Still Foolish

What is is for  me is the death of trust.

I can accept other things; I can forgive just about anything,  But when TRUST itself has been murdered, disregarded, when at some point the lies became too much for him, the mask peeled right off,  and revealed what’s underneath.

It’s just that I was completely honest; telling him things he never would have known unless I told him, things I told no one else.  He seemed a perfect confidante, and turns out he was no different from any other man,  

I wanted him to be different. And in many ways he was.  I would need to go back to the beginning to make you understand… And I can’t, because I am loyal and honest, and I promised to never reveal his identity, so I won’t.  That would just be wrong.

 

I made excuses for things I shouldn’t have because I love him purely in a way no other woman will ever love him; I am more sure of that now  than ever, and he knows that too.  Mr.  Delightful, for you are that.  I won’t pretend you’re not. You know what you are giving up… And you also know that all you would have to do is kiss me to get me back, and at this point if you tried to kiss me, you know I would.   That’s part of what has infected him with this honesty.   Guilty conscience.  

 

I hated when he knocked himself off the pedestral I put him on, when all along he knew he didn’t belong there.  But he finally slipped into an abyss of his own making.

I realize that I am always going to love him.  

He will continue to invade my heart, and those memories will fill in for him…  My new book of poetry is even dedicated to the character him.  Even the dedication, and a full half of the new poems in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” are about him, are tributes to the love we shared.  

 

So many tributes, so many excellent kisses.  

 

And would I kiss him again?  Damn straight I would!

A kiss like his?  There are no words.  His kiss illuminated me.  His kisses in that taxi after 25 years!  Guess I should have been warned off by something he finally admitted that when we met in person when I was in his movie about poetry, he told me it was all he could do not to take me in his arms right then, although he was married, so he was willing to think about cheating although he didn’t do it. And what I know about his arms, the way they could hold me, and I am so small, the things he could do so easily, at least a foot taller than me, and about a hundred pounds heavier than my 98 pounds.  Imagine the enjoyment in the bedroom (or anywhere) with a woman almost doll size.  I was so little  for him, a brown doll.  The way he could lift me, as he did several times, the incomparabale sex.  The man loved me; he reallly did, and probably still does in his deceitful ways.  

To know more about his techniques of love, you wll have to wait for the novel about the Thomas Higginson in my life.  The poems also, many of which are in “Wannabe” –available now!  

 

What’s good about him is exceptional.  

Pity that he is also a liar.  A real shame.  Because of what has happened to trust.  

But does not make that weekend less splendid.  Not at all.  I told him that I just don’t want to see anything about his getting married, and he laughed (I love his laugh!), and said he isn’t marrying again.  

I am not ready to see that or even try to process that in my mind.

a photo of me in his hat

(and yes, that is my real hair rooted in my scalp):

me in Bob's hat 1

 

Guess I haven’t learned not to be trusting.  

I expect honesty because honesty is so natural to me, and I have forgiven him so much.  He realizes that now.  

That I am not like most women.  I don’t even look like them.

VASHTI-RAIN-WALK-06 

All those dreams of which he was part.  I grieve over that future that will not happen as planned, and he was part of that, “all in” he said.  

He was afraid that on Facebook, I would write terrible things about him on his wall, and that tells me that he really doesn’t know me at all.  And if he doesn’t know me by now, after more than 30 years, can he ever really know me?

 

“Love Makes Me Do Foolish Things” lyrics (they sound as if I had written them; photos of him still affect me way too much; I have sung this song to death):

 

Love, love, love makes me do foolish things
Sit alone by the phone, a phone that never rings
Hoping to hear you say you love me still
Knowing you never will
Love, love, love has made a fool of me
Got me doin’ things, things that shouldn’t be
Listening for the sound of your knock on my door
Knowing that sweet sound will be no more

Funny how precious memories linger on
So long after you’ve gone
Oh precious memories that only make me cry
But I keep holdin’ on, oh why do I? Oh, because…

Love, love, love makes me do these things
Speak your name softly each night, or holding your picture tight
When you took my heart, you took my soul
& it’s far beyond control

Funny how precious memories linger on
So long after you’ve gone
Oh precious memories that only make me cry
But I keep holdin’ on, oh why do I? Oh, because…

Love, love, love makes me do these things
Love, love, love sadness it brings

Written by Lamont Dozier, Lamont Herbert Dozier, Brian Holland, Edward Holland, Edward, Jr. Holland • Copyright © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group

 

from: <https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tkxxqjhe6envdqpqehilohkhu5u?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics>

 

Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes right here:

“If You Don’t Know Me By Now”

 

To think that I woud stoop to such childishness beyond calling him every  pattern of D-Word I  could think of.  Nice D-Words. And if he thought that, then despite over thirty years of involvement with him, then he doessn’t really know me at all, and probably never can.  Which is a shame, for he doesn’t know what he is giving up by being dishonest.  What his dishonesty is costing him.  What he is willing to lose by being dishonest.  At least honesty caught up with him; better late than never, I suppose. 

There would be no point in trying to lambaste him when I recall him with that same love I always gave him, ignoring attention I would get from other random men, and I got lots of it, at age 62, with a nearly perfect honest figure, 100 % natural mixed race hair, waist-length, butt-kissing hair, with no weave, never a relaxer and no extensions which I do not need, that was his, all of me was his, and look what he did with this gift that honored him above all men, because that is what he was, who he was… he deserved such honor, and I would honor him again.  

Everything about me is natural! No breast augmentation, natural DD cups, as he found out, surprised, and what he discovered when he got to unwrap me for the very first time after waiting 25 years to do this.  “I can’t wait for the unwrapping” he said, and meant it;

 

I think it bothers him to have to admit the truth.  

 

The “why” he never showed up on my doorstep, or filled my mailbox with stuff he could have although he knew where I live and could have come to Michigan anytime he wanted to, if I really meant anything to him.  There are planes, and it is a short flight from NYC to Detroit.  We had a whole weekend together in Chicago, (a reunion city for us, where I went to be in his movie in the nineties) and he even referred to such things as “Our USness” and it was worth every minite of waiting; it was the way he kissed me that made me willing to do everything I did.  And all the talk that preceded the actual reunion –details in the novel to come.  Insist on it.  It is written and just looking for a publisher.

I will not post a photo of him because that would reveal his identity and a while ago, I promised him I wouldn’t do that, and I honor my promises even if he doesn’t deserve such honor.  Anymore.

I AM GOOD FOR MY WORD.  ALWAYS.

But who am I to say who deserves what?  Believe me, I want to post the photo; it is so wonderful, but that photo also is now part of the most wonderful memory ever, almost like a fairy tale, but one that doesn’t quite end happily ever after.

 

I will post it later, when it is safer to do so.  I am not out for revenge or to hurt him? Why? What would that accomplish?  I still love that man.  I want the best for him, which he has rejected, me, the next best then.  I want that for him.  I really do. 

May be difficult for many to understand, but I honestly hold nothing against him.

That ordinary man.  

I would never try to hurt him for that would be a betrayal of what I feel, even feeling like a fool… And I definitely want the best for myself, which seems that it can’t be him.   I’ll leave that for next year when I might see him, and I hope that he will still be single.  Not that I can accurately predict how I will react to him. 

The first song he sent me is appropriate here: “Because You Loved Me”

You know, in preparing my new book, I didn’t want the poems that implied my ex-husband, opting instead for poems (and there are many) about this man, and I was asked if I would be okay with these versions even if things did not work out, and I said yes, because these were newer truths, and that is what happened, but this  love with him was  so beautiful, some of it in ways I can’t tell you, so magical and perfect it really was too good to last

 

but if you get a chance to be with this man as I was, take it; there is nothing else like it.  His extraordinaty kisses.  The ways he touched me. His hands, his tongue, and what he could do with these.  His, well, private parts (this is not an x-rated blog) —and what he did to mine… I will never be the same, and that’s good.  

 

There are no adequate words.  

 

He had been waiting just to kiss me for so long, 25 years.  Imagine that.   I was eager to experience that although at the time I was 60 years old.  Every secret of romance is not a secret to him. He may have written them; he certainly could have.  He could write handbooks on kissing and how to make a woman feel certain things.  Just from his kiss… Just wait till you read my romance novel all about him, in character form… All about our weekend and more.  I know he loved me for a while, that is clear.  He really did, and one day he will be filled with regret that what was mapped out, together; we both mapped out these things as we prepared for something he wrecked, isn’t going to happen because of how he lied.   I just wanted him to be as truthful as I was.  

A dishonest man proves himself the best possible lover. That’s how it is.

“Well, Love Makes me do Foolish Things” (and How!)

 

A few more pics of what he is giving up: 

 

 

At first he told me “distance” was the killer, but it’s not.  Love can survive distance.  Love can survive ravages of the body.  Love can do this.  My love for him did this.  Yes; I physically wanted a man, but not just any man: Him.  I was willing to endure all manner of physical frustration for want of him and had the dildo he gave me and named after himself, telling me that when I used it, it would be him,  but the flesh and blood him is much, much better. There is no proxy that compares to him. None.  

I still can’t let him go.  I can’t.  I don’t want to yet.  Although I now know the truth of him. But you don’t know how he claimed my heart.

 

I am HIS FOOL.

 

I hope no other woman will be as deceived as I was by his charm, and it is extensive.  Just let him kiss you and it will be all over…  That’s how it was for me; I let that man kiss me and the floodgates of desire opened as I didn’t know they could.  Then I wanted to kiss him, and I did, holding back nothing; even in the taxi, I was willing to go all the way… I couldn’t wait to actually check in the hotel and really be alone with him.  Showing off the Brzilian wax I got just for him, my first ever, and the “Dream Baby” (his name for me, that I took from his poem) dress as in this photo:smaller_Thylias in Cushnie et Ochs dress; photo by Ansted Moss copy

 

 

Well a couple of songs for the occasion:

 

“Love Makes me Do Foolish Things”

“If You Don’t Know Me By Now”

and my healing playlist from YouTube:

 

I will never give up on Love.   Capital “L” that’s how he spelled it in one of his last and most beautiful, like all of them, letters to me.  

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