Boy doesn't even meet girl. Boy is merely made aware of girl's existence via the interwebs a full year ago. Boy is really smitten and wants to know more about girl badly. Boy is made aware of her Twitter page, and since that page is private, he anxiously awaits her approval. Boy receives approval and finds girl to be candid, funny, insightful, intriguing, and unbelievably strong, yet vulnerable. Boy is definitely smitten now...
Boy and girl get to know each other a little bit, and through a confluence of events, girl will be in boy's city so they set up a date. An issue at her job forces a rescheduling to a day with an insanely tight window of opportunity. Which, coincidentally happens to be, the day before her birthday.
Boy modifies hotel reservation, girl makes it to town, and the day arrives for their arranged tête-à-tête. During some point that morning, boy receives message:
"Well guess who started her monthly..."
Boy sighs, but is accepting and undeterred. He simply knows where he isn't allowed to go on this day and still anxiously awaits their moment together. In an attempt to get an earlier check-in, he calls the hotel in the earl afternoon. But since boy sprung for a suite, and they clean those last, the window of their time together is still very tiny. A window that closed when she found herself locked out of the house she was staying in. She offered to pay to cover the costs of boy's hotel room, but boy declined the generous offer and merely wished her safe passage back home. Girl gives her word that she will make it up to him and boy takes her at her word. The girl is Charlotte Breeze, and she will always be treasured for exactly how she did just that.
She tells me she's coming to town a few weeks ago and that she's bringing a friend who's new to her line of work and had never experienced my fair city. She asks if a particular day is good, and even if it wasn't, I'd be damned if it wasn't about to be. Because she was pretty intent on keeping her promise of making up to me our previous failed attempt at a rendezvous. You think I'm going to miss that? Click that link again. See the pics...read the words... Won't be me. CAN'T be me.
The eve of our day arrives and naturally the most "Charlotte & Rashad" thing possible happens: After waiting all day to get a rental car, it's immediately wrecked. After accepting that "Murphy's Law" is simply part and parcel with how we get down, we simply push everything back a day. Our day and time finally arrives and we meet at a hip hotel in the heart of the city where I'm still bitter I paid $40 for parking. I get the room number and open the door where there are three beautiful women inside. The initial confusion vanished pretty quickly as the young lady I was completely unfamiliar with got the hell out of dodge after a cordial greeting, and I was formally introduced to the heartwarming smile, the sweet demeanor, and probing tongue of her absolutely delightful friend, Grace Collins.
As Grace and I kissed with reckless abandon, Charlotte comes over and after a year of correspondence and logistical nightmares, this stunning woman is in my arms. We see each other's faces and hear each other's voices. We hear our breathing, feel our skin, and taste our lips. We open our eyes, look deep into each other's, and know how hard we both worked to make this moment happen. We are finally here...together...and these clothes are officially a hinderance.
Grace and I again kiss like seventh graders as an assortment of hands work to remove my pesky outerwear. I lay on the bed and a brief discussion takes place between the ladies on whether or not a certain picture should be taken (as if what I bring to the soirée should be submitted to Ripley's). Then, as the smile struggled to detach itself from my face, and "Dress" by Sylvan Esso plays in the background, the ladies began to do things that produced some rather interesting sounds.
Oh, And There Were Sounds...
The feminine coos of affection/encouragement. The guttural gurgling of efforts and tested limits in attempts to fit even just 1/8 more than last time. Their trademark "Ohhh, babyyyyy"s. The smacking of lips at varying degrees of pressure relinquishing contact with whatever skin it has bonded to. The slurping, or the spitting, or the muffled elation of a smothered face. My childish giggles as areas I've known to be ticklish were attended to. The buzzing of an electronic device...maybe two...creating the eye rolls & collapsed, slacked bodies typically associated with orgasmic euphoria.
And There Were Collisions...
Large Hadron collisions. The collisions that conclude with tennis grunts from both parties. The ones that make you make that face that she's not allowed to laugh at because it'll break your concentration. The collisions where you try to go *through* your partner, the bed, and the earth itself & reemerge in China. The collisions where your only goal is to be remembered because of soreness on Tuesday from the consequences of Saturday.
And There Was Contact...
Not just the more sudden, direct contact from the aforementioned lips, or even an unexpected hand around the throat. Not even the cat-o-nine tails Grace was playfully struck with as they both *occupied* a portion of my person that could bring them pleasure. But that slow, simmering, savory type of contact. That "mellow jazz saxophone solo" contact. The delectable, indelible, friction of passion. The tortuous tracing of bodies with the softest, slowest, most sensual and deliberate pecks. The contact where hands are held and breathing synchronizes. The contact where Charlotte applies a spectacular hue of rouge lipstick and with her kisses, leaves the prints of flower petals around Grace's areola. The push-to-the-hilt-while-the-hips-tilt-simultaneously-at-a-snail's-pace-all-while-looking-longingly-into-each-other's-eyes...into their souls...kind of contact. This is the contact where people get in trouble by saying "I love you" before they want to because the moment's perfection has betrayed their logical sensibilities. The contact that aches in your mind long after the physical has worn off. We all shared THAT contact.
And all of it was awesome. The adolescent giggles, the visceral manifestations of lust, the laughter at my inability to open a bottle of water because of whatever filthy act-based concoction was on my hands, the horror stories of dates gone wrong while we showered. The connections...the connections...my God, the connections. The relief and the release of a few people's magnanimous nature crescendoing into the free-flowing dance of kinetic energies in that room; and no one had to say a word. We simply smiled. We trusted each other and we got to create something beautiful.
It wasn't supposed to ever happen; her unavailability, my addiction struggles, the myriad of reasons for our inability to make our schedules match once we did actually try to get together, you name it. But it DID happen, and every time we thought about it, we were grateful, and we simply smiled, and we kissed, and we sighed, and we did whatever it took to give us a reason to smile and kiss again. It's arguably the happiest I've ever been, and that's the funny thing about my depression and lack of self-esteem...
As of the writing of this, I am 33 years old. I've seen rock bottom on three separate occasions in my life, and amazingly enough, have had the resolve to be better on the back end of those instances. When comfortable and trusting I am wildly passionate, and when that occurs, there is no pain worth holding back your affection. But how many times can you push your chips all in and be that truly free? Only as often as you win or as often as you can reload your chips. For me, my twenties were filled with me crapping out on my big bets. So instead, I would try to hold onto the few chips I had. I self-preserved. My pain was spared because I offered no one the passion. I did not "live" in the true sense of the word, I merely existed. Sadly, all you grow accustomed to is your own voice protecting you from yourself and the only comfort offered is acclamation to mediocrity. YOU. DON'T. GROW.
Considering my last few experiences, I did not expect things to go well. I even warned them of the worst-case scenario. Yet when I arrived and throughout our time together, I was treated like a king and things went remarkably. I know there were times where things could have gone better. But the only one that seemed to be concerned with that was me, which made the reality of the matter clear: I'm not exactly the person I need to be listening to when it comes to my self-worth. I'm much better than I'll ever give myself credit for. Too many people whose opinion I respect, and frankly, know better than I do, have said things about me that I simply have not given a proper amount of gravity to in an attempt to keep myself grounded. Where that has kept me instead, is desolate. These beautiful women gave me the amazing gift of awareness and for the first time in ages, self-appreciation. That seems like a fair trade to me for a pair of Louboutins.
At some point, we'll see each other again. Since we know a bit about each other, things will be even more fun, better, potentially smoother, and more than likely weirder. But it will never be clearer than this maiden voyage. It will always hold a special place in my heart and I don't know how to truly say thank you to them in the way that accurately shows my gratitude. But I can comfortably end this post with a period because we are nowhere near the end of our story.
