poeticdesires

~ aka The Audacity of this White Bitch ~

You cannot make this shit up.

So, money is tight. I had to pay a couple bills towards the house in the past week or so that were unexpected, leading me to deplete my savings and main checking account. As such, when a check magically dropped into my lap (thank you random unclaimed property payout), I was eager to get the money into my account. But for some reason, the online banking feature for my bank was not working this morning. 

No worries. I live within walking distance of a small branch and happen to have the day randomly free.

Thus this lovely afternoon, I took a little stroll down the street to make a deposit. As soon as I walked into the bank, the vibes were off. 

As I entered, an elderly white woman came in as well. She got in line immediately while I went to the table to fill out my deposit slip.

As I’m writing down my information and looking up my checking account number, I hear her sucking her teeth. She starts pacing around. Vibes, very off.

There is one other person in front of her at the teller window, an elderly Black lady with one of those walkers that also functions as a seat. The teller, a youngish South Asian appearing woman, is on the phone presumably with another customer. The white lady is having none of it.

“We’re waiting,” she says, presumably to the teller who’s trying to help the caller.

The Black lady ahead of her says as much to the woman behind her.

“I have my car outside. Why can’t we park outside? As much as I pay in taxes, I should call the County and complain.”

Hmm, why don’t you go do that now and leave the rest of us alone?

But of course, I didn’t say that. 

The teller finished up with the caller and then began helping the Black lady.

“Merry Christmas,” chimed the Black lady to the teller, and they began their business.

The white lady still wasn’t satisfied. She huffed. She walked about with no particular destination in mind. She looked over towards the desk of who I assumed was the manager.

By now, I had finished filling out my deposit slip and stood in line behind this awful woman. I made sure to pull out my phone and kept my gaze down. I looked at funny and uplifting memes. I chuckled to myself. Once or twice, I could feel her looking at me, actively seeking out a compatriot in her outrage. I was not the one.

The Black lady finished up with the teller, again exclaiming holiday cheer, and the white woman rushed up to the teller’s window before the Black lady even had a moment to walk away. 

As the Black woman was about to exit, I catch her eye and we exchange a look.

Then, of all things, the Black woman proceeded to amble towards me and spoke in a not so hushed tone about the rude White woman at the teller window. 

Mind you, I just came to deposit a check so I don’t overdraft this week. I had no intention of getting in the middle of old folks business. But such is life, I guess.

The Black woman cannot believe this white woman’s behavior. Frankly, I understood her sentiment. The Black woman took her moment, said her peace to me, and ending with “And if she keeps acting up, you take care of her.”

What she expected me to do, I do not know. 

Just as our brief conversation ended, another teller magically appeared, a pleasant younger appearing Asian man. I step up and slide him my deposit slip and endorsed check, intentionally ignoring the messy bitch to my left. The white lady finished up and walked away; she was followed by a Black older gentleman to her teller. With her exit, things simmered down in the bank and I strolled on home.

Why that woman was on ten in the middle of the afternoon I will never know.
Why she decided having to wait at the bank was a grievous offense, I cannot even begin to guess. 

Part of me is worried we’re about to get four more years of this stupid petty entitled bullshit. And I live in a Blue state.

But, thinking back on it, she was an older white woman in the middle of the afternoon making a quick stop to the bank. Holidays or not, a bitch is gonna be a bitch. Lord help us all. 

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Have I told this story before?

I still remember being a sophomore in college, sitting on the couch at a house party, just a few days I think after my line had crossed. As I sat in the middle of all those folks, with whom I felt equal parts accepted and awkward, I tried to play it cool even though I didn’t know what to do or had anyone to talk to. 

Then, randomly, this fine boy maybe a year older than me sat next to me, sidled up to me, and grabbed my belly fat hanging over my jeans. I instinctively swatted his hand away and gave him a look.

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “I like it.”

He gripped my flesh again. 

And I swatted his hand away again, stood up, and went to some other part of the party. 

And that was it.

I don’t know if I have ever seen him again since. I couldn’t even begin to guess what he looks like now, what his life is like now, where he is or who he is with. I don’t even remember his name.

But I sometimes I think about that boy, now a gross ass man.

I wonder, did he ever find the thick girl of his dreams? Did she accept his affections, his adulation of her curves, the fullness of her body? 

Are they still together? Married? Children? Happy?

Or did scorn after scorn turn him into just another mean, ain’t sit man? 

I hope not.

In another life, in a another timeline, with more confidence and love of my curves… 

What if I had accepted his advances? Let him touch my fullness, grasp and rub on my belly. Let him love on me. All of me. Every roll and stretch mark, every imperfection he found beautiful.

In another life, if I could have loved myself as much as this man wanted to, could I have been his and he mine? Who would I be if I fucked that man that night? Cause yes, he was fine. So fucking fine. And I indeed wanted to fuck that man, badly. But I didn’t know how to say that. Didn’t know how to flirt, make or accept an advance. Didn’t realize I was pretty, I was beautiful. Didn’t know I was wanted, yearned after. I didn’t know how to let him in, didn’t know how to release my fear and anxiety, and fall into the beauty of his brown eyes, or sink into to the circle of his muscled arms.

In another life, I would’ve given it up to that man. In another life, I would’ve lost my virginity that night and probably be wrecked for all men after. Because how can you truly love anyone else when the first person you fuck wants every part of you fully, joyously? His fingertips imprinting love into every inch of my body. 

In another wondrous life, he is mine, and I am his, and we are stupid giddy happy.

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~ a poem ~

Can you go slow?
Take your time.
Stay in this moment.
And then the next.
And the next.

Can you embrace this moment? 
Embrace me?
See me.
All of me.
The beauty, the scars, the imperfections.
Do you like what you see?
Love it?

Tell me.
Tell me what you see,
How you see me.

What it is that you want to
touch,
kiss, 
lick, 
suck,
nibble,
bite.
I want to,
need to hear it from you.

I crave your touch,
gentle and slow.
Undress me.
Admire me.
Adore this body you are to enjoy.

I will giggle.
I want to see you smile as I giggle.
Let there me joy in this.

May I undress you?
Admire every line and curve of you.
Let this be playful.

Kiss me.
Lightly brush your lips against mine
As if asking permission for more.
I will give it, happily.
Let the kiss grow, deepen, expand.
Let the hunger swell.

Allow your lips to find other parts of my body,
Tracing a trail of desire along my skin
Lay me down.

And now, the real question:

Can you fuck me softly?
Slide in
Inch by beautiful inch
Until I am full of you
And you are deep within me.

Can you go slow?
Torturously so.
Can you make me beg, plead?
Make me say please.
Make me whimper from want.
Because I want you.

I always want you.
Your teeth in my flesh.
Your sweat on my skin.
Deep and dark desires fulfilled,
Yes.

But I also want the feel of you against me.
I want play and smiles and giggles.
I don’t want to choke.
I don’t want the pain anymore,
Now only the pleasure.

Can you still want me when I want
Something else?

Can you fuck me softly?

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~erotica~

My panties were soaking wet before I made to the car, as I rushed home, and when I finally pealed off my clothes from the long lovely day.

I didn’t intend to meet anyone new, though friendly gatherings such as the one I attended allow for such moments. But with his bald head yet salt and pepper facial hair, and his quiet intoxicating demeanor, well he was my catnip. Throw in his interest in writing and I was hooked.

I arrived at the high tea party early, picked a comfy couch to make my respite, and lazed waiting for others to filter in. The shade of the trees and the afternoon breeze lulled me into relaxation as I awaited who else was to attend.

Soon, people began mingling, familiar faces from past events. 

I chose a black tea for the afternoon, added a little honey, and started to people watch. It is one of my favorite activities, people watching. You can learn so much just from observation. 

As I saw him arrive, a beautiful woman at his side, I was immediately drawn in by his reserved nature. His eye contact was fleeting, but meaningful. 

‘What is going on in that mind?’ I mused.

He and his companion installed themselves on another nearby couch. I continued my amusement while overhearing their various conversations. The afternoon progressed.

Later, after a quick exchange between them, his companion stepped away, joined a seeming friend on a carpet, and began playing a harp as the friend accompanied on violin. 

With a seat now vacant beside him, I moved and sat down next to him. I found myself playing with my flowing skirt, fidgeting a little from nerves. I wondered if he noticed. He broke the ice.

“I’m a journalist and sometime biographer. Do you write?”

Why yes, I do. 

I spoke a little about my hobby, but then somehow the conversation took an amazing right turn.

I forget how exactly the topic of his side hustle came up, but everything I learned about this man was intriguing, so no wonder every part of him drew me in.

“I work as a pro Dom every now and again.”

“Really?” I found myself absentmindedly touching my lips and leaning towards him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your rate?”

“$200 an hour, cash only.”

“Smart.”

“Efficient.”

“You strike me as someone who is both.”

“Well, if we are now handing out compliments, then I must say you are beautiful and intriguing.”

“Are we flirting? Or are you trying to lure in a client?”

“Yes.”

He said it as a whisper, leaning in close to my ear. 

From somewhere – I didn’t see him retrieve it – he pressed a plain business card into my palm. Heat blossomed from my shoulder where I could feel his breath against my skin and from my hand where the pressure of his touch lingered.

I rubbed my thumb along the thick card stock. I glanced it over. On one side there was a phone number edged in white on a black background. On the other side, again with a black background, but this time edged in red, was a paddle with the letters “SIR” written down the middle.

“Is this an invitation?”

“An opening.”

He looked up and met the eyes of his companion.

“You have to go.”

“Indeed.”

His gaze moved back to me, tracing my form now as he stood. “Lovely to have met you…?”

It was then we both realized neither of us knew the other’s name.   

“Call me Kitty.”

“Is that your name?”

I glanced down at the card and then again looked into his eyes. “Call me Kitty, and I’ll call you Sir.”

“So, you will call me then. Looking forward to it.”

With that, he walked away. And my pussy hasn’t stopped throbbing since.

Naked on my bed, covers twisted and tangled, I think back on those moments, that conversation. 

The scent of the various teas we all tried lingering about us, yes. But also the aroma of his sweat mixed with his cologne I caught as he leaned in. 

I imagine the caress of his beard against my skin as his lips meet mine. The feel of his teeth sinking into my flesh, bruising my neck, as I whimper and plead for me.  

And I wonder, does he allow himself to kiss his clients?

Do I want to be a client?

Or do I want more? 

If I beg, will he suck on my nipples until I moan? Will he rake his nails down my back? Will he lick me from stem to stern?

What are his rules? And does he ever break them?

My orgasm is long, drawn out, crashing through my body. I bite my wrist to keep from screaming so loud as to disturb the neighbors. I imagine him watching me, marveling at my body, whispering his orders, his admonishments, and his praise into my ear. Another orgasm rolls soon after at just the thought of him asking if his Kitty has a pretty pussy.

Somewhat satisfied, I pick up the card from my nightstand, twirl it in my hand, and wonder: Do I call? Do I give in to temptation?

I bring the card up to my nose. Yes, I recognize it. His cologne. Smart. Efficient. Effective. I’m wet all over again.

“Tomorrow,” I tell myself. Call him tomorrow.

Tonight is for the fantasy.

And with that, I rest his card on my face and slide my hands back between my legs.

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Where to even begin with this shit?

It’s been a long time since I’ve watched a movie and was motivated to exorcise my feelings about said movie in a blogpost, but here we are.

AMC Stubs has this deal called Screen Unseen. For any level of membership, including me at the free version, you are offered a cheap ticket to a movie but you will not know the movie going in.

This situation made me a little nervous. What if it ended up being a scary movie and I watched the entire thing through my fingers and had nightmares for the next week? But the ticket was only $10, it was a random Monday night, and I hadn’t treated myself to a solo movie in a while. So why not. 

As I sat for the previews, a new fear arose. I saw a trailer for a movie that gave hints a little too close to one of those Christian movies based on a crazy conspiracy theory and realized if this ended up being a right wing Jesus movie I would simply walk out of the theatre. $10 be damned.

They then showed a preview for the Reagan biopic movie, and in turn I flipped off the screen.

But soon enough, the lights dimmed and the show began. 

When I saw the title, Slingshot, I was relieved. I vaguely knew it was a psychological thriller and was reassured I had a chance of liking this movie.

Now, sitting on my couch writing these words, I can firmly say I ultimately loved this movie but absolutely fucking hated the ending.

**Some spoilers to follow; you have been warned.**

This movie was an excellent psychological thriller. The main character, John, wakes up from hibernation on the Odyssey 1, a spaceship whose sole mission is to reach Titan, a moon of Jupiter. You soon find out he is a part of a three man crew with Captain Franks as the leader and Nash as his other crew mate. 

The movie weaves in flashbacks of John’s life, specifically his time in a romance involving an engineer named Zoey who also worked on the Odyssey 1 project, with their relationship leading up to his departure.

As the story progresses, you have a constant refrain from the onboard computer each time John wakes up from hibernation. The medication that induces his sleep can cause physical and mental side effects. We see this in his crew mate Nash who wants to turn back almost immediately, in Captain Franks who is a bit overbearing and ominous towards the two men, and in John who starts having visual and auditory hallucinations of Zoey’s presence on the ship.

There are twists of course. Early on there is structural damage to the ship from some unknown source: space collision? structural integrity compromise?; we don’t know. This spurs Nash’s desperate need to turn back. But the slingshot is accomplished to fling the ship and her crew towards Titan. Still, Nash insists they need to turn back. So much so that the captain is concerned enough to bludgeon Nash with a gun (why the fuck is there a gun in space!?!) outside of John’s chamber as John is slipping into hibernation sleep. 

When John next wakes up, there is no blood, no tissue, and no Nash.

The biggest twists of all come towards the end. A trick of names, of perception, and a trick of the heart had me hoping for a happy ending that was not earned and never paid off.

During one part of the movie, John explains to Nash that his logic could never be proven. So to later is it revealed that the audience’s hope for our main character was not proven, was not earned, and was not fulfilled. Ultimately, John’s past choices end up being the ghosts that haunt him in the dark and unfortunately lead him to his doom.

Kasey Affleck, the star of this movie, is captivating, compelling, and had me enthralled throughout. You hope for him, even as you see him make stupid emotional mistake after stupid emotional mistake. And you wish, in the end, that he is able to somehow make in right.

But in the end, in the literal last seconds of the film, your hope is dashed, and if you are like me you find yourself audibly cursing at the movie screen because you are so angry and disappointed.

I suppose that is an endorsement to the effect Slingshot had on me; I cared enough for this stupid Grinch of a man, hoped he would grow a heart, but when he did it was too late and ultimately was his undoing.

Don’t be surprised if this movie is talked about during awards season. Or maybe that is just me hoping again for a ending that wasn’t earned.  

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~This is a petty-ass hate vent. You have been warned.~

Time is a precious thing for me. I have so little of it due to the nature of my job. So when someone wastes my time, I get offended.

Cash was a waste of my time.

I met Cash via Tinder. We had chatted back and forth via the app and eventually via text messages. It took us a while to find a time to meet up because my schedule is nuts and, as it turns out, his is not simple either. 

But finally, after weeks of trying to figure this out, we settled on a Tuesday evening drink. I was able to go home after work, shower, change, and meet him at a local bar near my apartment around 7pm.

Cash was cute. Not hot, but cute. He gave off a nerdy vibe, which in my book is a plus. He is working on a PhD. With my medical career, we had shared intellectual backgrounds to fall on for conversation.

From the beginning, Cash let it be known he did not want a relationship. That was fine for me as yes, love is a sweet temptation, but at the end of the day people have needs. And mine, as of late, have not been fulfilled. 

I invited him back to my place. We talked about what we were looking for, each agreeing to a FWB situationship roughly once every two weeks.

My issue though is for that arrangement to work both parties have to be good in bed. And Cash is NOT good in bed.

First, and most importantly, was the condom issue. 

Cash broke up with a longterm girlfriend in December. He was used to sex without a condom. I, however, was very insistent I was not going to fuck him without one. He struggled to get hard with a condom on. He was able to, with much coaxing on my part, but inevitably went limp, after a few minutes of stroking, multiple times.

Second, Cash has a small dick. Some people say good stroke game can overcome size deficiency. Welp, not in Cash’s case. When erect, he was maximum 5 inches, enough to give me the smallest amount of pleasure, but I knew I was not going to orgasm from his thrusts alone.

Third, this motherfucker cannot kiss well. He had this habit of biting on and sucking my bottom lip into his mouth so hard the entire time we were fucking. It made me want to not kiss him.  Afterwards, when he had left and I went to use the restroom, I saw this asshole had actually caused a bruise on my lip. 

For the two or three days while the bruise existed, I could not figure out why it made me so angry. And then it dawned on me: bruises, for me, are mementos of enjoyable moments in my life, little presents given to me via hot sex, red and purple reminders of fucking I wanted to remember and relive. 

Sex with Cash was not enjoyable. It was a chore I unexpectedly endured. Having a visual representation of bad sex literally staring me in the face every time I looked at a mirror was a good way to prevent that particular experience ever happening again. In fact, I know I’ve grown to hate the sex more and more while looking at the bruise and also remembering said bruise. Presents can cut both ways.

Forth, he kept saying “I’m sorry” over and over again. This man could not stay hard. And each time he went soft, he kept saying “I’m sorry, can you…?” He even apologized after cuming (achieved via his hand with little help from me), and when we were done and getting dressed. 

Look, I know what I want when I’m fucking. Sniveling, whinny, impotency (both physically and emotionally) are not fucking sexy to me. I want strength, control, dominance, none of which describes Cash.

Fifth, and final grievance, this man couldn’t even finger me well. Has no one ever been honest with him? Has no one given him tips or basic instructions in the way to please a partner with his hands? I mean probably because I had to physically push his fingers into my vagina. And even after I made it abundantly clear I wanted him to finger fuck me, he was still off the mark. This man had perfectly functional hands, yet he still could not perform.

Such a fucking waste of my time.

I am too nice. And It was my apartment. And I wanted his ass to leave. So I said I had fun and he said he had fun and he would call me.

I don’t want this man to call me. I don’t want to see this man ever again. 

On the list of fucks in my life (You know I have a physical list; nerds love data.), he ranks so far down when it comes to enjoyment and fondness; if I could I would forget him. He was not the worst, but fuck he came close.

Having now taken over 800 words to express how much I did not like this particular sexual experience, I must now give a moment to acknowledge and roast myself. Because I am going back on Tinder. And I am going to find another date. And I will try again. Because your girl has needs. And my current roster is not fulfilling those needs. And I deserve excellent consistent sweaty back-breaking praise God sex in my life.

Okay, back to it I go. Wish me luck.

*kiss kiss*

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This is how you get your pussy privileges revoked.

I met Bacon via Twitter. I don’t remember who slid into whom’s DM’s. 

We first interacted when I was in med school. I, at the time, lived quite far from home so our interactions were of the photos/flirty messages/FaceTime mutual masturbation variety. 

Later, after I started residency, we figured out that we lived near enough to each other. So,  inevitably, we transitioned into a FWB situation. In retrospect, though, I can now see the F part was lacking in more ways than one.

The first time he came over, I was awkward as hell. Thankfully, at a certain point, he told me point blank “stop talking” and the fucking was half way decent. I realized after the fact I was not at my best, having been out of practice while in school, and I felt like I needed to make it up to him.

The second time he came around, much better. Straight to the point and pleasurable for both parties involved.

I flubbed on our third would-be encounter due to my job. I don’t remember if I was specifically on a nights rotation, but I suspect I was as he was set to come over early morning and I fell asleep on my couch waiting for his arrival. When I woke up an hour after he had left, I apologized profusely and asked him to come back. He refused, his ego bruised enough to reject waiting and wanting clean pussy. (Part of the reason I fell asleep is because I took a shower in anticipation of his coming over. Me, a considerate ho. Him, just a dick.)

Subsequently, there have been multiple other times I have invited him over without any follow through. 

Once, I reached out and he declined because he was busy. Another time he declined because it was early AM and I quote “I don’t want a repeat of last time”. Mind you, I had apologized profusely that time and now again to try to ease this man’s ego.

The incident that has now gotten him cut from my roster occurred this Sunday morning.

Saturday night (and Sunday morning, and now in fact) I was (am) incredibly horny. If you follow my Twitter, you would have seen the post in which I admitted this. I reached out to him via the app and via text message. This was around 1am. No reply, so I went to sleep.

Since I was off work, I left my ringer on. Around 4:15am, I woke up to his text. We did a flirty flirty and came to the plan of him coming by after the gym. I asked him to text me when he was leaving his place to make sure I would be awake. I was gonna jump in the shower and wait for him in my lobby just to make sure I would not miss him. This plan was formulated around/just before 5am.

8am rolls by, myself actually haven not fallen back asleep because again I didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time, and there was no message. In my head I’m wondering if this man is gonna flake. So I send a text.

“So…”

And what, you may ask, was his reply.

“So… I was in the shower when your text came in. But now that I’m out it feels like you’re rushing me, so I’mma pass.”

To say I was flabbergasted is to understate my astonishment. Did this man really just send me this text, jumping to extreme conclusions at 8:30am on a Sunday morning?

In that moment, I had multiple realizations at once.

One, a tangent: The night before I was hanging out with some friends. One of them, a close friend of over a decade, was commenting about another man on my roster and stated a simple but profound opinion. “You deserve better.” 

Though the man was different, the situation was the same. Bacon was being an absolute asshole. I waited for three hours, ready to jump in the shower, clean and primp myself, and bless him with some wet good pussy. Instead, he decides to treat me this way. No sir, you will not treat me like this. I deserve better.

Two: This motherfucker don’t like me. He keeps harping on one mistake I made months ago and for which I have apologized profusely on multiple occasions. He is taking for granted my wanting him sexually. His message was not kind or thoughtful. This man is a dick.

Three: I don’t need this man in my life. Every day, every moment, we chose who we allow to be a part of our lives. We create our world by filling it with the people and places that matter most to us… or who we must tolerate for existence. I have to interact with my coworkers for this paycheck. I plan and execute events with my friends because we love each other and love being around each other. This man though, it’s giving no.

Being a part of my life is a privilege, not a right. And he, in that moment, had lost his pussy privileges.

Within five minutes of his text, I knew what needed to be done.

My reply:

“Wow, I sent a simple check-in text because I have been awake for the past three hours in anticipation of you coming over and this is your response. Yeah, Imma pass too.”

I sent my text, then immediately went on Twitter and blocked him. I deleted our DM thread. I deleted our text conversation. I deleted his contact.

All I wanted was some morning sex. Why is it so hard to find a link up where I call (or he calls me), we arrange a meetup, we fuck, we cum, and he leaves? This should not be that fucking hard. And yet, here we are. 

This is so tiring.

More deadweight cut from the roster.

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Swordfighter makes me smile. 

He likes to randomly text me that he’s thinking of me or is checking up on how I’m doing because my job is insane. Every message is a reminder of my desire to get back to him.

I have been reluctant at times to talk about him or bring him up to people. Happiness makes me nervous. Old doubts and fears creep up, worry that what is now glee could turn ghastly sooner than I think. But in those moments I remind myself past is not necessarily prologue. And I like this man. I really REALLY like this man.

Recently my work schedule for the rest of the year dropped. And my first thought, as soon as I saw the email subject was, “Finally, we can schedule.” I’ve held out on scheduling our next meetup because my time off was a mystery after the end of this month.

Right before Happy Hour this evening, I texted. 

Schedule just dropped! Can we setup a call to schedule visits?

That last “s” was more important than I realized.

Yeah! Let’s do Sunday? Unless you have a few minutes now lol

I have a sec now.

I called. 

We chatted a little. He’s applying for a mostly remote job (preferred for him). His cats were being cute in the background, as always. 

But then, it was down to brass tax. 

First, there was May, a TBD weekend depending on how his upcoming interview goes. 

Next, June and the weekend before the crush of my job set back in. I’m going to be a fourth year; I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Then July, and BlerdCon, where this all started. If he can swing it, he’ll share a room with me and another of my friends for the event. 

Next August, for my house warming (that is three years late). 

And September, as I already have a set Renn Faire day with a friend who ever only goes once a season, so he’ll be with me for that weekend too. 

And before we knew it, we’d planned out five dates (once a month through the summer into the fall) and I can’t help but be elated. I’m downright giddy, actually. I smiling so hard, my face hurt.

So much time with Swordfighter. I actually might get to see him fight with his swords during a visit. 

Yeah, I really like this boy.

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It felt wrong, how we were that evening. How he acted like we were together together. How he just pretended.

AAP had a free ticket to a concert randomly, and I was free enough that evening, so I invited him to stay the night after the show.

After work I had just enough time to run home and change before we shared an Uber to the show.

I looked good. Really good, actually. I wore my new jumpsuit and my healed boots. I sprayed on a smell good and wore some jewelry. It felt like the fun part of adulting. I guess it was, actually: the fun parts of being with him, not the real life shit he ignores and he says we won’t ever be.

We grabbed food right before; he paid. We had box seats. The performance (though almost exclusively in another language) was great. I had a really good time.

Afterwards, I bought a poster for my wall and we made our way home. While waiting for our Uber back, I took note of his less than subtle advances. The graze of my back. The caress of my ass. He wanted to fuck. But did I want to fuck him? I knew if I had to ask the question the answer was no.

And as we waited for our car, it dawned on me how angry the situation made me. He wanted the fun- the concert and the dinner and the fucking- without the real. He was perfectly fine playacting as my boyfriend while denying me the very real relationship I asked for.

You don’t just get the easy parts of me. 

We didn’t fuck that night. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever fuck him again. The situation has left a bad taste in my mouth that has not gone away.

Love and affection, concerts and cafe cuisine are easy. But you have to earn the easy by mucking through the hard parts. The emotions. The fights. The disagreements. The compromises. Telling the truth and figuring out how to deal with it. Shit, we couldn’t even get through the Uber ride without you shitting on my latest musical appreciation and gaslighting me about it. Why are you yucking my yum you prick? I don’t shit on the things you love but I loathe. (And there are a few for which I have bitten my tongue for years.)

Are we done? Truly, are we done? Or will time get me to forget how pissed and annoyed I am right now at how you treat me? How you take me for granted. How you assume and amuse yourself with little regard for how it impacts me.

I deserve better than you. But when will I get it?

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Lately, I’ve been doing the thing.

On my recent trip to New Orleans with friends, I was getting ready for brunch. Showered. Moisturized. Outfit was set. A little body glitter by the eyes and on the chest because I wasn’t in the mood for makeup. All that was left was my hair. I wasn’t sure what to do with it when my friend Tiff suggested a messy up bun. Not that you would know this, but I generally don’t do messy with my hair. It has to be slicked back, pulled back, braided, quaffed. I am the queen of frizz and I resist it every turn. She arranged my hair for me. But when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was frizz. I tried slicking it down with gel and a brush. I groaned and lamented to Tiff about it. “But Kristen, your frizz is your crown. Own it.” She wasn’t wrong. On anyone else, I would’ve thought they looked cute, stylish, accepting of themself, free. Why couldn’t that be me? I wore my hair, frizz and all (though I did add two bobby pins for the most unruly sections), and received compliments from my other friends on our way to our meal.

Later, while walking through the French Quarter, Tiff and I found two little shops – one displayed rocks and gems, bracelets and rings, lots of little things to touch and possibly purchase; the other, just down the street, was full of fun bits and bobbles, quirky t-shirts and socks, and a random beautiful array of expensive jewelry. Between the two shops, I purchased two new copper cuffs, two pairs of fun socks, another magnet to add to my overwhelming fridge collection and, at long last, I found a snack ring. I wore the cuff and ring right out of the store. The snake wrapped around my right ring finger, feeling as if it belonged there, was meant to be there. I used holiday money (a $100 bill from work and a $50 bill from family) to make the purchases.

One morning, to scratch off a bullet from our vacation checklist prior to our departure, I took a mile walk to a restaurant we all love in order to pick up a sandwich both Tiff and I adore. I knew I would be alone and that the Sun was out, but I was in New Orleans, this was my vacation, and why the fuck not wouldn’t I put that shit on. I wore a set of leggings that hugged my hips just right and showed off the shelf of my ass. For my top, I chose a tiny dress the flaunted my cleavage. To round off the look, I threw on a small camisole for my arms, carried my red parasol, and stomped the streets in my zip up boots. As I strutted towards Cuchon Butcher, one refrain remained in my head. “I’ve got this shit on.” And I liked it.

Today, just because, I wore a new dress I recently bought as I lounged around the apartment. Tiff and I went to Target a few days after we got back from New Orleans and I spent probably too much money on essentially a new wardrobe: four dresses, one jumpsuit (my first!), one skirt, one cute top, two tank tops, a set of comfy pajamas, and one long sleeve chill shirt. The dress I wore today is pale green, flowing, with a slit up my left thigh, and a scope neck that displays my cleavage beautifully. That same day with Tiff, I bought three new bras from Torrid as well, all of them pretty. Today’s bra is black with red, purple, and white flowers all over. In the afternoon, another girlfriend came over; we lounged on my couch and chatted about life and why are men. Later, we walked to a local taco spot for dinner. As the breeze flowed and the Sun shone and I smiled beside her, I thought, “Yes, this is what life should be.”

Life is reason enough for happiness. Reason enough to eat that food, drink that wine, wear those clothes, or take in that experience. We as a society have lived through some really fucked up shit in the past five plus years. I personally have gone through, and am still going through, emotionally traumatizing experiences in life and at work. So waiting until some moment is deemed special enough for joy is no longer a part of how I operate. Life is special enough. Being here is special enough. Drawing breath, being blessed with the ability to live, is reason enough for me to live my life in whatever way I see fit.

Life is reason enough for joy.

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