Beautiful Love... An Excerpt

This is an actual excerpt from my personal journal. Some of the stuff has been altered and/or changed altogether. What, exactly? Nunya damn business! Just g'head and read. Enjoy!

"…I'm so mad I deleted those text messages. I'm mad that I'm sitting here analyzing the past 6 years...There's stuff I remember. There's stuff I've forgotten. I dunno. I know that I'm in love with him. And yeah, it's off and on (due to the inconsistencies in our encounters). I mean, everyone knows you can fall in and out of love. But do you ever stop loving? It's been a week and change (almost 2) since I've seen him last. I miss him all the time -even more than before. I'm waiting for him to call me. I want him to call me. I need him to call me.  
 I'm still waiting for Kendall to call me, too. I want an explanation. I think what he did was childish, immature, and flat out fucking RUDE! So, yeah, I'm still waiting for a call from him. And yes, I expect a call from him. I'm asking you, God, for a phone call from Kendall... In the name of Jesus (He said, "Ask anything in my name"). I'm sorry for cursing, but I really feel strongly about this whole situation!! 
But back to Warren. As far as he's concerned, I can't make him love me, and I know you won't make him love me. And I'm not asking for you to do so -I already know he does. So, that's not it. I really just want happiness for me and for him -together or not. What 'm asking for, like I said, is the next time a beautiful love (be it him, "Jimbo", "Billy-Bob", WHOEVER he may be) finds me, I pray, hope, wish, want, NEED it to STAY! I pray that whoever finds that beautiful love with me works as hard as I do (if that's even necessary) to keep it. And honestly, my prayer is that it won't be a lot of work. Do I want it to be with Warren? Yes, absolutely. But, more than that, I want it -that beautiful love. That unconditional, indescribable, commensurate love.  
One could say if my family loves me, I've got unconditional love. But we all know it's not the same. I love my family. I love that my family loves me. But the love they have for me, and I, them, is not even in the same league as the love for which I long.

 "I dream of a love that even Time will lie down and be still for."

*sigh* That quote… My God! It touches me so. Am I a hopeless romantic? I'd like to think I’m a hopeFUL romantic -a true believer of Love! I dream of love. I live in love! I've had love and it's had me. And for a time -an incredibly short time- it was beautiful! All the things the books talk about. The stuff that the movies are made of… it exists!! I've seen it! I've lived it!  …And I want it back! It was jerked, violently from me! Stolen...  
But I kept my heart open… Hoping that it'd come back to me. Hoping that if I left my door open it'd find its way home. I accepted the fact that if it returned it may not be in its original form. I accepted that it may never be everything it once was, because my heart had been broken. And unless I got a new heart -which could never happen- love, for me would never be the same. But I was always there… waiting. Willing to give it another shot. And I tried. Several impostors showed up -all of whom broke my heart just a little more. I blame myself... not for letting love return to me or leaving the door open, but for not giving myself enough time to heal. I'm so starved for love, so desperate for it, that even when the love showed it was false, that it wasn't really for me, that it was not-so-beautiful, I held on because I was guaranteed that at least SOME of the time, it would feel like the real thing."

I was reading an article today about loving vs being in love, and it reminded me, specifically of the preceding entry from my journal. I flipped to it, and sure as hell, it was related. I wanted to share this because I feel that if I could relate to the article, if my exact  feelings had been floating out there in the world to be perfectly conveyed by some stranger, there have to be plenty more who feel the way I do -plenty more people who could read my thoughts and agree wholeheartedly that indeed, Love is a motherfucker.

I've always loved wholly, unconditionally. I always will. I mean Love is without condition. I've always hated when people say they'd no longer love a person if "XYZ". How do you put stipulations on Love??? If that's how you feel, you don't really LOVE. Anyway, I've always given my all, and though I never expected it, I wanted to be LOVED in return. I always wanted to feel how it felt to receive what i gave (or something like it). So, yeah, I was dating. I was "talking" to a guy or two. Eventually, I was loving and in love with a man -all in the hope of finding a beautiful love again. The man I was loving/in love with, our situation (no, he didn't have another woman, and don't ask what it was) made it very difficult for us to make that beautiful love. But I settled for what I could get, because all I wanted was to be loved. And in my heart of hearts, when we were together, he loved me, so I waited for him. Regarding the "impostors", I look back on it now as part of "the game". You win some, you lose some. That's what they say -whoever "they" are… Damn. I guess I've lost quite a few. Anyway, a passage from the article read:

Now, if love is painful, and tortures us so, why do we love? Why is it all we search for in life? This pain, this agony? Why is it all we long for? This torture, this powerful death of self? Why? The answer is so simple: cause it's...LOVE. It is such an incredible and addictive thing that even people who are not having it wish to experience it and share it with others as well.

That hit me right in my chest when I read it. I think it's SO true that deeply, we, as human beings want nothing more than love. And it's remarkable what we're willing to do and put ourselves through for it. 

"Love is a drug, like the strongest stuff ever!", right? 

Worship... ME

Quick thought: I wonder if only women know that I'm not talking "worship" in the sense of praying to an altar or building an idol or anything... Ah well! Onward!

I was having a conversation with a friend about her guy who happened to be falling QUITE below the bar in many areas of life and their relationship. She was expressing to me how she was beginning to grow tired of his antics, but didn’t want to leave; she didn’t want to give up on the relationship. In response, I reminded her of all the good things she’d told me about him and their relationship. I told her that it basically boiled down to this: despite all of his shortcomings, how shitty things were or how much she complained to me, none of it mattered. She wasn’t going anywhere, because in their relationship (from what she’d told me) when he wasn’t fucking up, he excelled in the ONE area that mattered most: he made her feel like a WOMAN –in every way that a woman should feel like one. Not only did he do all the gentleman-like things for which most women long, not only did he make her feel beautiful, not only did he pay attention to the little things, not only did he wipe her tears gently with the back of his finger and try to help her find solutions to her problems (instead of sitting there looking stuck like some dumb-ass guys do), he took his time with her. He learned her –ALL of her.  These words hit her hard. And she thanked me. And it made me think of the importance of feeling like a WOMAN. I thought of the importance of those feelings being caused by a man.

Before we go any further, I need to briefly explain something… There is a HUGE difference between being dicked down properly, and being made felt like a WOMAN. Now, because a big part of being made felt like a woman is physical, the two can be easily confused. You can meet a guy at a club, take him home, and he busts that ass royally! However, only a man for whom you’ve got feelings (real feelings –be they deep or shallow) can make you feel like a woman.

So I must pose a question: have you any idea what it feels like to be worshiped as a woman?

I strongly believe that each and every woman on this planet should know what it feels like, should have the opportunity, to be made feel like a woman. I would say that it defies description, but I’m going to try my damnedest to create some kind of explanation apart from the phrase, itself. Here goes…

He takes the time to listen to not just the words, but the way you say them… Every sentence that comes out of your mouth means something profound. But he knows the line between protective and smothering, sweet and trite, romantic and melodramatic… and he never crosses it. Every time he looks at you, he looks in to you. You can feel his eyes taking you in. It makes you warm inside. You want to be looked at… by only him. Because no one else (presumably) can make you feel the same way from a look. The craving for that feeling is incessant… just from a look.

 He touches you… with purpose, intent. The soles of your feet to the crown of your head -each piece of you, everything underneath, above, and in between- is treated like the most special thing in the world. No currency, precious metal, nor stone, in his eyes, hold any weight in comparison to you. You can feel all these things coming from him… and you welcome them with anticipation.

He’s never exhausted with compliments for you, because he’s not giving them with expectations of a return of any kind. His only goal is to make you happy. And because he worships you in the way you’re supposed to be, because to him, you are “Queen of Ten-thousand Moons”, he’s taken the time to know you and any and all things, and every and all ways to make you happy. Because he makes you feel like the consummate woman, it's only inherent that you make him feel like a man. And because you do this, he worships you even more.

A physical encounter with a man who worships you is unlike that of any you’ve ever experienced, because it’s so much more than a physical encounter –which is part of the reason why only a man for whom you’ve got feelings can worship you properly. Imagine -if you will- his firm grip on the small of your back -the pulse from his fingertips massaging your skin. You close your eyes and exhale. He makes your breathing hollow. You lick your lips and watch his eyes trace your frame, taking in every inch of you as though it were his first time seeing something so incredible. His eyes exude appreciation and admiration. You're not just a woman to him. He kisses you... and everything he has for you, everything he feels for you is passed through his lips...

I didn't think this would be this difficult to explain... I've been worshiped... and know EXACTLY how it feels. I don't want to make it seem as though it's only a physical thing, because it's really not. It’s comprehensive. My personal beliefs make your husband or wife the MOST important person in your world. When a man worships you, you feel that important. Your every wish, desire, your every dream is a new mission for him to fulfill. If it's as simple as, "I'm thirsty," or as grandiose as, "I’m going to be the Queen of the World!", he'll grab that glass of water for you, or crawl on his knees and be a servant in your kingdom -although you'd want this man as your King.

Lemme exhale one time for y’all. Chiiiile!

Controlling Your Loins: That Shit Is Hard (no pun intended)

You meet an individual who sparks your interest… something about their personality is cool. You like how they carry themselves… but mostly they spark the interest of your loins. I mean, you REALLY want to take this person DOWN! Every time you see this person, some intense Hollywood sex scene plays in your head. You know- the kind where they’re kissing so feverishly that they’re bumping into and knocking over everything in sight as they’re trying to undress each other. The kind where he pushes her up against a wall and she wraps her legs around him, and he grips her up…Y- you know what the hell I’m talking about! We’ve all been there, I’m sure.

If you’re a woman, you fantasize about all the freak-ass things you’ll let him do to you. If you’re a man, you can see ALL the freak-ass things you wanna have her doing. To top it off, you KNOW the feeling is mutual. You KNOW the person wants you as badly as you want them. You’re both consenting adults. So what’s the problem???

Well, for starters, their connection to you is somewhat of a delicate nature. Either he’s friends with your ex, or she’s your homeboy’s lady (yeah, you know how y’all niggas are). And to make matters WORSE, they’re taken! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!! Wait! NO! Don’t fuck, fuck, fuck! SMH. Got-damn forbidden fruit! What do you do?

You know that because you CAN’T have it, it is SOOOOOOOOOO good! And if it ever did go down, it would be so intense. *licks lips* Somehow, some way, you find yourselves around each other enough for it to be a problem -remember, you’re connected some way. When you see each other every innocent thing said between the two of you is some kind of secret flirtation that only the two of you know exists. Every hug, there’s an extra feel stolen. Every move you make is a little sexier –or whatever the fuck it is guys do to get a girl’s attention- cuz you know they’re watching.

The more you see each other, the stronger the attraction gets. You continue your publicly secret flirting, and your stolen feels.  Until one day… you two find yourselves in the same place, at the same time, and somehow… alone.

Small Penises: What Do You Know, Sir?

Dear bearer of the small penis… No, you, nigga! Don’t click out of the page. I’m talking to yo’ ass!

Have you any idea the package you bear?  My assumption is no. I mean, how could you know? It’s not like men sit around and compare dick size… Or do they? I don’t think it’s like women, how we walk around naked in front of each other with no problem, or compliment each other’s features: Girl, your ass is so fat. I wish I had a booty like that. Or Girl, you’ve got the most perfect titties I’ve ever seen. Can I touch ‘em?

Could you imagine? Men’s locker room at the gym, guy comes out of the shower and another guy sees his package: Yo, homie, ya joint lookin’ mad nice yo. How many inches are you?

 Bwahahahaha!!! The thought alone is comical! So, yeah, I’m convinced, men can’t possibly know they’ve got small penises, cuz they don’t really have anything to compare it to. I mean, he can’t compare it to porn, cuz everything looks bigger on TV. And porn guys use pumps and pills and all kinds of shit to make their dicks look presentable. And if a woman is feeling you, she’s not gonna tell you your joint is small –which is why waiting to sleep with a guy is ALWAYS a risky thing. You get to know him, get your feelings in it, then *BAM* he whips it out and it looks like a big toe or something! Naaaaaah! 90 days, my ass!!

Sidenote: If you have a small package, you do NOT have a dick, sir. You, my dear, have a penis. And if she does think it’s small, she’s still gonna fuck you. If you men didn’t know, let me inform you… Once a woman decides she wants to take you down, she’s going to take you down! If you’re in her plans, it’s going down –unless you’ve got a dirty dick. WHY??? Because we DO know that sometimes, size DOESN’T matter, and that “motion in the ocean” bullshit isn’t always bullshit.

So yeah, she’ll give you a chance to change her opinion of you from “JUST nigga with a little penis” to “A nigga with a little penis WHO CAN…” And trust me, if you’re a nigga with a little penis, you never wanna be JUST a nigga with a little penis. You better make it your life’s duty to bust that twat ALL the way down! We know you can’t reach the bottom, nigga, but you can tear those walls UP!!! You bend her ass up in some kinda position where EVERYTHING is out of your way. No thighs, no ass, no legs, no lips, just vag –ALL vag! And you dig that shit OUT!

And you can do it, little homie. I’ma tell you why… (My ladies may hate me for this next revelation, but I have to tell it. I’m trying to do a public service here, people!) You know how when we’re fucking you, we can throw our legs all the way back behind our heads, and do all kinds of crazy splits on the dick, and have the deepest arch when you’re giving those backshots that you’ve EVER seen??? It ain’t cuz we’re talented (even though that’s a partial factor). It’s because there’s not a huge DICK up in the way stabbing us in the gut! The only reason a woman can do all that crazy shit with a man with a real dick is because 1) She’s got all this adrenaline from showing off to impress his ass –yeah, women’s egos are WAY bigger than men’s- so it actually doesn’t hurt at that moment.  2) She’s a real fucking trooper and she’s taking that pain, cuz she’on wanna look like a punk bitch! Or 3) [And this is NOT the ideal situation] Homegirl’s snatch has died. It’s snatch-less, doesn’t have any fucking walls. Her shit is run down, and beat all the way up. And neither she nor he feels ANYTHING.

                  **Moment of silence for bitches with dead poon**

Aaaand we're back! So how, you may ask, do you deduce whether or not you’ve got a small penis??? I’m gonna tell you that, too. There are multitudes of ways to do it without pulling out instruments of measurement. I know those things are embarrassing for you. Don’t worry boo; I’m on your side :-) So here we go... You know how you’re getting it in and she’s super wet… and you keep falling out of the vag? And you're thinking one of two things: either she's got loose poon or she's just a super soaker. Well, I'm here to inform you that neither of those are the case. If YOU keep falling out, it's you. Yes, you’ve got a small penis. It’s not her. Have you ever tried to throw a hot dog down a hallway???
Another way you can tell if you’re not quite there in the size department is on your very first insertion. If you slide up in her and she doesn’t moan, wince, inhale, exhale heavily –no type of sound that signifies pleasure or pain… You get the point.
Another way (and this is the last one I’m giving you) to tell if you’ve got a penis vs a dick is when she goes down on you… If she wraps her hand around your situation and more than 50% of it is covered… yeah. You, sir, have what we call, a penis.

SO¸ now that we’ve figured out that you’ve got a penis, what do you do about it? Well, sir, I can’t really answer that for you. If you’re truly ready to accept what you were cursed with, my best advice to you is this: Find you a woman with little to no ass. I know these days that’s extremely hard to find with all the purchasable options out there, but they DO still exist. Or you find a woman with one of those tiny vaginas. They’re plentiful in the Asian and Eastern European regions (so I’ve heard). They don’t even have lips –just a slit, a clit, and a hole. Again, this is only what I’ve heard.

“Follow these words, you’ll have mad bread to break up. If not 24 years on the wake up. Slug hit your temple, watch yo’ frame shake up. Caretaker did your makeup.”

Ok, ok! You won’t make mad money, and you won’t die (as long as you wrap it up and don’t slip up on no Ooh-Wee *the bad variety*). But you should be better off in the sack. Ladies, help ‘em out. Move that ass out the way. Let him get his little self all the way up in there. “Spread Love. It’s the Brooklyn way!”

Sexting... For the Awkward: How the Hell Do You Do It???

Did you know that “Sexting” is a real word now? Go ahead. Type it into Microsoft Word. See a red line under it? Didn’t think so!
I really think this whole sexting thing has to be some kind of “art” or just a brainless function. I mean, besides sending raunchy flix, how the hell do you sext? (I can’t believe I just typed the word “sext” on my computer and there’s no FUCKING RED UNDERLINE!!! This is crazy to me! Anywho…) I mean, I dunno if you noticed from my last post, I can find a million and one euphemisms for the word “vagina”, but that all too famous “P” word just ain’t one of ‘em. (Wait a minute! “Ain’t” gets a RED underline, but “Sext” doesn’t??? This can’t be life! Woosah.) Don’t get me wrong, I can use ithe "p" word, but to me, there’s a time and place for it. When it’s time to get down with the get-down and we’re in the throes of passion and he says, “Tell me it’s my p____, baby!” I'm right there with him, “It’s your p____, daddy! It’s yours!!!” No hesitation. I got it. But um, textually… that’s kinda not it for me. I get all cognizant of the words and I’m embarrassed and grossed out. Maybe that’s just something I’m gonna have to get over if I plan on flourishing in my career as an erotic novelist, huh? But what about the context of the text? That’s a little hard for me to compose as well. I mean, how am I supposed to carry this conversation with no real provocation? I’m not horny. It’s 1:27 in the afternoon. I’m eating Cap’n Crunch in my sweats in this bright-ass living room. And I get a text like this:

Him: Hey sexy. What u doin’?

Me:   Nothing. Chillin’. Wassup with you?

Him: Ain’t shit. I just thought about you and my dick got rock hard.

TIME OUT! Nigga WHAT? Aren’t you at WORK? So you mean to tell me you’re walking around the office with a hard-on? Naaaaah!
But you can’t text that back to him. Why not? Because he’s a man. And men can’t take rejection. And he got up the courage to tell YOU at One Twenty-Seven in the afternoon that thoughts of your sexy ass have stimulated his situation, and now his situation is situated. Now, what ‘chu gon’ do???

Now, if you’re a textual genius and you know how to handle this, good for you! But for the textually awkward/challenged such as myself, the first thing I realize is that this is the beginning of a sext. This man just sexted me!  So, he notices the delay in my response, and I get another text like this:

Him: Send me a pic, baby.

Now, I’m not the kinda girl who takes random sexy flix of herself. You’re not gonna catch me butt-ass naked in front of the mirror, bussin’ it open, contorting myself to get the right angle with this damn camera phone that I need two hands to use, but in order to get this shot right, I have to have my good hand holding my damn thigh out of the way, so I have to arc my wrist and do the “retard” hand so my thumb can be on the button to take the fucking pic that I have to take 32 got-damn times because it keeps coming out blurry cuz I’m shaking trying to keep myself steady for this one damn pose…
Naaaaaaaah nigga! Not me!  So, now, he wants a damn picture that I DON’T have. So I have to play cute and text him:

Me: Hang on baby. I’ma take a new one for you.

And you can’t say “JUST for you”, cuz who the fuck else have you been taking sexy pix for? So, now you take off your sweats, and run to find some cute panties, hop your ass in front of that mirror, buss it open, arch your back, do the retard wrist, and take 5 blurry-ass pics of you trying to be sexy at 1:32 in the afternoon. Now to find the least blurry shot to send to this man who’s been waiting for… 3 minutes? And you know that THREE minutes in text time is like three hours. So in sext time, it must be DAYS! 

So, I finally get the picture to him, and although I don't think it's up to par, he's a man, he doesn't care. All he wants to see is some skin. And the sexting continues:

Him: Shit girl! 

Me: :-P

Him: That ass lookin' good. Tell me what you want me to do to it. 

Um... what? I don't know. What the hell do you say to that? I already told y'all how I am about that "p" word. Am I supposed to be like, "I want you to fuck the shit outta my VAGINA"... Or, "I want you to eat this poon real good, baby."
Um... No. But I've gotta maintain the (non-existent) "sexy". So I hit him with:

Me: You tell me what you wanna do to it.

I think that's the right response. I'm just hoping he doesn't ask me another question. And thankfully he doesn't. He just talks of spit-filled head, and sticking his dick in every possible orifice of mine, and I'm just looking at my phone like, What is wrong with him??? It's not like we did something last night or even last WEEK. Not like I have any recent memories to go off. Nothing to pull from. No inspiration. Just this RANDOM ass conversation in the middle of the afternoon. No dim lights, no Trey Songz in the background. Just Guy Fieri talking about some "Winner, winner! Chicken dinner!"

Maybe if he chose a better time... Nah, cuz my awkward ass would still be uncomfortable. If that sext isn't an invitation for an invitation, I'm not tryna hear it. 'Cause if you actually DO turn me on and I've got to wait an extended period of time get some, I'm gonna be pissed. Aside from, pix, I can't really do the sexting thing. Besides, we don't need all this conversation. "I'on luuuuh deez hoes!"

The Spit Factor: She Says...

Did you know, devourer of this vag, that you aren’t as good as you think? But I, as the woman whose poon that you’re so diligently snacking on, am not going to inform you of that because I don’t wanna “fuck up the moment” *blank stare*

While you’re slurping and smacking away and I’m waiting for you to be done (because I’ve already faked an orgasm, but you don’t wanna stop) a million and one things are running through my head. At the forefront of the thoughts of what I’m gonna cook for dinner tomorrow, how much longer this is gonna last, where my panties are, etc. there’s one pressing issue that’s driving me CRAZY (in a bad way) at this very moment…
*thinking* WHY is there So. Much. SPIT?!?!  There’s spit in my ass crack! Why is there spit in my ass crack! Oh, shit he’s propping me up. I know he wants to get a full frontal, but it’s gonna travel. The spit is gonna… Aw man! It’s running up my BACK! Oh God! It’s forming a pool under my neck! Is he DROOLING on my shit! What the fuck is he doing?!!!

Meanwhile, I’m squirming; not from pleasure, but from being purely grossed out! Were you unaware that my moving AWAY from you is NOT a good thing? I’m not running, homeboy! I’m drying off my back! Who told you that it was ok to drench my lady parts in your saliva? Did you know that I produce MY OWN moisture? Yeah. I do. I shouldn’t be so wet that I can provide propulsion! It’s NOT a slip and slide! You don’t use that much spit to kiss the lips on my face! Think about it, sir.

Unless I tell you to, do NOT spit on my twat! It is NOT ok to unwarrantedly reach back into the recesses of your throat and hock a lougie on my area! 1. I do not look favorably upon being spat on! And 2. You usually miss and hit the crack of my thigh or my damn pelvis! My pelvis??? C’mon, dude! It’s RIGHT in front of you! I know YOU like that nasty shit, but I, my dear, am not a man. Again, I provide MY OWN moisture.

I’ll tell you what... Let’s prop YOU up, lift your balls, drool up YOUR butt crack, and see how you like it. No? Didn’t think so.