NOTE: Story written in 2017, as requested, I brought it back.
It was the first night and I didn’t hesitate to break all of the “Think Like a Man” and other self-help romance books’ top commandments, one of which being: Do not fuck on the first night.
Welp…. I regret to inform Steve Harvey that I had not only thrown my ass in a passionate circle, but I also bobbed for penis like children bobbed for apples in the olden days as a spring tradition.
I fucked him like it was our anniversary, like we had dated for ten years and were married for seven. Yes, it’s true, I auctioned my vagina off like it was on an HSN infomercial, I gave him the premium pussy package in exchange for his down payment of a simple dinner and 4 installment payments of wine.
Jokes aside, the next morning I reached for him with no shame, proudly firing my ding-a-ling breath every which-a-way as I whispered good morning. He welcomed my initiative, pulling me in close.
He had been such a gentleman and the night had flown so smoothly I felt obligated to thank him for not being an asshole. I proceeded to top him off with morning yoni, not to be mistaken, I was simultaneously celebrating the end of a drought.
Sometimes it can be difficult to screen the right brotha that you want to knock boots with. I had dated pimps (literally), pretentious business men, scraggly thugs, guys in “committed” relationships, and men who just couldn’t get right (you know the type that got every excuse on why their life isn’t in order – always the victim), and when I thought I finally found a good contender to have a nice sensual evening with he seemingly blew me off. A couple texts here and there, flaky date attempts, and then boom-we just stopped communicating.
It was hard out here.
When one faithful day I pulled up my SnapChat and watched a sexy specimen that had tried to get at me late last year, but at the time I was rockin’ with someone else. Now that I was back on the market I couldn’t wait to slide in his DMs. And from there it was magic.
After our powerful pussy-penis-poppations (as Wendy Williams would say), we cuddled, kissed, and bid each other farewell.
Now here is the moment when women typically wonder if he’s going to call, if it was a one night stand, and was it all pretend?
I wasn’t too worried, I knew he had to be crazy to not call me back, because I’m cool as shit and I’m not a dead fish in the bedroom, even if he called me back for sexual purposes only, I knew regardless the intent, I was getting a call back.
And that I did.
We continued on this way for a few weeks; laughing, dating, and fucking feverishly.
And then, suddenly, I felt a tingle in my heart. A twinge if you will.
A sista was catching feelings.
I was catching them HARD – to the face, the body, and the soul.
Or rather I was trying to catch them gracefully, order them, control them, but instead I was missing every attempt, and getting knocked in my damn head.
So I decided to broach the basic bitch topic of “where are we going?” but I’d like to think I did it in a non-basic way. I didn’t want him to feel pressure, but I
wanted needed clarity.
I sat him down, told him I loved his energy, but that maybe we should slow it down… and then I laid on a light dramatic layer of fake shit, adding a deep “thoughtful” pause, gulping, and some more shit to egg him on, never completing my sentences, I hinted at him filling in the blanks.
Childish, yes, but hey I am admittedly still working on my flaws, needless to say, it worked.
He advised me that he was falling for me…
I didn’t know whether to dance… to scream… or what…
…but he continued by saying that a relationship doesn’t fit where he is at in life.
And as much as I didn’t want to hear that, I totally agreed.
He is still trying to find his place in life as a man. He confessed that one day he does wants a wife and a family that he can provide for, and that motivates him to build his future.
How fucking cute.
I resounded his same sentiments, explaining that I am so busy that I often forget to catch my breath, I am not happy with my working wage, and I want a future in this here writing thing, in addition to that, as a single mother the world relies on me, which leaves no time to make a relationship a priority.
Each nod was a loosening of ties, the lapels on our love were struggling to hold the load, but as the moments passed, I inevitably began to sag. He tried to kiss the mournful minute away, but the kisses tasted like cover up rather than the tempered passion it had once flaunted with fevor.
I pushed him away with the same dramatic edge as the girls of the 1950’s in black and white film.
I needed a minute to think and I could tell he didn’t want that. He didn’t want me to set my thoughts on throwing us out. Walking out the door. Forever closing my legs to his advances. Turning cold on kissy face texts.
Yet, I knew I wouldn’t think in those directions, I just needed boundaries. I needed to know where I was willing to go and for how long. It was clear that both our hearts were at risk and potential damages should be assessed. As smart as I was, it didn’t matter, this was not the place where a brain could function, this was a place of warmth, desire, and relentless yet loving sort of rage. No mind could ration out these things that couldn’t speak for themselves, you couldn’t see it or touch it, what we have is like Jesus, you almost just had to believe and know that it was there without tangibles. No logic could discount it. No one could disprove it, this was not the place for intellect.
Thus we retightened the lapels of love and continued to smooth each other out, gifting one another orgasms that would prove unforgettable.
As time has moved forward we continue to carry on as committed lovers do, but without the title. Refusing to lend ourselves to anyone else, only nurturing each others needs, providing satisfaction and honesty, all without the title.
Yet I wonder, if I own a house, but don’t call myself a homeowner aren’t I still a homeowner because I own a house?
Its ludicrous, I know.
He is my man and I am his woman, yet to speak it would make it real like he-who-must-not-be-named.
We both have this fear that the title will spin us around, as we have seen with past lovers, and land us somewhere we will regret. We believe that the title will make us
fuck off our future sleep in on work days, cancel plans, and alter our destiny irrevocably. We are certain that the entanglement of love could wrap us so tightly together that we will forget we were ever separate, that “individuals” will be a former title we doted proudly. We panic at the thought that all of our conversations will be laced with words like, “we” and “us.”
We fear that maybe he will never move out of the country as he planned and I will get behind on becoming the biggest black female writer this era will ever know.
We are apprehensive.
We are scared.
But isn’t this a common thing in matters of the heart? Isn’t it normal to be fearful? But is our fear valid? Are we doing right by ourselves and our families to seemingly remain autonomous? To boast ourselves as bachelors and bachelorettes when we know our minds and hearts are spoken for?
Or maybe we are just proving that there is no such thing as soul mates, that we can easily dispose of something so perfect, because, well, another will come along. I’m certain there was a time when people did not think these sorts of feelings could be duplicated and they opted to hold onto their loved one until death do they part, thereby the creation of marriage.
But we are millennials, the generation that believes there is always more time and that there is always better.
We are the generation that is not afraid to tell love to hold on and wait because we are busy.
Busy going to school, working, pursuing dreams, partying, exploring, fucking, grinding, developing – too busy to love, too busy to sacrifice the aforementioned, love can wait.
One thing I can say I love about him is that we can so freely talk about these things without talking about these things. It’s like I only need to say so much and he gets it. He can see when I need his subtle reminder that there is comfort in our way of things. In turn, I can always see when he needs me to be strong, to not allow him to be swayed by my charms, I have to work against and for myself at once; telling him to tell me no.
He needs my discipline, my urge to push him up the hill and encouragement to be the man his future wife will love.
I joke with him often saying that his future wife should thank me.
And maybe my future husband should thank him, as he teaches me that love can exist without trauma and that hurt can be replaced with understanding.
We teach each other that real love is acceptance and assistance.
Maybe we really aren’t telling each other that we are too busy for love, maybe we are, in fact, doing this for the sake of love.
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