Perfume & Windows

Image result for Handprints in steamy windows

 

I can still smell her when she leaves.

There is nothing like her, no one that I would rather call mine. It’s deeper than anything a ring or paperwork could give. I know it’s hard for your to understand. But there is, can’t be anyone like her. Like my Ava.

We call it swimming, the depth we feel for one another. This need to know more, push more, have more of each other. It’s…a need now. I  need her. I have her,  I know. But, I need her. As air. As water. I mean, the way I can feel her when she’s not even in the room? My mother, an old mystic, explained that love like this is possible. And she told me that would have it. “Mijo,” she told me. “I did your cards.” I couldn’t have been more than seventeen, fresh from becoming a man with my high school sweetheart in my black Mazda that I saved 2 summers for.

I remember I walked in the front door, damp from sweat and sex. She was at the table and called my name. “Michael.” I heard the methodic placing of cards on the table, her dark hair up in a bun. “She is not it, mijo.” She didn’t look up at me. No anger in her voice. No rise, no aggravation. I huffed, running my hands through my cut dark hair. I adjusted my jacket, heading towards my room. I wasn’t in the mood for a sermon from the spirits she spoke to while at the kitchen table.

“She isn’t it, Michael.” There was a dark chuckle when she said my name. I turned around to sit across from her, wanted to smell the comfort of her soap and rosewater she used. I made it to the back of her head before she spoke. “No need to sit, Miguelito.” The cards shuffled again. “This girl, you are,” she coughed. “taking, because you aren’t making love to her. You don’t love her.” My throat was dry. “But this one.” The cards flipped, and she hummed. “This one?” She hummed. “You will ache for her, whenever she is not near you. You will know her, by what she wears.”

You will know her by what she wears.

I took a shower when she left, like always. The water, hot and slick over me just like her when she last rode me. I could feel her body, taut and warm as she pulled me deeper inside her. I held on to her hips, spreading her wider. Fuller. I needed more of her. It was deeper than cumming insider her. I was filling her. I was filling all of the pieces of her that I felt cry for me when I wasn’t in the room. I wanted to soothe her. Completely.

I leaned against the shower door, soothed by the strength of the glass. I felt her. I felt her hands over my back. My neck. Her lips on my ears, just like I loved her to do. “Ava.” She always showered with this soap her grandmother taught her to make. It had orchids and jasmine in it. The first time I made love to her, it–it bound me to her.  My mother’s words were in my head were in time with my own heartbeart. You will ache for her.

I stood in the shower, the water running over me. I thought of how she rode me. How I took her from being impaled to sitting on my mouth. I drank from her, licked faster as she screamed. I heard the headboard rattle as her thighs found my cheeks.

Never, ever had I done that for anyone. No other woman.

She was sweet, like raspberries. My tongue swirled around every portion of her that she shifted into my mouth. I needed to know how she tasted. Kisses deeper than I could ever give to the plump lips on her caramel brown face. When she climaxed again, there was a note that she released that was something a siren would have hit. This honey, thick and sweet, flowed into my mouth. I sucked on her clit, this button that gave more her honey.  I needed more of her.

I moaned, opening my eyes again. Smelled her. My cock twitched, throbbed, then. I beyond loved her. I needed her. I had to have her again. “Dammit.” Hot tears leaked from my eyes, and I wiped them away. Frustrated at this affinity we had. My mother was right. I ached for her. I felt her. Even when she was not in the room.

It had been a year since we had been seeing each other. But, I knew she was mine. Could, would never belong to anyone else. I couldn’t stand it. I wrapped the towel around my waist, making sure the faucet was off.  I walked to my bedroom, heart as a war drum in my ears. I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. I saw her behind me, supple and unclad. She held her breasts, moving over to the bed, laying on her back. Just like the last time I saw her. The last time every inch of me that was male impaled her to my King sized bed. I smiled, and watched that vision fade of her playing herself faded in the mirror. I closed my eyes, biting my lip. My mother was right–she was unlike anyone. Could not be anyone elses. She was mine. All mine. If this was what I suffered without her, I could only hope (and imagine) what felt apart from me.

 

He Never Was A ‘Tiger’

 

Image result for tiger woods medal of freedom

I remember when Eldrick ‘Tiger’ Woods really became a household name. I remember during my high school years just how cool it was to know there was dude that was Black, golfing! GOLFING! And was like, GOOD at it!

I remember the Masters Wins. I remember the ESPN interviews. I remember when he didn’t call himself Black, but Cablasian. I remember when ‘Fuzzy’ Zeller said he hoped he didn’t bring fried chicken and collard greens to the Master’s Dinner.

Catch that.

I remember how my Dad would make off-hand comments about Tiger, and him not wanting to admit that he was Black. I remember how that irked him. I remember how he never really would say that he was Black. I remember that troubled me, but I couldn’t identify how. It was as if Tiger thought he could transcend race because he played a game better than a bunch of old White men that lust after their exotic maids.

As much that is said about Jackie Robinson, you must give him this. No matter where Jack went, according to accounts and his widow Rachel (now in her 90’s), he was Black. And unapologetic. He was Black in Cairo, Georgia. In California at UCLA. In the Negro Leagues as a Kansas City Monarch. He was Black in Montreal in the MLB minor league for the Brooklyn. He was Black as #42 (2B) in Ebbets Field. He never had the gumption, or the option, to deny any part of him that was Black. Or Black and male. His college education, speaking ability, military record, speed in cleats didn’t diminish the fact he was Black.

So, why did Tiger think this wouldn’t happen with him? How did game change–for him? What really made him think these stodgy, old White men would change–for him? We know that some White athletes disassociate themselves from the plight of their non-White teammates:  see Tom ‘Eptiome Of Mediocre White Male aside from my former brother-in-law Rob Bilbruck’ Brady. He is on record, with a MAGA hat in his locker said this (taken from The Intelligencer in December 2015):

“I haven’t paid attention to politics in a long time. It’s actually not something that I really even enjoy. It’s way off my radar.”

Now, to be fair, I have linked the article for you to see the entire exchange. But, I find it interesting that he wouldn’t go to visit President Obama after a Super Bowl win. However, got mad at his predominately Black teammates when they didn’t want to visit the White House to see Orange Thanos.  Then, he wanted to invoke the responsibility of his teammates to go.

Herein lies the disconnect.

My problem with Eldrick ‘Tiger’ Woods, whom is the son of a Black man, is you do not get to disconnect your Blackness from your social awareness. Your Blackness is your social awareness! I can take–nay, expect!–stupid, vapid comments from athletes who are better suited to be QB’s on the latest version of Madden! I can handle that, because his privilege is an insulator–impervious to logic.

The fact that Tiger Woods, went to the White House to accept the Presidential Medal of Freedom from a man that  is misogynist, clearly xenophobic, and a sympathizer to a/the white supremacist cause?

That let me know that he has no longer decided to rent a room in the Sunken Place. He bought property! Funny thing, though.  This same award that was given to heroes and artists, is now given to him. I can only see as a a noose he can wear and show off to people. Sometimes, it be your own people, man.

I said what I said.

[images from fox8.com and nymag.com]

Ode To The Girls With The Big Purses

Image result for large purses

 

I have carried a purse for 27 years. Small purses. Clutches. Different colors. Some borrowed, some traded. Some I saved for because I just had to have it! But, you have to understand something. My mother was always Old Hollywood Glam.

Make-up.r

Hair.

Shoes.

Bag.

My mother was snatched before I really knew what that word would be. She carried a purse, so I wanted to carry one. When I got my first one at 10, this tortoise patterned  crossbody Cherokee bag? That was IT! I would go around looking for stuff to put in my purse. MY purse.

It was simple stuff at first for little girls:  mirror, lip balm, pen, candy and some money (my father insisted that as a young lady, I always needed to have some money on me). But as I grew up, I looked at small bags with suspicion! Like, I need stuff!

My best friend, Marissa, and I are of the age now where to carry a purse is to have lives in your bag. I am oft quoted saying, “I am suspicious of women that carry small bags.” Which Marissa often responds, while smoking, “Right! Like women need stuff! Where is your stuff?!”

Image result for large purses

Indeed, where is your stuff!

Call it a transference:  from a teddy to a tote. There are things that I carry on a day to day basis that I couldn’t be without, But, that anxiety, as it were came when I was a girl. When I would get picked up with my Dad from school, my siblings and I wouldn’t get home until late! I started carrying snacks to keep from being hungry; my snacks in my purse. I started carrying a pen or pencil with me so I could do my homework while waiting on my Dad to finish a meeting. I started carrying a book with me when I didn’t have homework. With my allowance, I would look for a bigger bag to keep my stuff. I needed a hairbrush. Gum. A calculator. Emergency Always pads. Having these things with me made me feel more prepared, more in control of my day!

In high school, during my Sophomore year, these plastic/pleather totes were popular. Every girl had one–probably because every girl’s mom shopped at JCPenney. with this tote, I had all the stuff I needed with me. No matter what was going on, I had something for it!

Now as a mother, wife and writer, totes are my go to. Not for security anymore, but for practicality! I need a bag that can keep with calendars, keys and kids! I need to know if I through something in this bag, that it’s there! I need to know can a bag I carry handle all I have to do on a day-to-day basis! Like, can it carry 2 cell phones; a tablet; makeup bag with brushes; pencil bag and random papers? That’s on light days!

Image result for large purses

So, to the girls that grew up watching their mother’s carry purses, and now have found their own sense of style and self, allow me to say this.

As a woman, the world will make you take on what you don’t need. It will try and strip you of the things you do.

Women need stuff. 

I need to be able to build everyday. I hustle on a day to day basis. Every woman I know in my immediate circle carries something with her everyday that reminds her of the business, brand or vision she is chasing.

My totes in my closets, strewn on the floor of my bedroom, remind me of the things I carry. Why I carry it, and when I need to clean it all out. As I move through the world, I need stuff. I need to be able to have access to stuff! No ambitious woman that I know carries a small bag everyday!

Their balls don’t fit.

 

[images from iOffer, AliExpress, wells.blogs.nytimes.com]

Being Part Of The Knot-Part 1: The Seeking Game

I am a woman of faith. I believe in God and the power of His word and wisdom. The one thing that has struck me is this scripture:

He that findeth a wife, findeth a good thing and obtain favor from the Lord. 

(Proverbs 18:22. KJV)

With the wisdom found in this 15-word scripture, I feel,  has not been hewn out. Let me  tell you and unsweet truth.

Not every man is looking to for a wife.

Not every woman wants a husband.

There, now that we have established these two truths, let’s talk about The Seeking Game. This is also known as dating. Yes, dating.

On the cusp of turning 40, I quote my mother often. The quotes I cherish above any others deal with dating and relationships. This one is a favorite: “There ain’t nothing wrong with dating!”  Nowmy mother is almost 70. She is from an era that women expected a man to bring something to a relationship. Where criteria were created, held and appreciated. In the situations where there weren’t, a woman left. In that phrase, ‘there ain’t nothing wrong with dating’, gave me the freedom as a woman that was dating to be honest with the men I was attracting.

It also reminded me of my criteria, and what I wanted. It reminded me that the man that  want, has to match what I need as well! If I want to be a wife, I can’t be caught up with a man that doesn’t want one! Simple as that.

AS. SIMPLE. AS. THAT. 

I believe that to be chosen, in being chosen, for a relationship requires the desire to be chosen (What does that mean, Jenn?). That means you have to have the desire to be chosen, in order to be chosen! You have the right to sample and swim in the dating pool! You have a right to change your mind, say no, or to date without being serious or attached.

You have to be able to be honest with yourself when you date! You have be able to be alone with your thoughts. If you want to date casually, do that. If  you want to date with purpose, do that. But you have to make a decision! And that level of decision-making, is going to take a level of honesty few people are prepared for. Why? People don’t like to be alone, and we crave comfort and routine. As one of my girlfriends said:  Some people stay together out of time and convenience rather than loyalty.

The most irrecoupable thing you have as a human being is time. Once that is gone or wasted, there is nothing which can be done to snatch it back from that hungry abyss. Value what you bring. Value your criteria. Value your time.

Remember, there is nothing wrong with dating. There is nothing wrong with keeping your options open. But be honest about what you want–and adhere to that.

 

Bonus: Dark Set-Possession

I am the Bound Queen.

The favored, cherished, desired

Possession of King and Owner.

I know no love but his.

Seek no touch but his.

Have no love but his.

I give no space save to him.

This him whom has

Taken all that I am

Making all love foreign while

Deepening his own.

Skin changing to

A deep blush at

His hands command

To remind all parts

Deepened and made whole

By his impaling weep

Openly when his touch

Is taken.

My breath tied to his heartbeat.

Indeed my beloved is mine

And feeds among the lilies

Grown lush and fresh

Betwixt my thighs.

I am his.

Thirsty for his filling.

Shudder at his power over me.

I am the Bound Queen.

The favored, cherished, desired

Possession of King and Owner.

Ever, and of my will, shall I be his.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4. 2019.

“Blackness Is Ongoing.”-The Power Of This Will By Undoing

I am in this space of radical love and self-acceptance. In my devouring of the fire of Feminista Jones; the medicine at the shoulder, knee, yea, hands of Toni Morrison; I came across the sister oracle, Morgan Jerkins.

This book had been on my radar for over a year. It had been in my literature orbit, and hidden among other Amazon needs. However, now, this time, I bought it.

What I got in the about 8-hours of the author herself, was a dual realization of my power as a Black woman. And the invisible chains that held, pulled and sought to destroy me.

I found myself nodding when she talked about the paradox of being a smart, quiet, Black girl. I teared up remembering my middle school self: smart as hell, awkward, with parents that prized grades over social status. The struggle with sexuality as a Black woman versus the idea (even appearance) of being fast. I was mad as fuck with her as she relayed her frustration with college acceptance; the loss of her father and hiding in the depths of academic success. I clasped my hands, as if she could feel them, when she talked about her faith. I even teared up at her *manifesto in Chapter 9.

The power of this book is it’s willingness to confront the joys and struggles of being a Black woman. She rips off the Band-Aids with laser precision and pulls no punches.

While reading it, I found Morgan on Twitter. I tweeted her about how the book effected me. How I wished I had something like this 25 years ago when I was a girl and trying navigate woman spaces I was thrust into. I had to examine myself and alla my stuff as the choreopoem goes.

In, with, that examination, came a strange empowerment. The further acceptance of my Blackness. Of forgiving women in my family whom did only what they knew to do in order to keep me safe and tame. I no longer felt that my experiences were alien.

This book was a reminder of self, my entire self. Of allowing my daughters a freedom I never tasted. I was reminded my soft heart and quiet nature were never a detriment, but a tool. I was reminded just as Phylicia Rashad said:

“Your whole self is such a treasure.”

I had forgotten that. Like any good writer, Morgan made me remember. For that, I am thankful.

Thank you, Morgan Jerkins.

*The manifesto in Chapter 9 is one of the boldest, most vulnerable things I have read pertaining to loving yourself as a Black woman. I am glad I have this book on Audible so I can go back and reference it on blue days. The days where my magic, my swag or my sway feel less than. Where I feel less than. Where I am low, in need a level of refilling God-deep. One of the joys of being a writer is you get to see and feel deeply. With that depth, the refilling, too, must be just as deep.

Love & Possession: The Dark Set: (Week 4) BonusWhat Daddy Wanted

The collar on my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How chosen and cherished I am.

How none are as I am to be.

He feels and fills the ripples his

Voice causes once housed

And held in all that he claims

Is, was his.

Does he know that in his taking

Of me, even in thought my mind

Races to please him from wherever

I am?

At his whisper

And then shutting off of

Water I am his warm towel

To drink and dry every drop

Of water graced to flow

Over him…

Until my tastes and senses

Are full of him.

The collar around my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How hard to ride.

How wide to open.

When to clench.

When to just hold

Every inch of him hard and twitching

In my mouth

Or swallow all he contains.

It lets me know, for all my prowess…

I am still beneath him.

As I long to always be.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019