#Poesia – GIRL TALK NO 22

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GIRL TALK NO 22
(why I won’t be at that march)

now is not the time
to be divisive
she tsk-tsked from her mountaintop
of white privilege and
self-righteousness
now is the time to
come together as women

and just like all the other times
a white woman
tried to put me in my place
and make me be quiet

because only white women
know what is good for all women
they decide
when we speak and
when we are heard

I thought to myself:
there is no seat at the table of
mainstream feminism
for women like me
brown bold
brown strong
brown outspoken
there is no space carved out
for my double-tiered reality of
gender and race

only
this
time
was different
because
this
time

I didn’t want a seat at
the white woman’s table of
feminism with a capital f
with her tone-policing and
insatiable need for
self-aggrandizement
her me-first-me-only attitude
at the expense of
my ideas beliefs reality

I’m making my own table

it’s long and wide with room aplenty
I’ve invited everyone over and
told them to bring their own chair
because I love the different and unique
and celebrating it and listening to it and
understanding it
is hardly subscribing to divisiveness

no matter what the white woman thinks

I’ll even invite her to grab a chair and
join us
despite the fact
she never wanted me around
and is happiest when I’m silent
because at my table
every voice deserves to be heard
our differences are worth reveling in
our diversity evokes power

at my table
sisterhood happens

at my table
we are magic


For a few weeks now, I’ve wanted to comment on the election and feminism and my reaction and feelings towards others – particularly white folks, and especially white women, who voted in droves for Trump, a fact this brown woman will never be able to wrap her head around, no matter how many times she tries. I often consider taking to this space, but am too angry and disgusted and really, the thoughts bumping around in my brain these days as I walk through this new reality should probably stay right there and fester.

But a few friends have encouraged me to speak out and speak up and share my anger and hurt and bewilderment, in my words rather than those of others whose posts and tweets I’ve shared and promoted. So of course, it came to me in a poem, mostly because everything these days that feels right and rhythmic and good for my soul comes to me in the form of a poem.

And yes, I will not be marching on Washington in January and no, you will not convince me otherwise. [Women’s rights activist Brittany T. Oliver puts down on paper with eloquence and brutal truth pretty much every single thought I’ve had about that march and feminism in general these past few weeks – check out her words HERE.] But I will continue fighting for women and people of color to be heard and respected and acknowledged as equals in other ways, ways that are more inclusive and intersectional. And for real, the next time you think about putting on your tone-police badge and shushing a friend or a colleague or a stranger, get over yourself and instead, pause, reflect, and RECONSIDER THAT SHIT.

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 7

love-triangle

My trip home to Georgia for Thanksgiving is winding down and coming to a close. The Kid and I had a great time, goofing around with the family, spending time with old friends, and of course talking politics.

I’m not going to bore y’all with the details, but I’ll share some random highlights:

1. I made a date with my mom for a night of opera at the The Met
2. I ate lots of pimento cheese and bacon jam – which was yummy, but nothing like my girl, Jen’s
3. I drank whiskey (what’s new there?)
4. I learned my mom’s theory on women in the arts prior to the 1900s, when men are credited with most of the great works: women have the gift of bringing forth life so men, in their need to feel somewhat worthy, produced great art. She has no explanation for the state of men these days – haha
5. I did yoga with my cousin and a room full of kids, making us laugh at their theatrics, but never lose focus on the pose
6. I watched my dad struggle with his post-op knee, quietly cursed his surgeon, and wished he never went under that man’s knife
7. I listened to geese fly overhead
8. I ate the most divine lemon cake ever created on this planet – I dare you to find a more perfect piece of confection – you cannot because you don’t know my sister-in-law and the genius she is in the kitchen
9. I ran. On a treadmill, but still. I ran. Which is major because I abhor running. And if by chance Meisha and Mei read this – NO! I am not going running with y’all.
10. I watched the sun rise over the trees in my folks’ backyard
11. I hiked Sope Creek Trail with my cousin and her dog, explored Civil War ruins, and wondered at the ghosts of the South
12. I let The Kid ride in the front seat while we scooted around town in search of a Starbucks because once upon a time, down South, us kids used to ride in the back of pick up trucks and this seemed a fitting homage
13. I tried every trick in the book to get my 2.8 year-old niece to talk to me, then listened in amusement as she chattered away to her cousins, all the while reminded of The Kid and how he used to be just. like. her.
14. I admired my brother’s beard and privately applauded his refusal to shave it
15. I chatted openly with an old friend about the march on Washington in January and white privilege and mainstream feminism and my disgust with it all of it, then woke up the next morning to a supportive text from her, because she gets it and wants me to share my story, give voice to my anger
16. I wrote some poetry
17. I ate more food than I’ve eaten in months because I am defenseless in the face of my mom’s Indian food and certain Southern delicacies destroy whatever will power I possess – my thighs might be thicker but my tummy ain’t complaining
18. I enjoyed my family and Georgia’s slow pace and even though I could never live here, I realize a part of me is in this red clay, buried deep and forever, its richness my spunk and tenacity, its boldness my backbone and might

And on that note, how about some more AMAL?

Here are parts ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE and SIX for all of y’all who are either behind on your dirty reading or have no fucking clue what or who AMAL is.

Enjoy.

Be magic.

READ. LOTS. OF. DIRTY. WORDS.


CHAPTER FOUR – AMAL

“Why don’t you stop being so controlling and maybe your sister wouldn’t hate you?” Jackson suggested with a slight sneer as he moved around the kitchen that day, opening cabinets looking for cumin until I finally stood, reached into the cabinet to the right of the stove, and fished out the blue topped bottle he sought.

“See? Like that, Amal. I didn’t ask you to find the cumin for me,” he shook his head and laughed and seemed not so amused, “but you just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“I was helping,” I explained through gritted teeth.

Jackson stopped what he was doing and shot me a knowing look, one that told me without saying a word at all, I was full of shit.

“You were doing nothing of the sort,” he disagreed, “you were helping yourself maintain control of this kitchen, just like you’re helping yourself maintain control of your sister’s life, just like you help yourself maintain control our relationship.”

“Bullshit, Jackson,” I growled, “don’t turn my sister’s inability to make a sound decision for herself into some treatise on your feelings of emasculation because I like to make decisions for myself.”

“For yourself, Amal?!” he asked, his voice tinged with incredulity, “is that what you call it? Are you really that obtuse? Because it’s funny how every decision you seem to make for yourself intimately affects me. You are a control freak, I don’t care what you say or how you sugarcoat it, you are and you know it.”

Jackson watched me fume that afternoon in the kitchen, aware his words struck a sensitive chord, probably hopeful they did something more. And as I seethed, he softened and his eyes that flashed so dark and angry quieted and appeared almost sad.

“Isn’t it exhausting, Amal, to always have the last word, to always be in charge?”

What Jackson didn’t know and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him – because by the time I realized it myself, it was too late, our relationship roles were set and there was no going back to redefine the parameters – was that I hated being in charge. I detested and abhorred it. 

I didn’t always want to be the leader, I fought against having to take the reins on everything and from everyone. I never asked to be in charge and for real, I was just waiting for someone to step up and stake their claim. 

Funny thing was, no one ever did.

Not my sister, or my best friend or my aunt or even Jackson. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stared ahead as I escaped my memories and returned to the moment: the loft, the drinks, the beautiful clothes, the beautiful people, and Mr. Downtown’s bullshit analysis of me.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, hotness.”

Fuck him. 

“The way you’ve perfectly planned your seduction of that asshole Andersen,” Mr. Downtown growled real low and I could tell he hated the idea of me wanting the professor almost as much as I hated being called controlling, “every step of the seduction outlined and mapped, plotted and played out, leaving little to your imagination because it’s all been worked over a million times in your mind, so much that it’s no longer something sexy but rather, another task for you to add to your list of things to do.”

I hurled daggers at him, my eyes full of silent fury, my fingertips itching to hurt him, shatter him and his unsolicited truths. I didn’t even want to fuck that smug bastard Andersen, that pseudo-intellectual with glasses and a mischievous smirk who couldn’t handle women his own age so fucked his students instead. I had been flirting for god’s sake. With him! In that goddamned bookstore. And now he wanted to use that nonsense to conduct some sort of psychoanalysis of me. Fuck him.

Jackson caught a glimpse of my growing ire from across the room and shot me a look as he studied Mr. Downtown, probably wondering if his assistance was needed, gentlemanly enough to do the right thing should I so ask. I declined with a slight nod and he paused and watched Mr. Downtown for a beat longer before he returned his attention to me and mouthed “I love you.” I shot him a tight-lipped smile and Jackson glanced once more at the stranger by my side, possibly sizing him up, calculating all of the hows, whys, whats and whens before returning to his conversation, and leaving me to mine.

I sighed to myself as I watched Jackson in action, the center of attraction, oblivious to the missed opportunity to stop whatever was happening between me and Mr. Downtown. It was Jackson’s chance to take control of a situation, step up, and handle my shit for me. But he knew I could do it myself, he rested assured on years of me doing it myself, so why would this moment be any different? Of course I could deal with the stunning stranger in the perfectly fitted suit and gleam in his eye, the man standing a little too close to me, speaking a little too low to me. I could and I would. 

For half a second I ached for Jackson, for me, for us. I contemplated my beautiful partner, the man with the beautiful body and even more beautiful mind, the man I loved intensely, the person to my person. Then I collected myself, turned to Mr. Downtown and said what I should have said from the second he and I crossed paths.

“Fuck you.”


I rather love when Amal gets pissed off and speaks her mind.

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 6

bizarre_love_triangle

We woke up to snow this morning.

Actually, I woke up to The Kid screaming, “MOMMY! MOMMY! OH MY GOD!” because that is how The Kid feels about snow, especially when there’s been no discussion of any sort of snow event in the Tri-State area. A morning full of fluffy, cold, white surprise and the potential to use the sled, which is precisely what he and his friend have been doing since 8:03 this morning, is cause for serious celebration.

I, on the other hand, am ensconced in my kitchen with a hot cup of coffee, some Thelonious Monk, and paperwork everywhere. There’s the admissions documents for The Kid’s new private school lying next to the paperwork necessary to change my name back to my birth name which is underneath all the apartment listings I’m looking at later today and all of that is next to poems poems poems everywhere because I printed a bunch of my writing in different fonts as I contemplate self-publishing a book of my words.

And in the middle of all of that is my laptop where I’m working on this great scene between Dutch and Juma that is full of death and blood and gore but also these quiet moments of incredible tenderness and love because that is how D+J flow – beauty and horror wrapped around each other in an endless cycle that is both exhilarating and exhausting to think about and write and live.

But I digress because really I’m just stopping through to give y’all another dose of Amal and Jackson and Andrew before I turn back to my #NaNoWriMo efforts.

And in case you need a refresher or are here for the first time and don’t know who the hell Amal and Jackson and Andrew are, here are parts  ONE TWO THREE FOUR and FIVE for your Sunday morning enjoyment.

Be magic.


CHAPTER FOUR – AMAL

Like sandpaper rubbed along a curve of wood to smooth out the creases and cracks and make everything beautiful, his voice, low and rough, curled around my throat, kissed my secret spots, and made my pussy throb.

“Not that it is any of your business,” I replied as I smiled into my glass and for a second, forgot who I was, where I was, and who I was with, purring so low Mr. Downtown would have to remain in my personal space to hear my words meant for his ears only, “but no, I have not fucked my professor.”

“Then David Andersen is a bigger idiot than I originally thought,” he laughed, seeming pleased about something he intended to keep to himself as he continued to verbally fuck me from behind, “because if you were in my class.”

“You are assuming he rejected me,” I interrupted as I turned his way, an eyebrow cocked in his direction, intending to playfully dress him down for his false impressions, losing my breath and forgetting myself in the face of his rugged beauty. The dark eyes, sun-kissed skin, stubble-covered jaw, full mouth; in combination on him, it was too much all at once and I gasped low as my lungs heaved, my capillaries constricted, and my breath tangled around itself in an effort to escape my parted lips. 

“Fucking god, you are perfection,” he settled in next to me, maintaining a polite distance but close enough I could feel his heat, his breath when he neared, his everything and it was heaven. And although Jackson and I were perfect together, the closest of friends, the most intimate of lovers, something about this man, this particular man with a voice that did things to me and a smirk that made me want to kiss it right off, made me reckless and restless and yearning for wickedness I had no idea I desired. 

I didn’t care about the party or who was watching us or much of anything besides him, this alluring, sensual, dirty-mouthed Mr. Downtown. He studied my parted lips and licked his own, the first time his body seemed to betray his cool exterior, then sucked in a breath and hissed, “goddamned perfection.”  

“Do not try and distract me with your pretty words, mister,” I teased in an effort to diffuse some of the tension between us.

“But they elicit such sensual sounds,” he came back at me, his voice liquid sex and again my breath caught, “just like that,” and he grinned because he was so very bad and he was so very right – all of his words did things to me. 

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted,” although there was nothing rude about anything he did, “Professor Andersen did not reject me, mostly because I haven’t even offered myself,” and I paused and he watched my mouth and waited and good lord, he looked like a man starved, “yet.”

He tore his gaze from my mouth and met mine and I don’t know what he saw but whatever it was, I got the feeling he liked it. 

“Taking your time, are you?”

“I am,” I cocked my head to the side and smiled.

“Reeling him in?”

“Something like that.”

“Teasing him a little here and a little there,” and then he leaned close, “so before he knows it, our studious David Andersen is little more than a raging hard on every time he contemplates anything remotely related to you,” and he gave me a quick once-over, “and that beautiful ass.”

My cheeks heated and my pussy flooded as the words beautiful and ass crossed his lips and entered the ether between us. I touched my throat and his eyes rested on my hand and suddenly every inch of my skin was aflame, so much so I wondered whether in the dim light of the loft he could see the flush ravishing my body. 

“Yes,” I finally mustered, “I like to offer a taste, some temptation tinged with a promise, to keep his mind racing and his thoughts focused on me,” and I cocked my brow, “and my beautiful ass,” and this time it was his turn to groan.

I heard it and he knew I heard it. 

He rubbed his jaw and his sleeve fell back to reveal intricate designs that disappeared down his arm and I found myself wanting to peel back all of his clothes and learn every line of ink on his body and just like that, I shook my head and righted myself. I had to stop this. 

I was Amal Warrier Naipaul and certainly, I wrote the dirtiest, filthiest raunch I could conjure, but that was fantasy. No where in my reality was there mention of a dashing stranger with a voice like sex coming along to flip my carefully constructed perfect existence on its head. And yet.

I glanced around the room, seeking that gorgeous brown skin and deep silk voice, the perfectly lined hair, the white teeth. 

Jackson.

Where the fuck was he?

“Relax.”

I turned back to Mr. Downtown despite knowing I shouldn’t because he was six feet four inches of wiry fuckable trouble, and I watched him speak the word “breathe” and for some reason I did. I breathed and I listened and I calmed and what had been racing a million miles a minute, slowed to a more manageable pace, something I could exist within and without and feel somewhat again, myself.

“And then answer for me,” he continued and I waited and wondered what would he do to me next, “are you always such a control freak?”

And just like that all the sexy and lust and desire that was floating in the air between us, just waiting for us to do something with it, all of that disappeared. Because unbeknownst to Mr. Downtown, that one phrase – control freak – irked me like no other.


Even though I find humans so boring, I rather love Andrew and his filthy mouth.

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#Poesia – UNNAMED LOVE STORY

boattome

UNNAMED LOVE STORY

between us lie
miles of unspoken hurts
bottled up words
we should have released into the ether
kisses that never made it
to throats and fingertips and lips
sighs full of longing
and sometimes regret

look at me see me remember me
full lips heavy breasts thick thighs
laughter mischief whiskey

the woman you love

now turn around
walk down the hill
around the corner and
turn left at the yellow mailbox
when you reach the lake
use the old rowboat
it works I promise

cross the expanse to the far shore
the sand is warm and inviting
the breeze is perfect
and the sun kisses your shoulders
just so

there are no rights and wrongs
no bitter tastes left on
tongues that long ago
held honey and magic
no past hurts that never healed

there is only me

I too made the journey
and am here
sitting on the shore
watching the horizon
waiting for you


The #Poesia pieces on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. This piece is inspired by the words of Rumi. It’s slightly edited, totally unscripted, spontaneous, super loose, and part of a collection of  some of my favorite work. These pieces are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 5

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I’m watching episode 4 of The Walking Dead, the one where Negan visits Alexandria and I know I shouldn’t like him, but my dark twisted soul rather loves him. He’s such an asshole and does all kinds of evil shit with that smirk on his face, looking all tall and sexy.

And when he met Father Gabriel – ha. I laughed aloud at his “creepy smile” comment – I’ve always thought the same about Gabriel – creepy.

Anyway, I’m going to keep watching Rick look sad and pathetic in the face of Negan’s sadistic, disgusting, horrifying behavior while y’all read some more of my Amal-Jackson-Andrew love triangle.

Oh, and for those of you just joining the party, here are parts ONE TWO THREE FOUR

Enjoy.


CHAPTER THREE – AMAL

“Amal! Oh my goodness,” warm arms surrounded me and my cheeks were kissed, not once, not twice, but three times, “my smutty little filth-monster. Look at you, lovie, studying that very bad boy over there. Thinking up another one of your tales of sex and bondage?”

Reena Amado, my god-sister and freak of nature, with her ass that stopped traffic and waist I swear I could put my hands around if she would let me try. My godparents and Jackson’s parents were friendly enough that bumping into her here was not a surprise, caught ogling another man certainly was. My cheeks flushed pink as a vehement denial played along the tip of my tongue, but before I could make any excuses, tell any lies, Reena waved me off with her perfectly manicured, hennaed and bejeweled hand.

“He’s gorgeous,” she whispered for my ears only but before she could say anything more revelatory, I hushed her.

“Stop. Don’t do it.”

Reena leaned away and gave me a once-over, a wicked gleam in her eye, before moving close and whispering, “don’t do what, sweet girl?”

I glanced at Jackson again, still wrapped up in whatever his advisor had to say, then returned my gaze to the tall tatted man in the perfectly fitted suit, the man who haunted my most private thoughts and filthy desires, the man I needed to keep at a distance.

“Don’t tell me his name,” I finally managed to utter, my breath trapped in my lungs, my voice sounding more plea than demand. 

Reena raised a perfectly shaped brow in my direction, then kissed my cheek, and continued as if our exchange never occurred, as if I did not just suggest another man – one who was not my very perfect boyfriend of three years – did things to me.

“Like I was saying, he’s stunning,” and we both glanced his way, because it was impossible not to, “and a total whore, but aren’t we all? They call him one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, so you can imagine the pussy coming his way, from all directions. He has two older brothers, lawyers,” and here she rolled her eyes because Reena hated lawyers, “and his dad, CEO of some shipping company. His mom was a professor at NYU, but she passed away when he was a teenager, which gives the mothering types total girl wood, thinking they can fill some feminine void in his life.”

Reena laughed and swiped a glass of champagne off a tray as it passed without missing a beat, looking impish and sexy and chic all at once.

“That man has no voids in his life, just look at him,” and we both stared again, watching as he moved towards two model-types and a politician. He seemed genuinely interested in their conversation and I briefly wondered if he was more Upper East Side than he let on. But when the waiter came around with a new tray of drinks and everyone’s attention was turned, he stole a glance at his watch and grimaced and I knew: downtown all day. 

“Nobody who looks like that has voids in their life,” Reena whispered into my ear, mischief on her tongue, her eyes full of mirth. 

I pushed her like I used to when we were kids and she was talking nonsense.

“Stop being so superficial,” I replied in a semi-serious voice, then I pulled her close and rested my hand on her ass.

“I knew you would cop a feel. I was just wondering what took you so long,” she joked and I kissed her and we laughed, our attention diverted from Mr. Downtown, ensconced in our bubble of sisterhood, our girl gang of two.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I whispered and she kissed me again, “me, too, baby girl.”

We joked and talked shit about everyone at the party until both of us were nicely drunk, highly amused, and fit to outbursts of silly laughter. And when the woman with ebony skin and eyes like fire caught Reena’s attention and held her stare for two beats longer than most, I knew my god-sister was gone. Reena squeezed my hand, whispered something incredibly dirty in my ear, kissed my neck, and moved through the crowd toward her conquest for the evening, leaving me alone with my giggles and an Old Fashioned.

“You surviving?” Jackson’s voice caressed my ear as he slid in next to me, a smile on his lips as he cupped my ass, “because if I don’t fuck you soon, I’m going to die.”

I leaned into him and brushed his lips with mine, “I have been told my pussy is deadly.”

He groaned and I knew he was imagining me pressed against some wall, skirt hitched around my waist, my peaked nipple in his mouth while he big-dicked me fast and hard and like we both liked it.

“Worth dying for every goddamned time,” he whispered and squeezed my ass before moving towards his aunt and father and someone else they probably wanted him to meet. I had already suffered through our awkward, obligatory hellos, there was no need to throw myself at their feet again, so I stayed put and watched their faces light up as Jackson approached. 

God, he had that affect on everyone, I thought to myself as I sipped my drink and watched him work his magic. I relaxed into the sounds of the party, the constant chatter and laughter and underneath all of it, a steady beat maintained by the brilliance of Thelonious Monk. The music pooled in my blood, sunk into my soul, and made me forget most everything but that beat, that melody, that perfect rhythm. 

Until.

“Amal Warrier Naipaul, have you fucked your professor yet?”


And there you have it – part V of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. There’s more to come, pun intended.

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 4

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I’m back.

Back from the shock and despair, the disbelief and fear of the election results. I’m coming to terms with this new Amerikkka, this one built upon the falsehood that is the electoral college, by chanting in my head like a mantra

SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE
SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE
SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE

But I needed a night to be quiet, chat with a friend, watch The Kid and his crew destroy my house in their liberated, free-from-this-madness-because-they-trust-we’ll-protect-them, anarchic play. I needed to turn inward, to scroll instead of comment, to listen to music. I needed to turn off the lights. I needed to dance.

I did all of that and you know what?

I woke up this morning, still scared and curious about what is to become of me and The Kid and The Daughter in this Amerikkka that has made it pretty clear it doesn’t like our brownness, and realized one thing: National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo 2016, has gone nowhere. It’s still sitting there, waiting for my daily word count updates, challenging me with my writer buddies’ ever-growing novels, taunting me like the monster it is.

And I smiled and said yes, let’s do this.

Well first I said she won the popular vote and then I said fuck Trump and then I said let’s do this.

But before I get to NaNoWriMo-ing my little heart out, it’s time for another taste of AMAL, that weird writerly thing called Contemporary Romance I considered giving a shot until I realized my writing world cannot exist without blood and blades and badass demons running through the streets.


CHAPTER THREE – AMAL

Three years of dating Jackson Davis meant I had three years under my belt of his father’s lavish parties, red carpets, award shows, and all kinds of other trappings of the rich and famous. Three Oscars and seven Emmys made for some serious swagger and the elder Davis threw it around like the best of them. 

For a girl who avoided her own family’s fundraising events on the Hamptons and at Lincoln Center like the plague, the fact I attended much of the same with Jackson was an irony not at all lost on me. In the beginning, I did it because I loved him and there was nothing more I wanted to do than go everywhere together. But as we settled into the comfortable spaces of our union, I balked more often than not at the invites and entreaties, preferring my laptop and camera, the beautiful solitude of my imagination, to the Tribeca lofts and glittering soirees. 

So as we stood on the precipice of the first party together in almost half a year, laughing and touching, licking and sucking, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden need to catch my breath and prepare myself for the bullshit on the other side of those doors.

“You’ll be fine,” Jackson squeezed my hand and kissed me, “because you’re goddamned brilliant and every man and woman in that room is going to be putty in your hands,” he kissed my fingers and licked the shell of my ear, soaking my panties for the umpteenth time that evening.

“If I give you the look, will you fuck me in the bathroom, no questions asked?”

“Amal Naipaul, I will fuck you any time, any place,” he smirked and pressed me to him, pushing his big dick into my body, letting me know he was not playing. Jackson then released my waist, interlaced our fingers, and opened the door.

Music, laughter, the tinkling of glasses and ice, a host of party cacophony greeted us as we entered the room. The perfect couple, impeccably dressed, him in Hickey Freeman, me in Burberry Prorsum, gorgeous smiles, firm handshakes, genuine laughter. We worked half the room side by side in seconds flat, then split to joke with friends, rub shoulders with actors, talk politics with directors. It was the shit I hated, and the arena where Jackson excelled. Smooth and sexy, gregarious and charming, he was a wonder to watch, a force of nature to be reckoned with. Every so often he would glance my direction, toss me a conspiratorial smile, touch the small of my back as he passed. Tiny ways of letting me know he knew. 

“You good? Because you look goddamned edible,” he whispered to me as he crossed behind on his way to greet his graduate school advisor.

“I am,” I smiled and winked, “edible, that is.”

Jackson’s eyes flashed dangerously for a second and I knew if we were near the bathroom just then, we would have fucked each other stupid. Instead, I settled for his warm palm on my ass in plain view of everyone in the room, heating my blood and making my nipples hard. 

“Stop it,” I laughed as he glanced at my chest and smirked, knowing his effect on my body and mind.

“Never,” he replied and then was off, so serious and studious as he pulled his advisor into his magnetic web, impressing the woman, probably making her wish she could do a little more than advise him.

I turned to catch up with a writer I knew, smiling to myself about Jackson and his everything, when out of the corner of my eye, a hint of black stopped me in my tracks, hitched my breath, and froze me in the moment. The party raged around me but I hardly noticed, oblivious to most everything but a waiter floating by with a tray of whiskey. And that hint of black. I grabbed a glass, tossed back the drink in two gulps, then went for another, my sobriety be damned. 

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathed deeply, then searched and found Jackson across the room, needing to ground myself in the familiar, in the norm. He and his advisor were huddled close, laughter on his lips as a smile curved hers. She wore her age well, striking and regal, a mixture of good genes and good luck wrapped in Victoria Beckham, bejeweled in someone I wouldn’t know even if I tried. I wondered whether Jackson ever thought of her as he fucked me and just as quickly I realized I would love to watch Jackson fuck her and just as quickly, I knew I was drumming up all sorts of ridiculous fantasies to avoid that hint of black glimpsed seconds ago from the corner of my eye.

Him.

The man from the bookstore all those months back with that voice of gravel and smoke and those eyes that stripped me naked and fucked me blind without touching me at all. The man I wondered about at the most random moments. The man I hoped never again to see because the fact remained, he did things to me.  

He wore a suit and I could only see his back, but the touch of ink peeking out from his shirtsleeves and the way he stood, as if he should have a skateboard in his hand instead of a lowball, told me all I needed to know. 

The wrist-kisser. 

Mr. Downtown to my imagined Upper East Side. 


And there you have it – part IV of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because like I said before, ugh…humans…they’re so boring.

At least these humans didn’t vote for Trump.

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#Poesia – THESE ARE DAYS OF SENSUAL LIVING

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THESE ARE DAYS OF SENSUAL LIVING

These are days of sensual living
as the fan circles overhead
slow
deliberate
moving warm air
full of honeysuckles and lemons
against our skin
cooling the sweat of our union
a soft kiss to calm our fire
as we resist untangling
arms and legs and bodies
instead making best efforts to slip inside
one another’s skin and taste each other
one
more
time

These are days of sensual living
the kitchen alive with pops and sizzles
as you pour batter into the cast iron
the coffee brews
bacon crisps
and the room is awash in a sea
of mouthwatering decadence
my mind focused on that
first warm bite
of fluffy perfection lathered in butter
and just a hint of maple
you roll your eyes at my pedestrian tastes
but i’m a down south girl
and that’s how we do

These are days of sensual living
city streets abuzz with that first hint of summer
lives lived outdoors
in the sun
under a blue sky
after months of cold grey apartment-dwelling
the café bustles as coffee-drinkers
adventurous tourists
harried moms
rub elbows with regulars
all vying for a table outside
a latte
some pastries
and amongst this chaos
you and I sit quietly together
working
each in our own world and yet
so very present to the other
I feel you watch me as I type
I cannot help but follow you
as you refill your coffee
you touch my back in passing
I catch your eye and smile
the quietest moments
leave us so very alive

These are days of sensual living
the dark of night a blanket for our weary souls
as we lie wrapped around each other
hushed by the enormity of our togetherness
bewildered by each other’s perfection
in awe of us
your touch
my sigh
our bodies
everything about we two made for this moment
all of our heartbreak and despair
our accomplishments and accolades
every piece that makes our whole
jigsaws into this new reality
I love all of you
the good bad ugly
you adore my worst selves
we are each other’s
forever ever
as bizarre and preposterous as that might sound
it is our truth
we own it

These are days of sensual living
oh yes, my love, they are


The #Poesia pieces on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are slightly edited, totally unscripted, spontaneous, super loose, and probably some of my favorite works. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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#Poesia – LET’S BE ENEMIES

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LET’S BE ENEMIES

let’s be enemies
the kind who see each other
across the room
and look away
with a huff and a sneer

the couple who sits
at a most intimate
table for two
eating a meal of decadence
without speaking a word

the girls in high school
who spread lies and nastiness
spit drama and cut eyes
while demanding
of their friends:
me or her

the politicians
caught up in a war of
words and ideology
incapable of acting in the
greater good
when ego and hubris
make for much sexier
dance partners

the dog
off her leash
rolling in the grass
happy to escape
the confines of the apartment
until
that
squirrel

the writer steeped in the solitude
of a block
waiting for words
that rest on the precipice
of becoming reality
incapable of coaxing much more
than blank pages

the boy so sure of himself
until she crosses his path
all wide eyes and seduction
confidence and freedom
making him feel the need
to spit a few words of judgment
and put her in her place

the addict and her fix
alone in a dank stairwell
the burst of flame
the prick of the needle
and oblivion
all for a fucked up devil’s dance
between life and death

the boy and the girl
full of kisses and laughter
who believed in always
and happily ever after
until one day with a start
gaze upon each other
to find nothing more than
what-ifs and regret

Let’s be enemies
the kind who see each other
across the room
and look away
with a huff and a sneer

then

let’s reconsider
let’s remember
love and wonder and light
touch and breath and sigh
let’s dance in the woods
let’s sing off-key
wrapped around each other
awash in our togetherness
enemies forever

*inspired by Maurice Sendak


The #Poesia pieces on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are slightly edited, totally unscripted, spontaneous, super loose, and probably some of my favorite works. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 3

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It’s day two of NaNoWriMo and I’ve got to get started on my daily goal of 2000 words, so I’m going to make this short and sweet: here’s part three of AMAL, my experiment in writing an adult contemporary romance.

Hope you enjoy.


CHAPTER TWO – AMAL

“Amal! Come on, babe. Let’s do this already.”

I rolled my eyes as I studied my reflection one more time. Hair, check. Mascara, check. Cherry chapstick, check. I pressed my hands to my waist, sucked in for a second, then followed the line of my hips, wishing they were a little smaller, knowing I would never be white-girl skinny.

“Amal! Stop pining for thighs like a white girl. Let’s go!”

Jackson.

Always reading me like a book. I headed downstairs, amused and annoyed at the same time, trying to remember the moment he learned me so well, wondering if I could do the same. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, all six feet five inches of his gorgeous brown perfection. Something about the moment reminded me of the first time I saw him naked – the bulging veins running up his arms, the six pack abs, the V of his narrow hips, and his huge, gorgeous, rock hard dick. 

“What?” he turned my way, catching my wild eyes and was momentarily thrown, slightly unmoored. And he kind of recovered, because he was Jackson, and he was perfect, but he also kind of didn’t.

“Holy fuck. You. Are. Magic.”

I stopped on the stairs above him and smiled, letting his words and his voice and his everything kind of sink into my soul and make me feel beautiful. Not that I needed his validation, but it sure as hell was nice. The way his eyes drank me in, his breath kind of caught in his throat, and that sexy smile curved his lips. You try being on the receiving end of that gaze and tell me it doesn’t make you feel all hot and bothered. 

“Shut up,” I purred as he headed up the stairs in my direction, “I’ll do no such thing,” he reached me easily, pressing me into the wall, a mischievous look in his eye.

“I thought you said we need to go,” I laughed low as he leaned close and brushed his lips along the shell of my ear. 

“We do need to go,” he kissed my throat and I sighed, “just as soon as I fuck you against this wall.”

I pushed him aside and headed down the stairs, away from his dangerous hands and wicked mouth, “Jackson Davis, I know you don’t kiss your mama with that mouth.”

“I don’t kiss anyone with this mouth but you,” he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close, “so please, let me touch your pussy.”

He knew how to get his way with me – nasty shit whispered in my ear, even nastier shit done to my body. 

“No,” I closed my eyes and groaned, parting my legs even as the word left my lips. 

“Please,” kissed into my skin, as his hand inched up my skirt, his fingers skimming the damp of my panties.

Against my better self, I arched into his expert touch, my suddenly throbbing clit needing something, anything from him. 

“No,” I insisted as his finger circled me, under my skirt, over my panties, “because then I’m going to want to put my mouth all over that dick of yours and we’ll never make it to the party,” I grasped his wrist and moved his hand, stepping away from all of his sexy and settling myself, “and your dad will hate me more than he already does.”

Without turning around, I knew Jackson’s face was contorted into some version of a grimace as he contemplated the best denial of my statement. I prayed he kept it simple as those lies were the easiest to ignore.

“Babe,” he reached for me as I opened the door to our apartment and headed for the elevator, “I’m sorry.”

I glanced back at him, his words throwing me off-guard, caught his smirk and punched him in the arm. “You’re definitely not touching my pussy now.”

Jackson wrapped his arm around my neck, kissed me, and laughed, “you know my dad loves you, he’s just shy.”

Doctor Jackson Rashard Davis II hardly loved me. I was not a member of the Davis family inner circle, he did not know my people. I was too free-spirited and earthy, I hated wearing panties, I loved attending protests. Tattoos decorated my arms, I wore a nose ring. I took photos of naked women, I directed videos of naked men. 

Not really, but hot damn if I didn’t want to. 

I wrote nasty, filth-filled stories for my creative writing classes and recited erotica at open mics around the city. I was all kinds of things Dr. Davis never envisioned for his son but more than any of that was the simple, undeniable fact I was not Black. 

I was Indian, from a family of world-famous Indians who did great things to improve the plight of the poor in war-torn regions around the world. For generations the brown folks of my family tree spent their vast wealth helping those less fortunate. It was what us Naipauls did. 

And it mattered little to Dr. Davis. 

“Naipaul,” I would never forget Jackson’s dad rolling my surname around in his mouth, “like V.S.?”

“More like Ravi and Sneha,” I replied with a smirk, hardly knowing back then where the conversation was headed, “surgeons, not writers.”

“You mean Indians, not West Indians,” he replied, a hard look in his eye. 

“Who cares, dad,” Jackson cut in, desperate to shift his dad’s attention away from anything having to do with me and my background, “it hardly matters.”

“It matters.”

The good doctor glared at me that evening, refusing to engage me further, continuing his pleasant and loving ways three years later. 

“Shy? Hardly. Asshole? Totally,” I countered as we walked onto the street and Jackson hailed a cab, “so promise me no more touching my pussy and whispering dirty shit in my ear.” 

A yellow sedan cut across three lanes of Amsterdam Avenue to pull to a stop in front of us. Jackson opened the back door, leaned in, and gave the driver our destination, then turned back to me with a satisfied look on his face.

I raised my brow and joked, “look at you, Black man, hailing a cab like a white boy.”

“He smelled your pussy and couldn’t help himself,” Jackson whispered all low and shit as he cupped my ass, pulled me to him, and let me know he was going to talk all kinds of dirty as much and as often as he liked. 

With laughter on my tongue and moonlight on my lips, I kissed him long and deep as we sped away from campus and into the night. We made out in the elevator on the way upstairs, smoothed our clothes into place as the doors opened and chuckled low, then put on our game faces and entered the fray. 


And there you have it – part III of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because like I said before, ugh…humans…they’re so boring.

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