Remembering You

Listening to the rain fall over Brooklyn. Day fading to night. The coolness of the day fills the room from the open kitchen window.

Monica’s voice on the CD player keeping the apartment from silence.

The scent of Heulwen’s Embrace slowly creeps out of the room and down the hall as I fill the black four ounce bottles.

Remembering the way you touched my cheek with your’s as we danced in the rain to Najee’s Now That I Found You. Feeling you inhale my scent behind my ear. Smiling to myself from the inside. You had a way of telling me how much you needed to feel close to me without touching me inside. Such a tender touch; always leaving me to feel sexy, without a word, without a glance. There in the dark Kuutamo’s Touch.

A man child’s view

Michael and Michelle are two-year olds; playing in the yard.

Mommy calls them to her.  Michael and Michelle run; both fall.

Michael begins to cry.

Michelle begins to cry.

Mommy runs to Michelle grabbing her up in her arms; holding her close to her breast wiping her tears and calming her.  Mommy looks at Michael and say’s “Boys do not cry.”  “Man up.”  “You are not hurt.” 

Michael’s chest and head jerk when he inhales and wipes his tears.  Michael takes his place next to Mommy; walking toward the house.

Michael is then sent into the world to love a woman and create a family.

End of a relationship

I would rather die

So I die

Die to Live

Appeared that I love You more than I love myself; just a fraction.

Tolerance

Patience

Faith—Then I saw Satan’s son.

Take your rightful place in the Universe.

Exhaling long/hard.

Heart pounds though my chest.

Breathe.

Cum Catcher

I did not know it was going to hurt the first time nor the second or third time for that matter. I did not know I was supposed to feel good when it was over either. No one prepared me for either, the beginning, what should occur in the middle and definitely not the end.

What I learned about it, any of it, was from books and first hand experience.

My first hand experience over time showed me it wasn’t about me. In all other aspects of my existence I was being shown (programmed) to accept that “It wasn’t about me.” No matter how expert my techniques—you came to this with your learning and programming too.

A European brotha saw an African brotha’s penis and the envy started, because it was bigger. i.e. bigger house, car, diamond, bank account, friends list, followers, et cetera and so on. In the process of man being his human self; not considering the woman he went about teaching the rest of the world things about sex and women that do not apply to all of us.

Boys taught to believe that a big dick was needed to satisfy a girl. Grab those big breasts and give them a hard squeeze. Boys were also taught that the clitoris is her “spot”. Touch it and she gets wet immediately. Stick your finger inside, stick more fingers inside her—she likes that. He was taught that she loved hard thrust into her vagina. Get as far up in there as possible, yes. Add the girls that told him he has good sex and you have the Ego.

Is the head of your dick not the most sensitive part entering the vagina? There is a reason for that.

While a boy is squeezing my breast hard and digging for gold in my vagina trying to reach my Uterus he is bypassing my G-spot. The G is for Grafenberg. It is a small thing easy to miss really because it is only a couple of inches inside me. It is the spot that makes the orgasm flow through my entire body like a warm wave of water. Slowly from the top of my scalp down around my forehead, eyes, temples, sinuses, ears, cheeks, neck, shoulders, arms, wrist, palms, fingers, down my chest and back to my stomach and hips through the center of my being, down my thighs, my knees and calves, through my ankles around my heels, circling the tops of my feet slowly moving though all of my toes at the same time removing all stress, leaving me refreshed.

It is the orgasm I never get to experience because the boy has been programmed to believe some shit that ain’t true.

My Girl said to me, “first he takes care of me, then…” I have found often the “takes care of me part is rushed so that orgasm isn’t all that it could be, on my end I’m forcing because I feel him rushing. I feel him rushing to get me off so he can shove his dick in and out any way he wants to for as long or as short as he wants doing his business. Most often though the boy does not bother with “taking care of me first” leaving me with the mental fuck of remaining active and seemingly attentive, somewhat vocal the entire time waiting, wanting, privately begging for this violation of my body and my spirit to end.

I cannot talk to the boy about the sex he’s got us missing out on because of the “big dick, let me shove it in her vagina and make sure it reaches her stomach or put my finger in her and move it around or try to insert my hand—her clitoris is her Spot myths. Add the ego and leave me to continue to experience the boy rolling over and falling asleep while I suppress the feelings of arousal and cum catcher.

Laying there in the dark, able to hear his loud breathing, I think about all the little girls in other parts of the world experiencing the horror of having their clitoris vulva cut out in some sick ritual because someone somewhere along the way told the boys it was the spot; not possessing it would keep them from cheating because they lack desire. The lack of desire comes from the mutilation itself. The real “Spot” is a couple inches inside her in a hollow.

I lay there and realize that boys should realize porn is the movies and like many movies, a lot of things are hype. A boy being taught that licking the vulva is the only way a girl can cum and then only having intercourse with her night after night after night. I wonder how many beds in America this happens in as I tell myself I will try to talk to him about this matter tomorrow…

Everyday People in Columbus

Leaving downtown headed west on I70 is a dead-end street on the right side. There is thicket on the right side of the highway that provides privacy to the residents that live on that dead-end street. During the summer months this site is not so bad. Once summer ends and the weather starts to change and all the green things die, the residents of this dead-end street are exposed to the passers-by on the highway.

The residents of the dead-end street are Everyday People living in Columbus. The difference in these residents and many other residents that live near the I70 W highway is they live in houses, apartments, and condominiums. The residents of the dead-end street live in tents and boxes. They use many other discarded items like tarp and plastic too. Tarps are like gold to the residents of the dead-end street.

Upon closer inspection of the dead-end street it is clear the residents have been here for a long time. The residents have gathered concrete blocks and built an out-door stove and heating element. White discarded 5 gallon buckets used for many things—storage of personal belongings, used as an out-door toilet and washing clothes when possible.

The residents of the dead-end street are Everyday People. The residents are trying to find jobs just as well as the rest of the Everyday People. There are two major differences between the Everyday People of the dead-end street the rest of the Everyday People in Columbus. The residents of the dead-end street lost their battle to being one pay check away from the street. The other Everyday People those that live in the houses, apartments, and condominiums; they are still battling to stay ahead of the one paycheck away from the street.

The children

I unlocked the side door and headed up the four stairs to the kitchen with the groceries. My charming 12-year-old son and my loving 5-year-old daughter came from various rooms of the house–both standing there watching me.

My 12-year-old, “Do you want some help?” As I placed the white plastic bags on the table I froze. With all the love I could pull from my soul I looked at my son and said, “First I have to go earn the money to buy the groceries.” “Then I have to go shop for the groceries.” “I bring them home to you.” “Odds are when I walk in the kitchen neither of you has bothered to clean it.” “Meaning I will have to stop everything to clean the kitchen before the groceries get put away.” “Then you two wonderful people are expecting me to cook too.”

We stood there in silence for a moment. Both children headed to the stairs without another word. I never carried groceries in again nor did I have to bother with putting them away. The clean kitchen thing. I can’t have everything!

Crying Like A Little Bitch

Crying Like A Little Bitch. 
Words spoken but misunderstood.

Crying Like A Little Bitch.
Words spoken to reference the weakness of a woman.

Crying Like A Little Bitch.
A tear falls from the well of my eye. 

Crying Like A Little Bitch.
A deep breath is taken; composure established.

Crying Like A Little Bitch.
The Origin shields you from my rage.

Crying Like A Little Bitch.
Yes, Yes I am.  Crying like a little bitch.

The Holidays

I was taught about St. Valentine, The Easter Bunny, The Freedom that Independence Day  represents, The reason for our Thanksgiving celebration, and Christmas.

I had the pleasure of picking the perfect gifts, decorating, eating all that great food, seeing loving relatives, and receiving some cool and not so cool gifts.  At 8 years old I was having a ball.  One day after school, I went to my room to change from my school uniform into my play clothes–I was caught coming out of the attic.  Mommy couldn’t tell if she caught me on my way up the stairs or on my way down, so neither of us said a word.

I was stunned, deceived by the people that beat my ass for lying.  They were lying to me.  What a double standard! 

I grew up, sort of, and had a family of my own.  I did not lie to them about  St. Valentine,  The Easter Bunny, The Freedom that Independence Day represents or the reason for Thanksgiving or Christmas.  I told them the truth while everyone around me lied with their stories of a Santa and being grateful for the murder of 98% of a nation of people.

Why are you giving someone else credit for all the hard work you do, trying to provide for your household and keep the lie going?

Why tell children about St. Valentine when most of us do not love ourselves enough to begin to love the next person? 

Celebrate Independence Day, when we become free let me know.  The last time I checked the deception was on all of us, England has always been in control of America and it always will be.  You not believing the truth does not change it.

Thanksgiving.  98% of the Natural Americans wiped from the face of the Earth and you want me to celebrate.

December 26th starts my holiday season.  Enjoy everyone.  Enjoy.

By who’s authority?

I work in Real Estate. I live on the west side of Columbus Ohio. I was in Akron with my family. We were catching up on each others lives; of course you talk about your job.

I price bank owned properties. I shared with them what I observed regarding the housing industry.

A couple of weeks later, I called my family in Akron. One of my family members shared with me a reporter’s story of the west side of Columbus Ohio. The reporter stated that the west side of Columbus is 70 per cent vacant. The reporter also reported on the Tent cities that are showing up in parks across the country.  The reporter was reiterating what I said weeks earlier.

At that moment I realized what I said fell on deaf ears.  As soon as a media personality states the same things as fact, it was gospel.  However, when I said it, I did not know what I was talking about.

What is wrong with people that they do not believe what other’s tell them until it is confirmed by someone white?  Why do black people or African Americans give strangers such authority?