The Mortality of the Writer

Last night, I saw two people die in a car accident. Their car hit a pole, splitting the hood in two. I opened the driver’s side door to see if I could help, but the interior was so mangled, I knew he was gone. I went around to the passenger side and saw a guy I had known in passing, that I hadn’t seen in years, and he too was gone. This morning, I logged onto Facebook, and the passenger’s sister and also my Facebook friend was mourning the loss of her brother. My heart is shattered.

Being a father, an author and MFA student, I sometimes live my life fast and full of anxiety. If there isn’t one thing to do, there is another. I hardly have time to breathe, let alone decompress. What I witnessed last night reminded me of my own mortality. Someone can be here one moment and gone the next.

I write because I will not live forever, but my thoughts, words and ideas can. Even from beyond the grave I can put a smile on one child’s face, give one person the courage to go on or touch someone in some profound way. If there are no other rewards to penning novels and drinking 8 cups of coffee a day, the things I previously named are enough.

I saw two people die last night, and it hurt me to see people in such a way, their lives snuffed out so instantly and permanently. I hope they find peace beyond the stars and enjoy the afterlife even more than they did here on Earth among us mortals. I hope to find a similar peace when the time comes.

 

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Our Own Sort of Fun

Drugs. Violence. Police brutality. Hate. Love. Love. Love. 

In 1995, if you would have read about the Robert Taylor projects, the news report would probably have headlined something like this: 

“17 Men Arrested in Drug Sting at Robert Taylor Homes.” 

But inside those forsaken buildings where no one but those who lived there would have gone, children lived there. And those children, like all children, found a way to make the best of their situation. We did so in part by playing “It” in abandoned apartment buildings with holes in the walls.

Looking back on those days so many years later, I know my mother would have had a fit had she known what I was doing. As a father of three, I know I would not ever knowingly allow my daughters to play in abandoned buildings. Yet I also know that those dangerous moments where we had fun chipped away some of our surrounding circumstances and gave us a hideaway. 

Maybe my children will not ever experience what it is like to grow up impoverished in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago, but they will hear many a stories from me about those moments. 

A Newborn

Nearly three months ago, my third beautiful daughter was born. Her eyes are a color I have never seen before and I cannot name. I was hoping for my first son, but I’m blessed either way. The question is, where do I go from here?

Composite Love: Why I Always Fall for Her Type

The biggest mistake I consistently make is loving the same type of chick all over again. My first relationship was with Quetta. She was pretty, seductive but self-centered and calculating. Fool me once, you know what they say. 

Even after Quetta and I separated, it was like I found her all over again in other girls. I would complain about a girl’s attitude and I would compare her to Quetta. Maybe I was the problem. So, I found Brea. 

Opposed to Quetta, Brea was not an A-student. She did not value education, but she was herself. She was not trying to be someone she wasn’t. Brea was not only from the hood. She was hood.  

On a late night while browsing Facebook, I met Brea. We were already FB friends. I don’t know how that came to be. All I know is that she grew up in the same area as I did and attended the same grammar school, but we had not once crossed paths. 

What swayed me was Brea’s extremely large breasts. It sounds shallow and childish bow, but back then it was enough to warrant my attention. And so I copied and pasted her a generic message I used to send to every girl I liked: 

Hey, beautiful. You are very attractive, but I know there’s more to you than a pretty face. I would like to get to know you. I hope you feel the same and I am not being too forward. Have a wonderful day. 

And Brea was smitten. After a few messages, we exchanged numbers and she eventually came to my apartment. She was even more appealing in person. It did not take much to get her undressed. She was…experienced, but her past did not bother me a bit. 

After a brief conversation, we undressed each other. Her body was perfect: flat stomach, big perky breasts, even skin tone. I couldn’t help myself. I ate her like a last meal. She tasted so clean. There wasn’t an ounce of odor. 

“Please, stick it in,” she moaned after she came. 

Brea pulled me on top of her and I went inside without hesitation. She was warm as Christmas Eve by the fire place. Her juices trickled down my thighs. I took her from the front, back and side. I pulled her hair, called her dirty names and came inside her. 

I was spent, but it was not over. She made me stand, as she dropped to her knees. She licked every part of my manhood. It was the best I had ever had. She slapped it across her face. When I came, she swallowed the majority and used the rest as facial moisturizer. 

That night, she became my girlfriend. Maybe she was a slut. Mayne she wasn’t. I did not know, but I wanted her. I lusted for her. There is more to come, but the most important part of it all is that she was poison. 

Millennium Park Seduction

Quetta and I became acquainted rather oddly. Before she was my high school sweetheart, we lived our lives parallel, our paths never really crossing even though we had many of the same classes. 

Back then, I was just a scrawny kid with gaps between every one of my teeth. Everyone knew me as “smart,” but I didn’t live up to my potential. I just got by. 

Quetta saw something in me she liked. This urged her to give me a note with three pictures of her and her sister and her phone number. I never used the number. I remember her sliding me these things and how weird I felt. She was pretty, but what was her point with me?

So, months passed and she eventually took my number and called me. The first time we had sex, it was amazing and confusing. She cried. 

“Why are you crying.” I said, stopping mid-stroke. 

“Because I feel like a whore. I’m seventeen and I’ve had sex with three different boys already,” she said.

This year, one of those men she had sex with was killed, taken before his time. But back then, I assured her she wasn’t a whore. She loved me for this. 

Months later, we went to the movies. In light of her jerking me off, I have forgotten what we went to see. She couldn’t keep her hands off me, and then things escalated. 

“I want to have sex,” she said, rubbing my manhood. 

“We will when we get home,” I said. 

“I want sex in Millennium Park. Now.” 

I was taken aback, but I kept me composure. In Millenium Park, while people tossed frisbees and drank beer, Quetta and I had sex behind a bush. She rode me until she came. 

She put back on all her clothes. By now, the wind had picked up. She told me how much she had enjoyed it. I didn’t cum. Honestly, I didn’t enjoy it. I felt uncomfortable. It would be years before moments like these actually turned me on. 

The Poison Which We Call Love

Quetta was my high school sweetheart. She was a pretty brown-skinned girl with long, natural hair. In the presence of others, she was always friendly and approachable. No one knew her dark side.  

I remember as clear as day the time she stared at me in class. She kept making sexual gestures. I did not know what to think. I knew her, but we were not friends or lovers. 

“I want to see your penis,” she said one day after class. 

So, we found an empty class and I pulled it out. It was already stiff with anticipation. Quetta smiled and nodded, like an evil genius in a meth lab. From there, our relationship blossomed. 

Months later, I was checking my email on her home computer. She noticed how many of our classmates’ email addresses I had. 

“Together we have everybody’s email address in the school,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we made a teasing email about some students and sent it to everyone?” 

What started out as a joke became reality. We created a list of 10 people to make fun of, many of whom were Quetta’s friends. The list went something like this: Nina the Stanky Pussy Baboon. Bradon Booty-Busting Hend. Josh Rump-Rider Daniels. The list goes on. 

The next day, our email blast was the talk of the school. The principal called an emergency assembly. He vowed to get to the bottom of the email scandal and expel whoever was responsible. Quetta and I laughed.

The next day, another assembly was called and the principal told us that he now had the ISP information the email came from. He urged the guilty party to come forward and he would be lenient. 

Days later, Quetta and I decided to turn ourselves in. One of the other students heard us partially confess and told everyone else. Most of Quetta’s friends wanted to fight her. Quetta was no fighter. She denied sending the email. We were suspended for 10 days. 

Throughout this whole thing, I was not afraid. But I found Quetta had a devious side. She could not be trusted. It would take more for me to realize how dangerous she was. 

Oral Sex Date

The first girl to ever give me oral was Lolita, someone I’d met on the local party line. She said she had never given head before but she wanted “to suck [my] dick.” 

After much ado, I met her at her home. She had some of the biggest, prettiest titties I had ever seen. Although I was fascinated by them, she reminded me of why I was there. Her granny would be home any second, so we needed to get down to business. 

“I have to give you head in the foyer, because I can’t here her coming in up here,” said Lolita. 

So, in the foyer of her apartment building, Lolita dropped to her knees and took me fully into her mouth. As I said, this was her first time giving and my first time receiving. Honestly, as she did it, she scraped me so many times with her teeth that I did not know why people enjoyed head so much. 

“Let me just do your face,” I told her. 

She placed her head against the wall and I started stroking her mouth. It still wasn’t all that wonderful, but it was better than what she had been doing. I liked the spund of her head bumping the wall. 

As she slobbered, in mid stroke, the foyer door began to open. It was her grandmother. With my pants around my ankles, I ran up the stairs, through her apartment and out the back door. 

Later that night, as I showered, my penis stung from the scrapes left by Lolita’s teeth. Still, I agreed to meet her in the park the very next day for another round of bad head. 

Bullet and a Baby

This is a true story. 

When I was little, my favorite place to explore was my uncle’s bedroom. Although he was a die-hard crack addict who kept bottles of piss in his room, he had a plethora of things: magnifying glasses, telescopes, knives, swords and a host of other things. 

One day, my cousin, sister and me were playing in my uncle’s room. We had with us our infant niece. We came across a bunch of large bullets and a hammer. In our young minds, it was a great idea to bang a bullet with a hammer. 

After dozens of hits, the bullet was damaged but was sturdy. My cousin slammed the hammer so many times and my sister couldn’t get the job done. That’s where I came in. 

“It’s my turn,” I said, handing my niece to my sister and taking the hammer. 

I beat the bullet senseless but nothing happened. When I took my final swing, the bullet exploded. The heavy gun powder choked all of us. The explosion deafened me. I thought I had been shot. 

“What the fuck are y’all doing?” my mother said, rushing into the room. She smelled the gun powder, saw the shell casing and the hammer. She saw my baby niece. 

Needless to say, we all tried to shift the blame and minimize our involvement. My mother was the judge, jury and ass whipper. Who knew years later, a bullet would change my life forever.

She Died at Three Months Old

There is an image seared into my brain of my sister running through the house screaming as she clutches her three-month-old dead baby. This image is so clear, I can pull it up and see everything exactly as it happened.

The death of three-month-old Jennifer had a huge impact on my family. Since then, my family has been plagued with drug-addiction, alcoholism and huge feuds. When she passed away, I was only eight years old. Yet I understood my own mortality. It was at this very age that I understood that I could die and no one could prevent it.

Jennifer did not get to live a percentage of her life. Everyday, I think of her, wonder how she would have laughed or cried, wonder what her favorite color would have been, what career she would have pursued. I wonder who I would have been if I would have been able to be the uncle she needed.