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keelywolfe · 3 years

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FIC: Pity in Short Supply (baon)

Summary: In the aftermath of the kidnapping, Red has a few thoughts. There's a reason he's always called 'em liabilities.

Tags: Kustard, Domestic, Established Relationship, Sans/Underfell Sans, Aftermath of a kidnapping, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus, Background Spicyhoney, A Touch of Lemon Goodness

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

By the time the sun was thinking about hopping over the horizon and getting started on its daily workout, the warehouse parking lot was starting to clear out. All the ambulances were long since gone, the only one of ‘em with a person in the back was the guy who was still stuck in that weird foam shit.

Red didn’t believe in karma; he’d spent much too long eating shit himself for that, but if there was any lingering threads of justice still clinging stubbornly in the air, it’d take a long, painful time to get that fucker loose.

Most of the Embassy Security teams were heading back with all the evidence stacked in their backseats and Red was standing in a shadowed corner away from the streetlights watching them pack it in. Some of ‘em would start working on interviewing the kidnappers who didn’t need a few hours to cut them loose from a little chemical warfare, along with the agents the FBI shipped their way. Some were gonna work on getting shit together for the inevitable interviews with the kidnappees sometime this afternoon. Red had some pull and plenty of strings to yank, but even he wasn’t gonna be able to hold back the tide of questions much longer than that.

There was probably gonna be a fit pitched somewhere along the line that he’d sent his trouble twins home to sleep before getting much info, but Red would have to hula that hoop when it rolled in. Wasn’t only about Stretch, it was about his bro; there was only so much the boss could take before he slammed face-first into his breaking point and he’d been skating a little too fucking close tonight for Red’s taste. Better to let him take his pretty little liability home, clean him up, spend a li’l time rubbing his scent all over him again like a dog in heat and wasn’t it a damn good thing none of ‘em could piss.

The last thing any of ‘em needed was his bro snapping and hauling his honey away like a shorter, skinnier, bald version fucking King Kong.

(and was the memory of his brother's bleak face as he sat there waiting for answers while Red lied out promises about getting his liability back in one piece gonna haunt his nightmares, fuck yes, 'course it was, gotta balance those books somehow, there was always a price, he'd learned that lesson fast while he was still carrying his baby bro on the streets. always a price, fucking always)

Red wasn’t too worried about losing any info, anyway. Wasn’t much chance of Stretch forgetting much, not with that eidetic memory of his. Not being able to forget was half of his fucking problems to begin with.

Out in the mostly deserted parking lot, the last couple agents were finished packing up their car, not even seeming to give him a second glance as they climbed in. ‘Seeming’ was the real shit there, to anyone who wasn’t used to watching. The driver, a deceptively slender deer Monster, their antlers cut stylishly down, paused just long enough for their eyes to flick his way. The subtlest of looks, but that was it. They didn’t make a show of asking if Red wanted a ride, didn’t play any ego trips over spotting him, just hopped into the car and sped off.

Good instincts. Red made a mental note to keep an eye on that one. Good, not great, ‘cause they didn’t notice the one standing further back behind him, the guy who took up the best shadows before Red even showed up.

He stepped up now, hands stuffed into his pockets as he shuffled his way to stand next to Red, untied shoelaces dragging on the damp asphalt. They stood there together while the first unbearable rim of sunlight crested and took the shadows with it, bathing them in painful, golden light.

Red pulled out a cigar and bit off the end, spitting it to the ground. He lit a match with a flick of his thumb and held the tip in the wavering flame. When the end was smoldering, he flicked the match into the puddle, the faint hiss of it extinguishing unheard as he asked in a cloud of exhaled smoke, “how’s it going, sansy?”

Red was looking at the empty parking lot, the puddles dotting it like a scattering of miniature lakes across a land of broken asphalt, so he didn’t see Sans shrug, but he could feel it, a ripple in the still air around them. “went like clockwork. we planned for this sort of shit, you know, planned it out for years. worked out possible sceneries with fuzzybuns, toriel, all the diplomats.” Sans’s ever-present smile widened humorousness, “even had a few for edge and stretch, guess we shoulda brainstormed on those ones a little more. don’t know if we coulda come up with that one, though. drugging him was always a contingency, but no one guessed they’d strip his ass down and lose every damn tracker on him.” Another tight shrug, one quick. cramped motion, “we’ll know better next time.”

The plume of smoke rising from Red’s cigar curled in the air, drifting like a mist in the dawn light. Red watched it and nothing else, letting his sockets fall half-closed as he followed the wispy path with his eye lights. “ain’t asking about the fucking ops. how’s it going, sansy.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the rough scrape of gravel shifting under Sans’s feet as he rocked on his heels. “you know, i took up with the security department for paps,” Sans said conversationally. “wanted to keep a close eye on him when he went traipsing around the big bad world to spread the good word. back underground, that whole sentry schtick was an excuse for a paycheck, i wasn’t guarding anything but my own g and a nap.”

“yeah?” Red stuck his cigar between his teeth and bit down, tasting the scatter of soggy, bitter tobacco on his tongue as the jagged tips tore through the fragile wrapper. “that so, sweetheart?”

“yeah, that’s so, dollface,” Sans chuckled mirthlessly. “little ironic, ain’t it, that it turns out i’m good at this shit. who would’ve thought.”

“yeah, never woulda guessed a judge might not be bad at the whole diggin’ up covert info,” Red shook his head sadly, “a shock, really, that ya could put that empty skull of yers to some good use.”

“sweet talker. gonna end up sleeping downstairs with the cat you keep that shit up.”

“fuck, don’t do that,” Red shuddered. “already worried if i don’t get up fast enough to feed that bitch, she’d gnaw off my pinky toe before i wake up.”

“that picky little shit wouldn’t eat you if you rolled yourself up like sushi and slathered on caviar.” Sans hesitated, then asked, softer, “how’s stretch doing?”

“like shit.” Red didn’t bother to cushion it; his pity came sparingly and Sans could take it. “he’s got his judge all cranked up to eleven. caught a helluva glimpse of me when i got here, thought he was gonna puke on my shoes.”

Sans let out a long, ragged exhale. “that’s my fault,” he said bleakly, “i got him to hit his on switch to look for that lost kid, should’ve known he’d have a hard time shutting it down again.”

“maybe.” Red wasn’t too concerned about it. If Stretch wanted to retire and shove all that down into the dark, wasn’t any dust off his ass, but the only way he’d lose it entirely would be if someone ripped it out of him by way of a dustpan. “if those fuckers hadn’t tried to pull a limburger baby on the kid, then it woulda died back down on its own.”

This time Sans chuckle was more real, a little honest humor creeping in. “don’t let stretch hear you call him kid, he’s already got his panties twisted halfway up his spine.”

Red scoffed, tapping away the ash gathering at the tip of his cigar. “honey bun might be the same age as us, but he ain’t as old as we are. don’t matter how the universe tried to age him up.”

The sound Sans made might’ve been a hum of agreement or the juicy, hawking prelude to spitting. The sun hadn’t had a chance to chase away the evening chill and Sans’s jacket was zipped up against it. Over the tab of his zipper, nearly concealed by neckline of his hood, Red could see the glossy rim of well-oiled dark leather, the slightest glint of metal. He let himself look at it for a long moment, take a sip of dark satisfaction at seeing his collar right where it was supposed to be. Then he looked away, back across the empty, crumbling parking lot.

Sans didn’t try to touch him, only shifted his stance until their fingers brushed in a way that could pretend to be accidental, bone lightly scraping bone.

“we should get going,” Red said. The sun was climbing higher, the stars giving way to gauzy, useless clouds. At least stars were interesting, a reminder there was another Aboveground than this one, another path upward that might someday be reached. “we got a lot of shit to do downtown.”

“we do,” Sans agreed. He tipped his head in Red’s direction, slanting him a glance out of the corner of his socket. His eye lights were tinted golden by the sunrise, sly and knowing in a way that had nothing to do with magic. “want me to blow you in the stairwell before we take off?”

Red didn’t wait for him to finish, tossing his half-burned cigar into a puddle, dousing it and sending a splash of ripples through the still water. “fuck, yes.”

He followed Sans into the warehouse and in moments he was braced against the rusty handrail with his shorts around his ankles in the dust, shuddering at the feel of that hot, wet mouth around him, worshiping his cock with lovingly sinful familiarity. Every inch of his focus was taken up by that and there wasn’t room to think about a single other thing. Not even the phantom sensation of metaphorically getting flayed alive by a wild orange gaze, the unexpected, needle-sharp feel of every one of his sins digging in their spidery claws as they crawled up his spine.

He didn’t think about it at all.

-fin

#kustard #sancest #spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underfell sans #sans #by any other name

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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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