Part I
“How are you feeling today, Yasmine?”
I paused and sighed deeply, tilting my head back in exasperation.
I had experienced a wide range of emotions since our last session, so I didn’t know where to start, but I knew one thing: out of all my emotions, there was one more prevalent and pervasive than the others.
I hesitate, contemplating, how I should say it, because God knows, I’m losing my mind, and my body, highly aware that it’s been deprived, never misses a moment to remind me.
Oh, fuck it. I’ll just say it.
“I’m frustrated!”
Whew. That was a relief.
For context, this was my favorite weekly commitment and the most liberating hour of every Tuesday evening. It’s called “therapy” and here, it’s just me and Valaresha, my therapist turned “best friend.”
Well, kind of…
If she heard me referring to her as my “best friend,” she would gently object, because truthfully, this wasn’t actually that.
She had made her patient-to-provider boundaries very clear in session number one, so there was no room to blur the lines, but the way she knows my life and helps me navigate every nook and cranny makes it feel like a friendship.
“I haven’t had sex in nine, long months, on no volition of my own, and it’s eating me up, Valaresha!”
I was being dramatic, but at the same time, I wasn’t lying.
“Where is he?” I questioned, referring to my man and husband-to-be, who was probably out there, being single and doing what I subconsciously wished for the opportunity to do too.
You see, men with the gift of gab - or girth, if you ask me - tend to have a Rolodex of women, waiting at the snap of their fingers to satisfy their earthly urges. It’s an unspoken, and maybe unfair truth, but I ain’t no fool.
For that reason, I can’t imagine my life partner would be any different. He’s fucking bitches.
I escaped my thoughts and looked up at the screen to find Valaresha, holding back a laugh and pondering her response to me.
The question was rhetorical, obviously, but I knew she had something to offer me, so I paused and waited to communicate her invitation to chime in.
Well,” she said, “have you journaled about it?”
I sighed again. She could not be serious.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear, Yasmine, but we’ve talked about it before. Writing about your emotions and getting them out of your head will help you work through what you’re feeling,” she said.
“Yeah, I’ll consider journaling,” clearly dismissing her suggestion, “but in the short term, I need to find somebody!”
She screamed.
Valaresha was older than me, but she was also young enough to relate, and she never hesitated to help me, a conservative, 28-year-old woman, who has yet to peak, arrive at a conclusion I could own, execute and live with comfortably.
Yasmine, it’s understandable that you are feeling this way. For you, sex is something you’ve identified as a physiological need, so in order for you to feel motivated and fulfilled, this is an area of your life that requires attention. I get that this is often tied to a husband or boyfriend, but how can you explore this area where you are in your life right now?
“I could call my old hoes,” I say jokingly, as I laugh out loud.
She laughed with me, knowing I was half-serious, but also unwilling to judge or deny me the right to decide what was best for me.
Ok, Yasmine, I do just want you to be cognizant of what we’ve been talking about.
I sit up, getting serious about the conversation, when the memory of a meme I’d seen comes to mind clear as day.
It said, “You gon’ keep repeating the same mistakes until you learn your lesson.”
That’s what Valaresha was getting at.
“You’re right. Maybe not that route, but I’m going to figure something out.”
This was the end of our conversation, so she reminded me to journal and told me to have a great rest of the week.
I log off, feeling better about my situation and pulled out my phone to call my real best friend, Lolo.
She was a hoot.
I didn’t know what she had going on, but she’s usually down for a last-minute move.
The phone rings and goes to voicemail.
“Hey Lolo, I’m calling to make plans! Hit me back when you see this. Holla!”
I hang up and put my music on shuffle, when I hear the beat of Lil Kim’s “Big Momma Thang” coming in.
“You got a goin’ on, what, what,” I hear Lil Kim say, awaiting my moment to join in at beat drop.
“I used to be scared of the d***. Now I throw lips to the shit! Handle it, like a real bitch!”
That was the main part I knew, but my living room performance, mirroring that of the Mary J Blige two-step jump, would’ve wooed the crowd. I know it would, however I was no Lil Kim.
I admired her contributions to womanhood though.
The music suddenly stops, when I hear a vibration. It’s Lolo, calling me back.
I pick up, “Yo!”
She responded, “Yo Yo, babyyyyyyy!”
We laugh in the guilty pleasure of frat bro greetings, as I tee up the reason I called.
“Are we outside tonight?”
She responded, “I’m game for it!”
Lolo was always down for the cause. That was my homie. We had been besties since knee high and had made it through all the stages of friendship that could ever make us want to walk away from the sisterhood. She was my family.
“Ok,” I say back to her. “Let’s go to Pasha and meet around 7:30pm.”
We aligned on the details before hanging up to get dressed.
It was a quarter til 6, so I had roughly an hour and half to get myelf together.
I turned on the shower, stepped in and started scrubbing suds, when I hear the music stop again.
I peak out of the side of the shower curtain to see who’s calling, when I gasp at the name, coming across my caller ID.
“Is this forreal?” I think to myself.
By now, the phone has already rung a couple of times, so I hop out of the shower barely able to dry my hands before pressing the green button.
I wait to gather my breath before answering in disbelief.
“Drae?”
“Hey. What’s up, baby girl?”
To be continued…
