Voices unheard

I find myself listening to GWA a lot, late at night, nowadays, eyes shut against the reality of my room. If I can turn up my earbuds enough, slow my breathing enough, I can imagine someone saying these things to me.

I have to imagine someone saying those things to me, kind things, hot things. Sexy things. Dirty things. Because I won't hear them again, not in real life, not from a real man, certainly not from my husband.

Perhaps I'm not worth it; it seems silly to worry about it now, at my age, and with Claire and all the issues motherhood and her issues have brought. I should be glad to have a coparent, at least, a partner in this, and be done with it. I should not miss the escape of fantasy, the frivolity of feeling, however fleetingly, like a woman who could indulge in sex and her womanliness, even if it was only temporary and even if it was a lie.

I have excised that part of me, I tell myself, and it is like a phantom limb; I can remember the flex and stretch of my sexuality, the joy of its use, even alone -- always alone. Now it is a dull ache, something that pangs at night, when I would have enjoyed it. I listen in vain most nights, imagining what it would be like to have such directed at me. And then I switch off the phone, feeling the quiet envelop me in the only arms I will know.

Mommyhood and The Muse

I wrote this what, 5 years ago now? Seems prophetic, in hindsight... 

...

As jokey and sophomore in high school who reads too much of the cavalier poets as it sounds, i believe in a Muse. I believe in inspiration and forces that compel us to create. I believe it can be fickle or constant; I believe one can run it away as one would a lover, and I believe one can kill it just as sure as one could poison an enemy.

There were times I thought I would never write again. I'm no Neil Gaiman; it's not like I have an entire pantheverse to lose if one day the sun of my imagination burned out. But it's right up there with Blindness, the fear and (sometimes) inevitability.

An assault, the first true breaking of one's heart, the breaking of anothers', the death of one's illusions...my Muse and I haven't had the silkiest of relationships. We wouldn't necessarily be on Maury ("You are not the author!")terms, but maybe on Dr. Phil ("So what you're saying is, you just left after the wedding because the husband doesn't appreciate her work, and writing for just her is more difficult? How's that working for you?")

Difficult, but not bellicose. But with this weekend's talk about babies and me railing against the idea of motherhood and the inevitable loss of self, what I find I'm really afraid of is the impending death of my ability to write. Specifically, about sex.

And mothers can't write about sex. Mummies cannot smell of child sick and baby powder and sit at a computer and compose pieces about a woman who stands at her bedroom window in nothing but fuschia mesh panties and just looks out over her backyard and that of her neighbors, in a nice part of town, half-thinking that no one could see her, but sort of wishes that someone could, and warming at the thought. But she doesn't do anything about it, because that's what she wants to be seen: her arousal.

Nope. A woman who answers to "Mommymommymommymommymommymommy" does not wear fuschia panties, made of mesh or no. Maybe pink cotton. But not fuschia. She does not type words like "fuck" and "cock", much less use them in stories with a myriad of other naughty words. She reads Parenting Books and reads Woman's Day. She does not eagerly await the next Emma Holly or M.J.Rose novel and do lengthy research on silicone dildos.

Motherood, while lovely and admirable and difficult and necessary, I'm afraid in my case, will be a muse-killer. Detective Goren would grill Motherhood in the interrogation room while Eames stood by, watching morosely. ("That's what you're about, Motherhood, isn't it? Care?Selflessness? Unwavering focus on the innocent? You couldn't even do such a thing! To the selfish, sensualist Muse, even! He was on the way out, anyway, right? Had his bags packed, and ready to go..."

"Yes!" Motherhood would crow, triumphant. "He was finally leaving!"

Goren would lean back, nod sagely. "And everyone was happy. You'd have the Author, and the baby, everyone gets what they want. Everyone lives happily ever after. The Muse, that selfish bastard, would finally be gone. Forgotten"

"No," Motherhood would snarl,"Never forgotten. Not him. They'd been together too long. Oh, he was leaving all right....I saw to that. 'Can't have us both'. I laid down the law."

"Exactly. Gone. Out of your lives forever. And the Author would be happy...grateful."

"Yes. Happy." Motherhood's voice trails off. "You'd think she'd be overjoyed! Free from all that burden of sex and...unpleasantness. But she...she mourned him! Kept trying to write! Half-awake, scribbilng in a notebook with one arm while trying to rock the baby in another. Imagine! A pen so close to the child!"

"You underestimated the Muse, though, didn't you?"

"I did what I had to do. I kept the Author up nights. I dressed her in sweatshirts with "Mommies are Great" in puffy lettering and stirrup pants. Convinced her that poop color was good dinner conversation. Made her too busy for kegels." Her chin would raise infinitesetimally; anything else would be unseemly.

"He got her to focus on the most ludicrous things, told her she was still a woman! Can you imagine! Using the very thing that made her able to carry a child against her! Motherhood would be looking toward Eames for assent. There would be none. She would have already signaled for the uniforms, waiting outside the door.


"She was still trying to..." Goren would lean in. He cares more about knowing why than seeing justice done.

"Create," Motherhood would hiss. "Wishing for him to come back. We'd never be rid of him. Not as long as she thought there was a chance he'd come back."

"So you protected them both."


"She's better off with me, anyway." Motherhood would see them, ready to take her away. But she wouldn't be sorry, not in the least. "I'm stronger than him," she'd tell the police, even as they were reaching for her. "I'm changing her in ways that filthy Muse never could.  She avoids their hands, stands up, looks at Goren, then Eames. "You'll see." Motherhood walks out, her head held high; the police walk behind her, almost afraid to touch her. She's stronger than she looks.

"Motherhood," Eames says, snidely.

"Being a creator is never easy," Goren would say.

Lots has been happening lately.

The muse, it seems, is back. It's difficult not to question why (or what or whom), but so far, I've just been enjoying the feeling of being compelled to write and having characters in my head again.

Virginia and Lars, for instance, who are an abridged version of last year's truncated NaNo attempt (Price above Aubies), keep residence during the day, where they insist upon tempting me to write in google docs about their burgeoning communication. I just might end up making this next year's attempt, only with the original characters.

And if you can believe it, Michael and Alice have been on my mind lately. They've gotten really good feedback from the interracial erotica site (you should go check that out if you haven't already), and I keep seeing Michael, a little more stocky and bearded now, in my head in the evenings. Alice is a little different now too; her hair is natural now; she wears it in cropped curls, and has switched from chanel (she can't bear to wear it anymore - it was 'their' scent), to something a little more mysterious and moody. Less commonly seductive and more studiously so. Guerlain Vol de Nuit, I think.

I can't tell if they're in Charleston or Savannah, but wherever they are, there is lots of history, some dark, some romantic, and all of it much older than it seems on the surface. A lot like them.

But what is hard to see is how it happens. How they get together again. Because all I know right now is that they do.

The big news, though, is that I won NaNoWriMo for the first time. No small feat, and curiously enough something that couldn't have happened without two things: one, the encouragement of a great writing partner/cheerleader/foot-to-ass-er, and two, to vent the inevitable emotional roller coaster of one of your worst fears coming to pass, and then disappearing.

It seemed only right that I write a story that encompassed discovery, memory, loss, grief, redemption, and love. Because all those were completely front and center this past month. The novel is dedicated to her, and whether or not it ever sees the light of day, it always will be partly her creation as well as mine.

So I'm working on a few submissions in the next couple of weeks. Because at the beginning of the year will begin an even larger project: NaTheWriMo.

That's right: Thesis: take two.

Get your popcorn and bookies' numbers out, y'all. This one's gonna be a doozy.

Monthly

Well, I'm not pregnant.

And as stupid and strange as it seems(and sounded when I told my friend, who is breastfeeding a 3-month old and laughed heartily when I said it), I was a little disappointed. I mean, what other point to weight gain and moodiness and not getting any is there if you aren't going to be pregnant (and get your in-laws off your case while you're at it?)

And speaking of not getting any, the Muse is apparently taking a vacation. I was all ready to submit something for some much-needed $$$, but all I can come up with are fantasies of waking up looking like Sanaa Lathan so my husband won't be so damnably indiffrent. Case in point:

Me: "If i bought something sexy for Christmas, would you laugh?"
Him: "Well, I mean, do you really think you should be spending extra money right now?"
Me: *sigh*
Him: "What? Is it because we're going on a cruise?"
Me: "Well, Kinda. Yeah."
Him: "I'm just saying...with Christmas and all..."
Me: *sigh*"Never mind."
Him: "What?"
Me: "Nothing."
Him. "Did I say something wrong?"
Me: (in convincing, 'don't be silly' voice): "No. Let me go; I need to finish getting ready."

You'd think I'd learn, right? Even after discussing the whole 'lingerie/laughing" incident in the comments on Shapely Prose's blog about the Fantasy of Being Thin (mine revolves around prancing around half naked and in expensive underwear), I don't buy the lame-ass "I was surprised" excuse. And because I'm bored, and bitchyPMSing and we're going on a cruise (and what cruise is complete without hot vacation-sex? Ours, apparently!), I got to looking at halloween costumes I didn't/couldn't buy, and then christmas lingerie, and...well...

I'm pissed. And it's only partly due to TTOTM. It's because talking to him about it is futile, talking about it to friends is humiliating, buying it anyway is a waste, and finding a man who would appreciate it is an impossibilty on too many fronts to go into. And even though I bought THREE things of red lipstick (okay, 2 lipsticks and 1 lacquer) last week and am considering buying more makeup, there's a part of me that wonders why I'm even bothering at all.

And in my house, futility = a big fight. And rebellion. So there will be a neiman marcus box on the doorstep a few weeks from now, and it will contain a new Bobbi Brown makeup palette. For the trip he could care less about being with me on. And I will buy new boots, too. For outings he could care less what I look like when I accompany him. And lingerie. For nights he isn't there and won't see it, and doesn't want to see me in it even if he was.

And he'd better not say One. Effing. Word.

Because he's getting a fight this weekend. And there'll be another if he questions the purchases. The answer to "I thought you weren't going to do any more shopping!" Will be "And I thought that Good Vibrations would have delivered my toys by now!"

heh.

on running (rather NSFW)

Friday at the gym, I saw an old would-be lover. I called up the calm and strength I've learned at my sunday afternoon Yoga class, and managed to smile and nod a polite hello to him. But seeing him, remembering the way I couldn't even bring myself to say much to him, much less admit my feelings, made me angry. I felt 24 again, still a virgin, and so overwhelmed by arousal and insecurity every time he came near, that I was afraid he could look at me and tell all the things I would do if he would only ask; the things I would beg of him, if only he would allow it. The time I danced with him at a club and came home, panties soaked and breasts aching from the grinding we'd done, my skin still smelling of the smoke and him; I'd run up to my room, undone my jeans and plunged my fingers into my pussy, wishing they were his, bringing myself to an orgasm so sharp it was almost frightening. He remained either blissfully ignorant of my lust -- or kindly chose to not acknowledge it instead of outright refusing me. We lost touch, of course. But our town is a smallish one, and it was inevitable that we meet again, if only briefly.

And of course, when I wasn't wearing makeup or a fabulous outfit.

Tree pose and namaste be damned, saying hello and seeing him, the memories of how many times I dreamed of those thick brown arms he extended to me for a brief hug hello-and-how-are- you -- I wanted to fuck him senseless. Right there on the gym floor. My nipples were almost painfully tight -- a rarity for me -- and I thanked God for the sportsbra and baggy tee as I made my retreat, bolting up the steps to the exercise machines.

I'm not a runner. I walk a good bit, I do rowing machines, I enjoy strength training. Running? not my thing. But the couple of laps I walked around the upstairs track was doing nothing to ease the twitch of my thighs, which apparently wanted nothing more than to be spread around the hips of the ex-crush downstairs. To be held at a 90-degree angle while he slid his cock into my pussy, stretching muscles I didn't know I had and would feel for days. My arms were tight with the imagining of being pinned above my head while he kissed me. My lips were slightly parted, the cool air tasting like the anticipation of his tongue on mine. I didn't realize how fast I was walking until I saw an elderly woman look at me questioningly. Obviously the track was for leisurely paces. I was too restless for leisurely. And in serious danger of going back downstairs and making up for lost time.

The treadmills were my only hope. I mounted the nearest one and found myself running: a physical defiance of the need I still felt. My pussy was throbbing and liquid with want; I ignored it in favor of a trickle of sweat down the small of my back. The tingling in my thighs was soon joined by a heat in my shins. I worked to find a rhythm of breath that didn't remind me of the heavy inhale/exhale of orgasm.

I ran away from him, from my body's lust, from my want. I'm sure it wasn't that far -- I'm a beginner, after all. And when I stopped, the stitch in my side forcing me off the treadmill and back into the present, I walked loose-limbed to the water fountain. When I glanced around, there was no sign of the onetime crush. Cool water lapped over my tongue and down my throat, and I was grateful for good sense and the disappearance of my tormentor.

I haven't seen him at the gym since, and there's a part of me that is grateful: the part that loves the subtlety and ease of my muscles into poses, the easy ebb and flow of the present. But there's a part that wishes I'd see him again at the gym.

I've bought new running shoes, in case.

He hate me

I'm writing this after having been banished from the den. E:60 (new ESPN show) was highlighting this story about a Miami high school football program who ignored the sexual abuse of a 14 year old girl by students.

The principal was indicted for professional misconduct. The 14 year old victim has tried to commit suicide twice and is in a psychiatric hospital. The 19 year old who had sex with her in a school bathroom is at a Mississippi university on an athletic scholarship. His teammates think "the girl was wrong".

I think, "Why do these black boys hate us so much?"

Again.

But then I turn on the radio and hear some young guy talking about getting [head] in the front seat of the Hummer. And I remember.

It's because they have no reason to love us. They aren't taught that we are anything more than caregivers and willing orifices. Their role models don't value us at all. Our beauty is nowhere to be found, except in the Caucasianized versions of Berry and Knowles. The video caricatures teach young girls their worth, and the only three-dimensional aspect worth noting are breasts and buttocks. So Doppelganger girls desperately shake it in the clubs show what they can walking down the street, silently begging for attention they don't know how to get any other way. Nobody's taught them, and certainly the boys haven't been taught they deserve -- or need -- any better. And they wind up in bathrooms with boys who are all too willing to take them up on what they're unwittingly offering.

And they don't even see it as taking advantage, because they don't even consider us as having feelings, much less worth protecting.

I wonder about the football player at the university. Wasn't he raised by a black woman? What did she have to say about the matter, I wonder? What will she say if her son goes to the pros and marries a white, asian, or hispanic woman? What can she possibly say? How can she blame him, when she didn't teach him respect for his own women? When she didn't tell him that manhood isn't gained from taking advantage of others' weaknesses?

Stuff like this makes me want to not have children. What do I tell my daughter when she realizes the worth I and her father place on her is not equal to that a black man will? What do I tell my son when his friends talk about how they can dog women? Black love is dying, and honestly? I think this next generation of Black men will be the ones to perform the coup de grace.

Perchance to Dream...

What does it mean when the man you love wakes up from his nightly pre-work nap, looks at you a little dazedly, and asks "Babe, do you love me?" in that frightened voice one has when one is still sort of asleep but knows the nightmare they've been having is over?

Basically, C. has had the same dream 2 days in a row: Something about me, this house, and I'm assuming, me cheating on him. And something else he wont' tell me.

Which, honestly, made me feel terrible.What am I not doing to make him feel this is possible? What is going through his head? How can I fix this?

Maddening.

Where's Joseph when you need him?

one-third.

Should I live to be 100, approximately 1/3 of my life is over. In some respects, this is a relief: I've done some growing and hopefully my days of idiotic mistakes are behind me.

But then there's the pressure: What the hell have I been doing? Where's the impact on society? The Black Love manifesto? The fabulous career? I was supposed to have done all this stuff by now, and haven't. Again, assuming I'm living to 100 (mighty optimistic, aren't I?), I still have 66 more years to get it together.

NaNoWriMo only lasts a month, maybe I can start with that. A No Buy AND outlining a novel. Whee!