and at the same time
Not
Because she’s cool
like that
Phat
like that
and above all
She’s got it all
Beauty, brains, and
a pussy that’s untamed
and at the same time
tamable
She’s capable of pulling out her rabbit
just like that
Anytime
at the drop of a dime
It’s mine
My kind of woman
is an extension of me
she’s everything I want her to be
and at the same time
She’s not
My kind of woman
Is a whole lot of women
And that’s why
I could never
eat just one
keep just one
fuck just one
Or
love just one
My kind of woman
Baby
Is you
And you
And you
And you too
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In my writings, I don’t make choices for my characters or my readers. I purposely develop the stories for you to intuitively and intellectually make your own decisions. If a person thinks any of my characters are brilliant, brave, or bad, it’s not because I’ve stated that. Remember this: your deductive reasoning is rooted in your frame of references, not mine. So, in this message, as I offer you an intimate part of me—I don’t seek compassion or understanding. I simply want to share with you an intimate potion, a dose, about the woman, about the writer.
I first discovered, at the age of seven, that I could control the movement of my vaginal muscles. Let me tell you, that was a liberating experience. I was excited beyond measure. Sitting on our pink porch, on the corner of First and Magnolia in New Orleans, I admired my fitted yellow knit shorts. Billy Ann and her girlfriend were engrossed in teenage conversation. I sat on the top step looking down at four stairs, thinking. About what, I can’t remember. Maybe just the fact that it was so hot that summer day. I do recall being happy that the older girls didn’t leave or make me leave. Suddenly, my little kitty moved. I was amazed. I stared at her. Did I do that? Well, let’s see. I tried to make her move again. She did! She moved again! I became so lost in my great discovery that the only thing that drew my attention was laughter. Billy Ann and her girlfriend were no longer laughing with one another. They were laughing at me so I stopped, got up, opened the screen door, and took my kitty inside. Today, I realize how beautiful my experience could’ve been if an older woman had explained how and why my little kitty had moved.
Ignorant of the sacredness my virginity held, I shared my virginity at the age of fourteen believing that would make him love me. I became pregnant and miscarried, one of the (if not the) most painful physical experiences of my life, at the tender age of fifteen. And, thankfully I had my first explosive orgasm at sixteen. You see, if someone hadn’t—and actually no one had—told me about orgasms early in life, I would truly be a born-again virgin. Seriously. I was ready to quit having sex by the age of sixteen. Talk at home about sex was nonexistent. But talk on the streets made sex seem fun. To me, the boys were having all the fun. Did you hear me? I said, “All the fun.” Most of them, in fact, none of the high school boys knew anything about how to make me reach my orgasmic peak.
A neighborhood friend of my family, and all the other families near Second and Loyola, who was also a boyfriend of someone I knew, started making advances toward me, after he’d broken up with her. He was fine, and much older (at sixteen, three or four years is much older). Let’s just say at that time he was old enough to have committed statutory rape but not to have graduated from college. He was the one who introduced me to orgasmic oral copulation and my vagina has sung a happy tune ever since. Shortly afterward I learned how to have vaginal orgasms. At sixteen, I enjoyed sex as much as the boys.
An orgasm is a powerful healthy experience, especially for women. That’s why my novel, He’s Just a Friend, suggests that women should self-explore their bodies before sharing themselves and losing their virginity.
I can’t say how many, but a lot of women have privately and openly told me that their parents never taught them about orgasms. As a result, we have generations of women who’ve had children but no orgasms. I hope my writings will aid in closing the gap. We, especially African-American women, need to explore our sexuality and talk openly with our children—particularly the girls—and one another. I say we because I am forever in a learning mode. I know a lot but I don’t know everything there is to know about sex or about life. Never will. To keep my relationship exciting, I always initiate something new.
Since the age of fourteen, I’ve dated well into the hundreds of men. If you confuse dating with having sex, your mental scope is limited. Don’t assume anything about anyone. Open your mind to reality. Ask questions. Lots of pointed and open-ended questions. Narrow-minded folk generally jump to conclusions. Trust me, every date isn’t worth stripping off clothes for. Oh yeah, it does help if he’s fine. However, if the kiss, touch, and eye contact aren’t passionate, if there’s no chemistry, and his conversation isn’t thought-provoking, you ladies know what I mean ... the oh baby you so fine lines . . . I won’t invest time. “Nice to have met you. Good-bye. Next.”
I could count the times I’ve been in love, but only if I stop and think. As with most journeys in my life, once I make a commitment, I give one hundred-plus percent. All or nothing at all. I don’t like sleep-walking through life. Once I decided to become a writer, I quit my very good government job. If I’d stayed, my one hundred thousand dollar–plus a year salary couldn’t surpass my gratification and fruits of being a writer. And thanks to each of you, my supporters—whom I hope have found your passion in life, for life—I’m still writing novels and starting to write screenplays.
Each time I’ve fallen in love, from my very first love—who happens to be my son’s father, my ex-husband, and my very first lover—until now with the fine-ass man I’m dating, my heart is wide open. I’m not afraid to live. Not afraid to get hurt. Like many of you, I’ve been there. Again and again. Not afraid to start over. Not ashamed to cry. I do have a problem admitting when I’m wrong. I hate being wrong. But I’m surely, not afraid to fall in love. I’m proud to say that I can truly date better than any man I’ve dated. And ladies, you can too. There’s only a shortage of men, if you think inside the box. That’s another book I promise to write. In order to gain power, ladies you must know when to exhibit passion and when to show compassion. The key is never try to be the man. Men hate controlling women who make them feel unneeded. Ladies, be strong and be the wo-man.
At the start of this message some of you may have formed opinions about me. It’s my life. I didn’t start with this truth of being molested by my great-grandfather as a child. The stench of his ninety-something-year-old wrinkled uncircumcised, black foreskin, which when pulled back revealed a reddish-pink dick head with white mushy crust underneath the ridge, vividly lingers in my mind. Being raped while on my period on the filthy streets of my hometown, as we say, Nawlins’, at the age of sixteen, and having been brutally battered by my ex-husband, I know many of you would’ve empathized and many more of you would’ve sympathized with me. I am not alone. You are not alone.
I don’t know how I embraced God’s amazing grace but my Daddy, may he rest in peace, used to say our family was anointed. I believe that. Through the toughest of times, sometimes with tears in my eyes, pain in my heart, no money in my pockets, and no goodness in sight, I’ve managed to reach for stars. No drugs. No alcohol. Stars. You see, none of the incidents I just mentioned were my fault. Even as a child I realized that I was not the one to blame. I was happy when my great-grandfather, with my white lace-trim panties in his trembling hand, folded my sleeveless summer dress above my head, tilted my booty doggie-style in the
air, while my knees were embedded in the couch, and my head pressed against the wall, was finally caught with his dick in his hand. And stopped. He never molested me again.
After I was raped, I went to school and held my head high. After I was battered, I went to work and did not hide my black eye. How could I be ashamed of myself for someone else’s actions? Would one feel ashamed if struck by lightning? Hit by a car? If you understood my Introduction at the beginning of this novel, this is an example of what I meant when I stated, “Emotions that are yours but at the same time, not.” Far too often people allow others to dictate their emotions. I consider those “false feelings.” If you don’t think, you won’t know how and why you truly feel a certain way as a result of a particular situation.
Each abusive situation could’ve been worse. When I was molested, I didn’t lose my virginity. When I was raped, I wasn’t a virgin. When my ex-husband used my face for a punching bag, I divorced him. Immediately. He cried. Begged. Pleaded. Promised never to hit me again. I refused to take him back. I’m from Louisiana. Deep down in The Dirty South and I can get downright ugly. I was scared. Not of him. But of what I would do to him if he ever raised his hand to hit me again.
He was twenty-three. I was twenty-one. But growing up witnessing my father chronically abuse my stepmother taught me that if a man strikes once and gets away with it, he’ll probably hit again. I’ve had several marriage opportunities after my divorce, including one from my soul mate, but never remarried. If the relationship isn’t right before I say “I do,” then I won’t stand before God at an altar taking vows I already know I won’t keep. My loyalty and dedication does not lend to being in a marriage that is unevenly yoked or unevenly stroked. I have choices. You have choices, too.
I’ve started writing a book about my life. For each gentleman, I’ve decided to use first names only—a few I can’t remember first or last names but baby, oh baby, I can tell you the stories. Each man has his own chapter. There are over fifty chapters that end with “Mary’s comical moral of the story.” The stories, some very humorous because I love laughter, unfold from a first-person point of view. I’m not sure if some of the intimate experiences, wild adventures, or ludicrous behavior I’ve exhibited—while mind-blowing even to me—can legally be in print but I’ll find out. I’m serious. The readers who want to know have asked, “What part of your book is you?” After reading this book, you’ll see no character parallels my life, but every character represents a part of me.
If you don’t live, and I mean truly live—take risks, change your hairstyle, dance in the rain, start your own business, stop feeling guilty for every damn thing you didn’t do to please somebody else and begin doing what makes you happy, learn your body medically and sexually, protect your health, lose weight for yourself, etc.—you’re already decomposing. Live. Be happy. Smile. Tell someone you love them and mean it with all your heart. Your choice, good or not, is always yours. Don’t blame others.
I’ll end with one of my favorite sayings about life. “If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it all over again, and I wouldn’t change a thing.” I am who I am because I’ve done what I’ve done. I’ve had lots of fun and intend to keep having fun. I began my New Year praying. Giving thanks to God for everything and everyone. Partying with family and friends. And laughing with loved ones at the Oakland Paramount Theatre at one of my favorite comedians and all-around talented artists, Chris Rock, until my entire body ached and healed from the joy of laughter. Enjoy life. When you’re feeling down, pray and reach for the stars. Just like God, the stars are always there. Even when we can’t see them.
The other side of what I do that many are unaware of is I’m the Founder and President of The RaW Advantage. The RaW Advantage is a business dedicated to avid readers and aspiring writers. I conduct self-publishing workshops for writers and host author receptions for readers.
The RaW Advantage also encompasses The SHIFT Program and Who’s Making Love workshops. I created The SHIFT (Supporting Healthy Inner Freedom for Teens) Program to help teenagers build self-esteem and make healthy relationship choices. Anyone who hasn’t listened—I mean truly listened—to a teenager speak from the heart concerning their views on love, let me tell you, society has stripped away many of their hopes and dreams of having healthy relationships. I strive to show teenagers—especially young ladies who set the tone and establish the bar for relationships—how to use their inner strength to assist with their decisions. Decisions that parents, teachers, and friends can influence but cannot make for them.
I’m taking an additional step to provide references. The rest is up to you.
Spiritual Guidance Meditate and ask God or your spiritual leader
SHIFT Program www.therawadvantage.com
Free Testing for HIV/AIDS 1-866-RAP-IT-UP
Rape Crisis Hotline 1-800-656-HOPE
Pregnancy and Prevention 1-800-BABY-999
The following is a sample chapter from Mary B.
Morrison’s eagerly anticipated upcoming novel,
WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK.
WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK will
be available in August 2006 wherever hardcover
books are sold.
ENJOY!
CHAPTER 1
Darius
A black woman did it all . . . because she had to.
She did it all and she did it well, caring for others while neglecting herself. Four hundred and fifty years of birthing babies for white masters and black slaves sold off to the highest bidder, leaving her to raise her children alone. Four hundred fifty plus years struggling for freedom while black men died for what they seemingly couldn’t live with today: dignity. Freedom came with a price and now that the black woman could choose her mate, her fate was the same, leaving her to take on more responsibility than she should, but not more than she could, so she carried on doing all she could do, the best she knew how.
Who would take care of the black woman while she sacrificed to raise her kids, pay the bills, and all too often, sleep alone at night, wondering if her direct deposit would post in time to keep the lights on, or balance her checkbook the day before payday, so she could restock the refrigerator before emptying the cabinets or feeding her children the last few slices of bread while she watched them eat?
The black woman didn’t need anybody’s sympathy. She was a survivor by nature. The Mother of Jesus. Many denied the undeniable, but what the black woman fell short of was epiphany: a lesson in how to love herself first. How to stop stressing about not knowing if her baby daddy—daddies—would ever show up at their children’s event’s and parent–teacher conferences, if he’d ever pay her child support. Ultimately, how to stop worrying about whom he had sex with when he wasn’t loving her—that is, if he’d ever loved her.
Based on his mother’s mistakes, Darius reluctantly admitted to himself that love, or the lack thereof, was what most men at some point in their lives experienced; he was terrified of two things: falling in love and failure. Either would render him vulnerable. Destroy his character. Ultimately strip him of his manhood.
A man in love was weak for his woman. Would do anything for his woman. The more he gave, the more control she wanted. Darius didn’t want to be hard on women; he had to. The cold, callous, careless, arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish person ruling his existence, primarily with his dick, wasn’t him. But if Darius didn’t protect his heart, who would? Surely not the women who’d already emotionally broken him down. Like the one blabbering on the other end of his cell phone.
Sitting in the limousine, next to his fiancée, Darius regretted answering his phone. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have, but no Fancy had to insist, “Answer, it.” Translation, “Put that bitch in check so I won’t have to.”
Darius was stuck again between the old and the new pussies.
Ashlee cried in his ear, “I’m sorry.” No, she wasn’t. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Yes, she did. “And no matter what, I love you.” That was probably the
one truth. No woman could resist Darius or his big dick or the fact that he knew how to sling Slugger. “But you need to know.”
Exhaling, Darius softly said, “Then tell me.”
Crying, like most women did when they wanted sympathy, Ashlee said, “Our son, Darius Junior, died from HIV complications.”
Whoa, that was some cold-blooded shit to drop on a brotha on his wedding day. “And you?” Darius whispered.
Sniffling, Ashlee said, “Positive.”
The numbness in Darius’s body caused the phone to slip from between his fingers.
Picking up the phone, Fancy questioned Ashlee. “What did you tell him?” Fancy looked at the phone, then said, “Hello? Hello?” Staring at Darius, Fancy began crying along with him. She muttered, “She hung up. Please tell me. What did she say?”
If Fancy had kept her damn mouth shut, he wouldn’t be trippin’. Ignoring Fancy, Darius pressed a button lowering the divider window then instructed the driver, “Man, take me straight home.”
“Oakland or Los Angeles?”
“Los Angeles,” Darius said leaning against the back seat.
Holding her hair away from her face, Fancy placed her head in his lap. Instantly, Darius’s dick expanded four times its size. Fancy rubbed the head, unzipped his pants, then licked the underside main vein. His hottest spot, next to the span from his asshole up to his balls.
“Ummm,” Darius moaned, “that feels so damn good. Lick him again.” When the precum trickled out, Darius gripped Fancy’s head and said, “Stop,” desperately desiring to bust a nut or two. The sexual energy danced in his hands urging him to grab the back of Fancy’s head and thrust his shaft down her throat. But what if he had . . . Fuck! Darius shouted in his mind, then said to Fancy, “Go to sleep.”
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