Like a Virgin

If I could cast the perfect spell, I would be a virgin again … not born again, but a virgin as if I was just released from the jaws of my mother’s womb. Right now, at this moment in time, I want to close my eyes (envisioning life in its purest form) , tap my red sequined kitty kat heels (like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz), clap my hands (giving myself a round of applause), and spin around (like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music). The perfect spell would cause a vaginal resurrection and would restore my virginity. My “purse of valued jewels” is worth more than any Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Lana Marks, or Chanel handbag. I want to be a virtuous virgin. I want to be made whole again.

Losing your virginity to a person who doesn’t respect you or robs you of your “purse” is like decreasing your value as a woman … each time you play around with boys with no penis control your vagina deprecates. Men stimulate you mentally … penetrating your mind (often causing an inner orgasmic rush) without touching you physically. They feed your spiritual self with talks of nature and the universe (causing quite a connection). They adorn your psyche with acts of love, kindness, and acceptance (his/your/their actions will speak louder than any word ever spoken or unspoken). He complements your life … adding a tad bit more flair or flavor to your “recipe for living.”

I wish I could travel back to the past … back to my very first time. I would have celebrated the “break of my hymen” or the “pop of my sweet, juicy cherry” a little differently. I would’ve been a little older, a lot more experienced with masturbation (knowing what I wanted or what I needed to feel fulfilled), a little less skeptical, a lot more trusting, a lot less envious, a little more resilient, a lot less aggravated, a lot less emotional, a little more patient, and a lot less sheltered.

As I reminisce on what was, I’m envisioning my eight year old self standing in front of my family’s large tube television (that stood like a soldier in the middle of our den-so erect and at attention) with a warm straightening comb (don’t ask any questions). I recall flipping through the channels and discovering Madonna’s Like a Virgin on MTV. I remember clearing my throat, holding the straightening comb up toward my mouth (trying not to burn the shit out of my bottom lip), and singing my little heart out … “Like a Virgin, Touched for the very first time … Like Vir … ir …ir… ir …gen … With your heartbeat next to mine.”

If I only had to chant “I want to be like a virgin,” “I want to be like a virgin,” “I want to be like a virgin” … I would take my place on the bed sitting indian style with my eyes closed, my forearm extended, and my palms facing up (displaying a right side up “ok” hand gesture). I would allow the universe to restore my virginity.

It’s no lie, I want to be like a virgin again.

Stepping Out on a Whim

As a woman growing up in the south, I was taught that men are the ultimate aggressors in the game of dating. Men are the “approachers” … the innocent attackers. They are the only gender to “get what they seek.” Well, I must disagree with the “morals of the land” (only in this aspect). We (women) can not only be the seekers, but we can be a little bit more aggressive in our approach; while still allowing the man to be the man. Usually when we (single women especially) see something of interest or something that attacks our psyche, we go after it (clothes, shoes, jobs, status, etc.) without hesitation. So, why can’t we apply that same eagerness to dating?

IMG_1480From personal experience, it seems that the guys who approach me are not what I would consider a fair match. And no, I’m in no way looking, hoping, praying, or wishing for Mr. Perfect. Just a man of substance … one whose first words out of his mouth aren’t, “Yo” “What’s up?” “Hey Little Mama” “You got a man” “Hey Sexy” “Can I take you home?”… I can go on, but I’m starting to get a headache (more like a migraine).

Yet, another long sigh … I miss those days when guys (some, not all) actually had a sense of adventure (rather than a compass and map to your bedroom), displayed chivalry (Can it even be resurrected?), conversed with your parents before going on a date (now, they just honk the horn or send a text … “I’m outside”), hugged you or kissed you on the forehead before they departed for the night (now, you must slap the piss out him because he tried to force his tongue down your throat), called the day after a date (Who created that damn 3 day rule?), and shared his feelings with you without shame (men still “cry” in the dark).

I have decided that I am stepping out on a whim … stepping out on faith. I’m flushing all those rules down the toilet. In order to get what you want, you must go after it. I shall remain a lady along this newfound journey. I am a woman who knows what she wants … well, at least I think I do.

Single Ladies, we must take control of our dating lives. Now, this does not mean for you to go out and start taking care of grown men. We are not trying to be a man’s mother figure … only his other half. We will approach a man of interest and conduct preliminary interviews. If we take some initiative, they may step their “weak and tired” game up.

I will create a follow-up post in a few months. Wish me luck!

Laughter is Contagious

IMG_1443There’s nothing more magical than a photo still in black and white. Check out my expression … Laughter is the cure to all things unhoped for.

Laughter can be seen and heard … It’s a contagious inner and outer body reaction to certain stimuli. It’s like a magical fairy dust that’s sprinkled over a cluster of grey clouds.

Today, laugh a little … no, laugh a lot.  Create sunshine when there’s rain. Create morning when there’s night. Create light when there’s darkness. Create memories when you have very little (having a little means you have just enough). Inspire someone with your smile.


*Photo was taken in Savannah, Ga on St. Patty’s Day (By Anissa D. Anderson) … March 2014

Never Lose Yourself

I’ve had my share of relationships, more like situations where I was giving a hell of a lot more than I was receiving. I was searching for love in all the wrong places … so cliché, but it fits the conundrum. You can’t make another person love you if you’re not a priority. I was too strung out on fairy tales … more like stoned off of relationship fallacies. I wanted a guy to fall in love with me … recognize my needs, fulfill my wants and desires, treat me like a natural-born princess, profess his love for me to the world, protect me, and provide a safe haven for my (once dilapidated) heart .

I used to buy gifts for these douchebags (cuddly teddy bears, flowers, clothes, watches, shoes, etc.), cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner (full course meals) for them, travel miles (before gas reached an all time high) just to spend quality time with them (South Carolina to the District of Columbia … South Carolina to Georgia … South Carolina to North Carolina … South Carolina to Florida … South Carolina to Some Other Unknown Far Away Small Town in the Carolinas), send messages of adoration, etc. My mind tried to warn me, but my heart wasn’t giving up on the fight between my love and his lust.

I recall praying and asking the Lord for His approval … I wanted Him to make the “douche” love me… make him/them adore me … want me. And when I assumed He didn’t hear my plea (my cry), I purchased a few self-help books (witchcraft and black magic) on casting spells. No judgement please! I wanted to create a love potion (Love Potion #9 on High-octane). I wanted to create a spell utilizing the whole Hocus Pocus … Abracadabra bull shit. And yes, I was serious. It was like I wanted to turn the toad into a prince.

Thank God I’ve matured and have gained ample wisdom to NOT do that craziness shit ever again in this lifetime or any other time in the present or future … even after reincarnation when I come back as a douche. Ha! Ha! Revenge is such sweet sorrow. Ok, Ok … I’m only kidding.

Looking back … I didn’t allow the man to be the man. I was doing enough for the both of us. I felt as if I was a hermaphrodite during explicit encounters … hell, I was basically f-bomb(ing) myself. I lost a part of me … all of me. I gave what little love I had for myself to someone who cared much less. My reflection had more of a masculine form … my femininity was robbed. I was a part of his/their existence, while my own was confined (When you become them and they were never a part of you). I lost a portion of me … Damn near all of me.

There’s something about that Amazing Grace … How sweet the sound … that saved a wretch like me .. I once was lost, but now I’ve been found … Was blind, but now I see.

Never lose yourself or allow another being to rob you of your existence. Never relinquish your instinctive power … Live for you and not through the reflection of another.

If I Were … But, I Stand as I Am

As a young child of color growing up in an all-white neighborhood in the south, I felt ashamed of my thick, kinky and sometimes unmanageable hair and my semi dark chocolate skin tone. I wanted to be just like the blonde and blue eyed girls in the neighborhood. I wanted to feel the wind’s breath against my effortlessly flowing mane, I wanted to play in the rain without scurrying for shelter, I wanted to lay out on the deck and allow the sun to kiss my skin, I wanted to swim in the neighbor’s pool without wearing a shower cap (chlorine would wreak havoc on a sista’s kinky and coily coif), and I wanted the boys to kiss me behind the oak tree. I remember rummaging through my father’s drawer for an over-sized t-shirt (every little girl wanted a makeshift mini dress), putting my mother’s nude colored panty hose on my head (to mimic hair past my waist), sneaking in her Mary Kay make up kit (grabbing the brightest shade of red), and tip toeing in her closet to find a pair of “The Lady in Red” stilettos. Too bad “selfies” didn’t exist in the early 80’s. Now, let me take a selfie!

I had a major identity crisis during my elementary school years … gender confusion was more like it. I wanted a long penis (just for the sword effect) and not a flat and boring vagina. I used to stand up by the toilet to pee only to realize my lousy va-jay-jay didn’t really have aim. I would watch in anger as urine ran down my legs. During those hot, hazy (especially after a torrential shower), humid summer afternoons, I would walk outside with no shirt on and lounge on the white cast iron porch furniture. Thank God I only had nipples the size of raisinets and a bare chest like a prepubescent boy. Ha! I was “confuzled.”

As I type this, “If I Were a Boy” by Beyoncé is continuously playing in my head. If I were a man, would my dating life be any different? If I were a man, would I carry the heartbreak from my past on my back? If I were a man, would I F&*^ like a wild animal with no emotion? If I were a man, would I think with the horny “midget” between my thighs instead of the cranium behind my eyes? If I were a man, would I allow her to reach her sexual peak before I reached mine?

But, I stand as a Woman … the better half of a man. I say this with my stilettos and MAC Ruby Woo in my hand, I AM WOMAN! Hear me ROAR!