There is nothing to watch on Television. My home is empty, the kids are gone. When you’re a parent and you have a kid-free house it’s easy to be both confused and excited; I’m unsure whether to sleep or party, ah, the choices.
I get a text message.
It’s a cool guy that I met a few months back, we connect when I can.
He invites me over for conversation and alcohol. I come over, knowing that I am about to fool him and he thinks he is about to fool me. We are playing a game here, you see.
I don’t want to have sex.
I’m incapable of having casual sex with a man that I like. I enjoy not being concerned about him and his whereabouts. If he was inside me, near my womb, I’d baby him. He’d become a responsibility. I like that I don’t have to set a new standard for him because that’s what I do to anyone who goes inside of my body, including my gynecologist, there’s a different level of expectation. I don’t want to be undervalued. I don’t want to worry about safety. I don’t want to worry about intentions. I don’t want the sex to be terrible. I don’t want to be vulnerable. I don’t want to have sex.
My brain on the other hand wants to engage. My body wants to laugh. I need male energy.
I don’t want to explain my reason for denying sex, the way I just have in the aforementioned, its corny, it’s a mood kill, its basic bitch behavior—I’m aware. I don’t want to say no and deal with his unyielding begging. I don’t want the tension, awkwardness. I hella want to side-step the questions about whether I’m using him because he always breaks bread on me, but we have yet to consummate our situationship. Keep the guilt trip, I don’t want that.
But I want him.
So, there I am, next to him, and he makes a move, the classic hand-on-thigh-eye-locking combo. He leans in for some of this loving.
I drop the bomb. The beautiful bomb that God gave every woman to use indefinitely. Our secret weapon.
“I’m on my period.” I lie. It seemed to echo, vibrating through his soul and down to his penis.
He looks at my crotch and back up at me as if scanning a truth radar. His nostrils flex as if he’s trying to smell the monthly explosion. He appears deflated, hurt even.
I smile, shrug, and lay peacefully in his arms.