Papa Returns

About two weeks ago, Papa II and I had an interesting conversation during which he opened the door for me to confess my feelings.  As you can imagine, this was a terrifying situation for both my inner princess and bitch.

However, armed with what is now a few years of truth time, honest bro input, and a brief stint of fangirling practice, I beat that bitch to death, burned her corpse, and threw her ashes to the wind along with my caution.  I sang my pitiful truth with no expectations or demands.  It needed to be said, so I said it.

As hard as I’ve tried not to, I do still love him.  Much to my amazement, he was happy about that.  So then there was the question of what to do about it.

We were supposed to meet that weekend, but he couldn’t come.  Then there were a few days when I thought he might be blowing me off.  I was pissed off and feeling insecure, and I got a cold for the first time in years.  In a diphenhydramine haze, I posted some crap that was vague but still crap.  Then shortly after that he called me to tell me why he was out of touch for awhile.

Feeling stupid, but happy, I apologized for the bitchy relapse and have made a promise to myself not to post on cold medicine anymore.  We finally did meet on Thursday night.  Though Voodoo ceremony has to be somewhere on the list of top ten worst first dates, he managed pretty well.  Well, until one of my bros did the protective Big Gay Dude Protective Sister thing.  There was a method to his badness though.

While I cringed sitting on the edge of the balcony, the jaw dropping moment came when Diva flat out asked Papa II if he loved me.  For a split second, I was utterly stunned.  I could hear that slow motion ,”Noooooooo!” in my head, and though my brain was telling me to tackle Diva, I could not move.  I just blinked my eyes.

Then Papa II answered that yes he does.  I blinked some more.  I didn’t know what to say or do.  My heart was prepared to shatter but then it didn’t.  So it melted.

After the ceremony, we talked awhile more, and well…the details are not for public consumption.  However, I will say that what’s happening is weird and beautiful.  Maybe it’s beautiful because it’s weird.

So now I just have to not screw it up again.  This time, I’m letting him be the man because really, I have no choice.  I understand now in a way that I didn’t a few years ago, that I cannot be the man in any relationship with a man no matter how hard I try.  If I try, I’m just going to do it wrong.

I don’t have the balls.  I’m a pussy, so if I try to presume to be the leader, my answer to every upset is going to be to run and hide or start a stupid conflict that shouldn’t exist.  Those are the only tools in the female in a heterosexual relationship toolkit: escape or proactive and presumptuous aggression.

It’s my job to be there, be supportive, and be sweet and pretty unless in the process of being supportive I must be un-sweetened and get dirty in order to get the job done.  That’s a lot of work.  He can do the directing.

I just hope I got certain of my grandmother’s good genes.


My pronouns are whatever you're comfortable with as long as you speak to me with respect. I'm an Afruikan and Iswa refugee living in Canaan. That's African American expat in Israel in Normalian. I build websites, make art, and assist people in exercising their spirituality. I'm also the king of an ile, Baalat Teva, a group of African spirituality adherents here. Feel free to contact me if you are in need of my services or just want to chat.

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