Seeing as I’m trying to write a bit before I’m inevitably compelled not to, I went ticking through possible topics and came back to the only thing worth talking about–because it encompasses most things worthy of discussion–sex. And just so you don’t think I didn’t really give it an effort, here’s a bit of how my process went:
- Family? Generally fine, and anything worth talking about is none of your business.
- Politics? The Black guy won. Some of the female folk are salty, saying it’s an example of how sexism supersedes race, but never neglect to mention that a Black guy won. Yes, they even let a nigga try to be president before a white lady. Considering who benefited most from Affirmative Action over the last forty years, I’m willing to make that trade. And frankly, Hillaryites, he won because he didn’t seem like “business as usual.” Your girl did. If it makes you feel better, I think Michelle Obama could’ve given you a run for your money.(See that was only about a paragraph).
- Gas prices? They’re high and I ride the bus.
- Economy? We’re not at the point of using the dollar as wallpaper. Yet.
- The environment? We are fucking up. And going green costs green.
-Religion? They’re might be a God. Or they’re might not.
-R. Kelly? WOW.
See? I’m forced to go with what I know. Now the question is, what am I going to say? After wrestling between two topics–I’m gonna keep the truly juicy one in the hopper for now–I decided to let a summer Saturday morning guide me. At this time of day, I feel relaxed and reflective. And it is with this mood that I type. This is something of an open letter to the women who have made my life interesting.
To Whom It Does Concern:
As I stroll down memory lane, there isn’t a question in my mind that I have some degree of G. Though I am human and am unfortunately subject to bouts of wackness, I tend to think that I am worth a young woman’s time and energy. I blame my dad. Loyal to my mother, a devoted husband and father, never mistake for a second his swag. The guy’s a Scorpio. I blame my mother, a woman of grace and passion who set the bar for thoroughness so high that I could always proceed into situations with the notion, “Girl, you ain’t badder than my mama.”
Shit, I even blame my brother, who stayed leanin’ with that nice guy swag. What can I say? It’s a family affair.
Still, despite my genetic dispositions, I must take the time to say thank you. Without you, Id be just another clown spouting off with sad hypotheticals and far-fetched innuendo. Because of you I never have to lie. Now I could easily spend the time worrying about the pathos and effects of such a life–and I have. But those are night time thoughts. Right now, the sun is out and I can spend a lot of time smirking at the follies of my youth. Did we really try to do it one hundred times in a month?
Let’s set possible beef aside for a second. On days like these, I cackle with delight at the thought of too-small sweatpants, senior film projects, broken futons, extra-long twins, sultan beds, no bed, trundle beds, guest beds–with your cousin in the next room. We even got it done before the cops could catch us.
Some people might think it’s crass that I would spend time to say, “Hey, I appreciate that we did the do,” but when I think about, I think most show a lack of respect because they don’t. The do ain’t no right. And while I appreciate a a go at the rodeo as much as the next man, I’d be lying if I said that any vagina would do. Whether you knew it or not, no matter the level of our seriousness, you very likely had sex with my frontal lobe before you did with my lower one. As Aristotle noted, “A man should steer clear of chickenheads.”
I appreciate that you allowed to learn and improve. If wish I could say you always got more than you expected. But we know that’s not true. Sometimes I wasn’t “ready”–things could happen so fast that my manly parts were on tape-delay–; sometimes I feel asleep and sometimes the fight was over before it started. And while I’m sure you might have cackled with a homegirl or two, you generally kept my name out the streets, as I attempted to keep yours. At times, I wonder why you didn’t let me get chewed up. I’ve come to the conclusion that it came down to respect, and that humbles me still.
Thanks for being there when I got it right.
But mostly I want to say thanks for letting me lay in your hair. Curly, wavy, straight, weaved, relaxed, braided, brushed, teased, tossed and occasionally sweated out. If you do the math, I’d say a staggering majority of our time spent in bed wasn’t spent tussling. It was spent talking, laughing, debating; wasting whole days naked for the sake of the skin. And you would bring me safety as I slept. Warm milk has nothing on you.
It’s always good to see you on the lane. Take care of yourself.