Chess, not checkers
So I’m trying this new thing where I ignore you so that you can miss me and pay more attention to me. I have reached wits end with this situation and don’t know what else to do. As much as I hate games, it seems to be the only thing that gets your attention. Pretty soon, I am going to get tired of playing and you can just enjoy a nice game of solitaire.
In a few weeks, I’m going to let this all go. The end.
Love Jones.
Such is life
If art imitates life, then this film somehow predicted mine. “Just kickin’ it” has been the running theme of all my pseudo-relationships. As much as I hate to admit it, I have the Jones for my Larenz Tate. I can’t stand when he’s away, wonder who he’s with when he’s not with me, care about his well-being, and love to make him happy. I know I can do better. I know I should do better than this painful, on-again-off-again THING. This THING, whatever it is sucks. Not knowing how to act, no security, no assurance. This is just one big push and pull.
Every time I start to feel stuck, I relate to Nia Long’s character. How she swore off love, and wasn’t trying to be in a relationship. She feared having her heart broken like it was in the previous situation. So, she convinced herself that she was content with just kickin’ it. She hung out with Larenz Tate’s character, started a sexual relationship off the bat, and didn’t know where it was going.
Larenz Tate’s character, influenced by his friends and his past, could not admit that he was in love with her. That when she went away, his heart ached and tried to fill that void with empty sex and flings.
The movie speaks to the complications that arise when people aren’t real with themselves, let alone their significant other. They cannot bring themselves to surrender to their feelings because of fear. Fear is what makes me not want to be honest with myself to either let my Larenz know how I feel or just let it go. Fear of rejection and fear of being alone makes me stay silent and continue to just kick it. Fear of hurting my feelings or losing me is what keeps him from either falling completely in love or just letting me go.
What kills me is that I know that as I sit here and type this, he is not thinking about me, nor would he think this deeply about me. I try to fill my time with activities, delve into work, go out with friends, but none of that works.
I just need an answer.
Sex, lace, and facebook
Let’s start at the beginning. Yes, I’m an inconsistent writer. Get over it.
Last week, I log onto Facebook, and “somehow” landed on homeyloverfriend’s facebook page. From the barrage of wall post, his removal of his “single” status from his Info column, and the millions of new pictures of him and a sickeningly bubbly young plaything, I guessed that he had a girlfriend. I’m so quick on the uptake, aren’t I? Just as I swore that this new addition to his life would solidify his removal from my life, both digital and actual, I receive an instant message from him, wondering how I was doing and if he could remind me of what it was like to have him in me again.
Although I played along in the chat realm, I have no intention of letting him carry on with his sick fantasy of stringing me along on the side while he tells everyone how cute he thinks she is when she sneezes.
Instead, I channeled my energy into more a promising prospect. One that has lasted for almost a year in fact. After a petty text message fight, and subsequent weekend apart, I decided that I wanted to make it up to him. I slipped into a new nighty, and covered it up with a casual weekend dress, found myself in his house, and delighted in his surprised reaction at the sight of my slightly oiled and berry-fragrant body lightly covered in sheer, pink lace.
While I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know where this is going, I do know that I’m going to enjoy the ride while it lasts. I’ve made too many manifestos, pledging myself to impossible bouts celibacy: Celibacy Blues, Jill Scott. I finally admitted, that the chastity belt did not fit these hips and to just go with the flow. Whoever Mr. Right is, will find me–someday.
Got to get some shit up off my chest.
Why can’t you be the man I want you to be? Just change. I don’t understand your multiple personalities, and it’s driving me crazy. I want you to love me the way I love you. Sometimes, I look in your eyes, trying to will you to be different. But, it doesn’t work.
You say one thing, and act another way. I know this is all of my fault. I should stand by what I know is best and healthy. It seems to me that you only came back into my life for convenience. But, this is truly inconvenient for me. It’s painful. You’ll pretend to not understand and go back to your comfortable position of being the “asshole.” But, you know what you’re doing.
In the meantime.
This weekend, I happily fulfilled the role of the third wheel. My best friend’s new boyfriend insisted that I go out with them, despite my initial hesitance. During our threesome brunch, he started to ask me questions about my newest effbuddy. He wanted to know what attracted me to him, though I knew a relationship between us would never work. After I pretended not to hear him and sipped on my mimosa, he looked me straight in the face, “I know your type,” he said.
Instantly offended, I responded with a quick neck jerk, “What type is that?”
“You’re an alpha female. You’re used to getting everything you want, discard men that indulge your every whim and are attracted to men that challenge you and aren’t afraid to put you in your place.”
I tried to interject, but he continued, “You like men who debate you, and aren’t afraid to disagree with you. You love to argue and if someone agrees with you too easily, you don’t think they are worthy to be with. Stop fighting!”
For the first time in my life, someone shut my big mouth up. I had nothing to say. I was simultaneously angry and shamed. I felt as if that cliche nightmare – the one in which I’m onstage, naked in front of a huge audience — came true. He exposed me.
If a man can argue me passionately, we usually end up fighting in bed. I cannot resist a guy who stands up to me. I know it may sound sick, but there is a part of me that loves being told what to do. I guess that since I’m dominant and controlling in every facet of my life, that I’m attracted to men who can overcome me and dominate me.
I guess that’s what my new effbuddy does to me. We argued initially, every day. We still do. And, it excites me. He does not let me get away with trying to outsmart me because he is just as smart. He matches wits with me and never misses a beat and does not hesistate to tell me when I’m wrong.
Only, in dealing with him, I can’t even recognize right from wrong.
Back in business.
Missed me? Well, you can start breathing again because I am back — with a vengeance.
The other day, I was sitting at my desk dirty-chatting with a friend of mine using tacky euphemisms like “hunger” and “drought” to describe my need for some good, old-fashioned “work.” What started out as an innocent conversation, ended up as a scheduled meeting time for him to work on me. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. This is going to end up as it always does, with me crying my eyes out, oversexed and brokenhearted. But, I couldn’t take it anymore. I exhausted Billy’s batteries and have taken more cold showers than a prisoner of war. So I decided to go to the bar, get a few drinks and make a date for 11 at my place.
Perfect. Just enough time to get tipsy, go home, take a shower, and stuff all of my clothes in the closet. Little fireworks went off in my body when my phone rang and my instant-messenger-buddy knocked on my door to deliver a message that came along with high-pitched screams, grunts, and moans instead of a high-pitched computer ding. We talked for about an hour. I only entertained conversation so as not to appear desperate, but my appetite was ravenous and I was eyeing him like a lion eyes a gazelle before devouring it. He finally sat down on my bed and I pounced. I literally jumped him like I was a middle-aged mother of a preteen girl and he was a Hannah Montana ticket scalper.
It was a long and violent session. I felt like I was in a ghetto porno that had LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It” looped in the background.
And I was happy for it. I felt a weird sense of redemption. Sacrilegious as it may seem, I remember whispering an “Amen” to myself when it was over. It felt as if someone had pulled my head out of the water after I’d been holding my breath for an inconceivable amount of time.
I don’t know where this is going, nor do I care right now. I’m not fooling myself, I don’t expect anything from him but a good romp in bed and he shouldn’t expect more from me either.
My hormones are shouting so loudly that I cannot even hear reason or logic. I hope he can handle it.
Alone, not lonely.
What’s the difference?
I admit, there are days when all I can do is wallow in despair over my lack of companionship — the conversation, the general company, and yes, the sex. But, I have come to realize that I am truly not lonely, I am just alone. Lonely means that I am willing to accept everything that comes along with companionship, including compromising my wants and needs. Being alone is a conscious decision that is made usually when someone has an idea of what they want and need and is not willing to sacrifice that.
Flying solo
I can honestly say that today, I have found peace with where I am right now. I have been getting dating advice over what to do about being single in the city. Friends say all guys are worthless; family says hang in there; coworkers say that I am too young to worry about it. They are all right. There is no need right now to worry about my past transgressions and no need to worry myself creating goals of chastity.
I am going to be away for a while. I will have enough space to put things into perspective and enjoy where I am. These boys/men may not know what they want, but I do; and I refuse to settle for significantly less than the level that I’m on spiritually, emotionally, and professionally.
I plan on returning with a fresh new look into things and finally forgetting these boys that have disappointed me.
Will I find new adventures while I am away? Will I return to more single file drama? We won’t know until I come back. ’til then keep it protected, and by “it” I mean your heart and your reproductive system.
Cupid misfires.
Bad aim.
For some reason, Cupid thinks it’s funny to play games with me. The chubby little cherub must be chuckling at his latest mischievous misfire, and now I have to break someone’s heart. I thought I had managed to stave off Mr. Softee, but during a raucous house party social gathering, he professed his undying love for me. He took a record of every inch of my body as it moved to the dancehall music blaring from the speakers. For a moment, I thought I felt him fondle me, but it was only his intense stare violating me.
I tried to like him when I first found out he was interested. I really did. Ok, well the truth is, I had to force down a mouthful of vomit when he made his interest known and put his arm around my waist. I just couldn’t get over his high-pitched voice and seeing him run errands for his friends.
I guess he didn’t get the hint from his unanswered text messages and the unreturned phone calls because last night he mustered up enough courage to grab my hips and pull me toward him. Confused, I squirmed, then eventually wrestled to break free from his vice grip. I grabbed my chest as I tried to catch my breath.
“I’m…sssso…sorry,” he said in his falsetto-ish voice.
I don’t get it. How did he not get the message? Why did cupid think it was funny to make a fool of me? Now, whenever he and I are in the same room, regardless of the setting, it’s going to be awkward.
I want Cupid to finally get it right. I want the little sucker to pick a target, aim, and fire accurately.
Don’t leave home without it.
I am the world’s worst packer. It takes me hours to back for a one-night business trip. I made a list of everything I needed: toothbrush, toothpaste, contact solution, contacts, suit, pumps, pjs, hair stuff, underwear. I was fully prepared. Until just now, when I’m sitting in my hotel room, by myself, and I realize what I forgot. The only thing that’s been keeping me sane all these weeks — Billy, my battery-operated buddy.
Billy has been there for me when I needed someone to turn to. I miss him terribly.
Balancing act.
Breaking the silence
Men often say that women never mean what they say, or say what they mean. So this should help demystify at least one issue. When we say we want the “nice guy” it doesn’t mean that we want a punk.
A couple of weeks ago I met a semi-attractive, intelligent, and fully employed young man. We had a few conversations, he even made me laugh. But, for the life of me, I could not figure out why I was not attracted to him. He did everything right — sent me emails in the middle of the day to let me know he was thinking about me, sent me text messages asking me how I was doing, and even asked me out on a date. Without even thinking about it, the tip of my tongue flew to the roof of my mouth and my lips puckered, letting out a very polite, “No, thanks.”
After thinking about it for a few days and conversing gossiping with my girlfriends, I realized what the problem was — he was a b*tch. Now, coming from an educated woman, that may sound a bit offensive straight ign’ant, but, it’s the only way I can plainly articulate my feelings. He had a very soft voice, damn near falstetto-ish; he never held his own in an argument; and he let his friends push him around. He was always the one to drive everyone everywhere, whether they were going his way or not. He was the one to pick up snacks from the grocery store for his friends’ house parties. He was the one to coordinate group outings and make sure everyone had a way there.
You may be thinking that he did this out of the kindness of his heart, and while that may be partly true, his good intentions were silenced by his friends’ barking orders at him to run these errands. And, he did them. It was almost embarrassing to watch him bow his head and step and fetch according to their demands.
I guess, subconsciously, seeing him damn near answer “yessuh” to his friends made me think of him as less of a man. I think there are ways to do friendly favors without coming off as a pushover. He apparently did not know how to strike this balance.
It is important to note, however, that a strong, independent woman does not need some macho man to take care of her or lay down the law, or any other cliche, stereotypical gender activity. But, a strong, independent woman needs a strong independent man that she feels will stand up for himself and her if necessary.
Point of clarification
I also want to make it clear that I do not want a barbarian, or a thug.
I did that whole scene when I was younger. While reading Sister Souljah’s The Coldest Winter Ever, I thought I related to the main character. When I was in middle school, I thought the fact that I had caught the eye of a gang banger, was a greater accomplishment than walking across my school’s stage to receive my certificate of first honors. I walked with my head held high, my shoulders back, and switched my adolescent hips as far as they would go. As I got older, the “gangsta” type became increasingly unattractive.
Now, I just want someone who can ride the middle lane. Someone who will pull out my chair at dinner and buy me flowers randomly, but will not hesitate to let someone know when they’ve crossed the line. Is that too much to ask?
