Superheroes, The Rising Sun & Police Sirens

Embarrassing parents - swan duckling

Embarrassing parents – swan duckling (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

 

I don’t know what happend, but it’s like something just clicked and then I knew how the story needed to be told. It was really weird because I had two dreams with my dad in them in one night, and I haven’t really had very many dreams about him since he passed away. In a way, it felt like he was giving me his blessing in the dreams. It was like he knew that I would never be able to completely heal until I am able to say my truth, until I am able to break free from all the lies that had to be portrayed to everyone on the outside.

 

Tonight, I thinking that even if the abuse hadn’t occurred he wouldn’t have been able to live up to the superhero-like image of perfection that I’d built him up to be…how did it ever get to be that way in the first place? How did I develop such an unrealistic and impossibly idealistic image of him? I knew he wasn’t perfect,he teased me mercilessly and I would burst into tears because I was so incredibly sensitive. Why was his opinion so important to me? I was sick when I was little, and i didn’t get spankings as often as I’m sure I would have, but I still was spanked and I still was punished.

 

I can’t figure out what changed…I know things between he & I changed during the fifth grade. The first sign that something was wrong, was when I was told I was going to have heart surgery & one of my parents would need to go with me. I told him I wanted him to stay with me, and he said my mom needed to stay since I was getting older. I didn’t really understand, but I went along with the plan. Looking back at things now, I see them differently. I just saw that I was a daddy’s girl, but now that I’m a mother I can see how it could have hurt my mother’s feelings. If someone told one of my daughter’s she looked like me & she said no, i don’t! I look like my daddy….that would probably hurt my feelings a little bit, but I would talk to her about it. I wouldn’t pull completely away from her & shut myself off from her.

 

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W.I.P. Slave for the Cause

Julie was sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Zane, I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I don’t find a way to raise some money, Youth Haven is going to have to close. I can’t let that happen, I don’t want any of these kids to end up on the street.”

“You know how much this place means to me. I would’ve ended up on the street if Youth Haven hadn’t existed; hell, who knows what I would’ve had to do to survive.”

Zane remembered the night she’d come to his house. It was two in the morning, and she’d had bruises and cuts all over her body. He didn’t have to ask what happened, he know her dad had beaten her again, but that time he hadn’t let her go back home. He’d woken his mom up, and they’d taken Jules to Youth Haven to talk to his mom’s friend. Zane knew that Youth Haven was more than a place to work for Jules, and he was determined to help her save it.
Zane looked at Julie with a mischievous smile on his face, and his blue eyes were twinkling. Julie knew she was in trouble. She and Zane had been friends since their first week of seventh grade, she knew damn well what that look meant. He had a brilliant idea that would keep the doors of Youth Haven open, but it was going to come at a price.

“Spill it,” Julie exclaimed.

“Spill what,” Zane asked feigning innocence.

“Give me a break. I know what that shit eating grin means; tell me your damn plan!”

Zane burst into laughter,” I have a plan that is guaranteed to keep Youth Haven open, but you’re not going to like it Jules.”

“Just tell me already!”

“Well, the members of the club I belong to have been talking about doing some kind of charity event.”

“The club you belong to? As in the sex club you belong to?”

“Jules, it’s a BDSM club not a sex club. Some of the members never doing anything sexual while they’re there.” ” You wouldn’t be required to do anything sexual during the fundraiser.”

“Fine, what will I have to do? ”

“We’ve been talking about holding a slave auction; the event will raise a lot of money for Youth Haven and you just might have a little fun in the process.”

Julie couldn’t help noticing the mischievous grin that Zane had on his face. What am I getting myself into? It can’t be life threatening, this is Zane after all, and though he may tease the hell out of me he would never let anyone hurt me.
Julie took a deep breath as she tried to calm her nerves. She opened her mouth to speak several times, and finally forced the words to come out.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘slave auction’, Zane? Damn, I must be desperate for funds if my black ass is seriously considering participating in something called a ‘slave auction’.”

Zane almost spit out the soda he was drinking when Jules said that to him. Then he thought it was going to be so much fun having Jules as his slave, and he would have her. He didn’t care how much he’d have to pay at the auction, he was finally going to share his secret with her. He knew Jules was meant to be his submissive, to protect and love.

“Jules, a slave auction is an event where people who are submissives volunteer to be “sold” to the highest bidder. The submissives are allowed to set up their limits before the auction starts. For example, a sub can say that he or she doesn’t want to be with a Dom/Domme, who likes to cause pain. The sub can say that they don’t want to physically have sex with their buyer, or they can even say if the will or will not do housework.”

“Pain? What do you mean pain? I don’t want to get hurt doing this; I want to save Youth Haven, but I don’t want my ass to get beaten in the process.”

“Jules, calm down. You’ve been my best friend forever, do you really think I’m going to let something bad happen to you?”
Zane patted the couch, and Jules came over and set next to him with her head on his shoulder. Deep down, she knew that Zane would never let anyone really hurt her. At first she thought she was scared of what might happen the night of the auction, but then she realized she was excited. Her heart was racing, her hands were getting sweaty, and her pussy was wet. She started to blush; she was so glad Zane didn’t know how her body was reacting to the thought of the slave auction.
Zane could tell that Jules was turned on by the idea of the slave auction, if her sweaty palms didn’t give it away, her flushed cheeks were definite confirmation. It’s funny, most people think that black girls can’t blush, but he could always tell when Jules was blushing. Zane began to gently rub her shoulders, he could feel Jules begin to loosen up.
“It’s going to be okay, Jules. You know I’ll always be there for you, just like when you needed help from Youth Haven. I know how important this is to you, Babe. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep these doors open.”

Zane wiped the tear from her cheek, then gently kissed her in the same spot. As Jules began to relax, Zane’s mind began to wander. She began to lightly snore, and Zane leaned back so that she would be at a comfortable angle. He closed his eyes, and Jules was rubbing his chest.
Zane’s cock was bulging in his jeans. He didn’t want Jules to know how hard he got, just from a chest rub. She got off of the couch and sat before him in the perfect slave position. She had her knees bent, and that beautiful apple bottom ass was touching her feet. She had her hands upturned, and laying on her upper thighs. Her eyes caught sight of his cock, and she began to lick her lips. She began to slowly pull down the zipper to Zane’s pants, and just as she was about to wrap her beautiful lips around his cock, Zane awoke.

“What were you thinking about, Zane?” Jules, cocked her right eyebrow as she looked questioningly into his eyes.

Zane began to stammer, which never happened except for when Jules had him flustered. Jules started laughing, she’d seen the pink flush go across Zane’s face. She knew he’d been having a sexual dream, because she could feel his cock against her back. God, she loved the way it felt when his cock was against her. She knew she could never tell Zane how she really felt. What if he didn’t have feelings for her, she didn’t think she could handle that. Yeah, his cock was hard but that happens to all guys, right?

“Jules, tune in to reality.”

“Hmm, what? Did you say something Zane?”

“Yeah, Jules. I told you that it would probably be a good idea for you to purchase a book on BDSM. If you’re going to take part in a slave auction, at the very least you need to know the basics of what will occur. How to stop things if you ever feel uncomfortable, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to know some of the common terms.”

“Is there any particular books that you recommend? This side of you is like a whole new world to me. Don’t get me wrong, I knew that you are a Dom but I haven’t been able to truly understand how this type of relationship works,” said Jules.

“Yes, the must have books for you are:

Black Hippie Chick's Take On Books & The World

Tomorrow, I will join thousands of writers and start participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I am a nervous virgin, preparing for my de-throning. In order to achieve the 50,000 word goal, I will have to write an average of 1,600+ words a day, this seems like quite the daunting task to me. I was originally going to write Creative Nonfiction, but in order to officially participate, my work has to be some form of fiction. So, tomorrow my career as a smut writer begins.Image

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Into the Unknown

This weekend I will begin a venture into the unknown. I have never written a script for a graphic novel, and I have never used scriptwriting software. Luckily, I do have an outline and it is only required to be 5-7 pages….breathes deeply, throws on some tunes and grabs a glass of wine……Hey, anybody have suggestions for a good box of wine?  Akira’s Journey is about to begin. 

“What ARE you?” Human. Next question?

 

“What ARE you?” Human. Next question?.

 

via “What ARE you?” Human. Next question?.

 

Here’s my response to this awesome post:

 

American W.E.B.

American W.E.B. (Photo credit: Saint Iscariot)

 

 

THANK YOU!!!! Omg, you don’t know how many times I’ve been asked this question. I also get, oh is that a weave? Ummm, no! I’ve got freaking dreadlocks. I’ve always been in an odd position; I was the first black and/or African American to go to one of my schools. I got into a fight with a boy on my first day; luckily I kicked his ass, so nobody else tried to mess with me.

 

Over the years, I’ve had people ask to feel my hair, where I bought my eyes from (I have light honey brown eyes), how come I don’t talk like a black person, and what did your parents think when you brought home a white guy. The above experiences occurred with members of my peer group, those who were both African American and/or black (believe it or not, there is a difference between the terms). You see I was too white for the black people and too black for the white people. Of course, not everyone acted like a dumb ass, but there were more than I needed to know.

 

I have ALWAYS been somewhat of a smart ass, so when the person asked me why I didn’t talk like a black person I said: OMG!! The doctors are right I really am white. I just put on a fresh coat of black paint last night, has it worn off? To the black guy who asks where I bought my eyes, I replied: I went to Mother’s Womb; they feed you there and everything. I’ve given several answers to the what did my parents think about me dating a white guy question. I’ve said, as long as the man/woman treated me well, they didn’t care. I’ve said, they didn’t care. Just like they didn’t care when I dated the guy who emigrated from Taiwan, both of the African princes (I know this sounds incredibly hokey, like some Nigerian email scam but it’s true), they guy who was Hispanic, or any of the white guys.

 

The more offensive experiences were all at the hands of educators. My first grade teacher called me a Nigger everyday, until my mom’s boss picked me up from school and realized that something was rotten in Denmark. One of my middle school teachers asked me in front of the class, what did I want to be called. He then went on to list a number of offensive examples, to which I responded that my name would be just fine. In college, I had several racist professors. One of them asked me to tell my Sociology class what it was like to go to the “black church“, and to grow up in a household of multiple single mothers. He was really pissed when I said I never went to the “black church”, and that my parents were still married, and I’d lived where all the rich white people wanted to live. A different Sociology prof asked us to raise our hand when he said the name of our racial group He asked all the Afro’s to raise their hands, and he was really pissed when my hand didn’t go up. He called my name and asked why I hadn’t raised my hand; I told him that an Afro was a hairstyle from the seventies, not my racial group.

 

Just when I thought things couldn’t get more offensive, I went to meet with the department chair. He told me that I needed to act more subservient. I rather enjoyed the look of shock on his face when I said that was probably how slavery lasted so long. When I met with the woman in charge of dealing with discrimination for the university, she asked if the problem was occurring because I was having a difficult time understanding what he said, due to his accent. I laughed, then I told her that was NOT the problem, that I was getting an A in my Japanese class and it really was in a different language. I can look back at all of these experiences and laugh, but at the time they were very painful.

 

Btw, when people ask me what I am…I tell them I’m Creole–French, African, Native American and Irish…. smdh

 

 

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One Step Closer to that Final Goodbye

 

Father of Mine

Father of Mine (Photo credit: Just Us 3)

 

One Step Closer to that Final Goodbye

 

Today, I came one step closer to that final goodbye…most people would be happy to know that they’re going to be getting money soon, but I started crying when I finished the call. I guess there’s something about knowing that I’m receiving my portion of my father‘s death benefits, that makes his death seem more final. Don’t get me wrong, I obviously understand that my father is gone, but each task that I finish that is a result of his death, causes me to feel like he’s a little closer to being completely gone.

 

A year ago, I wasn’t even speaking to my father because I couldn’t deal with the night terrors that it caused. Now, it feels like there’s a portion of my heart that will always be torn because I’ll never talk to him again. I’ve spent so much of my life being pissed at him, at times even convincing myself that I hated him. recently I’ve discovered that I didn’t really hate him (which, I should’ve figured out when I still tried to make sure that he was taken care of, when even Mother Theresa would’ve given up on him), but I was so hurt and sad by the abuse that I endured, it was easier to hate him.

 

Over the years, I’ve been told that forgiveness is for you, it’s not for the person who needs to be forgiven, so many times I’ve lost count. I’ll be honest with you, I never believed it; after all, you’ve got to admit that it sounds like a crock of shit even to you. However, I have started to forgive my father since he’s been dead.I don’t honestly believe that he wanted his children to hate him, to such a degree it resulted in him dying without either of them to support him. I’ve really tried to place myself in his shoes, and see if there’s anything that could’ve led to him being such a tremendous ass. I’ve decided that those three tours in Vietnam probably didn’t help things, nor did being the first black police officer in our town. I’ve thought about what it must have been like to have a job before you were nine, to try to make sure your siblings didn’t starve. I’ve even talked to some of his siblings to try to understand him a little bit better, and I do.

 

I still don’t excuse his behavior. If having bad shit happen to you gives you the right to become an abuser, then I surely I would’ve gotten a free pass in that department.I do think that his life didn’t turnout the way he would’ve liked. Now, I am also able to admit that I love him, even though I hate the things he did.I’m one step closer to saying that final goodbye, but I’ll always wish that things had been different in the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My Non-Family Vacation

 

My Non-Family Vacation

For four days in June, I am transformed from the woman with Multiple Sclerosis, who would fail a field sobriety test, because of MS related balance issues. I become a goddess with magical powers; I wheel my cart to the Access tent at Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival. I whip my ID out and flip it on the table, so that the volunteer can insure I am indeed, who I say I am. I place my milk chocolaty wrist onto the flimsy wooden table, the sweaty volunteer chugs from her bottled water. Finally, she attaches the magical blue band around my wrist.

I am now more powerful than at least 60,000 of my fellow festival attendees; the only thing that rivals my blue wrist -band is an admission letter to Hogwarts. I now harness the power to bypass lines that contain thousands of other music lovers, all of them sweaty and excited, with the occasional intoxicated person. I am allowed to take secret paths that most people aren’t allowed to go on, they are unmarked, of course. One year, my husband and I got turned around, so I pulled my red three-wheeled cart to the left side of the path.That way I wouldn’t block the path.

My husband reached into the tie-dyed bag attached to the back of my seat, and handed me an ice cold water. In that moment, I was thankful for my husband’s neurotic need to clear the freezer of everything except for drinks. I open my mouth to thank him for freezing the drinks, but something moved at the very edge of my vision. I looked up, my mouth formed a large O, and my frozen bottled water dropped from my hand. Concern is evident on my husband’s face, I know he’s thinking of the previous year when I got dehydrated and passed out on a man who only had one leg. In a quiet, but confident voice I told him to turn around. My husband and I were, approximately 20 feet away from the great Blues Musician BB King, and the lead singer of Pearl Jam, Eddie Vedder.

That day I was happy I had Multiple Sclerosis, instead of preventing me from doing something that I loved, it enabled me to have an experience that few will ever have.