“So what, you’re a lesbian now?” I was running errands on a Tuesday afternoon and knocking out phone calls all the same. This particular call being with my favorite go-go agent. We were having a periodic checkin. T’s girl on girl blurb came in the midst of him attempting to explain the rationale behind going to two different New York Deli’s just to assemble one egg and cheese croissant. Crazy shyt.
“Why don’t you cook?” I asked.
“I don’t have time,” he said mumbling words to someone in the background. I only new it had something to do with the late breakfast he was trying to order.
“Where’s your girl?”
“At work,” he laughed with ‘where in the hell did you think she’d be’ undertones.
I left that one alone…changed the subject.
“Oh my gosh I ate way too much over the weekend and can’t even think about food.” I went on to explain how I’d chosen to skip penis handouts, dress up super cute and frolic around the city stuffing my face with the Gucci crew. That would be Kimora, Nik, Elaina this go round. Twist for early dinner Saturday, Brunch at Brio Sunday, dinner at Cheesecake Sunday night. Are you serious? Sometimes I just go overboard and my tummy is still laughing at my ambitious goal to bask on one sunny patio after another like I’m Cleopatra or somethin.
How T and I got from egg & cheese breakfasts to lesbians is beyond my call but nothing is impossible when verbally engaged with either of us two. Did I set out and subsequently achieve my ultimate quest to get me shum last weekend? Heckz NO. As of yesterday I hadn’t gotten nada. Not because it wasn’t there – and if I really wanted to keep it real, I would say not even because I arranged for the boom boom jump off twice and….bailed both times. I’m not really sure exactly why I chickened out despite my body calling like the sweetest R Kelly jam, but I know one thing: I’ve surely surprised myself!
T’s rationale for me turning down a little pole action last weekend despite my virginal walls impersonating Home Depot’s lowest grade sand paper was that I was a lesbian. Man, what? How could a woman like Black Girl go soooo long without getting it to win it and not be gay? Are we talking about penises or umbilical chords here? I can exist without the sex. Or can I?
It’s only when you stop doing something for a certain period of time that you gain clarity and see the depth in which you’ve been engulfed by that habit. Sex addict? Nah, I think I had other, deeper reasons and motivators that have seemingly cured themselves with age, wisdom and time so…why mention them now. But now that I’ve given it thought I think it’s the allure that keeps me tied to my own sexual desire. The allure of many things. The chase and challenge. The allure of the scent on his shirt when he walks past me for the first time. The allure of enjoying something new…something different. The allure of wondering the next move or even calculating outcomes. This thing, allure, seems to be the criminal that keeps me going back even though I’d like to go in a direction that’s the better way. Hence my back and forth and psycoschizoidism in whether or not to get me meez or leave it be.
I unno. I just can’t see myself being ‘sex’ less until I come across the fairy tale relationship that we’re all taught to dream for. Of course I’d like to save it for the best man but am I being realistic or too hard on myself? Playing make believe with my choice of the season will most certainly have to do and I’m probably going to have to let myself just be… Me.
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