Dating Chronicles: Online Dating/Slow Death

Picture it. Sicily. 1926. I’m a young woman crying into my meat sauce because I’m unhappy with my father’s choice of husband for me but what can I do? I just keep stirring. And crying.

Except no. I’ve just always wanted to ‘Pull a Sophia’. If you don’t know which Sophia I’m referring to...I’m SO sorry for you.

I was nowhere near alive in 1926 and my father would never arrange a marriage for me. I don’t know his exact feelings on the topic but I’d guess he (like me) has completely given up on me finding love. Oh, gosh I hope he’s not still hopeful. Are my parents still hopeful? Do they think I’m going to find someone? Are they praying for me to find a husband????? Oh, gosh, oh, gosh, I hope not. I’d feel so bad for the inevitable disappointment.

Anyway, back to the point. I don’t live in the age of arranged marriages (not in my country/region/culture/family anyway). I live in the dreaded era of ONLINE DATING! Cue horror music!

If I wrote a blog post for each experience…well, let’s just say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that”.

So here’s a painful list I’ve compiled painfully about my painful dating life.

1. The Chastity Belt: His profile says he’s looking for a woman to hold the key to his chastity belt. I instantly fall in love with the witty humor. We exchange a few messages and I suggest we meet for drinks. He says, “Before we do, you should check my profile again.” I furrow my brow in confusion but oblige and check out his profile. Next to his request for a chastity belt key holder he writes in parentheses: This is not a joke. I’m really looking for someone to hold the key. I need someone to fully control me. He then proceeds to send me pictures of these chastity belts (which are nothing like what I’d expect). They were more like ball clamps that look powerful enough to castrate the strongest of dicks. Drinks were not had.

2. The 1st of About 12: We met online. Exchanged numbers and witty banter. We plan a date. I text: Excited to see you. He texts back: Excited to see YOU *wink wink wink wink* He doesn’t show. HE DOESN’T FUCKING SHOW. Has the balls to apologize and the audacity to try and reschedule. I’m disgusted so I … reschedule. He doesn’t show again.

3. The Closet: We met online. He was the first white guy to ever really hit on me. My initial reaction was, “Who is this white boy tryna talk to me?” We exchanged messages, wasn’t long until I realized, “Oh, shit, he’s perfect.” That was startling. We exchanged numbers, texts, phone calls, went on dates…it was time for it to go down. I snuck him into my house when my kid was asleep. We ended up making out in my closet. My kid caught us. Fucked things up pretty bad with that one. Perfect man pretty much ghosted me since then and my son gives me wicked side eye. I’ve been hooked on white guys ever since and I just can’t shake it!!!! It’s awful. Next week I should blog about red heads. They deserve their own blog! My kid has since forgiven me, btw. There was a lot of bribery involved but...whatever works! No more boys in the closet. 

4. The Other Closet: We met online. He fell for me QUICK. We spent a LOT of time together. First date was perfect. Second date…I started crying it was going so well which is crazy but he appreciated it. We spent MORE time together. I started to pick up on things…gay things. Basically, he was gay, like, super fucking in the closet trying to date and cover it up (in fucking 2013) gay. I tried to back out gracefully. I didn’t want to say, “You share a bed with your ‘roommate’ and I’m not that progressive yet to be okay with whatever the fuck is going on here.” I gave the usual “it’s me, not you” routine but he wasn’t having it. His “love” was strong. *eye roll* I had to just come out and say it, “Dude, I think you’re gay!” His response, “I swear, why does everyone say that!?!”

5. Repeat Number 2

6. The Black Academic/Poet/Panther: We met online. Lots of messages, lots of witty banter. LOTS of big words being thrown to and fro. (Is that how you say that? To and fro?) Idk. Anyway. I’m thinking oooooooweeeee this is exciting! Returning to my beautiful Black roots. I miss Black…hands. I casually mention how I’ve been dating mostly white guys lately. Instant rejection. He can’t “get down with a sista that would be with a white dude.”

7. The Short and Sweet: yo, sup, hey, dick pic, hi, what’s good, sup, hey, hi, yo, dick pic, sup

8. The Republican: This actually led to the best sex of my life…then I found out he was engaged. That’s a thing that happens.

9. Repeat Number 7

10. Repeat Number 8 (except a married Democrat).

 God, it’s wonderful.

Loving Luke

We were at a new club tonight. This place was hot. The dance floor was packed, drinks were flowing, and bodies were touching. Steve and Saundra were all over each other, as usual. They sat next to me and Luke but I’m sure they didn’t notice us there, or anyone else for that matter. Eventually, they drifted off to the dance floor. Bob Marley moved bodies as he asked his “little darling” to “stir it up”.

Suddenly, I felt Luke’s strong arm wrap around my waist, his hand resting my thigh. His touch made me involuntarily readjust.

“Wanna dance?” he asked, the cool of his fresh breath tickling my ear.

“Sure,” I responded, casually.

We stood, made our way to the dance floor, not too far from Steve and Saundra and grooved to the music together. His touch shouldn’t have made me nervous. His gaze shouldn’t have sent chills down my spine. I’d known him for more than a decade. We were friends, good friends.

Twelve years ago my best friend Saundra and I were freshmen at Roosevelt High. One particular Saturday night we were raiding Saundra’s closet, looking for the most “grown up” outfits we could find, painting our nails and trying out different hair dos. I’d heard some juniors in my Trigonometry class talking about this hot party Steve Nichols was throwing this weekend. Being the weird, genius freshman in all junior and senior level classes did have some perks. I ran and told Saundra right away. Steve was her neighbor, just four houses down; we wouldn’t have to ask our parents for a ride, we wouldn’t even have to tell them. We could plan one of our usual sleepovers at her house, slip out when her parents weren’t looking and if anything went wrong we’d hurry back and just tell them we went for a walk or something. The night was bound to be perfect.

“What do you think of this one?” Saundra asked holding up a short, skin-tight, red dress.

“I don’t know. It might be a little much. Besides, there are no straps, how are you going to hold it up?” I asked playfully.

“Forget you,” my best friend responded, throwing the dress at me with a laugh.

“Okay, for real. We have to be smart about this. We can’t walk in there looking like freshmen that’re trying too hard.”

“But that’s what we are.”

“Yeah, but they don’t need to know that!”

I searched the entirety of her closet.

“Here, these are perfect!”

I pulled two pairs of skinny jeans off of the overhead shelf and tossed a pair to Saundra.

“Now we just need the perfect shirts.”

“How about this?” Saundra asked, holding a pink tube top against her chest.

I rolled my eyes and obliged. Who was I to put out her spark or dampen her excitement? When your best friend wants to look like a baby prostitute, you let her!

“Do you think we can look in your sister’s room for her black rolling stones t-shirt?” I asked.

“Why would you want to wear that? It’s all torn and faded.”

“It will make me look edgy and plus, I like the Stones!”

“You are one odd, little, black child,” she teased.

“Ha. Let’s just get the shirt before your sister catches us in her room.

Fully clad in our self-defined outfits of absolute crazy, sexy, cool, we were ready to tiptoe our adolescent asses out onto Saundra’s back porch and down the street to the party.

It was better than anything I could have expected. We were the only freshmen there but no one said anything to us or kicked us out like Saundra was afraid of, there was not one adult in sight and I could have sworn I smelled beer.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice spoke behind us, making us both jump. It was the party’s host.

“Do I know you?” he asked as we turned to face him.

“Um,” I said.

“Er,” my best friend said.

He smiled at our innocence. He asked my name and I told him. Those were the last words between us that night. From that moment on he had eyes for no one but Saundra.

“Could I get you a drink?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she replied, bashfully.

The rest was history. They’d fall in love deeper and deeper every day from that moment on. They were perfect. It was gross. I pretended not to care.

It was only moments later that I met Luke. Abandoned by my bestie, I stood alone at the punch bowl trying my hardest not to look lost.

“Are you in my Trig class?” he asked, suddenly standing right next to me.

“What?” I said, jumping a bit and dropping the punch bowl ladle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“In my Trig class.”

“Oh, yeah, um, yes.”

“I thought so.”

He was hard to look at, even harder not to look at. It was damn near impossible not to get lost in his eyes. There was no map accurate enough to get a girl out of that wonderland. Even back then, Lucas Hamilton looked like sex on two legs. He was tall, dark and handsome with a blinding smile and magnetic personality.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” he said with his hands raised, snapping me out of my trance.

“Huh? What? Tell you what?”

“I asked what your name was.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Olivia.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Olivia. I’m Luke.”

“I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I, um, I, I heard someone calling your name earlier.”

“Of course,” he said with a knowing smile.

“Do you know Steve?” he continued.

“No. I don’t, I don’t really know anyone here. I don’t exactly belong here.”

“Hey, any fan of the Stones is a friend of mine and I was in charge of half of the guest list so, Olivia…”

He held out his hand to me.

“…will you be my guest?”

My heart fell out of my vagina.

As if in slow motion, my left hand reached out to him. Before I could make contact with the man I would love for the rest of my life, a petite ball of blonde bubbliness literally leaped into his arms. He had no choice but to catch her.

“Luke! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said, her legs now wrapped around his waist.

“Hey, Chrissie,” he said, cupping her ass and not putting her the fuck down.

If I had a gun, I would have shot her. Okay, I wouldn’t have, but still.

She lowered her head and whispered something in his ear that plastered an instant smile on his face.

Yep, definitely would have shot her.

He carried her off and turned back to me.

“Have some more punch and don’t forget; you’re my guest. If anyone messes with you, you let me know.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I spent the rest of the night sitting outside of a closet, waiting for Saundra and Steve to stop sucking face so we could go.

Luckily, unluckily, okay maybe luckily for me, Steve and Luke were best friends. As Steve and Saundra got closer and closer, Luke and I spent more time together by default. We were the best friends left behind. I was his instant consolation prize. He, my instant target for unrequited love.

It’s been twelve years of pure torture.

He’s the player type meaning, he’s a downright player. He used to ask me for advice about girls but after Maxine Shell broke his heart back in college, he didn’t need any more advice; he knew how to play the game. Treat girls like shit, they will yell at you, then sleep with you, then you leave them, rinse and repeat. He was the ultimate bad boy, the asshole that stupid girls couldn’t stay away from. His behavior was nauseating but through it all we remained friends. I could see through his bullshit. Everything that lied right past the façade was beautiful and pure…and still fine as hell. Those were the parts I focused on.

“Where did you go?”

“Huh?”

I snapped back to reality. I was back on that dance floor, back in his arms, back in this present moment that didn’t feel too much different from standing in front of that punch bowl all those years ago.

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” I said.

“I know. I like it.”

“When I think?”

 “When you get lost like that. I always wonder where you go.”

“Oh please,” I responded playfully, pushing him away from me.

He pulled my back into his arms and held me tightly, our bodies melting to one and moving together.

“I mean it. I wonder what you’re thinking all the time.”

“Luke, you and I both know the only thing you’re ever wondering about is the color of this chick’s thong or what line would work on that chick’s tiny brain.”

He laughed with me, knowing it was true.

“You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

“No one knows you like I do. So, stop tryna front.”

Yes, ma’am,” he replied with nothing more than that dazzling smile that makes my knees go out every time, every damn time.

He held me tighter. He had to.

The air was thick, my head was spinning and I needed a minute.

“I’m going to get some water from the bar, you want anything?” I asked.

“No, I’m alright.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back. Try not to fall into an entire sea of pussy while I’m gone.”

“Fuck you, friend.”

“Fuck you too.”

Her name was Olivia. She’d been my absolute best friend for twelve years and she had no idea how much I loved her.

Dating Chronicles: The Black Mormon

I wrote a book y’all. I told my sister about it and she said, “Girl, you NEED to write a book about your dating experiences!” All I could do is shake my head and say, “Girllllllll, I can’t even.”

“Why?” you ask. Well, because my dating life is pretty typical of that of a young woman in America… pretty fucking depressing. There is nothing unique happening here but all the same, it is painful. These days, young people go through the dating world thinking, “Is this real life? This can’t be real life!” Oh, but it is.

I’ve been in two long term relationships in my life. I call that accumulation of seven years the years of blissful ignorance. I was protected by my respected boo thangs; I had no idea of the dating horrors, the horrors, I tell you!

So, because I’m strong enough to laugh at myself (or at least strong enough to front like this shit is funny) I’m somewhat answering my sister’s call and not writing a book about my dating experiences but posting some blogs about the madness instead. Let the Dating Chronicles commence!

First Up: The Black Mormon

The title alone should cause pause. What the hell is a Black Mormon? Yep, they exist. Did you know Black people weren’t even ALLOWED to be Mormons until the 70s????? Pretty sure that’s a thing…like, a fact. Anyway, not the point. Just adds to the weirdness.

So, I’m in college…maybe a sophomore, yeah a sophomore. I’m in between the two big relationships in my life and I’m living it up! I’m dating for the first time in my life (the first relationship was just sorta instant and we were super young. There was no "dating") and I’m loving it! I meet a Black guy that’s kinda quirky. He’s into old movies that I thought only I alone on the planet have seen, he plays guitar and he’s got big, curly hair! He’s different; he sticks out; he’s not annoyingly macho like all the football players; he’s great!

He asks me to “hang out” which is as official as dating gets in college. We walk around the main streets of our little college town. We stop for ice cream. From the conversation I start to pick up on his weirdness. He tells me he can’t eat strawberry ice cream because it terrifies him. I laugh, thinking I’m just joining in on his laughter because that MUST be a joke. It’s not, apparently. He’s not laughing. I brush it off and keep on keeping on because his muscles bulge through a his t-shirt soooooo, forgiven.

We come across a book store and he jumps, yes, jumps, in glee and asks if we can go inside. I say, “Hell yeah!" I like books.

Thirty minutes later, we’re still in the bookstore… he hasn’t spoken one word to me. His nose is stuck in a book on guitar chords…a book that I would assume isn’t that interesting or helpful without a guitar in your hands. Boy, was I wrong. His face looks serious. Then he smiles, he laughs, I swear to God at one point he looks like he’s about to cry, all due to this riveting book on chords. No narrative, just chords. Thirty minutes of me staring at him staring at chords. 

This is when I realize, okay, the cute weirdo might be a legit weirdo.

Finally, he speaks to me! He picks up a book of poetry, spontaneously losing interest in his chords and swiftly moving on to a brick-sized book of poems.

He turns to me and says, “I’m going to read you a poem.”

The first words he’s spoken to me the entire time we’ve been in the bookstore.

I offer up a hesitant, “Alright.”

The poem is long, like, really fucking long. He takes about ten minutes to complete the thing. That’s a long time in recitation!

Finally, he’s done! He looks up at me, searching my face for my reaction to the piece (that I 100% didn’t follow). I give him nothing because well, I have no idea what he just said and have nothing to give. Then he asks, “Would you like to read one?”

I’m a bit appalled but most of all just suuuuper uncomfortable. I politely decline.

I’m thinking he’s picking up on my discomfort and he offers to take me home. Wahoo!!!!

We get back to my place and "watch a movie". The typical term used before Netflix was invented.

Ok, I know. I know. How am I about to have sex with the weirdo? I’m in college, single, not doing shit…I really don’t know what else to say. Plus, he wore the super tight white t-shirt and I felt like a pink lady about to get it on with Danny. How does a girl say no to that?

We watch the movie, I snuggle up under his arm and inhale the cologne that fills the room with every rise and fall of his chest. I tilt my head and look up at him, making my move.

He pauses the film and I think, “Oh, hell yeah.

He pauses the film to turn to me, look deep into my eyes and explain to me that he’s a good Mormon, will do anything to please his God.

My soul thinks, “Ugh, I should be like you.”

My vagina screams, “#&*^#*#&**@”

He continues with his religious diatribe. I look deep into his eyes, listen intently and nod periodically, letting him know I completely understand. We are on the same page. 100%

Our religious guilt shortened our sexcapade to a mere thirty minutes of boning as opposed to the all night workout I was hoping for. But I was alright with it. The muscles were big, the who-ha was thick, I was satisfied. My weirdo, Black Mormon had done a body good!

The next morning, I wake up with a Black Mormon sitting at the edge of my bed, reading my bible. I shuffle and he realizes I’m awake.

With spirit he grabs my hand and exclaims, “Thank God you’re awake! Come, pray with me. I can’t handle the guilt!”

And then came the tears. 

Breaking Up With William

“You realize you’re crazy, right?”

“Why am I crazy? Just because I’m fabricating outrageous stories for a chance to connect with the man I’m desperately in love with?”

“Please tell me that’s rhetorical.”

 “The stories aren’t even that outrageous. They’re things that could totally be happening to me.”

“Yeah, but they’re not.”

“But they could.”

“But they’re not.”

“I know they’re not, but…”

“You, an intern, are asking Devin, the Head of the entire Marketing Department, for relationship advice on this ‘whirlwind love affair’ you’re having with all of these ups and downs, twists and turns, where you’re over the moon one day and distraught the next because Devin is the ‘only man you know that can give you the guy’s perspective on exactly what you should do’ except Devin doesn’t know, and will probably never know, that your torrid love affair with ‘William’ doesn’t exactly exist because William himself doesn’t actually exist.  And this all seems like a perfectly logical plan on how to get a guy to notice you?”

“Of course!”

“Are you insane?”

“It’s innovative dating. A girl’s got to have an angle.”

“It’s not innovative. It’s tired and trite. You’re trying to get a guy to like you by making him feel jealous and threatened by what in actuality amounts merely to an imaginary friend. You’re trying to play this ‘angle’ where you treat Devin like he’s nothing more than a gay best friend or a shoulder to cry on, naturally making him fall in love with you and wish with all of his might that you pined away after him like you do with William. Men, women, everyone, they’ve been doing this shit for years but they never stop to think about what happens when the truth comes out and you’re seen as nothing more than a pathetic liar who’s actually not valuable at all because it’s actually YOU that’s delivering those flowers to your desk at work and giving yourself those hickies that you desperately ‘try to hide’ and then not only does he only see you as a friend, or you know, JUST THE INTERN, which was the case all along because your stupid plan was never working, he will NOW see you as a stalkerish, deranged pest that’s so childish and desperate for a date that he couldn’t possibly speak to you ever again…like ever, for the safety of himself and his future family. I mean, how is he supposed to explain the psycho stalker girl from his past to his future wife? Ain't nobody got time for that!”

“Um, harsh!”

“Well, it’s true!”

“Look, listen to me, alright. Just listen. This can work. My plan is solid, completely tight. I’ve been talking to Devin about all of my issues with William for weeks now but this is the next step. It’s the most important step.”

“What is the most important step?”

“Don’t be facetious. I’m being serious.”

“Apologies. The important step.”

“William and I are breaking up this weekend.”

“That’s the step?”

“Yes, the most important step. I’ll come in to work on Monday, run straight into Devin’s office and dive deep into every heartbreaking detail of my break up with William. His face will light up. He’ll think, ‘Here’s my chance. She’s so sad. She’s like a cute little puppy. She’s vulnerable. She’s single!’ and then boom, BOOM! He’ll practically pounce on me right then and there but he won’t; he won’t because he’s a gentleman and respects me. Instead, he’ll be coy. He’ll act as if he’s taking pity on me, really feeling sorry for my sorrows…”

“Oh, there will definitely be sorrow.”

“…and he’ll sigh deeply and pause. In his mind he’ll keep reminding himself not to smile too wide, not to allow his pulsing love to reveal itself on his face. He’ll have so many emotions to control! He’ll be so incredibly nervous because he’s about to do it. He’s finally about to make his move. It will be glorious. He’ll look up at me and say, ‘Ok, look, I’ve been there. It hurts. Breakups are just awful, I mean, the absolute worst.’ He’ll grow in courage and in undesirable urge to touch me. He’ll take my hand and say, ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use a drink. You look like a beautiful girl that was dumped by an absolute jerk and could use a drink.’”

“No.”

“No?”

“Make it so you’re the one that broke up with William. Don’t be too pathetic.”

“You’re right. He’ll take my hand and say, ‘You know what, you were always too good for William. Good for you for finally taking action and dumping that loser. You shouldn’t even be upset by this breakup. You should be celebrating. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take you out for a drink. That’s right, a celebratory drink because damn it, you deserve it.’ My eyes will light up and I’ll sniffle away my fake tears and give him that smile, you know the one. I’ll say, ‘You know what? You’re right. This was a great idea. Breaking up with William is the smartest thing I’ve done all year and it’s already October! I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Sir. Let’s get a drink.’ And that’s when he’ll smile, you know the one, and he’ll think, ‘Got her,’ without even realizing I, I in fact, I am the one that just got him. It will be glorious!”

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“You just might be right.”

“I mean, duh!”

“It’s still totally pathetic but I can’t help but fully support your crazy. You got this.”

‘I mean, duh!”

        *****

“Well, how did it go? Did he buy it!?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“See, I knew that bitch was crazy.”

Pillars of Sand

He told me I am blessed.

That I do have a strong foundation.

Two of the most important pillars to stand upon: God and Family.

The words of encouragement instantly make me cry as these two entities slowly but surely drain from my life.

God, already gone. Family close behind.

I ask myself what’s left.

Love.

There is always love.

I seek love, yearn for it. It often escapes me.

Life without God is hard.

I’m agnostic.

Not by choice.

If it were up to me I’d bask in His glory with hands raised and heart open once again and always.

I’d always have someone there.

A listening ear, a constant comfort, the greatest force worthy of all worship, a frickin’ god that I'd be lucky enough to call my best friend.

I loved it.

I miss it.

But my brain gets in the way.

The silence he gives me outweighs the comforting presence I myself created.

Family.

It’s hard when you have family but no rock. No constant shoulder.

The support is there but so are the mistakes.

He tells me he’s always going to be there for me while he is awful to her.

Delusional of his overwhelmingly crushing crimes.

And the others are busy. Rightfully busy with their busy lives.

Hate to complain.

Hate to need.

Refuse to ask.

These pillars he credits to me are nothing but pillars of sand.

They sink swiftly, transform to quicksand and I drown.

My rock.

My strength.

Nothing but pillars of sand.  

Lily

We’re at the airport going through security, taking off our shoes and belts, putting them back on, waiting to board, and finally listening to the flight attendant inform us on how to survive if this baby goes down. This is what I assume the rest of the passengers are doing at least. I am completely distracted. I pray the flight goes smoothly because I couldn’t tell you where my floaty device thingy is located. My mind is on a trip of its own.

I remember when my husband told me we were moving to Louisiana. He, of course, did not just tell me. He “discussed it” with me, although it sure did feel like telling. Something about his firm wanting to expand in uncharted waters, something about me needing a break and not having to work so hard, something about starting a family. That was when the room started to spin.

I loved my husband; I wanted a family, but I also loved my job and my life in the city. I’d lived in big cities since I was a child in Los Angeles. My biggest adjustment was moving to New York for college. It took time but city life was city life. New York was just bigger and faster. I fit in perfectly. How I was going to survive in Louisiana, I had no idea. But like I said, I loved my husband. Only three months after this “discussion” we were off to the Bayou. I think that’s what they call it. I’m not too sure.

Sensing my nerves, he reaches over seat 26B into 26A, takes my hand and tells me everything will be fine. His voice fades into a distant buzz in my ears. The vibrating noise turns my mind to the bugs I have yet to meet. I am moving to the South, to the Bayou and I haven’t even considered the bugs. I almost yell out for an emergency landing.

Three weeks later we’re efficiently unpacked as if my husband and I and all of our belongings have been nestled here for decades. He’s off to work and I’m on my own. I see neighbors through the banana yellow curtains approaching with welcome slash “let me get a good look” at you pies. Without hesitation, I sneak out the back door to pursue whatever adventure I can find.

Five minutes and about twenty weeping willows later, I come across a small white shack labeled: Bruce’s BBQ. I go in, order a sweet tea and take a seat. The heat is already sweltering and I need a hide out from the mob. I take a seat in the back corner booth and hear the bell above the door ring. One look at the figure moving through that door and feelings I haven’t acknowledged in over ten years come flooding back.

She wears a short, white cotton dress that clings to her body in the heat. Its hint of transparency instantly excites me, scares me. Her skin glistens and her wavy brown hair flows down her back, thick in the moist air.

That’s when I know.

Vegas was more than just Vegas. It was more than just an intoxicated gift to my husband. Time stands still. I hope the orgasmic moans singing in my head aren’t actually escaping my lips. I can’t turn away from her beauty. 

She sways to the counter and orders; I can’t hear what. A large, sweaty man places meat in a to-go container, tops it with two pieces of bread, closes the container and hands the box to this goddess. The woman in the white cotton dress slides a five-dollar bill across the counter with a quiet, tantalizing, “Thanks”.

Her eyes meet mine. I freeze and can’t look away. Without missing a step she sashays in my direction and asks to join me. With a dry throat I quietly oblige. She smells as sweet as sin. She tells me her name and asks where I’m from. Everyone knows everyone around here. She can tell I’m new. My eyes rest on her mouth as she speaks. It all happens so fast but I’m powerless against her entrapment. Her simple presence makes it clear who I am and what I want.

I am a woman bored with her husband. I am a woman that is curious. I am a woman powerlessly falling in lust with another woman, all within this thirty second span, with this glistening, Creole goddess. I am a woman who is determined to know her, to taste her, inside and out. My husband will no longer have to fear my aversion for the Bayou. Suddenly, this sticky, small town feels like home.

At that very moment, a mosquito lands on my left arm. I watch it suck my blood. 

Getting To Know You... Ok, Me.

I was once told the secret to success is obsessive, relentless persistence. I struggle not to call bullshit.

As a teenager, my dream was to be an actor and I didn’t really see it as a dream, more like, what was going to happen. I rejected my parents’ foolish talk of backup plans because backup plans were for non-believers and at fifteen years old, trust me, I believed in myself. I had the typical insecurities about boys, my weight, my skin, blah, blah, blah but when it came to my future, when it came to acting, well there was no question. I’d be an actress, I’d win an Oscar, and then I’d win another. Believing in my dream was the easy part. What I failed to realize was the work it would take to get there.

My biggest distraction was sex, maybe not sex but, this longing to experience everything, especially love and intimacy. I was raised by two strict, Caribbean parents that kept me on the shortest leash possible so I put all of my energy into breaking free. The energy was misplaced to say the least. Instead of focusing on goals that would propel me forward, I looked for adventure that would let me escape, even if only for a moment.

So, I went out and I got me some! First kiss at fifteen, first real boyfriend at sixteen, virginity lost at sixteen and then boom, first baby born at seventeen. For most, the dreaming would stop there but luckily for me, my teenage delusion was strong. I thought, “A kid? That’s alright, now I’ll just have a sidekick to accompany me to the top!” (In all honesty, I was freaking the fuck out…I could write about one hundred posts about being sixteen and pregnant and they’d all be filled with pure horror… but I still knew I’d reach my goal, simply because I wanted to).

Life marched on. My relationship ended, another began and boy did I just KNOW that this one was it! My childlike sense of invincibility didn’t dissipate until I was well into adulthood. It wasn’t until my second baby came along at twenty-three that I knew my dream was dead. Of course I could still do everything necessary to become an actress but to me that meant being a bad mother, putting my needs before theirs and that wasn’t an option, not then, not now, not ever.

I experienced a deep depression after my second son was born. It wasn’t post-partum; it had nothing to do with having a baby (in fact my second child has always given me a sense of peace…another blog for another day) but soon after having him I realized that I put my greatest dream to rest in order to fight for this picture of a family that wasn’t going to happen. My relationship with his father crumbled in as much of a whirlwind as it was created and the one thing I had a passion for was no longer a viable life choice. Depression doesn’t begin to describe the darkness of that time. I was in my mid-twenties, two kids, on my own, at a daily funeral for any hope for the future.

I learned to stop dreaming. In fact, I avoided it. I didn’t set goals; hell, I didn’t even make to-do lists. The real, tangible option of failure was too overwhelming. I can’t fail if I don’t try. That was my mastered motto. I worked a day job, I focused on my kids and I cringed any time anyone asked me about a five-year plan. I’d protect my heart by never wanting anything again. As long as my kids were okay, screw any personal desires. That mess just got me in trouble anyway.

But.

That can only last for so long. I’m creative. I’m driven. I’m hard working. I knew as a teenager that I was meant to shine. At that age it was this naïve sense of invincibility, the feeling that life would happen the way I wanted it to just because I wanted it to and nothing bad would happen to me or get in my way because well, nothing ever had before.

The perfect recipe for failure: Naivety+Talent+Entitlement.

But the tables have turned.   Now I’m in a place where I’m not itching to shine but to share, share my stories, my experiences and oh hell, shine a little bit too, to be an unapologetic and fearless writer. Remember what it felt like to be fearless? God, I envy children. I’m terrified because this time I’m enlightened to the possibility of failure. Failure is likely. I know I have the work ethic and the resilience to make my dreams come true, but now I’m scared, scared that even if I do work my ass off the dream may still not come true. I hear the teachings that I can do anything, any fucking thing I put my mind to and my gut reaction is, “Yeah, maybe”. I doubt because I’ve lost a dream before, a dream that I loved more than anything in this world.

But the thing is…I didn’t put the work into that dream. I got distracted. Life kicking me in the ass? Ninety percent of those flesh wounds were self-inflicted. Maybe I can try again and do it differently this time. Maybe this time I can stay focused and make it happen.

So here I am, taking a leap of faith. I want to be a writer. I still want to act but I’ll wait for my babies to be full-grown before I pursue that again. They still come first. But in the meantime, I want to write and write and write. I wrote a novel that I love and am excited to put out into the world. I’m going to share some of it here along with my other writings. My stories are short and sweet and dirty and sometimes bizarre. I like them and hope you will too. I need to combine my teenage assuredness with my adult work ethic and make this happen. Do I believe that my dreams will come true if I’m obsessively, relentlessly persistent? Is that really the secret to success? I guess there’s only one way to find out.