MEMOIRS OF A SINNER-Pick Your Poison

MEMOIRS OF A SINNER

Pick Your Poison

She had her first drink at twelve years old. It was eight-year-old scotch from her boyfriend's mother's liquor cabinet. They were playing a drinking game and by the end of it, she was thoroughly drunk. He walked her home and she managed to stumble to her bed in the middle of the day and fell into the deep sleep only the seriously drunk or the seriously ill can manage. After a couple of hours she woke up, and every drop that went in, came back out. She felt so bad that she wasn't even able to get out of bed to clean herself up. She simply went back to sleep, covered in vomit that smelled like pure liquor. When she was finally able to move around she knew she had to change the sheets before her parents came home. No one ever found out.

No one ever talked to her about alcohol and the dangers of the drink. As with sex, she became adept at consuming it. She didn't drink often. But, as her father was an alcoholic, the fact that she drank at all.......

When she was fifteen years old, she was dating a guy who liked to drink. One night they went out with a group and there was plenty of alcohol to go around. And they drank. She found out something that night. Being drunk did not necessarily impair your thoughts. She told herself to walk straight, but she stumbled and fell. She told herself not to slur her words, but she opened her mouth and drooled. All the while she was aware of these actions but was powerless to change them. Her thoughts and her actions had become disconnected. They went back to his place, still drinking. By this point they were all completely toasted and there was really no reason to keep drinking, but they did anyway. It was January and cold out. But she was on fire and without inhibition. She stripped down to her underwear and ran around outside screaming and laughing as if it was the most joyous thing she had ever done. Then, she puked in the bushes. Sexy, right? Her boyfriend took her inside where she allowed him to ravage her body. Afterwards, they all piled back into the car and took her home. She somehow managed to get into the house and into her room without being stopped. She took off her clothes and passed out. She was hung over for two days. Her mom thought she had the flu and that was as convenient a lie as any so she went with it.

After that night, alcohol never held the same appeal again. She remembered every detail of her binge. She realized with horror that her behavior and the behavior of the people she was with, was more than just careless. It was dangerous. Drinking so much, riding in a car without wearing seatbelts with a driver who drank just as much, having unprotected sex, letting him cum inside of her.......She was ashamed. Ashamed of her actions, yes. But also ashamed because while she remembered the bad decisions, she also remembered how free and uninhibited she felt. How unafraid she was. And she hated that her mind craved for that freedom. Her father was an alcoholic. She knew this, but never really knew what it meant. For her it was like knowing your granny had diabetes. But life had just given her a reality check and she learned another hard lesson. Her father was an alcoholic because he too, craved that freedom. He was just too lost to know that the only thing at the bottom of that bottle was another set of shackles. The freedom was a shiny lie. Would she crave that lie or suffer the truth? Pick your poison little girl. She chose truth. And truth comes with its own set of consequences. She now had a responsibility to know what alcoholism was and how she was at risk. She now knew the truth of her father's condition and saw the truth of the memories she held, how she had conveniently forgotten those details that were part of his condition. The being stood up, the smell of mint poorly covering that darker smell underneath, the slurred words, and the anger directed at him by her mom. The anger that she never really understood until she chose the truth. And she now had to face the truth of the feelings she had held in. Guilt, shame, regret, hate, pity.......towards her father. She knew he was sick. But she also knew that he chose that sickness. He picked his poison, And now she picked hers. She picked Truth.

Memoirs Of A Sinner-Sex and Lies

MEMOIRS OF A SINNER

Sex and Lies

It was her parents’ version of “the talk”. Her father started by saying, “She better not be having sex!” This was said in his normal mean and condescending tone. Her mother then asks her if she was still a virgin. It never even crossed her mind to be truthful with them. That’s not the type of home she lived in. So she lied. She figured there was no way they’d ever find out. She hadn’t even had sex since her first and that was long over. She never wondered what prompted the talk. She didn’t know that her actions were giving her away. Now that she was almost 14, she loathed the bulky pads she was given to wear during her monthly cycle. So for the last few months she had been sneaking her mom’s tampons. She could have asked her mom and discussed the hows and whys. But, that’s not the type of home she lived in. Had she asked, she would have known that a tampon will pop your cherry just as effectively as a penis. Sex and lies.

Time went by and she forgot about the lie she told. But lies, as she soon learned, have a way of colliding with truth. There was a boy (wasn’t there always?) who caught her attention. She flirted shamelessly, teased constantly, knowing where it would eventually lead. Something else she wishes she had known then, having sex at 13 doesn’t make you more mature. It simply makes you more of a target. The boy was 14 years old. There were no long phone conversations, no hand-in-hand walks. There was only a 14-year-old boy’s lust and an almost 14-year-old girl’s belief that sex would make him love her. She didn’t know then what she knows now. Sex and lies.

There was a school dance on a Friday night. They stood in a corner, his arms around her. She relished the looks they were getting. He was one of the most popular boys in school, which at that age also meant one of the most coveted. And he wanted her. He gave her all of his attention. He flaunted her. He, well, he played her. He did what most popular 14-year-old boys did…..played the game to win the prize. And this time, she was it. No one had ever talked to her about these things. She was never warned about the tricks, the lies, the game. She was also never told about self-respect. And no one ever talked to her about the importance of safe sex. She was a girl in a woman’s body with the maturity of a young woman but the knowledge of a child. The dance was at full swing and couples were breaking off to find more private locations. He leaned in close to her, pressing the full length of his body against hers. “I need you now.” This statement was accented by him sticking his tongue in her ear. She felt the now familiar throbbing as her body responded. They snuck away and walked to a secluded spot shrouded in shadow. He took off his jacket and spread it out for her to lie on. She never felt any incredulity at him wanting to sex her outside on the ground. Looking back she felt more ashamed for thinking how sweet he was for messing up his jacket for her. Oh, the hubris of the young! He laid her down, pulled up her skirt, pulled down his pants and got on top of her. He kissed her hard while his fingers roughly entered her. She accepted it all in silence, wanting only to please “her man”. He breathed heavily in her ear, “I don’t have a rubber but I’ll pull out.” She barely got the ok out before he plunged in. It was over in a few minutes. She didn’t enjoy it but still felt a misplaced sense of pride at being his girl.  When they went back to school on Monday she could tell things were different. He still talked to her but she noticed that he was talking to a lot of girls. She wasn’t the one and he wasn’t “her man”. He just told her exactly what she needed to hear to get what he wanted. Sex and lies.

About a week later she began having stomach pain. It eventually got so bad that her mom took her to the emergency room. All the lies came tumbling down. She had contracted an STD. They sent her home with some antibiotics and a pamphlet about safe sex. In the car on the way home her mom told her, “I knew you were having sex. I knew it when my tampons started disappearing. But you looked me right in my face and lied. And now you let some boy give you something. You’re lucky you’re not pregnant!” She just stayed silent. What was the point in having a discussion about it all now? Everything she needed to know was learned the hard way. Something was forever lost that day. Their trust. Her naïveté. Her belief that her parents could guide her to adulthood. She was on her own. From that day on, her life was different. She was different. She was now aware of the relationship between sex and lies.

MEMOIRS OF A SINNER-Coming of Age

MEMOIRS OF A SINNER

Coming of Age

She was 12 years old when she lost her virginity. She consoles herself with the idea that at least it was with her first love and not some random guy. But she often wishes she could turn back the clock and take that moment back. Not the who, but the when and the how…..yes, she would take it back.

She had already developed a young woman’s body. Breasts, butt, hips…..and she had a walk that screamed at the boys to check her out. None of this was on purpose. It was simply how she was made. She saw the way men looked at her and she mistook the lust in their eyes for genuine interest. She was intelligent and had a great personality. She was mature. She was…..lonely, lost, and confused about love by the examples she was shown. Love leaves you. Love makes you cry. Love yells and screams and curses. So when men looked at her, asked for her name, called her baby, told her she was beautiful, she believed that this was how love was supposed to treat you. It made you blush. It made you smile. It made you laugh. It made you….scared? So while she accepted their compliments and their innuendos, she steered clear. She was far from naïve, but she was still only 12.

Then he came along. They had a summer love affair. He was older, 17 years old and in high school. They met through the friend of a friend of a…..you know the story. She told him she was 15 and that she wasn’t a virgin. That’s what young girls did, right? They would talk on the phone for hours every day. They would walk together and he would hold her hand. He would kiss her gently, never pressing for any more than she gave willingly. She wanted to tell him the truth because she was falling for him. But she knew that with the truth she’d lose him. She was just a baby to him. So she swallowed her lies whole and let herself be swept up into his whirlwind. She didn’t know then what she knows now. What she would eventually find out.

Every day she would tell her dad that she was going to the library and he never questioned her. She was a good girl. And she did go to the library. To meet her love. They would walk to the park or sometimes back to his house. They would spend the days together, talking and laughing and snuggling. Then he would walk with her back to their designated “safe zone”. There they would sit on the curb and talk. One day as they sat he turned to her and said, “Kiss me.” So she did. “No, kiss me for real.” And for the first time she kissed him, not as a girl kisses a crush, but as a woman kisses a man. She immediately felt an unfamiliar but not unpleasant throbbing deep within her secret place. Her breathing was shallow and her heart raced. Then he gently touched her there. She moaned. He took her hand and placed it in his pants. She had never touched him there. She was unsure of what to do. She was terrified, but excited. He showed her what to do, how to please him with her hand. She stroked him until he came. He told her he loved her.

She was sure they could go on like this forever. She didn’t know then what she knows now.  But for a while things were perfect. She learned how to stroke him in just the right way. She became good at it and each time he came he would tell her he loved her. One hot summer day at the beginning of August, she went to meet her love. They walked hand in hand to his house. He took her to his bed. They kissed. He touched her all over. She touched him all over. “Make love to me,” he tells her. Panic instantly reverberated through her entire being. She didn’t know anything about sex! She hadn’t even really had “the talk” yet. When she didn’t respond, he touched her face gently and asked, “Will you let me make love to you?” She didn’t answer but he must have seen the panic in her eyes because he took her hand, looked into her eyes and said, “Do you love me?” And without hesitation or doubt she answered yes. Then he hit her with the line. You know the one.  “You love me but you won’t make love to me?” And just like that, she was his.

It was a singularly unpleasant experience. She didn’t even let him finish. (She didn’t know then what she knows now.) But afterwards made it all better. He was kind and gentle. He asked if she were ok. He knew now without a doubt that she had been a virgin and had the good sense to relay to her, in deed if not with words, that he knew she had given him something special, something no one else would ever have. He walked her home. He still held her hand. When she looks back she knows that she was lucky. A lot of guys that age didn’t bother. When they made it to their spot he kissed her deeply, looked into her eyes, and told her he loved her. Over the next few weeks they had sex several times. She paid attention and learned to both please and receive pleasure. Then the summer came to an end and it was time to go back to school. The magic of those long summer days had ended. He found out her real age and though they tried to stay together, reality broke them apart. And by the time it did, she no longer cried at the thought of them not being together. She was a little girl no more. She left her childhood behind that summer.

 

Booby.......Trapped????

Booby…….Trapped???

Boobs. Breasts. Knockers. Tits. They’re everywhere and come in an infinite array. There are large boobs, small boobs, perky boobs, saggy boobs, big nipple boobs, no nipple boobs, booblets, and even man boobs! And they come in every shade from the palest alabaster to oil slick black. Boobs have become one of the most prominent body parts in our society, and not only for the blatant sexual aspect.

More now than at any other time in our history, boobs are on the front line for being more than bra stuffers. Breast cancer awareness, breastfeeding advocacy, and self-esteem issues. And these things go toe to toe with the views that boobs are sexual objects. Is there any wonder why those of us with breasts can end up feeling trapped by them?

The Beginning

A girl’s life changes the minute she gets her booblets. Her friends look at her differently. The boys look at her differently. Even her parents and siblings look at her differently. She’s no longer a “little girl”. She’s now booby-trapped.

And why is that? She didn’t get booblets and then all of a sudden begin a whole new thought process. Her mind did not become that of a woman all of a sudden. So why is she seen that way?

Maybe it has something to do with how boobs are viewed in our society. They are seen as sexual objects. Visual stimulation.
Booby trap.

How I See It

I am a well-endowed woman. I am also the nursing mother of a toddler. For me, my boobs are so much more than naughty pillows. So many times I’ve had to work for attention……not to be seen, but to be heard. I work in a male-dominated industry and most of the eyes fight not to stray during a conversation. Now, I must admit that my boobs are pretty fabulous. And while I’m not above flaunting a little cleavage every now and then, I am also smarter than the average bear. So when I speak, I want to be heard. This is where insecurity finds its footing. Is it all about my looks? But, I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m……..well-endowed.
Booby trap.

You’re still breastfeeding? How old is he now? If I had a dollar for every time I heard this, I’d be living in Paris writing my memoirs instead of working for a living. Yes, I’m still breastfeeding and he’s now 15 months old. And for now, there are no plans to wean. My boobs are functional. They’re doing what they were actually designed to do. Feed my child. I love breastfeeding my toddler. The bond, the health benefits for both of us, and the knowledge that I’m giving him the best of me make it worth all of the criticism. But…….nursing a toddler comes with its drawbacks. My breasts haven’t belonged to me since my body first produced the pregnancy hormone. I can’t get dressed without taking into consideration how easy or difficult it will be to nurse while being discreet. I can’t walk around naked after my shower because all he has to do is see nipples and he attacks. And now breastfeeding advocacy and support is front and center which I think is great. But along with the good, you also get the fanaticism, negativity, and the ignorance that comes along with a society that’s been conditioned to see breasts as sexual objects.
Booby trap.

You know what else comes along with having breasts? The possibility of getting breast cancer. Komen has raised a kerflillion dollars and people have walked a flajillion miles but it doesn't change the facts. Have breasts? You're at risk. And what if you get it, fight it, kick its ass, but lose one or both of your breasts in the fight? Now what? There are options. Most aimed at cosmetic camouflage. To make you look as "normal" and as "natural" as possible. Surgery......to cover up your surgery.
Booby trap.

And speaking of surgery. Let's talk about boob jobs. Cosmetic alteration of breastular breastalage. Boobs, or the lack thereof, have become such a big deal that enhancing them is now a multi-billion dollar industry. Our view on boobs makes it a normality to have negative body images if you don't possess "perfect" breasts. Everywhere we look we are bombarded with images of huge, over-inflated, gravity-defying boobs. We consistently get the message that to advance in this male-dominated world, give them something to goggle at. Want to be a success in the entertainment industry? Get a boob job. Want to succeed in corporate America? Get a boob job. What does this mentality do to the self-esteem of our daughters? The fact that we have 16-year-olds getting boob jobs says so much. But the fact that these boob jobs are sanctioned, supported, and allowed by parents says it all.
Booby trap.

Now, I have on occasion voiced the desire to alter my own boobs. I have some very lively double D's. I think they're beautiful. I also have a small back. And these suckers (get it? Suckers? Breastfeeding? Get it? hehehe) these suckers are heavy!!! I'd love a reduction. And I'm not at all opposed to getting a lift while they're at it. Hey, I'm not immune to the lure of perky boobs. but the actuality of me doing either is pretty slim. Unless it becomes medically necessary, I'm pretty sure my double D's and I will live a long and breasty life together.

The traps have been set. So many of us have already been caught up in them. Be vigilant. Don't fall prey to the idea that our breasts are what make us women or that having them makes us less. From the bustiest babe to the itty bitty titties, stand up and refuse to be........Booby-Trapped!!!!!

Trayvon Martin-What's The Issue?

Trayvon Martin’s murder……everyone is talking about it. That’s good. It gives us an opportunity to open a dialogue and see the scars that come with living in a free society. Trayvon Martin’s murder…..it gets everyone’s emotions up. That’s not so good. Emotions have a way of clouding reason. So let’s take our hearts out of it for a minute and look at what we know, which is by no means the whole story. But we know the basics. An unarmed 17-year-old was walking. The neighborhood watch volunteer felt he looked suspicious. He calls the police who tell him not to follow, pursue, or initiate contact. He ignores and follows, pursues, and initiates. They scuffle. The neighborhood watch volunteer shoots and kills the 17-year-old. He claims it was self-defense under the so called “Stand Your Ground” law. He was not arrested or charged.

How I See It

I believe the self-defense defense is completely invalid if the one claiming it is the one who initiated the conflict. Even if things happened exactly as Zimmerman claims, he was still wrong and should still be held accountable for Trayvon’s death. I mean, wasn’t it actually Trayvon who was acting in self-defense?

What If??

What if Trayvon had a weapon? What if he was everything Zimmerman and the media is portraying him to be? What then? Would you still be wearing your hoodies? Would there be such a huge public outcry for justice? Would he be any less deserving of that justice? What if Zimmerman was black? And the same thing happened? Would we still be so outraged?

Even if Trayvon was everything the media is making him out to be, even if he had weapons, drugs, or whatever on him, he would still deserve justice. Because this is not about who Trayvon was or what he has done. It’s about the fact that he was shot and killed and the man who did it was not arrested or charged. Period. Even if Zimmerman were black, he would still deserve to be arrested, charged, and held accountable. Period.

Now, for those who pop off about how sick they are of “white folks” judging blacks by their appearance, let’s be real. Black folks make the same snap judgments about our youth based on their appearance because they embody every depiction of “thug” we’ve been shown.

How I See It

I grew up with real thugs. I know some real thugs. Murdering, thieving, soul-sucking animals. And you know what? None of them wore hoodies. Or wore their pants hanging off of their asses. Most of them looked exactly like someone a mother would want her daughter to bring home. Clean-cut, well-groomed, well-spoken, intelligent…..not this stereotype that’s been concocted by the ignorant both inside and outside our community. It’s just the cover, not the book. And yet, we have our views on what a “thug” looks like. Not just white folks. All of us.

The Problem Is

In our outrage, we are confusing the issues. I have seen criticisms of the “hoodie pics” and people bitching about all of the support “we” are showing in this case because we don’t rise up this way when it’s black on black. We don’t get pissed when a young black is killed in the “hood” or about all the black men in the “system”. Confusing the issues. That is not this!!! We are not mad because Trayvon was killed by someone who isn’t black. We are mad because the man who killed him is not being held accountable. While the black on black issue is valid and needs attention, that is not this.

How I See It

Take out everything except what really matters. Don’t look at the why, just the what. We can only guess at why. Only Zimmerman and God will ever really know. But what I know is this…..a young man lost his life in a senseless tragedy that was 100% avoidable. And he deserves justice. Not because he’s black. Not because the killer isn’t. But because it’s right. Period.

I AM TRAYVON MARTIN