Category Archives: Relationships
Male Bashing
“Besides he dresses horribly…”
“He smells like he never showers; count yourself lucky you don’t have to lay with his rancid-ass anymore.”
“I saw him kissing some slut outside a gig last week….it was disgusting, she looked like she belonged in an alley”
My turn: “….and he has eczema..!”
Everyone turned and looked at me.
Face-palm moment.
All my girlfriends turned and said: “M…what?”
Male-bashing is primarily a post breakup ritual.
It exhibits itself other times as well, but post-breakup, it’s a compliant code of conduct.
Most days I’m pretty colourful with my insults, but today, for the 5th day in a row, I was pretty exhausted.
I couldn’t think of anything more insulting to say about “J”.
Back-story?
Him and “L” we dating less than a year when she found out…wait for it…he cheated and he was bi-sexual.
She suspected his propensity for all things feminine, but the cheating was of course, unacceptable.
She was the conservative and her male counterpart would always be the wild-emotionally-vulnerable-need-to-be-fixed-man-whore, which is fine, because I can always count on a soap-dramasque story to entertain my inbox.
My problem was Keeping Up Appearances.
Selfish?
There were only so many Friday nights I could spend picking out flaws on men who I hardly met, let alone do so objectively. I know it’s silly to even think that in any girlfriend support situation, objectivity is priority, but hey-ho, that’s me and my “benefit of the doubt” theory.
Tonight of course was wine, tissues and male-bashing.
“K” started it off, and alternatively, as a group should, we continued bashing.
I hoped a slow-witted comment on eczema would bring comedy and maybe change the subject.
It didn’t, so I poured another glass a wine…
“M, you know L has eczema as well, how could you say that with such disdain? It’s a sensitive issue! It’s no one’s choice to get eczema!”
I drank more…
“I mean really, if you can’t support L right now, maybe you should go.”
I would, except my Friday night had nothing else on the agenda.
“Sorry.”
“No it’s alright M, don’t worry. He never took care of himself, and he was bad in bed!”
Here we go; the good stuff.
“I mean what kinda of man needs a weight lifting belt for sex? And you know after he finished, he always did a celebration dance, like he scored a touchdown, and when I gave oral, he smoked and had the nerve to drop the ashes in my hair!”
Fits of giggles across the room and a snort from me.
Geez, women put up with anything these days.
I felt sorry for L and proud. She ended it, but I wonder how much horrific or humiliating things she put up with before the cheating came to light.
“…ugh and I remember our second date when he took me to a sports bar and sneaked in McDonalds burgers because he didn’t want to pay for bar lunch. I thought it was frugal and thoughtful, but looking back, he never cared!”
Bitch, please.
“…and my underwear always went missing! I had to start buying the cheap stuff now, ugh, vile right?”
“Totally! And ew!”
I didn’t say much after that, solely because it was all being said for me.
I know I would get the phone call the next morning chastising me for being the idiot at the ritual, but what they saw as unsupportive, I saw as preserving my perception of relationships….and being bored.
I sent L flowers the next day with lovely a hopeful message.
Did I mean it?
Of course! Isn’t it customary to end the male-bashing weekend with empty messages of hope?
Unrequited
Glaring across the room they sit, fingers intertwined, breathing synchronized. A playful touch on the nose and a rapid peck on the forehead solidifies their ties. Lovers. Months in and they’re affection never wanes. She tilts her head back and lets out a rambunctious laugh. He tickles her throat and they fall again into hysterics.
Carefully analysing their every move, another sits. She ponders on the significance of each gesture he makes towards his lover and each subtle grimace, She records and analyses. Hiding behind large hopeful eyes and a yearning heart, She stares.
She studies his lips, the smoothness of his freckles and the deep throaty laugh. Every motion he makes induces a throbbing, and a heat. She bites her lips. Her yearning unrequited, blocked by another woman she disproportionately despises.
On any given day, she would extend her hello. He would be alone, standing, poised, sexual, inviting. She would enter: makeup polished, blouse slightly unbuttoned, girdle choking her waist, perfume and pheromones languidly hanging between them. All a bid to arouse attraction and perhaps a spontaneous grab and grope. Far-fetched and delusional, she laughs at his jokes, gently squeezes his arm and subtlety licks her lips.
“C’mon! Find me attractive!”
Desperation begins to seep through her pores.
Conversation ensues: “So how about that Ronaldo eh?”
Football was her greatest weakness, but his laugh, his eloquent explanation of even the most mundane topics sent her skin hot, and her legs shaking. Though, it was all still unrequited. He gives in, talks, jokes, and then extends his goodbye with a quick hug around her waist. She melts.
She calls every girlfriend and every perceptive male friend.
“What does it mean?”
Opinions waver from:
“Nothing, possibly something, but most likely nothing.”
To
“You’re getting close, wear a tighter skirt. Talk about his interests!”
The chase is arduous. Eight months on, small signs processed and love-related data are then extrapolated. The protocol for obsessive preoccupation with one man has never been explained to her. She smiles broader, studies his interests to seem poignant and profound. Still all remains unrequited. Infuriation gathers when she sees him with a different lover: buxom, yet utterly unattractive.
With alcohol-fuelled rage, she sends him an Instant Message. Confidence and a technological wall in place, she sends a barrage of honest, bitter questions reminiscent of melodramatic teenage rejection.
“I really like you, don’t you feel the same?”
“Lol, really? I never thought you were interested.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you never talked about yourself, and you seemed pretty distant and serious.”
[All my smiles were in vain?]
“Do you find me attractive?”
“Are you kidding? Every guy I know wants you. I just always assumed you were too serious for flings. Unless you’re interested….? Come over, or shall I pick you up?”
[Part disappointment/Part excitement]
The conversation turns from IM to phone. She laughs and her skin tingles over his sensual sayings of nothing and everything. Gentle boasting and soft coaxing, He imagines for them both. Yet still, Her hope rise & fall. Her obsession over the past eight months seem to have been over a personality she created to fit into a handsome human being that could never exist.
Now, He smiles, He calls. She ignores. All remaining unrequited.
Opinions waver from:
“Good, I told you he wasn’t worth it.”
To:
“I don’t know girl, I think you still should’ve seen him naked.”
Indeed.
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Red on Black
When I was let loose into the world of adolescent independence, colour was almost non-existent. The clothes I wore, the styles I chose circumnavigated: brown, black, grey and the occasional safety net: white. Dare I try any other colour; I would have to subject my sister to a barrage of webcam sessions, pictures and questions on whether I looked ridiculously freakish. When I failed to be satisfied, I rang the girlfriends, and much to their chagrin, held crisis talks. Having colour in my wardrobe was as a fearful experience.
Contrast to present days where I embrace colour: pinks, blues, yellows, purples, shades of ambiguous beige-orange. It’s all exciting and pleasant, but red is a colour that still makes me chuckle.
My mother plays it safe with neutral colours. Bright colours, particularly red is something that she says doesn’t suit her style or personality. I would say perhaps my fear of colour came from my mother, but I’d be lying. I was always a wallflower; I exuded shyness and anti-social tendencies. Colour was attention-grabbing, something I obviously shunned by holding my index fingers in the form of a cross.
Red holds memories for me. Even before I delved into the wonderful hues which represented my adolescent liberties, I experimented with red, surreptitiously with a sense of cheap and quiet thrill.
I remember when I had my first kiss at 17 and began seeing him regularly, he asked: “So do you wear thongs?” I tilted my head to the side in confusion, the quickly nodded. Thongs? I had no idea where they fitted in the Christian realm and even more, are the comfortable? Are they safe? Do they attract the wrong type of guy? Is he right for asking me? Should I be offended? I had never worn one as I didn’t see it was relevant to being 17. But emotionally naïve and willing to please, I went to the nearest shop and bought a Red Thong for $5. I was so scared of someone recognising me or asking me for ID or worse: “You go to the Church just down the street don’t you?” All sorts of scenarios of humiliation played and when it went well, I clutched it tight, and took care of it myself.
It was the first I owned and wore it exclusively for our make-out sessions, even though he later never asked or ventured into that arena. But eventually, I loved it. I felt sexy, electric and had long dreams of him touching the lace and declaring his love for me. Red was erotic, & heavy with virginal longing for sensual kisses and movie-type love. Red introduced me to romantic delusions of relationships. Most days I regret having such idealistic notions of romance, other days I remember being young and doped up with so much passionate expectation of romance & sex.
When I first entered the arena of “The Red Dress”, it was a similar experience, except of being fearful, I swayed my hips and arched my back with stealth confidence. The Red Dress made men turn heads, and women drool with questions and compliments: Where did you get that dress? OMG! I love it! It was a different overwhelming experience. I was proud of my curves. I tapped my breasts like they had played well on the field: Good job Girls! I knew I looked jaw-droppingly awesome, but in the same breath, I was afraid someone would blow my cover by entering the room with the same one on, wearing it better and sleeker. The Red Dress was iconic, but sadly it hangs in the back of my wardrobe. The Old Fear creeping back, taunting my hips, my tummy: “People might object to it this time around, M.”
Two months ago, my friend suggested I try red lipstick. I looked at her in horror: Red? I don’t know which was worst, being pushed into the forefront of people’s attention or having to stare at a potentially new feeling I might experience. Luckily, what I saw, I found repulsive. I couldn’t pull off red lipstick. I sighed with relief.
Today, I got a free lipstick in a makeup order. It sits on my dresser and taunts me. Red Lipstick, the epitome of sensuality for a woman. Smooth, lustrous and tempting, it’s still sitting on my dresser. There’s also the added pressure, Can a black woman pull off red lipstick? Conflicted on simply the representation of my womanhood. When I decide to wear it, I’ll take a photo and maybe welcome it as a new dimension to myself. Till then, we both wait.
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How to love a woman
“You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect – you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can.
She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break – her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.”
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Dreams II: Load and Aim
I walk into the room.
He stares while I twist my hips.
I dash an over the shoulder glance then have a seat.
He licks his lips.
I bite mine.
He lowers his head chuckles, and then puts his hand in his pocket. Good sign.
I pull my stomach in tighter, arch my back and make my cleavage look fuller and perky.
I’m hot, flushed, and I’m completely ready to hear his voice and forgo the celibacy thing.
He mouths: “Hey” and waves.
I smile, and wave back.
I hear clickety-clackety heels from behind me, run past and into his arms.
He continues to stare and winks.
5 minutes of over the room flirtation turn into full-blown resentment and I curse my naiveté.
I’m mortified and head towards the waiter for a glass of wine and read my notes for my impending lecture.
He comes towards me and explains: “Hi, don’t worry, she’s a friend, I only have eyes for you.”
I give in, smile and we dance. Am I a sucker for a smooth deep voice? Well who isn’t?
We talk, laugh, and from the corner of my eye, I see her again. This time she’s dressed in a bright pink bunny costume with a revolver on her waist.
She shoots at him and the loudness of the gun, coupled with the sound alarm clock startles me into the day.
6 am.
This is the 3rd time I’ve had this dream and every time, a giant pink bunny with a revolver shoots at the man who takes interest me in the dream. I’ve had odd dreams before, and usually they go away. Repetitive dreams make me feel like I need to find an interpretation. Sleuthing into dream world concludes these recurrences: pink, bunny, other woman, a theme of sex and sensuality and of course a gun.
In reality, I don’t know anyone who loves pink and has an affection for bunnies. Nor am I in a relationship to think there might be another woman. Sex and sensuality? Non-existent. A gun? I loathe them.
Where do odd dreams stem from? And why does this bunny keep infecting my thought process? Is something keeping me from a successful relationship?
A damn bunny keeps infiltrating my sanity and potentially my love life. No more will I say I’m single because of career engagements, no no, now I’ll be happy to retort that a mythical bunny is plotting my downfall. Do I have a solution? Well, so far my dream seems to end when my interest gets hit, but I never know if he dies or is just hurt (he must be brave then).
Maybe it’s not me, maybe the bunny is actually some sort of protector from sleazebags?
But I’ll never know, since that damn bunny never explains; just disappears like a frickin’ ninja.
Speeding
This isn't me by the way.
I went speed dating once. A friend kept telling me how much of a great experience she had, so I wondered, “why not put myself out there?”
I told my friends and they laughed. “Desperate move!” Sure it was desperate. I didn’t expect to have a husband by the end of the night, but I wanted a different social experience. Albeit it might be seen as a desperate one, but it was a unique experience!
I didn’t know what to expect. I wore a black dress with tan heels and a matching tan bag. I wore my hair out and wore soft sensual makeup. You know the kinda lipstick/lip gloss that draws attention to the curves of your mouth *ahem* and stuff. I looked ok. I was confident and ready to attempt some flirtation skills I read online.
Walking in, I wish they had told me that everyone had brought a buddy or several buddies for “social support”. I just brought myself and a bit of confidence. Damn! Every guy looked nervous and every girl clung to her wine glass, myself included. I did the typical thing: I scanned the room for hot men and black men (or hot black men). Only a few were present. And by a few, I mean hot men. Nevertheless, I was ditching my vain need for hotties and decided on getting to know people – that was the aim right?
Rules were explained: 2 minutes per table. Women were to move to each table and tick whether they found him likeable enough to date. My first date was cute, had a great engineering career, but he struggled with his English and when he told me he was from Transylvania, I thought he was pulling my leg. I really wanted to make a Dracula joke like: “aye! you ain’t gonna drag me to your dungeon right? Cuz’ I hear y’all love snatching people up!” But that would’ve been childish and I certainly am not childish….on a date. The entire 2 minutes with him was spent helping him gather enough words to become interested in each other. By the time I had enough information, the bell rang and I was semi-relieved.
Guy to Guy I kept moving and hoping for a spark, but it’s kinda hard to get a spark when you have to ask all the right questions and at the same time, play it cool.
“What do you do?”
“Where are you from?”
“What would you do if I gave you 10 bucks, whip cream and Russian vodka?”
One guy was pretty vocal about interviewing for a wife: “What’s your hobby? Can you cook? Do you want kids? Would you consider getting married in 6 months?”
One date kept me cracking up like I was at the Apollo, just hysterical. Too bad I guffawed him outta interest. He was such a nice guy and I really wanted him to take me out (hehe).
I couldn’t help notice the competition women in the room. One girl confessed to me that she was only there because of the open bar and made damn sure to nab a bottle of white wine, which she proudly took from table to table. She was obviously drunk and really pretty. And they say pretty women don’t have issues! Puh! One girl wore the tiniest dress and flirted her way through a lot of phonebooks (which was totally unfair, rules are rules! Hello?). It was unbelievable and commendable, but the competitor in me needed to step it up to her level, but I didn’t have the gall to. Homegirl said some lines which I thought were explicitly meant for lovers. Just phenomenal.
At one point, I honestly felt that my ideal match would show himself, emerging from the corner in full Bollywood dance and song “My lovelyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” The flirty girl would be jealous and try to entice him and all the dancers would be singing in high-pitched voices: “No no! He only has eyes for herrrrr!” And we’d be carried away to an exotic date on an elephant. Of course, if this were Nollywood film, the flirty girl would have poisoned me with a bit of obeah and he would be in a loveless marriage with her trifling ass.
I know, I’m delusional.
Anyway…
I found guys I liked: 10 out of 25 men. I was pretty excited with my selections. They were smart, engaging, funny, ambitious, loved books, art galleries etc! I couldn’t wait to go home and see who I matched up with. I signed in, and scanned through, the computer says, “Number of matches: 1! Contact him now!”
Wow 1 guy? That was my reaction! One. Single. Uno. One shot with one guy. I felt mortified and slightly confused. I thought I was sexy? I thought I was funny? I thought I was interesting? I thought I used my flirtation skills right? I mean I played with my afro hair, I smiled, and I didn’t overshadaow him, blah blah blah….!
I know I shouldn’t have based my attractiveness level on the response of 25 men. But, it was just mind-boggling, brutal and semi-honest.
Will I go speed dating again? Probably not. It was fun, but there’s only so much desperation a girl can put out there.
The Proust Questionnaire
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Sitting on a beach somewhere
2. What is your greatest fear? Failure
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? My obsessive tendencies
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Rudeness
5. Which living person do you most admire? My father
6. What is your greatest extravagance? Procrastination
7. What is your current state of mind? Troubled
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Kindness
9. On what occasion do you lie? Most Panicked
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? Almost everything
11. Which living person do you most despise? A co-worker
12. What is the quality you most like in a man? Intellect
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? Humour
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Cool Beans
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? Who?- doesn’t matter they’re nothing to me. What?- any novel
16. When and where were you happiest? Age 8 running in the grass with my sister
17. Which talent would you most like to have? Dancing
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I would ask to be taller.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Reading
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? A monument
21. Where would you most like to live? Brazil
22. What is your most treasured possession? My piercings
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Constant wallowing in self-pity
24. What is your favourite occupation? Writing
25. What is your most marked characteristic? Sarcasm
26. What do you most value in your friends? Their candour
27. Who are your favourite writers? Zadie Smith, Edwidge Danticat, Monique Roffey, Rohinton Mistry
28. Who is your hero of fiction? The little boy in the novel Life of Pi by Yann Martel
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Frida Kahlo
30. Who are your heroes in real life? My Parents, My Uncles
31. What are your favourite names? Sophia, Michael, Malcolm, Emma
32. What is it that you most dislike? Too trusting
33. What is your greatest regret? My last 2 relationships & a few friendships
34. How would you like to die? Loved & in a morphine induced state
35. What is your motto? Learn to be kinder to yourself, M.
Untitled II
I feel like being naked with someone.
Does that sound filthy?
I suppose it might seem so to some.
I miss a human touch. A kiss. A gentle stroke and an arm around my slim waist. Staring into eyes, and sweet kisses that seem to never end. The clock hisses and I’m still melting from a kiss.
It’s 4am and I’m still giggling from your tickles. Biting my lip to not give in. But 30 minutes of giggling and talking turn into moaning and a desperate need for your body and spirit to never leave, to stay intertwined with mine.
Does that sound needy?
I suppose it might seem so to some.
I miss poetic love. We exchange bitter, love-filled melancholy words of missing and hoping. We rub our noses together and I bite my lip not to sulk.
6 Years pass and I can’t seem to trust again. Broken words, guarded castles and a black heart.
I’ve yet to forgive. Writing memories to blacken memories from my mind. I tear pages out of photo albums and curse the dark silence. Moving on, and having you re-appear. I curse myself for giving in. But you have me blind, handing you my all – purse, power, panties. I can never forgive you.
Close the page, I’m sick of remembering it all.
Coffee and running thoughts
You meet a new guy, smile shyly and he smiles back.
You feel hot and flushed.
He asks “how you doing?”
You giggle and respond with standard polites.
You think, gosh, an actual nice guy.
You exchange pleasantries while waiting for your coffee orders.
He continues to talk.
And you get this feeling that you’ve seen this scene before.
In a bad romantic comedy and now you’re re-living it.
When the realisation creeps in, the glass shatters. He’s not suave but an annoying sociopath who stares at your breasts.
You realise that you were talking to a man, for the sake of being a man and nothing more.
Your reproduction members took control and made you flirt and giggle with a man who isn’t your type. You blame the celibacy and the pheromones he’s obviously exuding (obviously).
You make a dash for your coffee order before answering the “Can I have your number” question.
You cringe at the usual faux pas. Can instead of May. Can instead of frickin’ May!
Cool winter air hits you and you re-think everything.
Are looks really that important?
Is it really his fault that he couldn’t stop staring at my breasts? They are swollen this month.
Aren’t pheromones responsible for love these days? Primal attraction and whatnot?
His conversation flow was amazing. Isnt that what I’m looking for? Articulate and smart?
He had great lips, wouldn’t that count for great foreplay?
Oh my Gosh, did I just make a terrible mistake?
You make a dash for the coffeeplace and peep through the window.
He’s on his laptop, with his headphones on watching what looks like either Miley Cyrus or Japanese porn.
You turn to leave and he looks up and sees you.
Awkward moment.
He smiles and waves.
You walk away, ashamed that you even thought this man could be yo’ babydaddy.
You feel hot and flushed.
You sip your coffee and with all your thoughts, conclude that a man purge would be best.
Isn’t it always?
You sip and accidently spill coffee on the swollen hills in your Gap blouse.
People stare.
You wipe and bump into another guy with a smirk on his face.
“Nice tits love”
Charming.
You wonder if the men from 1967 were to engage in a chivalry fight with men from 2011 who would win.
You ask your girlfriend, but she counters: “But who would be more sexually liberal? And who would be more sexually repressed? And does willingness to perform oral count as a cool point?”
You ponder.
She concludes: “Chivalry stop existing after the 1980s and isn’t making a reappearance, no matter how many romantic comedies with Jennifer Aniston they use to convince you. You might as well put chivalry down as a myth.”
You ponder and sip more coffee, undeterred by recent coffee spilling events.
“Besides”, she adds, “After a while, you just want to be with the one that makes you laugh.”
Untitled Love
When I love, I love immensely, passionately.
Yet when I love, my love seems to go unnoticed, untouched, futile emotions into a sea of pre-occupied thought and deception.
When will my love return such passion? When will He touch my heart and kiss me with fervour?
I long for his grasp; my body in his arms, our bodies writhing in ever rising heat, indulging in each other’s needs.
My heart feels hollowness. My soul feels a gnaw. My love is far, searching for me, and I him.
Concentric cosmic circles play with our sense of direction; eluding us of each other’s position and making us the ever hunting fool.
This world was made for our love, yet we go on, painfully so, at lost for each other’s mesh of love.
