THANK YOU. I LOVE YOU. I WILL MISS YOU

On Friday, I got the call from my mom that my father passed; I didn’t know how to feel. I know how I should feel, but the reality is “that” feeling feels ingenuine. I remember seeing my father a total of two times, once when I was 18 and the other time, last year at my cousin’s wedding. You see, my father left before I turned one, and when he reached out to me later in life, the time apart had done so much damage the bridge couldn’t be rebuilt. 

We would talk on the phone on occasion; he would see how I was doing and like my Facebook pictures from time to time. But, the interactions lacked depth. So, when I got the call that he was dead, there was a short reset and sensation similar to an ache, but not quite. 

I’ve never been the cry right then type of person. When my grandmother passed, I didn’t cry until we were at her funeral. With one look at my crying uncle, I could no longer hold it together, and all the tears fell. All the memories of the times we shared came flooding back. And I realized that I would never get to see her again. My family would never go over to her house for the holidays. I would never braid her hair, and I would never get to hear her curse out her home-health-aid. I would miss all the memories, and I would forever miss what could have been. 

But, with my father, there are little to no memories to reflect upon. When I saw him when I was 18, I was a moody adolescent with an attitude because he left in the first place. When I saw him again, in my thirties, I just enjoyed the moment. With less than twenty-four hours worth of memories and a lost future of what could have been, I sat down in the tub last night during my shower and tried to find conjure up the emotions society said I was supposed to feel. Mixed with the steady stream of hot water came crocodile tears, followed by a day-long headache. 

I posted a picture last night on my Instagram and Facebook. It was a picture taken at my cousin’s wedding with my mom and father; we all looked happy. That day we laughed, danced, and ate, and when the night was over, we talked about visiting him in North Carolina. Other family problems happened, then COVID happened, and before I knew it, he was gone. Below the picture was messages of condolences and prayer emojis from various friends and followers. I appreciated every one of them, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they felt worse for me than I did for myself. 

Last night my brother and sister-in-law called me to express their condolences; this was interesting considering my brother actually spent more years getting to know my father than I did. We laughed about it, but the truth of the situation stung a bit. I know he left for a good reason, but I’d be lying if I said I totally understood. I’d be lying even more if I said I forgave him for it. 

Holding onto that grudge won’t change the fact that my father is gone, and he won’t ever be coming back. There will be no more calls to make or receive. I’ll never see him like a Facebook post. And he’ll never get to attend my hypothetical wedding or meet his hypothetical grandchild. 

Another thing I realized is that the news of death comes in waves. The first wave acknowledges death; it’s the heavy feeling in your stomach that first weighs you down. The second is missing; missing the person and the memories of them. But the last, which is the one I always feel, is the feeling of regret. I always wish that I had done more. Could I have called more? Could I have texted more? Could I have visited sooner? When my grandmother passed, I saw her a week before, and we spoke often; but I still felt regret and wished that I had done more.

Death sucks. Getting the news that someone you know, love, or care for died sucks. Wishing you had done more while they were alive sucks. And knowing that you’ll never get the chance to do things over, or better, sucks. My father wasn’t a perfect man, but he was my father, and I wouldn’t exist without him. So, I have to thank him for contributing to my existence. I have to thank him for loving me from a distance. And I have to thank him for trying. 

Thank you. I love you. I will miss you.

I MAKE MY BAD DECISIONS SOBER

For as long as I can remember, I never loved the feeling of being drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good margarita with my Mexican, or bottomless mimosas during brunch. But when it comes to getting drunk, it’s just not my thing; I prefer to get nice. Because I don’t get drunk, I can never use the excuse, ‘I was so drunk, I can’t remember’ line. This means I have the unfortunate responsibility of having to playback, in excruciating detail, all the events of a drunken night with friends, or a day of drinking that ended up in a fight.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no goody-two-shoes. I’ve thrown up across tables, fell asleep in bathroom stalls, and in many clubs. But, like an elephant, I remember everything that happened leading up to the moment I fall asleep. I can recall the exact sip that put me over the edge. On a drunken birthday, I remember picking up dollars from the floor and handing them to the strippers on stage. I remember waiting on line to use the bathroom, then falling asleep on the toilet. I remember the bathroom attendant looking over the top of the stall to make sure I was alive. And I remember my friends escorting me back to my section and letting me go to sleep. I woke up when the ship docked.  

I used to envy those people that blacked out, for the sole reason of zero accountability. I always saw the ‘too drunk to remember line’ as a cop-out or an excuse to do fucked up shit and get away with it. –” I’m sorry I slept with you best friend; I was drunk.” — I wished that I could fuck up majorly and, like Jamie Foxx, blame it on the alcohol, but I couldn’t. For a while, I envied those people; Then, when I started attending sex parties, I learned to love my ability to remember.   

If you’ve never been to a sex-club or swinger party, they’re always BYOB. To my very first party, I brought a bottle of Bacardi Coconut Rum. I had the bar-lady mix it with pineapple juice, took a few sips, and then scoped out the room. The liquid massage the rum offered my body, was just the right amount of relaxation I wanted and needed. I engaged in some great conversations, ate some pussy, sucked some dick, was in a threesome, and rode a man’s face. And the only reason I remember every detail of that night was because I was sober.   

When I started attending LS (Lifestyle) parties regularly, less and less alcohol was needed. For starters, attending parties with a guaranteed partner removed a lot of pressure. And since I screened my partners before the party, I had an assortment of dicks ready to please me. Secondly, with the right amount of people, the party jumped off rather quickly, and with everyone having a good time, a drink to loosen up wasn’t necessary. That high school dance feeling of, waiting for other couples to dance, did not exist. I was extremely comfortable being one of the first couples to start things off. Lastly, I wanted to be in total control of whatever happened throughout the night. I need to know what titty I’m licking, dick I’m sucking, pussy I’m eating, and whose dick is fucking me. In a room full of bodies and chaos, I need to have control; and I couldn’t have that if I was too far gone. Would I recognize the person a few days later, while walking down the street? –Of course not! But, at that moment, I knew that every decision I made was mine, and that was all that mattered.   

In addition to wanting to have that control, I wanted to be able to remember how it all felt. I wanted to remember the kiss on my partner’s lips when he sees the outfit I changed into. I wanted to remember the feeling of my lingerie against my skin. I wanted to remember the feeling of eyes on me. I wanted to remember my partner kissing me, then laying me down on the mattress, and removing my panties to devour my pussy. I wanted to remember the weight of other bodies on the bed. I wanted to remember the feeling of tangled limbs and hands caressing my legs in the air. I wanted to remember the feeling of my toes and nipples being sucked and licked. I wanted to remember the feeling of a veiny dick in my mouth as my partner devoured my pussy into a screaming orgasm. I wanted to remember the moment he turned me over to fuck me. I wanted to remember the smell of the pussy I bend over to eat and the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I wanted to remember his hands around my throat, restricting my airway as he rammed my pussy and found his orgasm. And, in the end, I wanted to remember him pulling me back to kiss my lips once he reached his orgasm.  

I make all of my bad decisions sober because I want to be in control, and I want to be able to recall the memories of each encounter. I want to remember the feelings of inhibitions lost and lust that enveloped the room. I may forget the names and faces, but that intoxicating feeling will stay with me forever, all because I make my decision sober.