The roar of the fan mesmerizes me deeper into post-coital bliss. It cools my bare skin as I lie on his firm bed. The sweat dries. Mister Mister is in the shower with the door half open. I can smell his cologne on me.
He comes out in a towel, grabs his boxer briefs from the closet and goes into the other room to change.
"Haven’t I already seen you naked?" I say.
"Yeah, but I’m trying to be polite," Mister Mister says.
I pull up my jeans, snap my bra and yank my shirt back over my head, punching my arms through the sleeves.
We sit on his bed with his dog and get ready to venture out into the Indian Summer.
I kiss his neck and he quivers.
"I really like spending time with you, yo," I say.
His body recoils as he looks at me askance with eyes wide in clear, obvious repulsion.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head as he loads a bowl of Gorilla Glue into a glass chillum.
"Sometimes, I don’t know if we’re going to kiss or chest bump, YO," he says.
My cheeks burn. My throat constricts. I’m taken aback by his words—they slice me deep in the psyche. I thought we were both the rare combo of street-smart and smart-smart. The hood chick in me stuck out her neck and here it is, getting lopped off by a B-boy with brains.
He penetrates a part of me I wasn’t even fully aware of yet.
I take a deep breath to squash the ghetto bitch in me and try to see where he’s coming from. I pet the soft, curly fur of his cute dog to ground me. I glance over and follow the webbed lines of one of the three dream catchers near his bed. I probably don’t even make eye contact.
"Man, that’s just how I talk," I say. "I’m comfortable around you because you’re street, too, yo."
He laughs and we debate. I still don’t fully understand what he means, but I want to.
"That’s how heshers talk, you know, the skaters who wear jeans that are frayed on the hems and say they used to breakdance back in the day," he says.
Flabbergasted, I tell him that’s how I grew up talking in South Florida. He says something about surfers, and I’m like, "Nah, dawg. Wasn’t a surfer. Fully ghetto-goth."
We laugh. And, respectfully, hash it out. But, I only half understand, despite my efforts Even though I mean all the "bro, yo, dawg, man, dude" talk as endearing and established comfort, he hears it as an electric fence around my heart and soul that shouts, "Keep out!"
When it comes time to say goodbye for the night, it all clicks for me.
We stand at his door. He hugs me, but keeps a foot or two between us and bro-taps me on the back, with a lite triple pat. "Have a good night, yo," he says.
The distance between our physical bodies represents the moat I inadvertently dug between our emotional bodies.
The half-hearted wannabe hug said it all. In that moment, he treated me like a friend and not a lover, to drive his point home. I admired his clever style—because it fucking worked.
"So, this is what it feels like," I say. "Oh man. I’m sorry."
I lunge forward and grab his waist and pull him close to my body and previously-closed-off aura when I realize the very thing I thought was a sign of affection—all the brospeak—was actually a de- flection of intimacy.
He clowns on me and hesitates at first, but then laughs and hugs me back before I leave his apartment.
Later that week, we drive to Fred Meyer to grab snacks. He asks me to lock the door.
"Just push this button after you open your door and I close mine," he says.
"Sure, I can get the door, yo," I say, as he gets out and shuts his door.
He walks over to my side. Still seated, I step halfway outside the car and look up at him. My body contorts into an amalgamation of a feral cat and a deer in the headlights.
"Oh shit," I say. "See?! I can’t NOT say it.’"
It takes him a moment to register what I’m talking about.
"That’s not what I meant," he says. "It’s not the same context. Of course that’s fine, I’m not an asshole."
I get out of the car and shut the door.
"Just don’t tell me how much you like me, then say ‘yo,’ you know?" he says, then officers me his arm to hook mine inside. I do and we laugh, then walk into the store together.
Him calling me out made me look at myself and how I choose to communicate my emotions. I’m more open and honest about how I feel and it’s made me more willing to be vulnerable around him. What I once saw as a weakness, is now a strength. That’s an invaluable life lesson I’ll never forget.
And, now, when we have sex, he gets dressed in front of me and I tell him how much I care about him, without calling him "dawg" or saying "yo."
