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Some people call it inertia. I am simpler with my terminology. I call it stuck.

Those times in life when the pathway is dim are one kind of stuck. When it is difficult to figure out what to do next, or where to go. Those moments when it seems like routine has gotten the best of you. The days and nights the same. 

The days and nights when the words don’t come is another kind of stuck. I’ve learned that a quick trip to New York City will reliably start the flow. New York unsticks the stuck. I’ve learned that for me it takes living in Brooklyn for just about a year to start for a book I’ve had inside me for 15 years to pour out in 3 months.

Maybe it’s because my father’s side is from there, allows me quicker ownership of a place where many a book has been written. Plays. Movies. Where art and music and words and blogs pour out of people, or where people who these things pour out of have to be. Anyway. 

Here I am. Again. The Big Apple.

There’s another kind of stuck, where you see the way forward, but there’s someone else holding you back. I find myself in New York having that problem when I declare polyamory and never look back. 

I have been in a relationship for a while. One where we still hold cheating and lying against one another, where it always feels personal and like someone is keeping tally. Feel ready to break, ready to leave, to end what we have, but on the other hand I do not want to break up with him. He’s a good partner. He is a good man.

To this day.

But in that space before poly, the right before times. Stuck times that need catalyst.

The catalyst is a tall, angry, black artist and martial artist from Atlanta who scowls and carries a sword. The long-term partner who has to say yes to our relationship in response to my declaration – The Plant Whisperer.

I remember that hurdle well. Seemingly insurmountable. Living life as though it was an obvious trade. This relationship or that. 

I won’t bore you with the details. We’re over it.

Polyamory? It stuck around. The Plant Whisperer and I – still together after all these years. The Artist? Haven’t seen him since. 

Since he finally voiced it. The desire. As though us hanging out all night and half the day for two days in a row didn’t make it obvious. While Brooklyn meanwhile New York’d on outside the doors of the Slow House on K street. While I cooked and ate food. What people of compatible gender(s) want to spend time together copiously without eventually trying to fuck?  

And so I remember him, this tall, rightfully and righteously angry black man with fucked up digestion from constant poverty.  I remember days and nights of arguments about allyship and White Supremacy. Many arguments ended in impasse. I remember philosophy, and feminism, and that he had two daughters.

Neither of them live in New York. 

I remember his art, a heady marriage of technique and emotion. His phases. He showed me canvases and photos. It’s not easy to be homeless dragging around canvases. I guess it’s never easy to be homeless.

It was his brain that did it, mostly. And that he seemed as surprised by it as I was. Both of us wondering why our mutual hadn’t predicted or warned us. It felt like a conquest, it felt like he was impossible to get. He should be above that all, paintbrush and sword notwithstanding.

He hadn’t been with anyone in three years and of course didn’t want to get involved in a newly poly relationship, but hey, fucking is fucking.

I remember him folding into himself and asking me sweetly if I wanted to. 

We snuggle on the couch. Closer. Closer. We’d been sparring brains for days, nothing soft, just arguing and teasing and flirting and him spouting off philosophy. Wounded, intimate, mutual.

I remember the bed, white and fluffy. Sheets so white, body so black. We were borrowing the roommate’s bed, who later told me she didn’t mind. She hoped he would be in a better mood if he got laid and was happy I was into it.

Bracelets and a pendant and ink on his shoulder, like the soft hippie artist he is at heart. I remember his skin and his lips and I remember getting naked and him saying

“You have a beautiful body” as he stares at me.

This artist calls me beautiful, makes me blush. Slowly, rolling his eyes over my body. Taking me in. Enjoying my form. His palm follows his eyes, flat against my curves, sliding against my skin where his eyes have laid track.

I surrender under it. So desperate for his approval as justification.

His body, beautiful and long. His body, marred in that way that poor black bodies in the US are. A childhood whoopin’ here. A toe or finger that should have been reset there. Bulletholes. Tall and long and all limbs. Big hands and big feet and a big, thick, cock that I give that customary shrug to.

“Big cocks don’t work for me.” I admit.

“Condoms don’t work for me.” he counters. 

We both sigh. We play. Smooth skin and warm embraces. The pull of cotton against pores. Holding and squeezing. He is gentle, specific.

Deep kisses, big, thick lips. Tongue. His mouth is big, and plush, and he kisses like he’s giving me treats from a small bag. He knows how good it feels, but he doesn’t have much for me. Or anyone.

And me my mind doesn’t flit to my partner at all. This is the first time I’ve had sex with anyone else in over five years. All that’s on my mind is this smart, moody artist.

Warmth. Kissing naked, touching. Exploring. Eyes, hugs, rhythms. Gentle and firm. His fingers stroking my clit in gentle, gentle circles. 

Moans, gasps, clutched sheets. His name, called. Shudders.

We decide to try for it anyway, and I am naked, hopping around the flophouse looking for a condom. I know that my brother who runs the house has one. He’s a sex addict and one of my best friends. The definition of stuck, at the time. The kind of guy it takes a baby to unstick. But that’s another story.

I’m correct, and I tell him, my brother, soon about using the hidden key for emergencies only to enter his room and search for condoms while he is away, somewhere out on the road. He agrees that this qualifies as an emergency.

Big, beautiful, hard, black, circumcised Samurai cock qualifies as an emergency. 

Indeed, he can’t stay hard, nor I wet, but we have fun trying. He fits. We’re eager and happy, we fuck until it’s not fun anymore and he senses that the moment I do.

But somehow, we never get there again. Stuck.

Another New York Story

Other One Night Stands:

1: The Persian Lovers: The First Persian

2: Becoming a Cougar

3: Israeli Man at Burning Man

4: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)

5: The Russian Lovers: Russian Kazakh Lover

6: Johnny the Cheesemonger

7: Nigeria is the Future

8: Tantra

More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:

1: Cheater

2: His first discretion? Hookup

3: In more detail: Barcelona

4: Will He Or Won’t He?

5:  Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

6: Agenda

7: Naked in the Dark

8: Use a Condom

9: Rapid City


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