My “little sis” has made two major announcements – she’s found “the one” and she’s never had a “one, forget the big one”. WHAT!!! Worse, to her this is no big deal.
The profundity of her revelations blew me away. In other words, this was too much for me. But was I overreacting, or worse, “old, and now out of the loop”?
First let me say, I am not a hooch, hoochie, or ho. Although I once joked it to my fiancé (ex-fiance). One sunny early morning, after a few too few minutes of … a wake up call that thoroughly woke both of us, he asked, “how many people have you slept”?
Now that’s a trick question. Did he want to know because I was so good, he knew practice had made perfect? Maybe I was inept, and my lack of aptness he would blame on others, who, of course, were obviously not in his league. Maybe he thought if desired by others, his desire for me was not misplaced. Or maybe … Puh leeze, puh leeze, puh leeze. He knew he wasn’t the first; he just wanted to know how many finished before him.
As a side note, women don’t care about the number, we are more, who, when, where, and it’s over. Thus the age-old dilemma, when is enough, too much? A serious question requiring delicate handling – don’t cut your nose, to spite your face.
But being silly and young (which often go hand in hand), and an urban Cosmo girl, I took his question very seriously. Yeah, puh leeze. I gazed into space and began to reflectively count. One, two, … I mouthed ten, twelve, and thirteen. Fourteen, fifteen, … twenty-five, twenty-six. Thirty, forty, … his eyes bugged wide. This was fun. Fifty, sixty, … now I was getting tired. Seventy-one, seventy-two, … forget it, the last twenty or so numbers I raced off my fingers until I nonchalantly announced – ninety-six. I was exhausted. His look said he could see why. Ninety-six partners. Men.
“I’m joking,” I said. Less than ten.
He didn’t buy it then, and he never did. Which I later determined was because of his cheating proclivities, not mine.
But whether five, ten, or ninety-six, no “oh, oh, oh”, you gotta go.
She said I was crazy.
Things were good between her and her man, of ten months. They got along well. Liked similar things. Talked nonstop. With him, she felt safe and respected. Marriage was a natural next step.
Did you love him? She thought so.
Then you don’t!
How do you know?
Cuz when you do, you just know. An answer more complicated by its vagueness than simplicity. Strike one against marriage. No orgasm, strike two.
It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault.
Excuse me. But before I made an insertion error I stopped and thought – Is love and/or “one” a prerequisite to “being the one?” Million of songs have been written telling us what we want from love – He’s So Fine (The Chiffons), where we should love – Under the Boardwalk (The Drifters), why we’re glad we’re in love – At Last (Etta James), how we feel with about broken love – It’s A Thin Line Between Love and Hate (Pretenders), why we want it back – Unbreak My Heart (Toni Braxton), and how good it feels to get it back – Can’t Stop My Heart (Brooks and Dunn). Millions more imply making love always includes an “oh, oh, oh” – need I say thank you Teddy Pendergrass. This all implies that love is a prerequisite and lovemaking, oh yes. But as humans, especially men, are prone to exaggeration, other sources must be consulted.
Webster – Love (n). to be fond of, desire.
Even better.
Webster – Love (n). A strong, unusually passionate, affection of one person for another, based in part on sexual attraction.
According to Webster, she may be in love. Her feelings are strong. And full of affection. But passionate? It may not fit my definition but she is crazy about him. Every other sentence is punctuated with he said this, and he said that. Before she can make plans to hang with her girlfriends, she has to see what he’s doing. It’s love, stupidity, or both. It’s reality, but not real. And it feels good. And if you’re lucky, and really blessed, when it wears off, it’s replaced by something so deep, when you think it can’t go deeper, it does, cuz that’s just what it does and is.
And it has sexual passion. Listen to the word. It feels. Right now your arms tingle as a blush moves up your neck. It smells. You’re breathing slower. The air smells fresh and sharp. Your eyes have closed, a smile whispers across your lips. It’s hot and heat. It’s unforgettable. Oh, oh, oh.
I don’t know if my little sis’s man is “the one”. And if they do marry, maybe having “one” won’t matter – you can’t miss what you’ve never had. But for her sake, and his, no oh, oh, oh, ever is an oh, no. Oh yeah!
