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Oxytocin. Louisiana. And Sex.

Let’s end a myth or two. Women are often clingy after sex, BUT it is not always because the man was serving a mean pipe game, or because his mouth piece was that slick, or because the woman is hyper-sensitive, has low self-esteem and/or is gullible. Many of times it is simply science that has us wide open, stalking you on the internet, and minding all of your business. Women (of course there are exclusions) were designed to yearn for the man that’s stroking our vagina and dripping precum on our uterus walls regularly, its normal to have a surge of feelings after being intimate, and I have science to back me on this, or receipts if you will.

According to medicalnewstoday.com  oxytocin is a hormone and neurotransmitter that is released in the brain during reproductive activities such as; sex, child-birthing, and lactation. This hormone is known as the love drug because it contributes to pro-social behavior, increasing empathy, trust, and bonding. Psychologytoday.com makes the argument that intimate activity increases the release of this hormone which encourages bonding/attachment. With further research, I found various studies that showed the release of this hormone is heightened when the man ejaculates in the woman. It shouldn’t be surprising that women are found to have higher levels of oxytocin than men.

What does this mean? It means that as much as I wanted to be like the Rihanna’s of the world and the other new age bad girl images that tug on new dicks with the ease of a clinician doing routine checks. I wasn’t. I’m not. If you fuck me enough I will fall into a chemical romance with you. All of the above are things that I should have taken into consideration before I fucked my neighbor. Not my next door neighbor, but the upstairs, take a right, and down the hall neighbor. He’s a hood nigga. Not the stereotypical, rag toting, lick pulling, hood nigga, but the man born under wrong circumstances and moved away for a better life, hood nigga.

It was a random occurrence. I happened to be shooting hoops in my apartments complex with my son sun on a Saturday morning per usual. My face was sweaty and my aim was off, it was like my joints could sense bullshit was near the same way old folks’ bones can sense bad weather coming.

Right on cue, here comes my soon-to-be Louisiana lover, straight out the darkest parts of Shreveport, dripping with a molasses type of southern kindness, the same southern kindness that country liberals use to hide their under thoughts of black folks with thickened sugar to cover their ways. I struck up conversation because that’s what you do when you see a new black person in the vicinity. At this point I’m coming from a place of romantic disinterest, if you’ve kept up with my work then you’d agree I was in no place to be dating. I promised myself a year of celibacy. Not because of heartbreak, but because my internal compass was off. I was tired of poppin’ pussy in exchange for validation, prostituting my heart off on the dating auction, letting niggas run trains on my mind. I was becoming numb. The type of numb where it hurts all over and it becomes difficult to pin-point the pain. I needed to figure me out, my birthday new year had passed, and instead of turning-up I avoided forced birthday wishes and spent a good portion of the day at a spa in a sauna sweating out my exes semen and my mothers lies.

Now there I was, on the court, fumbling with getting my shit together the same way I was fumbling with the basketball. Mr. Louisiana was there to apply pressure on and off the court.

Our interaction was light. We chopped it up about everything from black pride to debates on who are the tightest white girls, settling somewhere between Megan Fox and Scarlett Johannson. We noticed the conversation was smoother than butter for a first meet and switched numbers on that basis. He told me he’d only been here for a few months and approached our relationship on the vibe of: “I’m the new kid that needs friends,” but I never had a man who really only wanted to be friends so I knew that wasn’t the case. Regardless of common sense and experience, I decided not to think too deep into it and offered to break his ankles on the court whenever he’d like. “You tall as hell and can’t even dunk, stop it.” He taunted with accent and all. Challenging me to be everything I looked like I was.

So it begun.

That night he text me in millennial fashion to come outside and pop fire crackers on the court. I obliged out of boredom, but I had no idea that my minor intrigue would lead to hot sex.

I know, I know. I had taken a vow of celibacy, but I also had vowed to do what was right for me, and what was right for me included whats right for my vagina. My addiction to making a man orgasm repeatedly in one night was unparalleled, there wasn’t too many of vows that could go head to head with that kind of thrill. Needless to say, one vow canceled out the other and I was back serving premium pussy for the low.

We kissed as if this would be forever then parted ways. For the next 2 weeks I dodged his texts and  moved through the neighborhood with precaution, careful to avoid us possibly crossing paths. He wanted to know why I was dodging him and why I wouldn’t let him eat my ass because he had particularly been looking forward to that part. And why…. why, why, and more why. I understood explaining that I’m a typical girl to a man with an erection wouldn’t quite suffice. Here’s the thing. I can’t fuck anyone consistently and not catch feelings. I blame oxytocin and some more shit. There’s a great many of things in my DNA, but savage is not one of them. I’m pretty typical. After a few ooo’s, aaah’s, and shorty doing everything that I like, I’ll shortly after begin to send those dreadful back to back text messages wondering why I haven’t heard from you in awhile because you normally text me “good morning” yet its noon and my phone is dry. When I’m met with no response that’s when the self doubt begins to settle in and I start asking questions like; do you still like me? Did I throw it back proficiently enough when we were gallivanting the prior night? Did you meet someone else? What in the exact fuck is the problem?!

Knowing that I attach easy, knowing about the love hormone known as oxytocin, you want to know what I did with this wealth of information at my hands?

I fucked him again.

Not just any old, “again.” More like between the both of us we reached 30 orgasms in one night type of, “again.” I woke up on his floor, his neon light still glaring, and slow jams still playing. It all seemed so stale now that my vagina had settled. I rolled the fuck out of my eyes, I knew I had opened the door to some bull shit. Spider-sensing my crazy girl shit on the rise he asked, “what’s wrong?”

I replied, “I can’t keep doing this with you man.”

“Mannnn, here you go.” He sat up to look at me squarely.

“You’re going to break a heart you shouldn’t even have. I don’t even know you and I’m about to be weird 2.0.” I shook my head and rubbed the minor floor debris off of my damp body.

“I ain’t tryna break your heart.” He said whilst re-positioning himself on top of me.

“It looks like you still willing to risk it all.” I said, half way flirting, half way warning him. My mind flashed through the tires I’ve flattened, the clothes I’ve bleached, the phones I’ve blown up, and the slew of niggas who could tell you that i’m just as crazy as my sex game.

“Ain’t you?” He asked before penetrating me swiftly.

My answer didn’t matter. I was already falling without motion.

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2 responses to “Oxytocin. Louisiana. And Sex.”

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