Balls out, comrades! My man met my boys!
Our magnificent rendezvous was purely accidental yesterday, yet perfectly timed; because right around now have my friends began to wonder about the player smooth enough to keep V intrigued and ballsy enough to make a regular appearance on this “little rant blog” of mine. (Special thanks here to my ex-fucker for belittling my writing with the above-mentioned tag. Wait until my boys flip it and berate that arrogant twat!) Anyway: In all reality, it was no surprise to have all my favorite men of LA-LA-Land gather at this casual Brazilian hangout; for way too many mutual tales spring out of that joint. Boo and I, however, are still in the midst of writing our memories, stamping them with the places we’ve explored together. Yet in that vicinity, we’ve met for the first time, years ago.
Unpredictably, in the midst of yesterday’s casual afternoon with boo, one of my boys stormed in from behind me, swept me off my feet with his wings—and I was airborne:
“V! What are you doing here?!”
Defying gravity on the neck of this 6-feet-plus soldier, in an embrace of overgrown children, I could not be happier. But then, for a split second, I began to wonder about the reaction of my partner; so over the shoulder of the only man in my life I’ve called “my brother,” I looked for my man. Quietly, he held his ground while waiting for his introduction, allowing for this love to unfold in an uncensored manner. The introduction did follow very soon, after my petite body was released from the soul-recharging embrace.
“I’m Freddy!” my brother thrust forth his strong brown hand, his always genuinely smiling face and his grace that, as I’m convinced, springs from the lullabies he whispers to angels every night. In return, my man—did his man-thing: the nod, the shake, the name. He didn’t need my help here; and suddenly, I got hit with the realization that I was being granted a rare privilege to watch grown men in action. They were men when it came to negotiating the ways of the world; yet each of them I’ve witnessed in their Peter Pan modes—but this was not the place to get into my mama-V mode.
“Rara! Where have you been?!” the runner-up favorite male creature of mine has arrived late (as fucking usual!) and repeated the whole V Hangs off the Neck of a God in a Homecoming Embrace routine. For hours, this Latin boy child—my darling “Jaime” Dean—has delighted me less than a week ago (https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/2011/02/18/zen-and-the-art-of-going-down/). Yet, as always, he acted as if distance and sad marriages have separated us for years—so child-like was his thrill to see me! so deprived and hungry was his ear!
The negotiation of a shared meal happened right out front of the Brazilian joint, with the dust of the perpetual Sunset constructions and mid-day heat of the sun getting in our eyes. Soon, I realized that my place—was to hang back; because when in the company of these world-treading, motorcycle-riding, women-worshiping, art-creating, ground-breaking power-players-in-the-making, I was no longer taking the lead (as I do when navigating in the company of women). Here, I was meant to lean back and watch shit be taken care of. So, in surrender, my comrades (a speed that took me three decades to learn), I followed my tall, exotic creatures to our table, assumed my seat, tangled up my feet in my boo’s thighs, and got ready: to watch, to study, to lap-up these new memories in creation and to re-fall in love with my loves.
Comrades! How do I describe the utter delight in the stories of my ever-so-cool gypsy brother visiting our formerly shared city for just a few hours en route to his spontaneous trip to OZtralia? And where in the world do I summon my Shiva for the dance of gratitude; because my brother, my witness, my spiritual equal has seen me both fallen and resurrected—yet he never judged? And how do I paint for you my spit takes as Jaime Dean repeatedly broke everyone’s composure with his breathy delivery and authentic metaphors that only foreign-language speakers can master up (because we don’t give a damn about the rules)? And pride with which I watched my man hold his own, funny and at ease—how do I write that, when it fails in comparison in all my former experiences? Because truth be told, this astonishing young creature is the first to teach me about the natural pacing of relationships and the mandatory checking-in of one’s ego. (I mean, the player gave me a book titled Zen and the Art of Falling in Love! And I thought I knew everything.) And how do I voice my heart’s aching in a silent prayer—for all of them—for their guardian angels to shield them from the nth losses of love or inspiration?
The event—was life-changing. Picking up on that?
Half way through the meal, our table was crashed by yet another gypsy: an Israeli bad-ass sporting a shaggy look of someone who doesn’t follow everyone else’s clock-determined schedule. But by that point—V was just a pussycat, purring and arching her back in the company of the big, cool cats who have already sized each other up and reclined in a manner of having jack shit to prove. And it made me wonder: How do men learn to navigate the world? Who teaches them to accept a woman’s chosen family and behold their dignity with such calm esteem? Is the responsibility of fathers to teach their sons the healthy competition sans having to overcompensate for their lacks and lapses? I knew no answers; for despite having claimed my expertise in gender relations, yesterday was the first time I was humbled by the beauty of men. I knew: I’ve outgrown my grudges toward the other gender. I have forgiven the mistakes of the unknowing few. And I have surrendered to my curiosity toward the source of their grace; and, for the first time—became their equal.