We will revel together in not fitting on the seat
My shoulders covering part of your seat
You half way into the isle.
That is why we sit in the back anyway
Maybe it is a blessing,
We are always the last
To have a neighbor in our seat
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

But you stood
Not wanting to confront the unwelcome receptions.
The judgments, the self-reassuring selfish reactions
The total lack of compassion, of humanity.
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

Look at their expressions
Just because you are clutching the seat behind them
Inconveniencing them by making them move in
Because the isles were not made to fit our voluptuous frames
I will not judge you because you do not fit neatly in the rows
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

I know you can see it in their eyes too
Just because you do not have the starving Somali look
That so sadly is their ideal
They think it’s your fault
Your fault for inconveniencing them
For not eating less, For not exercising more
“Why don’t you just slim down?”
“Why do you have to use public transportation being SO big?”
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

I know that pain in your eyes,
I have felt it to.
Rejection for what you cannot control
But wish you could
You avoid eye contact looking down.
We are told it is our fault
You cannot hide the guilt
For which you have nothing to guilty about
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

But I know it is more complicated than that
I know how you struggle, how you eat less
How you are taught to hate yourself
When there is so much to love.
I know how inconsiderate they are, how selfish their thoughts
talking obnoxiously about nothing
not caring about disturbing others on the transportation.
“Sit next to me my rounded sister”

Haven’t you noticed those bone protruding bodies taking 2 seats
Are also the same people letting us know their personal business
Talking into a small rectangular boxes?
So feel free to judge them as they do you
We can judge them together
“Sit next to me my rounded sister.”

So here’s to you my rounded sister
We are alike, rounded by G-d
Though colored differently
You are my sister
And hopefully next time there will be a fellow brother
Who will actually have the guts to say,
“Sit down here with me, my rounded sister.”

It really did move in slow motion, the milliseconds drifting in a timelessness away as you accept the inability to grab life from the water.

My father wanted to know why. Why I had drifted to the deep end. Why I had gotten out of my floating tube. But through broken coughs and gasps for breath I could only mutter that I did not know.

Four year olds aren’t suicidal, but there is a strange curiosity that allows you to do things you know you will regret. The temptation to step off a high bridge, step into rapids or traffic. Maybe that is what spurred people to create bungee jumping or white water rapids, the reclaiming of child innocence even about things we should be afraid of. That as we age, we become more aware of consequences.

The last thing I remember about almost drowning in a hotel pool in Mexico is that I didn’t seem to care.

Those expressions that adorned all the white faces when my parents and I entered the room was the familiar one of “what the hell are the black people doing here;” even though we were attending my father’s uncle and aunt’s 50th Anniversary. They had always been kind to us so we felt obliged to come, but we never really belonged, thus our prolonged absence from such events and lack of familiarity with the majority of the faces. My father’s family has never accepted the Black family. Since before I can remember they made it clear we are the proverbial black-sheep; pun intended.

I had been processing this incident for a couple of days now, having feelings of laughter and sadness about it. But then I saw the movie “Antwone Fisher” Denzel Washington’s directorial debut. It is about a Black Navy Seaman born to a woman in prison who abandons him, and a father who was shot two months before he is born. Basically he finds his family and subsequently his place in the world. The search quiets all the demons that he had to conquer after years of abuse, abandonment and neglect.

Late for a get-together I jump into the shower. I don’t know what it is about water pouring over my face. There is a mysterious and magical connection between H2O and my brain that immediately awakens my mind. I am convinced I have solved the world problems in the shower, but forgotten it all during the toweling off process.

It hit me instantaneously as the water pounded the back of my neck and dripped down my body.

I have never belonged. I never had a family. I was never black enough to be black and certainly never white enough to be white. From a young age I was constantly reminded I did not belong anywhere. During elementary school it came in the form of bruises kindly donated at the hands of fellow students with sticks and rocks. Contrary to the rhyme, they did hurt as much as the word that made up my nickname, “alien” (too young for them to know nigger I guess).

Even within my immediate family I never belonged. What does a kid do when they feel smarter than their parents. When they are more mature. When they have no one to admire except for grandparents that regardless of current vital signs, alive or dead, they have never truly met?

There are so many moments, a mother telling a 3 year old to learn to play by himself because she cannot entertain him. Long-rides to a summer home alone in the back. Alone in the shower, I feel more familial connection with the cats now trying to lick the dripping water from the bathroom sink then I do to the persons who conceived me.
I have only seen the world as if I am not a part of it. My life is not unlike watching “Antwone Fisher,” I have the same connection to the characters in my waking life as I do to the characters on screen. And all too often the same detached vantage point. Like my life was a sad TV docudrama and I was just a viewer unable to affect its characters.

Is it because I really don’t belong or because I have put up so many borders so that I never can? Where is the line between life trying to fit stereotypes that do not fit and a not-so-self-conscious attempt to defy all of stereotypes?

I pull the towel around my back, move my arms back and forth to dry my skin. The mirror unassumingly reflecting all my imperfections, I am allured by my light-brown skin. All the history, all the conflict, merely based on this pigmentation, this incarnation of G-d’s coloring. I am bound to my ancestry by the struggle to no longer deny my humanity based on those skin tonations.

Yet the family whose pigmentation most closely resembles mine, my mom’s family, only gave me a little perspective on my place in the world, and some foundation. But how can you belong to a group of people you see only once or twice a year? And I will never belong to my father’s side of the family who has always and will always see my skin and my chosen spirituality as so differentiating me from them that shared ancestry need not apply. I have been so scared to face what I have always known, that I have no home, no family.

Can I even write this down fast enough? One hand brushing my hopefully soon to be pearly whites another trying to take down all that my subconscious is processing, I am moved to tears. Am I being ridiculous? It seems so as they are cut off almost as soon as they started, before I could move my hand to take note.

Not belonging has made me so perceptive, I have spent a lifetime looking at people as the other. Observing, studying, sizing them up. Can I trust them? Can I allow them to get close? Or do I have to keep them away, manage them, control their impressions of me? I usually tend toward the latter. This world is geared toward making you feeling alone. It pushes us apart, dehumanizes us, separates us. I have always kept people at a distance as people have never given me anything but confidence that they are untrustworthy.

I have spent my teenage life running from groups, never fitting into sports teams I played on. Never committing to groups I joined, even fraternities I pledged my brotherhood to. A large part was a total hatred for one-dimensionalism. I have always liked to have a lot of definable characteristics instead of one define my life. There is so much in the life to enjoy. Yet this has always kept me from truly belonging to anything.

How do I balance refusing to be pushed into these unnatural definitions and belonging to some group, to something, to someone? I look black therefore I should be; but oh wait your father is white, then are you not “really black, you are half-white” that means you are … You are male therefore you are, smart therefore, athletic therefore, but wait you are fat so that means….

I am adrift without a true foundation. Even the most distinguishable characteristic that too often is used to define me gives me a weak footing. Let’s face it, I will never be black enough. I never wanted to fit in those boundaries. Why be just another black face? Why conform to those stupid expectations of “blackness.” And I am to dark to ever pull off being my father’s white son.

Society is always telling us where we belong and where we don’t. How does one fight against being a stereotype and while never belonging to a stereotype?

All those white faces focused on my mother and I as we entered. They weren’t my family, their stares eliminated any doubt that we did not belong. Just because we share similar DNA sequencing, a familial genetic coed, does that make us family? I can say “hey nau voonst” in the same PA Dutch accent as them, but I might as well be Chinese when I am saying it.

I must be the only only child who is scared to be alone. I hate to be alone physically, yet emotionally I am always alone.

As I walk into my room the first thing I go for is my TV changer. I turn on the TV so I am not alone. Somehow the TV brings that comfort. Like a parent that seems to have been absent from my childhood. I might be taller, larger stomach, certainly more hair, have my own place, and found love in so many areas of my life, but as the movie so rightly illustrated when Fisher asked, “Who will I am the same little boy, sitting in the corner of my bed crying over the new bruise, over the feeling of being alone, being isolated, being the first grade “alien.”

The smile they shared came not from the ecstasy they just gave each other but a deeper place of comfort and it showed beyond the depth of their shared gaze and giggles on their mouths.

The glow was unmistakable and seemed to bind their bodies together. As they tried to wrench them a part their bodies voiced their displeasure in a loud squeak as the sweat that molded them together was forced apart.

To assuage the discontent in her body she quickly climbed back toward him laying her head on his pillow chest and arm draped around his man made teddy bear stomach.

The profound smile in her eyes couldn’t be removed even by the pleasured exhaustion he had caused.

“Seriously you are amazing.”
“It’s the love machine” He rubbed his stomach pleasingly.
“I never thought it could be this good.”
“What I didn’t look like a pure pleasure ride?” Even as she punched him, the same smile, the one out of her control stayed firm.
“Nice.” They both laughed.
“So what do I do that is so amazing?”
“I mean you didn’t stop you just kept coming and then so did I.”
“Well you are so inspiring, that thing you do with your hips… amazing.”
“I am glad you liked it.” She looked up, but didn’t need to tell him she loved him, she simply tilted her head toward him with her unmovable grin; her body communicated the love emanating it from all over. He squeezed her, his body teletyping its thank you through his arms bringing her closer. She relaxed back into his chest and buried her body in his arm wiggling a little bit to really fit in. Her bodies smile was reflected even more on the lengthening of the corners of her mouth. She closed her eyes to profoundly appreciate the rhythm of his stomach’s movement.

He watched her arm move up and down as his ample stomach filled and deflated. She interrupted the peaceful beauty of their bodies dancing in this rhythm moving her hand underneath his stomach and bouncing it up and down like a fake doubled “D” breast. Not letting his clear movement of dissatisfaction deter her she stuck her finger into his belly button. His fatness not made enough of an uncomfortable joke she moved passed his pleas to stop and blew on his stomach, letting the extra skin that encased his stomach flutter under her lips.

The shaming with her actions was punctuated with an uncomfortable proclamation so beyond his understanding it was hard for him to respond beyond the tears of disappointment and self-pity that were wanting in his ducts. “I think your stomach is sexy, why don’t you let me play with it more?”

“I am not sexy with this thing. I could be sexy for other reasons, but my stomach is just a sign of my laziness, inability to control my mouth, and clearly slovenly soul, or so society tells me.”
“You aren’t any of those things, you are intelligent, thoughtful, athletic, big AND beautiful.”
“But how can I be beautiful with this thing? Don’t you sometimes wish I was skinnier? Wish I lost weight… had a six pack?”
“If you want to lose weight or exercise more that’s fine with me, we can just have more sex just don’t lose your stomach in the process. I love your stomach too much; he gives me so much pleasure.”
“My stomach?” An unexpected shock could not be disguised in his question, while normally faining surprise this was one of those rarest of moments that actually did jolt him.

“Yeah it rubs against my clit or sits right on top when you thrust it feels surprisingly doubly amazing.”
He allowed himself to start living this thought, such a concept never leaking into his consciousness nor on the lips of one of his past lovers. Even though his consciousness wanted to disbelieve something so ridiculous, he smiled allowing it to be true.

“What about me, am I beautiful?”
“I mean look you are not…” He took the moment to say what he really meant. “I have no delusions that I am Brad Pitt. But I always hoped that someone would see me and love me for who I am, not who I appear to be.” He looked down to let his eyes describe his next point. “I may not be Brad Pitt and you may not be as societal defined hot as Angelina Jolie, but we are definitely just as beautiful.”
“So you are ok that I will never be skinny, never look good in a bikini.”
“As long as you keep looking this good naked and feel this good next to my skin and continue to just be the person you are, there will never be anyone as beautiful as you. I don’t care what society says as long as I have you in my arms I will never again be without true beauty.”
The warmth their souls’ exhaled was being shown in the dark comfort of their eyes, “I hope my eyes reflect your truth, because I have never felt so seen as when you look at me.”

The moment still fills him with a radiance that never allows him to question the truth of that moment even as it has seemingly been proven false.

She looked over with a forced smile; that smile that tries to hide how much happier she is but doesn’t want to hurt him with the conceit of that thought. Thinner and less pretty she put her head into the properly muscular shoulder of the man without any interesting distinction. His claim to fame was clearly the ordinary handsomeness he displayed. Just as easily as he could be an Abercrombie & Finch model he could be forgotten; his lips elongating to the corners of his slight dimples with all the depth he could muster and yet clearly lacking any true depth behind it.

The cold infrastructure that underpinned this new couple’s exchange, defined their embrace of these now societally sanctioned beauties.

He smiled his clearly fake smile and turned to walk away. He wished he could see his toes as he looked down for comfort. He wanted to see that they would carry him to his next step and the one after that. Instead he saw the same stagnant view he always saw when he looked down. He gave his stomach a momentary rub and trusted his feet to take him on. The warmth of their moment was now fading out of his stomach and being forced back to the recesses of his abdomen.

Why don’t we remember the breeze
And the way it pricks at our hair as we sore on a swing
Such calmness brought as we glide toward clouds and back.

Why don’t we remember the sensual smell
The comfort of summer on the nose
The grass stains on the back well worth the proximity to the wild flowers.

Why don’t we remember the sweet summer sound
The song of the ice cream truck
That claims even the most lactose intolerant victim to its siren entrancing jingle.

Why don’t we remember the comfort
Of grass between our feet
The joy that comes from the long anticipated freeing of your toes from winters tomb.

Why don’t we remember the reassurance
Of a mothers caress on the forehead
The complete soothing as a mother strokes the hair, back on an accepting brow.

Why don’t we remember the smile
When we didn’t disappoint our number one fan
Even though we struck out at the plate in that oh so crucial moment.

Why don’t we remember the joy
Of holding onto your friend’s hand as a person runs full steam at your red rover line
The reassurance of a friend’s squeeze as you successfully repel the best efforts to break the special bond.

Why don’t we remember the feeling
The fear and excitement
As the one we are anxious over final presses their lips against yours.

But we remember the hurt
“I really like you and care for you, but just as friends… its not you it’s me, I am just not ready for a commitment.”
Relationships come and gone not diminishing the eternal strangle in your gut of that initial rejection.

We remember the pain
A relentless pain from true rejection of who we are
The attack on the heart that can only come from the ones we let in; betrayal of our insecurities.

Oh we can recall our fondest memories, but the details fade like the face of a loved one now past.
And no Ginkgo can make the memories as sweet.
The mundane beauty swept away by the unassuming cruelty of times unyielding march to the next second.
Yet the ache a few sounds put together carelessly, can be remembered with timeless clarity.

What a curse memory has on our life, who decided this is what we will remember?

“You’re a mother fucker.”
You would be surprised how often I hear that.
“You’re a stupid motherfucker, it’s like I mean nothing to you… well don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

I was mid argument, or at least mid being yelled at. One coping mechanism I developed after years of grade school teachers yelling about my impending ruin if I didn’t listen, was the ability to tune out the world while still appearing like I was paying attention.

I barely noticed the apple coloring that was starting to define her cheeks. My mind had wandered to familiar mantra. Just give up it’s not worth the trouble. Give up, why bother trying to salvage this at this point. There was a long time that my, “can’t do” attitude used to bum me out, but slowly I’ve begun to accept that I just don’t care. Missed potential, self-sabotage call it what you will; it certainly was not a unique coping mechanism. But it’s not like I cared enough to change it.

Not even the tear stained face before me could muster enough emotional fortitude to want to change the dimensions of how I interact in relationships. It wasn’t that I was feeling bad for myself, quite the contrary, I just didn’t care, not enough about myself or the woman in front of me.

A knock, saved by a knock the irony brought a snide smile to my face. Normally the bane of my existence, I often turned off my lights, lock my door, and take the phone off the hook just to avoid the knock. R.A.’s or Resident Assistants were supposed to be available at all times, I could have taught a seminar in avoiding ever having to assist my residents. Even nights like tonight when I am on duty, I would pretend I wasn’t there just to avoid having to deal with these spoiled freshmen’s whims. Irony never misses an opportunity to rear her sadistic humor.

“I took a bottle of pills and I don’t know what to do.”
“Ok come in, Beth can you leave?” It’s amazing the world could be crashing around me, but my indifference finally has a purpose, calm amongst the storm the cliché goes.
“Relax take a seat, I’m going to call 911 for help.”
“I’m sorry, Beth.” Here is my resident, pale with fear, shaking while in the midst of a suicide attempt and yet she calmly walks into the room and apologizes for interrupting the fight she had to hear from the hallway. If only people realized the strength they have. I find that some of the people who seem the most weak and feeble often possess the most internal strength made stronger by their perseverance over their daily mental assault of self-loathing and self-deprecation. It’s easy to appear strong when you are never troubled by thought. Try making it through the day when your mind tells you to give up on life because you’re not worth it.

“Hello 911, Yes I have an emergency.”
“Yes she took a bunch of pills…. Yeah she’s here now.” I tried to give her one of those comforting smiles, but it just came off convoluted and forced. Her face reflected my nervousness. It was like being on a date that was going south.
“It’ll be ok; emergency will be here any moment.”
“I am sorry to…”
“Please you did me a favor, I am sure you could hear the argument when you knocked.”
The forced laugh eased the moment, “I hope it wasn’t too serious.’
“It was.”
“Well I hope you didn’t do anything bad.”
“Why do people automatically assume it is the guy who does something wrong.”
“I didn’t assume that, it just didn’t sound like you were the one doing the yelling.” No matter what the situation, my default is always to make a joke. The smile we shared was not just because it was funny; I could sense an understanding, knowledge that we had the same coping mechanism.
“I don’t know why I did it; I just swallowed and regretted it.”
“You’re not suicidal, if you wanted to do it you could have, you saved yourself, I am just glad I was here to help.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You’re stronger then I am, I want to give up so many times but I am to scared, I think I am more scared to die then I am to live, that’s the only thing keeping me alive.”

My shrink would be so proud. I am a control freak, I always control who knows what about me and the impression I give. But here without even thinking, I let my guard down, gave up information I myself was just discovering. Out of my subconscious and into her memory, it had never happened before.
“You?”
“I know it’s my deep dark secret, don’t tell anyone.”
“Six years of therapy you?”
“One semester, but many years to look forward to. I will have to get a job to support my therapy habit.”
Another shared smile.
“I have to apologize I’m going to say something cliché,”
She gave one of those smiles we give to show acceptance while still expressing concern for what is about to be said “Yes.”
“Depression is very lonely, and I don’t expect you will ever feel accompanied, but if you let me we can share some misery some time.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”

One of the many rules conveyed over and over again during R.A. training is the importance that our university’s possible liability trumps any concerns or feelings you may have with the residents you are entrusted to look after. We were not allowed to accompany any of our residents to the hospital and discouraged from visiting them once they are there. So helplessly I watched as hurried EMTs asked stupid meaningless questions, strapped her into a bed on wheels and whisked her off to a hospital.

What does a person do after they watch someone else calmly try to commit suicide? Do you feel happiness they decided not to do it, sadness they thought about it, comfort they came to you? Is it right to think about them naked? I felt all of these things, concern, wonder, frustration that I had to spend the night watching over pampered drunk rich kids who probably wouldn’t do poor people like myself a favor by ending themselves one by one. But off went one of my residents, whom by rule I had to care about BUT only so much. And who by wanting to accompany to the hospital and make sure she was ok I had apparently overstepped the RA – resident relationship.

I forced myself to tear, then smiled. At least that fight with Beth was over. I hid in my room the rest of the night. Lights off, door locked, sitting in welcomed solitude.

I am never open. In truth every argument with the Beth’s of my past were really just my inability to commit, masqueraded as “relationship problems.” My problem is common and yet most women seem unable to see it, emotionally I always have one foot out of the door. I don’t trust them, and every time I have been proven right. I don’t think it is a self-fulfilling prophecy because the Beth’s never seemed to notice I am emotionally unavailable. My greatest gift has been the ability to mask feelings. My ability was matched with an extensive knowledge of people, specifically women. I knew what to say, how to act, what to do, I could be the perfect loving boyfriend and never get close enough to actually love.

“Sex”
“What?”
“Sex, it’s what we have in common.”
“What do you mean?”
“We both use sex to find happiness, hide our ugliness, and masque our inability to connect with people.”
“First off I don’t have a problem connecting, I just don’t trust people enough to try, and secondly I am fat, not ugly, I think I have a quite cute face, and my cute butt is the only thing that allows me to even get laid, which hardly ever happens.”
“Please and I am too ugly to be a stripper, let alone get paid to have sex, but truth be told both our reputations precede us.”

Like I cared about the university’s liability, I was always “in trouble” for some sort of policy, or caring too much about my residents. When my shift was over the next morning I illegally took a cab voucher and hoofed it to the hospital. I am not nearly as cold as I pretend to be. And while I keep a safe emotional distance from everyone, people do touch me. Seeing her in that state I needed to know she was ok. So I stayed, all the morning and through the next night until the hospital kicked me out. Apparently we didn’t look like family, no matter how many times she claimed I was adopted or a step-brother.

“Well I have been lucky no doubt, but it’s not like I have lots of women, just the right type so I am not bored.”
“What type is that.”?
“Please I am male, I don’t think I should discuss that perversion.”
“Please I am a stripper, do you think there is a perversion I haven’t heard of?”
“Fair enough, but I am your R.A. and I am drawing the line.”
“Fine, but I promise you this, as long as it isn’t bug squashing or little boys, I am sure you couldn’t freak ME out.”

Women who are comfortable with their sexuality, ok no person is comfortable with their sexuality, but women who aren’t afraid to be sexual- to embrace their sexuality – attract men. Everyone knows girls that weren’t necessarily attractive, yet their energy just engrossed men like a bug to a bright light. In High School they were degraded by being called sluts, in college they are just popular. To me they were my weakness. But it wasn’t just their sexuality; ok it was mostly their sexuality, but the baggage they came with, that made it easier. I could manipulate it, I am the master at making women feel special, and these women who are objectified and vilified by their gender are especially in need of positive reinforcement. And while I was focusing my energy and our time on their ego, I never had to be involved emotionally. They never notice that I am never in the picture. The relationship ultimately is entirely about them, and occasionally me getting off.

“Shouldn’t you be telling me to look for love and Mr. Right or something like that?”
“Please I respect you to much for that bullshit. What I have learned in dating, it is that eventually you run out of things to talk about, yourself, politics, religion, the world, eventually there is not much more to say, in the end I’d rather have lasting sex then a lasting conversation.”
“So just pretty legs, not a pretty mind.”
“No no those fade too, just the perfect sex life and enough conversation to fill those moments when you’re not having or thinking about sex.”
“Still sounds pretty ambitious.”
“That’s why I keep trying.”
We shared another knowing smile. It was nice; I normally do not even allow myself to get close enough to share genuine moments like that.
“Thank you so much for the other night, I don’t know what I would have done if you were not there.”
“Please, you wanted help, I just happen to be the appointed liaison for that, you would have found someone else. You saved yourself.”
“No, it was you.”

The ability to listen, it seems so simple, and yet we are so self-obsessed most people never really do it. I am equally self-obsessed, but I’ve learned listening is the number one defense against having to open up. My friendships are defined by people coming to me to talk out their problems, sharing intimate feelings and ideas, yet never even thinking about reciprocating. I sometimes think I should just charge.

Listening is so simple, if dorky men across the world realized their place was as emotional steward, and manipulate it, they all could get laid too. For all intensive purposes I should never get laid. In the movies I would play the lovable fat guy, always there to give advice and a shoulder to cry on while the protagonist works out the relationship with her prince charming. And yet I have been able to fool so many women out of their pants thinking maybe I was their prince charming. If I learned anything from the copious hours of John Hughes it is simply that women will sleep with you, if you allow them to no longer be ignored. Smart, attentive to their needs, make them laugh, isn’t that what they are supposed to look for anyway?

Ultimately they would realize they weren’t attracted to me and I would get the “it’s not you it’s me” speech. I had more female friends then a Tampax commercial (you know when being that time of the month makes women want to get together and have a pillow fight because they are using that feminine product).

The strangest thing about people is that once you show an interest in what they have to say they just open up. People are quick to trust, I suspect it’s because so few people are willing to go so long just listening to them, allowing them to get things off their chest.

In fairness there was a genuiness to her words. I actually felt like she needed me that night to survive. And while this boosted the ego, it was also scary. I had made a career of being there for people, but never enough to have a real emotional attachment, just enough to make it seem like I was there. Let’s face it I’m fucked up; who in their right mind would pick me as their crutch to stop suicide. But there she stood with her brown eyes looking into me, frightening me.

Depression is not sadness. People can have periods of sadness. But depression is the absence of happiness. It is a black hole for hope. There is nothing around you except more depression and that loneliness can never truly be breached. Happiness is fleeting and eventually the only comfort is the depression itself. It is predictable and you can count on it. More than you can count on any person, any deity. Depression is familial and strangely comforting. And so here I am constantly finding ways to be reconnected with my depression regardless of the situation.

It was this fundamental understanding that we shared. People smile at one another all the time. We smile at an interview to impress a potential boss, on a date, and in my case anytime I am around people. A smile can mask any emotion because people never question it. But every once in a while you can catch a real smile, not expressing happiness but understanding. It was that moment while she was laying there that the smile communicated the understanding of sadness. Our eyes met not in a romantic moment where time stops but mirroring the deep sorrow that was hidden from public scrutiny in our consciousness, and it was a moment I had never shared before.

She was released the next morning and I soon had another knock at my door.
“What are you doing today?”
“Besides waking up?”
“Yeah, what are you doing today?’
“Going to temple.”
“Temple?”
“Yeah its Saturday day, day of prayer for us Jews, it is where we go.”
“Can I go with you?”
“You want to go with me to temple?… But you’re not Jewish… Why?”
I hate asking questions that have obvious answers and yet I am often unable to stop. I don’t know if it is a character flaw, but it bugs the shit out of me.
“Cause I don’t want to leave you.”
“Look I am your R.A. and…”
“I don’t want to have sex with you, I just like your company and right now it’s comforting.”

My other character flaw is that I can’t say no to a woman when I think I might get laid. Even when we shouldn’t be having sex, the perpetual desire to possibly be laid again by someone new always wins out. I guess I am more male then I would like to admit, the penis seems to always get its way while the rest of me has spent a lifetime dealing with the consequences.

I also liked her company. I mean she was scary, but I felt safe, there was no bullshit, no emotional games that seem to go along with dating someone with estrogen. And so even though my brain and the picture of having to have a “private discussion” with my boss on proper resident R.A. behavior, I told her to get dressed and meet me in 20 minutes.

Men have to wear an undershirt, a shirt, coat, pants, socks, underwear, a belt, and a tie; it takes longer then you think to put together. What women have to put on is one to two pieces of clothing, in this case the bra was provided by the dress, and knowing her she wasn’t wearing underwear, and yet men always seem to take less time to get ready. For as long as I live, I will just never understand. An hour later we were off, I having eaten all sorts of snacks after having to abandon plans for a big breakfast, and her thoughts of anorexia after having to deny my offer of a breakfast bar.

My mother always felt alienated in our Jewish community. Many members of our temple sincerely brought us into their homes and opened their hearts. A gift that could never truly be repaid. But converts have an uncomfortable place in the Jewish community that is defined by its familial lineages. Something that makes little sense. As a black woman that chose the religion, she had a fervor and love for the religion that many born into the tradition could learn from. The fresh eyes, and novice appreciation is needed in a religion that too often judges character on the superficial understanding of its traditions.

I appreciated her fresh eyes on my Judaism. “Hebrew is really beautiful.” A thought I must confess never even entered my mind. She asked insightful questions, Jews would never have the guts to ask “Why are you Jewish? Why do you go to temple when you don’t even believe there is a purpose to life?” But what I really appreciated was simply when she touched my hand as the Rabbi gave his weekly speech.

Services are often just an unconsciousness of thought. I go because the time centered on G-d comforted me. But in truth I had long ceased feeling a deep spiritual connection to the service, in parts for sure, but in whole it was time for my mind to wonder. But with her the prayers were fresh, through her senses; they felt beautiful.

“So what are we doing now?”
“Are you serious, you’re not sick of me yet?” I had to fight the urge to ask for some alone time. While my conscious mind was screaming to be alone, I knew I would do nothing but think about hanging out with her.
“Time with you is comforting.”
“It always is in the beginning, don’t worry that stupid sensation will fade soon.”
“I am sure it will, but for now I might as well enjoy it.”

People have their ideas of romantic moments, a sunset walk on the beach, a candlelit dinner, a curled up evening in front of a fire. For me there was nothing more romantic than a woman in a sports jersey, well except a woman in a sports jersey yelling at the screen while watching the game. I was fighting the thoughts of seeing her naked. I had to be out of my mind, sure I liked her, but I liked everyone who showed an interest in me. It’s my insatiable need to get laid. If there is a possibility of sex, I can find endearing qualities in a Republican.

I pulled on her to sit down after she exploded in expletives at the referees call. She gave little resistance falling right into my lap.

I am a Cancer, our infatuations are quick, deep, and fleeting. But it felt different when she fell back into my lap and started caressing my arm. I was overcome by the moment and leaned in. That moment when you first lean in, first let your guard down is the one that is so scary. That split second can test the hearts of the strongest person. What if they don’t return your lean in? It’s an ultimate rejection that cannot be undone, and for me a pain never forgotten.

But she closed her eyes and met my lips. It sucked, who has good first kisses really? Nervous she would not return the lean in, worried the kiss will suck, pressure to perform and neither has kissed each other before. Styles often clash and you fuddle to find your rhythm.

Anyone who says they had a magical first kiss is lying. After that, it can be a wonderful experience. And for a woman who clearly knew what she was doing, the second and third kiss made my feet tingle in a way only girls are allowed to croon about.

There was not a fairy tale ending. I am still one foot out the door waiting to bolt. She strips to make herself feel better about herself. Her self-worth is crap, another lifetime wouldn’t cure it. But she makes me want to try harder, for the first time in my life I allow myself to have moments where I am not leaving. And most importantly, we have amazing sex; to-die-for sex. I don’t believe most men really have fetishes, we have getting laid, and if a woman wants to try something different we are all for it. I am extremely glad I get laid and she has lots of kinks that make that experience even more fun. But beyond that we fit, it’s a perfect fit. For the first time my penis is satisfied with what it has in front of it.

“With you I don’t want to die.”

I knew what she meant, for the first time in a long time, I had some fight in me. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I am still the scared little boy not wanting to come out from the corner of the room. Love is such a stupid word for it. With her, the hopelessness faded a little quicker.

Her clothes do not reveal any mid body marks or insinuate any ease of access. But her beauty still mesmerizes the consciousness immediately. Her incisive eyes cutting to my brain.

Where did she come from? Do we go to school together? Will I see her ever again? Why did she wear that outfit? What does it say about her? Her upbringing? Does her voice compliment her form or eerily put it off? What keeps her interested when she sits at a desk and looks blankly? The thoughts that captivate her in the moments on a toilet? Does she like politics? Writing? Art? What are her passions? Do thoughts keep her up at night? Wonder what she looks like naked?

Tap on shoulder

“Do I know you?”
“umm… uuuhhh… I don’t think so.”
“You looked at me like you did.”
“I think maybe I hoped I did.”
That smile again
“Lunch?”
“huh?”
“Are you going to grab lunch?”
“I could be.” Class can wait.

“Why did you smile at me like that?”
“Because I have never seen anybody so beautiful.”
“You have to be kidding, you have to have said that before.”
“Me.. never, I would never have the guts, I am just… hopeful at seeing you.”

Having never done anything like it, the shock of her naked body echoed the morning sun tipping into view.

An afternoon breeze on the beach as a final kiss and a stomp on a cloth covered glass with bare feet to seal an eternal liaison.

Her screaming is interrupted by an answering call of a milk chocolaty child coming from between the legs of the vanilla creamed goddess. The sun permeates the room even as evaporates to the night. The sun’s fading glory highlighting how even through the shrieks of pain she exudes a true beauty that few could posses at such a moment.

And yet it is matched by the wrinkled smile still exuding the comfort of times now past, a small child on her lap she looks over, true love still radiating through those eyes not aged by life. The moon cooling the air as she smiled filled with the love of the years.

But she simply walked by. The thought saturates the stomach who has refused to let her go. And yet my brain turns me back around to continue walking to school.

“excuse me.”
“Oh oh… I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention… of you dropped… let me get…”
“I GOT IT.”

A tattoo on her back, lacey underwear pops out of the back of her jeans. She smiles a knowing glance. She shifts her red hair off her brow with one quick flick of her hand; an alluring move, that most certainly wins. A sparkle in another region takes over the brains consciousness.

“I wonder why she has that tattoo? Does it really say anything about her? Her upbringing? Did the smile mean anything? Is she interesting? Does she study politics? Medicine? Wonder what she looks like naked

When will I not be scared by the moon?
No matter how I felt or how we were the moon always bound us.
Taken back to you dreaming as a child
The moon was to bring your true love.
The beauty of the stars to be reflected in the eyes of your one.
My dark eyes thought they captivated you by emulating the light of the universe.
But reality reigned and now dread fills my night’s sky.
The strength of the moon reflects the depths of my failure and delusions of grandeur.
Mocking as it wraps you in the warmth of someone else’s truth.