Take it in blood... (Nas)

Quickly glancing at the band-aid, that served to cover my peep hole, before sweeping it aside to look through; I saw Gerald standing in front of my door.  I knew he would come over, the day was going too smooth and Lord knows, that is just unallowable.

I looked at the time, the clock was showing 5pm.  I double-checked my phone to be sure.  It read 5:01.  It’s too late for this type of shit.  Just when I thought about tiptoeing further from the entry way and pretending not to be home, Gerald yelled through the door,

 “I know you’re home, Wrynra.  I saw the light from the street…”

Getting the feeling I was going to maintain my unresponsiveness, and becoming bored with the silence, he continued.  We can do this the civilized way; where you let me in and we resolve issues through conversation or the other way; that has me kicking in your door and having a conversation punctuated with physical emphasis.  This way I can feel deserving of my ride to the precient.  It’s up to you…until I get to 1 from 5.  5…4…”

Thinking about the times I complained about my neighbors loud music, loud fighting and the even more raucous sex that always followed the fights; I didn’t want to suffer the knowing glances and retribution of Gerald’s attempting to kick down my door, nor the scene with my landlord and or the one with the police that would surly follow.  "Punking out", as some would call it, I gave in to my need to not be embarrassed/denied a lease renewal, a scenario ever gaining in difficulty, as the prices for apartments in this city seemed to be outpacing my income ever so quickly.  This was the only apartment I could locate that wouldn’t having me searching for a new one, by force, within five years.
 
 I quickly decided this was situation safer to deal with “in house,” ‘In apartment,’” or inside-whatever.I can handle this.  He will come in.  He will complain, and I will gauge his mood and tell him what he wants to hear and then he will leave.  I may have to see him tomorrow, but as long as he leaves in enough time for me to realign my energy, before Chimeze gets here — it will be ok.  I thought.  The sooner I open the door, the less time I have to lose.

Tension from gripping the doorknob, had my hands turning red. 

 Deciding, I flung open the door, before he got to the “3” in his countdown. 

Confidently stepping in the narrow walkway while simultaneously edging me closer and closer onto the wall, blocking my ability to leave or even move a safe distance away, he kissed me on the nose.  I exhaled, grateful I had opened the door in time to escape anything more punishing.

Turning right, in an attempt to head further into my apartment, Gerald unexpectedly, with rabbit-kick quickness, jabbed his knuckles into my larynx, cutting off my air supply, then lunged, chest first, into my chest, keeping me from falling and immobilizing me against the wall.  Gerald forcefully grabbed me by the shoulders and attempted to reposition me — to face the wall.

Knowing what he was going to do, I fought his effort. 

 The last time he bit me there, he almost broke the skin, leaving a swollen, pus-filled bite mark and a soreness that made it difficult for me to sit, for almost a full month.  I wasn’t dealing with that again, not now, not ever.
 

Attempting to push him off of me,while speaking in a higher register than normal, but too low for the neighbors to hear through the walls, I spat, “You said you wouldn’t do that anymore!  Remember when you promised?!  Get off of me!  You said if I opened the door, we would talk!  You haven’t said a word since crossing the threshold!

Despite gritting his teeth into his attempt to restrain me, he spoke evenly through them.  “I don’t care what I said all those months ago.  You are always confusing the then, with the now!”  Punching me in my left side, and turning me when I doubled over in pain — too consumed with pain to struggle against the 180 degree turn he inflicted next.  Applying his left forearm against my lower neck, beneath my shoulder bones, he used his free hand to pull my shorts down.  When my cell phone, only supported by the band of the shorts, clattered to the floor, my eyes widened and a squeal escaped me as he stepped on it.  I couldn’t see it go down, but I heard the crunch evident of the LED screen’s destruction.  Rolling his forearm down my back, keeping me crushed against the wall, I felt his breath making designating hot-spots along my spine as he traveled down the posterior of my frame.  He licked the left cheek of my ass before biting the right one even more forcefully than he did the left, three months prior. 

I felt my ass sting in my brain, as tears welled up in my eyes — defiantly refusing to fall.  Similar to the spankings that dotted my youth, from a parent; it hurt like hell, and the sooner you admitted to pain, the sooner the infliction of it would end.  It was strictly a power play, but I couldn’t give in.  I couldn’t let him win this.  It seemed the more I let this man know what he was doing disturbed me, hurt me or mentally worried me, the harder he would press on.  I think he really wanted to break me.  He was taking the fact that I choose Chimeze over him personally.  I had earned the first gluteal bite, when I explained why I had too...

***

      Stepping off the train at the LIRR-Jamaica Station, I felt a vibration.  Reaching into my sweater jacket pocket, I saw the text message notification.  Clicking on the envelope Icon, reading:

Chi Chindu: I am in the parking lot, behind the Duane Reade. 

Walking swiftly to the escalator, and through the station, I’m determined to say what’s on my mind.  I want to break up.  As much as I love everything else about him, our sex life is a flop; remaining uninformed and unrefined since our first attempt over the past New Years, and there hasn’t been much improvement.  Not in skill or frequency.  It’s like homeboy isn’t even trying, because he isn’t interested in sex — or maybe it’s just sex with me that he’s not interested in.

                If it’s that, well everything isn’t for everyone and everybody doesn’t attract everyone the same; I would just have hoped he would have enough respect for me to tell me sooner than now; four years in. Thinking about our conversations concerning our ex-relationships, I don’t think he’s ever dated anyone like me before; fit, intelligent, educated, ambitious, conventionally attractive, maybe he isn’t into that. I’ve found African men gravitate toward more passive women; the type who need to be taken care of.  I don’t know how many times, after viewing a throwback picture a wayward cousin tagged me in on Instagram, he has openly longed to have met me when I was more portly, bigger but less me than I am now.  That African stereo-fetish shit that beyond irritated me; if you want a fat bitch, go get one — leave me alone.  Five day a week hourly sacrifice to the Equinox on 61^st, ensured that the skinny boitch stayed winning.
 

 
         As much as it wounds my pride to admit that this man, who is shorter than I usually like to date, may not be attracted to me, as I am, I am more wounded by the fact that he would stick around, knowing he isn’t attracted/in love with me, vs allowing me to move on to a more fulfilling something.  Why do men do these things?  I sighed aloud, making the white person standing next to me, move manually down the escalator steps to escape me. 

In Chimeze and I’s significant time together, I have never felt that he wanted to improve on us — past a deep friendship.  That’s all well and cool, but sex, affection, passion, those things are essential to be and central to my relationships — with men…and with women for that matter.  I thought living in the room, low on space, coupled with a shared bathroom, was what was weighing his sex drive down.

      However, since moving into a private apartment, with all private facilities, I haven’t noticed an uptick in our sex life.  The lack of discussion about anything “us”, anything “real” pushed me into the arms of another man, pretty much specifically for the purpose of love, affection, romance — all things this guy who worked to be my boyfriend refused to contribute to our relationship.

My friends all think that I should talk to him, and my closest friend thinks I should try a little harder.   “You aren’t opening up because you don’t know how.  It’s a ‘black’ thing,” assured Betiane academically.  “Our mothers are too busy being strong, working hard…they forget about being gentle and showing love, and purposely hide their relationships with the opposite sex for proprieties sake, to avoid being cast as sluts, especially in the minds of their female children.  They conceal the affection”

"But Betiane", I interrupted, “I wouldn’t describe my mother as lacking of affection.”

“You wouldn’t?” she asked.  “Well, fine then.  Name one obvious showcase of love between her and a lover of the opposite sex. “

My end of the conversation remained silent long enough that Betiane felt my inability to answer the question, had proved her point.

 

“Babe,” Betiane cooed, drifting out of academic mode momentarily, “if you love him, you have to open up. How can you expect openness if you aren’t willing to be that?  How dare you expect that he be willing to work on the sexual mechanics of your relationship when you can’t even discuss the negative emotional impact he has had on you in the past, and your expectations for the future?”

I remember walking down the Riverside Park pathway, alongside the traffic of the West Side Highway, which seemed to move in tandem with the water behind it, listening to her saying,

“I think you love him, more than any other guy you have brought around.  If you can’t be honest with yourself about that, then I don’t even know.”

Jolted into the present by the escalators transition to the ground floor, I was deposited into the business of the railroad, street traffic, foot traffic, and ticketing for both the MTA and LIRR.  I crossed the two-way traffic, separated only by support structures for the LIRR track above, to the Duane Reade’s parking lot. In response to my knock on the window, Chimeze unlocked and pushed open the door.  Sliding in, I ignore his face, which is posed for a greeting kiss.  Considering my plan of action, it would be inappropriate.  In the interest of not wasting time, I lurch into it, “Mize, I know that we both agreed to try to work on us, but it’s not working for me.  It’s work, too much work, work that I don’t want to do anymore.  I told you after I came clean about the lying, sneaking, and cheating that I did a few months ago, that I would break up with you before I sunk so low as that — ever again.  I meant that.  So, you can go your way.”


 

         He looked at me, confusion, turning into shock.  I called myself quietly letting him go through what I was positive were “the motions,” until he started to cry.  I wasn’t ready for what came post announcement, tears; his eyes covered with glass which broke into tears: heavy, but silent and dignified sliding tears.

        As I moved to exit the vehicle, I felt something weighing me still.  Turning, I realized Chimeze’s hands were on my waist.  Choking on his own words he begged me, “Ryn, just work with me…please, let me just…work with me?”  Looking away, because tears as genuine as his are too often contagious.  I resolved to give him more time to get it right, though the bruise Gerald inflicted earlier when telling me to, “get rid of him", screamed otherwise.

***

“So, did you do it,” Gerald sneered through the phone line.  Eager to hear details of a breakup I didn’t follow through with.

Fighting to make sure my voice was heard through the mid-day traffic, and knowing he would see through any stalling tactic, I walked him through what went down earlier.  “He cried, and…”

“So, he cried.  And…. that was that?” 

“Well,” I weakly replied, “he wants to work on things and do better,” neglecting to mention that I interpreted the tears as a sign that Chimeze was willing to open up, if given a chance.

“Wryn, fuck him.  He’s manipulating you with tears... And you are just going to let him, huh?  Well, just know, until you handle that I am going to handle you, as per our discussion.  You have me feeling like a…what do you guys call it, a side-nigga.  It’s frustrating me.  Until you solve that problem, you will wear my frustration.”
 

“On that note, let me call you back…” I stated firmly, giving him no chance to protest, I hung up the phone feeling weighted and aged. 

That was my first time underestimating his rage. I suck with keys, so I needed to focus to open my door. His anger was palpable through the phone, a real distraction.

Walking into my apartment,  I found him waiting for me, on my couch; patting the open side, indicating that I should sit.  When I got close enough to reach, he yanked me the rest of the way and showed me that the bruise he gave me, the day before I tried to break up with Chimeze, was just the surface of his frustration.

***

Running to the bathroom to check my ass for permanent “go to the hospital” damage, my downstairs buzzer sounded.  Unthinking, pivoting I ran to it and pressed “door,” before Gerald’s hand closed over mine to stop me.

Mood