Fine Paintingsby Cousin Kim
Ah, summertime in L.A.! Free concerts. Spending time outdoors. Catching up with good people. Running into ex-boyfriends.
It's inevitable that with more free time on my hands, I was bound to run into Morehouse Man.
It's inevitable that with more free time on my hands, I was bound to run into Morehouse Man.
Morehouse Man is a well-educated, handsome, Afro-Centric, tall, muscular, delicious specimen of manhood I met seven years ago. We were drawn to each other like moth to flame. For me it was his intellect as well as his physical appearance. For him, it was my spirituality, intellect, and the fact that I have "hips like the horn of Africa."
For those who know absolutely nothing about Morehouse College in Atlanta, it is the only Black, all male college in the country. And the men, well...Anyway, I knew I would see Morehouse Man that day. It was a Jill Scott concert and he was the one who'd introduced me to her music years ago. How did I know that I would see him? I have learned that sometimes we have spiritual connections with people even though we are not meant to be with them.
I know that because of this, I can be at a concert with thousands of people in attendance and if he is there I will see him. Once I had a friend visiting from out of town and we were at the Los Angeles African Marketplace. I told her that I felt Morehouse Man's presence and that he was somewhere near. Less than two minutes later, there he was.At the Jill Scott concert, I was pleasant when I saw him. We spoke briefly and I saw no reason to be rude. That night, however, at about 11 p.m. he gave me a reason. He called my land line, then my cell phone, then my land line again. I didn't answer. After all, calls after 10 p.m. are suspect; that's got booty call written all over it.
A few days later I emailed him to see what he wanted. He responded that he missed our deep, philosophical and intellectual conversations and wanted to know if we could be the kind of friends that talk on the phone sometimes. This man is not stupid. He knew that our long talks were like foreplay when we dated. Expertly massage the spirit and the mind, then loving the body relentlessly.
As I told him last summer, six years of a heartbreaking on-again, off-again romance, which felt like a taxiing plane that never took off, was enough. So I politely responded, "no, we cannot be the kind of friends that talk on the phone sometimes." Then I wished him his highest and greatest good.
My momma told me me that some men are like fine paintings.
They are meant to be hung on the wall and admired from AFAR. Morehouse Man is a fine painting never to be taken off the wall again.
A few days later I emailed him to see what he wanted. He responded that he missed our deep, philosophical and intellectual conversations and wanted to know if we could be the kind of friends that talk on the phone sometimes. This man is not stupid. He knew that our long talks were like foreplay when we dated. Expertly massage the spirit and the mind, then loving the body relentlessly.
As I told him last summer, six years of a heartbreaking on-again, off-again romance, which felt like a taxiing plane that never took off, was enough. So I politely responded, "no, we cannot be the kind of friends that talk on the phone sometimes." Then I wished him his highest and greatest good.
My momma told me me that some men are like fine paintings.
They are meant to be hung on the wall and admired from AFAR. Morehouse Man is a fine painting never to be taken off the wall again.