I’ve been blessed when it comes to relationships – whether because they simply existed or because they finally ended. Every experience teaches you something.

I’ve far from mastered this thing called love. I can only tell you what I’ve learned so far.


Love… Is reciprocal. Do your best to take care of me, I will do the same for you. That means everything from respect to affection to security. Love should be based on trust, and I have to feel secure in your love for me to give you everything and more. It’s a Capricorn thing, what can I say.

Love… Is not a power struggle, and not about roles. Who’s right, who’s wrong, who runs things, who has the upper hand. Femmes vs. Studs. None of those things mean a damn thing. Being hard or playing games to prove your studhood, or trying to use the femme upper hand in a relationship is not where it’s at. When I’m weak, I need you to be my strength, and vice versa. I’m not afraid to show you that, and you shouldn’t be either.

Love… Shouldn’t be harsh. Truth means tact. Remember that. Calling your woman out her name – don’t even.

Love… Isn’t love if my heart isn’t in it. One song, R. Kelly’s “When a Woman’s Fed Up,” rings so true when it comes to a female’s heart. A woman will endure a lot when she’s in love, but there’s always a breaking point. When she hits this level, there’s nothing short of a miracle that can make her –  femme or stud – get that love back. Once the bloom is off the rose, what more can be said? That’s why you should never take her for granted.

Love… Should mean my lover is my best friend. You laugh, you share, you make love – but on a deeper level, it should be built on a foundation of genuinely liking the person you’re with. How can you share intimacy with a woman that you wouldn’t be friends with outside of the relationship? If you wouldn’t, that’s a problem.

Love… Should last longer than the honeymoon. Here’s where love gets tricky. In the beginning, two people always put their best faces forward. Flaws may surface, but we’re blinded by the admissions of love, the spontaneous gestures, and the orgasmic sex that allow us fall deeper. This passion should continue after those sweet nothings become fewer, after you see her in the same undies over and over or she knows you drool on the pillow, after bills and work play a bigger role in your day to day lives. Which leads to my next point…

Love… Is craving her. If you’ve watched Kissing Jessica Stein, one of my favorite movies, there’s a pivotal scene where Jessica and Helen are breaking up while Helen packs her stuff.

Helen: I wanna be with someone who wants me.

Jessica, crying: I want you.

Helen: I wanna be with someone who craves me.

Jessica: Well, I crave you.

Helen: I want to be with someone who wants to rip my clothes off.

I must admit, there are going to be times when the clothes-ripping isn’t necessary, but I want someone who sees the sexiness in me, along with all my other good (and bad) qualities, of course. In other words, it’s the zsa zsa zsu, what Carrie Bradshaw refers to as “that butterflies in your stomach thing that happens when you not only love the person but you gotta have them.” Theoretically, when you’re with the person you feel is truly meant for you, that feeling should be there, even if it fades over time. Lust built on love is the best feeling.

Love… Is between two people. What goes on between two women is nobody’s business. Though Twitter or Facebook statuses permit you to see what is said between a “happy” or “dramatic” couple, it only paints a diminutive picture of their relationship. What someone says about their significant other is just as important as what she doesn’t say.

Love… Means making you and me happy. While I believe in sacrifice and unconditional love, one can’t compromise her own happiness to make her significant other happy. No one wins in that situation. The things I do for you are because I love you, but also give me some fulfillment. It doesn’t mean that I have to totally change myself to be with you.

Love… Is responsibility. Taking care of another person’s heart is a huge task. Ensuring that you have a future together is also a ginormous job. Be sure the one you’re with is worth this undertaking.

Love… Should always involve humor. What is love without laughs? Boring as hell.


(The idea of) perfection

(The idea of) perfection will be my downfall.

As much as my head realizes life isn’t perfect, tell that to my heart. I don’t like to show the hurts, the flaws that come with love. Therefore this post has been in my head for while and not on this blog, an outlet I’ve been neglecting.

Lebron and I are far from perfect. In fact, there are issues we’re both know are there. We’ve been glaring at them for months. We talk, and try, and still have the best time together. The love is still there.

But in my heart, things have changed. I don’t know what will happen. And I hate to admit that, because the looming feeling of failure (Lord, I hated even to type that word) creeps in.

I remember the days of our blossoming friendship years ago, hours spent on the phone and Yahoo messenger, feeling like I’d known this person all my life. We stayed connected through other relationships, distance and time. When we were finally at the place where we could be together, it was on. I felt like I’d finally found the romance that was based on a long and loyal affection.

Now I wish we could go back to those days, when all we did was laugh endlessly. We would talk about something serious – about friends, family our feelings – and then joke, “Okay, let’s talk about rainbows and kitties now.” (You had to be there.)

We’re older though, and the best friend is now my lover. She’s still my best friend, but those rainbows and kitties can’t save us. The only thing that save us is ourselves. Coming to terms of whether we should fight or let it go.

And in the meantime, I have to figure out what’s best for me.

Bad Boys, Bad Boys

There used to be a time I wanted a thug. Yes, that Timbaland wearin’, jersey-sportin’, jean-saggin’, swagger-havin’ stud that would just scoop me up and give it to me rough and sweet. (I drew the line at gold teeth. Yuck!) The perfect example: Felicia “Snoop” Pearson from The Wire. I used to have a small crush her – until I heard her talk. It was all over.

I’ve dated a couple of these women, ones who grew up rough around the edges but could hold a sistah down.

One such stud, “Redd,” was my first thug-stud. Really, she was my first everything: first lover, first real adult relationship. I shouldn’t say Redd was a bad boy, just that her growing up was far from a white-picket fence existence, and it hardened her attitude to the world. Redd was always in survival-mode from being ejected from her home as a teen for being gay, so she had that street-smart swagger that made her seem dangerous almost. When one of my friends first told me about her (as a set-up), I asked what Redd looked like.

Her words I would never forget: “Well, she looks like the kind of woman no one would mess with.”

And she did. With her muscled arms and stocky body, Redd gave off that “don’t fuck with me” vibe. That was until you got to know her, because then she would do anything for you. Especially me. With me, she could let her guard down and open up about the things she had been through. Redd was my my protector, I felt safe. Where I was more book smart, Redd was head smart, and it made for a great combination – at least until it ended. (That’s another story for another day).

The second and last bad boy was a stud I’d label “Nate Dogg.” Nate was a woman I met online, when I was going through a dating dry spell. Exchanging short emails, we got a good vibe going on the phone, talking about life and our past relationships. Although we hit it off, we were opposites in our backgrounds. Nate was a smoker, with hardly much education, and later I discovered, a convicted felon. A dark-skinned homegirl with blonde (yes, blonde) close-cropped hair, she wasn’t what I thought once we met, appearance-wise. But nonetheless we hung out frequently, not doing too much other than chillin’ at her apartment. She worked from paycheck to paycheck and her resources were tight since she had recently relocated to my town.

While there were a few spaghetti dinners here, and a few nightcaps there, we never really defined what we were doing. We weren’t exclusive, as I could tell by the inconspicuous phone calls she got. And, truth be told, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted a relationship with her. The felon thing freaked me out at first (although once she explained, it didn’t seemso bad; a white-collar crime). But the way she looked in her wifebeater and low-riding jeans with just a peek at what was underneath her boxers had me all flustered.

It was no-strings fun. Then after a while, it kind of fizzled out. The calls and text messages slowed down. She had told me she was planning to move again, and I just figured she followed through on her move. It was confirmed when she texted me one day.

“Deepdiva, this Nate. I’ moving to Georgia today. Ive transferred my job.”

We lost touch after this point. Then a month or so later, Nate called me, and explained the real reason she left. Apparently, Nate had been cultivating a relationship with another woman while seeing me. She moved in with this new chick and her houseful of kids. However, Nate’s bad boy persona had met her match when things went horribly wrong after a month – the girl pulled out a butcher knife on Nate during an argument, chasing and threatening to kill her. She was then forced to relocate again (her third city in six months), and now that that drama was out of her life, she was blowing up my phone. Nate wanted me to visit her. I declined.

By then, I had gotten those bad boys out of my system, and was looking forward to a new relationship with my soft-stud Lebron. I didn’t have time to go backward. I haven’t looked back since.

The Same Things You Do in the Beginning…

marriedDomesticity has become us. Us meaning me and my lover of two years, Lebron. After a year of living together, the mystery is gone. Perhaps this has happened to you; maybe the sweet nothings have taken a back seat to the day-to-day duties of running your household.

It’s not that you don’t love each other. Lebron and I still have fun as a couple, still laugh at the silliest things, still love being around each other. Our favorite pastime is laying in bed together, talking about our dreams and our childhoods, in that easy way we always had since first becoming friends almost six years ago. Or at dinnertime, when we catch up on our day and watch our favorite shows (which if it’s Saturday usually means college football).

But here’s the thing: We’re comfortable. I know that can seem like the kiss of death, one or two steps away from the dreaded lesbian bed death (thank God we’re not at that stage). That sounds bad, I know. Without children, it’s just the two of us, and the same things we did in the beginning of our blissful honeymoon stage, we ain’t doing now.

For instance:

  • In the beginning…I wore sexy matching underwear, something cute and involving a thong or boy shorts, showing off all my curves like my baby likes.
  • Now…I’m typically decked out in a basic black bra (for work) and Hanes panties (at least it’s hi-cut), with the matching sets and teddies saved for special occasions.
  • In the beginning…I got bi-weekly pedicures and was never seen too often without French-tipped nails.
  • Now…I’m lucky if I go once a month. Hey, it gets expensive.
  • In the beginning…we called each other five times a day, speaking all lovey dovey and saying we couldn’t wait to see each other.
  • Now…one phone call in the afternoon, with Lebron whispering such sexy phrases as, “What’s for dinner?” and “We need some toilet tissue.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love our life. It’s times when Lebron looks so sexy cooking dinner, I have to contain myself. And we still give each other knowing looks that speak more volumes that the love notes she used to email me. I guess after a while, all couples hit the old married stage, the one where you love each other, couldn’t imagine life without one another, but get used to each other’s daily habits.

Like Lebron’s routine of leaving the door open after a No. 2 session. Or my habit of leaving my clothes lying around the house. Or hers of eating and leaving crumbs everywhere (even on our beige-colored couch.) Or mine of leaving the toilet roll empty after using the last of the tissue paper.

It’s just one of those things that come over time. As much as I complain, it’s good between us. I feel a coziness I haven’t felt with anyone as I do her. I can let my guard down, and she can, too. That’s not to say we don’t have our moments. It’s times I want to choke a bitch from the annoying things she does, but when it’s good, it’s beautiful.

Except for that damn No. 2. Now that’s some damn shit.

Happy Birthday to Lebron!

Today is Lebron’s birthday.

She turns another year older, and our relationship grows another year as well, with our anniversary only two days away.

It was two years ago today that I surprised her with balloons and a card, even though we weren’t “officially” together yet. She had just moved back to my hometown, and we were seeing where things were going at that point. We had a long history, one where we always cared for one another, but just couldn’t work out the logistics of a relationship.

When she was ready for something more, I wasn’t. When I finally figured she was who I wanted, she had moved on.

But with her arrival, we were finally on the same page – and realized that with each other was where we wanted to be.

Today, we still continue to have the same feelings we had back then, but now it’s more of a comfortable relationship…dare I say complacent. We’re still in love, still are best friends, still can’t be without one another.

However her birthday makes me realize how long and how much we’ve really been to each other – through loving, arguments, struggling, crying, cursing, kissing, smiling, pining, sexing, annoying, hugging and everything else that comes with a long-term relationship. There are times when I can’t get enough of her, and times when I’ve almost left her.

Love is like that. Two years is a very long time.

Lover’s Paradise

beach.jpgMy lover and I, namely LeBron, woke up to this view last weekend. Lovely, ain’t it?

We decided to run away from home, take one of those much needed trips to rejuvenate our spirits. It was a last minute decision as we left around 2 on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I usually like to get an earlier start, but as we contemplated spending another weekend in our boring hometown, with “been-there-done-that” attitudes, getting away was the best thing we could have done.

All couples need this time.

Which lead to us against the wind, driving on I-10 toward the beach, LeBron and I facing our first road trip.

It hit a small bump in the beginning, the journey starting with us arguing about how to get there. In her usual masculine superiority, LeBron thought we should take a more scenic route, rather than the congested freeway. But the problem was she wasn’t quite sure of the direction. She was a person used to using landmarks in lieu of maps as a guide when traveling.

“Baby, I think it’s this way,” LeBron said in her typical studlike manner, which is just a step above grunting.

“Are you sure? Don’t lead me down the wrong way,” I carefully threatened. I was not about to waste any gas  (at $2.39 a gallon) following her blind notions. LeBron said she knew the way because she went to the same beach as a kid, but I think trying to find your way by sight after many years is not as trustworthy as a Yahoo! map.

She mumbled a “Yes, I’m sure,” but the doubt was written on her face. After a couple moments of uncertainty, she finally conceded and we hit I-10.

The rest of the ride was smooth with me driving around 80 mph, sun still beaming high, just chattering in our easy way, with Robin Thicke providing the soundtrack. It was a nice feeling, having an adventure with the one you love. And when we arrived on the beach strip, LeBron and I couldn’t contain our excitement. It was something we had accomplished together.

“We’re here, baby,” LeBron gushed, and pulled me in for a kiss from her passenger seat.

Now came the hard part: finding a hotel with a vacancy. It was the beginning of the infamous Spring Break season, and we didn’t have a reservation. We rode for the better part of an hour, trying to find a spot on the beach, preferably without the beer-carrying frat dudes or bikini-clad beach bunnies walking in front of us.

Then we found it — the perfect location at the right price, a suite with a full kitchen (oven included!) directly on the beach. The view from our window alone was worth the price, a picturesque scence of crashing waves lapping against the shore. Balmy palm trees swaying in the breeze. Fresh salt air you can’t find anywhere else.

beach2.jpgSoon after we checked in, the sun began to set against the eastern sky, a horizon filled with fading hues of orange, purple and pink. I couldn’t imagine a better moment than curling up with LeBron on our balcony, where we blanketed for warmth against the water’s chill that enveloped us. No cell phones, no TV, no qualms — only finding the enjoyment in each other and in the beauty around us.

And that’s what this trip was for.

"I Know, I’m Kvelling"

love.PNGA sweet kiss on the forehead. A bouquet of flowers just because. A confession of love with words like “I’ve never felt this way before.”

It’s enough to make your breath stop and have your heart “kvelling” (re: my favorite Clueless reference). Sweet nothings that mean everything are what love is about, romance with passion that makes you swoon with butterflies.

But it seems like nowadays those kinds of sweet sentiments are long gone. It’s considered archaic to tell someone you love them and mean it. It’s old-fashioned to ask someone to be your girlfriend. And eyes are raised if you don’t have sex with your partner within the first month of meeting her.

Blame on society, so be it. We’re a sexualized culture, full of relationships that go nowhere and people who trade partners faster than a new issue of People magazine can hit newsstands.

So when a new crush appears in your life, romancing you and wanting to actually court instead of fuck, why does it baffle us? Why can’t someone genuinely want to tell how she’s feeling—and mean it? Why do we always wait on the other shoe to drop when things are going oh-so-good?

So here’s my million-dollar, Carrie Bradshaw question: Do we not expect romance anymore?

With men and studs alike, women hope for the best but expect the worse. It’s like we wait for the opportunity when our lover will screw us over and we can say, “I knew he wasn’t no good!” And sometimes we go so far as to sabotage our relationship just because things are going a little too well.

I’m trying to just take things slow and truly enjoy the ride with my new stud, who for this blog will be named Lebron.

In the continuing saga of what’s dubbed “my new relationship,” things are interesting. Interesting because Lebron and I are still in the honeymoon stage. You know, that period where we’re trying to figure out pet names and every phone call lasts about 3 hours or more.

What I’ve found is that this time can be wonderful, a moment of discovery. But it can also be scary. Who wants to know that the woman (or man) who wined and dined you for a straight month is really broke and was using his whole check to take you out to T.G.I. Friday’s? And do you really want to know that she has a crazy ex girlfriend still in the picture–one who doesn’t take no for an answer?

I’ve found that Lebron has some habits I can live with, cause who’s perfect? No one. And I’m sure that my slight aggressive femme personality is a source of contention between us sometimes, as she’s stubborn as well.

When we go into a relationship, everyone brings their own baggage–some a small carry-on; others have steamer trunks. It’s just a matter of how much of that bullshit we’re going to let affect our relationship. Trust and honesty are two of the most important ingredients to a blossoming romance, and I prefer to get everything out in the open in the beginning. Even if it means I look like an ass or she doesn’t appear as perfect as she once claimed to be.

Cause I would hate to fall in love with someone who wasn’t even themselves to begin with.