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?
Siberian Vagina.
Omarion’s Icebox got nothing on my cold coochie.
Flashing lights from my web browser and a loud ding from my MacBook speakers sent an electric current of excitement through my body as I realized that homeyloverfriend sent me an instant message. Like a confused deer that wanders onto I-495 at night, I was blinded by the lights, stopped big-eyed in my tracks, and struck down by a speeding SUV. The impact that did me in was his message: “Yo, did you leave for vacation yet?” He was referring to my trip abroad scheduled for later this month.
I could not believe him. He didn’t even know I was in the U.S., in the same city as him, sitting in my apartment 15 minutes up the road from his house. He instantly put more miles between us than there will be when my flight lands in another continent. I am divesting him of my ears that listened to him vent about his job, my arms that held him at the wee hours in the morning, the lips that kissed him mid-sentence, the vagina that housed his manhood when he was lonely, and most importantly the spirit that lifted his downtrodden soul.
My heart is now cold, and my vagina, well, let’s just say the frozen tundra is the tropics compared to the frost between my legs.
Friends with deficits.
Love/Hate
I admit it, I fell for homeyloverfriend. In the midst of my mourning, I realize that although I am angry at his inability to love me, I still yearn for his companionship. Today, I came across (desperately searched for) his profile on a social networking site. “Why is it that I can’t fall in love?” read his status message.
“I’M RIGHT HERE! LOVE ME!” shouted my bruised heart. I just can’t understand how he can claim that I’m one of his closest friends, tell me how perfect of a girlfriend I would be, and talk to me about anything and everything that’s on his mind, yet not see how we would fit so perfectly together. I could be that puzzle piece that somehow landed in the back of the couch and would complete a beautiful portrait once found and put in place. Is he blind?
Unlovable
After this situation and the others I’ve encountered, it’s hard not to wonder if somehow there is something about me that makes it impossible to be desired for more than a friendship and temporary, after-midnight monogamy. Why can’t he see that I already do all of the things that he longs for: listen to his angry rants about work, try to make him smile when he’s down, rub his back when he’s stressed, and make love to him when he needed to run somewhere that felt like home.
But, now that I need somewhere to run to, I am left homeless.
Loud and Clear
As much as it hurts, I have become aware that when a man says he is afraid of commitment, it’s not necessarily true. As human beings, we all long for companionship. We want consistency, stability, and long for love.
When a man says that he does not want to be in a relationship it means that he has not found someone he wants to commit to. Ultimately, the lack of commitment and validation of the situation between homeyloverfriend and me means that he does not want to be in a relationship with me.
I am not one to toot my own horn, but, I can’t help but gather all of the air in my lungs to sound the loudest toot from my why-not-me?-trumpet: TOOOOOOT. Mattel should package a miniature version of me and market the ebony-colored doll as the perfect girlfriend. I am intelligent, beautiful, independent, educated, employed, fun, witty, charming, giving, sacrificing, persistent, sexy, adventurous, confident, faithful… The list goes on. Homeyloverfriend helped add items to this list during our Saturday morning coffee talks and Sunday afternoon drives. He would go on and on about how my ex-boyfriend and former fuckbuddies missed out on the ideal woman (his words, not mine). If he could see how “special” I was, then why would he choose to miss out on me?
Eyeing the Queer Guy.
You’d be perfect for me, if you were straight.
I spot him. Wearing a smart brown vest; tan buttoned-down shirt; strategically ripped, tan-washed jeans; a tan and brown argyle newsboy cap; and chocolate brown oxfords. He floats across the dancefloor, with a quiet confidence and a sly smile as if he owned it.
“Wow,” I exhaled.
Visions of him, dressed impeccably in an Armani tux, standing next to me in a pearl Vera Wang original at the foot of the altar vanished as I saw him walk over to a group of adoring females and it soon became obvious that he was not their mutual crush, but their gayfriend.
The gayfriend is a staple in any singlewoman clan.
In my short lifetime, I have found myself swooning over attractive, stylish, suave men. The only drawback was that I was deafened by the pings of my gaydar detector. I am not one to ascribe to stereotypes, but it has been my experience that some gay men have an innate sense of style that is unmatched by many straight men. Metrosexuals have tried to imitate this phenomenon, but for some reason, they feel as if they have to sacrifice their masculinity to achieve their stylish result. This is not the case. I have known gay men who have managed to maintain their masculinity while being fashionable.
I have taken the liberty of researching a few fasionable items that will take any man’s blah wardrobe to the next level. WARNING: Though some of these items may be worn together, don’t overdo it.
This shirt, available at Express For Him, provides a break from the boring button-down, while still remaining true to form. The black-on-black paisley is subtly sexy and mysterious. It would look great with a charcoal gray suit, a black suit, or with distressed jeans.
You cannot go wrong with a pair of dark, distressed jeans. Whether they’re from Old Navy, Target, or Bloomingdales, dark wash jeans look dressy enough for a casual dinner date and are relaxed enough for a Saturday night bar crawl with the boys. While I have seen many metrosexuals sport the bootcut or skinny cut jean, I am not a fan. Instead opt for a slim, straight cut to bring you into the new trim trend while not compromising your manlihood.
I am totally over the fedora. Ever since Justin Timberlake brought SexyBack, I’ve seen guys wearing fedoras with everything, trying desperately to look fashionable. However, it is time to lay that trend to rest and pick up the classic newsboy cap. It’s functional, funky, and fresh. Put on one of these and go out with your fedora-sporting friends, and you’ll be the hit of the evening.
Shoes are the make-or-break part of any outfit. I think I have found the perfect compromise between sneakers and casual dress in this pair. Yes, it is possible to be comfortable and stylish.
Hope to see you looking good out there!
The Holy Harlot.
Judging Jezebel.
Raised Catholic, I was taught to believe that engaging in sexual activity before marriage was wrong. In high school, “everyone was doing it” — except me. I held onto my virginity, in hopes that I would graduate from college and get my MRS degree along with my BA. Before I left for college, my mom looked me straight in the eye and told me to keep a nickel between my knees. Eight months into my freshman year, the nickel slid from the grip of my knees to the floor, landing silently on a dorm room rug.
No longer able to tout my virginity like a secret badge of honor, I began to hold onto the next tier of chastity – only having one partner. For four and a half years, I gave myself to only one person and figured that since I did not have to use my fingers and toes to count my partners, that I was still pure.
With the end of that relationship came the beginning of my next phase, which I like to call my “healing process.” I threw caution to the wind, and decided to give into whatever I was feeling. I decided that being chaste has brought me nowhere. Being the proverbial “good girl” brought me nothing but grief. I thought I could handle “friendships with benefits” — little did I know they would leave me with huge deficits.
Though I was far from promiscuous, I became increasingly worried about becoming a “ho.” When my number of partners started to fill one hand, I became increasingly worried that I was falling from my pedestal of purity. I felt guilty. I felt low. I felt scared.
Tempting Temperance
In the midst of my grief over the loss of my homeyloverfriend, I realized that my “healing process” wasn’t exactly healing at all. While I don’t regret anything that I’ve done and am appreciative of the experiences, I came to the conclusion that my heart couldn’t take the rollercoaster ride of undefined, physical relationships. My body could handle the ups and downs, but my soul couldn’t. The cheeks that were once covered in kisses, were now tear-stained. The hair that was playfully pulled, was now surrounding my hands as I held my head in dispair. The chest that once heaved for lack of breath, was now tight with anger and frustration.
“No more,” I screamed into my blackest-black-mascara-stained pillow one night. I made a vow to go back to being the pure, chaste, untouched woman I once was.
Lies. While I did not totally break this “vow” I came all too close. I was beginning to become emotionally attached to someone, learning more about him, and enjoying his company. I began to build a certain comfort level with him. Before I knew it, our innocent butterfly kisses were turning into animialistic groping sessions. I wanted to go all the way. I wanted him to want me to want him to be inside me. But, right before any of that could happen, images of me sitting on my bedroom floor, holding my knees to my chest, crying out for someone to want me, all of me, not just the physical me, came to mind.
“Wait. [pant] Wait. [pant] Wait a minute. [breathe]” I whispered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling his head back slightly, but, still struggling to open my buttoned-down shirt.
“I think you should take me home.”
Though this situation did not have a fairytale ending, its demise did not cause the deep grief that the end of my other situations brought. True, I did find out that this guy was not my prince. But, at least this time, I took the time to find out that he wasn’t worth having me before he got the chance to have me.
Redemption.
While I am no longer holding myself to my vow of second virginity, because I think that can only lead to guilty feelings and disappointment, I do recognize that I need to give myself some time to feel a person out emotionally, before they feel me out physically.
Another one bites the dust.
Today marks another loss.
I thought for about three weeks that I was finally in what seemed to be a normal dating situation. Yup, I was officially dating someone. He called. We made plans. I dressed up. We went out. We kissed. After several of these cycles, the little pecks turned into full-blown make-out sessions. But, for the first time in a long time, I felt as if they were justified. I was legitimately, exclusively dating someone. I was seeing someone. We were on the brink of becoming an item.
One day, he called. We made plans. I dressed up. We went out. We kissed. He drove me home. He called my friend. He texted my friend. He IMed my friend. He flirted with my friend. He asked my friend out.
Little did he know that just like back in the 5th grade when girls would get together in a circle and gossip about the boys, 20-somethings also trade tales, good and bad, about the men they encounter. Nowadays, with the help of ctrl+c and ctrl+v the process is a breeze.
My girlfriend provided me with a carbon copy of their IM conversation. What surprised me more than the fact that he was flirting with her, was that he didn’t have the decency to switch up his corny one-liners. As I was reading the conversation, I could predict the text that would follow his screen name almost perfectly.
Once confronted, he skirted his way around his errors. He tried desperately to cover himself with the guise of just trying to make new “friends.”
Needless to say, I blocked his screen name on my buddy list, and ignored his subsequent text messages hoping that he’d get the hint. But, he didn’t. He continued to contact me, asking me if I was angry. He even went so far as to contact yet another one of my friends. But, instead of flirting with her, he desperately tried to recover from his fall from grace. Assuring her that it was really me that he was into and denying his online sweat session with my girlfriend.
The moral of the story is this: whether we are 13 or 33, girls talk. We update each other on the goings on, the lack of goings-on. We have perfected the use of the female emergency alert system when a creepy intruder threatens to harm us in anyway. We even have a call so that if any one of us are in danger, we can alert the others no matter where we are.
Requiem for a homeyloverfriend.
Just friends.
Whoever said that men and women cannot be platonic friends was probably a jaded fuckbuddy.
In the 18 months following a disastrous breakup, I found myself in very interesting friendships. Though time after time, I vowed to keep the friendship sex-free, it is usually a matter of months before I roll over, sweaty and panting, placing my hand over my face in disbelief as to how my “friend” and I went from sitting on a couch arguing over a football game to tackling each other, naked, in bed.
As stupid as it sounds, I did not see this last one coming. Ironically, I met homeyloverfriend through another fuckbuddy. I was not interested in him at all, found him mildly attractive, and was generally not affected. My lack of interest made a friendship with him all the more feasible, or so I thought.
We hung out, at first, in group settings. Over time, however, like the racist Agatha Christie suspense novel, the numbers dwindled, and then there were two. We started spending more and more time together, just him and me. We were a dynamic duo, a purely platonic pair. We gave each other tips on how to deal with the opposite sex, watched football games, and discussed politics. We watched funny movies, sipped hot chocolate at trendy coffee shops, and debated over the state of the black community in America. We talked about our families, told each other secrets, and promised to always be there for each other. We laughed at each other’s jokes, play fought, and tickled each other. We had sleepovers, we cooked dinners together, and we kissed.
We kissed.
We kissed, then we touched.
Clothes are ripped off, underwear flies through the air, and we try to get inside each other as deeply as possible. We match each other’s breathing. I look at him, thinking that this time will be different. We won’t end up sacrificing our friendship for late-night hookups. This time won’t be like the others. He’s going to continue to listen to me ramble on about my latest plan to save the world. He’s going keep unexpectedly showing up at my apartment building demanding that I run downstairs as soon as possible to go get ice cream in the middle of the night. He’s going to keep telling me that I need expect more from men. More.
Before I knew it, I was swept away in the scent of his cologne and couldn’t get enough of his curiously curly hair. The random Sunday afternoon phone calls to see how I’m doing turned into random 2 a.m. booty calls to see if I’d do him. And, I did.
His days, which used to be filled with conversations with me over cocoa about just about everything, were now getting busier and busier, while his nights were free for the taking. I thought that since I didn’t see him as often as I used to in the daytime, I had to see him when his schedule allowed. I would scramble to pack a duffel bag and see him at night — settling for 15-minute talks between our hour-long fuck sessions.
After a couple of months, I realized that his four-door sedan was not my horse and carriage. It morphed into a rotten pumpkin, my glass slipper was a pink sock that lay on the edge of his mattress, and his castle was just a dark bedroom that reeked of boyish cologne and latex from the rubbers we used.
My phone rang less and less. My instant messages weren’t responded to. My door was left without knocking.
Rest in peace.
