    
Michael_t_owens
Regular Poster
Username: Michael_t_owens
Post Number: 39
Registered: 07-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, June 27, 2006 - 05:44 am: | 
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Rejina
I used to watch Mama get ready to go clubbin' every Saturday night. I paid close attention to everything; the way she brushed her hair and how smoothly it flowed down her neck, her shiny loop earrings sparkling in the light, and how she smelled like perfume and lotion. I especially loved seeing her put on makeup. In amazement, I'd watch her face change almost like magic. She looked like a Black baby doll to me.
"I want some," I said, watching her apply pink lipstick.
"No, this ain't for little boys!”
"Pretty please…"
"Stop crying. Big boys don't cry!" she said, looking at herself in the mirror, barely paying attention to me.
When she wasn’t looking, I took some of her makeup and ran to the bathroom. At four years old, I was too short to see myself in the medicine cabinet mirror, so I applied the makeup without it. I happily smeared pink lipstick and blue eye shadow on my face. When I finished, I climbed up on the counter to see myself in the mirror. I smiled so hard my cheeks started to hurt. The makeup was a mess, but in my eyes I was pretty. I looked like Mama. I even batted my eyes and puckered my lips like she did. That was my first memory of feeling feminine.
Time went on and I kept stealing her makeup, and she kept beating me. "Boys don't do this!" she constantly said. I got tired of hearing what little boys did and didn't do. I wanted to be like my Mama and Auntie O, my main adult influences. It sure wasn’t my sorry father. I never knew him.
By the time I reached kindergarten, Mama was tired of me stressing her. She decided to let me play dress up with her clothes and jewelry. She said our special time was our secret and not to tell anyone because they wouldn't understand. She thought it was all harmless as long as it kept me out of trouble. Little did she know my life would be filled with trouble, starting with the thing between my thighs called a penis. My dick. It was the main source of my unhappiness throughout my teenage and adult years. It made me masculine instead of feminine, aggressive when I wanted to be submissive; and I had embarrassing erections I didn’t want. It didn't feel right. I prayed for God to help me because I thought I had the devil in me. I mean, the thing just hung there with nothing better to do than mock me. It reminded me that no matter how good I looked in women’s clothes, underneath it all I was still a man. Everyday I stood naked in front of the mirror tucking my penis between my testicles. I wanted to see how I’d look with a vagina. Any other time I hated touching it. But on other men, a penis was beautiful. I loved the very thing I despised as long as it was attached to a fine man.
His name was Jeremiah. The name came from the bible, but he sinned with the best of them, just like me. Lately I’d been trying to get my life together by getting closer to God, so dealing with Jeremiah wasn’t a good idea. He was the devil in a Tommy Hilfiger shirt and jeans.
I was five-feet ten and I needed brothers to be at least six feet tall to ride my ride. Jeremiah was six-three with dark butterscotch skin. He was mixed with Black and something else; maybe Spanish, Indian, White, or maybe all three. I wanted to get in his pants since the day he came for modeling classes at the agency I work at. I knew I would get him. I always got my man. Well, the old saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” held true. Getting in his pants was like getting in debt. It was easy to get into and hard to get out. I finally cut him off when he lied about having a girlfriend. I deleted his name from my cell, email address book, and all my instant messaging services. Back in the day, I wouldn’t have cared about his girl. I wasn't trying to have a relationship with the nigga; I just wanted him to break me off sometimes. Since I was trying to change my lifestyle, not communicating was the best way to resist him. It had worked for a while, but I never thought he’d be standing on my doorstep in the flesh.
“What are you doing here, Jeremiah? You know I’m not on that dropping by unannounced tip.”
“Can I come in?”
“You got two minutes.”
He followed me to the living room. I didn't offer him a seat. He wasn't going to be there long. “You look sexy, girl.”
“Don’t I always? What do you want?”
“I wanted to see you before the New Year.”
“Okay. You see me, now you can go.”
I pulled back when he reached for my hand. “I came to tell you that I want to be with you. I miss you.”
“Unh huh." I folded my arms and shifted my hips. "Then dump your girl.” I didn’t really want to be with him. I only wanted to see how serious he was. I wanted to see if he’d drop his girl to be with me. Men played silly games like that all the time. They did whatever it took to worm their way into your heart. Once they got what they wanted, they were gone. The bottom line was me and him were just sex buddies. It was never more than that. He was too trifilin’ for anything else.
“I’m dumping her soon," he said.
“Soon ain't fast enough. Do it tonight.”
“I’m leaving her when our lease expires.”
“You said that last time.”
“Straight up, baby. You and me are going to be together."
“Let’s keep it real, Jeremiah. I’m just a freak ho to you. You just a freak nigga to me."
He hesitated for a minute. He knew I spoke the truth. "Well, don’t you miss me, baby?”
I didn’t miss him, I missed his sex skills, but I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him. He was one of the finest men I’d ever seen. I could look at him all day if I had to.
“Don’t you miss this?” He dropped his pants to the floor. He had no underwear or boxers on. It was easy to see how hard, long, and juicy he was. “It’s yours. Go ahead and touch it…”
I was kind of shocked at how bold he was. That was one of the things I liked about him. Even though he looked tempting, I didn’t move an inch. If I did, I knew we’d be there all night long. I thought I built an emotional wall thick enough to resist him, but I felt it slowly falling when his pants dropped. He stepped out of his jeans and took off his shirt. His chest looked more chiseled than I remembered. I used to suck those nipples like a newborn. I used to lick his navel like a…
“Don’t act shy now, baby.” He took my hand, and moved it between his legs. Before I knew it, I was doing it on my own. I loved seeing how hard I made him. I liked knowing I was the reason for his excitement. I controlled the show.
He pulled me to his chest, pushed his mouth to my ear. “So what's up?” he whispered, nibbling my ear lobe. I felt his hands on my hips, then my butt. Just as he reached to unbutton my blouse, his cell phone rang. He fumbled through his jeans until he found it. He seemed anxious, like he'd been waiting for the call. I thought it was strange since he never answered his phone when we were together. It was always on vibrate.
“Hello? The hospital? You’re in labor?”
“Hospital?” I asked. It only took a couple of seconds to figure out what was going on. It hit me hard.
“I’ll be right there, baby.” He hung up. He had a guilty look on his face.
“Your girl is in the hospital having your baby?”
He pulled up his jeans. “Well, it’s not what you think. It’s not like that…”
“Nigga you better get out my house!"
“Wait! Once she gets out I'm dropping her for you.”
I couldn't believe what I heard. What kind of fool did he think I was? “You call yourself making a pit stop at my house before you went to the hospital? Tryin’ to play me for fool, you sorry muthaf—”
“Baby, let me explain."
I pushed him. “If you don’t get out my house it’s gonna be on for real!”
He left without saying another word.
I knew he had women on the side, all men did, but I didn’t know he had a baby on the way. He was triflin’ from the start, but I looked past it because he was fine. Very fine. I was dumb. I was truly…I didn’t even have a word for it. Dickmatized? Yeah, he had me dickmatized. The things he did in bed made me shiver. God was testing me by having him show up and I flunked with a big fat F. If his girl hadn’t called, we’d be bringing in the New Year sweaty and naked, rolling around in the bed, on the floor, in the bathroom, and maybe even the kitchen.
He loved all kinds of women, but he had a special weakness for transsexual girls like me. I knew me and him wouldn’t last long, but I enjoyed the bomb sex while it lasted. Maybe that was part of my problem with men. I never really knew how to make them happy without feeling the need to have sex. I was only twenty-four, but I wasted a lot of my life looking for love in all the wrong places: drugs, men, money, and everything else. I didn’t lie to myself. The men I dealt with in my life had me screwed up in the head. I kept doing things for their approval. I wanted them to like me, love me. I wanted to be happy with a man who felt as deeply for me as I felt for him. I quickly realized that was only a fantasy that had me stressing and obsessing. That was why I stopped looking for love. Real love didn’t exist, so I just did what I wanted and had fun. Things got out of hand after high school. I started exploring my sexuality in every way. It was nothing for me to meet a man in a club or a party and sleep with him the same night. Sometimes I slept with his roommate too, if I smoked enough weed or snorted enough coke. If they were ballers with cash, I was happy to take payment for my services because a lot of supposedly straight men in the ATL were curious about girls like me. I fascinated them. Doing what I loved and getting paid was right up my alley back then. I was hot in the pants, young, dumb, and full of rum, my favorite drink.
I thought sex was the one thing I was good at. If sex was an art form, I was the urban version of Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Michelangelo combined. Men were my canvas and I painted often, pleasing all shapes and sizes. I was proud of it too. It was my crazy way of getting revenge for every man that ever wronged me or anyone close to me. I thought I was punishing them by taking their money, breaking up their marriages, making them lose jobs, and embarrassing them. I felt powerful, but I still felt incomplete. Something was definitely missing. I started going to church on and off. I stopped smoking, and I was trying my best to stop cursing, but I had never been an angel. I probably never would be.
The other day I heard on the Oprah show that admitting a problem was the first step to recovery. I admitted it. I definitely had problems. Who didn’t? The whole situation with Jeremiah showed me I was still just a work in progress.
Michael T. Owens
http://www.geocities.com/michaeltowens/happy.htm
http://www.getmynovel.com
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