My life had ended when I met him. In his mother’s living room in a white leather chair reclined I began speaking, words spilling from a direct valve of my emotional wreckage. I smelled of a sewer at a capacity of grief, sadness, too much self-awareness, and confusion.
He was different I thought, sitting in his mother’s living room with a beer, our mutual friend had given him as a Segway to their space. He was nothing, no one, and he was no one that could point a finger at me, judge me. He just was. A black man, five years my senior, that didn’t arouse me or my sweet sensual center. There were no flames of attraction that day. However his eyes, soulful brown, full of life lived, and a sadness that seemed similar to mine did trigger something inside of me.
So it began an informal therapy.
“I loved her, so much. I had never loved a person the way I loved this woman. A fucking woman! I am not gay, guess I had mama issues.” I said with candid emotional. The truth was I did have mama issues. I had a lot of issues, self-image issues, body-image issues, spiritual belief issues. I was a big fucking issue. He didn’t say anything about that; he just looked at me with eyes big, slanted, foreign and beautiful. Pupils dilated to the max. He sipped, and listened. Words had not yet truly spoken, or expressed yet implied and understood.
“It wasn’t like it was just her, I was mean, and painfully disguised as all put together. I couldn’t control my emotion; it was all over the place. When she would hurt me I wouldn’t just say I was hurt. I would completely destroy her with my words, my actions. I threw things, I hit her. I would have never hit a man. Shit a man is built different from a woman and if he decided to hit me it would hurt. I refuse to go around hitting a man, just because society says he shouldn’t hit me back. If I am man enough to hit, I am man enough to get hit.”
He laughed, nodding his head. “That’s not what the LAPD says… That is domesticated violence.” He chuckled again.
“Yet, with this woman, I would scream, hit, yell, demean. I was my mother and I never wanted to be my mother. She was loud, aggressive, and insensitive. So many things that negate the truth of who I am are defined by the way I treated this woman. It doesn’t seem like it but I loved her. I was so deeply in love with the way I felt about me with her. I was so deeply in love with who she was. I was so fucking deeply in love with who we were together, even if it was codependent, and wrong. We fucked, we got high, we struggled, we laughed some days, we cried a lot of days. Yet she was there with me. No one was there like her, except for my friends, but with them I was the one that held the hands, and made sure they were okay and I was tired of taking care of people. Sometimes you just get fucking tired. My family wasn’t what I expected a family to be, and I just wanted a family. She became my family.” I told him in between drinks, smokes, tokes of weed.
When he finally did speak, I was floored by his words, the melody of them, the truth of them, the depth of them. All because now this nothing, seemed like something, and not just anything, but something special. We connected in this pain we were feeling. He hadn’t yet spoken of his own, just listening to mine, but I could sense it in his understanding.
He voice was deep, melodic and sexy.
“I have never known anybody to really understand the dynamic of their situation like you. You understand what you gave and took away from the situation. I respect that. It’s very rare. You were so able to say what wrong you did.” He said with wide eyes, respect and admiration shining from them as if I was some type of celebrity.
“I don’t do denial, and it’s about time I start living honesty. Truth is we are all just energy, and sometimes we are catalyst to ignite new energy.”
He looked at me again, got up and found a pen. “Repeat that… what you just said. I need to write that down.”
I giggled. I was flattered.
“You said you write?” he asked. The question seemed unreal, as though it was a whisper.
Yeah I wrote, but I hadn’t written daily ever, well not since I smoked weed daily which was a while ago. I did want to write. I had always wanted to be a writer, a poet. And just like that. I felt like one, with his pen in hand.
My life had ended when I met him, but in that moment, on that night, when I walked into his mother’s house and saw him sitting in her living room with no movement in my chest, no illuminated thought in my head, no tinkle between my thighs, aroused, and piqued by nothing. Then in that white leather chair with a million confessions and a few words from him he revived me.
(Excerpt from a longer piece I am working on)