My recent break up with my ex-fiancé, a beautiful 20 something that distracted me from my previous relationship with my children’s mother, was not easy. After moving back to my home city of North Park, CA, I begin living a truly single bachelor life with my roommate Kev. Kev and I lived as starving artists do. We didn’t have a television by choice. Books and 12” albums surrounded the rooms. We listened to music and engaged in deep conversations about the meaning of life and its textures in between major moments. When we found an “Afroism” we liked, we tagged it on the wall in our dining room, like the one Kev came up with, “There is no excuse for the life you choose.” The entire room was tattooed with good conversations of us and our company. We annoyed our neighbors with our obnoxious amount of workout equipment outside. My neighbors frequently scolded me for all night parties on Mondays.
Along came my ex-fiance. She was more than willing to fill the void of past relationships. She was pure fun. We traveled, partied, and fell in love; but there will be more on that later. This isn’t that story.
It’s now a little over a year since my proposal. Every move I made was a part of a huge plan to give her whatever she wanted in the world. In order to settle down my misogynistic ways, I needed to mature and improve my character tremendously to be the best man possible for myself. I was overhauled. My relationship with God was the first relationship I needed to fix in order to be better. I studied many different religions and discovered that God is everything. He is the magnificent intricacies that make up rain forests, he is the sun that feeds, and he is love—the immature fetus that will one day develop into pain.
He is full grown.
My next step in becoming marriage material was to fix the relationships with my parents. They too are victims, so I don’t blame them for my life choices, but I do find fault in the opportunities I am denied. I am uncultivated, organic, and instinctual. My instincts lead me towards compassion, community, and truth. Most people don’t like to accept the truth, so the cards I keep trying to slide with them have lower balances than EBT on 30th of the month. No, this is not that story either.
This is love’s post-partum story. We broke the engagement, but more on that later.
I am single, but not ready to mingle. My best friends notice that I have become pensive and hermit-like. I enjoy my quiet time, but I don’t enjoy being physically alone. They call and coerce me to go out. We go to Spin night club. Spin is a three story building on the west end of Old Town bordering the San Diego airport. Every first Friday, it packs with some of the most “sophistiratchet” people in southern California. Before my friends come to kidnap me, I am home reading and writing. My boys build obstructions and promises of debauchery too tempting to ignore; I summon my notebook to come with us for snapping verbal photographs.
My fit--a teal button down with navy blue suit pants. A prototype bow-tie from an upcoming project adorns. The tie’s primary colors are two-inch hot pink and navy blue stripes with gold logos on the front side. The flipside of the tie is a green canvas with white polka dots. A flat tan corduroy cap covers a fresh edge-up. My blue and red suspenders clash and hang half way from my belt to my favorite matching cognac brown Stacy Adam zip-ups. The most important part of the fit is my black notebook for recording images and Afroisms.
Inside Spin, the first floor is where majority of the people party. Then you have a second floor for VIP and restrooms. The third floor is where I see her. She stands in a pose as if a master sculptor carves her body out of dark brown marble. Her dress seems to be made of the thinnest fibers on the planet. It hugs her like they were in Church. Shaped like an “S,” with dancer legs beneath, the shade of her skin is dark enough to melt in my mouth at midnight. A beautiful head on top rocks a really low boyish haircut. I notice her smiling and glancing at me, the universal invitation for a man to approach.
I approach and say, “I love everything about your style.”
She replies, “I’m digging your style too.” She touches the tip of my bow-tie.
We dance. We converse. The courtship is the center of attention on the third floor in our vicinity. I am not thirsty, however, I appreciate beautiful women. Remember, I am single, but not ready to mingle. During our conversation, she mentions she is here from Inglewood and that she is originally from Kenya. She mentions she is a personal assistant to a celebrity. I need a personal assistant. The old Spurge would attempt to seduce her into an extended after party, but not this time. I decide to keep it professional. I nickname her “African Mami,” aka, “Baddest Body in the Club.”
I request her email, like a professional is supposed to do, and took a picture of it in the back of my notebook. No business cards. No phone numbers. This time around, I am not jumping from one relationship to another; I am open to friendships of the opposite gender. Occasionally, I will be physically attracted, but my goal is abstain from sex and love. To be continued…