Am I European
Definitely
It’s a Black thing
So I do not expect for you to understand
But if you wonder why I understand all of you so well
…it is because
I am everybody
But everybody is not me
MY UNMARRIED HUSBAND
Your smile is so beautiful
I want to smile too
Mesmerized by your charm
The incredible strength in your arms
Dancing eyes that dance especially for me
Visible affection that others cannot see
In a special way you are my husband
Although you already have another life
Although you already have another wife
But I love you none the less
When you kiss and caress my breasts
The breasts that feed our child
As she gently gives us a smile
Although you must leave
You are never gone
Because she is your wife
But this is your home
A READING GROUP GUIDE
WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK
Mary B. Morrison
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are intended to enhance
your group’s reading of
WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU BACK
by Mary B. Morrison.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Do you think African-American women (single and married) have more family responsibility than women of other nationalities? Experience more obstacles with communicating and sustaining a relationship? Are more sexually inhibited? Before answering, how many cultures are you familiar with?
Thinking about your previous and current relationship(s), do you base your expectations more on your beliefs, your frame of reference, society’s standards, your mate’s desires? For example, sex on the first date. Your parents convince you this is not right, not because they’ve never had sex on the first date, but they were taught not to. Then your friends say they’re fucking on the first day. Society labels you a whore or a dog if you give it up so easily. But your mate desires sexual intercourse on the first date. This is just an example. Choose a different topic to explore why you think the way you think.
What is your opinion of Darius Jones-Williams? Would you marry a man like Darius? Do you believe people change or they basically remain the same? Do you think Darius will be faithful to Fancy? Why or why not?
Who’s your favorite character in the Soul Mates Dissipate series? Why?
Do you believe Wellington should’ve confessed to Jada on his deathbed? Do you feel people who know they’re dying view life differently from those who don’t know when they’re going to die? Why or why not? Assuming you’re Jada, how would you have responded to Wellington’s request to generously will his assets to Melanie and Simone? How much money would you have given Wellington’s ex-lovers?
What’s your favorite sex scene in the Soul Mates Dissipate series?
Why did Fancy forgive Ashlee? Should Fancy have pressed charges against Ashlee for planting the abortion pills? What about Darius? Why or why not?
Who was more Christian-like, SaVoy or Fancy?
Who was responsible for Ashlee’s mental state? On a percentage basis, how much is a man responsible when he intentionally manipulates a woman?
Do you feel any portion of this novel was unrealistic? Why or why not?
Why do you believe many of the main characters found it difficult to move on with their lives? Have you ever loved someone so much that, although they’ve hurt you, you simply couldn’t leave them? Why?
Do you love yourself? Before you answer, think openly and objectively. Meaning, if you have an illness (i.e., diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, etc.) but don’t take your medication, or make healthier food choices, then you’re not truly loving yourself. Love is spiritual, mental, physical, and emotional. Now answer the question.
For God so loved the world, He gave His only begotten son…If you believe in God or in a higher power, the question is, how do you show Him that you love Him?
Until we meet again, “You are so special and beautiful. Live in the moment, loving yourself, and my prayer for you is, ‘May all your dreams come true.’ Peace.”
Don’t miss
SWEETER THAN HONEY
Available in hardcover in August 2007
from Dafina Books
With Sweeter Than Honey, Mary B. Morrison introduces Honey Thomas aka Lace St. Thomas, a passionate and resourceful woman who’s determined to make her way in a world where money means nothing and sex holds the ultimate power.
“You’re never going to be more than a trifflin’ lyin’ lil’ slut! You make me sick! My god I wish I woulda followed my first mind and aborted your ass instead of listening to that deadbeat lying ass motherfuckin’ daddy of yours. I can’t believe you up in here under my nose tryna fuck my man! Why can’t you be more like your sister? Get out my house and this time stay the hell out!” were the last words I’d heard my mother say before she slammed the door in my face.
Was she referring to my baby sister? The golden-can-do-no-wrong child?
What had I done this time?
It wasn’t my fault that at the age of sixteen, my mother’s fiancé saw in me what most men saw: a young cute innocent face, a firm cellulite-free ass, perfect plump perky tits, and long legs stacked with a virgin cherry that they desperately wanted to burst. Well, he wasn’t positive about the virgin part until his hard callused, dirty hands, and jagged fingernails slipped inside my pink panties. His stale morning—hadn’t brushed his yellowish-brown teeth—breath exhaled in my face as he squatted in front of my pussy. He poked, probed, gazed up at me, smiled and then said, “Aw, man. You really are a preemie,” kissing my virgin lips while checking twice for confirmation.
“Ow, you’re hurting me,” I said shoving his forehead. Crossing my legs, the scratches on my kitty stung worse than paper cuts.
That incident happened over thirteen years ago but psychologically it hurts like he violated me yesterday. To this day I can’t stand men with dirty or rough hands or bad breath or yellow teeth.
“I’ma tell Mama,” my sister had said standing in the doorway covering her big mouth.
I snapped, “Stch. Go tell mama ’cause I ain’t do nothing wrong!”
Truth was I was very afraid fearing Mama would side with Don and Honey. The only reason I’d let him find out I was untouched was because my mama constantly accused me of being a whore and a slut so I wanted to prove her wrong. My sister was the fast one sneaking boys into her room after mama went to sleep, going to jail for petty theft, and staying out all night on the weekends smoking weed.
Any reason not to feed us or to have the house to herself with Don, Mama didn’t care where we went or how long we stayed. I guess my being the opposite of my sister hanging around the house reading books or listening to music most of the times invaded Mama’s privacy.
Don’s eyes widened. He swiftly sucked air into his mouth snapping his head toward Honey. When he pushed me, I fell to the floor screaming, “Mama!”
Mother raced into the family room bypassing Honey. Rita stared down at me. Hatred narrowed her eyes that never blinked. I spread my legs hoping she could see what Don had done to me. This was my chance to have him confess he was wrong and confirm I was pure. But he didn’t. I laid there trying to figure out why a grown man would take advantage of a minor and why my mother would let him?
Sinking into the gray carpet, I believe my ignorance gave me away to the streets when my mother deemed me competition as opposed to her little girl. True, most times I was guilty of something, but not trying to have sex with my mother’s man or the boys I went to Flagstaff High School with.
My heart exploded like a bomb when mama believed her husband-to-be words, “Rita, get rid of her…your tramp of a daughter just offered me her pussy,” over mine, “Mama, I swear I didn’t,
he’s lying. He stuck his finger between my legs. Go on tell ’em I’m a virgin. Honey, you saw him. Tell Mama what he did,” I cried spreading my legs wider this time. Instantly I’d become a casualty of compassion.
Before my sister answered, the strands of my ponytail wrapped around my mother’s fist. Content that he was out of the spotlight, Don sat on the sofa with his lint filled afro and sagging gut gargling beer like mouthwash while fingering the remote, flipping through channels like nothing was happening. Instead of helping me, Honey bent toward the floor grabbing my white ankle socks. The tip of my brand-new tennis shoe slammed against her chin knocking Honey on her ass.
It was an accident. I’d never done anything to hurt my sister. Honey was the only sibling I had.
Angrily, Mama dragged me faster. The rug beneath my butt felt like a flaming match frying through my skin. Frantically kicking the air I yelled all the way to the door, “Bitch! Let me go! Grab his fuckin’ ass!” I peeled my fingers from the door hinge barely escaping the “slam!”
That wasn’t my first time getting thrown out of the house but it was my last time calling my mother what I’d wanted to call her for a long time. She was a bitch. Why I’d gotten kicked out every other month since I’d grown unusually large breasts twice the cup-size of my mother’s and sister’s put together, I didn’t know. How could my mother carry me for nine months, birth me, then despise me for being molested by her man?
Dressed in pink shorts, and a white shirt with a pink cat on the front, I stood outside the door for fifteen minutes praying my mother would open it. When she didn’t, I knew better than to bang on Rita’s door. The smell of Mama frying Sunday morning bacon and baking homemade buttermilk biscuits made me hungry. Surely Rita would slide me a plate so I wouldn’t have to walk down the street to the Sunshine Rescue Mission.
I waited in vain drifting off into thoughts about attending my first day of school tomorrow, celebrating with all the seniors, and getting my driver’s license in the mail. Within seconds all of my hopes had become dismal. I sat on the steps watching the heat waves float through the hot air in Flagstaff, Arizona. Our small town was a short drive from the Grand Canyon where lots of tourists came to see one of the seven natural wonders of the world. As a homeless child, I felt like the eighth wonder that no one cared about. People drove by me waving but all of them kept going.
Sitting alone on the steps gave me lots of time to daydream about the big city with bright lights. I’d heard lots of neighbors and students rave about Las Vegas but I’d never been there. I heard that pretty girls made lots of money simply because they were cute like me. Vegas was over a hundred miles away from my house, too far for me to travel alone with no money.
The orange sunrays traded places with the blue moonlight. Gazing up at the stars I questioned why I’d fallen into a bottomless pit so young, so innocent, and so afraid. Cursed for being beautiful I slept on the ugly concrete porch until the break of dawn. The crackling of the front door startled me as I sadly looked up into my mother’s piercing brown eyes.
“Mama please, I’m sorry. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stay in my room after school whenever he’s here, I promise.”
Desperately seeking my mother’s forgiveness, I apologized for Don’s faults. I had no place else to go. Not permanently. With her silver spiked heels, my mother stepped on me like a doormat and kept walking as if I were invisible: incapable of being seen.
Years later, at times I still felt I wasn’t perceptive to the human eye. Funny how back then I thought I was grown until I had to make it on my own. Over the past decade, I’d learned a lot about being a woman, not necessarily the easy way.
Ninety-five percent of all women were abused at some point during their lifetime by their mothers, their fathers, their husbands, their boyfriends, strangers on the prowl seeking a rape victim or in my case all of the above. Living on the streets convinced me that the five percent that weren’t abused died at birth. If only I could’ve been so lucky.
From what I’ve heard, my sister to this day still lives at home with our mother. An old high-school acquaintance said Honey was dying of some rare form of cancer and that I was Honey’s closest possible match for a donor. Was that God’s way of paying my mother back? They didn’t need me then and I don’t need them now.
After my mother kicked me out I would’ve gone to live with my dad but we never knew our father. And the way I saw it, any man who’d abandon his children was the worst type of abuser. Forget that lame bullshit about the mother keeping him away. I swore I was never having kids. My daddy had a choice! He could’ve fought for joint custody, weekends, supervised visitation, something. Anything was better than nothing. The one time we asked about our father, our mom cursed us out.
“Jean St. Thomas’s green-eyed, slick-haired, red-ass ain’t shit! Never was shit! Ain’t never gon’ be shit! Sorry ass son-of-a-bitch ain’t never paid one damn dime to help me take care of y’all and if you ask me about him again I’ma beat y’all’s ass! Now get out my face!” Then she’d mumble, “That good-for-nothing but a wet dream bastard better not ever call me again asking to see y’all.”
Daddy wanted to see us?
My green eyes filled with tears at the thought that my mother hated me but wouldn’t let my daddy love me. I guess I was light-skinned with straight hair like my father because my mom and sister had skin like dark brown sugar and hair equally coarse.
Whatever. I didn’t need any of them. I was fine. Honestly I was. But it still hurts that after all these years Mama never inquired about where I was until Honey got sick. Mama didn’t care if I never came back. If she could suction my marrow through a straw over the phone, she would do so then hang up in my face without saying thanks. Maybe one day I’d go back to her in my white-on-white or my black-on-black Jaguar and show her how successful I’d become.
I still blame and will never forgive my mother for the life I was forced to live after being kicked out. As an involuntarily high school dropout, I’d hitchhiked and moved in with my instant twenty-three year-old boyfriend who brutally stole my virginity then yelled at my ass every other day like he was bipolar. He had me so screwed up in the head I jumped every time he spoke. I’d leave the house and forget to put on my shoes. I’d poured orange juice on his cereal instead of milk because I was so afraid he’d beat me if I didn’t get him what he wanted fast enough. After six months together, I slept in the doghouse that was inside the garage just to stay out of the way of his fists.
At seventeen I ran away and married only what I could describe as Charles Manson’s offspring. Brutally he stumped my ass daily, I think either for his amusement or for his daily thirty minute workout. The reason I stayed was, once again, I didn’t have any place to go nor did I have any money. That was another lesson learned.
Men controlled women by making women dependent upon them for everything from food and clothes to shelter. So for an entire year, if my husband had a bad day, I had a worse night. But what I did have was enough sense to realize if I didn’t find the courage to escape, one day a coroner would carry me out in a body bag, deliver me to Rita’s, only for her to write “return to sender” on my toe tag.
Before leaving his ass I stole a blowup doll, inflated it, then doused his bed and the doll with six gallons of ketchup mixed with two gallons of gasoline praying his ass would light one last cigarette.
I went to a pleasure store and hid four dildos that looked exactly like his dick, under my skirt. The first dick I chopped off the head with a butcher’s knife then sliced the shaft into tiny confetti-sized pieces and left the plastic floating in his toilet. The second one I set on fire on top of his gas-burning stove and left it there with a tent card that read “last meal.” The third one I ground in his blender on “puree” until the motor shot bluish-red sparks into the smoky air. And the fourth one I poured fire red finger nail polish over the head, watched it bleed down the sides, then drilled an ice-pick into the piss hole and left it on his doorstep with a note, “F
uck and beat this you piece of shit! If you come after me, your motherfuckin’ dick is next! I guarantee it!”
Needless to say I never heard from him again. Hopefully, because he’d flicked that lighter and burned to death. If by some misfortune he was alive, his cruel abusive ass probably thought I was the crazy one.
On my eighteenth birthday, I moved into the Pussyland Ranch and didn’t move out until I was twenty-nine and went to work for Valentino James. Eleven grueling years on my back with my legs spread open was no easy feat but where could I earn decent money with no diploma? After fucking a different john every day during my first three years at Pussyland, I became the top requested girl. The high demand allowed me to establish a regular clientele granting myself two days on and two days off. On holidays my nonnegotiable rate of three hundred dollars an hour tripled.
On my thirtieth birthday I became a Madam. Working for Valentino helped me maintain my sanity and gave my body a much needed rest. Instantly, my twelve female escorts depended on me and in return I relied upon them for my five-figure monthly paycheck. I especially counted on my personal favorite, Sunny Day.
There was something special about Sunny. Something beyond her striking beauty. Something deeper than her almond shaped eyes that beamed rays of light. Sunny was unique. She was young, vibrant, and enthusiastic about life. Sunny possessed the passion I lacked and although she didn’t know it, in many ways she’d helped me. I wasn’t there yet but occasionally I felt the desire to genuinely care about her and the other girls I’d hired. Kinda like how I wished my mother would’ve loved me. Sunny didn’t have an old soul, she had a wise spirit beyond her years. Always happy, motivating the other girls, and willing to work extra hard to please her clients. Sunny’s invincible indispensable take-charge leadership personality reminded me of myself when I first started prostituting.
When Somebody Loves You Back Page 28
