When it is, most of the time it isn’t.
when you think it is and it really ain’t
you just have to say
“it is what it is.”
Listen to this
A virgin in her twenties doesn’t think about sex!
Shut your mouth, that girl is innocent.
Yet I find myself standing, after church
on a floor without a basement
two stepping at arms-length to Journey’s Small-Town Girl,
He wore a sweater vest, and a bow tie, and said things like
“Your teeth are pretty, we should pray together sometime.”
I twirl beneath his arm rotisserie style to both
avoid affirming his offer
and get out of the weird straight-armed embrace
like pre-pubescent kids at a school dance.
These shoes two sizes too tight
My hair, blown in from hot mess express
And breasts strapped ‘neath a sports bra never made for layering hot ass modest church dresses
But titties are for two things: either tantalizing men or feeding babies, and I don’t have children
Because I’ve never had sex
So like a good Proverbs 31 woman, I’m hiding my love balloons
under Goodwill polyester and muted stripes
This bow-tie, sweater vest wearing, praying, mother—
child of God…chatters on in a tone that sounds like he’s got our lives planned out in his head
I making collard greens, our children are in Sunday school
And his mother makes me take her to Macys every first and last Wednesday of the month.
It’s crazy because
Sitting between the warm velvet legs of my antique sofa
I just thought about sex. What is that, you know?
Yall, I just want to know.
Somebody tell me. Rub the definition against my spine
Until some guy
Can trail a brail with their finger tips and read into the depraved subtext that lives
In every pore, divot, curve, dip, slip, and slit
Of this 20 year old body
This body that has never tried on any other
In this lifetime
Where is mine?
While watching the Kama Sutra Pareidolia in my X-rated coffee foam
There were these two junkyard dogs begging outside my apartment
The human in the situation shared his salami with the mutt
Who made the most noise
Silence has never been fed, and I’m red with the sentiments of
Of that Halden Hound’s hunger
“Where is mine!” my vagina barked to no one in particular.
You can imagine what a strange Sunday this was.
Sliding on stockings while salivating over something that’s supposed
to damn soul from salvation.
At twenty years old
It’s a shame for such desire to be wasted
But that seems very long ago now
As again I pirouette my modest sack clothed form
Beneath the increasingly sweaty arm of Mr. Bow Tie who likes my teeth.
I was pretty sweaty too, I guess.
All these pure bodies, bound by covenant to keep their legs closed
eyes up, hands folded and drink warm red punch while
Sardined down here
where the music is too soft to twerk to.
“is anything wrong?” he asked.
But what I heard was festival of invitation
My mind put me on a carousel where
He was Idris Elba and just got robbed of his shirt, pants, and dignity
I had to make him feel a man again somehow!
Add him to my non-existent body count
Try on whatever he could do without
His sweat, flesh, wet, we don’t have to be done yet!
Dwele serenades us in the background, “it’s all yours now”
He said it, I didn’t. But what are we going to do about it?
I had to check myself
Answer his question before this headache of a Sunday night got any weirder
“yes I’m fine.”
But that woman was not fine, she was not that woman, and what everyone thought was
Truth is, now, 5 years later
I’m a star child with dreadlocks, a passport, and a Rollercoaster fetish
Truth is I don’t want children, I’m vegan, and I study with a Guru
that never pretends to be anything he isn’t. I learn a lot from him
truth is I’ve had sex, and I was damn right to want it
and you know what?
it is what it is.
And 5 years ago it was a mask. Grins, lies, and borrowed beliefs buried
in my underwear.