Even Up-Nathaniel’s Story

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Poor bastard.

I told him not to try and take her from me. She was mine. Deeper than a ring. Stronger than a vow. She had may mark. My scent. She was more mine than she was ever her mother’s daughter. He never should have tried to stop her from coming to me. From coming back to me. She never belonged to him–was never made from him. I know God created Eve for Adam, from him-out of him.

But mates? It is deeper than any rib. It is your flesh in the outermost form. You, peering into you, definite and resounding. I knew her, before I saw her.  After phasing for the first time? I saw her. She went to my high school, glasses and caramel tone. She was quiet and timid. It was her eyes. They drew me. They sent me. It was her.

I had bumped into her outside her English class, she adjusted her red Jansport backpack our Junior year. I bumped into her because I was late to class, trying to get away from a girl that tried to ask me to take her to Prom. It would be the Equinox, I didn’t need to be out and around her. Lana, her name was. I bumped her, outside the S Wing of our high school. “I’m so sorry.” She said, adjusting her glasses. It was warm outside, but she had a big dark denim jacket. Lips and face bare. Eyes big and brown. I heard her heartbeat. Counted her breaths.

I couldn’t feel my knees and my mouth was dry. She smiled, eyes shiny and bright. If she spoke again, I didn’t know if I would keep my hands off her. It was her. I had only seen her, this exact way, a year ago. I let her pass, and I went to my math class as a lit match. I had her scent. I could find her after dismissal, and never be without her again.

******

What, how did she get around this mark? You can’t remove a mark. You can’t cover it up. I didn’t know how she did, I don’t know how I lost her…or she lost me.

I watched the backyard, and smoked. I smoothed my cut hair, and heard the water from the upstairs shower running. I inhaled again, letting my eyes adjust to the dark around me. I inhaled again, held it, remembering how I held her again. How I made her put her veil on as I reclaimed her body. As I entered her again, on this bed not ours, and demanded she open to me. Reopen for me. I had seen her a week before, and waited for this imposter to leave her.

I exhaled the drag of my cigarette, and licked my lips. I tasted Lana. She was still a fresh and sweet as when she was 16, untouched and open. I pinned her to this bed, not ours, and reclaimed her. With her hands above her head, I looked at her, face unchanged by the almost decade apart. I relished those eyes rolling in back of her head, fluttering and lips quivering. Her wrapped her legs around me, clenched my hands in hers.

I thought about how she looked in her veil. “Keep your eyes open.” I leaned to her right ear, and growled as she came again. I felt the familiar flutter through her, and rushing into me. I felt whatever was broken meld, and shift to bringing us together again. I nipped into her shoulder, all of me incessant and needing all of her.

She couldn’t be a wife if she had a mate.

She couldn’t stay with him, not any more.

 

I stood up, adjusting my jacket and putting out my cigarette on the blue porch railing. I could hear her thoughts again. I knew he would come for me. I  can’t be here one second longer! I hadn’t, I had forgotten how good he tasted. How he felt–and, for a minute. I thought he forgot how I liked it.

She was giggling, oblivious that I had taken her ring as watched her sleep. I never wanted to see the damn thing on her again! Mrs. Lana Kenne was leaving. With me, tomorrow. No note. No nothing. As I went back onto the house, to wait for her again, naked and slick. I walked through the kitchen. Seeing the pen and pad there on the refrigerator, I left the good Doctor Kenne this note.

She’s leaving.

She’s gone.

If I see you again, I’m ripping your throat out with my teeth.

-Nate

 

I went to the staircase, taking three steps at a time. I had to remind myself not to phase, there was no need to be in a protector capacity for her right now. I wanted more of her. I shed clothes by the bed and watched the bathroom door. Delighted she was on the other side of it. I would make her remember that I knew her better than he did. And I knew her well enough that she would let me. Over and over again.

He Worships…Me.

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There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

I have become something else beyond beautiful

and woman and feminine.

I have become something more divine

simply by being all that I am to him.

Full, supple and in vision unfiltered.

 

He drinks the sunlight off my skin,

careful and cautious as to where and

when to apply his lips to chosen skin.

When my mouth opens to greet him

with such gratitude, his eyes memorize me.

 

Almost as if I will fade away as ghosts and hants oft do.

 

His hands on me are home.

Welcoming and quiet at first.

The need of me, without me near

or inside me, overwhelming.

 

The divine of our together so potent

that he pulls me often from my seated

perch between the power of the manhood

unsheathed and hidden inside me, to sit

where he calls ‘my throne.’

 

The suckling of sweeter flesh,

with my thighs fixed to his cheeks

all of me opens and floods his mouth.

Moans as song, echo from wall to wall.

My hands on the top of his head guiding

his mouth to all his tongue found to be

treasure.

 

Enjoy, he said.

Let me please all of you, he said.

I need you, he said.

I cannot die without knowing how you taste, he told me.

 

He told me I was his ache.

His cure.

A goddess housed in melanin.

 

How could  I deny one so intent on being in love with me?

 

There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

He has decided to live at my feet…and I will let him.

 

(c) Janelle Fallon, 5.13.2019

 

[image from Pintrest]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Part Of The Knot-Part 2: More Than A Day

My dream wedding dress is a Vera Wang, and it is more than $5000.00. Without a veil. No shoes. Just the dress–cloth, dye and thread–is as much as a used car.

But, I found this dress while I was dating a man that tried to kill me in the apartment we lived in with his father and his girlfriend. I thought if I just loved him hard enough, he would see how badly he had treated me, and I would get my happily ever after. So, with that goal in mind, I looked for a dress.

From the dress, I registered with theknot  and was determined to make this man love me. I wanted him to love me like I loved him. It wasn’t until that relationship was over did I realize how askew my focus was. And just how detrimental that is.

 

This isn’t the exact dress, but it’s damn close. 

 

I tease people that I grew up as a pagan. I didn’t come to knowledge of faith in Christ until I was 8. I was baptized at 16. I wasn’t brought up in a house that made or put God as its center. But. after 16? I knew that sex before marriage was wrong. With that guilt, compiled with a me sleeping with my ex on a regular basis? I knew that marrying him would make everything go away. All the guilt. All the shame. Once I put on this white dress, this ring and told God I would be his wife–my absolution would be complete.

But here’s the rub.

It’s deeper than chastity. It’s deeper than spending more focus on a dress than on a relationship. The rub was prizing the decor and decorations over a lifetime. Being with someone in a dating relationship is much different that being with someone in a marriage. In the pursuit of trying to be chose (which I’ll discuss later), I put up with behavior I wouldn’t think of putting up with now.

I wanted him to see how strong I could be. Just like the gold in the ring I wanted. I wanted to keep myself pretty, always eye-catching. Just like the diamonds I envisioned I would wear. I loved him, I forgave him, and accepted anything that he gave. I wanted him to see me as adaptable, like any circle. Like any ring.

Marriage is more than a wedding.

When people ask me what I think about relationships (which is actually pretty often), my advice is the same. I suppose now, with the most toxic relationship I have ever had being over almost 20 years ago, I have a unique vantage point. I stayed with a man that tried to kill me because he said he loved me. I stayed with him because after everything we had gone through, after everything he promised me, he owed me a ring.

He owed me dress, a day and the chance to celebrate us. That would be the proof that he loved me. It would be proof that I could maintain a relationship. It would be proof that I could withstand the ebbs and flows of a committed relationship. It was proof that I was wife material. A wedding, the wedding–my wedding–would be the ultimate trophy. It would have been a win for us. I would be the coda of everyone that didn’t think he was good enough for me. It would be a middle finger to everyone that thought we couldn’t wouldn’t last.

The altar wasn’t a culmination. It was a finish line.

Marriage should be a culmination.

A wedding is a party.

Marriage is what you do when no one is looking. The staying together when the world around you goes to shit. You shouldn’t have to prove how much you love someone by how much you take. Love doesn’t require being emotionally trampled. Being someone’s wife doesn’t mean that you need to prove your ability to get back up after being knocked down.

Marriage doesn’t change who people are, not really. It fortifies and reveals who they are! It shows if you have the ability to compromise, to be selfless or selfish. Can you compromise? Can you, do you hold grudges? Can you put do what is necessary because it has to be done? And the most important thing to consider:  can you want the best for someone whether it benefits you or not?

Can you allow this person that you chose, and whom has chosen you, to grow? To mess up? To forgive and be forgiven by? Do you have the stamina to really love someone?

If you don’t, if you cannot fathom such a thing beyond sex, then don’t bother picking a dress. Or buying a ring.

You ain’t ready.

 

 

 

 

Perfume & Windows

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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.

 

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.

 

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

More Than Words Can Say

He said I’m perfect

On my knees,

Quiet and stormy.

When he asks me

How much I love him.

“More than words can ever say…”

With a stroking of my cheek,

the grace of

All masters of kittens,

He grabs my hair and

My eyes close.

My body becomes

A lit match, smoldering

that he touched me

Again.

“Show me.”

I grin, and open my mouth.

The sweetest yes I know.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019