Favorite Part of the Day


My favorite part of the day is around 7pm, around the time he takes his daily shower. His little brother is playing in his room, making dinosaur roars or superhero exclamations of grandeur and rescue.

My oldest child sings in the shower. And he sounds so free. He’s usually so shy or crippled by anxiety that he rarely speaks, never to strangers, barely to me. When he does it’s an outburst, a meltdown, more and more lately a threat.

But when he’s in the shower he sings like no one’s listening. Like no one’s home. Tonight he croons Alicia Keys’ “Unthinkable” and I could cry.

Around 7pm my house smells like soap and sounds like melodic joy and my child is free. His mind is clear and all that matters to him are the lyrics, the rhythms and the beats that calm his soul.

His singing mixes with his brother’s playing and for a moment I feel peace. For a moment I can write again. I can read again. I can breathe again. I am free.

It’s my favorite part of the day.

A Ledge

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I would take Joshua in my bedroom with me when I needed to calm down or when I suffocated on thoughts of his father and couldn’t breathe. His skin was smooth to my touch and of course he had that new baby smell that could calm even the shoddiest of nerves. I’d swaddle him tight, rock him in my arms and sit by the open window. I remember the bottom of my sheer curtains would blow against my foot like an extra calming touch, like a spirit was there rubbing my feet, telling me everything would be alright. It was our ritual, well, my ritual. Taking the baby in the room, shutting the door and rocking him until I calmed down, instead of him.

Even when he was still in my womb, I knew he’d be my peace. As soon as I found out I was pregnant nothing made sense until I’d rub my belly, feel him kick and remind me I wasn’t alone, that I never would be again.

And then he betrayed me, but of course he would, he was just a baby. And everyone betrays you eventually.

“What do you mean, betrayed you?”

“That peace that only he could give me, he took it away eventually. I’d put too much pressure on him, I’m sure. Who turns to a new born baby for peace? One day he woke up in the morning and started screaming. He didn’t stop for three days straight. It was as if he was telling me he was quitting his job as peacemaker. I figured I’d do the motherly thing and return the favor for my baby. He’d held my hand, one finger at a time and led me away from the ledge so many times, right there in that room. I would do the same for him. I was his Momma, after all. So I took him in the bedroom, closed the door and rocked him by the window until I gave him the calm I’d depleted from him.

I sat down but that only made things worse. He screamed until I stood. I walked away from the window and paced the floor, sang him a lullaby, told him to hush, not say a word, promised him a diamond ring and a mocking bird. But it didn’t work. He screamed so loud that I worried for his lungs. I can’t even remember where my parents were. It was just Joshua and I in that room for three days of screaming, him out loud, me silently throughout my whole being. I rocked him until I shook him but he wouldn’t stop. In my mind I’d picture tiny snipers in the corners of the room. I’d actually look up and image them with one eye closed, the other looking through the scope of a gun with a laser between my eyes. The thought of them was my only comfort at that point.

On the third day I put Joshua down on the bed and stepped away from him. Maybe he needed space from me. Maybe my sadness rubbed off on him too much. I let the cool breeze flow over his body but it didn’t calm him down.

I moved him up on the bed, closer to the pillows, right between the pillows, actually. I climbed on the bed and hovered over him, my sweet baby boy that betrayed me. My hand picked up a pillow but my eyes stayed on him. I couldn’t bring myself to look at that pillow. I wanted to know what it would be like to change my life. So, I covered his face with the pillow, just a bit. I didn’t press down or anything. I watched his arms and legs move and wondered what it would feel like to see them stop. I watched them for one moment, maybe two, more than anyone should.

Next thing I knew, my mother was behind me, asking me if I’d seen the remote control. I took the pillow off of his face and fluffed it up back in its place then fluffed the other one like that would negate what I’d just did. I looked down and Joshua and saw his little body gasp for air, a sound he’d never made before. But his breathing went back to normal right away. He stopped crying, that’s for sure. My mother looked like she’d seen a ghost but she didn’t say anything. To this day, she’s still never mentioned it. I can’t blame her. I swore to myself I wouldn’t address it if she did and I swore I’d never tell anyone.

“Why are you telling me?”

“I have no idea.”

My God


Loving him was never quite right. I could list the cliches: I spoke and he didn't listen. I showed up and he abandoned. I could cry the bitter tears of a servant with no master. But the details do not matter. He was never mine to love. Placed on a cross I'm not sure he signed up for. A cross he didn't deserve. I guess we both did our best. Him to be my god and me to be his sheep. When I lost him, I prayed my last prayer. I prayed for you. For someone I could truly worship. Someone to give all of my praise and devotion, ironically blind with all faith.

I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. Your feet will be my alter, Your body, the body of christ, Your blood, his blood. You will be my God. I'll proclaim Your name like I once proclaimed his. To me it is the same. To me You mean more. Worshiping You is the purest devotion I can give. It comes without doubt, without fear. It comes with a God I believe in. I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

Maybe You're a vessel as some would claim. Maybe the love I hear in Your voice is his way of calling me back, keeping me through You. I won't argue if that's true. It won't change my actions, it won't redirect my following. For me, there is only You.

I won't ask for a cross, this servitude does not require You to lay down Your life. I will lay down my own. I will pick up my splintered cross and follow You. Wherever You go, I will be there, even if You lead me back to him. 

My hands will lift to You, my heart will fill with praise. My lips will declare Your name and the world will know Your glory. You will be my God, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

The Way You Make Me Feel


The single black mother has been laid up in bed with a crackhead, drunk as fuck and she hasn't seen her children in three days... the ones that live with her, anyway.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother was a loose child. She'd been fuckin' around since she was 12 and by the time she was 16 she got caught up.

The little black ho became something even worse, the single black mother.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother is a waitress. She works nights and drinks and her children take care of her the best they can... the ones that live with her anyway.

When the single black mother does see her children, she yells at them and beats them and makes sure they know they are festering regrets.

The way you make me feel. 

Her revolving door of boyfriends bring men that are increasingly evil.

They touch her children one by one.

Her children cry and the single black mother ignores them.

What? You've seen her in movies so you know that it's true.

The way you make me feel.

If the single black mother needs help, do not help her. Take her children away.

If the single black mother is depressed, do not help her. Take her children away. 

If the single black mother is young and has never done this before and needs patience and understanding and guidance, do not help her. Take her children away.

Save her children before they become her and create more of her. 

The way you make me feel. 

Boy Child


Keith’s parents were some of the richest motherfuckers I’d ever met. They hosted their only son’s high school graduation party in a ballroom at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in downtown Denver. It looked like a wedding, just filled with a bunch of teenagers and old relatives that couldn’t take the noise.

I said hello to my best friend, my fellow graduate, then looked around the room for the last third of my crew.

Dante was hovering over the punch bowl when I approached him. It must have been spiked. We didn't get past "Sup" and a fist bump before I felt hands suddenly covering my eyes. 

“Guess who?” Kayla asked.

Her high-pitched squeal was easy to recognize. I moved her hands away from my face and caught the tail end of Dante holding back a laugh. Kayla was the most popular girl in school. She had long blonde hair and enough booty to make a black girl jealous. She had a perfect face, a tight body, a tolerable personality, good grades, was head cheerleader, blah, blah, blah. Every girl hated her and every guy wanted her, but she was mine. We had been a “couple” for about six months now. According to her warped logic, as long as she kept swiping Daddy’s credit card and supplying more than half of my wardrobe, my heart and my penis belonged to her and only her. Boys will be boys and fools will be fools.

I turned and faced her.

“Hey, baby,” I said, kissing her on the lips.

“Where’ve you been? I tried calling you after your party.”

“With Denise,” would have been the wrong thing to say so I settled for, “just busy, sorry.”

“It’s okay. At least you’re here now.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, assuming her usual octopus positioning when we were around other people. Sometimes I swore she’d pee on me when other girls were around just to prove a point. 

“Mmm, you smell good,” she said. She buried her face in my neck and it felt good. My neck was my spot. Information she knew.

“Gotta smell good for you, baby, always for you.”

“Ok, love birds,” Dante interrupted, “I’ll see y’all later.”

“Bye!” Kayla chirped, bubbly as ever.

As I gave Dante a head nod, I noticed a girl just beyond his left shoulder. She had long, wavy hair and wore a tight, black dress that made her look like sex on legs. My favorite style. Her eyes were on mine and she smiled, gave me a wink. I wondered how long she was watching. I made a mental note of her gaze but gave her no physical response. I looked back down at Kayla before she followed my wandering eye.

“You want to get out of here?” she asked.

“I just got here.”

The girl in black moved towards Kayla and me. She stopped and started talking to this guy that I think was in my photography class.

“But, I have a surprise for you,” Kayla whined.

I tried to focus on the girl in front of me but, as fine as she was, new pussy always looked better than old pussy. Kayla took my left hand with her right, looked around the room, checking our limited level of privacy and slid my hand down her pants. I felt her silky smooth skin and nothing else, no granny panties, no boy shorts, no nothing.

“I shaved her clean for you, daddy,” she said, trying to whisper seductively but eventually having to speak up because the music was so loud.

Fuck. That felt good. I let my hand linger there, enjoying the fact that we could be spotted at any moment. I curled my middle finger up inside of her, making her moan before I pulled my hand out of her pants and back into my pocket.

“Damn, baby,” I exhaled, halfway speaking to her, halfway to myself. I was torn. Kayla had skills to say the least. She would do anything I asked her to do in or out of the bedroom. A week ago I told her that I wondered what she felt like completely shaved and now here she was, smooth as silk. But she was getting too clingy. A girl who would do anything for you eventually would want everything from you. I needed her to know that her pussy didn’t control me, that I wasn’t going to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted like she did for me. Besides, the less affected I acted, the more she needed to please me.

“She feels good,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

I bent down to give her a kiss and the girl in the black dress caught my eye again. The dude from photography class was talking her ear off. She was clearly uninterested as she kept her eyes on me. I kissed Kayla but kept my eyes, unlike Kayla’s, open. I stared at the girl in the black dress as I sucked on Kayla’s tongue that was already in the back of my throat. She was standing only about ten feet away from us and I felt like she was the one I was kissing. The girl in the black dress stared at me, stared at me and bit her bottom lip. She was bold. Anyone who had any sense and a good pair of contact lenses could see what she was doing but I guess she didn’t care. The more I kissed Kayla the more the girl in the black dress bit her bottom lip, licked her top lip, and slid her fingers up and down the middle of her dress. Holy shit, she was turning me on.

“Ouch!” Kayla screamed.

My eyes darted back to the girl in front of me. She was repeatedly touching her lip and drawing back fingers smeared with blood.

“Darren! What the hell? You bit me!”  

Keith, who happened to be walking by, gave me a Please, no drama look. I gave him a head nod, letting him know I wouldn’t disrespect him like that.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Kayla, trying to calm her down.

I didn’t even notice I bit her, didn’t feel my jaw clenching, my teeth closing down on her thin lip. I was way too lost in thought.

The girl in the black dress licked her lips one last time, turned her back to me and started walking out of the room, leaving that guy from my photography class standing alone, still rambling. She reached the doorway that led to the hotel’s main lobby, pivoted to give me one last look, then left. My eyes were glued to her body and this time I couldn’t hide it.

Kayla finally stopped touching her lip when she realized I was no longer engaged in our situation, realized my ‘I’m sorry’ was nowhere near sincere, realized I was checking out another girl. Now both Kayla and I were staring towards the exit. With all of my might I tore my gaze away from my next potential conquest and looked down at a girl who was obsessed with me. She had tears in her eyes. She said nothing, just stared deep into my eyes for a moment and then walked away.

I wasn’t fazed.

I got what I wanted without having to try. Kayla knew she was not the apple of my eye, that she could be replaced. That’s how I needed it. No commitments. No strings. She ran over to her friends that wrapped her in a blanket of pity, hugging her, stroking her hair, telling her it was okay, telling her I was an asshole, and giving me looks of death.

Once again, I went unfazed.

I turned away from that bullshit and headed for the exit. I hated to leave my boy’s party so soon but opportunities like this didn’t come up all the time. Well, they did, but still, the girl was fine...

The Usual Booth


They sat in their usual booth at the usual place. Two booths down from where they sat on their first date. 

Tonight wasn't their second date or third or fourth. Well, at this point they weren't really dating anymore. 

He wanted attention and sex and a comfort blanket while he sorted through the emotional residue of his ex. 

He'd deny all of that, though. He was a nice guy after all. 

She wanted love and security and longevity and validation from an outside source as opposed to a mantra she repeated to herself every morning. 

She'd deny all of that, though. She was an independent woman after all. 

He smiled that smile that could move her to tears.

She moved her lips in that way that made it impossible for him to hear a word she said. 

They both tried to focus. 

She told herself before hand that she wouldn't bring it up. There'd be no talk of "What are we doing?" "Why am I here?" "What do you want from me?"

He told himself... Well, I'm not sure what he told himself. 

They ate and drank and joked with the waitress. 

He cracked jokes with that Will Smith charm.

She poured out her intellect and he drank every drop. 

He reached over the table and hovered his lips in front over hers. He killed her with anticipation. 

They kissed.


And again.

She knew there was nothing better. 

He wasn't quite sure. 

She missed being loved.

He teased her heart and she enjoyed the fatal stimulation. 

He wanted her but...

He wanted her but something...something she'd never really know. 

No matter how many times he explained it. 

She felt victim to karma. A seasoned heartbreaker herself. 


He walked her to her car after she refused to "sit and talk" in his.

He asked to see her again. She broke her promise and asked him why...why not...why not me...why not so many things.

He spurted words but did not answer. 

They kissed again and said goodbye.

She kicked herself as she drove away and choked on the cliche caught in her throat. 

She said goodbye without him. She said goodbye for good until they'd meet again. 



We never speak of them but we know they're there.

All of us.

My wife.


Our children.

They sit down with us at breakfast. 

Drape their hollowed arms around us. 

Kick up their feet of bones.

And laugh at our hollowed jokes.

When company comes, they pull up a chair.

Get cozy.

Stare in the eyes of our loved ones, daring them to speak.

Daring them to acknowledge the presence of the walking dead.

They don't.

They take our lead and remain silent, focused on the much less real human interaction. 

You don't have to look too hard for them. 

They make their presence known.

You can see their reflections in our perfectly polished furniture. 

In the dishwater in the sink.

In the faces of our children.

They do not hide.

Sometimes they lurk in corners, quiet. 

Other times they lay across our laps on the couch, unapologetic. 

And why should they apologize? 

We invite them to stay. 

Never ask them to leave.

As long as we don't have to engage, they are free to haunt us. 

Free to dance around our home. 

Free to make this home their own. 

We converse.

We smile.





Stay silent. 



All in their presence.

Always in their presence.

Remaining in the home that feels more like theirs than our own.

Where else would we go?




Hey, girl. Can I be more than your slave?

Can I build you an alter?

A shrine to your beauty, a throne for your soul?

Can I worship you?

 Bask in your presence and praise you in all of your glory.

 Can I wash your feet with tears of service?

Can I lay down my life for you?

Sacrifice my heart, soul and sanity for the mere chance it might make you smile.

In my midnight hour can I call on your name and find peace?

Can I believe in you whether you respond to me or not?

Can I have blind faith that you are all I'll ever need?

My beginning and my end. 

Can I proclaim to the world that you are my truth, my way and my light?

Can I worship you?

Enter your presence and cry tears of joy, tears of love, tears of unshakable faith.

Can I bear your cross around my neck and let the world know I would die for you?

Can I expect nothing from you?

Can I surrender when you won't?

Can I smile when you leave me? Laugh when you forsake me? Dance when you break me?

Can I thank you for the trials and tribulations you gift me?

For the lessons in unconditional love.

Please, baby, please can I worship you?

Will you be my God? Will you sit in my sky and feed off of my praise?

When my praises go up, will your blessings come down? Can I keep honoring you when they don’t?

You know what, girl? Never mind.

I shouldn’t ask your permission. I apologize. I’m sorry to bother you. I ask nothing of you.

Because the truth is, I’m going to worship you.

Whether you want me to or not.

Whether you punish me for it or not.

Whether I’m punishing myself or not.

I’m going to worship you.

A God so great simply can’t go ignored.



While You Were Sleeping


A summer storm was on the way. I sat under an open window in my bedroom and let the night air wash over my bare shoulders. I could smell rain. When Joyce and I were first married, we used to sit underneath the one window in our tiny, studio apartment and breathe in the wet air from outside. Raindrops would make their way through the screen and we’d let them hit us. Something our mothers never allowed in their own homes. Growing up, my siblings and I made mad dashes throughout the house to shut every window at the first sight of a gray could. Leaving our window open and letting the rain hit us was our little, romantic act of rebellion. We would sit and talk about our days if the babies were asleep. If not, we’d sit, look into each other’s eyes, steal a kiss and then swiftly return to our never-ending parental duties. Sometimes we’d even make love, right there on the floor. Those were the precious moments of beginning. We’d been through so much but the weight of our actions, of our decisions hadn’t yet sunk in. We were still young, dumb and in love. God, I missed those days.

On this night, I sat alone. Joyce was asleep. We entertained our guests. They went home, hand in hand. Joyce popped her aspirin and went straight to bed, just like she said she would. From across the room, I watched her body rise and fall in its usual rhythm.

My cell phone lied on the carpet directly in front of me. Its black screen stared at me. A deep, dark well of possibilities, filled with the unknown, just waiting for me to reach out, to dive in, and swim freely.  

This wasn’t the plan. She gave me her number. I thought about using it but had decided against it. I was a married man, after all. A married man who despite the endless problems and lack of magical elixirs, loved his wife and didn’t want to hurt her. Hurt was a powerful thing. For a split second that turned into two, I thought about my own hurt. About how consistently I ignored it. I thought about the last argument. How “done” I was, how fed up, how I couldn’t stand the silence or the noise, the secrets or the truth. I was fed up with Joyce and her rejection, her constant victimization. The focus on her regret instead of my pain. And yet, I went from being fed up and over it to hosting another dinner party. The quicksand was swift. It always was.

I thought about Ava. About seeing her today and how quickly she eased my troubled mind. One smile. One wave. One brave middle finger. It was all my soul needed.

 “Fuck it,” I whispered into the night and picked up my phone.

Without overthinking, I wrote the first thing that came to mind. Wanted to see what it would be like to just say what I felt for once.

You looked good today.

My thumb loomed over the “send” button. I gazed up at Joyce’s body, then back down at my phone and my stomach decided now was a great time to join the circus. With a deep breath I pressed SEND. And waited. It was late. She probably wouldn’t reply tonight. If ever. I looked back up at Joyce as my stomach took its turn on the trapeze. Before I could take a breath to steady my nerves, the phone lit up. It seemed brighter than normal. My transgressions casting a shadow on the wall next to me. I cupped my left hand over the device while I turned the brightness down. She responded. A new message from “A”, all I could think to save her under as I never planned on actually doing this.

Thought I’d never hear from you.

Her message made me smile. I felt like she was sitting there with me, under an open window on a rainy, summer night.

Guess I’m full of surprises.

You were looking pretty fine yourself.

Why thank you, ma’am.

Don’t call me ma’am. It turns me on.

Haha. Noted.

Sorry, shouldn’t have told you that.

Your secret’s safe with me.

You’re up late.

Couldn’t sleep.

Penny for your thoughts.

A part of me wished I could tell her everything. I knew better though. She was a fantasy and would most likely stay that way. I’d keep my reality within this house and not kill the vibe, keep my response short and sweet.

Oh ya know…

I don’t. But I could guess. Haha.

Haha. I’m sure you could. I’ll have to keep them to myself for now.

For now.

Joyce moaned and stretched. Her body turned and faced me. I flipped my phone over to hide the light. My eyes narrowed to see if hers were wide, if I was caught red-handed in the midst of my sin. Three deep breaths later and there was no more movement. She was still asleep but I was now too shook to continue. Perhaps it was a sign to keep the conversation short and sweet. I concluded with a bit of flirtation.

Goodnight… ma’am.

Mm. Night.

I clicked my phone off, then hit the button on the side to make sure it required a passcode to get back in. It always did, but tonight I needed to make sure. My face relaxed and I realized I’d had a smile plastered there this entire time. The night air felt even better on my back. Smelled better than it felt. But it was late. It was late and I was growing increasingly fearful of my thoughts. I carried my phone with me to my side of the bed, placed it on my nightstand, face down, crawled into bed and slept next to my wife.

A Christmas Wish


Life is a trip, ain't it? The ups and downs, the highs,the lows, the low low low lows. In the midst of my whatever, all I can hope for, all I can pray for, all I can wish for is not my own blessings but yours. Well, what the hell... mine too.

I wish you peace.

I wish you stillness.

I wish you comfort.

I wish you understanding and acceptance. 

I wish you unspeakable joys.

I wish you therapy.

I wish you the laughter of children.

I wish you laughter from your own belly.

I wish you healing. 

I wish you soft touches and open hearts.

I wish you good food.

I wish you pride in your own unquestionable beauty.

I wish you self-love.

I wish you dancing. 

I wish you patience, knowing it's a process, all of it.

I wish you love, not only more than you expected, but more than you ever dreamed possible. Love overflowing to the point it scares you.

Then I wish you more stillness, acceptance of the love. 

I wish you peace, love, blessings and even a miracle or two. 

Because you are worth it.

You, yes you, you deserve it.

From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas and a joyous and bountiful New Year. 


The Farmhouse


The small crack in the window let in enough snow-covered air to cool down the humid kitchen. She had one loaf of bread in the oven and was kneading a second. He built this kitchen just for her. She baked in it every weekend just for him. 

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear when she heard the front door. He was back with more firewood. More cool air from outside came in with him. He walked into the kitchen, stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She stopped her work, closed her eyes and inhaled him. He smelled like trees and snow and the deepest, darkest nights. 

The farmhouse was a soft yellow on the outside, with a kitchen of the same color. Those were her only requests all those years ago. The rest was up to him. He used a mix of oaks, maples and pines. He included a breakfast nook, a fireplace and a room just for her when she wanted to read. 

Twenty years had passed. Twenty Christmases. Forty birthdays. Fifty-two weekends of escape, even if only for dinner. This place was their own. No children. No friends or relatives. Just the two of them. 

He built it for her and she loved him in it, endlessly.

She put the second loaf in the oven while he hung up his coat. 

A fresh fire was lit and they snuggled in their established places by the fire. 

Her head nuzzled into his chest, in its usual position. She listened to his heartbeat and smelled his sweater that had hints of cedar and smoke. The heartbeat was slower than usual. She knew to treasure it. Knew it wouldn't last forever.

He ran his fingers through her hair. Inhaled its hints of coconut and lavender. He kissed her head, knowing he would not always have that chance. He studied each strand of her hair, wished he could memorize each one. Wished he could imprint each strand into his memory to keep with him until the end. He inhaled her again and pulled her in closer. 

The fire heated their bodies, stilled their minds as they lost themselves in the flames. The smell of fresh bread blended with the burning wood, surrounding them. They let the elements take over their senses, if only for a moment. 

This would be their last night by the fire. Their last trip to the farmhouse. Their last embrace. They held each other and fought to record the moment. To hold it tight and never forget. Each smell. Each sound. Each touch. He'd fight to hold on. She'd fight to never let go, to always remember. 

"I love you."


Black Queen Fools Gold


A remix of something from before...

You wear your black queens like expensive-looking accessories. You take true gold, wrap it in fool, sell it at a discounted price and rap, “Baby please don’t cry. You got to keep your head up”. You keep one by your side, one in your bed, one in your phone, her friend on your mind. You want them tall, you want them thick, you want them stylish but most importantly willing to take that dick.

You want their hair natural as each one of HER coils confirms your contributions to the struggle.  You want their minds open but not too open, you want their mouths shut, you want their souls silenced because the songs they sing do nothing but reveal your hypocrisy. You will tell your black queen why she is magical. You will tell your black queen what makes her beautiful. You will praise any reflection of yourself that you see in her and destroy the rest. You will define her, you will adorn her, you will display her. You will fluff her fro and cloth her skin and paint her lips with sticks of silence. Her mouth is to only open at night. Her mouth is to only open at night.

There will be those rare minds of black queens you cannot ignore. Their brilliance doesn’t ask for permission to speak. You do not make them giggle and coo. You know her britches are too big for you. You know she can out-smart you, out-wit you, out-run you, doesn’t give a shit about you. She sees through your bullshit, refuses to deal with that shit, and shakes her head, praying for whomever decided to sit next to you. These are the women you would never call more than a friend as you refuse to fuck what frightens you. Your ego, your dick, your weakness make sure you stay too steps away, never getting too close to the woman that sees you. Her intellect five times greater than your smarts. Your ego five times greater than her intellect, so she must be ignored, pushed down, deemed angry, dripping in PMS. The threat to the ego must be abolished because we all know niggas are sensitive about their shit.

Am I your black queen when you sing my praises in public only to hand-deliver my quelled self-esteem behind these doors of fake love? Am I your black queen when you fuck me and forget me, when you impregnate me and leave me, when I’ve been treated better by white men?

My black is mine. My pussy is mine, neither available for you to define. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of blanketed ideals that will never truly consider the complexity of my individuality, that cannot see me beyond my brown skin and pink pussy. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still haven’t learned to respect ME, to love ME, only the idea of me, only the part of me that looks like him. Who can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who actually doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. Am I supposed to want you? Am I supposed to need you? You, who can see me only as a housewife or a ho? Permitting me to be a slut or a queen with no in between.

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown of thorns. I am not your black ho, please remove this scarlet letter of hypocrisy. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself, respect myself, honor myself, when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's pardon. You cannot paint me as a housewife. You cannot paint me as a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class, sex or gender. My bed does not discriminate like your whack-ass doctrine. 

I am not your queen. I am no daughter of God. I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am confident. I am self-conscious. I am happy. I am sad. I deserve respect. I demand respect. I will never stop demanding respect. I am an angry black woman with a pretty, pretty smile. I am just fine without you. 

Don’t call me queen when you don’t take the time to truly learn who the fuck I am.   

A Night in San Francisco: Part III

san fran.jpeg

Picture it: Denver, 2017. That's a Golden Girls reference. Do people get that? Ugh, aging sucks. Anyway... Denver, the summer of 2017, picture it. 

It's been a little over one year since that fateful night in San Francisco, okay, Oakland. I'm back in my own city, recently single after my first queer relationship. I've scissored, licked pussy and am feeling accomplished AF. One year with no peen, just pure, painless pleasure. Hashtag winning. Things didn't work out with that relationship but it's alright. For the best. 

So on fateful night number two, I'm out with some friends on the first friday of the month. The one night when the local gay clubs transform into a lesbian dream and the gay women in my city come out to drink, dance, play and have nothing but a great time. 

Maybe because I'm newly single, maybe because it's been a long week, or maybe because I was born in New York and have always been loyal to my roots, I quickly run through two Long Island Iced Teas, soon after arriving to this spot. 

I'm feeling good, dancing smack dab in the middle of an epic grind train. I'm usually the woman watching grind trains from the corner of the room while I sip on rum and Malibu, shaking the hell out of my head but tonight is different. Tonight: TWO back-to-back Long Island Ice Teas. I'm getting my groove on with a blonde woman and her friend, a young man that looks to be no more than 21. I ignore that fact and keep grinding because I don't have work tomorrow and fuck it. When the grind train gets too hot, literally and figuratively, I pop my head up, take a breath of any cool air I can find. My eyes scan the club and I'm quickly convinced they are playing tricks on me. Over by the bathroom. I think I see her. It can't be her but my god, it might be her. 

I swoop off of the dance floor and follow this silhouette. Walking towards the bathroom, she turns her head slightly and then I'm sure. Holy shit. It's her. The woman from Oakland. The woman in the green t-shirt.

What the hell is she doing here???

I don't even take time to pinch myself. I see her walk into the bathroom, flashing that same damn smile that changed my life a year ago and I'm right behind her,  slowly following her inside. 

Once inside I don't see her. She must be in a stall already. I fix my hair in the mirror, readjust my boobs and apply some lip gloss. Then, she exits the stall. Stands right next to me and washes her hands. This time, I'm not shy. This time I'm, well, a little bit drunk, and inhibitions are nowhere in sight. 

I turn to her as she dries her hands. 

Excuse me?" I say.

She faces me. She smiles and I attempt not to kiss her then and there.

"Do you live in Oakland?"

Her eyes widen a bit. "I live in northern San Francisco so, yeah, pretty close. How did you...?"

Then the words just flowed, came up and out just as easily as the Long Islands flowed in and down.

"I thought it was you. We met last year at a club in Oakland and, well, I fell in love with you at first sight."

And then it dawns on her. Enlightenment washing over her face. "I remember you."

"You do?"

"Of course, you were so nervous. It was adorable."

I giggle and blush. 

"You cut your hair," I say.

Now it's her turn to blush. "Yeah, I cut it short earlier this year. That's crazy that you remember that."

"I couldn't exactly forget you." My eyes lower a bit. 

"So, love at first sight, huh?" she asks. 

"Okay, not love, but, let's just say, one look at you and my life took a drastic turn... for the better."

"Is that so?"


"But we barely spoke. I figured at the end of the day you weren't interested."

"No, you got it right the first time. Just shy."

"Are you still feeling shy?"

I shake my head no.

"What's your name?" I ask.


I can't help but laugh. "Your name would be Lulu."

She laughs with me, probably fully aware that her name sounds like it came straight out of somebody's fantasy.

She says, "I think we need to commemorate this moment. It's not everyday I have a run-in with such a gorgeous woman, only to meet her once again. Seems a bit serendipitous, no?"

I agree with her.

I ask, "Well how do you think we should commemorate?" 

She leans in close and stops my breath. I swear she'll kiss me. She doesn't. Bypasses my mouth and places her lips next to my ear. "Perhaps we start by exchanging numbers? I'd hate to lose you again."

I MELT but say, "that's quite wise."

We exchange numbers, quickly. I can't help but save her contact info as "Little Lulu". 

"How long are you in Denver?" I ask.

"Just through the weekend. Flew out for a work conference."

"Fuck, she has a job. A job that flies her to conferences. HAWT," I think, but don't say. 

"So, you leave tomorrow?"

"Monday morning."

"Is your schedule full tomorrow?" I ask without a follow-up question ready. 

"I have two meetings, first one's not til 2 though."

I nod my head and she smirks.

"Plenty of time for us to finish up brunch and maybe a walk through your favorite park," she states, not asks.

"Yeah," I breathe, barely over a whisper. "I'd like that. Do you want me to call you in the morning?"

She smiles. Laughs, "No, not in the morning." 

And she kisses me. 

I swear I could cry. 

Her arms wrap around my waist. My arms drape over her shoulders and I inhale her. Our tongues intertwine and we're lost in each other. Surroundings disappear. I hear a faint, "get a room," and happily ignore it. She props me up on the bathroom counter and presses her body against my own, nestled perfectly in between my legs. 

"Let's leave," I say. 

She grabs my hand without hesitation and pulls me towards the exit. I give my friends of the grind train a wink. They wink back. The 21 year old man with his jaw falling on the floor giving me all the "get it girl" he can muster in one look, and we're gone. 

The Lyft ride takes forever. We spend twenty minutes squeezing each other's thighs and tickling each others palms but we finally make it to my home. I thank God I cleaned yesterday but pray I took out the trash. We step inside and I whiff. Trash is out and plug-in air freshener is on high. I forgot about that. Praise Jesus. 

As if she knows my home, she leads me to my own bedroom. I undress her. She undresses me. One scan of her body and again I think I could cry. 

My mouth begins its exploration, careful to cover every nook and cranny. I'm gentle with her and take my time. Who knows what this is, what it will be, if I'll get this chance again. 

She's a bit more forceful and I welcome her aggression. She pulls my hair, bites my neck and pumps her fingers inside my body, forcing moans out of my mouth. I lick those fingers, taste myself and smile, my own hunger growing. 

My tongue bathes in her wetness, a deep sea diver on a maiden voyage, filled with a nervous excitement for the treasures that await.  Her thighs wrap around my neck and begin to shake. I find her spot and drive her insane. My desire proves greater than my inexperience. I treat her clitoris like the gift it is... until I don't. Until I suck it into submission and Lulu comes uncontrollably on my face. I wipe away her juices and a grin, pleased with myself. 

She doesn't give me much time to kiss her tummy and stroke her hair before she's pushing me down on my bed, returning the "favor". Her experience trumps my desire to make the moment last. I can't describe what she did. Words don't suffice. But my body will never forget. Afterwards, I curl up in a ball and for real, for real, try not to cry.

I wonder Who is this woman?

More serendipity creeps in as she asks me, "Who are you?"

I laugh. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I can't believe I saw you again...in a completely different city."

"Tell me about it." 

"Do I still get brunch with you tomorrow?" she asks.

"You get literally whatever the fuck you want."

She laughs and licks her lips, "Oh, is that so?"

I nod my head, fully ready to give her whatever the fuck she wants.

Words aren't needed. We both know what she wants. 

She spreads my legs with her knees and takes it. I hate when people say dumb shit like "it's yours, take it". It feels borderline rapey to me. Like, what if one day it's not yours but you think it's yours and you just take it? Nah, son. But when I tell you this pussy is HERS!!! Hunty chile, listen. It's hers. Jesus help me.

The next day we never make it to brunch. We make love all morning until she has to get back to her hotel room. Has to get ready for her meeting.

"When will I see you again?" she asks.

"Who knows. Probably on another dance floor," I joke.

"How about we don't chance it this time?"

I nod my head and say, "yeah, okay."

Even while currently basking in a fairytale, I struggle to believe in fairytales. Still well aware that this could be nothing more than a fun story for her. 

"I mean it. I want to see you again."

I choose to believe her. 

"Then you will," I say before kissing her for the thousandth time.

We say our goodbyes and she leaves, off to fulfill her original duties. 

As soon as I close my door behind her I call Savannah.

"Girlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll. You still plan on visiting your new friends in Cali?"

"Yeah, I'm going next month! Why?"

"Cuz I'm going with you, bitch! Listen to this shit...!"





When the Giggle Goes


It's one of the first things they notice. 

One of the first traits they complement.

The giggle.

My giggle.  

"Damn girl, that giggle is so cute."

"So adorable."

"Too goddamn adorable."

"You keep giggling like that, gonna mess around and make me want to do things to you."

The higher the pitch, the better.

The more I giggle like an innocent schoolgirl in response to their manly bravado, the harder their dicks get. 

I could stop the giggle.

Never tease them with the sound of voluntary submission, executed with ease and a smile.

But, shit. I'm just as guilty.

Their manly bravado turns me on, makes me coo and wiggle. And when I'm feeling flirtatious, that's the laugh that escapes my lips.

But then it comes. It always comes.

The time when the giggle goes. 

When my cooing is replaced with feminist diatribes of truth and self-respect. 

When the giggle goes and the questions come. 

When the giggle goes and challenge comes.

Pushback comes. 

Opinions come. Opinions that differ from theirs arrive and stay and don't back down. 

That's when they run. Chuck up the deuces and continue on their trek towards the next giggling cutie. 

I let them go.

But those that stay?

Well, that's a different story. 

When my giggle goes and the depth creeps in...

There are certain men that don't run. 

They don't roll their eyes. 

They lay down that male bravado and engage me as an equal, a worthy and welcomed opponent and teammate in the battle of wits.

Well, let's just say that's when the panties drop. 

The giggle goes.

It always goes. 

But for the right ones, the real ones, it's always sure to return. 

A Night in San Francisco: Part II

san fran.jpeg

Now this is where you’d assume I approach her and my life changes forever, right? I spot her. She spots me. All other bodies on the dance floor melt away and we are Tony and Maria from West Side Story, the only living beings in the micro-universe we just created through a mere glance across the dance floor. We walk towards each other in slow motion, refusing to break eye contact, I hold out my hand when I’ve almost reached her and she pulls me in. Tight. We say nothing. I focus on her lips while she licks them. I bite my own. Our eyes meet again until they close in perfect unison and we kiss. Fireworks won’t begin to describe what we feel. Earthquakes, nothing more than slight missteps. Together we are power, our passion burning hotter than the sun’s core.

If only.

It went a little something like this.

Savannah and I make our way inside and head straight to the bar to get our drink on and scope out any potentials for adventure. The bartender asks us if we’d like to try two titty twisters and we naturally say, “yes”.

I spot the woman in the green t-shirt from across the room. She’s dancing with two other women. They look like they’re just friends. Laughing and smiling and dancing but not too closely. Doesn’t look like anyone is boning anyone else in that group. I cross my fingers and down my titty twister before ordering another. I look back at her. Her hips sway from side to side and I curse god for making me human instead of the pair of jeans she’s wearing.

“You’re biting your lip. What’s going on?” Savannah asks.


“Who are you looking at?”

“See that girl in the green t-shirt?”

“The one we met outside?”

“Yeah, her,” I say.

Savannah quickly surveys the situation. I watch her eyes check out the girl in the green t-shirt.

She says, “Okay, okay. I see you. I like it. I support it. You gonna do it?”

“No way,” I say almost laughing.

“What? Why not?”

“Because women are beautiful and terrifying and make me feel like a pubescent boy who hasn’t figured out how to use his dick yet.”

Savannah rolls her eyes. “Bitch, please, let’s go.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me towards the dancefloor.

We know the drill. We do it with men, maybe it works with women too?

We get close to the object of my affection and her group.

Savannah puts on the “come fuck me face”. I put on the “come fuck me” face. We dance together in a way that makes men drop like flies. It’s nothing special. It’s nothing new. It’s just real effective.

She looks at me. She looks at me and I lose “the face”. It’s replaced with fear and nausea. I start to dance off beat. I stop all together, take a breath and then just sway casually, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel. Savannah rolls her eyes and abandons me, distracted by a big booty and a smile and heart that doesn't hold the power to break her own. The two of them make a non-verbal agreement and head towards the bar. 

The girl in the green t-shirt walks towards me. My heart stops, falls out of my vagina and runs away. I stand there heartless and dizzy.

“So, you guys made it in,” she says.

Of course, I had to see you is what I want to say. In reality I go with “yep”.

“I’m glad. This place can be fun,” she says, her eyes focusing in on mine.

“Totally,” I say with entirely too much enthusiasm. My heart scurries back across the floor to find me, reenters my body and has a dance party in my chest. “Well, I’m going to go find my friend,” I say like a stupid, scared, pubescent boy who hasn’t figured out how to use his dick yet.

“Oh okay. It was nice to meet you,” she says.

I fumble, "You too, of course."

I make my way back to the bar where Savannah is waiting with an open hand, letting me know she’d love to slap me.

“I know. I know,” I say.

“Here.” Savannah hands me another drink.

"What happened to Big Booty Judy?" I ask. 

Savannah sips her drink, a slick smile creeping across her face. "She's in the bathroom waiting for me."

"Oh, it's going down like that?" I ask.

"Shut up. I'm on vacation. You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be just fine. Enjoy yourself."

She kisses me on the cheek and leaves me.

I spend the rest of the night watching the girl in the green t-shirt from across the room. I dance with a woman who legitimately looks like Lil Wayne in order to get closer to green t-shirt girl, the one I wish I was dancing with. It’s fruitless. My fear wins tonight. The girl in the green t-shirt eventually leaves. Savannah and I leave shortly after.

In the car ride back to the hotel, Savannah tells me about the women she met that night. About the numbers she got and how they’re all going to stay connected on social media. Maybe she’ll come out to hang with them again next summer. I’m half listening to her while I pull out my phone, open my online dating app and change my settings from “straight” to “bisexual”. Closeted curiosity isn't working for me anymore. It was time to put myself out there. Time to explore this other part of me I had tucked away. In my mind, I thank the girl in the green t-shirt.

She was the catalyst. The final straw in my life that pushed me out of my comfort zone and into my truth. I thought that would be the end of it, the end of her involvement in my life. She would be nothing more than the inspiration that led to my next relationship (another story for another day). But boy was I wrong. She’d be back. When I least expected it…

A Night in San Francisco

The story begins in San Francisco because of course it would. Okay, it was technically Oakland because the truth is always a few miles north of the facts of a story. Here's a little story with a little truth. I'll let you decide what's what. 

Oakland, the summer of 2016. I'm on a girls trip with a few friends. There's four of us and for the last two nights we've been drinking, dancing, getting high and chasing gay men in speedos while eating cookies bigger than our heads. We're lit AF. 

On the third night, two of my girls are beat. Let's just say we're not 21 anymore and a game of Go Fish with a glass of wine, face masks and hair bonnets also sounds lit AF to us. Two of them are tired but I'm still wired and ready to party. Luckily, I can always count on my girl, Savannah, to come out and party with me. 

We drop off the sleep sisters at the hotel and head back out on the town in search of...we don't know and we don't care. As long as we find it. 

Crossing back over the bridge to San Fran is too much work. Again, we lit but we're not 21. We decide to see what trouble we can find closer to the hotel in Oakland. 

After a quick google search, we're on our way to a strip of clubs all along one street that I conveniently forgot the name of.

Standing outside one establishment, the blue neon light illuminates our faces and our anxious souls. We're ready to keep the party going. 

Savannah is dressed like God herself in a skin tight red dress with curves that would make you slap your momma. I'm more laid back in booty hugging jeans and a low-cut, black tank top. When my girls come out to play I don't have to put much work in elsewhere. Besides, I'm pretty as hell. Hard labor not required.

Savannah approaches a group of women standing in front of us in line. 

She asks them, "What's the vibe like in here?"

One laughs and the other one says, "It's like a lesbian hip-hop club."

Now Savannah and I both live in different white bread cities void of hip hop clubs or black lesbians so our non-verbal confirmation of "It's go time" is written all over our faces. Neither of us will ever see anything like this at home and we're excited. Savannah is straight and I'm ummm, curiously in the closet? Closet curious? Either way, it doesn't matter, we're here to party and try something new so, we're in. 

I take a look at the woman who tells us what the vibe is like and smile. Tell her, "Thanks, that's all we needed to know."

She smiles at me in return. The pristineness of her teeth throws me off. She has a beautiful smile. I examine the rest of her face and her body and notice she's completely on point from head to toe. She has curly hair, that looks soft to the touch, a natural, like me. She's thin but toned, wears tight jeans and a loose, green t-shirt. She looks comfortable like she has no one to impress. She smells like lavender and she excites my lady parts. 

"God damn it," I think to myself. "I haven't even stepped inside yet."

But when I do... when we all step inside that den of precious sin and I see her start to groove on the dance floor...well, I can't deny it. I fell in love with her right then and there. 


A Day in the Life of a Girl Who Just Broke Up With Her Boyfriend

6:00am: Stare at alarm clock.

6:30am: Turn alarm off.

6:45am: Cry.

7:00am: Cry in shower.

8:30am: Arrive at work.

9:30am: Mentally arrive at work.

10:00am: Eat cold pizza.

10:45am: Pretend to pay attention to boss.

11:00am: Start texting ex.

11:00am: Save self and delete text before sending.

11:15am: Read old text messages from ex.

11:18am: Kick yourself for every bad thing you said to him.

11:22am: Kick yourself for the even worse things you never got a chance to say to him because fuck him.

12:00pm: Eat more cold pizza.

12:22pm: Listen to coworker talk about her perfect boyfriend.

12:25pm: Refrain from killing coworker.

1:00pm: Attend meeting.

1:15pm: Think about all the dick you can have.

1:22pm: Roll your eyes because you don't even want no dick right now.

1:39pm: Realize it's crazy that you don't even want no dick.

1:44pm: Accept the fact that you'll be alone forever. 

2:00pm: Wonder what the fuck that meeting was just about.

2:15pm: Cry in bathroom stall as quietly as possible. 

3:00pm: Eat two Snickers bars and stalk ex on social media.

3:15pm: Regret the fuck out of your decision.

3:22pm: Remind yourself that you did the right thing. 

3:40pm: Eat third Snickers bar...try not to puke.

4:00pm: Delete his number from your phone.

4:00pm: Reprogram his number that you know by heart into your phone.

4:30pm: More social media stalking.

5:15pm: Arrive home, wonder how you got there.

5:52pm: Check text messages.

5:53pm: Check voicemails.

6:00pm: Order pizza.

6:01pm: Think about cancelling pizza order and going to yoga instead.

6:48pm: Eat delivered pizza.

7:00pm: Start more social media stalking.

7:00pm: Realize you've been blocked from all social media.

7:01pm: Cuss him the fuck out in your head.

7:04pm: Cry to friends about it and listen to their advice telling you it's for the best and time to move on.

7:30pm: Decide friends are idiots and obsess over the blocking instead.

8:00pm: Obsess over everything.

8:15pm: White wine.

9:00pm: Red wine.

9:15pm: Rum.

9:30pm: Check and see if you're still blocked. You are.

9:15pm: Consider blocking his number as it's the only power you have left.

9:16pm: Question why you need this power. 

9:17pm: Beat yourself up for every flaw you possess including beating yourself up too much.

9:30pm: Remind yourself that you're the one that broke up with him and for great reason.

9:50pm: Question who the fuck gave you authority over your life and allowed you to define "great reason".

10:00pm: Get really tired of yourself. 

10:14pm: Get really tired in general.

10:33pm: Pee, then sit on the toilet for thirty minutes convincing yourself this is it. Peeing is now the greatest feeling you'll ever experience again. 

10:55pm: Go to bed.

11:43pm: Go to sleep.

Rinse. Repeat for two more weeks. Hopefully only two more weeks. Good luck to you.

She's In Control: Part III

"And then he said, 'I can handle a lot of things, Mrs. Anderson,'"

"You're cold-blooded, absolutely cold-blooded," Jameson complimented his wife. 

"What happened after that?"

"I asked him just a few more questions. Made the interview as short as possible. But it wasn't entirely just to piss him off. I have pilates every morning at 10; you know that."

"That's true. You do."

"And of course, I could have told him I was the one interviewing him that day..."

"And that you're married..."

"And that I'm married, but he was the one always pushing the rules, always making the assumption that women, including me, couldn't actually have a casual arrangement. Hmpf, little did he know. Sometimes, people just have to learn the hard way."

"Cold-blooded," Jameson laughed. 

"Am I cold-blooded, baby?" Michaela asked her husband. 

"You sure are. I think you need to be punished."

"Do I?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who's gonna punish me?" she asked, scootching closer to him on their wrap-around, gray couch.

"Who the hell do you think?"

"Mmm, I'm ready for it.

"Ready to be punished?"

"Yes, sir."

Michaela laid her body down across their sturdy coffee table and spread her legs wide. 

Jameson ran his hands to the top of her shorts, yanked them down past her knees, past her toes and threw them across the room. 

She shifted, gathering his finger tips inside of her. 

Michaela moved back and forth over three of his digits while Jameson scooped his rock hard dick out of his sweat pants.

He replaced his fingers with a rod of pain. 

He allocated her punishment.

The punishment she deserved because she decided it was deserved. 

She bathed in the pleasure of her power. 

She demanded more and he gave her more. 

She thanked him by squatting on his face, grinding her juices into his mouth while bending forward and accepting his stream of excitement down her throat. 

They moaned in unison. Husband and wife, gripped each other for balance, for the stability that they only found in each other. 

Returning to the couch, he wrapped his arms around her and she melted into his chest.

"So, do you think you'll hire him?" Jameson asked his wife.

"Possibly. He's actually quite qualified."

"Sounds good, love."


She's In Control: Part II

In his freshest, gray, hand-tailored suit, Jerome sat in the reception area of Prime Consulting and waited. He pushed persistent thoughts of Michaela away and reviewed his perfectly rehearsed talking points. He'd been out of work for the last three months after a mass layoff at Brooks & Baker and although his severance was far from expired, Jerome was a man that liked to work. Idle hands were not his thing. This was his second interview at Prime, this time with the Senior Vice President of Sales. He'd done his homework and was ready to crush this final interview, just like he did in the first round. Jerome was a man who knew what he wanted in life and never had problems conquering. 

"Mr. Davis?" the receptionist called in his direction.

"Yes," he replied in a smooth tone.

"Mrs. Anderson is ready for you, now. You may go in."

Mrs. Anderson. The thought of a female boss excited Jerome. She would be his first. He attempted to push those thoughts away as well. With one final deep breath, he stood, straightened his tie and carried his endless corporate swagger towards the large mahogany door, the only thing separating him from the next rung on his career ladder. 

When he entered, she was on the phone. 

She raised one finger in his direction and mouthed, "Sorry".

Jerome did his best to control his face, to quell any visual expression of his perplexed mind that was currently scrambling to make some sense out of what he saw before him.

What the fuck was Michaela doing seated behind that desk? Was this some sort of joke? This wasn't funny. This was his livelihood she was playing with. Was Michaela's last name Anderson? Fuck, they agreed: No last names. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was happening here?

Michaela was dressed in an off-white pantsuit. She looked older. She looked sexier. She looked professional and fine as fuck.

"Okay, Dave. I'll see you at three...alright...it's my pleasure...have a good morning...bye, now."

She hung up.

"Michaela, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Excuse me? I prefer Mrs. Anderson in this space."

"You're Mrs. Anderson?"

"I am."

"Senior Vice President of Sales at Prime Consulting?"

"That's right."

"And you didn't think this was information you should share with me?"

"You never asked."

Jerome rolled his eyes. 

"Besides," she continued, "We agreed: No last names, no details, personal or professional, remember?"

"Yeah, but I told you I had an interview here, today."

"Guess you slipped up."

"Guess so."

Jerome could feel his corporate swagger leaking out of his pores. He felt the pang of an emotional beating in his heart as well but that emotion he consciously decided to ignore. 

"You brought your resume, I presume?" she asked. 

"Of course."

Jerome slid a folder across Mrs. Anderson's thick, expensive-looking desk. In it contained two copies of his resume, a cover letter, three professional and one personal reference. More information about himself than he ever dreamed he'd share with Michaela. 

"Please, have a seat," she said.

He sat. 

She opened the folder and looked over the documents, barely blinking.


He cleared his throat, "Thank you."

"So, why Prime Consulting?" she asked.

He cracked a sly smile and licked his lips.

"Michaela, are we really going to do this?"

She looked too damn good in that suit. Jerome knew he'd never be able to focus, would never be able to take the woman he was bending over just hours ago seriously as his boss. 

"It's Mrs. Anderson in here. Please, don't make me repeat myself."

Her face was stone-cold. 

Jerome realized that he just might have to take her seriously after all. His sexual and professional desires battling it out between his legs. He crossed his left over his right knee and told his dick to relax. Time to focus. 

"I apologize," he said, looking away from her. 

"Now, tell me about your duties at Brooks & Baker."

She played with her necklace and held his gaze. 

It was in this moment that Jerome first noticed the massive rock balancing on her left hand's ring finger.

"You're married!?" he yelled.

"Mr. Davis, if you can't control yourself..."

"Nah, fuck that, Michaela. You never told me you were married!"

"Remember the rules, Jerome. No details, personal or professional."

He huffed and puffed three shallow breaths until he managed one deep one. He uncrossed his left leg then crossed his right over his left knee. He adjusted his tie and tried to match Mrs. Anderson's casual gaze, tried to relax his own. The emotional pang in his heart spread throughout his chest but again, he consciously ignored it. 

Another deep breath. 

"At Brooks & Baker I supervised a team of forty, managing over seventy-five multi-million dollar accounts."


"Yes, I know."

"Think you can handle one hundred accounts?"

"I can handle a lot of things, Mrs. Anderson."

"Yes, we'll see about that."

The Least of These

He promises. 

She promises. 

He puts his faith in her. 

She hopes for their future. 

He loves her in ways he never thought possible. 

She loves him through the fear. 





But sometimes it seems. 

Sometimes it seems the least of these is love.

He follows his path.

She follows her dreams.

They work.

They work. 

They work. 

They still love. 

But the least of these is love.

He promises to stay.

She promises to change. 

He promises to help. 

Because he loves her. 

He loves her and she loves him. 

But the least of these is love. 

He considers his future. 

She can't get over her past. 

They promise to love. 

They proclaim faith. 

They proclaim hope. 

They proclaim love. 

But the least of these is love.

Love is steadfast. 

Love is sure. 

Love will hold you. Guide you. 

They proclaim. 

She sacrifices for her children. 

He respects decisions made. 

And through it all.

Through every hope. 

Every faith. 

Every stirring. 

The least of these.

The least of these is love.