A Brand New Courtney- A Shero's Journey From Being Broken to Being Blessed!

“The “make up” of Courtney M. Hawkins is that of one, who through sheer strength of will, finds a way to live through it all! From brokenness to blessedness, Courtney’s testimony is nothing short of a miracle. She has reached a place in her  healing process to be a blessing to someone else.” -Pastor Darrell L. Fairer Faith Bible Tabernacle, Buffalo, NY

Courtney Hawkins

We all are on a life journey, and Courtney takes us on one of healing, redemption and growing from being Broken to Being Blessed. “Dr. Courtney" new memoir, The Make-up of Me: Embrace Your Natural Beauty is one every woman going through the journey of rebirthing and unmasking oneself should read. She shares how she healed with the grace of God and his mercy. She broke from the the bondage of self-hatred, guilt, self-hatred, guilt, shame, incompetence, depression, anxiety and thoughts about suicide. Her words will inspire you, encourage and motivate you to love yourself.

1.      Courtney, I would first like to thank you for allowing me to the opportunity to write an article about you. Could you give the readers the make-up of Courtney?

“Dr. Courtney” is a woman of passion, perseverance and vision. Her purpose is to coach and assist the broken hearted through their delivery and healing process. She is a Minister, Author, Certified Grief Recovery Specialist, Mental Health First Aid Trainer, Life Coach and Public Speaker.

“Dr. Courtney” is admired for her strength, courage and willingness to be very transparent about her flaws with hopes others may feel freed to embrace their own.  Her very straight forward and straightforward approach has her dubbed as the Dr. who’s “A tough pill to swallow”.

1.      What spark the idea to write a memoir and share your life story?

As an overcomer who has endured same-sex molestation, rape and a survivor of a fatal car accident that claimed another’s life, I understand how it feels to be broken. As a result, of these events, I was filled with self-hatred, guilt, shame, incompetence, depression, anxiety and thoughts about suicide.

Tired of hiding and determined to break free of mental and emotional bondage, I chose to surrender my fears and do the work necessary to live an abundant life. I selected to accept the transformational power of forgiveness, grace and mercy for my life which is legally bestowed to me as a child of God, and now I continually practice self-love while embracing my flaws and all.

This book is an eye into my diary of healing. I wanted to chronicle my life through my memoir while being optimistic that others would read it and uncover vital insights that will guide the reader into embracing their natural beauty. Also, with hopes that the reader will discover within the pages the written keys that will unlock their truth that can support them in setting themselves free.

2.      Share a little about The Make-up of Me: Embrace Your Natural Beauty and why you chose that title?

Generally speaking “Makeup” has been used for countless generations to make oneself more attractive by masking their imperfections and flaws.  Flaws and blemishes can be an embarrassment to many people.  Because many of us lack the courage and confidence needed to accept and embrace our flaws we misrepresent ourselves by covering them with masks.

I chose to name the book “The Makeup of Me: Embrace Your Natural Beauty” because I wanted to remove my mask and expose myself so that others who witnessed my trials and tribulations would also know of God’s healing power.  I wanted to share my story so that others would be freed to embrace their flaws and share their own stories. 

3.       4. What words of encouragement would you like to share with women who are in the rut of life and feel like they will never recover?”

Here’s an excerpt from her Memoir The Make-up of Me: Embrace Your Natural Beauty and why you chose that title and Chapter “EMBRACELET.”

“Embracing the truth and letting go of the lies that I told myself was a process for me and remains a practice that I continue on a daily basis.  Just as I accept brand new mercies and grace for myself daily, I also make a conscious effort to embrace something positive and let go of something negative.   What lies are you telling yourself that you should let go of?  What truths do you need to embrace?”- Courtney M. Hawkins

Here are a few to consider…

Embrace                                                                Let go of

I’m fearfully and wonderfully made                  I’m flawed and imperfect 

I’m more than a conqueror                                I’m not enough

I’m unconditionally loved by the King                No one loves me

4.      What have you learned (or still learning) since being in the business of self-publishing?

 I’ve learned to trust myself and believe in my abilities. That with God’s guidance I can accomplish things that I didn’t know I was capable of doing on my own.

5.       Tell me a little about your company Broken Branches, Inc.?

 Broken Branches Inc. Provides a wide range of programming that pertain to an individual’s mental health.  Our Mission is to comfort those who mourn, restore healthy relationships, and increase mental health awareness in our communities with the hope that individuals live a more healthy, abundant and productive life.  Our Motto: Lean on us for your Life, Health, and Strength!

6.      Lastly, if you had to choose one person living or dead who would you like to have a dinner with?

I would love to have dinner with Karyn Washington. Karyn was the beautiful visionary behind the encouraging and uplifting website, Forbrowngirls.com.   She created the forum to celebrate the beauty of darker shades of brown skin, to encourage women to embrace the skin they’re in. At just the age of 22, while finding it difficult to grieve the loss of her mother Karyn committed suicide.

I wish I were able to comfort her during her time of grieving.  I wish I could’ve told her that she can lean on me for her Life, Health and Strength. 

 You can follow her on FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/Voniquedesigns

Thank you for allowing me as well as so many women share in your journey tragedy but teaching us to see that each struggle, each life changing journey is God's road map to your true purpose.  

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A MESSAGE FROM PINK NOIRE'S FOUNDER -- IMANI WISDOM

I’m baaaack…well, sort of!

I'm back as far the ebook fairs and overseeing my Facebook group, but The Lounge’s first interview for the season has been pushed to next week. I've learned over these few months since I opened the Lounge's doors, that trying to do too much at once is not impressive, just dumb. And for that, I've scaled back June's interviews while focusing on several projects. So my superwoman's cape is breakable after all.

Now let's talk about June's featured artist. In the past, I've announced the chosen artist by the realms of social media and email blasts. This time I'm turning the tide and have taken a different direction. I discovered that artistry does not have to be a person. And for that, the Featured Artist for June is Hope.

Why hope?

Well, why not. Most of you know I have another project in the works that include talented authors and their testimonies about their hope. So this is only a kickoff to what's to come.

Also, and more importantly, I have a few surprises up my sleeve for the summer, especially for July -- my birthday month. My goal is to have guest bloggers fill the calendar and discuss their project, along with their definition of hope and testimonies.

If you're interested with both projects I've mentioned, give me holla in my inbox: imani@imanwisdom.com. I'm looking forward to hearing from you.

Have a blessed day,

Imani Wisdom

Founder and President of

Pink Noire Publications, LLC

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5 WAYS TO GET YOUR HAPPY BACK!

By Imani Wisdom

Have you ever felt you were running on empty by the constant barrage of daily life: work, family, and for some, school?

Whether you’re a single parent or a parent with special responsibilities, such as, caring for a physically or mentally impaired relative or a parent who has to juggle with everyday life, we all fall into the trap of guilt and shame because we feel we’re underperforming our parental duties—or like me—doubting my duties as a daughter to aid my disabled mother. Thus, we push ourselves to the point of mental exhaustion—and when that breaks down—so does our bodies.

I speak from experience because I had been a caregiver to my mother, and then later for my aunt and grandparents and that was not including raising three small children at the time. However, during that journey I suffered health ailments: hypertension, obesity, and depression. There were times I didn’t know how I was going to get out of bed, not along to care for someone else. But by the grace God—I prevailed.

Still, I learned the mind can be a powerful thing. This amazing anatomy that weighs around three pounds can train the body and soul like a battery to an electronic device—powering it up and programming it where you want it to go. For me, I had to learn to shift my thoughts from the negative to the positive and believed all things were possible.

So, on Lent 2010, I made a committed effort for a lifestyle change. I also devised a plan to make my journey easier. If it worked for me, it could for you:

1. Exercise the Mind: Read a book by your favorite author; challenge yourself to a crossword or word search puzzle; get up early while the house is quiet for prayer and meditation, or take spiritual walks. A simple five to ten minute mind vacation does work wonders. When you find something that relaxes you, your mind smiles.

2. Eat Well: Maintaining a well-balanced diet by adding lean meats, like chicken or turkey. Do eat more fresh fruits and vegetables. Eliminate or sparingly eat sugary foods and drinks, such as, cakes, cookies, and sodas. Do eat Omega-3 fatty foods (salmon is an excellent example). More importantly, water, water, water! It is a known fact that drinking eight to ten glasses of water a day cleanse unwanted toxins from the body and avoids you from overeating. As I say all the time: Treat the body well, and it’ll love you in return.

3. Stay Connected: Make a phone call to an old friend and share laughs. If you have a church home, seek comfort and guidance with the pastor and/or parishioners. Join a book club. Take a class to learn something new, like pottery, cooking, or back to the first plan to help relax the mind and body—yoga.

4. Seek Support: This may be a repeat with number three but this goes deeper if you’re suffering from burnout or depression—especially caring for a loved one. Most will seek comfort and advice from their pastor, which is great but if you’re having signs of feeling worthlessness, oversleeping, a change in your eating habits, irritability, or worse, suicidal thoughts, it’s imperative you seek mental health counseling. Also, just because you speak to a mental health professional doesn’t mean they’ll prescribe anti-depressants. Mental Health Professionals are not the boogeyman. They’re to help sort out problems and give their professional advice on which way to go.

5. Loving the Body: Have you ever heard the cliché, your body is your temple. I also consider it as a gift from God. Like any precious gift you’ve received, shouldn’t your body be treated as such? Whether you’re out of shape or need to lose a few pounds, there are simple and common sense ways of getting fit, such as, take brisk thirty minute walks; participate in a physical activity with your children, like kickball; use the stairs at work instead of taking the elevator, and game consoles like Wii or Xbox have interactive games to fight against the bulge. Be creative with any physical activity you chose and make it fun.

These five tips aren’t a magic pill but it’s a start to alleviating the stress. If you don’t try all five, just try one of them. Better yet, devise your plan and share the results in the comment section or on Twitter under @imani_wisdom. I would love to hear from you. And who knows, whatever you share could benefit me.

Imani Wisdom is the founder of Pink Noire Publications.  Based in Indianapolis, IN, Pink Noire is a groundbreaking company with an unpredictable brand of literary storytelling.   Wisdom is also the creator of Pink Noire Blog, which hosts inspirational posts for the soul, along with social commentary.  Born and raised in “Indy,” Wisdom spends her days overseeing a family of five, writing short stories and books, cooking vegan dishes, running 5Ks and mini-marathons, and enjoying quality time with her friends and family.

                                           

Wisdom is a graduate of Ivy Tech Community College, earning a degree in Paralegal Studies. She is a prolific storyteller whose works depict an honest portrayal of societal issues. As a blogger and author, she has received numerous honors including 2012 nominee for Poet of the Year (AAMBC Book Club), March 2012 Up and Coming Author (The Writer’s POV Magazine), September 2011 Blog of the Month (The Writer’s POV Magazine), and February 2011 Editor’s Pick (BlackShortStories.com) for her short story, The Shattered Mogul. Her works include Zion’s Road: A Love Story about Faith and Redemption, and her upcoming debut novel, The Journey of Ruthie Belle.

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WRITING MY DREAMS: Taking Your Emotions on a Roller Coaster Ride...: A JOURNEY WITHIN_MARCH MADNESS

I was honored to have guest blogged for Chelle Ramsey. Visit her link below as I chatted with one of my book's characters, Ruthie Belle. The woman knows how to hold a conversation.

WRITING MY DREAMS: Taking Your Emotions on a Roller Coaster Ride...: A JOURNEY WITHIN_MARCH MADNESS: We sometimes hear an author's logic behind a story, or why they write. But we don't always get to hear the character's point o...

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THE IMPERFECT HEROINE

I sat alone in a darkened room, swimming in an emotional pool of despair; I cried a lot and prayed often. And yet the more I surrendered my heart to the Creator, I felt a huge disconnect. Riddled in sorrow, I tried to think positive like envisioning my children’s their lovely faces. For a moment, it almost worked. But the depression was too great. I couldn’t even crack a smile. The murkiness had fallen deep into my soul. And my children – my three wonderful blessings – I felt they were better off. I was ready to give up.

I leaned back against the chair of where I sat and strangely thought of my silk scarf I had tied to my head. My life was in such chaos back then, I rarely had taken it off. The scarf symbolized a shield against the status quo – your hair equates beauty. But for me, I didn’t give a rats-behind about being “prettied”. I ballooned to two hundred fifty pounds on a five-feet-two inch frame. Depression and I didn’t care. We didn’t care about the latest styles or extreme makeovers; we just wanted to be withdrawn with our own pitiful thoughts, hoping those thoughts would get the best of us.

I knew for certain I wanted to end it. My tears were apparent like April showers, and one by one they were cascading into a tailspin. I couldn’t bear it any longer; I had to call His name. He known for weeks how worse I became. He’d heard my prayers over and over again and yet nothing. I was fat and broke with an uncertain future at the age of thirty-nine. As old folks would say, I didn’t have a pot to piss in.

Then I said it – I looked to the ceiling as if I could see His face, grimacing in anger as I with began with the why’s and then how’s, and threw in some whatif’s. I even had the nerve to point to make sure He understood my argument. The anger was only the beginning: I was pissed. I clenched my jaws, murmuring one word after another as I continued my rant. Then I’d taken the gripe to another level. So much so, it shocked me to the point I knew I couldn’t take it back. “Just take me Lord…right now!” I fought through the tears. “Why am I here? I feel as if I’m just an accident. Lord, just take me. I don’t care how, just take me away. I’m a living a life with no purpose”.

I then fell into silence, waiting and waiting and waiting – waiting in anticipation for my final hours, waiting to fade to black, just waiting. So while I continued to wait, I received a call but not on my cell phone, on the landline phone two rooms away. I rolled my eyes at the mere disturbance, knowing I had to leave the comforts of my darkness. But as soon as I said hello, a soft-spoken voice emerged from the receiver. It was my mother. “Are you okay?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes and lied. “Yes, why do you ask?” 

She said was overcome with a strange feeling to call me as my face suddenly appeared in her mind. My eyes then widened with the fear of God. I peered to ceiling, wondering if it was possible. Did He nudged momma’s spirit or just a simple coincidence? She then rambled on her queries, while I pretended everything was hokey-dorie. I mean I had to. My mother lived on the other side of town with my sister bedridden with Multiple Sclerosis. There was nothing she could do, or at least that’s what I thought.

 I returned to the darkened room after the phone call to gaze at the ceiling in stun silence. Although my tears were no more, the pain remained but this time I sat in solitude – pondering if my mother’s phone call was perfect timing or Divine intervention. My questions were answered a year and three months later, however. After I made an about-face with my life by losing weight and starting my writing career, my mother died suddenly on a warm June afternoon.  Here I was on the verge of becoming a first-time author – a direction she encouraged for me to take – and she was gone just like that.  

We take many things for granted, but one thing we do especially take is time. We all had complained it moves slowly or there’s never enough. But time can be a merciless, unkind friend, especially saying those final goodbyes. My opportunity to thank her for that fateful day had never occurred. My second chance will happen many years from now – many, many years from now. I have too much to live for because I understand my purpose. And because of my mother, I see it in vivid colors.

God knew exactly what He was doing the moment when I wallowed in that darkened room. He knew of my request before I opened my mouth; and He knew the right person to save me. It was because of her, I realize heroines aren’t all ways perfect. They have flaws and yet still wanting to save hurt souls.  It’s a gift that many don’t realize. Unbeknownst to my mother, she definitely had it.

©Imani Wisdom, 2014 

Pink Noire Publications

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HEY, MS FUNNY NAME...KEEP DREAMING

There she is, curling up on the loveseat of her grandmother’s couch with that same, damn tablet on the ball of her knees. Clutters of papers are sprawled besides her, trailing to the floor as if each paper represents an important story. Her eyes are darkened, noticeable weariness from a lack of sleep she been bearing for months; and yet, this woman’s mission is crystal clear: to continue her vision no matter how bumpy the course.

Everyday she’s up before dawn, creating content for God-knows whom, and at times, she carries this pink diary-like book, scribbling in it for new ideas.

Some people are just as baffled as me; they can’t understand as to why somebody, like she, chooses writing…wait, excuse me, storytelling, as a life’s dream. This petite and shy woman could do a lot of things, can she? You can’t tell me this ridiculous notion of creating fiction is the only thing she can do?

For five years I’ve seen her type on her laptop, glowing like a bride at her wedding. Then, right on cue, she beams in silent awe when her story takes a new turn. I raise my brow in curiosity, pondering what’s going on in her pretty little head.  

Inside of her hard drive are a library of finished and unfinished manuscripts and a collection of short stories and poems. I’ve read all of them, and she has a style of her own. I’m not saying they’re bad; they’re actually good – great, if you want the honest truth. But her writing skills aren't the problems, it’s watching her work until she forgets to sleep; it’s hearing her sigh in frustration, almost to the point of her voice breaking, when she writes on the tablet and it freezes; and it’s the constant reading…reading…reading and the constant writing…writing…writing. Sometimes I have to breathe for her since she doesn't want to do it for herself.

Yet behind her weirdness and her aloof persona, conveys a spirit I wish I had. I want her to stop with this nonsense, but truthfully and honestly, as she would say, I’m glad she’s not. She can’t. It’s not in her. If my better half can switch from meat to meatless in forty days and those forty days are now five years, lose over hundred pounds – not once but twice, and can go from “peasant” to fab if she wants to, you would think she’s tougher than nails, right?

There were moments before she would take heed to my advice. Any of her so-called lightbulb-moments were ceased, thanks to me. Somebody has to do it. And now I feel as though I’m losing the battle with Miss “Funny Name”.

So as I continue to gaze with concern, observing her rigid body language while writing on that damn tablet, I realize one thing: her tenacious essence is why I respect to her to the highest. She tells me all the time that fear is the root as to why people don’t follow their dreams. No one wants to fail, the feeling is horrible; however, the worst part of failure is not trying– and who would want that to be their legacy?

And what's this? 

She heaves a respite sigh, as she covers her face in obvious fatigue. Another sleepless night is apparent. Good. Maybe a nap in dreamland will shed clarity to end this nonsensical mess. 

Then again, maybe not.

She and I will never see eye to eye on this dream of hers. But one thing for certain, she knows how to quell her doubts without uttering a word. You know the voice that lingers in minds to create an inferiority complex? I’ve been good at it for forty-three years, so why stop now?

Sooner or later, Ms. Funny Name will listen. 

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THE BLACKER THE BETTER, THE SWEETER...YES, DEFINITELY!

PHASE FIVE: MOCHA BREEZE

       By Imani Wisdom

Rain droplets dance against the window as he wraps my eyes with a pink blindfold. Engross with darkness, he’s taken me by the hand to a mysterious subtle breeze.  I can feel him guiding me carefully among the outdoor shower.  Tepid water dances on my naked body.  Then the touch of his lips rejuvenates my inner slumber.  I’m caressing his dampen stubble, following by a deep and rich kiss.  He’s lifting me against his destiny, thrusting his ego inside my Venetian dream.  I’m proudly in his arms with his hips moving like a ferocious earthquake. Swaying like a wondrous dream, my blindfold slips off and notices curious eyes on me.  She’s peering through her curtains with her gray tresses.  I close my eyes not because our escapade is now a prying exhibition. It’s just his ego is getting me high. The motion of his physique pounds my heart. There are no words at the moment, only a harmony of breathless passion.  My peripheral catches her again while I’m sinking my nails into his skin.  He bows to nourish my mammary pillows, tasting the Alpha of life.  Panting breathlessly, I’m looking her way again and she’s clinching firm to the corner of her curtain.  Maybe she wishes he can turn her back in time.  But for now my Mocha Breeze is MINE!  As his hips propels deeper into my walls, he grabs my jaws to give me a quick glance and smiles.  I reciprocate the feeling by biting his lips.  Then Mount Breezy erupts as the rain showers on our naked bodies.  Erotic sounds echoes beyond the heavenly thunder.  And now I’m complete,mutual satisfaction.  I glance at the woman and place a single finger to my lips and mouth carefully, “Don’t tell my husband this!”

THE END

©2011, Imani Wisdom

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HAVE YOU FOUND YOUR PASSION, YET?

By Imani Wisdom

What does it mean when someone has passion? According to Webster’s Dictionary, this word known for powerful emotions; such as joy, hatred, or anger, also has several meanings: ardent love, strong sexual desire; lust, and the object of such love and desire, just to name a few. But what does it exactly mean for someone like you or me to keep a flame that is burning inside our hearts to reach a specific goal(s)?

My thoughts—as I sit here typing away at five twenty-one in the morning—wonder how do we continue that desire toward whatever it may be without waning from our dreams or goals? I’ve seen too often people sprint from their starting blocks like an Olympic Track and Field event; putting their hearts and souls into their desire but only months later the sprint turns into a run, and then a jog, and eventually quits before reaching the finish line.

Speaking from experience I have several theories as to why this happens. One, we don’t create a plan and put it to use. When jumping out of the starting block, we want to hurdle over the smaller things to improve our profession or craft and race to the yellow ribbon instead of taking the necessary baby steps. You don’t see any medical professionals pulling this—at least I pray they don’t for the sake of their patients. Look, any goal you want to achieve will have some sort of competition; whether it’s getting a promotion on the job, buying a new house, or wanting to become a better person. Achieving success requires a detail itinerary to help navigate toward your goal. Even corporations, big or small or just a sole proprietor, need a business plan. If you want to move up, organize your thoughts on paper.

Secondly, we tend to lack self confidence. Instead of trusting our gifts and/or talents, we constantly have a need to seek validation from others. Its one thing to join certain groups or organizations to gain insight on your field of interest while listening and taking their constructive criticism, but it’s entirely different when you ask someone over and over if you’re good enough. If you’re having this quench for instant justification every five minutes, then you need to step back and reevaluate your goals. Perhaps you might be achieving your ambition for the wrong reasons.

And thirdly, this happens all too often and it’s pretty sad too. We give up when the going gets tough. There is no such thing as an easy road; there will be stumbling blocks, rough terrains, treacherous streams, and let’s not forget, a huge mountain before seeing your hard work pay off. I bet you your favorite celebrity or mentor had to experience a rough road before achieving their success.

Six months ago, a friend of mine (and close to his own breakthrough) listened patiently while I ranted on the phone about a recent stumble. I whined to the point of my voice breaking, complaining of how hard the publishing business has been. So after a few I-don’t-know-why-I’m-still-trying-to-do-this-at-my-age rants, he paused for a moment and told me in a calm voice, did you really think it was going to be easy, Mani? Not a yeah, I feel you type of response or relayed some encouraging words—he spoke to me as a friend and got real with the situation. And he was right.

More importantly to sum up this entire post, if you are working toward a goal and you are not seeing any results; don’t give in to that whisper telling you it’s not worth it because breaking any barriers is an accomplishment itself. Remember what I said about baby steps? That little pitter-patter is better than no movement at all. And if you are worried if the world hasn’t taken notice of your hard work, as Tyler Perry said—sometimes you’re meant to be hidden. I say all the time there is no such thing as an overnight success. It’s a word the media likes to hype up to sell papers. What they’re actually saying is after their ups and downs the world is finally taken notice. So for all of you go-getters, this could be you. Don’t give up. And oh, by the way, don’t forget your passion. You’ll need it.

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AN OPEN LETTER...

This Wednesday in The Lounge, my special guest, Minister Jami Greene, will open up a host of issues, including the painful topic, sexual abuse. 

As one of my most candid interviews thus far, I, too, wanted to be as forthcoming about my past struggles. And by the grace of God, He pulled me through those tumultuous times, knowing it had affected my relationships and my precious, self-esteem. 

In today's post, I'm opening up in a way that reveals my defining moment of control. I had to find my peace; otherwise, "they" would have continued to have my joy.

So, whether you're a woman or a man, and lived with any forms of abuse, I hope you take at least one thing from my open letter, and that forgiveness is a powerful thing because it's not for their benefit but for yours. 


Dear Sad and Unfortunate Ones,

After going through years of counseling and prayers, I've come to terms as to why every relationship I've been in went awry; or why I end up in inappropriate affairs, or why I accepted being the second option, the backup, and the two a.m. booty-call. Every relational decision I've made, every tear I've cried, every how-did-I-get-into-this-situation rant, every self-loathing, suicidal thought and guilt, all stems back to you—the cowardly attacker.

However, I won’t give you the satisfaction of placing all of my bad choices firmly on you because the key word in this sentence is CHOICE. The backbone I should’ve grown to end that madness was a part of me. The only thing I place squarely on you is most likely you've been abused yourself—either sexually, physically, or suffered some type of neglect—but it doesn't matter. 

"I've chosen the free will God gave me to use my gift as awareness for lost souls like you—and more importantly, I’m choosing not to be the victim or just surviving but to thrive. I’m holding the keys now and not you."

What you've endured on me, I didn't inflict on someone’s child—I didn't continue an ugly cycle of lifetime pain and mistrust. I'd chose to move on with my life the best way I knew how, despite carrying that shame and guilt. My personal hell was mine alone, but that was less I can say about you. Your choice was based on selfishness, and didn't give a flying fuck about the consequences.

But that wasn't what it was about, wasn't it? Rather, it was a few minutes of lust to sooth your pleasure. To make you feel superior next to my vulnerability. Just because you suffered abuse with the images of whomever had hurt you playing your head, you chose to inflict that same hurt on the defenseless. Releasing your anger and rage by fondling my sacred parts or elevating it by penetrating deep into my innocence--you flat out didn't care as long as you got it. Then after you reached your shameful point, you knew how much you've hurt me—the window to my soul was transparent. You went your way and I went mine, as if nothing had happened.

The salutation in this letter, however, is plural, and yet I’m treating this as one act because the guilt and shame I wore for years. At the tender age of eight I was confused with her inappropriate touch that left me wondering, this is wrong but why does it feel good? Then my confusion turned into fear two years later when he crushed any trust I had in men—and then that mistrust turned into self-hatred when I was sixteen…I became the train at a party.

"To make you feel superior next to my vulnerability. Just because you suffered abuse with the images of whomever had hurt you playing your head, you chose to inflict that same hurt on the defenseless."

So to you, Sad and Unfortunate people, please don’t take this open letter as pity. My words are my strength. Your few minutes of perversion only gave me temporary grief. I chose not to swim in your bullshit but gathered any strength I had to not let the past define me—or you define me. I chose to wake every morning and rejoice on the future; I chose writing as my therapy to blossom into something more; I’ve chosen happiness; I’ve chosen the free will God gave me to use my gift as awareness for lost souls like you—and more importantly, I’m choosing not to be the victim or just surviving but to thrive. I’m holding the keys now and not you.

Sad and Unfortunate one, this may come as a shock to you but I do forgive you. Though, I’m not doing this for your benefit but for mine. I have to free myself from your psychological bondage to love myself the way I should’ve done years ago. You, however, need to do the same to whoever hurt you. That person had planted your seed of a pedophiliac life. So I’ll ask you this, when will it ever stop? When will you fight those personal demons and stop the cycle? Although you cannot go back in time and return my innocence, you should rectify the wrongs by opening your eyes at you've created. At least facing them is a start and to understand what you've become.

As an author of Zion’s Road I do believe in second chances—everyone no matter how much they have screwed their lives or to others—they, too, deserves a chance to get their life right. So, I’m going to leave it up to you with your thoughts and the past. There’s nothing you can do to me. I’m too empowered to even worry about the yesterdays because your selfishness didn't break me; it only strengthened me.

You see, I’m still standing.

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SWEET INHIBITIONS

       By Imani Wisdom

PHASE ONE: INHIBITIONS

Entangle me with your inhibition. Kissing me softly in places only reserve for you. With the warmness of your breath as it touches my skin, I shiver with enticement and move my hands slowly down to my body to where you lay. An uncontrollable passion yearns deeply in the forefront of desires, it’s where life begins and womanhood emerges from the shadows. It’s where the nectarous river stream is a rich white satin, gently cascading on the tip of his tongue. I dig deeper within the threads of the sheet, grasping it with fanatical fury. Cries of my pleasure climb to an octave, and I grab around the lining of his fade. It didn’t matter if a bead of sweat is falling like tears. I’m living in an infinite possibility where fantasy meets reality. Then his eyes rise above the bed of my lips to connect with mine. Mutual satisfaction quietly roars. This is only the first phase.

PHASE TWO: NECTAROUS RIVER

I’m in an orgasmic escapade of his sensual essence. Enamoring by his silky cocoa skin, it’s soft and luscious like a tantalizing dessert. I’m nibbling slowly around the most delicate of delicates, kissing him on the strongest of his regions until I fade away like a sunset. Minutes have become a lifetime as he squirms from instant gratification. There are no words uttering from his sweet lips, only replying with a slow and endearing sigh. The sound of his excitement is causing me to delve further into my indulgence. He loves it and I’m untamed for it! By the tickling of his veins warmly kissing me inside the beast of my cocoon, I’m devouring into his masculinity. Aggressively grasping to his gateway of life and gently shuddering while his falsetto rises to beautiful music. Nectarous rivers flows once again to a satisfaction galore. And once more….my job is done. It’s time for phase three.

To be continued...

©2010, Imani Wisdom

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THE INTRODUCTION OF NIKKI ROBINSON

By Imani Wisdom

     I’m lying awake as I stared at the ceiling asking myself, “Why am I putting up with this?” I glanced to the left of me and noticed the other side of my king-size bed hadn’t been touched. As I pulled the black satin sheets to my chin, I heavily sighed. Then I looked to the right of me at the obnoxiously bright red alarm clock that read: two fifty-three am. There was no sound among the darkness except a few lonely crickets chirping outside the window. I glanced over the right of me again, but this time I saw my husband’s pager blinking with its yellow incandescent color. “He left it again,” I thought. It was tempting to scroll through the endless telephone numbers on his pager from the hospital. I had already tried that scenario and found nothing.
     Then I thought back fifteen years ago, when I was living freely as a single woman. I was a successful attorney at the Prosecutor’s Office for the city of Indianapolis. My conviction rate was ninety percent. I had aspirations of becoming the first black woman as District Attorney. Unlike some of the other women in the Prosecutor’s Office, I never tried fucking my way to top, including not screwing the Mayor. All of my accomplishments were based on hard ass work! Nothing was giving me.
     Then one day, I met a young Neurosurgeon named, Dr. Anthony Robinson. I got to admit when I met him, I wasn’t impressed. Although I was a successful in my career, I had this thing for roughneck brothas. There was something about them when I saw them wearing their jeans slightly hanging low just enough to show their designer draws, sporting their D’Angelo braids and driving around in their decked out rides with the bass booming enough to rattle the neighbors’ windows. My girls didn’t understand why I was attracted to men like them. One of them always pointed out, “You always convict them, but at the same time, you wanna fuck them.” Yet, I always respond, even though I was lying through my teeth, “Girl, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
     For Anthony, there was something about him that I found so irresistibly charming. He was the first man I dated who didn’t believe in a woman should pay for anything, and taking me to places that didn’t include DJ Hip Hop, booty popping or McDonald’s. Dr. Robinson’s, taste was refined compared to the last brotha I’d been with. He’s a jazz and opera type of man that savors five star restaurants, red wine, New York Times and South American countries. That’s right, South America! Dr. Robinson is fluent in five different languages: Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian and Arabic. He considers South America one of his favorite countries. After all, he leaves every summer for two weeks to give his medical services to the locals outside of Rio De Janerio. All of this sounds great, but it’s only a small reason why I fell in love with him.
     Dr. Anthony James Robinson has an excellent physique. He’s either jogging three miles every morning before he makes his rounds at the hospital or pumping iron in our basement. My husband ways may be opposite to the guys I dated, but he blows them out of water with his body. At fifty years old, he makes the twenty year old fellas stop and take notes on chiseled abs, quads and deltoids. They can’t deny my husband can pass for thirty years old. Yet again, this is only another small part of why I fell in love with him.
      Although it wasn’t love at first sight, though over time, I realize this man loved me for me! Then slowly but surely after a year long of dating and accepting my son who at the time was five years old as his own, I fell in love with him. All of the accolades he acquired when he fought in Desert Storm in 1991, or graduating from Medical School from John Hopkins University at the top of his class, or showering with me expensive gifts, trips or cars, all of that didn’t matter. What matter was the unconditional love he gave me and to my son during our courtship.
      You might be thinking, “Why is she having second thoughts on this man after fifteen years marriage? If he isn’t cheating, what’s the problem?” The problem is our so-called storybook marriage has become a loveless marriage. A marriage where all the faults, he says, have been lying with me. From cooking to the cleaning, it’s not perfect enough for him. I wonder if he’s forgotten before we got married, he asked me to temporary leave my career to concentrate on starting a family. Like any good woman to please her man, I did. I thought, “It only takes nine months to carry a baby. It shouldn’t harm my goals as D.A.” Well, I was wrong. Fifteen years later with a thirteen and a half year old daughter, Taj, a twenty year old son at Howard University, a six bedroom mansion in Geist Reservoir, a his and her Benz, and countless boring ass dinner parties for his dignitary friends, I’m running out of patience!
     It’s not that we don’t we have sex. Actually we do, but it takes Viagra to wake his friend up. Besides that, I’m at the best shape of my life. I’m forty-two years old and still wear the same size I wore in my twenties. When I go downtown for lunch with my best girlfriend, CeeCee, the young brothas still check my ass out, and I do mean checking my ass out! It seems I get noticed by everyone except my husband.
     And let’s get back to the sex thing….At the beginning it was smashing, wall banging, screaming and wailing, hot sex! We made love four or five days a week. I didn’t need to fantasize about another man since my husband knew how to touch, kiss, and hit it in the right places. He was a black Energizer bunny that went beyond any titanium or plutonium substance. Anthony used to get me singing during sex. Not singing in alto, but singing in soprano like Minnie Riperton or Mariah Carey with their high notes. Funny thing about that, I can’t sing worth a shit! Now, I nickname named him Mr. Missionary Man. There’s no other position but missionary. No riding, no sidesaddle, no passion, no creativity, no life, just plain ole’ boring sex. He might be qualified for AARP, but he don’t have fuck like it!
     In the meantime, I glance at the clock and its half past three a.m., and still no Dr. Robinson. I’m lying alone in a bedroom that can hold three more bedrooms. I have a whole living room with a fireplace eight feet away from my bed; several paintings on the terracotta color walls; a flat screen TV big enough like a Drive-In screen, and a wet bar. Yes, a wet bar in the bedroom and I don’t even fucking drink!
     Then suddenly, I heard his car pulled up in our driveway. As I looked at the clock again, it was nearing three-thirty in the morning. I was thinking of what to say him, “Where the hell you been?”… “How late was this surgery”…Or… “What bitch you’ve been screwing?... “Yadda, Yadda, Yadda and so on…”

     His footsteps coming up the stairs were as soft as though he were a thief in the night. I heard him mumbling to someone like he was on his cell phone. “Who could he be talking to this late?” I wondered. As he quickly said goodbye, he creaked the bedroom door open and slowly walked to his side of the bed.
     “Nikki?” He whispered.
     After the rehearsal I had in my mind to cuss him out as though I was still that girl from the 29th and Clifton in the hood, I pretended I was sleep. I was too mentally tired to fight with him. Besides, it’s a school night and I didn’t want to wake Taj. So, I lie breathing like I was in a deep sleep while he kept repeating, “Nikki? Are you awake?”
     After that, he changed from his business attire and joined me in our bed. I could feel his eyes on me as I lay the opposite direction from him. I didn’t want to him to know that I was still awake. Hearing him ramble about his lying ass surgery or the hospital is getting old. And I think he’s knows it. I finally felt him rustling the covers to turn away so he could sleep. I quietly sigh without another thought and went to sleep.
     Morning arrives as the sun peeked through the overcast sky and it rained enough to saturate the landscape around our house. I barely slept for those few hours since my husband returned home after three am.. Between his strident snoring and the quick downpour, my body did not want to step in the shower. It felt as though the tiredness was an extreme understatement. I wanted to stay under the warmth of my bed while my brain reminded me I had volunteer duties for Legal Aid at nine am. Yes, I still practice law, but for Pro Bono basis. Actually, I lend my expertise to the fresh out of law school grads or Paralegals twice a week. Dr. Robinson prefers me, in his words, “To donate my service to the under privileged.” To interpret his bullshit, he doesn’t want me to work full-time in a law firm or work as Assistant District Attorney, or continue to have political ambitions as D.A. Dear sweet hubby wants to me to play the role of Happy Homemaker and rub noses with fake ass country club bitches who whine of not having enough money to spend on stupid shit. My husband does like the friends I’ve known since the fourth grade, even though he thinks one is a bad example for me, Porshe or Porsha as is stated on her birth certificate. He claims she too ghetto. Accuses her of being a gold-digger because all she dates are professional athletes and rappers. He says, “Those hip-hop thugs are her welfare check; except they pay her bills, mortgage and car payments. She never had to work hard for anything. It’s no different than being a prostitute.”
     As I stood in the shower, I leaned against the white tile to catch a few seconds of sleep. The very warm water from the showerhead did waken my senses as it treaded slowly down my body. Despite the enamored watery feeling, I heard movement beyond the shower pixilated glass. It was a silhouette of man walking towards me. “Nikki?” My husband called out. The next thing I knew, he jumped his naked body in with me as though he expected an arousal of excitement. I wasn’t upset, but annoyed. The audacity of him coming home after three o’clock in the morning, and thinks because he joins me in my shower that we’re going to fuck like nothing happened? I was at my breaking point. While the shower continued to run, I angrily looked at him as I put my hands on my hips. I didn’t care I was naked or the fact that his Viagra was kicking in and his average size dick was extending before my eyes. I flat out didn't care!
     “Where were you last night?” I huffed.
     Anthony was annoyed by my question. I don’t know why. After all, he crept in our bed in the wee hours of morning. The only thing I did was patiently wait for my husband to come home. And it’s not like he hasn’t done this before. I’ve complained about his late night entrances. He always quick to reply, “I had an emergency surgery…..Or, I had to stay late at the hospital because they were short staffed”….Or, my favorite, “I was too tired to drive home, so I fell asleep in the car in the parking lot.” It’s usually those three excuses he replies as his answer.
     My husband stood in front of me as his dick sprung like a rigid diving board. The expression on his face was like I shouldn’t have asked him of his whereabouts. Last I checked, my name is on our marriage license as Nicole Renee Robinson. So, as his wife, I have a right to ask of where he has been and who he has been with. These late night creeping-by-my-pillow at two, three or four in the morning is getting old!
     “I’m going to ask you this again, where were you last night?”
     “Are you serious, Nikki?”
     “Hell yeah, I’m serious. You’ve been coming home at all hours of the night. I want to know who the bitch is?”
     During all of this time, we were still in the rapidness of the shower; allowing the water to douse the both of us despite the fact we were in the midst of a heated exchange. Then Anthony finally said it, something I expect from the three excuses. “I had to perform an emergency surgery on a patient with a gunshot wound to head! That’s why I didn’t get home until after three.”

     I sighed with disbelief; uncertain at what to think. I know my husband is brilliant at what he does. After all, his hands pay for our house, cars and utilities. Also, it’s not my paranoia of him cheating, but the loneliness I feel when he’s away from home day in and day out with his patients. He asked me to be the caretaker of our home while he works hard to takes of care me. What about my needs other than material? I don’t recall in years him uttering the words, “I love you, Nikki.” Or thanking me of my own sacrifices just to make him happy. Or ever asking me how I feel. It’s basically from him, “This is how things are, so the hell with you and your feelings.”
     I start to feel bad by his patronizing stare to remind me that my accusations are baseless. Then, every time we finish an argument, he has to end it with an exclamation point by gently kissing me like he did when we dated. I thought, “I hate it when he does this!” All five-nine of him, took me into his arms. I felt pleasingly trapped between his rock-hard body and the downpour from the showerhead. He leaned closer to my body as I felt his Viagra-enhanced organ pressing against my pubic bone. The uncomfortable sense overwhelmed my libido. I was feeling the burning passion that constricts my bridge to a never ending place of return. My husband hates it when I say the word, fuck, because it sounds ill-mannered. He says, instead use the words making love is poetic in its nature. He loves that Shakespearian shit; using words that people don’t use anymore.
     He suddenly hoists me against the shower tiles and slithered his enhancement inside of me. I have to admit, it felt….so….damn….good! Dr. Robinson became the black Tarzan of the jungle. I became his Jane; jerking and swinging me around as if I was a strong vine. Then I said the word he hates coming from my lips, “Come on, baby! Fuck me!” While screwing me against the tiles, he quickly glanced at me with an aggravated look. It’s just something about that word he despises!
     First time in a long time, I wonder if I can get my orgasm. It has been long overdue. I can feel my thighs shake, my lips quiver and a tightened clitoris. It’s ready to impact at Mount Nikki’s peak. “Fuck me, Anthony!” I screamed. I felt like I was riding the waves in the Mediterranean Sea with his hips thrusting up and down in me. “Come on, baby!” I panted. Then I went on, “But what ever you do, don’t…….”
     Suddenly, my husband, Dr. Robinson had incredibly falling short of my expectations. I mean way short! Before I can reach my climatic pleasure, his dick had waned back to its original wrinkly size. He was breathing hard as if he ran a mini- marathon. Better yet, a thirteen point one mile run doesn’t suffice his endurance. Maybe a five k, but nothing further.
     As usual, my husband never asks how I feel before, during or after sex. He does his peek-a-boo act with my coochie by his premature ejaculation and then goes about his business. When married couples have sex, it supposed to be a loving experience between them. I believe for me, our fifteen year road is quickly diminishing before my eyes. My husband has become virtually a stranger.
     That evening, after six hours at Legal Aid, my husband surprised me by announcing we’re having a guest for dinner. It’s not anything new. Dr. Robinson has this habit of springing dinner guests at the last minute. I could plan a fine meal for a family of three and then low and behold, he invites other Doctors or big donors to our home. Thank goodness for him, I made a huge pot roast. I know my husband will barely eat what I cooked. It’s not that he don’t like my cooking, but whenever we have dinner guests from anyone that’s apart of his hospital, he’s busying having his mouth on their asses, brown-nosing every chance he can get.
     Don’t get me wrong, my husband did work his butt off to get the respect by his peers, locally, nationally and internationally. And he couldn’t have written four bestselling books about his most difficult and successful surgeries if he didn’t have the expertise in his field. Yet, the question for me is, what more does he have to gain? I have seen him rise as young brain surgeon to the most prominent and prestigious Neurosurgeon in the world. What is left for him to accomplish? He’s been on countless TV news channels as a medical analyst; got paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to speak at medical conferences, and had his name among a few for Surgeon General. So, again, what more does this man need?
     As I put the last of the best China on the table, a resonating sound of the doorbell echoed the house. I let it ring. Hell, he wasn’t my guest. Let my husband do the honors since invited this person. I went on to place the golden utensils next to gold-rimmed wineglasses and wondered why my husband remained in his study which was closer to the door? “Nikki, can you get that? I’m in the middle of something!” Anthony yelled.
     I thought, this Negro has more nerves than a brass monkey! First, he invites a guest an hour before dinner is served, and now, he wants me to stop setting the table to answer the door? The bitch in me is ready to bark. As I walked to the foyer, I saw my husband sitting at his desk chatting on his cell phone. He was laughing as though the conversation was more interesting than his own guest. He had his laptop open with a glass of Bourbon beside it. “What’s the matter with you?” I yelled. It was pointless. My bitchiness didn’t affect his phone call. He even didn’t bother to look beyond the blare of his Mac screen. I wanted to make it known to him how shitty I’m feeling. I clop my stiletto heels on the wooden floor to the door to grab his attention. While I grabbed the knob, I gave him a quick evil stare hoping my eyes would give him a stern message.        While he remained on the phone, he quickly pointed, “Nikki, answer the door!”
     My teeth were firmly on my tongue. I was ready to drop a load of curse words from my lips, starting with “Asshole!” Then door-bell rang again. When I opened it, all of my bitchiness suddenly evaporated. From a hellish last twenty-four hours, my sorrows quickly became sweet. Standing on my porch step was the finest man I’ve ever seen. He was dressed in a three-piece business suit with a black leather satchel propped on his shoulder. The brotha was clean, sharper than a damn tack! He reminded me the guys I dated before I married; only he didn’t wear the braids. He had a meticulous and precise fade that joined his neatly groomed mustache. And the man’s teeth…Yes, I look at teeth…This man’s smile was perfect. Actually, everything about this stranger was perfect!
     I can tell this brotha was shocked to see me because his deep, dark and penetrating eyes widened when I opened the door. I know he wanted to take a peek at my twenty-something year old figure in this forty year old body. Wearing my tight, white spaghetti strap dress only enhanced what God gave me. He wanted to look; being a gentleman, he fought the temptation.
     “Hello, I’m Dr. Jensen White. Dr. Robinson is expecting me?” He said. His voice was just smooth as his skin. I wondered, where did this guy come? If this is what is like to look at a face of an Angel, then thank you all mighty! Besides, did he say doctor? I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but this brotha should be on the cover of “Source Magazine” instead of reading AMA Journals. Over his shoulder in my driveway was the latest model of a BMW. For Dr. White, he had some serious rims that made his sixty or seventy-thousand dollar car shine…I mean bling!
     “Hi, I’m Nikki Robinson, his wife,” I said. “Won’t you come in?” From the look on his face, he seemed surprised. He probably expected to see a pitiful, frumpy and dumpy woman holding a Martini, looking ten years her senior. I hope he’s not disappointed.
     When Dr. White entered the house, my husband finally pried his eyes and ears away from his laptop and phone to meet his colleague. Comparing to the two doctors, Anthony was dressed in his finest navy two piece suit, along with wire-rimmed glasses that hugged his face. Although he could pass for thirty, you tell by his mannerism that he’s fifty. The way he walked toward Dr. White to greet him it’s as though his arthritis was getting the best of him. My husband looked more like Dr. White’s father instead of a fellow colleague. I wanted badly to burst out in laughter while witnessing this moment between the Neurosurgeon version of the head of RNC, Michael Steele and a slightly older version of Trey Songz. I wish I had my digital camera to take this picture!
     Later at dinner, I sat on the end of the long eight-seat dining table while Taj sat in the middle fiddling around her vegetables as though she was a thousand of miles away. In the meantime, my husband who sat at the opposite end from me, was busy discussing the Fellowship program with Dr. White. As they were chatting away, I couldn’t help but to stare at his young colleague. I became fascinated by him. All kinds of questions ran through my mind like a hurricane like,      who is he? And, where did he come from?
     Finally, while the two Doctors conversation reached a plateau and I was able squeeze in my own conversation to Dr. White. As I sipped my red wine, I asked him the very question I was dying to ask since he stepped foot in the door.
     “Dr. White, are you from Indianapolis?”
     “I was actually born in Atlanta, but my parents moved up here when I was five years old.”
     That question went well and now on to the next one. “If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?”
     He replied with a nervous giggle, “thirty.”
     While Anthony was sipping on his bourbon, he gave me stare as if he didn’t appreciate my forwardness to our guest. To me, I wasn’t being bold, just curious. Dr. White looks to be a first year college student, instead starting his Fellowship under my husband as a Neurosurgeon. Although I have the feeling where the next question will lead to, I went on to ask anyway, “I know Mrs. White has to be excited with this opportunity to work under one the best Neurosurgeons in the world?”
     As I suspected, Anthony interrupted Dr. White before he could answer my question by asking him leave to the patio to talk further about the Fellowship. I knew it! I saw the veins bulging around the graying of his temples. My questions were actually harmless. Dr. White looked very young to have gone through about twelve years of medical school and training. As the question about his wife, why not? I know what it’s like to be married, not only to a Doctor, but a world renowned, first class Neurosurgeon. He gets requested by other colleagues around the world to perform prudent surgeries or speak at engagements or pounding away on laptop in his den writing another book. He does everything, except pay attention to his wife. If Dr. White is married, I hope he’ll appreciate a good woman who stands by his side through thick and thin and wait patiently at nights until he gets home from performing an emergency surgery because so far with my husband, the blinders are over his eyes!
     Forty-minutes later, my husband escorted his colleague to the front door. As they were still discussing the Fellowship, I stood on top the stairs wearing my usual lounging attire; black Baby Phat shorts and a pink tank top with a short, pink silk robe and had my dark brown, eighteen inch weave swooped in a hair clip. I didn’t know why I wanted to be inconspicuous. Maybe I wanted to enjoy the temporary eye candy I was receiving for the evening without the presence of my husband, or maybe, just maybe, I want to know more about Dr. White than I should.
     Then suddenly my husband told him he has something to give him from his den. He finally left this brotha alone! I quickly composed myself and then proceeded down the stairs with my briefcase. He reminded me of Black Hollywood from the 1970’s, when the leading men exude superfluity of confidence. It’s was kind of confidence that made 007 shut the fuck up and step aside because knew these Black men were and forever will be the shit!
     “You’re leaving?” I asked as my average five-five height stood in front of his six-foot frame.
     “Yes, ma’am,” he said as he conveyed a smile that melted my heart. Yet, there was one thing I noticed about the Doctor while he waited for my husband. He seemed nervous. He kept wandering his eyes everywhere in the foyer as if he was trying to avoid eye contract. Then he suddenly asked, “Briefcase? Are you a schoolteacher?” I was wowed, and yet amused with his coyness. Actually, his shyness, or nervousness, made me want to know him more. Then I quickly broke the ice. I knew my husband will return, so whatever I have to say, I have to say it quick!
     “No, I’m a lawyer,” I answered. Still, regardless how much I tried to break the ice, the brotha couldn’t look me in the eye. What does he think I’ll do, rip his clothes off in front of my husband’s den and fuck him like a no other bitch? As much as I would love to, I have never cheated on my husband. There have been plenty of opportunities for me to let my fantasies come true with other men. Nonetheless, I still wear his ring and hold true to my vows; even if it’s a marriage by name only. Then I quickly replied, “And don’t call me, ma’am... I may be forty-two, but “ma’am” sounds like you’re talking to my mother!”
     “I’m sorry ma’am….I mean Mrs. Robinson!”
     “Mrs. Robinson?” I thought. I like that! I felt like the fiery, siren Anne Bancroft’s character in the movie “The Graduate,” and Dr. White was the timid, Dustin Hoffman. Only the difference with this situation is I don’t need to prop my legs open for him to glimpse my pussy. My push-up bra that snuggled my 34D’s under this pink beater is good enough. As I said earlier, his eyes are wandering everywhere, but at me. He knows he want to look!

     Then just like, Dr. White or Jensen looked as though an angel had quickly taking him away from the fiery pits in hell when my husband returned. “I found the papers I want you to take with you, Jensen.”  I never saw a straight man so relieved to see another man. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead like rain drizzle. As he took the papers, Dr. White thanked him for the dinner. He didn’t say goodbye to me. He probably couldn’t since my husband stood there like a wall between door and myself. I couldn’t say or wave goodbye or catch a last peek of his ass before got into his BMW. However though, I’m sure I would see Dr. Jensen White soon. Every Fellowship recipient who was trained under my husband are never strangers at our house. I’m confident when he comes back, his eyes will get tired of wandering endlessly at mundane shit. Sooner or later, I will catch him looking!

©Imani Wisdom, 2011

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