The Man and the Moon

I liked him; I liked fucking him; I liked his moans and how he could grip this plus-size body like I was a size two!

We all know I consider myself a vitreous freak-ho. I love God, the gospel, and I love getting dick. PeriodT, Sis. That being said, I have been praying and asking the question, "What do I lack? Why can’t I keep a man? "

Now, let’s get this straight. It’s not so much about "keeping" a man, but it's more about the desire to want to "keep" a man. I am a firm believer that a man can only "keep" himself. My issue seems to be not wanting a man around at all. I have this wall up with men and I do not know how to tear it down. When I am in a relationship with a guy, I often hear the same complaints.

"You don’t open up to me."

"You’re not supportive."

"You’re super closed off."

"You’re sweet, but you’re mean at the same time." (That one was recently).

A while back, I was talking with this fine-ass Moroccan guy.

Hold up, let me set the scene.

We were in the thick of quarantine. 

His house was empty of all living things except us. We laid in his king-sized bed as Netflix played softly in the background. Baby Boy looked like an entire meal as he lay half naked beside me. He was slim, thick, and packing in all the right places. Tanned skin, a trimmed beard, and a head full of tasseled black hair were being bathed by the moonlight. We had already gone some rounds, so now we were both in recovery mode. I watched his chest rise and fall, a smirk playing across my lips. His sheets felt soft on my skin, just like his hand gripped around my thigh. He looked at me and flashed those white teeth, and honestly, I was ready to jump his Moroccan bones. Fuck rest. I’ll rest when I’m home.

At that moment, I just wanted all of him and nothing less. I wanted him to be so fucked-out that he wouldn't be able to move. His curtains were slightly open, and the moon drifted in, playing peekaboo. I remember gazing at it and thinking, "Damn, if only I was there instead."

Before I could ponder why that particular thought had slithered its way in, my lover asked, "Why don’t you love me?"

I paused.

I didn't think we were at that level. Love is such a powerful emotion. Yeah, that’s what I said back to him. "Love is such a powerful emotion." I’m a fucking idiot. I know. 

Then he said, "Well, I have powerful emotions for you, but I can never get you to open up, and I want to know why."

I felt open. I mean, I was spending time with him. My time was valuable and I could do a thousand things, but I was with him. 

For the sake of privacy, let’s call him Shai. "I don’t know what you want from me, Shai." I responded.

"I want you to stop being so cold towards me." He ran his fingers through my loose natural hair. He always praised how much he loved my kinky coils and hair texture.

Cold? I pondered. Cold is a strong word. I never considered myself cold. I was in his bed, warming up his sheets, going round after round, as he absorbed the heat from my skin. And he thought I was cold? 

See, here’s the thing. Like I mentioned before, this is not the first time I have heard this. But from Shai? I was so close to him. We were lovers and friends, and I could almost see myself in a committed relationship with him. 

Yet, at that moment, I remained silent. 

"Let’s just watch Netflix," I said, grabbing the remote. I brushed him off so hard that the very action hit me like a pile of bricks. I suddenly noticed the coldness at that moment. The crazy part is, I could not stop. I felt the intimacy in the room being sucked dry. The passion was gone. My walls went up, and I felt myself shut him out. 

"See, this is what I mean. You don’t talk to me. " Shai pushed himself out of bed, pulling his sweats on. 

Fuck! Don’t get dressed. That ass, those thighs, that body?

"Shai, come back to bed." I reached for him, but he pulled away. 

I can’t remember the details after that. It happened so fast, so swiftly. He said something that offended me, and I said something that offended him. We argued, but not a loud and in your face type of argument. This argument was lifeless, quiet, and slightly resentful. By the end, I knew there wouldn’t be an us.

Not because he did not want it, but because I went... cold.

Fuck, he was right.

That handsome Moroccan man confessed his love to me in the throes of the night, and the only thing I regret is not getting my third orgasm.

As I got into my car, I gazed at the moon. It seemed so close, like I could reach out and touch it. If I could just extend my arm just a little, I could have sworn it would have been in my grip. 

I left that night, and I never spoke to Shai again. I liked him; I liked fucking him; I liked his moans and how he could grip this plus-size body like I was a size two!

Sexually, I am all for a man. 

Emotionally, mentally, even spiritually, I feel nothing.

Even after writing this and seeing myself so vulnerably, the question still is, what do I lack? Why don't I want to keep a man?

I guess I still really don't know.

What I do know is that the moon and I have more in common than I thought.