This is the only acceptable form of cheating if you are married.

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Made for Me

If I could have a man created specifically for me, with all the things I desire in a partner, I would ask for a man who took my breath away every time I saw him.  He would be tall and brown and beautiful and ooze integrity from every pore in his being.  He would be wise beyond his years and his words would be carefully chosen each time he spoke and they would flow like honey from his lips. 

If I could have a man created specifically for me, he would consider Africa his cultural and spiritual homeland and be willing to shed the belief systems that we have incorporated during slavery for a more holistic way of living.  He would be driven to fulfill his purpose in life and single minded in his dedication to a cause that is righteous and good.  He will meditate every morning and he would pray with me every night.  Of course, he will be able to cry on my shoulder and ask for support because he has come face to face with the demons that have kept men from evolving emotionally and he will have a commitment to redefining himself anew.  He will listen first and then speak, he will not internalize every comment as criticism, and he will apologize when he’s done something wrong. 

My perfect man will live off of a plant based diet, practice a spiritual system other than Christianity, and he will be openly bisexual.  He will have been in an intimate relationship with another man and loved him.  He will be comfortable with his sexuality not being tied to ridiculous roles that define him.  He will be a patient and attentive lover who will be willing to please and pamper me with the knowledge that I will only return the favor tenfold. 

He would never be intimidated by my intellect, potential, or my activism and he would support me and my efforts with words of encouragement and praise.  He would put other’s needs above his wants and we will travel the world in search of truth.  He will know the first and third verses of the Negro National Anthem and he will stand up when it’s being sung without being told.  He will never use the word nigger, nigga, or any phonetic or derivative spelling thereof out of reverence and respect for our ancestors. 

I want my perfect man to be equal parts creative and intelligent, equal parts spiritual and carnal.  Make him open-minded, tolerant of people’s differences, and as far left as he can get politically without falling off the scale and ending up in jail at Guantanmo Bay.  I want him to be an avid reader and lover of jazz, art, real theater (not Medea plays) and capable of articulating why the current brand of hip-hop is misogynist and offensive to not only women but to men as well. 

His commitment to our relationship will be beyond compare.  My perfect man would prioritize and sacrifice in order for us to continually grow.  Ahh, my perfect lover would hold me in his arms at night and kiss my forehead and whisper, “I love you, Scottie” and make me feel as if everything was right with the world. 

I’ve Got a Secret

I’m going to let y’all in on a little secret.  I’ve been keeping it for a long time. Now, when y’all hear my secret, the sistas will hiss and boo and think of me as a weak traitor, the brothas will say, “I told you so, I knew it all along.” I’ve wrestled with this secret for a long time, feeling guilt and shame for harboring these thoughts. Living my life in the closet, afraid to express myself, living a lie. In public, I deny my true feelings, crossing the line, extolling the sentiments exactly the opposite of how I feel. What is my secret? My badge of shame. Come close. Don’t tell a soul. I need a man. There I said it. It’s out in the open. I need a man.  

I grew up being told that a woman needed a man for survival, to be the provider and protector. The man was the breadwinner and the woman stood behind him. I was told that men could lie and cheat and treat you like shit and as long as they paid the bills and eventually came home, that’s all you could expect. Women were never supposed to argue or disagree with a man. “Oh, you are so funny.” “Stop, don’t say that,” in a coy and docile manner.  You had to have a man in your life. Even if that man was somebody else’s. A borrowed man was better than no man at all. I was raised to believe that all a woman could hope for was to play stupid, never have an opinion and to do whatever it takes to make a man happy. Which included spreading your legs, cooking, cleaning and being passive.  My momma never said outright, ”You have to have a man to make you complete,” but actions speak louder than words. There was never a day when she didn’t have someone’s husband calling her. She would fix them gourmet meals and offer them her dysfunctional mind and sexual body. And of course they took it and went home to their wives, bellies full and balls empty, egos enormous.   

I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way.  I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own.  But then I got strong. I’ve been by myself for almost 14 years now. I wish I could say 14 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last decade. I’ve decided I don’t want no lying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self-centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have had other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex more than a few times, maintenance dates, yes. But I’ve not had a man in my life.  I need a man.  I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self.

What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from laying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings.   Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact.

I hear sistas saying that they don’t need a man but I sure as hell do. And tell me this, if men were so damned unnecessary, why is it that successful sistas who have got a man are not trying to give them away. All these women out here talking about I don’t need a man. I tell you what I don’t need. I don’t need panty liners with wings.  I don’t need low fat chocolate ice cream. I don’t need 36 pairs of shoes. Seems like to me, if men were so damned unnecessary, there would be a lot more hairy-legged lesbians around.  

I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a strong, African-centered, evolved, emotionally mature man.  Whew, my secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!

 

The love I share is with a Black man.

The love I share is with a Black man.  A strong, beautiful, talented, intelligent, wonderful, Black man.  Not just as in the color of his skin, but Black in his heart: proud, confident, and secure.  A man that knows that keeping it real does not mean getting blunted or that he is a nigga.  He strives for excellence and looks to lift up and enlighten others along the way.  The Black man I love is my friend, my lover, my partner, my advocate and the father of my Black children. 

I believe in him and he believes in me.  I never have to ask, “Do you love me?” because the evidence is there is word and in deed.  Every morning we get up and share time with one another.  Sometimes we shower together, bathing in the closeness and love that we share.  Other times we make love until we are both late for work.  It’s passionate and fulfilling, not borne of a morning hard on, but of genuine passion and respect.  The time we spend together in the morning makes it easier to face the petty annoyances of the day.  I can reflect on his love and nothing seems to bother me.  I can face every challenge assured.  Assured that he will never call me a bitch or raise his hand to me.  Assured that the first woman with a big butt and no panties won’t lure him away.  Assured that our fights will not be with each other, but against racial and societal ills.  I’m assured that we are fighting for a future together. 

Do I love my Black man?  More than words can say.  When I speak of him, my eyes light up and I tell everybody about his talents, abilities and accomplishments.  (He gets so embarrassed sometimes.)  And I show him I love him every chance I get.  My love is there for the long haul, I’m down for whatever.  I’ll stand beside my man ready to face any challenge given to us. 

Why do I love my Black man?  When I’m afraid, he doesn’t make me feel inferior, he allows me to cry.  When I succeed, he doesn’t feel threatened, he rejoices in my accomplishments.  He deals with my faults and shortcomings.  I’m not perfect but he thinks I am perfect for him. He helps me to be a better person.  He doesn’t put undue pressure on me to be Superwoman: holding down a job, fixing dinner in high heels and a tight dress, ready to suck his dick and spread my legs, right after I do the laundry and put the kids to bed.  When I feel down, who do you think is my biggest cheerleader?  He stays awake through the entire ballet, and he only complains a little.  That’s OK, I make sandwiches and snacks for him during the game, cause that’s what makes him happy. 

Our time alone together is just that, alone.  Away from the pressures of a day to day existence.  Words are not necessary.  Our deepest communication is nonverbal.  Our dreams are the same, our hearts beat in the same rhythm.  It’s a good thing we get to spend time apart occasionally.  When I’m away on business or he’s having a boy’s weekend, we get a chance to reflect on how much we mean to one another.  There is never any insecurity or jealousy between us.  I smile when I see his head turn at the sight of a beautiful Black woman.  He jumps to the defense of sisters when they are being dissed by less enlightened men.  He takes the time to spend with young brothers, providing a positive role model for them to aspire to.  How could I not love this man?

And just when you think things can’t get any better.  He gives me that long, hard, hot, wet, sticky, Black love.  He eats my pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I’m babbling incoherently. We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of “love.”  I can share any erotic fantasy with him and know that I’m not going to be ridiculed or shamed.  He takes the time to make every time special: music, candlelight, poetry (his own).  I get wet just thinking about him. 

Sometimes problems do arise.  We face them as a challenge to greater heights of understanding.  We hardly fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty socks……Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love him, nor that he loves me.  His family is mine, mine has become his.  Our children, planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love.  My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath.  Our sons, respecters of Black women, are political, street smart and fine.  Our daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as intellect and ambition.

Most importantly, I share my love of God with my Black man.  Every morning, every night, we thank God for the blessings we have received.  We worship, meditate and pray together. Our relationship to God defies traditional definition.  We make God first in our lives.  We face the world knowing that our love is a Divine gift from God.