it was a winnerless mental tug of war between his morals and his penis. He figured, if she did, he wouldn’t put himself in those positions. There were many nights when he sat in his apartment, alone, with the lights out, and sulked over what he’d done. He disrespected his lady by enjoying the pleasures of another woman. At the same time, if he told her what he’d done, maybe she would feel something. Then he remembered the put-downs he tolerated which caused the back and forth in his head to continue.

She told him he was unattractive and a turn off on a regular basis. She told him she had to lie to herself to be intimate because his body was disgusting. He was aghast at learning how she felt. He would stand in front of the mirror, completely nude, and dissect his being. He took a razor and shaved all his hair from the neck down. He committed himself to the gym, where he worked on his body so she would find him more pleasing. He undertook a massive diet, to lean his body and expose more muscle. He did Kegel exercise to strengthen and extend a penis that said was significantly smaller than previous partners. While going through this process, he tried to understand why she would choose to be with someone whom she viewed in that manner. Why wouldn’t she breakup with him? Why would she flaunt her want for the "perfect man" in front of him and call him sensitive or a "bitch" when he complained? Why did she never show any tact within their relationship? She never listened. She always did what she wanted. His feelings were never considered.

Today, he’s still with the same woman. He fears things will not be any better with anyone else because any other relationship will involve him. He blames himself for all his relationship ills. She is just being herself. He must adapt and change to be the man she wants. He needs to understand people are different and will not do what he wants them to do. He views his relationship versus a new relationship as the devil you know versus the devil you don’t know. He’s invested too much time and too much energy into the relationship to throw it away. He wants it work. He needs it to work. He needs her. He feels unsettled when she doesn’t speak to him or is in one of her moods. He’s also afraid to start over. He loves her, but knows he’s in the throes of Stockholm syndrome. All the work done in therapy has been undone by this woman over the past 5 years. He says he’s going to marry her, but she says she won’t say yes unless the ring is the right price and her finances are well taken care. He’s her whore until she fully tires of him. Every day, he lives by the seat of pants wondering if that will be day she leaves and fearing it will be the day his heart will be set ablaze because the gaslight flickered from the sparks she left in her wake….

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mystorymylifemywords · 5 years

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Say Something, Say Anything

It took me 13 years to say more than just “hello.”

13 years…

Do you know what happens when you hesitate to shoot your shot with your high school crush?

You miss…

I remember when I met you through my brother in high school. We didn’t actually speak, we just exchanged a glance of recognition and a slight smile before going about our own business. A day later, I said “hello,” in the hallway, and you shot me a stare I’ll never forget. Your brown eyes narrowed with repulsion, your head slightly lowered in disgust, your brow furrowed in frustration, and your lips pursed in abhorrence. It looked like to you wanted to set me on fire and spit on my ashes. I didn’t know saying “hello” with a shy smile could be met with such vitriol. After overthinking what happened for the remainder of the day, I had to convince myself you misheard me. Despite that, I never felt so small, unwanted, and out of place. It wasn’t my nature to snipe back or question a reaction, so I just dropped my head and walked away. Regardless of what was heard or how I felt, you never want to illicit that sort of rejoinder from someone you want to court. It hits even harder when the word “hello” is your only courtship icebreaker.

After I got over the stare of death, I had to overcome another mental hurdle; you’re absolutely gorgeous! Why was that a problem? I’m not the best-looking guy, I’m not charismatic, and I just didn’t have a ton going for me. Plus, everyone was checking for you! Everyone! I knew I couldn’t compete. You were playing in the NFL and I was in a semi-pro league. That’s aside from knowing you could, and still can, have anyone you want. Also, I couldn’t find anything original to say that wouldn’t come off as corny, annoying, or overzealous. “Hello” failed me, once, I wasn’t going to try to use it, again. If I was a lesser man, I would’ve stood before you, slack jawed with googly eyes, and said something crude. You deserve, now, and deserved, then, more respect than to be objectified in that manner. When I would see you at Schenley parties, Art’s, or other nightspots, over the years, I intentionally avoided you to save myself from embarrassment. For someone who, now, talks and writes for a living, I can never find the right words to say to you. I tell myself, “Say something, say anything,” but the verbiage never manifests from my lips. The time when I did say something, say anything, I wished I said nothing at all.

I fought with my conscience over sending you a Facebook friend request because, since I didn’t say much while in your company, I didn’t think you remembered me. After the request was accepted, I battled myself, again, before I initiated contact via Messenger. As in the past, I knew I wasn’t the only guy sending you DMs but this was the only way I could garner your attention while being able to slowly think through my response. It was the perfect platform to break the ice that was hardening for almost a decade and a half. I questioned my choice to reach out and my selection of words as soon as I hit send and I waited for a response, which felt interminable. When you did respond, I couldn’t find a way to hold your attention. I literally had nothing to say and everything to say. I just couldn’t pick the precise words, the correct thought to engage you. I was spewing nonsense, which caused your responses to slow. Even without you standing in front of me, I was verbally paralyzed and embarrassed by the character I portrayed. So, I made matters worse after my last comment, the sharing of my phone number, remained unread by immaturely, and possibly prematurely, ran away.

If I could do it over again, I would’ve come out with my true feelings, true intentions, from the jump. If you weren’t feeling me, so be it. I wouldn’t have any regrets. Instead, I allowed myself to get mired in injudicious small talk, which was, honestly, a feeble effort to soften the punch of rejection and comfort the landing on the pillow of regret. My major flaws, overthinking and impatience, guided me out of your life on the hill of doubt I created by listening to them. I’m sorry for disappearing without explanation, even if you didn’t want one. The task of finding a place in your world is even more daunting, now, due to my capricious actions. I made this bed, I’ll lay in this bed, but I won’t be able to sleep until this 18-year-old weight is off my conscience.

I can go on and on about your physical features, from your full, rose bronze cheeks that shine in any light to your coffee brown eyes that just barely open when you smile. I can wax poetic about your faultlessly symmetrical, flawless facial features to your stunningly, sonsy, seductive figure but I don’t want my words to only go skin deep. I think you’re worth more than your aesthetics, worth more than what a photo can capture.

I’m curious about your complexities and quirks, your heart and your mind. I want to see what makes you smile and if you snort when you laugh too hard. I want to learn what makes you cry and if you try to mask your obvious sorrow. I’m interested to know if you pour ketchup over your French fries or if you dip them in milkshakes. I’m eager to discover how you would change the education of our youth and your plan to brighten their future. I’m excited to witness if your eyes flutter when you’re complimented or if you blush when honest feelings are shared. I’m tickled to hear if you hum when you cook and if you like your food to touch when it’s on your plate. I’m excited to find out if you’ll take Biggie or Tupac in a battle or if Nas’ “Cherry Wine” is better than Jay-Z’s “Song”. I’m curious to know if you’ll roll your eyes when I play smooth jazz or look at me sideways when I turn on Christian rock. There are plenty of other thing I desire to know but the gist of my monologue, I want to enjoy your crust, the parts of you most people discard without realizing it’s what holds you together.

I’m glad we’ve been able to reconnect, but I want to play a larger role in your life. This is my Lloyd Dobler moment. I’m standing outside your window with my boombox above my head, blaring the song I wish I played before I walked away.

This time, I just hope you’ll say something, say anything….

#crush #high school crush #relationships #writing #creative writing

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mystorymylifemywords · 5 years

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Instagram Girl

Part 1

He doesn't know why he bothers. She's simply pictures in an application on his phone. She's real, but she isn't real. He's heard her speak but doesn't know her voice. He does not understand why he’s so wrapped up over some girl on Instagram.

He would admit his life is boring. He goes to work, comes home. He goes to the grocery store, comes home. He goes to the gym, comes home. All his friends have moved away from the place they all once called home. He's the only one left with miles between their beings and an increasing distance between their shared moments.

Social media was created for people to connect, reconnect, and stay connected. It’s his only connection to the outside world. His introverted personality unfailingly keeps his inner being at bay as his timid nature beats his will and curiosity into submission. He's living in solitary confinement within an open world that he's allowed to collapse on himself due to a fragile statement of mind.

He found her by accident. He was looking for people he knew on Instagram and saw her familiar face while lurking on a follower’s following list. It’s something he does often out of boredom while at work. He’s found quite a few people from his past by using this method of search. His father loved to go to Denny’s, sit in the booth at the back of the restaurant, and watch all the different walks of life who entered. This was the 21st century version of his father’s people watching hobby.

He’s always had a strange fascination with isolated moments within the human experience that have been captured by photograph without knowledge of context or backstory. They allow him to draw pictures of people based purely on what is visible within the frame of the snapshot.

Age had not affected the beautiful, stunning woman as he scrolled through her photos. He felt slightly creepy while perusing but compartmentalized his tactic because her page was public. He was certain he wasn’t the first nor the last person to want to see more of her. As his finger flicked through the hundreds of images, his thoughts waged a battle with his desire, until he saw an oddly familiar picture of her with his friend but couldn’t figure out why it stood out.

He didn’t even know she knew his friend. The last time he saw his friend was at her 30th birthday party but didn’t recall seeing the woman he’s adored since college. If she was at the party, he didn’t see her, and she didn’t see him. Moreover, he was certain she wouldn't remember him and thought hard before hitting the follow button, but took the risk, anyway. Summarily, he felt foolish. He didn't have any real impact on her life. He was a guy in a classroom full of other guys whom she regularly conversed. The constant battle of himself against himself was silently beating him, once again.

The day she walked into his class, he was gobsmacked. He’d never seen such winsomeness, in person. He knew his initial reaction was hyperbolic but he was in awe of her first physical impression. He was glad he was wearing his headphones as a distraction. Otherwise, he felt he would’ve looked strange closing his eyes, while mentally capturing her image and hiding the words he would’ve spoken with his glare, when she stepped into the room. It didn’t help he was sitting in the front of the class, exposed to all the immediate reactions of those who entered.

His mental snapshot was immediately saved to his long-term memory, eliminating the necessity of future, longing stares and peeks. Her long, dark brown hair with curled ends lightly brushed her chest from left to right as her head gently bobbed while walking toward an open desk in the front of the room.

She was wearing a classy, yet subtly sexy, champagne pink sundress with white straps that gracefully adorned her sleek, feminine collarbones, toned arms, proportional breasts, and curvy bottom. Her cherry blossom lips perfectly accompanied her rich, glistening, unblemished gingerbread skin and was accented by an elegant beauty mark on her upper right cheek. She was Venus, in human form and his nose was open.

If he checked his phone once, he checked it one hundred times to see if she followed him back. He needed her attention, but he didn't understand why it was important. Why her? What had she done to his psyche to have this long-term, subconscious grasp. It couldn't just be her physical attractiveness, that would be shallow and foolhardy. He couldn't wrap his mind around it until his watch vibrated, phone chimed, and the follow response notification was sent. At that moment, the cloud of pessimism cleared, and he remembered her kind heart.

They only had the one class together in college. One class that lasted a mere 3 months and only met once a week. Oddly enough, it was a chemistry class. In his funny, somewhat corny, way of thinking, he was convinced they met by kismet. He wanted to find chemistry within their study of chemistry, however, the poetic simplicity of the notion was too good to be true. When they spoke, in passing, she was always nice and never off-putting or mean. She always made time for a brief conversation and made him feel like he was the only person in the room. Her magnanimous magnetism and mythical majesty manipulated his mind, but in a good way. Those conversations gave him a special ounce of self-confidence, which warmed his heart. Now, without being weird or needy, he wanted to find a way to spark a conversation to regain that feeling. The task would be easier said than done.

When he attempted to talk to women, saying he would experience a comedy of errors would be an understatement. People didn't understand how a tall, handsome man with a world of book smarts, as well as being a published author, could be so lost when trying to verbalize his thoughts. His essays on the plight of the African-American male since the Million Man March as well as his books on athletes from historically black colleges and universities were very well received by scholars in and around Baltimore. So how could his well-learned man with a bachelor's degree in broadcast journalism from the University of Maryland, a master's degree in African-American history from Howard University, and a Ph. D in American Literature from American University be so unintelligible when he opened his mouth? Just looking at him, his visually charming attire, manicured nails, symmetrical face, and sharply cut and styled hair, screamed confidence while oozing sophisticated guile. He was the epitome of the phrase “more than meets the eye.”

He was never a good talker and the affliction got progressively worse as he aged. He believed he would nervously fumble words, refuse to look people in the eye, and became the master of the malapropism. He was always too much into analyzing his thoughts, trying to find the perfect words, which prevented them from coming out correctly. In moments of complete control of his emotions, he would use short, precise words while attempting to nail home his point without aimlessly bloviating. This tactic would often come off as aloof or snobbish because he would refuse to expound in moments when introduction and engagement were crucial to his career and social standing, which influenced his usage of social media and made him a brilliant writer. Behind a keyboard, alone, he could be the person he wanted to be without the pressure and stress of being whom everyone thought he should be.

He always felt guilty and somewhat stalker-ish when he liked her pictures. Every photo she would post, especially the selfies, he would double tap. Granted, he was one of 12-24 dozen people who would engage her photos, but he had a sense she was paying special attention to him; evidence of the bond he believed they created years prior but with no indication of the affirmative

One day, he decided he needed to say something. It wasn't as if his emotions were getting out control, quite the contrary. He just needed to make sure she knew he was there and knew he was thinking about her.

Him: Hey, sweetheart, it's been awhile! How have you been? (7:38pm, Friday)

It was a benign comment, but a milestone in what he hoped would the beginning of something special. Unfortunately, an immediate response was not in the cards. He was crestfallen by the non-response and further understood his place within her pecking order.

Her: Hey!!!! Yes, it has been a long time! I'm good, how are you?! (10:45am, Sunday)

When his phone buzzed, and his watch vibrated, he initially ignored it until he saw the Instagram logo appear and her username flash across his wrist. He was shaken for a moment. He couldn't believe he got a response but was concerned with how to continue the conversation without making a mistake.

Him: I'm well! I'm doing my thing, writing and living the single life. You know, nothing interesting. How’s life as a ****psychologist****? (10:47am, Sunday)

Her: That's nice! I'm glad you're doing well (3:25pm, Monday)

That response told him everything he needed to know about their standing. In two call and response messages, he surmised she didn’t want to communicate, and she was only being nice, like she was in the past. He was put off by the lag between responses while she posted new photos. He started to think he was the only one who was annoyed by the notification badges and red dots that appear on his screen when a new message arrives. Apparently, he was wrong.

It crossed his mind to unfollow her, but it was an immature thing to do because she wasn’t showing him the love he wanted. His actions weren’t affecting her. If he stopped liking her photos, there were 100-200 other people who would still show her the superficial love. If he unfollowed her, she would still receive dozens of followers, each week. There was nothing he could do to get her attention and nothing he could do get that feeling he felt for 3 months, once a week, 10 years in the past. To make himself feel important, give himself power, he muted their conversations and deleted the previous exchanges. He knew she would never reach out to him on her own, so the action was more for peace of mind.

He felt the days of build-up weren’t worth the 20 words it took for her to ignore his attempt at conversation and shoot down any chance of creating a friendship. He knew he had to shoot his shot, but it didn’t play out in this manner in his overthinking mind. He didn’t hit on her and he didn’t disrespect her, but he felt she treated him like all the other guys who slid in her DMs with the hope of engagement, and likely with less tact. Eventually, he would check his seldom used messages to see if maybe, just maybe, she sent him a message to see how he was doing. The inbox is always empty.

He didn’t want to put too much weight on an outcome he should’ve anticipated. He told himself after finally giving up hope, “She was nothing but a girl on Instagram.” He chuckled, “I don’t even remember her last name…”

Part 2

Perception and reality within the world of social media is the mask the populous willingly wears to convince themselves everything that glitters is gold. Pictures of smiling faces, beautiful women, and group revelry conveys thoughts of joy and happiness. The truth of the matter, moments of enthusiasm captured within a second do not tell the story behind the events surrounding the time of the photo. We are all hiding, hurting from something or someone. We just use social media to display a, sometimes, misleading pleasure....

She was always a popular person. In college, at the University of Maryland, she had more friends than she could handle and even more who made claims to the fact. Everyone wanted to know her or be around her. She had an altruistic personality and alluring charm. You would never think it was difficult for her to find a man who would love and care for what she is inside. However, her altruism and allure made her easy prey for those with carnal desires.

Most men looked at her long, dark brown hair with curled ends, artfully symmetrical facial features, gingerbread skin, slim arms, slender frame, full lips, ornamental breasts, and a sonsy bottom as a real-life fantasy coalescing into brazen assumptions. In the summer, she would wear flowing, colorful, lowcut sundresses with matching hair ties and high heels and tank tops over neon-colored bras with mid-thigh length shorts and sneakers matching the color of the bras, which drew more attention to her figure and physical attributes than she ever desired. Guys on campus, in their immature reasoning, wondered if she was a stripper or an escort since she did not have an issue showing off or accentuating what God gave her. The tattoos of a rose on her upper right breast and a trail of stars going down her neck, back, curling over her torso, and ending at her navel didn't help the perception. When she created an Instagram account, everything became worse.

Unbeknownst to much of the student body and Instagram followers, she was at Maryland on a full, academic scholarship after scoring 1550 on her SAT and graduating at the top of her class from Central High School in Philadelphia. She always wanted to be a psychologist, dreaming of helping those in need talk through their issues and fears, while growing up in North Philly. She was the first in her family to leave the state and go to school. Her parents were transplants from Erie and Pittsburgh. They met each other while in grad school at Villanova and instantly fell in love. She wasn’t concerned with meeting her husband or even finding a boyfriend when she first arrived at school. She knew she was at Maryland to get an education, first, and be comfortable in her own skin, second. Finding someone to share her time was last on her list but became more important as her days at College Park grew closer to conclusion.

Despite all the men who roamed the campus, many whom she was too polite to turn down a conversation and too urbane to not charm, she was certain she would leave school without meeting someone special. She’d gone on plenty of dates and enjoyed lots of movies, meals, and activities with male suitors but she didn’t think anyone saw her for her. She knew she was asked out so guys could try to see the skin she hid from the public. A few times she gave in, regretting the choice in the days that followed. She wanted more from her love life. She was tired of being an object, a play thing, a trophy. She knew she deserved more.

After arriving on campus not worried about having a man, nearly 4 years later, she felt empty not being able to find Mr. Right. She felt her life was complete in so many different areas. She was basically guaranteed to graduate Summa Cum Laude due her work ethic and God-given intelligence. She was a member of Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority and made friendships, bonded with women of like mind and spirit in ways she didn’t think possible. She walked onto the school’s track team, as a distance runner, and although not winning a single race, completed every meet in respectable time. All of her cups were full expect one.

She wasn't sure what it was but she thought she found the man she wanted on the day she walked into her chemistry class in the middle of her senior year. Sitting at the front of the class with his headphones on, eyes closed, and nodding his head; she was struck by the man’s silent, solemn, carefree nature.

As her classmates were settling in, talking amongst themselves, he was a calming presence in a room full of uncertainty. It didn't hurt his sense of fashion and style matched hers. He appeared to be fairly tall, maybe 6 feet, with a lean, muscular build. Aside from his mustache, which was clearly, recently trimmed, he didn't have any hair on his face and probably couldn't grow any. She knew this from the guys she dated in the past. There were no signs of stubble and no hint of razor burn that accompanies young men who need to shave, daily. She knew he was into his music because the Klipsch headphones he was wearing were same ones her brother used at his radio station. She recalled him telling her they were worth every dime due to the impedance and separation of sounds.

He was wearing a forest green Lacoste polo with a pink tall-t as an undershirt, iceberg blue Levi jeans, and a forest green headband, which covered his hairline and placed attention on the bouncy, dark brown curls that naturally fell from his head. He had what her mother called, "good hair," which became a shared attraction. She walked into the room dreading taking her only chemistry class, but felt better, at ease, being able to see him for 3 hours, once a week.

On a few occasions, after class, in the elevator, he would make small talk with her. When she knew she was going to be alone with him, her heart would flutter, and her palms would sweat. He was so mysterious and so to himself, she didn't know if he was attracted to her like she was attracted to him. When he spoke in class, he would speak with authority and confidence. He knew his stuff and she was impressed. Within their short conversations, she learned he was a broadcast journalism major, which further impressed her due to his depth of expertise in a field that wasn’t his own. She was even more drawn to him because he was always polite and showed a clear respect for her time and space. His words were short, but to the point, and his eyes were never leering.

She felt like a person around him, not an object. It was a refreshing, yet unfamiliar feeling and completely different from past interactions with men. She didn't want the cursory relationship to end when the class over but wasn’t sure if he would accept her approaching him outside class, on a personal level.

She never risked the heartbreak…

She didn't see him again, in person, until her friend's 30th birthday party, at a club, in downtown Baltimore. She knew he’d become a well-respected essayist and author of books about Walter Payton and Lem Barney. However, she didn't know they had mutual friends. She didn’t think the headshots on the dust jackets of his books did him justice. He still had the same air of confidence, mystery, along with the unforgettable bouncy curls a top his gentlemen’s taper fade. His physical maturity was obvious. He was about 2 inches taller and had a full, neatly groomed beard. He wore what appeared to be a tailored Italian black silk suit with a black silk shirt and a silk crimson necktie. She knew this was her last chance to say what she needed to say, 10 years ago, which caused her anxious symptoms to return.

Her approach was subtle and somewhat passive aggressive. He was sitting alone, on a stool, next to a high table, at the back of the club, after his friend got up and went to the bar. She didn't directly speak to him, rather she went to say something in her friend's ear who was sitting at the adjacent table. Her angle allowed her to keep him in her sights. However, her tactic made it seem like she was looking in the general vicinity, not directly at him. As she stood up to walk away, she said hi, and gave a shy, girlish smile out of the corner of her mouth.

His eyes did not show her immediate recognition and his return response came off as generalized. She was crushed. She did not understand how he could forget her or not recognize she was the same person from those elevator rides after class at Maryland. Yes, the club was dark enough to make it hard to recognize someone 5 feet away from you. Yes, she was wearing a full face of makeup, which she figured made her look differently than the 21-year old girl who only wore foundation. And yes, 10 years had passed since the 3 months of 5-minute, weekly, elevator conversation, but the ostensible slight rocked her heart. She knew she looked good in her black lace with white background, form-fitting dress and black Jimmy Choo Sage 100 pumps. She just wished she enjoyed the fantasy that jumped into her thoughts in real-time.

She always thinks twice about posting photos on Instagram after a night of partying and enjoying the company of her friends and other good people. She knows the feedback she will receive; it's magnified by the anonymity of social media. She's used to hearing the catcalls when going to work or the mall, but this is a different animal. This animal has forced her to trust less and sink into herself. She's lost the knowledge of what's real and what fake. She doesn't know when a guy is sending his representative, so he can coerce her to drop her panties or when he's being genuine. That's compacted by her inability to speak her mind when her feelings or desires are strong. She doesn't want to come off as desperate. She's lost count of how many times someone has slid into her DMs, after she's posted a photo from the previous night, and asked personal questions about her body and made inappropriate comments about what they want to do to her. She's more protective of herself, but will not stop being herself, which means she will continue to share her blessings and style. She's become jaded by her reality while trying to maintain her self-confidence and self-respect. She knew she couldn't become just some girl on Instagram.

She was surprised when she saw a familiar face in her notifications stating he was following her. It was months after the party and she was certain he didn't remember her. Despite that thought, there he was as one of her followers. She slow played following him back and browsed his photos to if he was with anyone. She found it odd he would follow her, now. How did he find her? Why would he want to find her? Had he changed? Did he become like all the other guys? She had so many questions but didn't know how to ask them without embarrassing herself. For the first time, she wanted someone in her DMs. She needed to know if he knows she truly exists.

Him: Hey, sweetheart, it's been awhile! How have you been? (7:38pm, Friday)

She was so used to her phone buzzing from updates on various social media platforms, the “do not disturb” option was always in use and the badges on the apps were turned off, so she wasn’t distracted or tempted by the big, bright red numbers. When she noticed his message, it was almost a day and half after he sent it.

Her: Hey!!!! Yes, it has been a long time! I'm good, how are you?! (10:45am, Sunday)

She was so excited to hear from him she could hardly contain herself. She had to keep her calm and remember what day it was. Every Sunday, she takes her Grandma to church. It was a tradition that started while she was in college and wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. As much as she wanted it, God and her Grandma were more important at this moment.

As they drove to the First Baptist Church of Glenarden, outside of DC, he was on her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities of a potential relationship, however, the scars of past conversations and unsuccessful relationships crept into her psyche. She didn’t realize how much those rude and crude interactions from her past affected her. She shut down, out of fear of being hurt.

Him: I'm well! I'm doing my thing, writing and living the single life. You know, nothing interesting. How’s life as a ****psychologist****? (10:47am, Sunday)

She saw the message but chose not to immediately respond. She remembered he didn’t ask for her number in college. He didn’t recognize her at the party. He didn’t give her what she wanted, when she wanted it. Her pessimism overcame her. For the first time, she was getting what she wanted, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it any longer. She was lost in her thoughts and couldn’t escape the labyrinth of questions and doubts. She knew she couldn’t leave him hanging, but her pensiveness was at a fever pitch. So, she copped out….

Her: That's nice! I'm glad you're doing well (3:25pm, Monday)

She knew her response was polite, yet empty and dismissive. It was a test. She wanted to see if he was different than everyone else. She needed him to prove himself to her. She needed to feel valued. She knew she ignored his question about her life, but the wall she built in the 10 years since they last spoke was insurmountable.

Many times, in the past, she ran toward a mirage in the desert only to find herself disappointed when the apparition evaporated. She wants love. She needs love. However, love evades her with the cunning of a cat-burglar and stealth of a shadow. She wants to trust him but can’t. She wants to open-up but can’t. She wants to ask questions but can’t. She feels like one of her patients, but there is no couch to lay on and no outlet for her festering unhappiness. She doesn’t want to appear weak. She’s worked too hard to show strength. However, she’s trapped in her head, staring at the scars from her past like a pencil drawing of a lost soul that created a portrait of someone who was unrecognizable to her own eyes, despite everything being in black and white. She’s in emotional purgatory

She treated him like all the other guys who slid in her DMs.

She didn’t want to be a statistic, just pictures on a phone, or another girl on Instagram.

#instagram #love #fear #pain #miscommunication #writing #creative writing

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mystorymylifemywords · 5 years

Text

Trying To Wake Up

It’s 5:15am on a Tuesday morning and the ascending alarm emitting from his Amazon Echo Dot wakes him from a restless slumber. Before the alarm reaches a volume too high for his now, awakening ears, he groggily bellows, “Alexa, snooze....” He knows it will only buy him 10 more minutes of faux sleep, but it delays the downward spiral of inner thoughts and anxious mindlessness.

As the alarm rises to yet another crescendo, he reaches for his iPad on the back of the couch. The metal springs in the old sofa bed in his mother’s converted basement squeak as they’re forced to adjust to his movement. When the tablet is in his grasp, the alarm reaches its peak volume. “Alexa, stop,” he says annoyed by the fact he needs to get ready for work. He fumbles to find the home button on the iPad in the near pitch-black room. The only light shining through is muted by the overhang of the outside alcove and the glass blocks covering what was once the left side of a two-car garage.

When the home button was finally found, and pressed, the time read 5:29am. He looked for excuses, in his mind, to stay in bed. He didn’t want to go to work. He didn’t want to hear the complaining and ineptitude of the people at his marketing job where he’s a senior analyst. He also didn’t want to make the 33-mile, hour plus long drive from Hatfield to Center City Philadelphia.

He often loses his temper during the drive to work, cursing people whose poor driving skills likely raised his blood pressure above normal levels. The only calming presence during those drives are his podcasts and his love for 90s New Jack R&B. He was never able to pinpoint why the music was so calming. In the rare times he was able to listen at home, he felt as though he could disappear into the music and visit a fantasy world he knew he could never live. A world where women listened to him, people adored him, and his presence was valued. It was also a time before he understood the meaning of hurt and pain, before those emotions, and their hellish wrath, followed him every waking moment. He felt trapped by those thoughts. Trapped like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the hill just for it roll back to the bottom while believing the outcome will be different with each attempt despite the environment being unchanged.

He dragged his still tired body from the bed, pulled his shorts and boxer briefs down from his right leg, which rolled up amongst his tossing and turning, and then straightened the sheets before folding the bed back into the sofa. Before replacing the seat cushions, he groggily muttered, “Alexa, turn on lights” to give himself a jolt of brightness before he climbed the two flights of stairs to the spare bedroom where he kept his clothes. He made sure he moved quietly, aware of the creaks and squeaks of the floor boards in the old house, so to not wake his mother. She didn’t work on Mondays and Tuesdays, he couldn’t be selfish with the noise he would like to make in order to fully wake himself.

As he approached the spare bedroom, the house still dark, he blindly pushed open the door with an extended arm and then turned on the light on the left side of room next to the door. Quickly, he closed the door, then bent over to turn on his standing garment steamer, and allowed the hot steam to blow against his face.

Still trying to wake up....

The previous night, he left out the clothes he intended to wear as well as a sealed bottle of water. As the steam continued to outflow from the steamer, warming the room and raising the humidity level, he drank the 22 ounces of water. It was a routine he completed, daily. He needed the routine so he didn’t fall into the dark chasm of his thoughts. After he finished drinking, he said in a whisper, “Alexa, play audiobook.” The Echo Show sitting on a dresser began to play The Godfather written by Mario Puzo and narrated by Joe Mantegna. He took a deep breath, grabbed his light denim jeans, hung them over the hanger atop a bar protruding from garment steamer and began to meticulously remove the wrinkles.

His attention to detail was one of his forms of escape, albeit, short-lived. The others were writing, which he had not being able to do in an extended period of time due to, what he called being, “creatively impotent,” and cleaning. He used to escape by playing video games, watching movies, reading, playing basketball, and channel surfing between ESPN, The Food Network, and The Travel Channel. At one point, not too long ago, he was so happy to just sit and watch TV that he invested thousands of dollars into a new 75” Sony XBR Series 4K LED TV with HDR and full-array backlighting, a Sony 4K Blu-ray player, and a Pioneer Elite audio receiver capable of processing the 4K signal as well as outputting video with HDR and the Dolby Atmos spatial sound format. As soon as he bought all the equipment, something changed in him. He didn’t want to watch TV. He didn’t want to watch sports. He didn’t want to do much of anything. He made himself happy with the purchases, then felt empty.

After he finished steaming his clothes, he grabbed his Quip electric toothbrush, activated charcoal toothpaste, and alcohol-free mouthwash, then headed to the bathroom. He knew the time he spent steaming his clothes put him behind schedule, but he couldn’t skip any steps in his routine. Everything needed to be completed and completed in the correct order within his controlled environment.

Still trying to wake up....

When he finished his mouth care, he pulled down his shorts, backed up onto his Squatty Potty, and sat on the toilet for the penultimate, and most taxing, step in his routine. This was the time when his mind wandered the most, when he was at his most mentally vulnerable. He looked at his day and saw nothing to excite him. He knew his ex-girlfriend would text at 8am and they would go back and forth with casual conversation until about 3pm. He wanted to be friends with her but it was a difficult task. He didn’t trust her and believed she was just biding her time with him until she found the man she wanted. By around 9:30am, he knew would become frustrated with his coworkers for talking too much in their corner of the office. He didn’t understand how people can talk to each other, all day, every day, about the same nonsense. Also, he knew they weren’t completing their work, would not be held accountable, and he would have to pick up the slack. At 11:30am, he would start his lunch hour and watch a TV show or a portion of a movie on his iTunes or Vudu accounts. Sometime, he would watch the remainder of the previous night’s episode of Monday Night Raw through his Xfinity app. He knew he would leave work at around 3pm, make the almost 2-hour drive home, sit on his couch, and become paralyzed with angst and anxiety. This was always the most arduous part of his day. His thoughts would be ablaze with concepts, ideas, fears, frights, and neurotic meanderings. Often, the thoughts would bring him to tears, but he would never cry out because he didn’t want to draw attention, he didn’t want to disturb the house. He knew he could ask for help. He also knew he wouldn’t accept help despite believing it would never be offered. He knew his phone wouldn’t ring with someone wondering about his well-being. He knew he would be ready to fight anyone who tried to pierce his guard. He knew he couldn’t wait to go to sleep so could elude the constantly ticking second hand on the clock. He knew, one day, it would all be over and no one would know a thing. He knew only his family would show up to his funeral. He knew he was late for work....

Still trying to wake up....

After cleaning himself, he removed his shorts and underwear, and then jumped into the shower. Running late forced him to concentrate on washing, purging yesterday’s filth from his body in a futile attempt to start anew and rinse away the troublesome. While drying off in the bedroom, moisturizing his skin, putting coconut oil in his hair, and conditioner in his beard, he listlessly whispered, “Alexa, open my garage door.” Followed by, “Alexa, ask Lexus to start my car with the temperature set to 80 degrees.” When the command was confirmed, he turned off the bedroom light, exited the room, cautiously closed the door, and quietly walked down the steps to the kitchen to grab his lunch, a salad of spring mix, baby sweet peppers, white onions, black olives, cucumbers, raw broccoli, and red pepper flakes along with 2 small containers of Dannon Oikos Triple Zero Banana Cream yogurt, from the refrigerator and continued back down to the basement to so he could put on his coat, pick up his backpack, and throw his keys, money clip, and work badge in his pockets.

As he stepped outside, the cool, morning air was whistling through the open garage door as the shadow of sunlight crept in. When he opened the car door of his Matador Red 2019 Lexus LS Hybrid, his black leather, heated car seat automatically slid back so he could comfortably enter, then slide into place after the door was closed. He took a deep breath, fastened his seat belt, placed the car in drive, and headed down Tarrington Way to West Orvilla Road and ultimately to the PA Turnpike.

Still trying to wake up....

He got lost in his thoughts after entering the Turnpike from the EZPass lane. No music was playing or podcasts blaring through the Mark Levinson Reference speakers. The quiet cabin of the car retarded the sounds of the road and nature from his eardrums. He had no distractions. He was alone and silently terrified. He wanted to wake up from this bad dream. He wanted to know how he fell so far, so fast. He needed to find out why things went so wrong. His unhappiness was changing him, molding him into someone he feared. His invasive thoughts held his conscience, his true self, hostage. He was so lost within his vitriolic menagerie of discontent, he didn’t notice the car in the passing lane, slightly behind him, swerve to miss a deer who briefly darted into traffic before quickly receding into the wooded area. He was so overcome in his daze he was unable to react when the driver of the swerving car lost control and collided with his rear, driver’s side quarter panel, at 70 miles an hour, sending him spinning out of control, and, eventually, head on into a jersey barrier, causing a domino effect of wreckage in its wake. He felt nothing when the car behind him plowed into his rear with the force of a tsunami. He was numb, from head to toe, unable to feel anything.

When the firefighters pried open his door from amongst the massive debris, warm blood was tickling down his face from a gash atop his head and more of the life-sustaining substance leaking from his mouth caused by the impact of the airbag. His eyes were closed and motionless when he heard them trying to gain his attention.

“Sir, sir! Are you okay,” one of the firefighters exclaimed in a calm, yet urgent vibrato. “We’re here to help you,” he continued. “Can you respond? Can you hear me? We’re going to get you out here,” he said with a bit of strain in his voice as he began to cut the seatbelt. “You’re going to be okay!”

Many of his words were muted, all he heard was “help.” All he felt were multiple hands on his head, neck, and body. He didn’t need help. He didn’t want help. So, he fought with his eyes still closed, arms flailing, unable to see the people who were listening to him, cared about him, there for him. He fought through the pain of the teeth that were knocked out of his mouth and through the fog of the concussion he suffered during the accident. He fought despite having a compound fracture of his left fibula and a dislocated right ankle. He fought through a broken sternum, multiple broken ribs, and punctured lung.

He fought, blindly...

He fought in fear....

He fought for solitude....

While still trying to wake up....

#depression #creative writing #writing #pain #sorrow #hedonic treadmill

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mystorymylifemywords · 6 years

Text

Through Us

Despite the familiarity with the event, it still doesn’t seem real to me. I still think I’m going to see her during a family function or a weekend gathering at her home. I have no idea when it’s going to set in. All I know, I miss my Grandma.

When I was younger, I loved going to my grandparents’ house, especially during a school night. Everything felt a lot looser, the rules weren’t the same. Granted, I didn’t need many rules because I was a quiet kid and didn’t cause too much trouble, but being with my Grandma and PapPap was very relaxing, even for a 6 year old. There was never a dull moment at their home because of the characters who would stop by the house and the two amazing people who lived in it.

When my Mom was in labor with my Sister, I spent a couple weeks with my Grandparents so my Mom could recover after giving birth. I was excited about becoming a big brother but I was more excited to sit next to my Grandma and watch The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I never got to stay up that late, but Grandma said it was okay as long as I went to sleep afterwards. How could I turn down that deal?!

Back then, the house was set up differently. The current dining room was the living room and there were mirrors along the walls which added a unique decor to the room. I loved going in there. I loved looking at myself in the mirrors but I also wanted to see how much of my Pap’s hair grease had wiped away the glossiness on a particular mirror where he rested his head while laying on the couch. He would lay in the same spot, everyday, and watch TV, and inevitably, fall asleep. After he would go to bed, Grandma and I would infiltrate his spot and watch the Tonight Show. It was the only time during the day when I would see her relax.

When I was in high school, I would stop by her job at the Hill House, after school, to see how she was doing. My Grandma had so much love and energy in her heart, it didn’t matter what kind of day I was having, just seeing her made me feel better. After a short conversation and I would make my way home, giddy, from talking to the most effervescent, confident, and caring woman I’ve ever known.

There are many, many other moments I could share about my Grandma, but those two moments stick out because they educated and touched me at a young age. She had the ability to ease pain with her words, heal a heart with her embrace, and feed a soul with her wisdom while carrying an uplifting, Godly smile. Special doesn’t begin to describe my Grandma.

On the last day we all saw her, Mother’s Day, I noticed something different about her demeanor, a good different. Her already rich, deep love and affection was even more effusive, even more glowing. She espoused and cherished every moment with us. She held onto hugs for a beat longer and with a tighter grasp. She was more engaging, more energetic, and more interactive than she was since the first of multiple surgeries. Most importantly, she infused us with her love of family, her love for us, with her familiar vivacity and joy. It’s a day we will never forget because Grandma was at her absolute best.

Also, on that day, for the first time in a long time, my family lost track of time and just enjoyed each other’s company. No one hurried to rush off to complete another task. No one had their minds on other business. We were all there for Grandma and for each other. On that night, Grandma taught us a lesson. She taught us to take our time with each other and joy the moment because they are fleeting. She made sure we knew she loved us and we made sure she knew we loved her, too.

Although she is no longer physically here, parts of my Grandma still live on within my mom, aunts and uncles. In my Mom, lives my Grandma’s sense and love of family as well as her leadership and the importance of detail. In my Aunt Lori, is her self-awareness, openness, perseverance, and pride. In my Aunt Leslie, is my Grandma’s gentle touch, sensitivity, and quiet charm. In my Uncle Bobby, lives Grandma’s energy and desire to help, at any cost. In my Uncle Bryan, is her ability to listen, to empathize, and to guide with concise words of wisdom meant for you and only you.

It breaks my heart my Grandma isn’t here to celebrate her birthday with us. However, those pieces of her, the parts of her heart she left inside her children; they will make sure she lives on forever. On her birthday, we receive the gift she always wanted for us....each other.

I, we love you, Grandma! Happy Birthday!

Kiss PapPap and my Dad for us!

#family #love #grandma #togetherness #stength #pain #loss of a loved one

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mystorymylifemywords · 6 years

Text

Year Two

I’ve cried, every day, without tears, for much of the past two years. Every single day is a day further from the last day I heard my Dad’s voice, saw his gapped tooth smile, and felt his warm embrace. I knew I lost his physical being the moment I let out a scream when my worst nightmare became true. I just had no idea about the emotional toll his absent intangibles would have on me, today. On the two-year anniversary of his passing, with all the stories I’ve shared of my Dad, I’m just realizing, no new memories will ever be created with him and it breaks my heart.

I know some of you may be scratching your collective heads as your eyes scroll down and you read the words I’ve placed on the page. You’re thinking, “How could he not realize new memories can’t be created after someone passes?” The truth, when you spend so much time remembering the past after the loss of a loved one, you forget the present still moves on. In those moments, you escape into your time machine and relive all the happy times as way to avoid the heartbreak of the present. I’ve spent so much time upholding my Dad’s legacy, and being his tongue, while ensuring everyone knows of his kind heart and gregarious spirit, the obvious did not have time to sink in. When you constantly withdraw to that time machine, the lines of the past start to blur with the present. When you are the tongue of a soul who no longer has a voice, no longer has its own vessel to extol the lesson of life’s experiences, you lose consciousness of time and space while trying to find the new you in a world where you must learn to function, alone.

Moreover, as my Dad’s tongue, I’m creating new memories for others as I share his stories, spread his knowledge, and his panegyrize his passions. I’ve lived vicariously through those individuals as their faces alight with joy, laughter, and appreciation as a new memory is stored in their hippocampus with the picture I drew as my Dad’s tongue. This sharing, and in some instances, oversharing, has left me in a state of vulnerability. I’ve shown these people, some of them family, some friends, and some individuals I’ve met while perusing life, a side of myself that did not exist prior to April 19, 2016. My oration is simply a Band-Aid over an open wound that has yet to heal. I may be his tongue, but the muscle and memories delivered with it will not bring my Dad is back.

Webster’s defines the word “vulnerable” as being capable of being physically or emotionally wounded. In the 700 plus days since my Dad went to live with God in the sky, my emotional armor has been dismantled and fatigue has caused my guard to fail. The helplessness of being helpless to bring back the one who was always of help is humbling, unnerving, and consistently painful. My internal sobs have manifest into an emotional vulnerability which I first realized, in real time, had taken hold of me during an extended conversation with my Uncle Bryan after watching boxing, a love of my Dad’s, on pay per view, at his house, until the early hours of the morning....

In the past two years, I’ve described the love I have for my Uncle. Aside from my Dad, my Uncle Bryan is the best man I know. I look up to him, I admire him, and I love how he loves his family. Despite all of this, when my unguarded words where liberated from my tongue, which was the first time I’ve opened up to anyone in my family aside from my Dad; I felt odd. The information poured out of me like a broken faucet. I couldn’t turn it off. My Uncle took my candor in stride and I appreciated all the advice he returned. In no way was he at fault for what I was feeling. My Uncle was being the great man he has always been. This also wasn’t a feeling caused by machismo or bravado. It was the first time I was punched in the face by the fist of vulnerability. I realized I had to relearn how to share, how to trust, even with my family. Much like my Dad, most of my feelings stay bottled up. It takes a lot for me to speak on something affecting me, personally. I had the same feeling during expository conversations with my cousin Trish, weeks later, and my Mom, months later. In the days following those colloquies, what I shared laid heavily on my mind. I questioned if my family judged me. I pondered if I shared too much. I wanted to take back every word I said and wished things to go back the way they were. I needed my Dad in those moments. I desired for everything to be easy. I had a tough time grasping why it all had to be so hard, so mentally taxing, and so emotionally disruptive.

I felt I was leaching resources from my family when I should be dealing with these problems on my own. I couldn’t have felt more vulnerable. The open wound festered because an antiseptic could not be found.

In retrospect, I’m glad I shared those thoughts. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I’ve learned it’s the people with whom I shared who are the cure to my ailing heart, not the words I chose to relieve its heaviness. My Uncle and cousin’s willingness to be there whenever and wherever I need them, no matter the issue; they are the salve to heal my broken heart.

Most importantly, I’m happy I had a long, overdue conversation with my Mom. It shouldn’t have taken so long for me to open-up to her. More pointedly, the passing of my Dad should not have been the impetus for our organic discussion. My fear of my vulnerability caused me to fail my Mom.

As a young man, I didn’t handle a lot of things that happened between my Mom and I in the best manner. I blamed her for things that weren’t her fault. I forgot she’s human, too. As much as I praised my Dad for being Superman. I should’ve equally praised my Mom for being Wonder Woman. She is the backbone of our family. My sister and I would not be where we are without her love and support.

My conversation with my Mom was important because of what it taught me about her, which in turn taught me a lot about myself. It was the first time I actively listened to my Mom’s views and perspective. Her wealth of insight and knowledge made me jealous. Her unbreakable bond with my Dad, her spiritual connection with him opened a world I did not know I could tap. My Mom was more in tune and aware of my Dad’s mannerisms and quirks than his own family. It shouldn’t be surprising to me. She knew my Dad for his entire adult life and spent more time with him than anyone else. My Mom’s bond, connection with my Dad allows her to see him in me, every day. The way I walk, the way I talk, the way I muse, and the way carry myself during the good times and the bad is my Dad, through and through. I’m blind to it because my myopia and immaturity only allows me to see my actions as my own. Yes, at times I can look in the mirror and see a glimpse of my Dad, but my Mom gets to see the man she loved within me each time I’m within her view. I’m much more appreciative, now, of our comparisons than I was when he was here. Having her presence as a reminder of his presence, on top of her undying love, is the eternal gift that keeps on giving.

Dad, I love and miss you so much. I know you are watching over us, helping us in unknown ways, so we can fulfill our potential. I thought, after two years, everything would be easier. To the contrary, everything has gotten harder, but Kayla and I have taken your phrase, “I will find a way,” to heart. We are doing our very best to make you proud.

We will always, joyously, be your tongue....

Continue to RWG, Big Guy

#family #parents #loss of a loved one #loved ones #vulnerability #pain #loss

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mystorymylifemywords · 6 years

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Waiting….

Waiting sucks…

Waiting when you send a blind message to a girl you barely know via social media sucks even more…

You would’ve thought the nervous tension you feel when you make such a bold, brave move would’ve disappeared after high school or college but no, it’s still there. I guess it’s human nature. You can’t help but allow your mind to wander about the possibilities of a potential relationship. You think about all the frivolous or inconsequential things. You ponder how you two will look together, you imagine what it would be like hanging out on the couch in your pajamas, and you ruminate about how many heads will turn when they see you walking down the street, hand in hand, while obliviously basking in the overflow of shared love, adoration, and attraction. It’s a utopian fantasy but it also has another side, a dystopian nightmare. That nightmare makes waiting period feel like an eternity…

Fear is the most powerful emotion. It’s the father of negativity. It eats at you from the inside and knows no bounds. It can stop you from reaching your goals and from sharing your feelings, amongst myriad things. When it creeps in, it overwhelms you. It incapsulates you. It fuels your nerves. It raises your doubts. It can trigger spastic reactions to innocuous comments and conversations. It can cause that sick feeling in your stomach that won’t go away until an answer is received and a conclusion is reached.

Fear is the root of dating anxiety, especially in the social media age. The pessimism brought on by an unrelenting, unforgiving, mean-spirited culture lends itself to thoughts of rejection. Those thoughts flow through your conscience like lava through an unassuming, island village. You start running lines in your head to counter the possible spurning, while holding onto the belief your “game” can convince your paramour to give you a chance. The constant thinking leads to overthinking. Impossible, ridiculous scenarios are created in your head, which forces the nervous tension to spread from your belly to your throat. The change in your condition brings more doubt, more worry, and more questions to arise. What if there needs to be a phone call? What if your voice isn’t pleasing to her ear? What ifs become the zeitgeist of your frozen, singular, somnambulant, waiting eternity. You start tapping your foot and constantly checking your phone. You don’t want to miss the message so you make sure the volume is turned up, the notifications are in the green, and ‘Do Not Disturb’ is disabled. With those raging torrents of thought cascading through your mind like an internal Niagara Falls, you suddenly think about responding too quickly. You don’t want to be too aggressive. You don’t want to appear too eager, especially if your original message was slow played. Then, the self-inflicted kiss of death engulfs you when you say to yourself, “I shouldn’t have said anything…”

Despite all those feelings, you still hope to receive an engaging response…

The awkwardness of attraction in the digital age is confounding. Young people, and some not so young people, are using social media to link up versus physically meeting in traditional, social gathering places. I guess we’ve become too lazy and too shy with love to get up and go find it or let it find us. Text messaging has overtaken phone calls, which in turn, despite an increase in communication, has led to more frequent miscommunication due to the lack of physical cues and tone. Moreover, the barrier of not having to look someone in the eye when you reject them takes the actual person out of the equation. You’re no longer a living, breathing, caring person. You’re an avatar saved in a pocket-sized computer who can be deleted in a couple taps of the finger.

This is all said while the blind message is still in the digital ether. No matter how many times you check Facebook Messenger, the profile picture is not next to your icebreaker, so you know it hasn’t been read. It’s like you’re trying to will a response at your beckoning. You’ve checked the app multiple times to see if the blue circle with the blue check mark and white background became a blue circle with a blue background and a white check mark. Now that it’s changed, you know it’s been delivered. The waiting game intensifies…

Escapism is necessary when waiting for a response to anything. You need to keep your body busy to take your mind away from delusional, compulsive, and illusionary rationale. As your conscience starts to drift to other things while time passes, it inevitably gets pulled back to your desire to get to know this woman but with a clearer sense of the moment and more pointed fears facing digital age dating.

Getting catfished is impossible as you have seen her in person. You know she’s real, so there’s no worries about her profile picture not matching her appearance. However, without communicating with her via her phone number, there always a chance her Facebook account was cloned and you’re talking to someone who isn’t her. You remember talking to a girl’s roommate on her AIM account, which completely messed up your thoughts of the girl when your physically approached her and she had very little knowledge of you. Past experiences are useful in this digital age.

The real fear is ghosting. You’ve ghosted in the past but you had a reason. Then again, everyone has a reason. The validity and maturity of the reason is always the main concern. Sometimes it’s to protect a guarded heart. Sometimes it’s unintentional, especially when life experiences bring unforeseen change, which can sidetrack or alienate you from the people in your life. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s just a game. When the game gets too real, too quickly, and the person is in too deep; they disappear to avoid the honesty that accompanies a dishonest act.

When you ghosted, you thought you were doing the woman a favor. You thought she wasn’t feeling you so you removed yourself from the situation. It didn’t help knowing you weren’t her type but you didn’t give her or yourself a chance. It was selfish and petty but you needed to save face. Your pride was hurt because her communication was sporadic and uninvolved, a sentence at a time, once or twice a day. You couldn’t get into the flow of things because she wouldn’t allow it and you didn’t want to jump down the rabbit hole. More importantly, you didn’t want to catch feelings regarding her unattraction. You were on high alert because your heart was broken, months prior. You just couldn’t take anymore disappointment. You put yourself out there simply by reaching out. You tried to make small talk but it didn’t lead to anything. You asked to hang out and she said “maybe.” You gave her your number because you thought a phone call or using the native messaging app on her phone was a more convenient form of communication. That message was delivered, read, and sat there without a response for days until you had enough. Your frustration pushed you to delete her from your social media. You didn’t want to see her face or her comments while your message just sat there like the last child at an after-school program. You were sick of waiting so you acted. In retrospect, it was just immature. You weren’t a man about it. You could’ve told her how you felt, which may have elicited a response, but figured that message would’ve sat there too. Plus, you didn’t want to seem desperate and sensitive.

Nothing yet. No notifications that she’s active. It says she hasn’t been online in 4 hours. Maybe she’s working late. You know she has kids. Family always comes first. This is out of your hands…

Being breadcrumbed is significantly worse than being ghosted. It’s the lowest feeling within the realm of any relationship. You think you’re getting somewhere. You think you see the end game. You’re upbeat, you’re positive, and you’re excited because you think you have a chance to be with someone who wants to experience life with you. You make plans to spend time with them. You get yourself gassed because you’re getting who you desire. All the flirting. All the goofy conversations. All the things that happen at the naissance of a relationship to make you believe there will be a payoff. You think there’s chemistry. You believe there’s a bond. And then, they disappear. Those plans you made to go to dinner? Yeah, you didn’t find out they were cancelled until you showed up to the restaurant and your date was a no show. All your texts and phone calls go unanswered. You don’t think you got stood up. How could you when things appeared to be going so well? You believe something happened to them until you see a photo on social media with your date on a date with someone else. To make matters worse, the timestamp on the photo falls during the time of your scheduled date. If that doesn’t hurt enough, the real gut punch is when they reappear, weeks or months later, and repeats the same behavior as if nothing happened in the past. They gaslight you, convince you that your version of history is incorrect and, in your zeal to have the person who made you feels so good back in your life, you accept their truth. It’s the worst imaginable version of being led on. You would much rather them stay away, permanently, but the mental mind game creates a maliciously magnanimous feeling; falsely empowering your desire and insincerely making you feel worthy, only for the cycle to repeat itself.

Still waiting…

No one wants to feel unwanted. No one wants to be a pest. No one wants to change his or her self to be accepted by someone they’re just getting to know. When you attempt to change, you compartmentalize the red flag. If someone can’t consistently interact with you, it says they don’t want you in their life. When you’re wanted, it’s obvious. You’re called. You have extended text conversations. You laugh. You think. You feel like you matter. You know you’re important. However, for some reason, you fight this obvious truth. You think you can overcome the passive aggressive shade because your ego is yelling, “Who wouldn’t want you?” It’s in this quixotic attempt, you step outside yourself, be the person you think they want, to gain attention from the person you desire. You try to be a superfluous version of yourself which comes off as superficial because your true self is superimposed under your own supposition. Simply put, you become “extra.”

Being extra is never a good thing, especially on the dating scene. You don’t want to overextend for attention because overextension is the foundation of the bridge built over your river of reality by the engineers of perception. In the social media world, perception is king. One photo, one comment, and one like will draw the picture of conjecture, which causes you to lose your job as the voiceover artist for your own life…

…which means you’ll have to wait longer for your message to be read…

#relationships #relationship #social media #writing #creative writing #love #happiness #fear #frustation #self esteem

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mystorymylifemywords · 6 years

Text

Back In The Day

The day before Thanksgiving has always been my favorite day of the year. It’s not because my parents would take me out of school. It’s not because food was on my mind. It’s not because of the extended weekend. It’s because my family would drive from Pittsburgh to Hempstead, NY to see my Grandparents, whom we affectionately called “Grandma and PapPap New York.” I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal to a lot of you, but it was a huge deal to me. The trip was a grand production. Dad would rent a van, later they bought a van, remove the middle seat, and put a blanket and pillows on the floor so my sister and I could sleep and/or play. They would get arrested for doing it, today, but back then, it was never a problem. Actually, I surprised we never got pulled over during those trips. Although, when got to a toll booth, my Mom would always tell us to lay down on the floor and be still so we wouldn’t be detected by the toll collectors. As a grown man, I’m not sure if she was having fun with us or if she was really worried about the repercussions. I don’t want to ruin the funny memory, so I’m never going to ask…. Speaking of getting pulled over…. My Dad was a notorious speed demon. He had more speeding tickets than Liz Taylor had husbands! Ok, that’s a dated reference. He had more speeding tickets than Fetty Wop has baby mamas. That’s better. Anyway, he never went the limit, but he always seemed to go at a normal clip when we were in the car. It’s probably because my Mom is in the Hall of Fame of backseat drivers. “George, you’re going too fast!” “George, slow down!” “George, you have a lead foot!” I mean she would let him have it, but she rarely complained during these trips, aside from one time. On our way back from New York, my Dad was on a mission. He would not stop. That’s a lie. He would stop, but it had to be scheduled. He would stop when he needed a bathroom break or when we got to Carlisle to go to Ponderosa or Hoss’s. This trip was different. My sister may have been 1 or 2 years old and she wasn’t feeling well. She loaded up a diaper with poop that smelled so bad, it could’ve been confused with a biological attack. Now, we were stuck in the car with this terrible smelling diaper. Not too long after that, my Mother was imploring him to pull over. “George, we need to stop! The baby isn’t feeling well. We need to stop!” Over and over he kept asking him to stop, but Dad was in another world. I’ve seen it happen on few occasions when riding with him. He gets in the zone. It’s not a normal person zone. This zone was like Kobe Bryant’s 81-point game against Jalen Rose and the Raptors. He simply could not be stopped and blocked out all ancillary sound. It bit him in the butt at the end, though. My Mom pleaded and pleaded with him to stop until the worst sound a baby could make was heard emanating from my sister’s mouth, along with 10 pounds of vomit. She ralphed, everywhere! It was on my Mom, it was on her, it was on the seat, and it was on the floor. It was projectile vomit straight out of The Exorcist. Luckily, this was one of the few times the middle seat wasn’t removed from the van, so I was protected, but that smell would’ve choked a donkey! So now, we are in a vehicle with two biohazards and a sick baby (of course she felt better after all that mess was out of her system). Finally, my Dad stopped at a rest station in Midway, PA so my Mom could clean herself, my sister, and the backseat. As was the case with each time we went off schedule, my Dad called my Grandma to tell her what happened. If we were ever late getting to her house or getting home, she panicked. Typically, it was never a problem for us, which was all the reason for my Dad to call. He knew Grandma would be upset if we didn’t fall into her perceived window of arrival, which was always accurate. I was witness to my Grandma throwing a fit at my Aunt and cousins for coming to her house late and significantly after the time they told her. It was a Lewis family holiday tradition. If they said they would be there at 8pm, don’t expect to see them until 2am. Of course, I could never stay up late enough to see them arrive. I loved seeing my Aunt and cousins. The age gap between us is significant, all 3 are old enough to be my mother or father, but that didn’t effect the bond and love we have for each other. Seeing them is a treat. I never understood why it took them so long to drive from suburban Philly to Long Island and why we always got there before them. It was 2-hour ride when my Dad and I made the trip while I was in college in the City of Brotherly Love while the trip from Pittsburgh took 7-8 hours. I don’t know one of my cousins, who will remain nameless, accidentally drove south on 95 and ended up in Delaware, not New York. I still don’t know how she pulled that off after making the trip her entire life. Anyway, after Mom cleaned everything, we piled back into the car to make the final few hours’ drive home, but a bad trip got worse. The car wouldn’t start! After all of that, the car wouldn’t start! Years later, I think my Dad had an inkling about something going on with the van. Yeah, it was rental, but I think he didn’t want to stop because he knew it may not start again. So, our 7-8-hour trip turned into a 10-12-hour trip. My Mom called the rental company to tell them what happened and the lady who took her call was not very pleasant. You have not seen an upset woman until you see my Mom when someone talks down to her. She was livid! After the day she was having, that was the last thing she needed, plus you don’t talk to someone in that manner when your company gave a customer a lemon. My Dad straightened it out, eventually, which lead to a letter to the rental company signed by the one of the heads of his employer, a nationally renowned paint brand whom my Dad was one of their most promising chemists. When he told me about the phone call he received, he looked like Lex Luthor after winning battle with Superman. The COO of the rental company called him, directly, to apologize about the service. At that point, I knew my Dad was someone of importance at his job. I also knew how much he loved and cared about his wife. He always defended her when he knew she was being wronged. He taught me a lot about being a man and taking care of your family, especially your wife, during that story. Back to the tradition of the trip.... My Dad was an electronics and music geek (My sister and I get the latter and former, honestly). He always needed to have the latest and greatest gadgets and music, especially during long trips. On multiple visits to Grandma’s, he would bring his Sony Discman, an expensive, novelty purchase, at the time, and all the newest CDs. Dad loved jazz, new age, and R&B. I can still remember listening to Janet Jackson’s “janet.” and Hiroshima’s “East” while going over the Verrazano Bridge with all its lights brightening the night sky. It’s an awesome and relaxing memory. Now, to keep the CD player from skipping, my Mom would take a couch throw pillow and put it under the device to absorb the bumps. To say it was a genius idea would be an understatement! When we would get to the Hempstead Turnpike, I could feel the anticipation rising in my body. I was just giddy with excitement because I was going to get to see my Grandma and PapPap. I loved them so much and I know they loved us, too. Their love was palpable. I mean you could literally feel their love entering your body and wrapping you with their embrace. They were unique and special people. I’m so fortunate to be able to call them family. I know a lot of people gag when they hear the name “White Castle,” but trips to the fast food restaurant known for their sliders was part of our family’s Thanksgiving trip tradition. We would stop at the location off the Hempstead Turnpike, order a bunch of burgers and fries at the drive-thru, and then take them to Grandma’s house. Yeah, they would stink up the car, but nothing stunk so good! After that stop, we were one step closer to Grandma’s house. One step closer to breaking out the food on the kitchen table and satiating our hunger while Grandma watched us eat from the four, small stairs that led to the bedrooms and bathroom off the kitchen. Dad would always say, “Mama, you want something?” She would reply with a smile a mile wide, “No, thank you, Juni…,” but would eventually pick at some fries. Grandma never called my Dad by his birth name. He was always Juni to her and the rest of the family. Technically, he wasn’t a junior, but my PapPap’s name was George and as was my Uncle’s, so my Dad needed to be called something else simply to cut down on the confusion. When we would pull up to the house on Rose Ave, my Grandma would be standing outside, waiting. Like I said, she always knew when we would arrive. It was an amazing skill! I would run from the driveway, over the stiff, but soft, Bermuda grass to hug my Grandma New York. I can still hear her Jamaican accent with hints of Manhattan and Queens thrown in. After we gathered our things from the car and put them in the bedroom, we would go downstairs and say hi to PapPap New York. My sister and I never saw him walk or heard him speak a clear word. A massive stroke took away most of his motor skills and strength 2 years before I was born. When she was 4, my sister, eight an air of youthful ignorance, was asked to go downstairs and say, “good morning,” to PapPap. She quickly responded, “Why? He doesn’t say anything to me!” The laugh that came from the house was so loud, I’m surprised we didn’t hear anything from the neighbors. The baby had no idea he couldn’t speak to her, but she knew something wasn’t right. She knew you’re supposed to speak when someone says, “good morning.” It wasn’t the only time my sister honest innocence caused raucous laughter to fill the house. She was always good for comic relief during those trips, even when she had no idea what was going on. I miss those days and those trips. I miss the family who is no longer with us, my Dad, my grandparents, my cousin Eddie, my Uncle Eric (The E in Kyle E.), and my Uncle George. That day, Thanksgiving Eve, taught me how much my family’s love means to me. When we would leave, after 5 days of love and laughter, we all would cry as Dad pulled away from the driveway while Grandma stood on the lawn, waving to us with tears in her eyes. I remember it like it was yesterday. I’m thankful and glad it’s resonance always allows me to, virtually, go back in time, anytime. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

#family #thanks #thanksgiving #memories #roadtrip

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mystorymylifemywords · 6 years

Text

In His....

In His Head

What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. Why did I even get out of bed, put on this suit, and get into this car? This is a waste of time. She doesn’t give a good gotdamn about me, but my ass is sitting outside this church like a stooge to be a witness of something I shouldn’t be seeing.

She was a crush, that's all. A life-long crush, but nothing else. She likes to call herself a "friend," but she's nothing but an acquaintance. She usually doesn’t give me the time of day, but I jumped at the chance to come to her wedding despite not wanting her to be happy. Damn, that sounds contradictory. How can she not give me the time of day and still find it within herself to invite me to her wedding? What the hell am I doing here?

I'm so in my head, right now. Look at all these people. They're smiling and happy for the couple and their forthcoming nuptials. I'm trying not to show the pettiness I feel in my heart, thank God for sunglasses. I know my eyes and facial expressions would be snitching on me.

I'm here for her and only her. I don't know what's so special about this dude. What does he have that I don't have? Shit, that's a question I've asked myself my entire life. I've always come second to my friends when it comes to women. I've always been the other dude. Women have always looked at my boys and been like, "What up, though!?" while looking over at me and quietly saying "Hi...." as if saying it too loud would attract a shocked reaction from the surrounding masses. They would never say my name, either. They probably didn't know it. I was the nameless, faceless friend whom women tried to avoid or discretely acknowledge, like a homeless man panhandling for money. I used to beat myself over that shit, I guess I'm still doing it.

Alright, where am I going to sit and why don't I see anyone I know? Is this some kind of joke? I'm always thinking someone is trying to play me. This girl always has so many people trying to be around her, you would think this place would be flooded with “her people,” but the turnout seems intimate. There's no way she meant to invite me. This had to be a mistake. Everyone here looks like family or people who have grown up with him or her. None of her partners from school are here, well, I see couple of her line sisters. The only reason why I noticed them is from the pictures she's always posting on social media. Her social media presence annoys the shit out of me. She can say the most benign thing on social media and people who want her attention will "like" it just for an off chance that she engages them in a marginalized conversation. Hell, I must not be any better than them. I showed up at this wedding with my inner conscience believing I'm going to have a Dwayne Wayne moment. “Please, baby! Please!” Ha! I'm so lame. I'm comparing my life to an early 90s sitcom. She's no Whitley, though. Jasmine Guy would probably say that's a good thing. A Southern Belle she is not, but she sure does have her ego. For all that, I'm no Dwayne. He had a cool, nerdy, calm confidence about him. I’m just awkward and shy, expect when it comes to video games and obscure literary and hip-hop figures. Those are the only times I come out of my shell. I still think Pharoahe Monch is the most underrated hip-hop artist of all-time. He takes a little Melle Mel, a little Rakim, a little

Grandmaster Kaz, and a lot of his own flavor to create lyrics that are existentially mind-blowing. Dude said, “Lights flash, if I could only put the past on a flash drive...For peace of mind, install an external drive…So I’d be more driven internally to survive.” That shit’s talking to me, right now, son. I wish I could download my past and put it on some other shit so I can do some other shit because this shit right here is some bullshit.

What was I thinking about, again?

Oh, yeah, this damn girl and this inevitable wedding….

The longest conversation we've had was right after I broke up with Jessica. No lie, I honestly believed she only reached out to make herself feel better. I don’t even know how she found out about the split. I didn’t say shit to her, but she slid into my DMs asking if I was okay, if I wanted to talk, and gave me her number. Instead of resisting, I gave in and made myself feel foolish for even thinking I was anything more than a boost to her self-confidence and self-esteem. I was her charity case and she decided, after 20 plus years, to throw me a bone. She texted me a few times over a couple weeks to see how I was doing, but I still looked at those messages as pity. She would never engage when I responded. It was like a chore to her and a fucked-up way to treat a person.

Aside from that call, I’ve texted her to see how she’s doing, just attempting to be a decent human being while giving her a chance to save face. The messages were typically met with deafening silence. I had to delete her digits. I can’t deal with flaky people. No one deserves to be ignored. It’s just rude. Like, if you don’t want to talk to someone, be straight with them, and tell them! When she did respond, she had the temerity to passive aggressively say we are only friends and only going to be friends. Don’t use a roundabout way of saying you aren’t interested! I’ve known you weren’t interested since we met in high school! Why the hell would things be any different, now?! Nothing I’ve said to her showed anything aside friendship. I never said, “Hey, sweetheart! I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’m going to come scoop you so we can chill,” or asked her to send me suggestive pictures or attempted to engage in any conversation that even alluded to anything more than friendship. On top of that, you don’t respond to my fucking texts, so how can I get your ear for you to even think I want anything else? She must think, since she’s so attractive, everyone wants her. Yes, she’s very pretty girl, but fuck man! A nigga is simply trying to make conversation, that’s all! All of this brings up my fear of rejection. Going any further with her would simply do myself more harm and she invites me to this dog and pony show, but for what reason? I don’t think she knows the meaning of friendship. If she did, she wouldn’t use it to describe whatever this thing is we have between each other. I hope this dude knows what he has coming. All of this happened well before she allegedly met him. I’m not the one to step on toes, so I always ask if the women whom appear to want to converse are talking to someone. Maybe she took that as me seeing if the coast was clear to holla. That’s some simple Simon assumptions, shit…

I gotta breathe, man….

I’m running a full dialogue in my head and jump from telling a story to myself to screaming on her. I need to calm down. Seriously, why am I so angry? I mean, really? Why am I pissed? Did she do anything to physically hurt me? Nope. Has my life moved on without her? Yup. Hell, I have a lady of my own, but I’m up here thinking about his girl like she’s some goddess, like she’s Aphrodite from around the way and we’re in this holy place to praise Hymen while my mind is being controlled by Pothos and Eris. I need to get a grip. Plus, I know good in hell well that I would never scream on her like I do in head. It’s just so damn frustrating when you don’t understand a person’s actions.

The ceremony is about to begin and I don't want dude to show up. I don't even know the guy, but I don't like him. Jealously is a helluva drug. It makes you think irrational things like all that stuff that got me all riled up a few minutes ago. He's probably a nice fella with a good family and whatnot, but he's going to get what I've wanted for years. What did he do to get her? Was it his confidence? His job? His personality? Was is something shallow like his looks, the size of his Johnson, or his money? I wouldn't put it past her. She’s always had a type. It was always some guy from the other side of the tracks, a "bad boy." Those dudes were a joke. I wonder how many of them stayed out of the system? She was their arm candy, nothing more. They paraded her around like a trophy and always kept her pockets padded. She was only around them as payback to her father for being too controlling over her life. He’s a hardworking man, and from what I’ve seen and heard, only wants the best for her and loves her, a lot. You usually hear about these things when the father is absent, but he was always at the school functions and is still married to her mother. It’s probably single-child syndrome, but I’m not close enough to her family to know the real story. When you go behind the curtain, you see a lot of skeletons.

Man, I know way too much. If the people in these church pews knew what I know, they would think I was stalking her, but when you want attention, people start to talk, and your business becomes everyone's business. She was always fueled by attention while we were in school. That's probably something that plagues the prettiest girls in all the schools across the globe who are also only-children. It's like a superiority complex. "I'm attractive and don’t have any siblings, so you should give me your attention when I want it." When she's done with you or she bores of your conversation/company, she discards you like old rubbish. You dance to her drum or you don't dance at all. She lives in a solipsistic world and my dumb ass still wants a part of it. Knowing me, I probably think I can fix her.

Here she comes. Her Pops is smiling from ear to ear and she looks breathtaking. I need to leave. I don’t want to watch this and I haven’t felt comfortable since I woke up. My stomach is in knots. You would think I’m the one jumping the broom. I suppose this ceremony is the end of any possibilities of a future with her and she wanted me to witness the demise of something that never existed. Damn, just damn! I’m extra as hell. People aren’t that conniving; at least I don’t think they’re that evil. I can’t leave, though. If I leave, now, people will turn and look to see who was so insolent to walk out in the middle of a wedding. I’m a no-name, though. People will forget I’m even here even if I stay. I’m certain she won’t give damn. She didn’t want me here from the start.

I’m out….

In His Car

I'm glad I got out there. I couldn't take seeing that shit. It was breaking my heart seeing her smile because I didn't cause it. I know that's selfish as fuck, but when you see your dream girl walking down the aisle and she isn't walking toward you, it fucks with your head. Shit, I don't think I've ever made her smile. It's whatever. I know I'm going to hear from her. I didn't do such a good job of leaving without being noticed. I know I said it wouldn't matter, but the attention shouldn't have been on me. People were whispering and everything as I got up. I hope I didn't cause some sort of scandal and ruin her day. I don't care if I ever talk to her again. She doesn't give a shit about me. I'm her charity. We did make eye contact as I was leaving, though. Fuck man! I'm all over the place with my emotions. I don't know what I want. Do I want her to care, or don't I? I should've stayed my ass at home....

Now I'm back in my car and I need to figure out what I'm going to do now. I mean, aside from feeling like I shouldn't be at this wedding, I shouldn’t be in this area, period. I lied to my girl on the off chance something dramatic would happen and my fantasy would come true. She thinks I'm in Chicago for business. She doesn't pay too much attention to what I'm doing, though. Seriously, who drives from Philly to Chicago? I know I don't like planes and airports, but only a fool would make that drive, especially in his own car. It's sort of funny, too, that she would believe that story. She has ridiculous trust issues. That's the story of my life. I'm always falling for the girl with trust or daddy issues. It's bullshit, man! It's not my fault your father called you names and hurt your feelings when you were younger. It's not my fault he ran out on you and your mother because he didn't know how to handle his responsibilities. It's not my fault that dudes have cheated on you and put you down. Your past isn't my fault, but all those girls felt it necessary to take it out on me. I've never cheated on someone. I've come close a couple times, but my conscience is too strong and I'm too big of a believer in karma. What goes around comes around. I'm afraid I'm going to slip my dick in something and I catch something that can’t be cured, regardless of if I'm strapped up.

I shouldn't stress about lying to her. She's been lying to me for months and I just let it go. They aren't even good lies, either. They're the type of lies to you tell when you're not even trying to lie, you just don't want to tell the truth. You know, those lies you would tell your mom when you had silverware or dishes in your room. You couldn’t give a shit, but telling the truth would take way more effort.

Where the hell is my GPS? Aww, damn! This shit slipped under the passenger seat! Argh! That’s what I get for putting it behind the seat like a lazy ass and not disconnecting it and putting it in the glove box. I don’t feel like getting out of car so now I need to do that uncomfortable lean and reach to grab it from under the seat cavity. Each time I do it, I feel like my shoulder is going to pop out of the socket. My shit is mad sore, afterwards. I remember dropping a condom wrapper back there when I first bought the car. My ex and I were breaking in the leather and I just threw the wrapper on the floor. Unbeknownst to me, an air conditioner vent is under the seat. When I turned on the air a few days later, I heard something rattling and it was the wrapper….

I wonder how many people these long dialogues with themselves in their head. I’m going on and on to myself, about myself. I hope this normal. It’s one of those things you don’t want to talk about because you don’t want other people to think you’re crazy. It’s like asking someone about how they shower or bathe. Once you find out someone’s technique, you won’t look at them the same. I remember in elementary school, one of my friends said he sticks a bar of soap up his butt to kick it clean. That sounds very questionable, right now. Ha!

Now what story was I telling myself before the thing got lost under the jawn? Oh, yeah, my lying ass other half….

She's always working, always. No matter what time of day, she's working. I'm not knocking her hustle, she should get her bread, but no one works all day and all night. She has this rule that she won't respond to my texts from 8-4. I don't want to get in the way of her work, so I respect her wishes. Here's the thing, she has two phones, a work phone and a personal. The work phone is a Blackberry. Who the hell still uses Blackberrys? What kind of cheap ass company still gives their employees obsolete technology? Her personal is an iPhone, so they have two distinct tones when texts are received. I should know because I had the same Blackberry, 3 years ago, and I currently have an iPhone. So, I took a random day off from work and she decided, unbeknownst to me, to work from home. She wanted to act surprised when I didn't leave the house. It's my house, witch! I'll do what I want! I don't need to explain why I took off from work. I'm a grown ass man who pays all the bills, even some of yours. Don't give me the side eye because I'm living my life in my own space. You could take your ass to your place, but as you say, "You have faster wifi and a more comfortable environment." Yeah, whatever. Anyway, tell me why that iPhone was going off, again and again and again!? I didn't realize which phone was going off for a few minutes, but it kept happening. I turned, looked at her, and gave her the "what the fuck" face. She just smiled at me, sheepishly. Yeah, you got caught doing dirt. That fucking phone goes off early in the morning, too. If you're in bed with me, who the hell is texting you? Don't text another dude in my bed, nigga. I need to catch her. I had the idea of doing some Michael Weston, Burn Notice shit. I wanted to take her fingerprint off a glass with a piece of Scotch tape and then putting it over her phone when she gets up to go to the bathroom. The wild part, she takes that phone everywhere! Even in the middle of the night, she takes the phone with her. I know she's doing dirt because why would you need to your personal phone on you all the time, in the place that you call comfortable, but not your work phone? The work phone should be more important because you don’t want to miss an email or phone call. I swear a heard the camera go off while she was in the bathroom. Light sleepers hear everything. This nigga was texting her pussy on my toilet and using my light. I should’ve dropped her ass right then and there, but I didn’t have physical proof. I’m a paranoid type of dude. I can’t let my paranoia win the day and unnecessarily cost me. I guess that’s why I stay with her. I fear myself….

I better not sit in this car for too long. That service going to let out, soon. I don't want people coming over here and staring at me. I just don't have the energy to drive to the hotel. I don't get how this day was so draining. That’s a lie. I do know why with my sensitive ass. I became too emotionally invested in something that was merely a pipe dream. I do that shit too much. I try to see the positive, see the possibilities, but reality gives me a knife-edged chop like Ric Flair, and then gives me a long, exaggerated, wide-eyed "Woooo!" Reality is constantly styling and

profiling on me. I wish I could do the same thing, but my proverbial limousine is stuck in park and covered in bird shit. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I'm annoying myself with my pity party.

I love how my thoughts get me off topic. My conscience has ADHD. Ha! What was I thinking about? Oh, yeah, my "girlfriend." Ha! Even in my head I don’t say her name! That’s how I refer to her when people ask. I call her “the girlfriend.” I use air quotes and everything. That’s kind of disrespectful, but her crocodilian ass earned it.

I should’ve left her ass when Karlos was killed in a car accident while on his way to visit me for a weekend. He was making the drive from our parents’ home and lost control of his car when he hit a patch of black ice on I-95 South, just outside of Philly. He never wore his seat belt, so he was thrown from the car, and shattered his neck and the base of his skull on impact. To say I was devastated would be an understatement. I think I cried for 2 weeks, but I was alone. She was traveling for work, but couldn't make time for me because she didn't know what to do. What kind of lame ass accuse is that? You're too busy fucking one of your co-workers, or whomever is texting you at 6am, to show any type of common human decency? Come on, now! What kind of person are you? I blocked that shit out, though. During that whole ordeal was when I came closest to cheating on her.

At the funeral, I reconnected with Kenya, an old friend from high school. People were asking me about Keyna….

Yeah, I said her name in my conscience, but it’s probably because after what happened, I was afraid of calling Keyna, Kenya, and ending up like John Wayne Bobbit. Now that I think about it, Dad messed up one day and called one of Los’ girls by the wrong name. He called Cristina, Kristin. It would’ve been cool if Los didn’t date Kristin before Cristina came around. On top of that, there was Crystal, Crystal, Krystal, and Christina. Dad was always as nervous as a hooker in church when different girls would come through. He never was good with names, but luckily, she didn’t hear any of those conversations, so I didn’t have to share that I had a girlfriend. Also, you would think your significant other would show up to the funeral of her boyfriend’s sibling, but she just a selfish person. Shit, I should’ve dropped her ass after she said she wasn’t coming.

It’s crazy how emotions get out of kilter when something tragic happens. My brother just fucking died and for some reason, I needed to get my dick wet to get over it. Yeah, that's weird as hell, but men hold their emotions in certain ways. I guess I just wanted to be touched and held. I wanted someone to be there for me since my so-called girlfriend was too busy getting her hairy bush waxed by Keith or Cali or Brandon or Tim. I guess it was the moment when time, space, and opportunity met. I’m glad that moment happened. It was a real-life fantasy played out in front me. I’ll never forget it.

I shouldn’t call her an old friend. Friend isn't the correct word to use to describe her. We weren't friends in high school. We were barely acquaintances. Hell, when I found out who she was related to, I was surprised because I never made the connection. I was friendlier with her sister whom I didn't know was her sister. Honest to goodness, they didn't look alike, to me. One was cinnamon complexion with dark brown hair and kind of slim, while she was the color of almond milk, with freckles, body for days, and reddish-brown hair. I also didn't remember seeing them in the same place at the same time. You would think sisters of the same age, like my brother and me, would be around each other, frequently. Hell, the girl who I thought was her sister, same body type and same round face, was nothing but a self-created red herring.

Years after we graduated, she asked my brother about my podcast. She went to an after-school program with him, so they were relatively close. I never knew if he smashed. My brother didn't talk about his women because, as he liked to say, "Niggas who talk on their dick don't let their dick talk." I guess he inherited that type of boorish conversing from our Dad. When Dad tells stories about Mom from back in the day, he always says she was, “Built like a brick shithouse!” After he lost his job as a chemist due to downsizing he laid this gem on me, “Fuck ’em and feed ‘em beans!” I still don’t know what the hell that means. My brother was a crass dude, just like Dad. Damn, I miss you, bro. Mom and Dad are still going through it. He never could get on his feet. He jumped from job to job, but couldn't find something that held his attention. He loved to read and could go on and on about literature for hours and hours. He found zero use for his communications degree from Rutgers or his masters in communications from Villanova. He did have a serious passion for writing, though. Dude had some words, but he didn't know how to get into the industry. He has the same problem as me. He never thought he was good enough to be recognized by someone who mattered, so he kept his talent to himself. I would like to do a data transfer on his Mac and look at his collection of work, but I feel that's an invasion of privacy. He deserves to rest in peace. Plus, I don't want to find anything that would make me view him differently. Being only a year apart, so we did almost everything together, but everyone has their secrets. He deserves to keep his secrets secret. Anyway, when he told me she asked, I was perplexed. Why was she even thinking about me and who told her I had a podcast? It sounded like some stalker shit.

Aww, shit! The wedding is letting out. I can't be here. I'm in my feelings, right now. I know my eyes are red, thinking about Karlos. I’ve been on the verge of tears for I don’t know how long. Let me peep my game in this mirror. Yeah, I’m the vain motherfucker who moves his rearview mirror to look at himself. I catch myself doing that on the road, sometimes. I need to cut it out before I get hurt, or worse. Yup, they're red and I haven't even been crying. Just the level of emotion I'm feeling right now has overcome me. My bro, this wedding, sneaking away from my lady. What did Ron Burgundy say? I’m in a glass cage of emotion! Where are those damned sunglasses? Shit! Where the fuck did I put them?! I had them on my face when I got into the car. Where are they?! Calm down, dude, calm down. It's okay. Your heart is racing for no reason. Here they are, in the middle console. Let me jump on 95 and get to my hotel. I'm feeling like eating pancakes for some reason. Yo! I can go to Eggspectations! The one in Ellicott City isn't far at all! I'm going to tear those joints up! I glad I got my mind off the situation at hand but I know it will wander back while on the road. It always wanders back....

I-95 is an interesting highway. It literally hits every major city on the east coast. Boston, New York, Philly, Baltimore, DC, and Miami. In 300 or 400 miles, you could see 3 of the 5 largest cities in the country without deviating off the beaten path. That’s extremely cool. Damn, I’m a nerd. I’m up here thinking about cities on an Interstate. Who does that? Probably the same guy who can recite every lyric to every song ever released by Mos Def. I’m never going to call that dude Yasiin Bey. It’s not on some disrespectful, Floyd Patterson not calling Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali, shit. I just forget he changed his name. That dude is so talented. It’s messed up that he’s retiring, but that’s a selfish comment on my part. Every man has the right to live his life in the way he best sees fit. Do your thing Flacco Bey aka Pretty Dante, do your thing! I wish he did more movies. I use his sheepish line from Brown Sugar about champagne flutes, all the time. That joint cracks me up! I need to watch that movie when I get home. Richard Lawson! My divorce! HA!

I think I was playing Mighty Mos on my podcast the day the girl reached out to me. I’d forgotten she asked Los about it. It caught me off-guard because we didn’t communicate, often. I still didn’t understand why was she thinking about me? My Facebook account was in its infancy, so I hadn't said much to anyone or had the chance to offend anyone with my sarcastic way of speaking. I'm so to myself, no one noticed me, at least that was my belief. I figured she was like those girls who acted like the wrath of God would come down on them for even looking my way. Anyway, I gave her the link to the site and eventually we started texting back and forth with a couple phone calls sprinkled in. I was the one who stopped responding. I moved away from North Jersey and left everything in my past behind. I was happy to see her familiar face that Cimmerian morning, though. For some reason, her face ingrained itself in my soul. It was like when Mike saw Alicia at Roland’s wedding in The Wood. I was sort of struck by her, but not in the same way because we didn’t have much of a past. In the shadow of death, she provided the luciferous moment my soul needed. She came over to me at the repass and we had a long conversation. There were tears, smiles, laughs, and moments of uncomfortable vulnerability.

She came back to my parents’ house after the services were completed and we sat in the basement. Los and I always brought our girls to the basement, not to say Kenya was my girl or anything. When Dad was on his music kick, he soundproofed the walls so Mom couldn't hear all the noise he was making. I don't think he thought about the moans and screams from teenage and young adult girls he would be masking, too. Kenya and I sat in the basement and talked for hours, literally. I didn't sit next to her, though. I was beyond shaken by the events of the past week and I was feeling some type of way about her. I also knew my capabilities, despite having committed myself to someone. We talked about everything, our past, our outlook for the future, and, of course, Karlos. At one point, I saw tears roll down her French vanilla, freckled cheeks. I saw her cry earlier, but this was different. These tears were lonely. They were calling me. Her tears were the manifestation of withheld passion for the man in front of her as well as the pain of losing a friend. She needed to be consoled, but I was afraid. I didn't know what to do. I didn't like to see her pretty face cry in such a stoic manner, one tear streaking down her cheeks while glistening in the ambient moonlight shining through the window, but hiding in the darkness. I found myself slowly walking toward her with my right hand delicately, invitingly, and supportively reaching for her face. I wiped her eyes with my hand and kissed on the forehead before I sat next to her. A strange feeling came over my body. I can’t quite describe it. I felt weightless, but weighed down. I felt happy, fulfilled, but empty and sad. I started to ask her questions about her body, but I couldn't believe what I was doing. It was like an out of body experience. I wanted to touch and feel her. I wanted to know how she tasted and how she smelled. I wanted her and she gave herself to me, but I stopped myself short of any intercourse. I couldn't bring myself to it. I felt guilty because I was committed to someone else. I didn't want that karma to hit me. Yes, I enjoyed seeing her extremely unique body. Her pierced D cup, tear drop breasts with freckled, pink areolas on her toasted banana cream skin made the blood rush to my organ. My tumid state clouded my judgment as I asked to see and touch her vagina. Her skin and lips were so smooth. She was wet and pulsating with excitement while her salty, sweet floral aroma lightly fragranced the room. I was in the throes of lust for a woman I had not seen in years. I wanted to be inside her. I need to release the passion and pain of the previous week....

Hold on….

Who is calling my phone?!

Oh, shit....

On His Phone

Wow! She’s calling me? She’s calling me, right now? She picks today, of all days, to call me with all this stuff going through my head?! I thought she hated my guts, but she’s hitting my phone, at this moment?! This has been a wild day. I’m not answering this call. I remember when she left me hanging when I was trying to get at her when she randomly texted me a couple years after I left school. I can’t deal with this shit, man. I just can’t. I’m not taking her call….

Aye yo, why the fuck am I so frazzled!? I’m about to eat some motherfucking delicious, buttermilk pancakes at Perkins and I’m cursing in my head like Samuel Motherfucking Jackson! That old ass nigga is crazy as shit. He’s a great actor, though. I loved him as Jamal’s Dad in Ghostwriter, which still makes me crack up, and his role in The Long Kiss Goodnight with Geena Davis. I wish I could meet him and ask him how he feels to cuss out a stupid ass white people who confuse him with other black actors who look nothing like him. Those commercials he does with Spike Lee and Charles Barkley for Capital One during the NCAA Tournament are great, too.

Sam Jackson got my thinking all sidetracked, I guess that’s a good thing. I’ve been on a roll for the past several hours. This phone call, though. This phone call has me literally shaking my head. If I was texting someone, S-M-H would be prevalent in my messages. This girl was the first girl, well, nix that, the second girl whom I found very attractive and she could barely tolerate me. When I say tolerate, I mean it in the loosest sense of the word. If this woman could've permanently scrubbed me from her vision and hearing, making me a silent shadow, she would've paid any amount of money to do so. If this was the 1920s and 30s, she would’ve hired Murder Inc. to have me exterminated simply for being born. What's worse? I have no idea what I did to receive that reaction. I guess my personality rubbed her the wrong way, which isn’t surprising or new.

This is the most I’ve ever been this much into my thoughts. Usually, I don’t think, I just react, but I guess I need to wrap my brain around everything that’s going on. This isn’t too much, but a nigga is feeling a little emotional and all these random memories are being associated with current occurrences. I wouldn’t have thought I would feel that uncomfortable at the wedding and would’ve been so into my feelings when I left the wedding or so angry when I started thinking about my sorry-ass girlfriend. I need to calm down, but my inner self won’t shut the fuck up. This usually only happens when my insomnia is wreaking havoc. This shit just feels so fucking different and so odd. I remember when things were simpler, like in college….

I wasn’t a major player on Seton Hall's campus. I put my headphones on, kept my head down, and went to class. All those New York City niggas needed to be seen and show off, I wasn’t down with that shit. There’s a part of my personality that’s no-nonsense. Some shit just needs to get done without frills, like walking to class. Those dudes didn’t get it, but they’re from a section of the country that couldn’t be any more different than where I grew up. Regardless, I don’t think that had anything to do with me not being a “big fish” at The Hall.

I remember people used to call me, “Dude in the Falcons jacket” because I wore an Atlanta Falcons letterman's jacket, every winter and fall day for 4 years. It was very distinguishable. That shit makes me laugh. There was a dude that we caught fucking our boy’s girl, at his apartment, on the bed he bought, that we called, “Dude in the red jacket.” Who fucks, inside a house or apartment, and keeps his jacket on?! Did “Dude in the red jacket” think that was his sexual motif? Did dude think he was an amateur Mr. Marcus and wearing his jacket was akin to Mr. Marcus never taking off his baseball cap and socks? That nigga was a simp. He also jumped out the window when he saw us. Bitch ass couldn’t face the music when the music was at the got damn door. It took everything we had inside us not to jump his ass whenever we saw him on campus.

My thoughts keep getting sidetracked with randomness. I’m starting to annoy, myself. That’s probably why she couldn’t stand me. Shit, I don’t know, man.

Since my class-going tableau never changed, it made sense to earn that moniker, and I hate I associate the nickname with the “Dude in the red jacket,” but that’s how my brain works. Did just fucking use the word tableau in a sentence? No one thinks or talks like that! Who the fuck says tableau? I’m seriously on my Carlton Banks, right now. The nigga said “opt!” OPT! And endowment! The only time I hear opt is when I’m declining some credit card shit and the only time I hear endowment is when I’m watching some fuck shit on PBS! Why am I yelling in my head?! I’m going crazy man! These women are driving my fucking crazy. I feel like Musiq Soulchild without the lazy eye.

I lost my training of thought….Reflections Eternal….Mos Def & Talib Kweli….fuck, man….

Where was I? Oh, yeah….

I used to walk across a parking lot next to one of the dorms, every day, while headed to class during my junior year. Later in the school year, I became friendly with a girl who saw me take that daily path. The first time I met her, which was at a mutual friend’s house party, she asked me a slightly creepy question that made me take a step back. She asked me what I was listening to on my way to class. In my head, I was like, "Whoa! I barely know you and have never laid eyes on you until this moment. What kind of question is that? Are you stalking me?" Yeah, I had a stalker while I was at school. I had a couple, neither of them were cute. One of them we called Rambo because she was always wearing camo bandanas and the other was called Snuffaluffagus because, well, she fucking looked like Snuffy from Sesame Street, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, my soon-to-be friend picked up on the immediate withdrawn look on my face and said she could see me from her room, in attempt to backtrack on the intrusive, but innocent question. I laughed it off when I noticed her need for me to accept the mea culpa. I told her I was listening to a mixed playlist of hip-hop and R&B on my Minidisc player. Our friendship blossomed after that moment while also becoming the genesis of the intimate relationship purgatory which would mold my early 20s and influence my 30s. That’s another story, too….

Now, that first girl who hated my guts. Dawg….

During freshman year, I was completely lost, emotionally and mentally. I wouldn't say I was homesick. I was glad to be so far away from home. My Texas drawl became somewhat of a novelty act in North Jersey. Anyway, I spotted a tall, big chest, gorgeous woman talking to one of my boys. Yeah, I'm the guy who takes women from his friends. Sue me. So, I see her talking to one of my boys and I say to myself, "Woo wee! She's finer than all outdoors! I would drink her bath water!" I was country as fuck, back then. To say the woman was bad would be an understatement. As time progressed, this young lady became part of our ever-growing crew. We started as group of 5 and quickly grew to about 10, maxing out at 15 with a couple kats making cameos on a random basis. I wish some of those meddling motherfuckers never showed up. Getting back to the girl, I tried to talk to her, but at the time, I came off as extremely bougie and talked down to people. It wasn't on purpose. I was overcompensating from being a big fish in the little pond of Tyler, TX to being the type of fish you throw back because into the water because it's worthless. I was catfish in an ocean of Alaskan salmon. Nah, let me check myself. It was definitely on purpose. I was a bitter, jealous, little nigga. I was trying to make my mark and failed, miserably. This girl picked up on my poor job of attempting to garner attention and put me in my place whenever she could. She would've pissed on the me if I was on fire on the side of the road, but she would have crapped on me, afterwards, to increase the embarrassment. That's how much she disliked me. After the school year, she was spent the summer riding the train with her father who was a conductor for Amtrak. I don't know why she called when they were on their way to Tyler, but she did and saw a completely side of me. Get this, she fell for me in 2 days. My demeanor was so different and so I was relaxed and cool, the kid landed the girl who was built like a brick shithouse! As in most college relationships, it didn't last. Big breasts lose their allure when the girl doesn't put out and you're tired of getting blue balls when you see her. It physically hurts to be 18 and horny.

Getting back to the gist of the story, it was in the summer between my junior and senior year when I saw this young lady, who I think still wishes I would die a fiery death. My best friend's girlfriend was having a cookout at her mom's house in South Jersey. Straight up, my eyes popped out of my head like when Roger Rabbit saw Jessica for the first time. Ok, that was straight up hyperbole. Truth, she was exotic to me because, and this is going to sound crazy, but it was the first time I saw freckles on a black woman of her complexion, in person.

In Tyler, there aren't too many people who look like me and there aren't too many people who wanted to hang around an Indo-Jamaican, African American family, either. We were too different for the good folks in Tyler, plus they liked to say nigga more frequently than Michael Blackson at a Juneteenth celebration, so we kept to the small group of black folks in our neighborhood, most of whom have lived there since the Civil War. All that being said, those freckles were sexy as hell. On top of that, she was chesty, probably a D cup or larger. In the years since beginning to attempt to guess breast or bra sizes, I've found I'm not as good as I once believed, which means I've always been wrong. It serves me right for sexualizing someone based off two lumps of fat they can't conceal without 10 feet of Ace bandages, a spool of duct tape, and a tutorial by Hilary Swank.

Looking back, I know it wasn’t just the freckles that spread across her full cheeks like vanilla beans in ice cream. It was the perfect imperfection of her big brown eyes, butter pecan skin, and chestnut brown hair that changed colors in light depending on the angle. Look at me being all poetic and shit. Call me motherfucking Langston Hughes. Nah, I’m more like Harper Stewart. There I go, again…. Anyway, basically, I needed to get her attention, but was so got damn lost in the sauce, a nigga didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to rub her the wrong way. Shit, I was confident in myself and oratorical skills, but women fuck with my head without saying a word. Maybe it was all the weed I was smoking, but got damn….

Listen to this shit, though, all the good vibes I was feeling when first saw her were dashed when she looked through me and tried to act like I wasn't present when we were introduced. I was Patrick fucking Swayze! I was a got damn ghost, dude! I’ve never felt so small. When you run so hot and cold, as I’ve always run since I was little, that shit is so humbling. I remember when I was 12, playing in the regional AAU championship basketball game at Carter HS in Dallas and nearly got kicked out for ripping off my jersey, throwing it to the ground, and going on an expletive-riddled tirade while stomping off the court after the ref called the third phantom foul on me in the first 5 minutes of the first half. I was the best player on the team and that non-refereeing son-of-a bitch couldn’t get his shit straight. My Mother had a fit and went chasing after me to cuss me out and tell me how I’m supposed to behave in high pressure situations. I didn’t learn shit from that moment, but it’s a funny story.

Now, I was already behind the 8-ball and was in a silent panic because this was unfamiliar territory. The competitor in me needed to win this girl, but the shy kid in me was telling me to fall back. That was extremely confounding! In 2 minutes, I went from, "Yup, I got this!" to "Umm, hey, over here! I'm standing in front of you. Look at me!" to "Forget this girl and her bougie, pretentious way. She's not that cute, anyway!" to "But those freckles, though! Damn!" She had me twisted like a Keith Sweat song and all I could do is whine to my boys about getting played without saying a word about my intentions. It was the equivalent of getting fired on your day off. It was a Friday, too.

After that awkward, well awkward for me, interaction or non-interaction, the next time I saw her was at my best friend's 21st birthday party. I should’ve stopped drinking before his birthday because the elixir makes too much of myself. Too much of myself makes me jump off the top of bunk beds, feet first, only fall halfway down and land on my face or request my boys “Call the cops, man, call the cops!” and go on and on sounding like a white boy from the valley saying, “I don’t want to die here, man! I don’t want to die here!” and then throwing up my roommate’s bed because vodka and brown liquor don’t mix. Anyway, I digress….

I can’t believe I’ve been sitting in this Perkins parking lot, thinking to myself, while listening to my boy, DJ Caesar on Shade45 on SiriusXM. I remember when I tried to get at his girl while not knowing she was his girl. He’s a good dude, though, and saw it was an honest mistake. If I ever get married, I’m going to get him to DJ. He’s been a good friend over the past few years and I need to keep the good people around me.

It’s funny, all my people are older than me. Our crew is at least 1 month and as many as 14 months older. I'm the baby, but I don't get treated like it. Let me take that back, I do get treated like the baby because I'm the one who gets picked on and teased ad nauseam. I'm the dude in Belly who shoots Sincere because Buns was cutting on him, in an earlier scene, expect I don't have a violent temper and the grilling and clowning never goes over the line. I guess that's a bad analogy. Let me think, if we were the cast of Saved by the Bell, I would be Screech. That's perfect! I’m the smart nigga in the room with extreme nerd tendencies. Yeah, I’m Screech.

I’m always trying to overcompensate for my shortcomings. My age has always been the largest amongst them. Being the youngest, I try to drink the most, smoke the most blunts, and be the most informed or smartest dude in the room. Shit, I got so high one night, I knew all the secrets of the world and I could touch the future. That’s what I get for fucking with E Double’s gravity bong. When you're young, you learn the hard way.

Ok, so for my boy’s birthday party, my Dad brought me and my female, childhood friend to Newark from his apartment in Baltimore. People were so confused when I would go to Baltimore for spring break or on weekends. Trust me, I wasn't going back and forth from Tyler to Newark. I don't like to fly, I don't like taking my shoes off, and I like to travel with a bag of weed in my suitcase. The NSA would be all over my black ass for trying to pull a Nate Newton at BWI. Getting back to the story, my Dad dropped us off at our friend's house where the party would take place. As soon as I got there, I started drinking. I’m the dude who pre-games at 9am. I was feeling myself too much and was too stupid to eat anything before putting alcohol in my body. By the time the party was scheduled to start around 9pm, I was feeling good. I was waiting on the PYT with the freckles to show up but the liquor had other plans for my patience. Why my ignorant ass didn't eat all day, I’ll never know. When I decided it was a good idea to eat, my stomach gave me the finger. By 10pm, I was drinking Everclear straight from the bottle and smoking the worst rolled blunt in the history of blunts. There were big ass basketball players looking at me like I was crazy.

When I get high, for some reason I think I’m a ladies man. I think I’m Leon Phelps without the afro, bellbottoms, and house boat. So, if an attractive woman enters the room, it doesn't matter if we've never met, I will try to get the digits and, hopefully, take her on trip to Space Mountain. Shout-out to the dude Ric Flair! I wish I could be a limousine riding, jet flying, kiss stealing, wheeling-dealing, son of a gun, but I don’t have that sort of charisma, which why I fail at getting my dick wet when I want to get my dick wet. I can fall into pussy, all day, every day. When a nigga tries to get the draws, I end up masturbating in the shower while listening to Janet Jackson moan on Velvet Rope.

Did I just shout-out Ric Flair in my head? I’m really losing my mind, man. Next thing you know, I’ll be at an Interstate rest stop, standing at a urinal, laughing, while my dick is in my hand. That shit would get me arrested and I would end up at the psych ward of some hospital in rural Maryland. I would have to sit my ass in there until they let me go on my own recognizance because I’ll be damned if I have to call someone and tell them I was arrested for laughing while holding a sexual body part in a public restroom. I’m not going to be the black PeeWee Herman. Fuck that. That’s some shit a nigga does when he’s high. I sound high, thinking to myself and jumping in and out of stories to myself, with my overthinking ass.

Where was I? Right….

I didn’t think the mixture of weed and liquor would stop my pimp game, a nigga was wrong as hell! I was talking to two women who thought I looked like Tek from The Real World, they must've been high and drunk, too, when the room started bouncing and spinning, simultaneously! I was cool until I sat down next to them. As soon as my cheeks hit that couch, it felt like a bad acid trip, or what I would assume how a bad acid trip feels. It's was the craziest experience, ever! Everything was moving in slow motion. I felt like Smokey from Friday after he was tricked into smoking Angel Dust. I felt stuff crawling on me and my skin was on fire. Then, my body decided it didn't like what was going on and my gag reflex kicked into full gear. In the middle of the conversation with the two women, I slid to the floor, and crawled to the bathroom. My boy was watching the entire thing and cleared a path. I was hugging the porcelain throne instead of motorboating D cups. Did just make my second Friday reference in this thought?

So, I missed the PYT because I had to drag my lightweight ass upstairs into the hallway to get out of the way. I laid flat on my stomach, burping the foulest smelling shit known to man, and slipping in and out of consciousness. While I was up there, my people thought it was cute to have fun with me, so they were bringing girls upstairs to clown me and take photos. One of those girls sat her ass on me! Who does that?! When I woke up the next morning, I wasn't allowed to drink the water because, per one of my friends, it smelled like pussy.

I forgot about the PYT until the school year started. It’s dope how I can be out of sight, out of mind with some things, especially around Madden season. When that game would come out, shit, you couldn’t pull me away from my PlayStation. I made so much money beating niggas by using glitches in the game. My nerdiness came up strong in those moments. I was also preoccupied with moving into our apartment.

My boys and I opted to rent an overpriced, on-campus apartment. If people knew how much that shit cost, they would’ve thought we were drug dealers. I guess that's the cost of convenience, but it was well worth it in the long run. To christen the new place, we had a small party with our closest friends. This was the night my best friend and I found out Lime Tosititos and peanut butter M&Ms were a fucking fantastic combination after smoking a bowl.

This was also the night when the PYT first recognized my existence, granted it was because I wasn't wearing a shirt much of the time and my chicken chest was the center of all the jokes, which she instigated. Something was better than nothing, though. I was glad I was too high to retort with anything too biting. I find myself crossing the line when I can't think of anything funny on the spot and it's only cool to be mean when it's funny, which was a difficult lesson to learn. I was mean more often than funny, but on this night, the weed was telling me to calm down, be humble, and not blow the chance to see some drunken breasts in a few hours. When titties are involved, you better got damn listen to the weed!

By the end of the night, the PYT was in my bed, but not with me. If I was telling this story aloud, this is when niggas would get hype. They would think she smashed the homies, but nah, she was in the bed with two other girls. All three of them were passed out, drunk, and fully clothed. I was on the couch letting the weed and the Henny, which came after a couple unsuccessful rounds of truth, dare, or consequences, wear off. The perv in me wanted to jump in the bed with the 3 girls, butt ass naked, and start touching body parts. I know that shit would land me in jail if they didn't consent, so I kept my shirtless, horny, slightly high, slightly drunk ass on the couch and watched reruns of the Golden Girls and Empty Nest on Lifetime. If niggas knew I had thing for Blanche, the clowning would never end. They showed one of my favorite crossover episodes, that night. Blanche showed up on Empty Nest and they did a sitcom version of Fatal Attraction. That was my shit! I wonder if it’s on iTunes?

It was a minute before I saw her, again. When I did see her, she was off limits. She didn't have a nigga or anything, but I had a lady, which was a mistake on my part. I shouldn't really diss my ex, but I’m talking to myself in my head, so it isn’t really a diss. She was cute and had body for days, but she wasn't my type. She liked to watch HGTV, all got damn day, and I wanted to play video games and watch SportsCenter. Listen, her sheltered ass was first truly introduced to hip-hop when got to campus. Her Pop was a doctor in Connecticut and kept his 3 sons and only daughter in the dark regarding a lot of life experiences, especially the nigga shit that everyone should know when they grow up. I mean, she didn’t know putting a brick on the stove in the winter can heat the entire house for pennies on the dollar versus turning on the furnace. She only knew Love & Basketball by the quarter breaks in the movie. The nigga said she’s only watched to the 3rd quarter! Who says that shit? A sheltered as nigga from Bridgeport, CT, that who. She never put water in the ketchup or soap bottles to get the last drop of your hard-earned money. She didn’t know shit! I grew up listening to UGK, the Geto Boys, DJ Screw, and needed to cut corners to save money at every turn. That’s not to say she’s not as black as me, that’s ignorant. She just didn’t have a wide range of experiences. Her body made up for a lot of her shortcomings, though. Her ass was rotund! Plus, she let me do some weird shit I saw on TV. HBO used to play this late-night show called “Shock Video.” In one of episodes, two with big, floppy breasts, were seeing how many books they could under each titty! Since the ex had perky E cups, I was curious as shit! I didn’t have that many books, I didn’t read a damn thing back in the day, I wanted to see how many DVDs she could hold under each breast. For the life of me, I can’t remember how many she held, but the shit was impressive.

Moving on with the story I’m reciting to myself, that’s always going to be weird, when I saw the PYT, we were getting ready for my birthday party at my friend’s house, which meant a trip to liquor store. Being my 21st birthday, I was amped to legally buy alcohol. Since she was younger than me, I had to commit a felony and buy the liquor she wanted. Well, let me revise that comment. I wanted to buy the liquor she wanted so she would have a reason to talk to me. The shit didn't work! I bought her the fifth of Henny, which cost about $10, and was smart enough to say she needed to pay me back. I was trying to be slick because for her to pay me back meant she would have to see me again and actually speak. That shit blew up in my face! Not only did she never pay me back, she didn't even stay for the party! She was there for 5 minutes, then disappeared! She went fucking David Blaine on me! I was pissed to start the party because she bounced, which was before my girlfriend started kissing and rubbing on my boys when they started to arrive. The whole night was a disaster.

The woman I willingly put my penis inside, with and without protection, started drunkenly molesting your closest friends at your own birthday party! I was mad, but happy at the same time. First, you just don't do that shit! You don't! I mean, flirting is one thing, and I can't be mad at that because I'm guilty of flirting with any woman who gives me the time of day, but touching and trying to kiss them on the mouth is something different. I had to pull her off a couple of my friends because she was getting too frisky. They were looking at me like a pimp who couldn't control his hoes. I was happy because she gave me an out. I could get out of the relationship with a valid reason and give the PYT 100% attention, which is what I wanted. Things became easier when the nigga fell through a closet door and pissed her pants. I left her big booty behind at my friend's house and carried myself home.

The whole thing with breaking up with my girlfriend and hollering at the PYT played out differently than I anticipated because it sure as hell didn't work the way I wanted! I saw her outside of the student activity center, a couple weeks after the break up, and gave her my number. She never called and acted like she didn’t want the number. She couldn’t even fake it. Why am I laughing at myself, right now? That shit is funny. I was used to getting dissed or rejected, so I took it well. Nah, nigga, you didn’t take it well. You bitched to people about it, but made sure they didn’t have any contact with the crew because you didn’t want to be that crying, whining ass Keith Sweat-type nigga, again. I was used to getting rejected, though. One night, at a club in the Bronx, I was dancing with this girl. Well, saying I was dancing with her is a stretch. She was dancing and I was trying to catch the beat, which I failed to do. This nigga patted me on the chest and told me she thinks I should stop and walked away! E Double was there and cracked the fuck up! I couldn’t believe that shit! Anyway, the PYT texted me, 2 years later, literally….

For some reason, out the blue, she texted me and wanted to link up. I was floored because, again, I thought she wished me dead. Anyway, for the first time, she was engaging me, commenting on my posts on social media, and including me in some of her thoughts. I didn't know what the hell was happening. I didn't know if I should be happy to finally get to learn more about her or worried that I was getting played. This shit felt like a trap and I was too stupid to fall back. Everything she was doing felt and sounded like some rebound type shit, except, I wasn’t Bill Russell, I couldn’t secure the board, and I knew it. It didn’t take long before the engagement and

the communication stopped. The shit was stopped cold turkey, too. One day, we were cool. The next day, I couldn’t get a response. A nigga was puzzled. So, I did what any other guy in his mid-20s would do when a woman disses him without notice, I deleted her from Facebook. Granted, I re-add her later, just to delete her, again, which became a cycle of mine during that age. I thought deleting someone from social media meant deleting them from my life, but their impact resonated in my mind. The what-ifs were too numerous and I was too immature to take rejection at face value. I took it personally when I should’ve taken it as a challenge to find the flaws within myself and make myself the type of person who can look those who don’t want me around and be unfazed by their convictions.

I guess I didn’t learn my lesson. That’s why I’m in the parking lot of this Perkins when I should be at a wedding reception. Confusion and jealousy makes a man to do crazy things, so do freckles, a big chest, and cowardice.

The real crazy part, I’ve always been more attracted to a woman’s intelligence, the way she thinks, how she interacts with others, and her grind to get what she wants. I saw all of those things in her. The cherry on top was outside package. I was just too dumb not to initiate conversation about things I could gleam simply by seeing the activities she was involved. I’m not saying I would’ve joined those groups, that’s some stalker shit. I’m saying, looking back at my early to mid-20s from my mid-30s, I could’ve used a completely different tactic like not being passive aggressive. Nothing was stopping me from pulling her off to the side and privately introducing myself, letting know my general intentions, and trying to get to know her. I didn’t and don’t know what was going on with her life. I was too selfish to think about anyone else’s trials and tribulations.

I need to call her back. I owe her the respect of listening. I wanted her to listen to me, but I didn’t have the balls to open my mouth. After all these years, she’s opening her mouth. Initiating conversation with someone who is essentially a stranger is one of the toughest things to do in the world. People will climb Mt. Everest, but won’t tell someone who means the world to them how they feel. Emotions are a bitch, man. I guess that’s why Nas made “Life’s A Bitch.” Shoot your shot.

Ok, now I’m mixing metaphors. Let me get inside this restaurant, enjoy my pancakes, and people watch like how Pop taught me....

#thoughts #love #relationships #confusion #conscience #frustration

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mystorymylifemywords · 7 years

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Insomnia

She tossed and turned for hours. Her thoughts were holding her slumber hostage. This was a frequent occurrence. She spent many sleepless nights staring at her ceiling, attempting to count sheep. Her daily stressors were getting the best of her and she didn't know how to win the fight. She began the battle by making her bedroom a more comfortable environment. She sold her TV, purchased blackout curtains, a new mattress, and luxury bed dressings. Despite all of the changes, she still found herself in a never-ending skirmish with dormancy.

During these nights, she frequently found herself watching porn on her phone. It was a lonely feeling and she felt somewhat guilty for receiving pleasure from watching other people have intercourse, but it was the best she could do in those moments. She didn't have a boyfriend and hadn't had a boyfriend in a long time. Her job consumed too much of her energy to focus on the wants and needs of a man. In the same vein, not giving time to a man left her body wanting and needing the intimate pleasures only a man can give.

She liked hairy men. Her friends always found it odd when she would describe running her fingers through their chest hair, but would always demand they shave their nether regions if she were to go down on them or allow them inside of her. She grew tired of pulling long hairs from her vagina while sitting on the toilet after a night of pleasure. When she was in college, her then boyfriend, had a very small penis. When she would take him in her mouth, she engulfed his entire member, to the base of the shaft, and the itchy, curly, rough hairs would do damage to her face, lips, and throat. He was the last one who she didn't force to shave, but wishes she would've while they were together. At the time speaking up wasn’t her prerogative. Instead of rocking the boat, she always found it easier, better, to go with the flow.

She never felt tremendously sexy or attractive. Her long, 6'2" frame made some men feel odd because she was significantly taller than them. She was always the tallest person in her class while growing up, so being taller than most of the men she met was never an issue. She actually was turned on by men who didn't let their height get in the way of their relationship. She liked their confidence and guile when it came to approaching her. She could only imagine how intimating it could be to walk up and talk to the girl or woman everyone could see you conversing.

Despite her own beliefs, she was a very attractive woman. Her dark brown skin was flawless and her salon-dyed blonde hair played in perfect contrast to her melanin infused skin. The scar on her left cheek gracefully aged with her body's maturity. Her hazel eyes and long frame were the physical features that usually caused both men and women to double take as she passed them. She didn't have much of a shape. She had a small chest, small hips, and a proportional behind. However, when she would walk down the street, her strut was like that of a supermodel. It was confident, empowering, and extremely sexy. She emitted an aura of grace and power seen in royalty, but with the humbleness of a pauper. The way she looked was always important.

Growing up as basketball fan on the Southside of Chicago, she was huge fan of Michael Jordan. She loved the way he carried himself and loved how he allowed his actions to speak for him. She didn't always agree with everything he said, but one quote has always stuck with her, "Every time I step foot outside my house, someone will see me for the first time. I have to make the

right impression." She made sure the visual impression she left on the world would leave an indelible mark only she could create. She was a snowflake on clear day, unique, beautiful, and far more complex than meets the eye.

Aside from the boyfriend in college, she would say she'd experienced a lot of "blessed" men. However, not all of her experiences were full of pleasure. A few years ago, she met a guy at a friend's birthday party and decided to go home with him. He seduced her body like no man had ever done before. He knew exactly how to tease her intimate parts and finesse her outwardly visible fears. When he entered her, it was first time she ever felt pain during sex. She never felt pain when she lost her virginity. When she told her best friend about her maiden coitus, her friend chalked up the to her athletic background. Her body tightened with each thrust of the man’s latex covered penis. She felt her vagina loose it elasticity as the perceived ramming continued. She wanted to tough it out, but she couldn’t, and soon tears started to flow from her eyes. The man looked at her with trepidation. He had no idea what was happening and stopped out of fear and confusion.

She whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It just hurts so much. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t think this is good idea.”

The man playfully snickered. It wasn’t the first time he was asked to stop the love-making process due to causing his lady of the night pain. He said, “I’m sorry I hurt you, but there’s nothing wrong with you. I should’ve showed before all of this started. I really didn’t mean to cause you any harm.”

She was puzzled by his response and the bewilderment was plastered on her face. She was afraid of what he was going to say because they were using protection. She made sure to ask him before anything started. She could feel his hand reaching for hers. He gently grasped it and led it to the base of his penis and guided it to the tip. She sat up in astonishment. She’d never seen or felt a penis that thick while being that long in her life. She wanted to try, again, but she asked him to be gentler. He obliged. What resulted was the best sex of her life and the fantasy she relives, frequently. She still doesn’t know why she ghosted him. She believes it’s possible she couldn’t feel that way again and didn’t want to ruin the memory of the experience. He forever became her sexual crush as well as the one who got away.

As she scrolled through the videos on xvideos.com, she felt the anticipation of getting off making her moist. She liked to watch girls cumming, but didn't like seeing porn stars mimicking or mocking orgasms for the camera. She preferred amateur porn. She wanted to see real women with real men having real sex. She closed her eyes and imagined her crush kissing, licking, and touching her. She took off her nightshirt and started rubbing on her nipples as her restless legs began to scissor on the dark blue, silk sheets. Her thoughts were beginning to take over her mind. She was going to a place she hadn't been in a long time. She didn't know how she got there or what made her feel the way she felt. She often tried to imagine the company of another person in her bed, but she couldn't follow through with the thought. When the fantasy would begin, she would quickly fall into slumber. Today was a completely different animal.

She could feel her wetness on her panties. She slid them off and threw them on the floor while in a dazed, emotional, erotic trance. Her hand slide down her stomach and softly, yet expertly, started to rub her clit. The slightest touch made her vulva gush and spray viscose fluid onto her sheets. She was overcome with euphoria as she touched her self. Her back would arch and loud, yet audible, moans escaped her lips while her body become a larger part of her masturbation. She thrust her pelvis into the air as the sensation became deeper and deeper. As the feeling became more intense, she inserted her fingers into her vagina. Feverously, she touched herself. She wanted to get off and needed to get off. It was the only thing on her mind and then, her imagination took over. Everything became silent. She was still knuckle deep into her vagina, but the physical feeling dissipated and the emotional rush took over. Her mind and soul were flood with blissful thoughts. Her crush was the only person she wanted and she only could have him in her dreams.

She began to live and feel the dream….

She could hear his deep, baritone voice telling her what he was going to do....

“I want to bend you over your bed, pull your hair, and bite your neck. I want to nibble on your ears while my hands make their way under your shirt, over your stomach, push up your bra, and massage your breasts. I want to lightly pinch your nipples and then make a soft, circular motion over and around them, inveigling them into a hard, sensitive state. I want to lift up your skirt, rip off your panties, bite and lick your behind while tenderly gliding my finger across your vagina in a seductive manner. I want to spread your legs, kiss your inner thighs, delicately graze and blow on your engorged clit, from the back, until your knees become weak. I want to taste your salty sweet goodness on my tongue as you excitedly excrete your decadence into my mouth. I want to play with your kat with the tip of my penis, teasing you with the anticipation of me entering your warm, moist body. I want to lightly, but sternly, choke you while I slide inside sacred privacy, taking full advantage of the innocent gasp you let escape from your mouth when you feel me, fully, for the first time. I want to feel your vaginal muscles tighten as your body adapts to my displacement. I want to feel your pulse race as my rhythm thrusts my penis in and out of your vagina, varying speeds and tempo while keeping you guessing as to how I will please you next. I want to turn you around, pick you up, and hold you while you ride me, your legs wrapped around my waist like a boa constrictor. I want to caress and nip at your nipples with devious passion so you know who is making your feel this euphorically exasperated. I want to pin you again the wall so you can feel all of my long, thick penis against your inner walls. I want you to feel the veins of my tumid member rubbing against the sensitive, firm, sticky wet walls of your internal genitalia. I want your eyes to roll to back of your head while the tip of my penis bounces against your g-spot while doing Kegel reps during our intercourse. I want to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and as your moans increase in frequency and tenor. I want to make you cum and cum hard. I want you to say my name as you cum. I want you to cum so hard, your fingernails find a home within the skin of my back. I want you to know who is making love to you and how you'll never know another love like mine. I want you to look into my eyes as I climax and pour myself into you while being assured I'm the best you've ever had....”

She came so hard, she nearly fell off the bed. Her body shook in pleasure-filled, numbing seizures. The paralyzing excitement from the rush of adrenaline caused her to temporarily lose feeling in her legs. Her bedsheets were soaked as she expelled lubricating fluid from her vagina. When it was all over, she lay in a pool of her own making. Her heartbeat beginning to normalize, she attempted to stand and clean herself up. However, her legs were too weak and the rush of blood to her lower extremities caused orgasmic aftershocks.

When she was done washing and changing her sheets, she felt clarity within her soul and her mind. She felt physically relaxed and at the peace. Her daily stressors were provisionally out of sight and she experienced the best sleep she’d had in months.

Her battle with insomnia was over….

#short story #creative writing #creativity #sex

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mystorymylifemywords · 7 years

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The Freeloader

Her emotionally bankrupt soul feeds on attention like a virus to a host. She's a gypsy who fears abandonment while withholding her feelings. Her every word, movement, and thought vengefully plots to siphon the adulation of an unwitting male beau. She photographs herself daily, posting them on social media to satiate an empty desire for love through likes and comments, but refuses to respond to all but a select few. She plays along as admirers boast about what they can provide while she responds with short, shallow answers. The cunning charade continues for days as her exotic hazel eyes, vanilla mocha skin, sandy brown hair, perky breasts, long legs, and curvy bottom lure their infatuation. Once she captures her target, she willfully strips and lays in bed nude, but not naked. Despite the obvious visual, her body is blanketed in a fear of rejection. She wears it on her face in a villainously arrogant fashion. No cracks in her armor can be visible. No weakness can be shown. Her beautiful face is masked in stone. Her erect nipples, dilated pupils, and depthless breathing show signs of excitement, but it’s nothing more than copulation chicanery. Her passion is self-consumed. She's constantly thinking of her next move to bleed the well dry and beat the man before he can escape. She uses her power over the moment to play mind games, the cerebral dominatrix versus the dissolute libido. Her facial expressions are the whips and her muscles are the chains. She forces him to pleasure her as she silently commands. Entrance inside her is only granted when her selfishness has been fulfilled. Sex is for him, and only him. It’s payment for being graced by her presence. Throughout the act, she never displays enjoyment, despite her nectar saturating the sheets. Although her body is satisfied, her soul wants more. She solely derives pleasure from public attention and material objects. When he climaxes, relief covers her face with a Grinch-like grin. She's one moment closer to executing her next request. Her favorite word is "too," a reactionary comment of agreement. Exclamations of "I love you" and "I miss you" are met with the visceral, supplemental retort; a niggardly clone of an original thought. Rarely does she initiate conversation or physical interaction. She grouses when affection is shown too often and she grumbles when her silence is disturbed by friendly conversation. She only wants to be engaged on her terms. Passive aggression is her weapon of choice. She manipulates her partner to concede to her wants and needs, ignoring the give and take that sustains relationships. When she doesn’t get what she believes she deserves, empty threats to leave are thrown and innocent comments are twisted in her favor. Her hubris consistently asks to be paid in full for an incomplete product. Eventually, the man catches on. She's the freeloader....

#relationships #relationship #pain #frustation #love #happiness #creative writing #writing #short story

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mystorymylifemywords · 7 years

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The Renter

She jumps from home to home, bed to bed, man to man looking for attention. She only stops for as long as the attention she seeks is the attention she wants at that particular moment. She shows signs of a callous histrionic personality disorder, but with complete control. She selfishly and remorselessly steals a piece of a man's soul under the sinister disguise of love, but carrying a voracious hunger to cannibalize hearts. Constantly, she scours social settings looking for her next victim to allure, seduce, and betray. She's addicted to the chase. She sniffs it through her nostrils as she lustfully climbs his body, teasing his parts from head to toe. She consumes it with her mouth as she places her lips upon his, infusing lust and extracting her soul's food. She injects it into her body as she mounts and rides him to climax, capturing his inhibitions and securing her grasp. Once her high ends, withdrawal begins. Her precipitous fall is instigated by the first time she doesn't get her way, to the ignorance of her man of the hour. She punishes him for not knowing what she wants despite not conveying her desires or needs. Her consistent inconsistency becomes a menstruation cycle of pain. Each egg that passes through her body is filled with the pus of distrust along a stream of cognitive emasculation, leading to the miscarriage of the relationship. In between trysts, she lies in wait, flirting with and attacking past lovers out of boredom. She's only concerned with self-preservation and personal happiness, especially at the cost of others. Her schadenfreude smiles at the burial of another deceased heart while their blood dries on her hands. This woman has forever changed the men she's left in her wake. She's taken a piece of their mind, a piece of their heart, and a piece of their soul as a souvenir. The place inside them where she once lived is abounds with her fingerprints. She's the renter....

#relationships #relationship #control #emasculation #creative writing #writing

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mystorymylifemywords · 7 years

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Complicit Duality: The Story of Allen Iverson

Despite all of his accomplishments, these words will always be synonymous with Allen Iverson…. “I mean listen, we're sitting here talking about practice, not a game, not a game, not a game, but we're talking about practice. Not the game that I go out there and die for and play every game last like it's my last but we're talking about practice man.” Allen Iverson’s life has been one wrought by twists and turns. As a high school student, he was jailed for a bowling alley incident that still divides his community. As a college athlete, he fought his past, made strides toward becoming a better man. As a professional basketball player, his heart, determination, passion, and selfishness made him the Harvey Dent of the NBA; a complicit duality. High School Years Before he was “The Answer,” Allen Iverson was a stand-out basketball and football player at Bethel High School in Hampton, VA. After leading the Bethel football team to the state championship, Iverson vowed he would lead the school’s basketball team to the same honor. Iverson was on top of the world; the most popular, and arguably, the best athlete to come out of Hampton, VA. On Valentine’s Day 1993, Iverson’s world would change forever. While out with friends at a local bowling alley, Iverson was allegedly involved in a racial confrontation with a white teenager. No one knows exactly who said the first word or what was said, but a riot ensued. Chairs, fists, and other objects were thrown between the white and black people at the alley. Witnesses claim Iverson threw a chair that hit a white woman, Iverson refuted that statement. Despite the violence, no one was seriously, physically, injured in the brawl, but the mental scars left on the city of Hampton, VA still exist to this day. The struggle between black and white in Hampton had come to a head. The only people arrested after the brawl were Iverson and 3 of his friends, none of the white teens were detained. The four young men were charged with ‘maiming by mob,’ a decree placed in Virginia law to protect blacks from lynching after the Civil War. The statute did not require proof of participation. To the surprise of the community, its star pupil, Allen Iverson was found guilty of ‘maiming by mob,’ a felony, and sentenced to 15 years in prison, with 10 years suspend, for his role in the melee. During the trial period, the Iverson led Bethel High School to the state basketball championship, bringing his prophecy to fruition. Iverson served 4 months in prison before being pardoned by Virginia Governor Douglas Wilder. In 1995, the Virginia Court of Appeals overturned Iverson’s conviction for lack of evidence. College Years During the spring of 1994, Iverson was visited by Georgetown University head basketball coach John Thompson. Thompson agreed to help the incarcerated star after being visited by his mother, Ann Iverson, while her son was in prison. The visits led to a scholarship offer, which Iverson accepted. During his two seasons with the Hoyas, Iverson was a different type of star than the school was used to having. In the 80s, the Hoyas were led by center Patrick Ewing. In the early 90s, centers Alonzo Mourning and Dikembe Mutombo led the prestigious program. All 3 players were in the mold of their coach, a former NBA center on 2 championship Celtics teams of the 60s and an All-American at Providence College. Iverson could not have contrasted more from his coach, physically. The point guard stood only 6 feet tall and 150 pounds when he arrived at Georgetown. However, Thompson’s aggressive offense on the court and aggressive defense off-court helped mold Iverson into a national sensation. John Thompson made it a point to keep his players away from the media. This was key when it came to the controversy that surrounded Allen Iverson. At Georgetown, Iverson had three things to do: go to class, play basketball, and learn to become a better man. With his personal situations kept private, Iverson flourished on the court. In his 2 seasons, Iverson averaged 23 points per game, 4.6 assists, 3.2 steals, set the single-season Big East steals record, twice, was named Big East Defensive Player of the Year, twice, and was named an All-American after his sophomore season. Allen Iverson was now a superstar. Under the tutelage of John Thompson, Iverson grew as a man, got past his high school troubles, and was moving on to life as a professional basketball player. In doing so, Iverson became the first player to leave Georgetown, early, and declare for the NBA Draft. NBA Years (The Beginning) In 1996, Allen Iverson became the number one overall draft pick of the Philadelphia 76ers and the first point guard taken with the number one overall pick since the Los Angeles Lakers selected Magic Johnson in 1979. Iverson made an immediate mark on the NBA. On his way to winning the 1996-1997 NBA Rookie of the Year award, Iverson averaged 23.5 points, 7.5 assists, and 2.1 steals per game. During a 5 game stretch, Iverson scored 40-plus points and averaged 7.4 assists. However, no 5 game stretch or trophy could equal what the Hampton, VA native did on March 12, 1997. With the crowd rising to their feet, Iverson had the ball in his hands; he was one on one with Michael Jordan. Iverson checks Jordan’s commitment with a small crossover. He bites. After Jordan gets his feet settled, another crossover. He bites harder. Iverson rises from the elbow and knocks down a jumper. Allen Iverson made Michael Jordan part of his highlight reel. In Iverson’s 2nd season, after only winning 22 games during his rookie year, the 76ers named Larry Brown head coach. It was a mixture of Coca-Cola and Pop Rocks that was waiting to explode. On multiple occasions, Brown would publicly accuse Iverson of being lazy and selfish. Iverson would respond by calling Brown disrespectful for saying such things in public. The situation almost bubbled over after 1999-2000 season when the Sixers had a deal in place to send Iverson to Detroit, the deal was never finalized. NBA Years (Becoming ‘The Answer’) When Allen Iverson entered the NBA, the league was going through a personality change. The young talent was different from the previous generations. They were into the hip hop culture and they were extremely young. During the mid-90 to late-90s, hip hop culture was bleeding into the mainstream at a tremendously rapid pace. More often, you would see athletes arriving to game wearing baggy jeans, expensive jewelry, head bands, bandanas, ball caps, and driving expensive, custom cars. Iverson was at the forefront of this movement. Out of college, the 21-year old signed a shoe deal with Reebok. The company took Iverson’s personality, his connection to the hip hop community, and made him the centerpiece of their campaign to regain a foothold on the shoe business from Nike. In 2000, under the name Jewelz, Iverson planned on releasing a hip hop album titled Misunderstood. The album was never released due to homophobic lyrics and harsh language, specifically from the track 40 Bars. However, Reebok did use a portion of 40 Bars in their ad campaign. The age of “The Answer” had begun. NBA Years (From The Top To The Bottom) The 2000-2001 season was, possibly, Allen Iverson’s best. That year he won the NBA’s Most Valuable Player award while averaging 31.1 points, 4.6 assists, and 2.5 steals and led the Philadelphia 76ers to the NBA Finals against the Los Angeles Lakers. Iverson saved is best performances for the playoffs. In 22 playoff games, Iverson scored 40-plus points six times, stringing together three 40-plus point performances during games 5 (46) & 6 (44) of the Eastern Conference Finals against the Milwaukee Bucks, and game 1 (48) of the NBA Finals against the Lakers. Philadelphia won games 6 & 1 during that streak. Twice during the Eastern Conference Semifinals against the Toronto Raptors, Iverson scored over 50 points (Game 2, 54 – Game 5, 52). “The Answer” was at the top of his game, but started to head downhill from there. On May 10, 2002, Iverson attended a press conference where inquiries about his work ethic and relationship with Larry Brown were made; this is how Iverson responded to some of those questions: Reporter: "Are you on the same page with Brown?" Iverson: "Yeah we're one the same page. I don't have a problem with coach. I love Larry Brown. You people may not believe it or feel me when I say it but I do. He's helped me do so much in my career, helped me be the player that I am. If there's no Larry Brown, then there's no MVP, Allen Iverson. He's done a lot for me as far as helping me on and off the court but I mean when you lose, this is the type of [expletive] that happens. This is what goes on when you lose, you know. When you win everything is everything. But when you lose, it's all about Allen Iverson and Larry Brown. When we win, I know that I get the praise and Larry Brown gets the praise but when we lose it's on me and Larry Brown. That's something that I have to learn to accept and deal with. Y'all wonder why I don't say that I'm the franchise player...I don't feel like I'm the franchise player because look as this press conference. I mean look at what we're talking about. That's why I say I'm not the franchise player. I feel like I'm the best player out here...the best player in the world. Franchise players don't go through this. Franchise player's daughters don't have to go to school and hear "is your daddy coming back?" What's going on with your daddy and Coach Brown and yadayada? She's seven years old and that's what she has to deal with. It hurts because I know that I'm better than that. I do all I can for this city, this team, this franchise, and my teammates. I don't think nobody in the world plays harder than me. For me, going through this is tough. I'm tired you know, everybody in Philadelphia know, all y'all know that I want to be here. Ain't no secret. Everybody knows that I want to be a Sixer for the rest of my career. But I'm tired and I'm hurt too. Reporter: "Could you clear about your practicing habits since we can't see you practice?" Iverson: "If Coach tells you that I missed practice, then that's that. I may have missed one practice this year but if somebody says he missed one practice of all the practices this year, then that's enough to get a whole lot started. I told Coach Brown that you don't have to give the people of Philadelphia a reason to think about trading me or anything like that. If you trade somebody, you trade them to make the team better...simple as that. I'm cool with that. I'm all about that. The people in Philadelphia deserve to have a winner. It's simple as that. It goes further than that. Reporter: "So you and coach Brown got caught up on Saturday about practice?" Iverson: "If I can't practice, I can't practice. It is as simple as that. It ain't about that at all. It's easy to sum it up if you're just talking about practice. We're sitting here, and I'm supposed to be the franchise player, and we're talking about practice. I mean listen, we're sitting here talking about practice, not a game, not a game, not a game, but we're talking about practice. Not the game that I go out there and die for and play every game last it's my last but we're talking about practice man. How silly is that? Now I know that I'm supposed to lead by example and all that but I'm not shoving that aside like it don't mean anything. I know it's important, I honestly do but we're talking about practice. We're talking about practice man. (laughter from the media crowd) We're talking about practice. We're talking about practice. We're not talking about the game. We're talking about practice. When you come to the arena, and you see me play, you've seen me play right, you've seen me give everything I've got, but we're talking about practice right now. (more laughter) Reporter: "But it's an issue that your coach continues to raise?" Iverson: "Hey I hear you, it's funny to me to, hey it's strange to me too but we're talking about practice man, we're not even talking about the game, when it actually matters, we're talking about practice." Reporter: "You said that you and coach are on the same page but it does not sound like it?" Iverson: "We are on the same page. We are. I'm upset because of one reason...we are in here. I lost my best friend, I lost this year (in the playoffs), I feel that everything is going downhill for me as far as my life. I don't want to deal with this man, I don't want to go through this [expletive] man. This is where I want to be. I love this place, I love my teammates, I don't have any problems with Coach Brown at all. Coach Brown has problems with me as far as lifting...I do not know about this thing with practice because I have not been missing any practices. I don't have any problems with Larry Brown, this organization at all. I just don't want to go through this. That's my only problem. I don't want to go through this. I don't want to lose and all summer have to go through this right here. Why? I don't feel that it's right. I lost. I lost. I mean me, my coaching staff, my teammates, this organization lost. You don't hear about any one of my teammates going through this. It's me. It's just me. I have to deal with it. And now it ain't about me and Coach Brown. It's about him. It's about Allen Iverson. The ball is in his corner. I read the article and my friends and people tell me things but it's all on me. I accept it but the [expletive] hurts. But it's not just about me. Yeah I got some [expletive] I need to get better in but everybody does. But you don't talk about everyone else, you just talk about me. And why because I make money? Larry Brown resigned as the Sixers head coach following the 2002-2003 season. In the months following the press conference, Iverson allegedly threw his wife out their suburban Philadelphia home, in the nude, after a domestic dispute. The high school sweethearts were just married the year before. After the altercation, it’s alleged that Iverson threatened two Philadelphia men with a gun while searching for his wife. Philadelphia police charged Iverson with 12 felony counts, 14 charges in total. All of the charges were dropped when the accusers’ testimony did not hold up in court. NBA Years (No More Brotherly Love) Iverson’s years in Philadelphia came to a close during the 2006-2007 season when he was traded to the Denver Nuggets along with Ivan McFarlin for Andre Miller, Joe Smith and 2 draft picks. In the 135 games, covering parts of 3 seasons, in Denver, Iverson averaged 25.6 points, 7.1 assists, and 1.9 steals per game. However, the Nuggets never got out of the 1st round of the playoffs. 3 games into the 2008-2009 season, Iverson was traded to the Detroit Pistons for Chauncey Billups, Antonio McDyess and Cheikh Samb. Iverson’s time in Detroit was tumultuous. Allegations of selfishness arose, once again, this time it wasn’t just coming from the head coach, but also from his teammates. Iverson left the team for a month with what he called a back injury. Before his departure, the former MVP was told he would be coming off the bench, playing as the 6th man. At first, Iverson welcomed the challenge, but soon, his attitude changed. Iverson was quoted in the Detroit Free Press: “This is a bad time for me mentally," Iverson said. "I'm just trying to get through it without starting a bunch of nonsense. ... I'm just trying to laugh as much as I can man to stop from crying." When his contract expired after the 2008-2009 season, Iverson signed a 1-year deal with the Memphis Grizzlies on September 10, 2009. All appeared well until 3 games into the season. Iverson was granted a leave of absence from the team and allowed to return to his home in Atlanta. The, then, 34-year old Iverson claimed there was a lack of communication between himself and Grizzlies head coach Lionel Hollins, in terms of playing time and his role on the team. Memphis waived Iverson, making him a free agent on November 17, 2009, just over 3 months since they signed him. Less than 30 days later, with tears in his eyes, Iverson returned to the 76ers. His stay with the 76ers would be short-lived. In February 2010, Iverson left the team to tend to his ill daughter at his home in Atlanta, one month later; he was released by the Sixers. The same day the Sixers announced his release, Iverson’s wife of 8 and half years filed for divorce stating her marriage was “irretrievably broken.” Allen Iverson has always found a home on the basketball court. Like most athletes, the playing field is a safe-haven, a place where they can escape from the rigors of the real world. At 35 years old, this eventual Hall of Famer is trying to fight his way back to the place where he’s always been the happiest…. Many people believe Iverson’s life will end in tragedy. Let’s hope they are wrong…. This story was originally published in 2010

#sports #basketball #nba #allen iverson #sixers #georgetown #Hoyas #hall of fame #the answer

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