Edit; The Year of the Cut-Off
It almost seemed juvenile, but last night as I was speaking to my cousin about a scene out of one of Tales-From-The-Flipped, I stopped and said, “I guess 2007 is shaping up to be the year I edit my inner-circle list.” Here I am six weeks into the new year and I’m amazed at how many changes I’ve had to make to the list of folks I call close friends, confidants and tight family members. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’m a firm believer that if you’re not a positive influence, you shouldn’t have a role in this production I call my life – PERIOD. So let’s hope I’m left with some true friends by year end… I’d hate to think that everyone I thought were valuable friends end-up in cut-off consideration.
Family Turmoil Unearths Old Demons
At 15 I decided I would be honest with myself and my family and admitted that I am same gender loving. The announcement set-off a whirlwind of drama that landed me on the streets of New York City and the school of hard knocks. I never complained, I never called home to cry and through very difficult times I sometimes wondered how something that affected me and not my parents specifically, could alienate my family from me. My parent’s visit this past week and the recent soap opera that has unfolded in my family in the last couple of months have unearthed demons of years past. As I watch them fret and foam at the mouth behind my two sisters and my younger brother, the realization that my parents didn’t appear to worry about my well being during my difficult years only serves to grate at my very core. It really isn’t a matter of jealousy; it’s more a matter of principle. These are adults they’re worried about, while back then, I was a mere defenseless child. It has made me increasingly intolerant of the issues surrounding my siblings and moreover, resentful that they are such hopelessly paralyzed victims. Ultimately, I’ve been forced to again reconcile that the best solution is for me to avoid their issues and simply focus on me. Hey, it worked before and I have a sense that it’ll work again.
I Was Tipped Off
Call it stress induced self mutilation or just a bad habit, but in the last couple of months I’ve reverted to a very nasty compulsion I thought I kicked since my move back to New York several years ago – biting my nails. So, with my cousin staying with me this week, we came up with an ingenious idea; I would get a manicure with nail tips to prevent me from biting my nails and eradicate this nasty habit. The concept here was simple, she needed a manicure, and I needed to get my hands to look like I don’t spend all my free time chewing my fingers to my knuckles. What ensued was a manicure like nothing I’d seen before. This Vietnamese artist had my hands looking like I represent Puerto Rico at the Ms. Universe pageant. Don’t get me wrong, they WERE absolutely amazing to look at. I felt like I had a hand transplant – unfortunately, the donor was an Italian valley girl from Secaucus. My cousin said, “You just need to get used to them.” What happened after my manicure will live with me for quite some time… It was Saturday night and I had to find a way to keep my plans with my boys while sporting three inch nails. I just worked out before getting these blades on my finger tips and my body was pumped up…now with lady fingers attached. Ugh… so I chose to butch-it-up and wear a wife beater and some thug sweats. I was feeling sexy and these darn drag queen claws were getting on my last nerve. They were like a relentless cock blocking alter-ego taunting me the whole night. Three beers later and I had to pee. I almost severed my penis attempting to maneuver it out of my pants with these nails. Each time I hit the bar to buy a beer I was embarrassed to reach out my hand to pay for it, especially when the bartender appeared fixated on my hands and didn’t understand how they were jutting from my forearms. While on the dance floor, the beers in full effect and with sweat pouring down the center of my back and into the crack of my underwear-less behind, I snatched off my tank top. My sweats were riding the bottom of my ken doll and I was blissfully feeling like a scene out of one of these cheesy gay-movie club scenes. Suddenly this plump booty God of a man who managed to get his top off first, eases up behind me to spoon to Rihana’s Unfaithful. He ran his hand up my side and made contact with my nipple piercing and tugged it lightly. When I reached up to cup his hand under mine I saw my ostentatious claws and made a “female fist” in a feeble attempt to make my talons invisible. It was useless. I turned to Mr. Chocolate Thunder, smiled and said, “Excuse me… I’m hittin’ the bar” Needless to say, I never returned. So first thing Sunday, my cousin and I were sitting in front of my new Vietnamese best friend at Q Nails. “Cut these down about 2 ½ inches please,” I groaned. He simply smiled and said, “You last longer than I thought. Thought you would come right back.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, I almost gave myself a colonoscopy this morning.” He shrugged and said, “See you in two weeks.” Uh…right… two weeks.
Three months this Saturday…That’s right folks, I’m still holding on to my celibacy. Problem is, I’m now wondering what my motivation is. I really want some, but each time I get to a place where I can easily have some, I sabotage the deal and celebrate holding out one more time.
So here’s the thing…Is there any real benefit to holding out on having casual sex OR can casual sex be equated to assisted masturbation?
Keep passin’ the open windows…