It had been four years since I’d seen him.

Four. Long. Years.

Years that lasted so long that you’d think he never meant a thing to me, and me, nothing to him. But the way my then-boyfriend’s feelings were set up, men from the past weren’t allowed. To keep my relationship strong, I let him die in my mind but my heart would make more than the occasional visit to his proverbial grave.

Four. Long. Years.

Years full of internal screams that rendered every time I’d think of thinking about him. God forbid someone mentioned his name. Torture was an understatement, considering how I wanted to only know if he was really alive and doing well. F’ it, I’m a G.

My strong relationship by then wasn’t so strong. At least I had enough restraint to keep my thoughts just thoughts. My old man? Not so much, and well, I aint a sucka. I blamed finding him a la social media off the strength, or lack thereof, of my current relationship. “Getting even,” I called it. But if I was being real with myself, I was jonesin’ like a muh’f’a to smell him again, to see if his hands still felt rough, to see if they were equipped to still grab me like only he could. On those occasional heartfelt visits to his grave, I’d go searching for him online, so I’d know he was existing. This, however, was a blatant attempt to run into him to see if he was alive. And if the last four years were as long for him as they were for me.

The new school of relationship hoarders will tell you social media is powerful enough to destroy their relationships, calling it “evil” and a “cheater’s playground.” My reality was that Zuckerberg afforded me the perfect platform to send a simple smiley face that turned four long years into four blissful days of rekindling. The rekindling turned into texting. The texting turned into conversational escapes via telephone. These phone escapes presented an opportunity to get a hug from him at my place while (conveniently) wearing only a t-shirt and boy shorts just because I needed him to tell me that everything would be ok.

Can you come by my house? I need you.
What’s wrong?
Aren’t you my friend? I just need a guy to hug me and tell me everything will be OK.
OK, I’ll be there soon.

Four. Long. Years.

And he shows up at my doorstep looking the exact same as he did four years ago, just rocking a new hairstyle. Dreads. I gained an extra thirty pounds or so, but he liked it, complimenting me by saying that I looked like a pin up model from the 70’s. To him, that was a good thing so I rocked with it.

We stared at each other for the first time in years, wondering who would say something first. On sight I wanted to jump his bones – the strength of my relationship was gone, I was ready, and craved the roughness of his hands exploring my booty. We talked, stared through the TV while it happened to be showing Wendy Williams late night. The nervousness was real and so were my cherry printed boy shorts that he couldn’t get his mind off of. All those years before, I was a little girl totally terrified and against giving into my sexual desires for the sake of not being a typical high school whore. Now though, I’m grown. F’ it, I’m a G.

As momentous as his presence, his touch, I refused him kissing my lips.

Four. Long. Years was a long time, too long to have to repeat all over again [alone] after I caught feelings from kissing his marijuana stained lips. As senseless as I was when it came to him, I had sense enough to know the hold he had over me and that even though he meant me no harm, he was harmful. The proceed to my bedroom was surreal. Is he really here? Is this about to happen? I thought to myself, knowing the score, considering that I created it, leading him hand in hand into my Queendom. Lights off, plastic opened, boy shorts on the floor, I relished in the ambience of his smell, his hands, their roughness, and coming full circle with my second true love while trying hard to forget the strength of my first true love. A love triangle indeed.

The next four months was paramount in terms of where we stood in each other’s lives. I had to reel myself back in when the feelings that I thought went away would knock me aside the head each day while waiting for his call or text. Calls and texts that came in less and less and when they did, they became about my sex. The sex that I’d saved for him specifically, increasing my number from one to two, only giving it to those I truly loved. To keep myself from cutting my hair, his skin, or my wrists, I cut the pseudo relationship off and remembered only the good about us, who we once were, and the recent times we shared. In a short amount of time, I was almost pulled back into what I hated to have been running from: him.

Four. Long. Years had made me a mother who under no circumstances would present the cub to the man. He was fine and all, but certainly not daddy material. The little girl I once was had grown up and now had responsibilities with my name on it. The battle of the past, the present, and what could have been took me under every night as the cub securely nestled in his room while, I on the outside of the door, went crazy. Ain’t no way I can continue this, I thought while listening to innocent snores.

Those years were long and I was in no position to repeat them again so I did what I did best: let “him” die, only this time I wore a red fancy dress to the funeral instead of a black one. When the pain of losing him again would present itself, I’d shrug it off and move on. F’ it.

I’m a G.

Ariel
pitched entry