Introduction to Bougie Black Girl: A Novella

"There comes a time in everyone's life when disappointment comes naturally, when pain loses sting, and when the spirit is lost. That time is death, but that death doesn't bring an end, or that sweet idea we call heaven, it is a time of forsaken and forlorn dreams, when there is no hope of LOVE, and at this moment, when it is realized, comes an even greater will for life and love, hope and dreams. I can't give up now." - Teen-aged and Angsty, Me.  


On April 25, 2002, I began writing a short story.  This short story became 20 pages of inspired prose before giving way to entrance essays for college, love notes to my high school sweetheart, and campaign slogans for my Sophomore Class Offices, and clubs.  I found this document in an old e-mail account from my "Good Ol' Days" and saw that, with little editing, I may have something worth revisiting...so...here it is...the beginning of my short fiction-writing stint at the tender age of innocence...though it seems, my precociousness was already obvious.  

Bougie Black Girl : A Novella (One)

“It’s Philly’s Hottest hitting you with the best in hip-hop and R&B. The Heat 95 and your boy—“ Click! I hit the “OFF” button on alarm clock on the nightstand beside my bed.  My eyes attempt to focus on the indeterminable red numbers as my ears begin to adjust to the traffic outside.  Somewhere nearby a phone is ringing.  I locate it under the bed, to the right of my left hello kitty slipper next to the vulgarly-priced stilettos, still unworn, and push Greyson off of it to answer.

               “Hello,” I drowsily mutter.

               “Good Morning, Sydney.  I called to confirm your three appointments for today, your dinner reservations in New York, and your 7 AM flight for Washington tomorrow morning,” intones the monotonous voice of Denise, my new assistant, “Will you be meeting the representatives at the airport, or later for lunch?”

               “Well, good morning to you too.  Yes, Yes, No; Mr. Forrester will not be having his appointment, he has given his contract to another research facility, yes; table for two instead of three, you know where, yes, no, lunch will be fine at the hotel.”  An all too familiar routine for which I do not care, I regret being so impersonal with those around me, especially because I cannot remember where the ever-present stress in my voice originated.

               After a quick shower, I was downstairs waiting for Isaac to bring my car from the garage.  I live only twenty minutes from our main office building near Broad St., but in the traffic of the morning, it takes me forty-five minutes to get anywhere and parked.  When I left the little city of Douglassville, an area northwest of Atlanta, I thought I would become a great and dedicated scientist, and I’d be in a lab searching for the perfect specimens to discover a cure for everything…now, I hardly research anything but what my latest stock is doing.  Sometimes I wonder if my life was supposed to end up like this.

               The world is filled with dead people.  Those that walk around with no inner light, who can’t repair what’s wrong with them, and in the worst cases, who don’t know that there is something wrong at all.  My hands started getting cold and stiff in high school, and a toe tag was attached at my Howard graduation ceremonies.  I had severe cases of being blind, and I find myself reverting back to old habits even now.   

               My office is visible from the glass and marble elevator as soon as you hit the third floor.  Graduate students, other professors, and “tourists” from other departments love to wander through my territory, touching, prodding, and leaving in disarray thousands of hours of work in documentation.  The phone rings literally seconds before I enter my own personal brushed steel-bordered and sound-proofed portal of hell and yet my retreat from the insanity of the rest of the world, my office.

               “Dr. Taylor, University Research.”

“Good Morning Sydney.”  

Eric is a corporate attorney in Philadelphia and Washington, and New York, and God knows where else.  We met quite a few years ago, just as I was graduating from high school and he was entering his last year in undergrad at the University of Pennsylvania. We were completely oblivious to each other for months, until my supposed best friend decided to try to date him and break his heart…supposedly as a favor to me because I had such a crush on him and neither of us were aggressive enough to her liking.

Eric is everything I once thought would make me completely happy in a relationship: Financially stable almost at birth (rather, upon his mother’s marriage to his step-father when he was 6), articulate, overwhelmingly arrogant, and reminiscent of the first guys I dated from the summer camps I’d attended on scholarship.  He was the epitome of the Ivy Leaguer—exactly like the guys with whom I grew up and attended private schools: soccer/lacrosse/polo players living off of a trust fund left by their grotesquely wealthy grandfathers, exquisitely groomed for success, except he has black ancestry. 

I lost all sanity in my pursuit of him, disregarding scholarships to spend my first year attending Drexel just to leave for Howard University.  My weakness has always been confidant men, even when I find out they have no real reason to feel special.  I portrayed myself as having the same background as he did, sending gifts like cuff links from Tiffany’s for a birthday and a Breitling for Christmas.  I couldn’t even afford the watch batteries working three jobs and living as a paid Resident Assistant in Tubman.  One of my closest companions, Cheryl, thought the clincher was that I had to rise early to ready myself for him, which meant pre-dawn to wash my face and apply makeup.  She thought I was completely crazy, but she was a part of my past; and I wanted to forget the past.

               “Hi, I was going to call you about dinner, but I just got in the office. What’s going on?” I ask, hoping that he would become bogged down in something legal and I wouldn’t have to ride for two hours just to eat overpriced crab.

               “Nothing much really, I still have a lot of work on this shipping deal, you know, no details being disclosed during the transmission of this call, I’m swamped with the minor stuff.  I’m just reminding you about  I know it’s a lot to ask of you, driving two hours for dinner and all, but I’ve had these reservations for nearly four months, and I’m sure you’ll like it, even if you’re leaving for the airport immediately after.  I was hoping for a little desert at the Four Seasons.”

“Sure Darling, I know that whatever you have planned will be worth driving any distance, and I’m looking forward to spending time with you tonight, but I have a call coming in from the CDC so I will call you later, okay?”

               “Actually, I can’t talk until tonight.  There’s something important I have to ask you Syd, and I’ll be at your place around six okay?  Love you.”

               After faxing the documents Atlanta needed, I actually had two seconds to breathe before Carmen called. She and I were best friends in middle and high school, then roommates at Howard for a couple of years. We still keep in touch more than with other people from DHS, though we have grown apart with age.  Attending American University for law school, she has been a marketing consultant with a few of the Fortune 500 companies, but is currently based with Ford in New Jersey.  She is also the same best friend who dated Eric while interning at his firm, only to dump him as an L2 a year before he and I rekindled our acquaintance at a charity gala at Temple, where I was entering my Doctoral Program.

             “ Sydney! I have fantastic news…Remember David Hathaway? He called me...” We both know that I remember him.  David is plastered on ESPN from Spring Training through to the World Series annually just on the buzz that one day he may leave The Capitols for the Yankees, so she continues with no need of response from me, “…but don’t get it twisted, because I know about you two… he called about you anyway.  He’s been asking around for you. My mom called the other day—”

               “Oh, how is your mother?  Tell I her said hello”

               “She’s fine, I will, but as I was saying:  My mom called the other day and said that David asked her if she had your number.  She of course said no, and that I did, and he called me yesterday.  We had the regular “How are you” and “Oh Great, yada yada yada” and the usual, “Oh, how’s your season going?” and whatever and he asked “SO, how’s Sydney? Do you two still keep in touch?”  I told him you were fabulous and considering marriage finally--         ”

“Why would you tell him something like that?”

“You can’t be serious Sydney Elise Taylor!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re thinking about him aren’t you? It took you over a year to get over him, and now ten years later you’re doing it again! I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything!  You’re supposed to flash in his face that you’re with someone who makes just as much as he does and yet has a career averaging decades longer, and who is a strong candidate for FOREVER once he gets you a ring!”

“Whatever you say, Carmen, but I’m not considering marriage until I have at least 200 saved, or menopause…whichever comes later… But, call me later on my work cell.”

“You didn’t let me finish!  I almost forgot to tell you, David has your personal cell number now. He gave Jonathan his number to give to you, and he gave him yours and he’ll probably be calling you as soon as he gets in from his flight to Washington tomorrow.” Jonathan is her husband of 3 years, and the man with whom she’d been cheating on Eric before eventually leaving to continue dating and subsequently marrying weeks after passing the bar in Maryland.

“David Hathaway has my actual cell number…what were you thinking? I KNOW Jon consulted you before doing such a thing, and you probably told him it would be a perfect opportunity for me to brag about my life a decade later…What if he calls?  How would I explain to Eric that my high school crush is a baseball player on HIS fan team and it’s nothing serious…he’s the only man in the world to mean anything without sounding cheesy? Really Carm?

I quickly ended our call as the In-House Chemical Engineering guru, Michael Braxton, came in during my conversation unannounced and now sat on the couch facing my desk.  In front of him were a few files I had acquired from the CDC on a Vitamin A Assay study involving HIV strains.

“Hello Michael.  What have you gotten from the data sent in last night?”

               “Morning Syd, Atlanta is up to their ass in funding but they don’t know where to start.  We’re dealing with a minimum of 40 variations of nucleotide patterns, and a more aggressive cytophagic cycle.”

“Who’s on the team?”

               “Twelve specialists, the 2 we sent back to Howard U, 2 from Georgia Tech, 4 from Hopkins, and the four Tokyo members you recruited last April.  They’ll all be here when you get back from D.C.”

I’d forgotten he’d been in the room during part of my conversation with Carmen until he turned slowly towards me and whispered, “Let Barracuda call you.  Eric doesn’t fit you…he’s too stiff. Plus, Hathaway gave me a bonus last week, I bet three hundred in the office pool…” He overestimates my respect for him, knowing he is the only person in the entire university who I consider close enough to friendship because of our time together that his comments don’t instantly get him beheaded.  He earned my loyalty during his stint as a Teaching Assistant in 3 of my classes during my Master’s studies at the University of North Carolina, and accepted my offer to join my team as soon as I left for Philadelphia.  I would not have survived the MD/PhD program without him.

“…I know I’m stiff and just an old man and all (We’d just celebrated his 34^th birthday) but I haven’t yet forgotten how bright and happy you were coming into the lab at 5 AM and cracking jokes until whenever.  You’ve always had a spark, but now you’re so serious, especially around Rick, you’re growing rather dull, my child,” he says with a smirk.

“Well, thank you for the insight Michael.  You’ve always told me that I should grow up.  I guess I’ve matured a lot, I’m trying to catch up to your old ass…6 years is such a large gap and I’m so far behind you” I retorted in playful sarcasm, “ I’ll see if I can have some fun.”  Then, he was off.

               I have had six calls since he left and yet I still can’t shake my thoughts about what Carmen was saying about David.  I feel my high school days coming back to me, and not with a content nostalgia.  I have a lot to think about...

It All Falls Apart ... Mr. Orange

               Grabbing yet another bottle of Vitamin Water Essential from the pack of six I’d bought while stopping by Target on the way home from work, I closed my eyes, and, pressing my back against the wall, I sunk into the deep dark pit of my bathroom floor, my body coming to rest amidst a veritable sea of First Response value packs.  Tears bubbled in my stomach, but were blocked by the weight pressing against my chest, impeding my breath as if my body systems had grown autonomous and aware that if allowed to hyperventilate, my lungs would attempt a high-speed escape and I could choke on the contents of my stomach if my organs were allowed to complete their simultaneous mutiny.   I opened my eyes to watch my entire world come crumbling down all around me…my eyes focusing on the three positive pregnancy tests lying on the floor at my feet, and though my lungs contracted violently I still could not cry.  I could not move.  Everything just went numb, except for the vibrations in my toes feeling like pins and as I tried to exert my will on myself that my blood should stop coursing so quickly, the deafening roar of my heartbeat in my ears threatened to send me past the edge of sanity.

               My eyes water, and the next thing I know, I am facing the toilet and through blurred vision I can just make out the faint orange pooling in front of me.  My body heaves forward again, and as the beverage I’d been gorging myself on to force continued urination, with my mind intent on the hope that the two pink lines on at least one of these goddamn tests could turn to just one, streamed out of my throat, the sweet release of tears finally began to ease the burning of my corneas. 

               This could not be happening.  It was impossible. Not even 3 weeks before, I’d sat in front of my gynecologist as he explained the tiniest details of my test results, his face grey and immovable, and looking at hard as the rocks of wisdom with which he stoned me, each jargon-filled phrase piercing my weakened defense of stoicism.  “Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome…not so much an issue as a single ailment, Miss Boykin“… a tiny pebble whizzed past my ear and I tilted away to deflect it… “But our greatest concern would be the endometriosis”…as the pelting of stones grew from the size of small hail stones to fist-sized rocks… “uterine cells on your ovaries…another biopsy can be scheduled”…and then I’d wondered if all my years of squeezing my issues with parental abandonment into the simple statement of “I’m never having children” had come full circle to force the fulfillment of that prophecy as he did not even check my face for any signs of comprehension before continuing to tell me I had less than a 10 percent chance of ever conceiving a child, and even less chance of carrying one to full term…a small boulder finds its intended target: my chest… Yet, here I  kneel, plunged back into the present while inches away are three little constructions of plastic and cotton and chemicals hell-bent on informing me that my life as I know it is being torn completely asunder. 

               There was no one I could think to call…What could I say?  There was always Mr. Orange, whose face had broken at the news that I could probably never bear his children…it was at his beckoning that I’d even scheduled the appointment and faced a biopsy…but…there was also what I had not told him…about Halloween night at the Doubletree that was not spent with him while he called and left voicemail after voicemail from Fort Irwin, California...where he had been training for his deployment to Afghanistan...…my blood froze in my veins at the thought and everything fades to black…

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Mr. Orange (The Break-Up)

            He blinked twice and bit down hard.  I focused on the pulsing from his temple to the meeting place of his jaw and his neck directly below his left ear.  We didn’t speak for what seemed like hours in the seconds that froze between us.  I closed my eyes and broke the silence with a whisper of a sigh, and, sensing that I was about to speak he rushed to cut me off, and silenced me with only a gesture of his hand.  The muscles in his hand fluttered almost violently, and easily I could imagine his blood boiling in his veins as the skin specifically between his thumb and index finger convulsed in my line of sight. Silently, I removed my house key from his key ring, and opened the passenger door of his vehicle to walk to my front door as he caught my wrist and refused to let me go, his clutch filled with so many emotions that I winced…not from pain…at least, not physical pain.  I felt the questions in his grasp…and the nearly frantic beat of his heart pulsing through his index finger against my own radial pulse.  I paused and looked in his eyes; this time, he no longer fought to hide the tears forming there.  I kissed his cheek, and he loosened his grip on my arm, which allowed me to exit and walk to my door.  I’d ended it as gracefully as I felt I could…filled with the sad burden of knowing that I’d broken him. 

            He did not wait for me to get to my door safely, though it was past dusk and quickly the day had turned to the deepness of night while we had been sitting in the car, breathing.  He did not wait to watch me search my purse for my keys.  He knew I had a working key already in hand.  He did not wait to watch me turn on the porch light to signal I had gotten in the door.  He did not wait for me to look back at him to smile, and wave goodbye after blowing a kiss. Instead, the car door hadn’t completely clicked shut before he revved his engine and slammed in reverse, spinning tires as he sped out of the parking lot in front of my townhouse.  It was over.  We were over.

           I removed my coat and scarf, and set them to rest on my couch and threw myself next to them, sinking into the smell of suede with my eyes closed, waiting for the slight throbbing of my temples to decide between becoming a tension headache, or easing away into nothingness.   The vibration of my phone in my purse spoke of the text message I knew he was going to hastily type as he sped back towards Savannah.  I definitely did not expect for it to say what it did.

     "I love you."

March 14th, 2011 Post; Technical Difficulties

I pay close attention to the curve of a man’s neck…the softness of the skin there…the ripple of his carotid artery pulsing above the smoothness of his collarbone.  Sometimes I stare at that spot…lost in the quiver of his body rhythms…fantasizing about tracing the veins resting there and nibbling on the tightness of the skin stretched down to his chest…I brush my teeth quietly against his nipples…blowing cool air across them as they harden to the flicking of my tongue… My desire intensifies as I press my fingers into the strength of his shoulders and pull him closer to me…running my fingers down the arch of his back and trailing them to his outer thighs.  My mouth savors the sweetness of his skin as I hold back the giggle pressing against my diaphragm from the tickle of the tiniest hairs of his stomach on my top lip as I explore my way down his torso…craving the feel of the soft contours of the head of his dick in my mouth…the creamy succulence of his shaft, mirrored in the satin that is the skin in the curve of his neck…the playground of my imagination. 
                

                March 14th of every year is the homage to Fillets and Fellatio.  Valentine’s Day is a month in our memories, the flowers from that romance or pain filled night have all withered away, the chocolate seasonal aisle in the local supermarket has now been replaced with lighter fluid, charcoal, and other grilling paraphernalia…and men everywhere are retweeting suggestions for Steak and BJ day.  

Supply List: (This post is for the last minute celebrators)
                Chloraseptic Spray (reduces gag reflex)
                Cinnamon Altoids
                Ice
                Pineapple Juice
                Steak
There is no need for candles and table cloths… just…a steak…and some mouth love. 

Ingredients

• 1 boneless rib eye steak, 1 1/2-inch thick
• Canola oil to coat
• Kosher salt and ground black pepper

Directions

Place 10 to 12-inch cast iron skillet in oven and heat oven to 500 degrees. Bring steak(s) to room temperature.

When oven reaches temperature, remove pan and place on range over high heat. Coat steak lightly with oil and season both sides with a generous pinch of salt. Grind on black pepper to taste.

Immediately place steak in the middle of hot, dry pan. Cook 30 seconds without moving. Turn with tongs and cook another 30 seconds, then put the pan straight into the oven for 2 minutes. Flip steak and cook for another 2 minutes. (This time is for medium rare steaks. If you prefer medium, add a minute to both of the oven turns.)

Remove steak from pan, cover loosely with foil, and rest for 2 minutes. Serve whole or slice thin and fan onto plate.

Sex with the Ex

It didn’t take long at all before we were wrapped around each other with my ears pressed over his heartbeat. His skin was soft and smooth, and smelled sweetly of the hotel bath soap. It was like green and wood as his fingers trickled down my arms and across my shoulders. Moments later the sweatpants I carefully chose to wear to bed were on the floor and the tips of his fingers were whispering to my thighs. His lips were smooth and cool as sweetly his tongue explored my body and found rest in a tug of war with mine. I nibbled and tugged at his bottom lip, trying hard to restrain myself from drinking in too much of his nectar before we’d be too quickly spent. Instead, I teased and imagined he would become enamored with me once more, playfully nipping at his ears as my fingernails pressed deeper into his back.

Pleasure mounted in our dangerous dance, and tension grew as both of us saw in the other our prey, and yet still a potential predator. My tongue traced the vein rising in the curve of the left side of his neck and up to his ear as again he bit deeper into my neck, causing me to pause as my breath escaped me. Noisily I inhaled as my shirt found its way across the room. My chest heaved and spilled into his parted lips and as I could not control the back spasm that sent me lunging into what should have been a painful arch, I caught a glimpse of painted magnolias on the wall before my eyes rolled back into darkness.

There he waited, poised gracefully above me, arms and shoulders melting into each other and against my skin, watching as his touch rippled and shuddered through me—this King amongst Beasts--as I clawed against his torso searching for the heart that thudded against me with so much power that my every breath strained against itself to restrain any outburst. Again I had lost myself in the past as slowly, he slipped inside and pressed against me deeply, holding himself there before rotating around slowly—deeper and deeper—pulling back and pouncing forward and sending me to ecstasy. My mouth dried as I bit into the pillow, until his lips caressed mine. He drank me and in turn showered me with kisses, deep and sensual, and traced my collarbone with tiny touches that made my body ever sensitive.

Deeper he plunged and face to face, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis, our legs intertwined I finally made love to my heart. There he was—this fleeting daydream I had started to wonder was a conjured figment of my imagination. This was my first love revisited. I shuddered as arms clenched and dug into his back, bottom lip was bitten, and I exclaimed into the night and pleaded to God; screaming into the warm air floating above my bed. I released and buried my face into his chest, and with one last quiver I fell into slumber.

I need some put a bitch to sleep kind of sex right now. When I first started telling myself that I just wasn't going to have sex while I was doing this whole creative and informative writing project that is still untitled, I had been having a consistent 2 orgasm a month minimum for nearly an entire year. For the first couple of months, I could remember vividly the slight burn and feel of my thigh muscles as I inched myself down the thickness of Mr.Blonde...sucking in my breath slowly as I flashed back to the feel of my nani struggling to spread and take him all the way in. Slowly...those memories fade...and now I've lost most of what has been keeping me sane.

There's only so much I can take...only so many Hershey's Milk Chocolate with Almonds bars that I can suck the almonds out of before I'm either the size of a small house or immune (the latter is seemingly becoming the issue). I'm doing this for you...my reader...and I hope it's worth it...I need some inspiration...lol

Deterioration of a Daddy's Girl...

I wanted to share a little something about my father. The following post is actually from September 1, 2011...Its been on my mind to re-read it lately...because of a comment made to me that women try to use men to replace their fathers...I wonder sometimes... (Pops passed two months after this post on 11/3/2011)

Watching your father die isn’t supposed to be easy. I know this, and understand it. I guess I took for granted that I was just going to get a tearful phone call from one of my sisters telling me that I needed to take off from work to come back to attend his funeral. In my imagination, it was going to be one of those--he just never woke up-- kind of endings.

One may find it overtly macabre that I had already experienced some rendition of my father’s death and replayed it in memory before. My father was 46 at my birth. All my life I have been coming to terms with the idea that my Daddy may not be walking me down the aisle or holding up my children at their Christening. Taking into account the average American male gains nearly 20 pounds following a divorce (of which my father has endured 2) and the family history of alcoholism, hypertension, diabetes, and maladaptive stress coping mechanisms, I envisioned that aforementioned phone call coming around my junior year in college. A lot can change in a short time as evidenced in the bit of self-honesty in which I no longer consider marriage to be one of the milestones needing to occur by 25, and I’m Muslim so--no Christening coming in any near foreseeable future. These are life facts that have been fairly easy with which to deal and flow. Those were personal ideals, which tend to change with the growth of the person in such a subtle way as to feel natural.

There are few things in this world so designed that completely shake the foundation of identity in people like me. Pancreatic Adenocarcinoma stands to be one of those things.

My Dad has always been the biggest, strongest, meanest MF-er in my world. Even in my earliest memories of childhood that one supreme fact afforded me great Peace of Mind. There was only one person from whom I needed to fear reproach, and as long as I stayed within his boundaries, I was protected from admonishment by others, in that quiet reverence of: My Daddy can beat up Your Daddy. This progressed into the pattern that, my dad was my only real opponent later in life…

The year 2007 came and went, and with it, my junior year in college, during which my father continued to not only survive, but flourish. As such, with every passing year that my father remained nearly frozen at age 48, minus the slight peppering of grey in his hair, I grew to forget his mortality. We have had the most tumultuous of relationships since I hit puberty, but I guess I just assumed we would have time to have that little Hallmark moment one day …when we would sit back and apologize for the hell we’d had for each other…and we’d both be healthy when that happened.

I am now tortured with wondering how, in the couple of days from the last time I emerged from my childhood bedroom before he left for the next appointment, he has lost more mass. I cannot bear to see my father eat because he can’t stomach more than a few bites when he does at least, eat. I am the most rebellious, hard-headed, and willful of his kids…the baby child that had the balls to say what was on my chest with no regards for the feelings of others…and am now running out of ways to hide my tears when he’s around. I search for any excuse to leave the house, but still can’t find the resolve to leave the area and go home.

Watching your father die isn’t supposed to be easy. I never thought it would be a progressive deterioration of the biggest, strongest, meanest being in my world…