as a self-proclaimed slut, there have been many, many men who have entered my life, shared some time and space with me, and then moved on. it’s the nature of ethical promiscuity, combined with a magnetic personality, and laced with a dash of alluring hypomania - just enough crazy to make the sex white hottt. but even with that long established history, there are several distinct men/memories that i often find myself returning to, despite the self-care and healing work i’ve done to process those perceived losses.

i think about the morning my ex-husband walked out the door, when neither of us knew that we would never see each other again, our marriage torn apart by a burst of delusional mania in my mind. i remember the profound sadness i saw in his eyes... he already knew that i had fucked up, again, but we didn’t know that we had reached our end yet.

i think about the morning my cowboy pilot dropped me off at home, before he headed to the airport to fly the company plane back to texas. he had spent that evening crying in my lap, telling me how afraid he was that an old injury from a previous crash had reared it’s head again, and that he was likely going to lose his pilot license due to some floating bone fragments along his spinal column. my heart was already hurting for him as he drove off into the sunrise.

i think about the morning i drove away from a lover’s apartment in south central, after saying goodbye to his nieces and nephew, who all dearly loved me. i remember how his arms felt wrapped around me, how safe it was, and how his kiss to my forehead sent me off to work.

there are other men, other memories... and what else are we but a collection of our stories, our lived and shared experiences?