If You Don't Tell

It's the story of my life. I've come to the point where I despise waking up because I find myself trapped in the same situation that I said I'd never be trapped in, but I always find a way to smile, even though I feel like I'm shattered from the inside out. I guess at one time, I felt desirable, but that was so long ago I don't think I can feel that way anymore. I always put on a happy face for others, even when my own world is going to shit in a tidy little hand-basket. I really didn't know how I would cope with it anymore.

As a black woman, I've always felt that suicide was never an option, but I needed to feel happy, even if it was drug induced euphoria. I wondered what had happened to me. I used to be vibrant and I wanted to do all of the things that my parents never had a chance to do before they died. I wanted to become something, make a name for myself, be someone recognizable to more than just the people in my neighborhood. But my life was no where near my dreams. I was just another statistic for the drug companies. As I walked through the front door of the hospital, I looked at my doctor's handwriting, and couldn't help myself from bursting out into tears.

"Is there something wrong with me?" It was all that I could think about that day while driving home. The skies were cloudless for the last week of the year, and since it didn't usually snow in Houston, the roads were pretty clear and void of any salt. I stopped at a red light before getting on the expressway, and then looked at the doctor's stationary one last time before I balled it up, and buried it at the bottom of my purse. A new year was coming up and it was time for some changes. I wasn't going to let a doctor make a depressed-happy patient out of me. Something in me wasn't quite ready to give up yet.

Now that it's the day before New Year's Eve, I'm almost ready to become a post-partum statistic. My head was so full of needless, worthless shit that at this point, I'd try rose flavored piss, dipped in cow manure if it saved me from the repetition I go through everyday. Ok, not really, but I'd almost consider it just to keep myself from idly repeating this mindless repetition I go through daily.

My house is a model of tedious consistency. After just waking up, my morning migraine comes to me right on time, which coincidentally tends to be minutes before I wake my husband, Michael up and we begin our ritual of uninspired sex. Well, I guess it's only uninspired for me because with all the grunting he usually does, you'd think I was actually screwing around with a little barnyard piggy.

As usual, at 6:00 am, I nudge him, letting him know that it's time to get up. Then, just like clock-work, he rolls his half-naked 250 lb frame onto my 140 lb one, complete with stank ass morning breath, and grabs the lube that we keep by the bed. It amazes me how he moves that big ass gut around, especially when he's only 5'9", yet he still manages to take off his draws and lube up "Mandingo" all in the same motion, without even so much as a 'Good morning, love of my life, mother of my child, apple of my eye' to me. What the deal is with men naming their penises, I'll never guess, but his dick looked more dingo than 'man' anyway, so I guess it was a correct assessment and knowing the morning routine by heart now, I never wear any panties before going to bed anymore. The lube allows some comfort, not much, but he still pushes inside of me, knowing that I am rarely wet enough for him to enter me without wincing in pain.

"You like that dick, don't you girl. Tell big daddy you love this shit." The words I despise hearing are usually the first words that come out of his mouth. "You love this shit dontcha, girl. Whose pussy is this?"

The devil in me wants to say, "I haven't met him yet, but perhaps you can introduce me to him." But before the mischievous phrase escapes me, I utter a soft, "Yours, baby. It's yours."

I've become such a good liar that I could be a great lawyer. I almost want to laugh, but I don't, knowing that that type of outburst won't go unpunished. He doesn't hit me, he never has, and never will, but men have a way of pouting that gets on my last damn nerves, and I did not want to be part of the silent treatment on New Year's. The sad thing is we've only been married 6 months and already the sex is becoming a nuisance.

We'd been together for almost six years. When we met, I wanted to follow him to the ends of the earth. How was my leader and I was his faithful follower. He made me happy. Whenever we were out, he'd make me smile, hold my hands, kiss me in public, and then we'd sneak off to the men's room to have sex. Albeit he was never the best, he was adequate and I sincerely loved him which seemed to intensify any sessions we had.

While he satisfied himself, I began to daydream about the times when the sex was warm and loving, but now it's as rigid as stone and he's about as gentle as a hole puncher. He nearly suffocates me and my small frame when he is on top of me, but being his wife, I succumb to his needs. To accelerate his orgasm, I pretend to enjoy it with moans of pleasure and fallacies that no other is his equal. I grab his ass and push him deeper inside of me, hoping that this will finally end my morning torment, and within a few seconds, it's over. Mission fucking accomplished.

"I love you." He whispers to me as he rises out of bed, but the sentiment is more rehearsed than heartfelt.

"I love you, too." It's my deflated response. The truth is that I do love him. And at one time, I worshipped the ground he walked on but as he walks into the bathroom for his shower, and his love is still lingering between my legs, I wonder if he actually realizes how much I love him. He never seems to take into consideration that I bathe, feed and clothe our child without his assistance or appreciation, but when I used to bring it up, we'd always fight. He consistently tells me that he's from an old household and feels that it's the woman's responsibility to take care of these things, which incidentally, are the same beliefs that his parents have passed down to him. So to be a good wife, I just don't bring it up anymore, even though it only leaves me a 30 minute window to wash up and clock in at work.

After the morning 'exercise', I throw my legs over the side of the bed and pick up my satin purple kimono off the floor. It was a Christmas gift from my best friend, Laela and already it's found it's way towards the heap of clothes by the bed. I stand up with my back to the hallway so that all my husband can see is my bare ass before he walks into the bathroom and closes the door, and I wrap it around myself on my to fix breakfast.

In the kitchen, I cut on the light, grab a few headache pills that I've left on the counter for this particular occasion, and swallow them without even thinking about getting a glass of water to help wash them down. To keep myself from staring at my sullied reflection, in kitchen mirror, I put my head down and look at the sink while waiting for the aspirin to be shoved down my throat by an angry esophagus. It hurts like hell going down this time, but it's not the worst it's ever been. I then drudge over to the refrigerator to get breakfast ready for the family.

In the six years of relationship we've shared, Michael and I have 1 child together, MJ, who just turned 6 months ago last week. We were married a week before he was born because Mike didn't want his child born out of wedlock. Sometimes I think that's the only reason why he asked me to marry him. I love Michael and MJ is a blessing to have, but I'll be damned if the both of them ain't also a curse. Don't get me wrong, I love them to death, but sometimes they can drive me up a wall.

After everyone ate, I washed MJ, clothed him, and bagged up his daily usage of the breast milk I pumped the night before. I placed the diapers, wipes, toys, and extra clothing, in a baby bag for my aunt, who usually does the babysitting. I took him downstairs to Michael who snatches him up, puts him in his car seat, backs up out of the driveway, makes a right turn onto the street and drives out of sight. No kisses, no goodbyes, no affection whatsoever. Damn, goodbye kisses are a scarcity these days.

With the wind reminding me that all I have on is a thin piece of silk cloth, I ran back upstairs to relax. With today being the day before New Year's Eve, it was a holiday from the dead end secretary job I loathed and I believed in getting things done when I had the time and time was a precious commodity these days.

Not being accustomed to having all of this free time to myself, I'd almost completely forgotten about my migraine, which was but a headache now. I fixed myself a bowl of cereal, sat on the couch, and turned on the TV just in time to see the anchorman reporting about a standoff early this morning somewhere downtown.

"That's a damn shame." I thought to myself. "Nothing to do on New Year's Eve, but rob a liquor store and take hostages"

In truth, I really didn't have any plans either. Not that I'd rob a liquor store, which would certainly be a change from the norm, but after a while without fun, I needed to do something exciting, even unpredictable. The more I thought about it, the more my headache came back, so I let it go, and promised myself that I'd think about it later. No use stressing myself on a day when there wasn't anyone around to stress me.

After I finished eating, I put the bowl in the sink and headed to the bathroom for a shower. I took off my kimono, and as I was about to jump in the shower, I looked at myself in the mirror, something that I had been afraid to do earlier. With it almost being the start of another year and all, I decided to try looking at my flaws and mentally make resolutions about my weight and dieting, like I do every year. I pinched my stomach a few times and stared at the mirror in front of me.

"What would I change about myself?" I'm talking to my reflection because I'm the only company I really have in this house. I sized myself up before continuing. "Hmm. I don't think I look that bad. Need to get rid of this tummy....these flabby arms, maybe get a flatter stomach. I don't see anything that a little exercise wouldn't cure."

After hearing myself talk about my reflection like we we're two different people, I became a little more self-conscious. My mother always said that too much talking to yourself makes you crazy. Of course she said that while dying of brain cancer, so I cant say that she was really sane at the time, but it was an old wives tale, and I didn't want to test that theory. So, I smiled. For the longest time, I thought I was an old maid, but looking at myself again through fresh eyes, I wasn't half bad, almost sexy even. During the few minutes of staring, I begin to see the person I used to be instead of the self-doubting person I've become.

I'm still the same mahogany complexion that I was in grade school, with the same Asian eyes, and the same bulldog cheeks my momma grabbed when I was younger. I'm the same height as Michael, steady at 5'9", but I think it looks better on me than it does on him. The stretch marks on my breasts and thighs are a little more pronounced with the new baby, but both are bigger than normal, giving my once stick-figure a lot more depth, a few more curves, with a few more miles to match. My stomach, of course, is still a little soft from the pregnancy, but for the first time in a long time, I'm actually proud of my body. After taking in all of my measurements, I wink at myself, put me hair up in a pony tail, and turn on the water for a relaxing bath instead of the shower I'd considered earlier.

I sat in the tub, and wondered if men realize how much of an aphrodisiac hot baths are. In my opinion, if they knew, women would lose their virginities a lot sooner. Obviously, my man didn't know this well kept secret, or didn't care, but as his essence was drained from mine, this morning seemed like a distant memory. Somehow, the warmth that had taken hold of me was slowly becoming a stimulant and my thoughts gradually became that of arousal and fantasy. My once flabby stomach was now tightening into small knots, and my clitoris growing with each passing idea. I didn't know why, but it was begging to be caressed, my vagina, yearning for the orgasm that I hadn't had in some time.

I stroked it, knowing that it will awaken the sleeping giant, and it doesn't disappoint. Blood rushes to the tip, making it extremely sensitive to the touch, but when I consider stopping, I can't. The aching is too great now, and so I need to finish. I rub a little deeper, a little harder, progressively searching for that perfect position until it all overwhelms me and I take my fingers and push them inside of me. Already, I'm convulsing, reaching a peak that I had yet to reached with my husband, but not yet quite ready to release. I push until it becomes a thrust, and that's when I feel it all coming. I can feel my toes curl and the contractions of my walls as it all becomes unstoppable. My body is so in tune now that even my neck and shoulders are rhythmically moving forward to an unknown beat. Breathing is suddenly difficult and becoming increasingly harder until I stop breathing altogether.

I can hardly expel the words, "Oh shit!" right before my body explodes and I scream with all of the strength I can muster. Every negative feeling I had was pushed out of my body, if only for a few seconds, while ecstasy took over. My body convulsed for a few seconds afterwards, pushing all of that which was within me, out of me, and I collapsed onto the walls of the bathtub. I awoke to an idea that hit me like a ton of bricks, but I played it down because they likelihood of it happening was next to zero.

"Oh well, no point in entertaining it anymore." I had already given up, but as I was thinking of not pursuing it, boldness came over me. Instead of always withdrawing, like I usually do, I jumped out of the tub, grabbed my towel, and rushed to the kitchen phone.

With the bathroom not being as chilly as the rest of the house because of the steam, the kitchen was the polar opposite, and I cursed myself for not drying off before I ran out. The droplets of water on my body were turning into ice cubes, but I needed to talk to someone before I lost my nerve and my idea would be carted off to 'Never-heard-from-again-land'.

I dialed in the phone number of my girl, Laela, hoping that she would pick up on the first ring. Lately, she'd been the only person with whom I can talk about the personal things that go on in my life. I'd known her most almost half of my life, and met her when we were only two of the six black girls in an all-girl Catholic high school. She'd always been a good student and sometimes she'd help me out with my homework when I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Since high school, she's gone to college and become a nurse with a handsome pre-husband, and though I am envious of her, I've never been jealous.

The reason I can share my life with her is because she's the only one who listens. Though she does have her prejudices, she gives me advice that I listen to, but don't tend to follow. Whenever I ask for help, she's always there. She does tend to scold me, like a mother, but I know it's because she loves me.

She shares her own place in the suburbs with her fiancée, Quinton, but from time to time they spend the night here, helping me out at times with the kid, or with dinner. I think it's mostly due to the fact that we live twenty minutes away from both of their jobs, and in the city of Houston, that's a wonderful luxury.

My stomach was churning with anticipation. I wanted her to pick up, but if she didn't maybe I could say it in her voicemail. But as I thought it over, if she didn't pick up, there was no guarantee she'd call me back. I needed her to pick up the phone so I can convey my idea, but after all the worrying I'd done, she didn't even answer.

Feeling defeated before the day even began, I put on an old sweat suit, after throwing on some panties, and commenced cleaning the house. After a few minutes of dusting, the phone rang , it was her.

The nausea comes back. I didn't know exactly how I wanted to say things, so I beat around the bush before telling her my idea. She sounds skeptical, but tells me that she'll do it and since she has always come through for me, I set everything in motion.

When she finally called back to confirm, it was already close to noon. I was so happy to hear the good news that I almost hung up the phone prematurely so that I could get everything finalized. My day hadn't started off so great so anything positive at this point was good news.

Earlier in the day, I had called a few hotels, but most of them were either booked or their prices were so outrageous that I'd almost quit on finding a place. It took a few hours, but I was able to find an open room this close to New Years'. I settled on a hotel by Houston Hobby Airport, which was about a good fifteen minute drive from where we stayed, but it was cheap and it had four walls, so I reserved it.

I couldn't wait until tomorrow came. I was so tired of doing the same old thing day in and day out that I wanted to scream. Relieved to finally relax after a morning filled with monotony, a few surprises and a little sex, I sat down to just exhale, and then I went back to the bathroom to put to sleep the monster I had awakened earlier.

December 31st (Friday)

I spent all of yesterday wondering how I wanted to break the news to Michael. When 12:00 am came, I was still awake wondering how I'd let yesterday pass without saying a thing, but still guessing on how I was going to break the news today.

I quietly paced around the room, wearing nothing but one of his old football jerseys. The house was drafty and I thought about wearing some shorts, but I didn't want him to have any reason to be mad at me the next morning. Easy access was probably my only saving grace in this instance. I rehearsed what I was going to say, never uttering a single word out loud, but simply ran all scenarios inside of my head. By 2:00, I was exhausted and all I could do to get any sleep was reassure myself that I'd let him know about what we had planned right before his shower, but immediately after he got his nut.

When I awoke, it seemed as if New Years Eve was not unlike any of the mornings that preceded it. I was the first to get up, Dingo was the second, and Michael was the third. But as I sat up, there was an obvious distinction though, I was actually wet. I was damp to the touch and aroused as hell. I guess I was a little more eager about the outcome because the sex didn't seem half as bad, nor half as long. As expected, after our morning 'ritual' he went directly to the shower and I was right behind him.

I grabbed his bare ass and pushed my breasts up against his back before he had a chance to turn on the shower. When he turned to glance at me, I looked at him like I was a child asking their father for permission to watch the living room TV.

"Hey babe," I almost swallowed my tongue, but I closed my eyes and finished off my rehearsed lines, "Laela and Q want to know if we're going to kick it with them. They rented a hotel room and wanted us to bring in the New Year with them." When in doubt, blame someone else.

He rolled his head up to the ceiling before bringing it back to down to look at me. I already knew that some excuse was brewing in his head. "Damn. I wish you would've told me earlier. I already made plans to go out drinkin' with Pookie and the fellas."

I was pissed. I could feel the moisture that was once between my legs dry instantaneously, even though the shower water was continually pouring over my middle section. "Well, do it with them next year. Spend this one with me, please." I was almost begging. Almost--hell, I was begging; begging for my husband and I to spend our first married New Years together.