when to let go

In The Desperate Hour

Oblivious. That’s what I was the first time I let him climb my back. I wasn’t aware of his commitment to another man. Why would I? I didn’t know his name. I was in a hotel in a big city  belly empty backside on fire for something Black and tall. He was number four of six that night.

A few months later over Thai in a dimly lit restaurant he says “I thought you were stupid but attractive. I thought you were a hoe and I’d never see you again.” I think it baffled him that he had a crush on a harlot. By this time he had mentioned his live in boyfriend it was massaged on me that they were at the end of their relationship. Their commitment was only in name because they shared a lease. What-the-fuck-ever: I could not care less; I had already fucked him. As I ate my green curry, he talked about casually dating me after they ended. Maybe after he gave himself some time to self evaluate and heal.

I enjoyed my free meal.

By all means he is a nice guy. Said he only stepped out on his old man after they stopped having sex. Rejection is a hard thing to take from someone you share a home with especially when there are others that are willing to do what your partner won’t. We did a couple cool things platonic friends would do together: worked out at La Fitness, watched the VMAs together, and a midnight diner run or two.

At some point while they were still leaving together, but may or may have not been a couple, he invited me over. I know it was to fuck so I drunk some darks hoping I could be tipsy while it went down. I was was extremely uncomfortable in his place. I’m always sorta awkward it’s just in my nature, however; I felt I shouldn’t have really been in their space. Although they were no longer a couple, I think, or maybe just not happy, they were co-habitating.

I stood. He told me I could take a seat on the living room couch. I was like some new born child not knowing where to go or where exactly where to sit or how to do gracefully. I plopped next to the arm of the couch holding on to it like some security blanket. He tried to make me feel comfortable but I had to go to my car because I left my charger. Really? I had to go take a shot of a mini I had in the glove compartment. I thought I’d take one, but I took two.

When I came back in I told myself I’d be this aggressive power bottom and take control. I made sure he knew what I came for by throwing my ass in his face. First he ate my ass on the couch then he took me to a their spare bedroom.  I recall him saying he wouldn’t be that trifling as to take me into their actual marital like bed.

In the spare bedroom as we were having sex he says, “tell me you love me.” I obliged. And while he said afterward it made the sex better; I thought to myself: how desperate can one person be.

But I remember a similar situation when I said it during sex only months early with someone in an attempt to make a connection — to make the sex better. In that moment as well, I said to myself “how desperate can I be?”

Lawd, I should have fucked his friends.

Lord, I should have fucked his friends. I really should have. I was trying to be an adult, but now every time I think of the situation I’m mad cause I didn’t fuck his friends. I could have at least pulled a classic Bernadette, no not cut off all my hair, and fucked up all his shit. I’m petty and I have a violent streak, though I know that’s not healthy.

A certain ex of mine and myself were rekindling a  romantic relationship. By no means was I trying to cuff him, it’s summer for goodness’ sakes, I just thought we could spend sometime together and fuck. I thought we’d have a mutual respect for one another, that’s all I asked for; that and his dark skin and big dick and he shoots like a fuckin streamer. But respect, that’s the foundation.

So on a Monday, I spoke with Joseph about coming to visit him the following Friday or Saturday; I told him I would let him know Friday early afternoon for sure. Done deal. We spoke sporadically throughout the week: jokes, sexual innuendos, barbs. Friday came and I confirm with him early afternoon like I said I would be taking one of two flights Friday evening. As the time came closer, 7pm,  I informed him I would take the 9:15pm flight to Virginia. I asked him if he has plans for tonight. He quickly replied no. An hour later, he started asking suspicious questions and my antenna went up “Joseph do you want me to come another day? Sounds like you have plans.” His rebuttal: why don’t you ask me rather than assuming?

Nigga, you got plans?
No.

Okay I’m getting on the 9:15 flight; I land at 10:30.
K.

Is there a need for me to keep typing? You already know what happened. You already know what this coon did. Fuckin’ Bojangle ass nigga. But I’ll spell it out for you.

I landed. After getting a rental car — cause this nigga don’t drive due to continuous DUIs.

Oh if you’re wondering, yes, I still am salty.

I landed. And after I get the rental car, I text him to tell him I’m here and on the way. At this time it is 10:44 and 23 seconds. He replies that he left a towel and wash cloth for me. I in turn teased him about being a lazy sleepy head. Nope he wasn’t lazy at all; he tells me went to the club, but he wouldn’t be long. I played it cool — Samuel L. Jackson type cool.

As I pulled up to his apartment, I text him to see where I could park. All the other times I had come to visit him, I paid for Uber. He tells me to park anywhere. Then he ask if I rented a car. I tel him “yes sir”. You’d think maybe at this point he’d invite me out. But nope. Nah. Ain’t happen.

So there I sat in his house, alone, for 6 hours until he walked through the door at 4:15am. Now although I didn’t fuck his friends, we did exchange words and they were nasty. I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t fuck his friends or at least tear up some shit in his place while he was gone or was asleep. If I could do it all again, I’d be petty as fuck. I’ll regret til my dying day that I acted like an adult.

What you have to understand is that I assumed we respected each others time and money. I asked did he have plans and he lied cause he said he wanted to go out, but he felt as though I wouldn’t come back to see him for months if he had been honest, when the truth is I would have just come the following day. Or at the very least I would have been informed and could have mad the decision all on my own. So now instead of him waiting a day or a week to see me, he’ll have to wait until next life time. Or at least until he seems my pussy pop severally across his Instagram feed.

Being Mary Jane and I: A Plea to Stay Single in the Face of Love

I woke up this morning back sore: upper right side in pain. I didn’t do anything to strain myself that I normally wouldn’t do. Normal daily routine: some sort of corporate or personal work, working out, if I’m staying home get very drunk and have sex with multiple people; if I am leaving the house, drink just enough so I can operate a motor vehicle, but make a drink to take and drink on the road. I went to a sex party Sunday to fill holes and voids. Though the poundings to and fro where good, nothing was back breaking.

Before I left the house, I watched BET’s Being Mary Jane marathon. One of the episode’s openings popped up in my head as I felt the sharp and radiating pain in my back. Pacing in her apartment, as they often show, making a Johari Window, Mary Jane was Erykah Badu’s proverbial bag lady trying to unpack all her shit. I don’t do self-deprecating, quite frankly it’s tacky. I do, however, take pride in being self-aware; perhaps this is why part of my Saturday was ruined.

This past Saturday, I finally went white water rafting; it is an activity I’ve said I wanted to do for the past two summers (if not more). There were hiccups of people not being on time causing us to leave late, which in turn makes for a frantic and flustered car ride to the destination. I went with friends and it was an attempt to surprise someone that I care about. Though, I plea to stay single, I do miss sharing special moments with one special person. I had an attitude because of the tardiness; to put it in perspective this was a trip that an instructor takes you on and this was my second time trying to go in as many weeks. The first time, I fucked up and the business was nice enough to work with me and not make me pay again. The tardiness gave us an hour and a half to make a two hour trip; so, reasonably I was upset. My special someone was making jokes at my expense, upon seeing me not crack a smile he proceeds to say “You know you can’t joke with Stefano; he’s bipolar.” It’s a joke he’s repeatedly made over the course of a year knowing me, and it’s a joke I’ve never cracked a smile or laughed about.

There is something wrong with me, and I know it. Whether it’s just emotions I have to work through or it’s a mental illness I’ve yet to be diagnosed with, I know something is not right. I’ve tried to going to therapy/counseling before, but never stuck with it. Tried to talk to people who I think may be the root of an emotional issue, I was dismissed. My only haven and perpetual love has been the sex and drugs.

His comment was the last time I could take it, though I bottled it up for that trip, I exploded that night. I’m not sure what set me off, (no excuse) but one fish bowl, two shots of Patron, four long islands, and a swig or two from a small tequila bottle I had in my car later and in an instant I went from restroom stall sex, tootsie-rolling to TLC’s Creep and, performing my own tone deaf karaoke rendition of Alanis Morsette’s You Oughta Know to storming out the bar (tab pad) and putting my hands on him.

I’ve replayed it over in my mind, what I can remember. What I remember most about that night is that it’s a pattern. I once thought my ex-boyfriends were the problem, but it looks like it is me.

After phone, text, and face to face conversations he’s offered to help me unpack my baggage. I’m a fool; I said know. I don’t feel like anyone should have to deal with my problems; we all have our own. Though, I pause and hold my breath and I my heart hurts, I think that this is what everyone wants: someone that says, “I’ll help you unpack your baggage.” I can’t accept the help; I feel it’s futile.

To Cut a N*gga Off or Nah?

I struggle with the idea of when to let go.

Do I cut a dude off the first time he lies?

Snip: after the third time he can’t call to say he’ll be late?

Hack: at the first sign he’s entertaining people after we’ve clearly and vocally expressed we are serious? Of course the men that committed those infractions against me say, “No”.

Saturday, (well a Saturday in August) I finally did it; what I haven’t been able to do with most guys that I think commit disingenuous infractions: I cut that bitch off.

Back in June I met, David, things moved rather fast; I basically saw him every day. Though, I did hold out from having any sexual intercourse with him. With his king size mattress on the floor (his frame was on backorder), I sat up to put my wine glass in the kitchen. My abdomen and neck twisted to look at him; he’s looking at his Jack’d. I went about normal business: wine glass on kitchen counter, back in bed, cuddled feel asleep to Bruce Leroy a film produced by Motown’s Barry Gordy.

Of course, I brought it up later. Not in spite, or to be malicious, or to hang it over his head. In fact, I said it in jest. During a playful situation of tickle monster and jokes, I mentioned it;  he stopped in his tracks unaware that I had seen him.

Side note: I’ve very ticklish. I’m snort like a hog, buck like a bull, watch out I’ll hit my head against your nose and bloody it ticklish. But I’ll never admit it half naked with armpits exposed. (End note).

He apologized as if I was upset; I was not. He stated how upset he would be if he was in my position.  I assured him we were okay, and that nothing had changed.

 A month later, in August, with my head on his chest and that same king size mattress on the floor, we watched some movie on HBO. This Sunday morning, I was texting my best friend, while I was still resting on David’s chest. We were deciding on where to eat breakfast: a cute double date in the city of Atlanta. We decided on Roasters off Lenox rd. David and I both got up from the bed, he placed his phone on the window sill. I wanted to wash the bed crumbs, dust, and night sweats off of me, so I headed for the shower; my phone still in my hand. While getting undressed, I noticed what everyone hates: battery percent below 20 percent. I went back into the room to place my phone on the charger. Like a scene from a movie, his charger was by his phone and as I hooked my phone up an income text, two, lit his phone up. They spoke of who was picking up the condoms and if it was going to be a threesome with David, the texter and the texter’s boyfriend.

After giving him hell, I forgave him and we still went to brunch.

End-of-Relationship

 More than a year before this, something similar happened with my boyfriend of two years. Three months into our relationship I saw a text (I did not go through his phone) regarding people coming to visit him at his place of work and home. I moved him into my apartment after that.

I think I’ve learned my lesson.