Singing the Blues

If I could sing, I'd definitely be singing some Billie Holliday; Solitude is nice. It's one of my favorites. I guess I'm kinda singing the White Boy blues now. It's not really about him. I haven't known him long enough for it to be all about him. But the dealings we've had this week have caused all sorts of thoughts and emotions to come to a boil and spill out all over the place, turning me into a scalding, hot mess.

So what happened you ask? Simple. I was being me. A straightforward and convoluted answer. It started to unravel two days ago, when I was still riding high from his touch. I'd started to worry after my last entry if he'd call again cause I let thoughts of my substantial size get inside my head and fuck me up with the usual game of not being pretty enough. So as I'm laying in my bed at noon thirty, I get a text. It's from him! He tells me he's been thinking about me! Yay!!! But best of all, and be still my beating heart, he says he loves my curves! Get the fuck outta town. No man has EVER said that me. None. Even if it was true, it never quite made its way out their mouths, so I was always left to wonder if they truly liked my body the way it was, or if they just knew I was an easy lay. The fat girl usually is.

But not him. He really liked my body. His actual word was "yummy". I think it's his thing cause he says it alot. So we text back and forth for 4 hrs., getting increasingly sexual. A taste I acquired from my brother's roommate (the laid back guy I mentioned in a previous entry, he was playing Guitar Hero when we met). We were sexting and sexing for awhile. Damn. That's a nice lil blast from the past. I wonder how he doin. Wit his fine ass.

So eventually, he (White Boy) says he'd like to do something to me, and I responded:

Damn...mama likes.

So he says:

What else does mama like?

And I say:

...mama likes it rough.

To which he replies:

Yes ma'am mama.

And from there it went downhill with a quickness, and all because I sent him another text telling him that I only like that with a man I'm comfortable with. I'm not gonna break it out on a random Tuesday for just anybody. Now I said this cause I didn't want him thinking the next time we were together (if we were together) that it'd be candle wax on the nipples or Jenna Jamison, Heather Hunter type shit. I thought it was playful and ok cause I do this all the time; give disclaimers. But his feathers got a little ruffled by it. He proceeded to tell me that I killed the mood, that he knew that would only happen when I was comfortable, that I didn't need to say it. And I could tell right away, even via text, that he was upset or at least annoyed. And that made me feel horrible right away. No woman wants to be told she's a mood killer. That's like saying you're dick kryptonite. We cleared things up a bit, but I still felt kinda awkward. He told me that he wanted to get his mind off work and on me, but that I was too guarded and I should let it down a bit and relax. I text Sharelle immediately and she was like, "yeah you are guarded".

So him aside, that's the thing that stuck with me. He's certainly not the first guy to tell me that. MK used to say that to me on a daily basis as a greeting. He told me once, years ago, before I even knew how I felt about him, that he'd thought about what it'd be like if we dated. And I said, "be weird huh?", and he was like, "Yeah." But I think the journey his brain went on was how hard he'd have to fight to get me to let him in.

So this guarded thing has me all fucked up. I don't know how not to be. Thinking back over my illustrious dating career, of which I've never had a single boyfriend, I see it's been that way ever since I had my first crush. In fact, I think that's where it started.

I was seven and had a crush on one of my brother's friends (I guess that's a trend too. It's good to have an older brother when he's got fine ass friends). I'll use his real name cause sadly, he passed away several years ago...just eighteen, six months after he and my brother graduated. His name was Eric Allen, and he was tall and cute, with curly black hair. Smooth caramel skin and wide, gorgeous eyes. By the time we got to high school, he was super duper sexy! And he was the boy who gave me my first kiss. We were standing behind a tree on this baseball field at a play ground near our house. My brother and other friends were playing on the field and the other boys were goading me and Eric to make out. My brother, all of nine, laughed it off but was clearly not cool with that. Next thing I know, Eric and I are behind the tree, and he leans in and plants the softest kiss I'd ever had on me, with the smoothest, tastiest lips. I felt like a grown up. After all, that's how they do it on the soaps Grandma watches. There was even a little bit of tongue. It sounds disturbingly inappropriate now, but it was very sweet then. He wasn't aggressive with it. Just a little touch, enough to let me know I wasn't in Kansas in anymore.

A few days later we were walking through the church ground together, and I remember really, really liking him. And thinking, maybe he'll be my boyfriend. So I asked him, in the forward way a child who's never been disappointed or scarred does, if he liked me. He said yeah. So I asked if he thought I was pretty. And he said, "you're average." I didn't know what that word meant, and I'd never heard the men on the soaps say that to the women, but it must be good. He kissed me, didn't he? That's what people do when they love each other. Average must mean, I love you. I ran home, up the stairs to our apartment and flung open Mommy's bedroom door and jumped on her bed. She knew everything so she'd know what average meant. So I asked her, "Mom, what's average mean?" And she said, "It means not good or bad. Nothing special." My shoulders slumped and I felt my body cave and sink into her mattress like I was a part of the linens. Nothing special. Nothing. Special. That's what I was to him.

Clearly it wasn't a conscious choice. At seven years old I didn't say I'm gonna harden my heart and put up these walls and fuck the next guy who comes along. But at thirty four, the image and the feelings are still with me, so it obviously had an impact.

I was at the hair salon earlier thinking about writing this entry. Thinking about what I would say. Thinking that I always assumed when I got into a serious loving relationship with a man, when I knew I was his and he was mine, that my walls would fall away and that I'd know how to be with him. But I've realized that's not true. Yes some of that stuff is innate and takes hold when you love or care about someone. But the idea of being with a man, belonging in the way I so desperately want to, scares the shit outta me. Being vulnerable in that way. Being that open. White Boy messed me up by saying I should let my guard down. I don't know how to do that halfway. Either the walls are all up or they're all down. And when they're down I'm a complete fucking mess. Yes I keep men at arm's length because they hurt me. Every single one in my life. And when you talk about the ones I've been naked with, that number jumps up to over 100%. But I do it also to protect me from me. When I'm exposed, I'm calling or texting more than I should, I troll through their Facebook pages looking for info. I reread texts and emails he sent. I'm devastated when he doesn't call. Why does it take you two whole minutes to respond to my text! When the walls are up, I could give a fuck what you do. Don't call me, cool. Don't text me, fine. Fuck you. I got Spartacus.

Mommy used to tell me there are no shades of grey with me. Only black and white. And that's true. I'm either guarded or I'm clingy. There's no in between. If I don't keep my soft, gooey center protected, it's like I'm offering myself up for the slaughter. It's like I'm weak. I don't know how to tell White Boy how I feel. How I like the way he touches me. I like the way he kisses me. I like the way he makes me laugh, the way he smells. The way he talks. I like his carefree I-don't-give-a-damn-I'm-gonna-do-what-I-wanna-do attitude that comes purely from being white in America (maybe I won't tell him that). I like that he doesn't take any of my shit and won't let me get away with anything. Reminds me a little of MK in that way. I just wanna get to know him and see if maybe. Just maybe...

And then Jersey says to me, bitch he's just trying to bone. So see? That's what I do. I'm either guarded or I'm a sap. Men don't like either. So what do I do? Push away every viable prospect cause I'm too scared to let him in? Or do I settle for a nice enough guy who couldn't strike a fire in my loins with kerosene and matches, but since he's the only one left, might as well. What the fuck kinda choice is that?

Till next time, lovers!