Excerpt 8

Sometime in the not so distant past.              
             
…That sounds pretty bad doesn’t it? Like I treat neighbor dude like he’s my personal boy toy even though we only hook up when it’s convenient for him. Maybe he’d like that though, being my boy. He does have a hidden kinky side I think even he wasn’t aware of. You’re welcome neighbor dude (wink). I keep telling myself that someday I’ll stop having sex with him. I think he does drugs heavier than weed and I’d bet anything he drinks every day. Who wants someone that has to alter their reality just to get through the day? I grew up with that shit, I don’t want it in my life on a full-time basis. No thank you. I’m purging toxicity not taking it in, so what the hell am I doing? I want sex with him and that delish kissing. I want more of that but he’s not the person for me. I have first hand knowledge that he’s a cheat. Maybe someday a kiss won’t make decisions for me. And yes, I’m fully aware that a kiss is more than a kiss to me.              
             
Neighbor dude has his name because we’ve never used our names with each other. I don’t know if he knows my name. I’m assuming Malcolm told him what it is since he was at Malcolm’s place installing his ceiling fan when I called up there for help with my weather stripping and then neighbor dude showed up to do it for me. I didn’t introduce myself when they both showed up at my door. Neighbor dude was wearing a sexy smile and that’s all I saw. Malcolm left less than two minutes later and less than ten minutes later I was wearing neighbor dude’s sexy lips. He’s a whole bunch of sexy for a White dude. Which surprises me because most of the time he looks disheveled and he’s under the influence, and White isn’t my preference anymore. It’s a Robert thing, I’m working on it.              
             
I give people nicknames, it’s my thing. Not everyone, but most everyone and most everyone isn’t aware. Xavier was “Sir” for the longest time, but only when we were texting and usually only when it was nasty. It started after we had sex and only lasted for about the first year. I had no idea it was used in BDSM back then. I heard about BDSM then and was curious, but honestly, it scared me and I wasn’t interested in exploring why. I know why now; I like it. A lot. I’ve learned that the things that scare me are worth exploring. It’s like when I was afraid of myself and wasn’t sure why. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Xavier knew I had a high pain tolerance but BDSM isn’t his thing, he wouldn’t even spank me, he was too worried about my past. It bothered me for quite a while but I respect his decision. It’s too bad though. If he wouldn’t have held back and if he would have been intimate with me, even if it didn’t get a crazy like I wanted it to with him, it could have gotten crazy in other ways, ways he would have enjoyed. I didn’t do a quarter of the things I’ve done with other people with Xavier. He has no clue about the things I enjoy. For all his sexual experience and the things he talked about, I’m quite sure we could have had much more fun, there could have been much more sensuality, it could have been hotter and erotic. I would have liked to do the things I do now with him but he didn’t want me that way. He wouldn’t even kiss me. I became a project, not a desirable woman and no man that treats me like that, whether we have history or not, is worth the gift of me.              
             
Gervase is “Vase” because it’s a shortened version of his name and he loves his name. I called him “Chef” when we started dating and he liked that too because of his profession, but it didn’t stick. I’ve introduced him as “Vase” to everyone I know even though he goes by “Ringo” (he loves The Beatles), however, the other day he told me I have to start calling him “Ringo” as well, no more “Vase.” I’ve been calling him that name for the last three years even though we haven’t dated in over two years, so it’s going to be difficult. It’s what he wants and so does his mother and since it’s important to him because he respects his mother, I’ll do it. Relationships are complicated, so it’s not my place to question why but all I can say is a mother knows. She heard me the last night we were in California, I’m sure of it. Granted, she has no idea that I had “Ringo’s” blessing to be with other men, but I’m sure the things she heard me saying to the guy I met on the swinger’s site, the reason I had to change my phone number a few months ago, are what caused her to believe I wasn’t good enough for her son. Trust me, they were for me too, which is why I broke up with him and why we’re best friends now. Blessing or not, I felt like I was cheating.              
             
Derrick is “26.” Not very original but I’m gonna be honest here. I get off on the fact that I’m a fifty-five year old woman who has a twenty-six year old playmate who thinks I’m sexy as hell. I call my lovers playmates because every guy I’ve been with freaks out over the “L” word. Anyway, Derrick has absolutely no idea that I refer to him as “26.” I think he’d probably be angry since it’s not much of an identity, but he wants that, anonymity. Hardly anyone is aware that he exists, unless you count everyone who reads my poetry. See, he has another nickname too, my “caramel man.” He’s aware of that one and likes it. He’s a beautiful man, with beautiful caramel skin covered in sexy black tattoos. Those caramel muscles and  washboard abs have creamy smooth caramel skin and when I picture him lying in my bed with his beautiful dreads pulled back from his sexy handsome face and those full lips…okay, I gotta stop cuz thinking about him and how he looks and what we do to each other…he and I…yeah. I need a shower.              
             
Jax is “Number Three.” Again, not very original and he’d probably be angry also if he knew he had a number as a nickname. It’s not sexy at all even though he is. Oh my goodness, that dark skin, and I mean dark. Black, black. Black as midnight black. He’s large, bald, yummy, he has a playground of a body…ummm, yeah. He’s my typical type. I always make him disrobe completely when he’s here. He wants to leave his shirt on but I want it off. I love skin, it’s an aphrodisiac to me and his skin is…mmm. Okay, I’m crossing my legs right now…imagining him tethered to my bedroom door, drink in one hand (the restraints on that side are lower to accommodate him), that magnetic smile flashing those bright white teeth, the twinkle in his eyes, his magnificent body against the door as I lick my lips, my eyes roaming over all his deliciousness, his eyes darkening as I move closer…mmm. I’m sorry, that man is too sexy. And a whole bunch of fun. He wouldn’t let me restrain him at first. I learned from Xavier it’s a thing with some Black guys. Derrick was the same way, so was Jax at first. Xavier told me it’s dangerous for a Black man to let a White woman to tie him up because of history. A White woman could do whatever she wants then say she was raped. Then a Black man doesn’t stand a chance at justice. I didn’t want to believe him but Jax and Derrick said the same thing. Needless to say, Jax and Derrick both like it now. There’s nothing like receiving Mary Therapy like that, trust me, they all say that. It’s better than paying for a therapist when a man has troubles. I digress. Anyway, Jax is “Number Three” because when we started having sex I was dating Vase and having sex with Xavier. I thought it would just be the one time but it’s been almost four years now, on and off. I even wrote a poem about him titled “Number Three” and posted it. He’s isn’t aware, but I was grateful that we were still having sex. I said a whole bunch of things in that poem that I’ve never said to him but I’m sure he’d like.              
             
Lots of guys I met when I was on the swinger’s site had nicknames but they didn’t know either. They turned out to be one night stands because I couldn’t stand how they fucked. I’m very picky, too picky. There was one guy I gave two chances and it was two too many. His nickname was “Five Minutes of Funk.” Not only did the sex only last five minutes, but I didn’t like his hands. I couldn’t stand the way he held his hands in the pics he sent me. He was sexy AF though. Dark, young, very handsome and he lived less than ten minutes away. Which would have been convenient because we were both looking for a regular gig. To me, regular lasts more than five minutes. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone the second time. The Universe has played some cruel jokes on me in the sexual arena the last three years, I know now they were lessons, but I laid there in stunned silence. “That’s it?” “What, baby?” What? WHAT?! Was I the only one here? WTF? ! “Get out.” “What?” “You heard me. Get out.” This was the second time. The first time he called me an asshole for looking at him cross-eyed when he rolled over after the five minute flash and started getting dressed. “What did you call me?” “Oh, my people do that. Asshole doesn’t mean the same thing for your people as it means for my people.” My people, your people? What the fuck are you talking about? An asshole is an asshole, asshole. He was looking at me the same was as I looked at him the day he called me that. “I said get the fuck out. Now. Asshole.” Mr. “Five Minutes of Funk” got dressed in less than two minutes as I stood up on my bed in my red lace crotchless bodysuit, my legs in a wide stance, my left hand on my hip, and I pointed at the door. I may only be five feet tall, but I’m taller than any man when I’m angry. After he left I wrote a whole bunch of poems about him, using his nickname as the title and some.              
             
I call men all kinds of pet names during sex. “Baby” is a favorite. How could it not be? The first time a man wanted me to call him “daddy” I had a hard time with it. Xavier absolutely refused to be called “daddy” but he got off on the poem I wrote, “Calling Him Daddy.” Derrick loooooooves it. To be honest, once he started saying things like, “are you gonna _____ for daddy?” And things like “show daddy____,” and calling me “daddy’s good girl,” I was hooked. I don’t care that he’s thirty years younger than me. Maybe that makes it hotter, who knows, who cares. I’ll call him “daddy” every now and then if it means he’ll keep taking to me like that. One guy wanted me to call him “Mr. Big.”  The first thing I thought of was “Sex in the City” and I had to put my head down so he couldn’t see my face. It took everything I had in me not to laugh. I just made it look like I was fascinated with his Mr. Not So Big. It’s a lie when they say size doesn’t matter. It matters to me. My vagina reaches my neck. He’s gotta be able to at least work at hitting the back of it. I’m an A-spot girl. Dive deep fellas. Though a good G-spot rubbing is very nice. But he better be able to go further than that. Anyway, I draw the line at calling a man anything degrading. I don’t care if he likes it, I’m not doing it.              
             
I don’t have nicknames for my family or friends. Malcolm doesn’t like when I call him “dude,” he prefers “babe,” but I call everyone “dude” even women. He thinks it’s respectful for a woman to call a man “dude.” I’m sorry, but I’ve been doing it my whole life. He’s my best friend, my best girlfriend even though he’s a man. He gets it, he knows why. He’s only two years older than me but he seems like an old man to me. He’s always telling me to “stay away from those young guys.” He gets it but he doesn’t. I like younger guys, the problem is they’re usually too young and that means young brains. It gets difficult but sometimes my emotional brain operates on a level that young. That’s the part Malcolm doesn’t get. I only figured it out recently myself. I think it’s because that’s when I started isolating. Anyway, I try not to call him “dude” and I catch myself all the time. It ends up sounding like “do-babe.” He laughs now instead of getting frustrated like he used to. I can’t call him “babe.” That’s reserved for a boyfriend and since it’s looking like that ship may be sinking I should just start calling guys “Titanic.”              
             
I have a few nicknames. “Perky” is one, but it’s not because of my breasts. They’re far from perky. They used to be, now they’re more like over-sized water balloons. My double D’s have met gravity. That nickname was given to me in high school and it stuck. My other high school name was “pineapple.” I know, right? The international sign for swinging (and hospitality- I know, I’m laughing too). How’s that for ironic. When Xanthe and another friend and I decided we would pick fruit as nicknames I had to pick that. I wish the universe would have whispered a lil something in my ear, maybe given me some pointers or something. Before I go any further, there my childhood nickname, “Chief Big Tit.” It’s still painful, probably because I’m doing trauma therapy. I’m American Indian (Cree), Irish and a bunch of other nationalities. The rest needs no explanation. I was eleven years old and the neighborhood kids called me that while I doing whatever I could to hide my body. Today, there’s “Red” because of my hair. Obvious. A bunch of people call me that. A friend who has never seen me in person calls me “hips” based on my description.  Sometimes I’m a little too…accurate. I’ve gone into detail about some other things when my boundaries weren’t the best. I think I’d probably die if he calls me anything based on those parts, but he’s respectful so I can’t imagine that he would. There’s “Her,” my profile name on the poetry website. A few people offsite call me by that name. Jax will call me both of the latter. I don’t think he’s used my given name in the last two years now. Oh wait, that’s not true. He used it a couple weeks ago and I felt like I was  being chastised by my mother. It wasn’t that way, but it threw me off guard. The reason I chose “Her” was because of Xavier. He wasn’t dating anyone at the time, but I thought of myself as the nameless other woman because he kept me a secret from the rest of his life. You’d never know there was a time we were going to live together. That was about a hundred years ago when we were both different people. Am I jaded now? Probably. I like “Her,” it suits me now. I didn’t know it at the time but I became the other woman. Maybe not with Xavier, but with other men, openly and not. In the lifestyle and not. With neighbor dude before his woman found out who he is and what he’s all about. They aren’t together anymore and I’m still having sex with him. I wonder all the time what that says about me. And truthfully, there was a time I got off on being the other woman. The secrecy, the feeling of wickedness, feeling desired like that, knowing that a man was cheating in his woman because he wanted me that badly…I liked it. Too much. Now? Not so much. But that nickname, my profile name, and that persona, gives me the freedom to be myself without disclosing who I am. I know it’s BS, that its all in my head. It’s just a fake name and I am who I am. I expose myself every day through my writing and the things I say and do, but it’s nice to think I can be whoever I choose to be at any given moment with that name. Fairytales are real whether we want to believe in them or not. A fairytale saved my life even if it turned into a nightmare, so fuck it. I’m “Her” and Mary even if I’m the only one who thinks so. That’s the beautiful thing about life. My life can be any way I want it to be and so can I.