Tag Archives: Slav

‘Cause My Momma Taught Me Better Than That!

Once upon a time, I had a lover…

(What does this have to do with today’s celebration of Mamas’ Day?  Hmm, I dunno.  Maybe ‘cause my motha is the most sexually liberated woman I’ve ever known?  Or because, after every break-up, she is the first to bless me to “Go forth — and fuck!”

Or to quote her more precisely, that shawty says:  “Vhen van penis leavez — replace vith anozzer!  NEXT!”

Motha’s pretty rad, in an insane kinda way.)

So, anyway:  Once upon a time, I had a lover.  A friend of a friend, he’d been flirting with me for years, warming up all of my orifices with not just his Tall, Dark and Handsome routine but with his talent to make me laugh that equalled to that of my motha’s.  (See:  my shawty is gonna be all o’er this rant blog!)  But the one thing I’ve learned from a previously debauched affair of my late twenties is this:  Never settle for leftovers.

You see:  The player — had a girl, and a lovely one at that.  Of some exotic Eastern European heritage, she was driving him insane with that untamed, shameless sexuality we Slavs are known for; but also with her snappy ‘tude.  After the first few years, the girl’s sassiness transformed into bitchiness, and she was making this player suffer, for real.  But no matter how much he complained to me about being mistreated, I kept my ears open — but my Frederick’s of Hollywood on.

Naturally, when the mean Eastern European dumped his confused American ass — he came running to me; and call me an idiot, I received him with my arms — and legs — open.  (Frederick’s of Hollywood — OFF!)  But instead of nurturing him through his break-up into my Next Ideal Boyfriend (Tall, Dark and Handsome), I agreed to act as a stand-in for the woman who’s walked out on him such a short time ago, her perfume still lingered in the air.  And in his bedroom.  And in his car.  I mean:  I could taste the lovely inside his mouth!  Brutal.  Yet, still:  I signed-up to be the rebound.

When we agree to that, my darling sistas, I guarantee we don’t make our mamas proud.  So, okay:  I’ve refrained from the dignity-raping, karma-wrecking, heart-breaking role of the Other Woman.  But when I climbed on top of that player right after the Love of His Life has climbed off — I did myself no justice at all.  For lost loves take time to mourn; and not until the brokenhearted commit to wrapping-up their tragic acts can they be willing to start the next chapter.

Once upon a time, I sat butt-naked on this player’s kitchen counter to compensate for our height difference; and while I was nibbling on frozen mangos and his neck, he pulled away and said:

“When you walked in tonight…”

“Yeah?” I purred, moving on to the earlobes — and more mangos; but he stopped me by cradling my chin with his manly hand the size of my lil’ Eastern European face.

“You looked so beautiful — I thought, ‘WHY IS SHE HERE?!’”

Once upon a time ago, I shrugged off the player’s comment as some odd compliment by a man which would take me years to decipher.  I didn’t have years!  I was a horny woman, on a mission!

But after just a month, that affair would go shit.  Despite our friendship (or perhaps because of it), the man treated me with flippancy and indifference; while I kept telling myself that after enough time, he’d snap out of it — and there I’d be, in all my goodness ‘n’ glory.  And, of course:  We’d live “happily ever after”!  But one night, he stood me up for a film date — and surprisingly quickly, I was over his manly taint.  (That man was lucky my motha was never made privy to that ending of our love story; or she’d pull a Tony Soprano on his ass — and the Tall, Dark and Handsome would be no more.)

Last night, something crawled up my ass.  (Settle down!  I wasn’t having sex.)  I couldn’t sleep.  Oh, yes!  I remember:  I was releasing the most recent love of mine, upon his request.  It took me a couple of weeks to stop throwing tantrums and realize the man just didn’t want me.  Despite the excuses he granted me:  bottom line — he wanted out!

With my self-delusions evaporating on every exhale, I slid open my windows and turned off the lights, letting the hollers of youth playing their Hollyweird games on my street enter my sanctuary.  How I was hoping that their voices would overcrowd the one dominant one in my head — and in my very gut where there lives my motha’s intuition — and I would distract myself enough to reunite with the illusion that I finally got the man I wanted!

“He’ll change his mind.”

“He’ll come back.”

Yet, there I sat, in the dark.  Alone.  Alone — again.

In the midst of this post-break-up meditation, I heard the ghost of the Tall, Dark and Handsome…  and asshole!  (Sorry:  Motha has taught me better than to lose my graces; but during break-ups (and behind the wheel of my sports car), I often suffer from Tourette’s.)

“WHY IS SHE HERE?!” reiterated the player; and suddenly I realized that besides being complimentary at the time, his comment was a recognition of his unworthiness — of me! — and his unreadiness to be with a magnificent woman my motha has taught me to be.  He needed to pay his dues, still; to suffer through more bitches in his life; until he himself realized that he deserved to reach for the goodness I was proposing with my taut body (again: thanks, mom!) and my generous, compassionate, exceptional heart (ditto!).

Now, this rant is not about horn-tooting.  (Hah!  That sounds naughty:  “horn-tooting”.)  It’s more than that.  This — is a fucking parade through your towns, cities and hamlets, my ladies.  To celebrate you — the magnificent daughters of your magnificent mothers — is my mission.  But since I may not be around during your own personal lapses of self-worth, I pray you listen to your mamas; for they are the ones reminding us that we deserve to be loved by men who, day in and day out, strive to be worthy of us. 

But then again, in this unhappily ending story, it’s not about our self-esteem (and if you ever let a player affect it, I myself will go Tony Soprano on your taut asses).  It’s about the men’s.

Until then, we, good girls, are better left alone — and single — and magnificent, just like our mamas:

Ghost Fucking

Your film library shelf has a dusty picture of her—the one that slipped her thin arm down your trachea, formed a fist inside and sucker-punched your heart.  It took you nearly a year to remember the original beat, your heart still wincing at the sound of her name.  The couch on which I’ve stretched out my dark thighs reeks of her:  the original Slav whom I am meant to reincarnate tonight.  I stare at the beautiful face with a dimple on her left cheek—the face you’ve planned to find in your firstborn’s crib.  That face you must imagine in order to cum all over my breasts tonight.

You’re getting me a drink in the kitchen:

“So, just hot water then?” you sound condescending.  You always sound condescending.  You probably whine to your shrink about continuously falling for the exotic, foreign girls; about your wishing to procreate with your own kind.  But white women don’t fuck like we do—the brown, foreign girls.  They don’t do the dirty work, on their hands and knees, like our immigrant mothers:  they don’t lick your taint; they don’t nibble away at your nipples or lap-up your Catholic shame.  They don’t make you shriek, “What the fuck are you doing?” while you stare in awe at the action between your legs.

I drop my register a couple of notches, where my native tongue usually dwells:  “Come here,” I purr on the couch.  I am just playing my part here.

We begin a film that I’ve attempted to watch many times before, on other white men’s couches; because they can’t get off without a lesson or two on their culture.  So, they make me mixed CD’s; and they over-annunciate when I ask them to repeat a cliché.  They dust off their father’s copies of Citizen Kane and The Godfather (Part I and II—never III):

“Hwhat?!  You’ve never seen this?”  No, I haven’t.  They didn’t have TV’s where I come from:  Bosnia or the Ukraine.  Or Ellis Island.  It’s all the same to you.

I put my feet under your thighs, then on top of them.  Someone is already overacting on the screen, in black-and-white.  I scoot down like a bitch in heat.  I caress your thinning hair and exhausted eyelids.  There, there, my little boy.  It’ll all be alright, in the end.  Your lips, dry and large, start looking for your mama’s breasts; and in the act, they forget the condescending grin.  And for that second:  I can see you—you on the first day of your lungs inhaling; you, before a lover stuffed her holes with your organs; because it was much easier than working on her own shit.  That you makes my ovaries flip like a Romanian gymnast.

So, I rip my face through the air, toward yours, even though I know you’re already gone, thousands of sexual ticks overcrowding you self-awareness.  Your mouth tastes like Jack.  And pot.  A sad twofer prone to be found in an American lover.  I reach down to confirm the case of a Whiskey Dick:  Bingo.  I try not to lose my hard-on to pathos but I know if you do get some wind tonight, you’ll have to turn off the lights and close your eyes.

Which you do.

“You like that?” you ask, quoting your favorite porn, in the dark, with nothing but the must-see American classic illuminating your skin to that color of translucent white.  I’m getting fucked by a ghost here.  “Hmmm?  You like that?  Tell me what you like!” you repeat.  It’s your couch—it’s your game.

I do have a choice though:  to pull you out of me, fix my skirt—and leftovers of my dignity—and walk out of this typical tale of pathetic Hollywood sex; then, cry inside my car, then call up a girlfriend to dis your name.  Or I can lie.

“Oh yes.  Just like that.  Right there.”  I lie.  A terrible actor in another warzone of an unworthy love story.