The doors closed…

I felt as if I had done something wrong.  I felt dirty, ashamed, scared, nervous, angry, trapped, alone and overwhelmed, all of this with a feeling of helplessness.  What did I do to deserve this?  How was this possible at this place and this time?

It happened more than 40 years ago, while I have gotten over it, I have not forgotten.  I never will forget.  How do you forget…when the doors closed.

girl eyes closed

I kept my eyes closed and waited…

I remember it like it was yesterday, Orlando, FL, and I think I was about 12 years old.  Each summer our family would go on these magical vacations. They were usually associated with church conferences that my father was to attend.  During these conferences, I was able to meet up with other PK’s (preacher’s kids) from across the country and we would commandeer whatever hotel was fortunate to have us.  We would play pinball and video games, eat at the restaurants, swim in the pools and basically made a nuisance of ourselves with the hotel staff.  What fun and adventurous summers those were.

Our parents trusted us and the environment we were in – no one would harm or bother us.  It was a church conference for goodness sake, filled with ministers, pastors, bishops, missionaries, and good ole fashioned church folk.  This was our summer village, where everyone was your Mom and Dad or at least your Aunt and Uncle.  They fed us, gave us quarters for the video games, gave us money to buy stuff, and they watched over us.

On this day, I was headed back to our hotel room from the lobby and for whatever reason, I was alone.  I got on the elevator with this man.  I did not know him by name, but I knew he was a minister, because I had seen him with my Dad’s friends.  He was one of us, one of the “safe” persons.  I was not concerned, nor did I feel uneasy.  He was part of my group, an extended member of the family, someone that I was sure that once I had met him officially, would become one of the many “Uncles” I had.  A person that I could count on and depend upon to watch out for my PK comrades and I, or at least supply a quarter or two to play pinball.  Then the doors of the elevator closed.

I developed my breasts at the normal age, but they were fully grown and out of training contraptions very early.  I knew that I had them, but it wasn’t until much, much later that I could comprehend the power that they held, especially to men.  I mean I was all of 11 or 12 years old, and very naïve for my age, until the elevator doors closed.

It never occurred to me that a grown man would look at me, a kid, that way.  I did not even know  all of what “that” way even meant.  I had never been leered at, ogled at, felt as if I was a piece of meat before the doors closed.  I never knew what it felt to feel threatened in a way I could not verbalize, felt smothered, and searching for the fresh air before the doors closed.

As this man approached me in the confined spaces of the elevator, my mind was spinning as I was thinking what should I do, and more importantly, what is he going to do to me. I felt uneasy, and knew that something was wrong with this situation.   I was cornered and trapped as he came closer and closer with a smile on his face that was not a smile, but more of a smirk.  I held my breath.  I could not find the air to breathe, and I felt tears beginning to well in my eyes, but I would not cry, I could not cry.  I was just frozen in time, knowing that something bad was about to happen, and there was nothing that I could do to escape from it.  I had nowhere to run nor hide.  The doors to the elevator were closed.

He was looking at me like I was about to be some secret treat, as he reached out to put his hand on my breast.  I was frozen in fear and was confused.  Should I scream, should I kick, should I run? But where to go, I am in an elevator, and the door is closed.  All I could do was close my eyes. Close my eyes and wait for the bad thing to happen.  Close my eyes so that I could not see.  Close my eyes so I could not remember, but, as you see, I do remember.  I closed my eyes and waited.

I must have been praying because the elevator stopped, and as the doors opened, he abruptly exited as a group of women came on, laughing and talking amongst themselves.  They paid no attention to me, and I began to finally breathe and wipe the tears that found their way down my cheeks.  I got off on the next floor, and just sat in front of the elevator, not sure what to do.  Later in the trip, as we were at dinner, I remember seeing the man again. We were in line to eat at the buffet.  He smiled and spoke to Dad, and commented on what a lovely family we were.  I got sick.

I was afraid to tell my Dad, because I knew he would make me find the man, and he would literally kill him. I did not want my Dad in a Florida jail, and that is exactly what would have happened.  I don’t know why I did not feel I could tell my Mom.  Maybe I felt too embarrassed, and I think she would have told Dad, as she should have, and then my Dad would be in jail.

So I kept the secret.  That is, I kept it until today.  So why share today?  I don’t know, maybe it was time.  I don’t know who this man was. He was an African-American minister wearing a brown and mustard plaid suit, with a solid yellow shirt, brown, yellow, and orange striped tie, matching pocket square with brown wing tip shoes.  Salt and pepper hair, and probably about 6 feet tall.  I don’t know where he was from, I don’t know how he sounded, but I remember that suit.  I will always remember that suit.

I am sure that he does not know the damage he caused.  My feelings of insecurity around men for many years. Purposely buying and wearing clothing that was larger than my true size so that I would not invite unwanted attention because things maybe too tight.  Gaining weight so men would not be attracted to me.  Believing that men only were interested in me because of my breasts. The years of promiscuity because my breasts equal attention and attention must be affection and affection must be a relationship, and a relationship must be love. Only to discover that none of that was love or worth anything, and I can beat you in determining that I am worthless way before you can.  There is a list of issues and dramatic problems that I had, but years of counseling and therapy are amazing blessings that more people should take advantage of.

Now, this could turn into a rant about the need to have more than discussions in the black church about the problem of predators in the pulpit, and the need for a call to real action.  We all know Rev. So-and-So who likes little girls or little boys, but we are hoping that we can just “pray” it away and/or hide it under a rug.   It could also become a statement about why women in the Bill Cosby case waited so long to tell their story.  Embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed. Scared. Who would believe them against this man with power.  Or it could be about what is our role in protecting all the members in the community against those who will abuse their power and position…but this is not that piece.  This is about me.  My story in my time, power and in my voice.

For many years, I spent church conferences looking for him, hoping not to run into him, but more importantly hoping that he was not touching some other little girl.  That he was not making some other little girl feel less than what she is worth because in a corner of an elevator somewhere, there is a man in a brown suit, leering at a little girl holding her breath, praying more than anything that the elevator door will just open.



He loved me, but it was not enough


Unhappy-couple-2“Too many times we fall so in love with the idea of what we want, that we don’t even realize they aren’t capable of giving it to us.”

He always told me that he loved me, it wasn’t until it was much too late that I realized it was not enough.

His love was not what I needed to nurture me and to allow me to grow. It was a smothering type of love that was too afraid to support me in discovering me. That discovery would be too threatening, and smothering was his way of showing his need for me to be only for him. To be only his and be only for me could not and did not exist in his world. His love was not enough.

His love was isolating. He kept me to himself, and put me in a tower that only he had access to. If there were no others, then I could love only him. No family, no friends, no anybody…just the two of us. Not in the Bill Withers sort of way, but then again maybe it was just like Bill, just the two of us, building castles in the sky, just the two of us, you and I. Isolating indeed. It was not enough.

His love was the type of love that he knew how to give. Where ever he learned how to love, however he learned to love, and whatever he learned to love is how he loved me. He always told me that I did not understand how much he loved me, and he was right, I didn’t, because all I saw was that it was not the love that I needed. Yet, it was the only love that he knew and it was not enough.

Many times people come into our lives, and they offer us the best that they know how to give, but that is not good enough for how we need to survive. We continue to ask people to love us, hold us, pray for us, and to do for us in a particular way without realizing that just maybe, the very one that we love is not capable of giving us what we need. Through no fault of their own, they are not able to love, hold, give, pray for us how we need it to be. It is not their fault that they can’t, maybe it is our fault we continue to ask.

The question then becomes why are we settling for something and someone that just can’t do what we need them to do? Why do we think that there is some flaw in us when a person can’t provide what we have determined is a “non-negotiable” in life? Is there a time when you recognize that there is no amount of education, modeling behavior, yelling, shouting, and loving that will get you what you desire from that person?

There are some people that can’t learn a skill. I will never be good at painting the edges of a wall. I do a great job with the center of a room, but the edges, window sill and door frame, will come out looking like a 5-year old did it. Now if you can live with a painter who can only do the middle of a room, then hire me, I’m your girl. But if the edges are important to you, I am not the one you need.

Many times we think we can live with just the center of the room painted. If we cover up the door with beads, put long curtains on the window and dim the lights no one will be the wiser. But you will know. You will know that it is not a good paint job. It is not that the center of the room isn’t great, it may be the greatest center of the room paint job in the world, but it is not the paint job for you. I am not capable of getting a straight edge, and you should not have to live with a sloppy corner.

There is no sin or crime committed when you have to walk away.  The sin comes when you continually ask someone to do something that you know they can’t do and the crime is that you continue to expect them to do it differently. They don’t have the skill to do, don’t want to learn to do, don’t know how to do, and literally can’t do what you need them to do. Both of you suffer when that becomes the everyday issue, the pain of loving someone who doesn’t seem to love you back.

When we realize that there is no one to blame and accept each other for what we have to offer and what we have to give, then we can truly love each other. And that love will allow us to stop asking for what we won’t get, accept what we can get, and leave when we realize that it is just not enough.

His love wasn’t enough for me, and I am pretty sure that mine was not good enough for him either…

It’s not what I want, but it’s what I have…and I’m OK with that

Portrait Of Extended Family Group In Park

The Life of my Dreams…

My life is not what I thought it would be.

At first I was going to be married to Michael Jackson. My childhood friends would be in our bedroom in Fort Wayne, IN dreaming of our marriage to the various members of the Jackson 5. Shari Jones was going to be married to Jermain, and Mitzi Hearn was married to Marlon. I never did understand why no one ever wanted to be married to Tito. We would listen to “ABC” and “I’ll be There” on the 45 record player, swaying our little hips back and forth. Marriage to MJ included having two children, a boy and a girl, in that order, living in a big house in California, a place I had never been, but since he was there so was I.

As I got older, and reality set in, the dream of marrying Michael became just that, a dream. But what would my ideal future look like? I dreamed of a husband. A strong He-Man sort of man. One with muscles, and broad chest, not too much hair, and whew Jesus a set of thighs that could….let me stop and compose myself. An honest man, who could take care of me and provide for the wonderful family that we would have together. He would be a business man or a minister who was respected in our community. We would be active with the Urban League, the NAACP and of course church. The mayor of the city we lived in would call him for major policy making decisions about race relations and economic opportunities. Balls and social galas were in our future, sitting and hobnobbing with those who needed to be hobnobbed with.

I would be a teacher, so that I can have summers off to be with the children, and we could have amazing summer vacations. We would be active participants in the PTA, Girl and/or Boy Scouts, and wear all the soccer, basketball, football Mom shirts at every game home or away. Our children would be angels. They would never be in trouble, were always polite with impeccable manners. They never got their clothes dirty, and had wonderful brown eyes and curly locs of black hair. Of course they were straight A students. President and Vice President of the Student Council, captain of the debate and football teams, head cheerleader and starting point guard on the basketball team. (They both run track)

As a family we would travel all over the world. Africa, Europe, Australia, all places where we would take pictures, send post cards, buy tacky knick-knacks and wish that everyone was here with us. We would travel to all the Disney’s and Six Flags over all the Americas. Our children would continue their excellence through their college experience, one at a HBCU and another at an SEC school to play football for the best conference in the nation.

And when our children have left the house, and have successful lives of their own, we will retire to the house on the lake, sit on the front porch, watching the sun set with our teeth soaking in the same glass.

Well, that is not quite what turned out to be my reality…and I am OK with that.

Don’t get me wrong, there are days that I still wish that I had the husband and the children. I see my friends celebrating the births of their grandchildren and it tugs at my heart a bit that it is not me. I envy my friends that go through the struggles it takes to reach the milestone of 25 years of marriage. Yet, my life is not all bad. In fact it is not bad at all.

I have loved and lost, and that is fine. I have traveled to places I have not been before and tasted delights that I never knew I wanted. I have more “children” than I can ever imagine giving birth too, and new ones pop on the scene every day. My job as an educator led me down a path to the career I have in the non-profit industry and the business I have in the area of philanthropy. I am involved in civic causes and share my time and money with those that are dear to my being.

I have lived in varied places, some of which I never thought I would visit, let alone stay. I have discovered parts of me that I never would have never known if my life had been different. I discovered my true strength and divine power, my soft spots and deep convictions. In my life I have learned from the horrific pain, extreme anger, tragic losses, epic gains, bountiful blessings, and the insane happiness that I have live through, and they have made me the person that I am today. In my life I have found that joy is truly internal and eternal, and when I have nothing , I still have that.

This life I have, had not been a crystal staircase or a slice of heaven, but it has been my life. It has been the life that I have been prepared to live since the day I was born. It is the life that stands on the foundation given to me by Wendell and Maurice who taught me to always know who I am, never let someone tell me I am not qualified, and to always put my problems on His alter and leave them there. This life has created the essence of who and whose I am. It breathes life into my soul. It gives me the energy to get-up-and-go to the next adventure, the next chapter in the book, the next leg of the journey. This life I have is the life I have. It is filled with zest and zing, full of enthusiasm and spirit.

The life I dreamed of I have not lived, but the life I have, I live to completeness each and every day.

And we danced…

We dancedWe went to lunch.  Nowhere special, it was just a regular place where the food was average, not memorable.  Just a burger and some fries and of course I washed it down with a diet something or the other.  Yet, it was lunch with him. 

It really was just a run of the mill lunch.  The conversation was typical, for us.  We discussed the recent events of the day.  Do Black lives really matter?  How unfortunate it was he is a Cowboys fan.  No, I do not know how to make a real pound cake from scratch, and yes I do feel somewhat less of a Black woman because of it.  The recent amount of rain, and the hope for sunshine in the future.  The regular conversation two friends have over really hot, crispy, salty, good and fresh French fries. 

Our respective days were going in typical fashion.  A conference call or webinar, a meeting that would either be beneficial or a total waste of time.  Morning rush hour traffic with the anticipation of an evening traffic jam to make it home just in time to clean, wash, cook or watch whatever was on that nights agenda.

As life would have it, time was not our friend. It was ticking and tocking the end of our brief moments together, so we were forced to get up from the table and slowly walked out of the restaurant.  It was time to get back the real world.  The world where there were we had responsibilities and people to be accountable to and for. 

So we walked, in silence, to our cars.  Thinking about our conversations, both of them, the one spoken aloud and the one that was captured in the nuances of our voice inflections and the expressions on our faces as we communicated the most basic of non-important statements. 

As we found ourselves closer to my car, he pulled me close to him and whispered in my ear…”trust me?”  I looked at him with slight fear, for he knows that I have issues with trust, and yet, there he was, saying those two words that can make me run away and flee even the warmth that just his voice envelopes me likes a warm blanket during a dreary day.  Sensing my tension increase, he held me even closer and said this time, “Trust me”.

With nowhere to run, and no place to hide, my escape routes blocked, I surrendered and nodded my head slightly to say yes, but there were no words.

Then he pulled out one of his ear buds, put it to my ear, held me even closer, as if that were possible, and we began to dance.  Yes, right there in the parking lot, we danced to Doug E. Fresh and the Get Fresh Crew’s “The Show”.  We laughed as we rapped to the song aloud…

                “Here we go…come on…Here we go…come on”

Clapping our hands to the beat, snapping our fingers to the rhythm that only comes from true Old School music.  Laughing and smiling as if we were back in club somewhere late at night.  Hair sweating, makeup fading, disco ball light flickering on the ceiling having a wonderful time, all on the parking lot.

People were staring and looking at us as if we were two nuts that had escaped the loony bin, but we did not care.  It did not matter, it was just us…he and I with Doug E Fresh and the crew.

“Six minutes…six minutes…six minutes Doug E. Fresh you on”

And then, when the song ended, he opened my car door, made sure that I was settled in and said “Thank you for the dance – and for the trust”.  I smiled and said, “you’re welcome”. 

It was a great lunch.


I kissed a boy last night…

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.

I kissed a boy last night, and it felt good.  I mean real good.  I felt warm and juicy, soft and mushy all at the same time.  I felt fuzzy and jiggly on the inside.  I felt like a kid, like a teenager that had never been kissed before.  I had fireworks and bells ringing in my head, all while trying to remain calm as if this were an everyday occurrence.  But it is not.  I do not kiss boys often, and had not kissed one in quite some time, and yet, last night I kissed a boy.

I smiled and blushed as his lips came closer to mine.  I knew what was coming, we all do at that moment.  There is no loud speaker announcement saying “I am going to kiss you now”, however, I knew when it was going to come.  I felt the electricity that we were creating.  I saw the look in his eye. There is a different vibe in the air, the silence was not out of awkwardness, but crackled with anticipation of what was to come.  There is hope that it won’t be bad, a kiss I want to forget, but that it will be one that I will want to not only remember, but to repeat.

I am 51 years old and I kissed a boy…Ok, he was a man.  A nice, fairly good looking all American He-Man  man.  A man that made my juices run warm.  That hasn’t happened is quite some time.  I was beginning to think that I didn’t have any juices left.  I thought I was all dried all up, but there I was, with a squishy feeling inside as I was kissing a man.

Am I allowed to do that?  Can I sit on a couch or in a car, stand on the front stoop and swap spit with someone?  Can I intertwine my tongue in the mouth of another, each of us smelling like the after dinner mint we popped in our mouths so that we would not smell like the garlic chicken we just ate?  Yet, last night, there I was, kissing a man.  I mean a real man, not made up or the dream of one.  An absolute genuine man.  I even pinched myself to be sure, I stifled my “ouch” with his lips.

We were listening to jazz, Four Play to be exact. (How grown up is that???) We debated if Nathan East is the greatest bassist of all time or just in the studio.  We spoke of scatting and the talents of true musicians.  We laughed as the musician’s tickled the keys of the piano, strummed the strings of the lead guitar, thumbed the bass and softly tapped the cymbals of the drum.  He gently nibbled my ears. I hate having my ears nibbled, but I stifled my giggles in his lips.

He put his arms around me and pulled me into him.  He held me. His arms engulfed me and smothered me in and with him.  He spoke low and told me things I dare not repeat for fear it will sound like way too much way too soon.  Let’s just say my, my, my.  As I listened to his words, I nodded my head and gently murmured in agreement.  His hold and his lyrics were powerful, safe and strong, yet gentle and melodic.  He held me as if he needed me deeper than just the meeting his current need.  His arms were muscular, I could feel them through his shirt.  They felt good.  I felt good.  I stifled my sigh with his lips.

His kiss was gentle.  Small bites on the bottom lip, little licks on the top one.  He lightly sucked my lips as I held his hands, my fingers interlaced with his.  He was not aggressive yet filled with the energy of desire.  This was not a kiss filled with sexual tension, but a sensual one.  A kiss that had an urgent sweetness about it.   His hands cupped my face to bring me in even closer to his.  I was so close I could smell him.  He smelled so…hhmmm. Soft lips.  Soft touch.  Soft strength.  He inhaled and took my breath away.  He exhaled and gave me him.  I stifled my surrender with his lips.

I kissed a man last night, and I wanted to.  I longed to. I craved to. This was a grown folk’s kiss that can lead to so much more.  The kind of kiss that can get you into trouble.  The type of kiss that can lead down a road that can take you places that you want to go, but you should not be.  This was an adult kiss.  A kiss that will make you want to do things that you will need much prayer for to repent of the sins you could and would commit.  I kissed a man and it led to two people sitting on a couch,  in each other’s arms, my head on his shoulder, and the two of us…gently snoring because old people should not start kissing after 10:00 at night.  That was way past our bed time.  So he went home, and I went to sleep with memories of a kiss.  I stifled my happiness with my pillow.

Last night I kissed a man.

I am not perfect

“I am full of mistakes and imperfections and therefore I am real.”      S. Hick.

I'm not perfect...but I am real

I’m not perfect…but I am real!

I am not perfect

I have so many issues that they even overwhelm me at times.
I have to have ice in all of my drinks, with the exception of wine. But then I have those fake ice cubes to keep the wine cold, so I guess it is ice in all my drinks. Speaking of drinks, I do not like the smell of milk, and so I have had to drink a glass of milk since I was 8 years old when my Mother tried to make me drink it. I was very thirsty that day, but I prevailed. And no, I don’t drink the milk when eating a bowl of cereal and yes, it has to be whole milk, not 2% or nothing like that.

I love popcorn that is cooked on the stove top smothered with real butter. Microwave popcorn is for those who do not care about really enjoying the taste of the corn. And it has to be Orville Redenbacher because I am a popcorn snob. I also feel it is a sin to Bar-B-Que meat with sauce. You just don’t cook meat with the sauce on it. The sauce will burn not char, and you will just have burnt sugar.

I am quietly stubborn. When I get in my head that is not the way it should be done, I quietly protest with a passive aggression that Freud would be proud of. I complete the mission, assignment or task, but it is at my own pace and speed. I am a team player, and will never let an organization or team fail because of my lack (see below on disappointing people), but I will probably not “play” with that person again.

I will not watch scary movies. I must be the only person on earth who has not seen any of the Halloween, Friday the 13th, or any other movie that has stuff that scare me. My anxiety levels get way to intense, and I can’t watch. I change the channel on TV if I think that it is getting too intense. Heck, I even skip the pages of books for the same reason. I don’t like surprises. People jumping or the unexpected action really bothers me and I do not watch or participate if possible. If forced to I will go to your goofy horror flick, but I will have my eyes closed and have a song in my head the entire time so that I won’t be paying attention.

I have imperfections.

I am overweight, and have always been. This has led to much insecurity about the way I feel about the way I look, and to the many “relationship” mishaps that I have entered into. This has led to bouts of low self-esteem that I suffered through even as I was facilitating classes to women about life choices and feeling great about oneself no matter the situation. And while I am accepting of how I look, there are days, when I look in the mirror and go “What the front door?” Even in my sexiness, there has always been the concern of my weight, and so I make excuses and reasons why I do or don’t do what I do.

I have problems listening. Really, listening in general is an issue for me. This has been a problem for quite a while now. I have been working on this essential skill for many years, especially since most of the jobs I have had require me to listen. My mind wanders when I am bored by what you say. Or, more than likely, what you are saying is just plain stupid, and I want to stop you before you cause irreparable harm to my opinion of you. I am learning, however, to listen to you and to let you be you because it is a part of your journey not mine. But really, some people need to think before they put their words and thoughts out there in the universe to be heard or ignored.

I tend to drop out of sight and disappear when I think I have disappointed people. I don’t like to disappoint others…one of my biggest and most significant flaws. The idea of purposefully hurting someone is just not in my DNA. I try so hard not to do that, and when I think that I have, I beat myself up, run, and hide. It is very hard for me to face someone after I have disappointed them, which it seems that I also tend to fall in and out of friendships rather easily. I don’t stay to see if we can pass the test of adversity. This explains why I have very few people that I consider my friends. Yet, because I don’t want to disappoint, there are very many people who think that I am their friend. Does this make sense?

It has always been difficult for me to accept compliments about most aspects of my life. I am not pretty enough, my work not good enough, my ideas not the brightest, my thoughts not the clearest…I am just not. It is hard for me to ask for help sometimes. I think that it makes me appear weak.

I take betrayal very seriously. When people that I hold high in respect behave in the most human of ways, I have a difficult time seeing them in that perfection again. It taints and colors my relationship with them and in many instances ends them.

I have made mistakes

I have made some really crazy judgment calls in my lifetime. I continue to be in a cycle of crazy, self- destructive and just insane behaviors.

Even with a series of advisers, I am terrible with my own finances, yet I can manage a multi-million dollar social service program budget down to each line item, and never return a dime to the funding source. This has forced some not so happy choices in my life that has left me at times with very limited economic options.

I can sabotage the very things that I say that I want, love, children, friends, and situations. There have been very real opportunities I should have taken, but did not because I decided they were not wrapped up in the pretty package I thought they should be in. I have ruined and eliminated friendships and relationships by my inability to forgive, always remembering, and never learning the lesson until it was too late. I have walked away from challenges simply because they were a challenge, and I did not feel like facing it.

The choices that I have made over the years have helped me keep my sanity and have driven me insane all at the same time. I have come close to the line of immorality, but I don’t think that I have crossed it…well with the exception of that one thing, but I am carrying that to my grave…lol. I try to live by the golden rule, and treat others better than I treat myself.

There are things and people I should have stood up for, fought to the death for and even died for. There were also things and people I should have not only walked away from, but run to those hills from which comes all of our help.

But I am real.

Each of these imperfections and mistakes make me who I am. And if I am nothing else, I am real. I laugh, and I cry. I dance, alone and in public. I put on magnificent singing performances in my car when I am driving to work each morning. I eat amazing food without caring about the caloric intake and drink wine, water, and other libations that taste good and make me feel great. I love hard and fast just as I hate slow and long. I smile and love to hug. I am slow to anger and easy to joke with.

I have thrown away the masks that I wore and have become transparent, because living life is more authentic that way. Life is easier when you are real. You are healthier when you are real. You are more relaxed when you are real. You are you when you are real. When you find the power to expose your flaws and imperfections yourself, you don’t live with the stress of if and when they find the real you. The ugly you, the beautiful you, the imperfect perfectly made you.

I see beauty in the ugliest of situations. I love the imperfections of the perfect. I embrace the mistakes of the absolute. I accept the flaws of the faultless. I understand the crazy of the sane. I hear the heart of the heartless. I touch the hardness of the softhearted. I listen to the questions of the unimpeachable. I love the coldness of those that are warm. I like the crabbiness of the kind. I hold then let go of the wickedness in the divinely good.

I am not perfect, and I don’t want to be…I am real.

Sometimes it is not about sex

“It’s not always about sex.  Sometimes the best type of intimacy is where you just lay back, laugh together at the stupidest things, hold each other and enjoy each other’s company.” 

My hands are for more than you can ever imagine.

My hands are for more than you can ever imagine.

We went to the park near the airport to see the planes take off and land.

He was a friend, not really more than that.  The grandson of a friend.  I am not even sure if there was potential for anything else, but he made me laugh.  That has always been a qualification for any friendship of mine.

We were sitting in the car, in the days before 9/11, smoking cigarettes, when he posed the question “what was the most sensitive part of my body”?  I must admit, the question took me back, it seemingly came out of nowhere, or maybe it was the mood, and the conversation led in that direction.  In any case, it caused me to have to think about it.  If he had asked me what did I consider the sexiest part of my body, that answer was easy and obvious….my brain.  (I know some of you were thinking my larger assets, but that is not the most sensitive part of my body…)  At the time, I really did not have much experience of a sexual nature, I mean I faked like I knew, but I thought my experiences, in comparison to my friend was, well lacking.

I continued to think about the question, what was the most sensitive part of my body?  There were the obvious and usual suspects, you know the, breasts, genital area, neck, thighs, you know, those spots that people go to immediately when they smell sex is in the game.  Yet, those did not seem quite to ring true for me.  I never have  and still don’t have much pleasure from crazy unorganized groping and wrestling to move from one uncomfortable position to another.  That has never been for me.

So I pondered, and as I sat in the car, it came to me, and so I answered…my hands.  That answer surprised him, and it surprised me as well, but let me go on to explain.

I use my hands to do so much than to pick up things and put them down.  I talk with my hands.  They wave in excitement.  They point out directions, show locations, and draw attention things I think are important.  They can be wrung in sadness and despair.  I can throw them up in frustration or when I am overwhelmed, and there are times when I sit on them to keep those around me safe from strangulation and other acts of violence.  My hands have a sign language all of their own, and it is not ASL.

My hands can be gentle like when I hold a small baby speaking love, security and tenderness.  They can wipe the nose of a toddler to get the snot out of the way and let the playing begin.  My hands are conduits of creative foods and drinks, they open cans beans and bottles of wine. My hands can feed you things you have never tasted, or your favorite pizza.  My hands can tickle you and make you laugh so hard that you make that sound that sounds so girly your boys would tease you but only I know about it, I hear it all the time.   My hands write of love, joy, hate and pain…and yet they are so much more.

My hands can be possessive.  They can grab and hold on to you for dear life out of fear, to keep you from harm or danger.  They can hold your dearest possessions and treasures, they can even hold your heart.  They can also be possessive in a public place when they can pick off the invisible lint from your jacket so that the rest of the heifers in the room know that you are mine and to back the “f” off.

My hands can be protective.  My hands can be held in times of safety and in times of danger. They can pull you close so that you can feel me hold you in my arms.  They are ready to pick you up when you fall, and clean your wounds to begin the healing process.  They can hold your face so that you can focus on my eyes to really see what I am saying.  My hands can wipe away your tears or trace them with my fingers as they fall down your cheek, because sometime the tears must fall,   When I put my palms together, I can pray for you, the ultimate form of protection.

My hands can tell you my desire for you.  I can grab your head with my both of hands to let you know the passion that I have for you in when it is just you and I in our private place.  We can be at the opera or museum, and you can feel them in and on places that only you and I know what is going on and what is about to happen.  My hands can touch the small of your back, the nape of your neck, the palm of your hand, and you know instantly what message has been delivered and that it needs to have an immediate response.  My hands can make you lose control, and keep you in control all at the same time…yep I am that bad.

My hands can teach you how I want you to love me.  They can lead you away from the wrong place and lead you the place that will make us both happy and content. They can imitate the way I want you to touch me.  They can show you see me and for me to see you. You can take my hands and teach me too, so that I can know how to love you the way you want to be loved.  Our hands together can create even more than what we can even begin to imagine.

I don’t remember what my friend said, but afterwards, we both lit a cigarette, smoked and sat silently for a bit.  Sometimes it is not about sex, it is about just being…..

(thanks greg)