Noni Jones in Harlem

Archive for September, 2009

I know it’s not Tuesday, but I am so excited that Whitney did a video to this song! And who saw the Oprah interview? It was legendary!
-NONI

NONI

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How are there hundreds of channels and not a single thing for a lonely girl to watch on a Friday evening? Flashback to undergrad. It was Friday night and I was sitting in bed eating banana chips that I kept spilling in the sheets. I was frustrated. Finally I stopped at TLC, which was airing a wedding reality show. Big surprise. There was a Nigerian couple (which of course made me think about Caroline) dressed in traditional African garb getting down to the electric slide. My stomach hurt. I think it was the pang of envy.

Ever since my return from the vineyard, I’ve been haunted by images of white dresses and veils. All of the arrant displays of couple-dom, newly weds with their shiny kids sprawled out on the beach. Old couples with their gaudy jewelry and summer homes. The Vineyard was where elite black love came to marinate and affirm itself. I left feeling happy, not affirmed.

My dear sweet Caroline calls venting about Lance. All of a sudden the man who was so much, was wanting too much. Life according to Caroline. The quintessential alpha-female.

“But you just were talking about how amazing he was before you left for Paris.”

“I know. I was under the influence.”

“Of what?”

“Sex.” Good point. Good looks and good sex are smoke screens in relationships. But in this case, I believe my friend was over-whelmed. Too much at one time.

“So what changed then?”

“Okay, for one he has his son now. Noni, I actually forgot, he was coming to live with him. Like, I’m a terrible person.”

“Wait, you’re not terrible, you’re busy. But why is that an issue? It’s not like he’s a baby.”

“I know, but then Lance is all like “Why didn’t you return my calls” and “Are you going to keep in touch” you know…?”

“You mean, he was acting like he cared about you? The inhumanity!” I chuckled.

“No, he was acting insecure. Like, damn, our whole last encounter felt like he was giving me some sort of ultimatum…. You know either be accountable to him or nothing. I mean…. I can’t right now. You know.”

“I know that if you play games someone else will have your man girl. What do you want from him? Because you can have sex with any one?”

It was a puzzling question for Caroline that made her admit that though she could slay many men, she was over, perhaps too mature to have sex for just sex’s sake. She was at the stage that we all reach, where it has to mean something, at least a little something, for it to be good. But with Lance, it meant a lot. They were two people, one stubborn, one scared, who’d loved each other though they never said it.

” I’m dealing with craziness at work,” she insisted, “and Lance– Lance is work. He has his insecurities. He has responsibilities. I’m starting to think it’s just bad timing.”

“Caroline, remember who you’re talking to. Carter has a child and an ex-wife!”

“Yes, and a girlfriend that’s never met either.”

“Okay, point taken. But still I think you’re scared. He’s rocking you’re world and you don’t want to lose control.”

Caroline wanted everything-but, and I just wanted everything.

As Caroline contemplated the possibility of sex without strings, I began to question whether a wonderful twenty-something could love without the promise if a ring. Really, the questions aren’t so different. Both situations run the risk of pissing someone the hell off.

Can a couple have sex for sex’s sake? Can a couple love just because? I think so, but both people must agree to lose themselves in the moment, forget about time and hold that wonderful feeling in their mouths like sugar crystals they don’t want to dissolve. But let’s be real. Before long, someone is going to get caught up and want more, or less. At some point the relationship will transition into that of giver and taker. At some point the magic will run it’s course.

But then again, even legitimate liaisons flaunt the possibility of running their course. After all, Caroline and Lance’s love affair shattered with a return trip home. And Carter is divorced.

The only certainty is that there are no certainties.

I spied a pack of banana chips on the counter when I came in on Tuesday. I salivated at the sight, but considering it’s Ramadan I still had three hours before I sunset. I’m two weeks in to the spiritual month that always brings clarity into my life, but I’m feeling empty this go round. Like something is missing. And perhaps that awareness is the clarity I need.

For one. Carter. He’d left a note on the counter top saying he was headed to New Jersey for the evening. Wonderful. Probably better that he wasn’t here to meet Mr. Flamboyant, the interior decorator I’d invited over. Nothing set in stone, but Carter gave me the green light to redecorate our entire apartment, on his account of course. When I moved in he made the ultimate concession. He gave me the bigger walk-in closet which was upper-Eastside huge, but it was still his place. The library is lined with his books on music, African empires and Black rage. I have my corner of books on the left end of the middle shelf, bindings that I have to physically see every day. The Arabic love poets, Qabani, Bayati, Rumi, my Langston anthology, my copy of Waiting To Exhale and a James Baldwin reader. Everything else is still stacked in milk crates cluttering the room. The house still reflects Carter’s manly zen, his expensive minimalism; upscale, modest furniture that doesn’t inhibit the free movement energy. There is no romance here, no passion, no love on the walls. Only a few jazz paintings and a portrait of Malcolm X. There are no burgundies, reds,or quaint shades of pink. The house is a cocoon of cognac, chocolate, beige and black. Our apartment is very much a man.

Mr. Flamboyant wants to paint the ceiling moldings in gold leaf, drape the windows in sanguine silks and tassels. He wants to create a palace for me and my King. He wants me to be the Imelda Marcos of Morningside Heights. And as I grinned and nodded in agreement to his every over-the-top vision, I couldn’t help but think to myself, maybe in the absence of promise, I am all too eager to fill my world with beauty. It’s a temporary cure to my emptiness. After all, there is always art for art’s sake.

-Noni

Caroline

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I parked my luggage in the middle of the living room and started dialing. Now come on Caroline, you know better than this. But at this point, I didn’t. No shame. Dealing with Mr. Smart Ass’ attempted coup de tat had done a number on me. I needed to unwind, in the purest sense. Not with a bottle of wine. Not with Sade nor a vibrator. But with a real, live, male body.

His voice mail answered. “Hi. You’ve reached Lance. Leave a message.” I wanted to obey that deep, sexy recorded voice on the other end of the phone, but I clicked off, stressed, too stressed to sound enticing.

I was on edge. Needed to do something productive to shake it off. I started hanging my suits in the closet, put a load of laundry on and turned to CNN. The anchor was saying something about Ted Kennedy’s funeral.

I heard my phone rattling on my night stand and I ran to answer it.

“Hello.” Could barely breath.

“You finally home.” His bajan cadence seemed more pronounced now that he was in the states. Funny.

“I am. Just got in today– I was calling to see if you were busy.”

“I was wondering the same thing on your end,” he shot back.

“What do you mean?”

“Last few times I reached out to you you didn’t return my calls.”

He wasn’t serious.

“Are you being serious?”

“Of course.”

Apparently in my not responding to his every call I had broken an unspoken rule. Woops.

“Well then Lance,” I swallowed (pride). “I’m sorry. I had a rough time in Paris. You know I wasn’t there on leisure. It was business.”

“No need to explain. How are you now? How was your flight?” Clearly he caught himself, tripping.

“I’m doing well now, happy to be home. Happy to be talking to you,” I told him, letting my voice dip one sexy octave. I could play his game.

But he called time-out. “Wait can you hold on a minute?”

Lance wasn’t home alone. He was going back and forth with an adolescent boy. I know because the other voice still had the screech of puberty.

“I’m sorry. Nelson’s having trouble with the wireless in here. We’ve been trying to get it to work all day. Do you mind holding on for one more minute.”

I was so un-prepared for that interruption I hesitated. “Ummm… do you need to call me back?” Really, I was the one who needed a moment. Hell, I needed a Snickers bar.

“Yes, that would be best. Hang by your phone, okay sweet heart?”

I agreed. My limp body promptly slid down the wall. All the sexual energy just oozed right on out of me. I crouched down on the living room floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and shit, I blanked out. Had one of those moments where the only thing on your mind is what’s right in front of you. In my case, the living room windows. The sunlight was beaming on my skin, feeling good. But it was deceptive sun light. It was chilly outside. Autumn had arrived early in the City.

It was the season of change.

A month ago we lived an ocean away. A month ago we were nothing to each other than a memory, albeit it a pleasurable one. And in one fall swoop, in the amount if time it took to have one Parisian adventure, my perfect fling had acquired feelings and a kid.

Better put, this fling was having an erection. Within two weeks time it had become bigger, deeper, and far more complex than I was prepared to handle. I could feel my vaginal muscles tightening up at the thought.

The anchor was talking about health care. I’m so tired of this debate. Let’s do already. I got up. Changed out of my bra and beige suit pants that I was crazy for sitting on the floor in.

When the phone buzzed a second time, I collapsed on my bed and answered it.

“Hey sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Oh it’s okay. I think we were trying to sync our schedules.” I still wanted to see him. I still had my own selfish needs.

“You were saying Paris stressed you out, right?” He was putting it on me with his voice. He must have been out of his son’s earshot.

“It did.” I closed my eyes, focused in on our conversation. Wanted his words to wrap me like a cashmere throw.

“So what can I do to make you feel better?”

“You can start by making your way over here.” Note, I suggested my place as I would for now on. God forbid his son walk in on us. That would be a lesson in sex he’d never forget.

“And then what? What do you want me to do to you after I arrive?” Lance was killing me softly. Knowing that every word sent shivers up my spine. Made me cross my legs and cringe. Damn. Every word an invitation to sex. “Hello Caroline.” “How are you, Caroline?” “Lay down and spread your legs, Caroline.”

I told him, in great detail, what I wanted to him to do to me, where, and how. I didn’t want to make love. I didn’t want to waste time gazing into his eyes. I wanted to fuck. I wanted him to pump me until sweat dripped of his chin and chest. I wanted him to turn me over and take me from the side. I wanted to get on top and go buck wild. I wanted to close my eyes and see the colors of the rainbow. I wanted to fuck the stress of Paris away and fuck until we cleared the air of all this emotion mess. I wanted to fuck the relationship raw. I wanted to fuck until it was just fucking sex.

He doesn’t take direction well.

He came over an hour after our phone call and the first thing on the agenda was a shower. And we laughed hysterically. He was poking me in all the places that he remembered I was ticklish. Do you know how good it feels to laugh out loud, in the shower? And then when he mounted my damp body, he didn’t go hard. He went slow and deep. Kissed every part of me, prolonged his own orgasm until he watched me shudder. It was good. So good. Too good. Suicide dick. So good, I didn’t want to repeat it. We fell into an easy sleep, interrupted abruptly by the sound of his pockets rattling. It was after 11. He was leaving.

“You heading home?” I asked, looking up at him. I was groggy. My body limp.

“Yeah sweetheart, you know I got to to get back”. I was fixated on the sexy region where his groin met his belt buckle. He was fastening his pants. Still hadn’t pulled his shirt on. I wanted to mount him all over again. But I couldn’t. I had to respect that this man had grown-up responsibilities.

“So Nelson? That’s his name.”

“Yehp. Uhhh his grandmother named him after Nelson Mandela. He’s a handful, ” he laughed as he sat on the foot of my bed. He stroked my legs through the covers.

“I bet. But you can handle it, dad!” I smiled.

“That’s big daddy to you!” he laughed. Then he got quiet. ” You going to keep in touch with me?” Something about the way he looked at me when he said it, like he was pleading. I detected something fragile in his tone. Something he’d never forgive me for breaking.

Suddenly we’d gone from a playful tryst, to a tryst that was not to be played with. I was nauseous.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. It felt like a lie. I wanted him, but I didn’t want his emotions. I didn’t want to carry his baggage. Hell, I have my own. I didn’t want to worry about hurting this grown man’s feelings every time I had to cancel on him because I was working late, or because I had other plans, or hell, because I just didn’t feel like it.

He kissed me, passionately. It felt like a thank you. Like he was saying, thank you for accepting me, all of me, back in to your life. Wait. Let’s be real. Thank you for not destroying my ego.

I miss the London days, when it was care-free. At the end of all the love mess, I was going back home. I had an ocean and youth on my side then.

I don’t get why I have such a hard time staying out of relationships. Seriously. Can a woman have sex with a man she likes, maybe loves, and enjoys spending time with, without the commitment? Minus the sentimental shit. Men do this all the time. A man can screw a woman for years, and amidst all the screwing, she not realize she’s being screwed. We live in a sex with no strings attached society. Women take dicks over commitment every day. Too bad for double standards.

I had a hard time going back to sleep. Even a nymphomaniac like me enjoys waking up in a man’s arms.

-Caroline

The featured dancer is not a game. Enjoy.