Starlight Therapy

Love. That’s right, I said it, love. You see, I enjoy many things, such as: skinny dipping, rollercoaster rides, menopause and condomless sex. But, there’s nothing I love more than my husband. Baby he gives me that boundless, unacquainted pleasure, far from the grasping capacities of sycophantic men and their tortured artist egos. To say I need him would be have to be a fabrication by omission, because, if that man were to dematerialize for any reason, id stop exsisting, you understand??. “God send me angel from the heavens above” who assimilates his lifetime desirables and just like in a game of tag, I’m it; longevity, forever is his cosmopolitan bailiwick. He’s a provisioner in all things and I do mean all; hes hands down the most magnificent lover I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing, in three spiritual tenures. See, In my bed, Malcom St James is the king and im what you would call his Nubian Nympho. I know that’s right!! Sista Starla is a freak.

Shoot, and it’s been that way since I was a bergeoning girl of twenty years old, in a big city. Where the men stain on my soul with treats in the plenty. Yes baby, there was a stretch in time, when “loving you is easy cause you’re beautiful”, was blasphemy. My love retained zero decompressing methodologies; In fact, I was hot in the pants, “I was for everybody” as these younglings ventilate these days. I recall contracting both of the pastor’s sons virginities in the fellowship hall bathroom, while Pastor Wells evangelized on Mary Magdalene. Boy oh boy, he should’ve lectured on Sodom and Gomorrah; cause the way his posterity gripped, flipped, and dipped me was somehow felonious, but unerringly congenial. We were stairsteps, while I was the oldest at twenty, the pastor’s senescent son Armon was nineteen. And his newly ripened son chance, was eighteen. We had known each other all our lives, due to our parents congruity incorporeal devotion to the church. Our fathers were best friends. So essentially, we were too. The boys and I, would converse all about their significant others, perpending how providential they were; both girls also attended the same church with us. Their names aren’t important, but I’ll admit, I was territorial all the same. And I did what any immaturely, sane christian woman would’ve done, both of their boyfriends. The four of them made affiances of celibacy till marriage. But, I made zero ciphered promises to on high, plus their libidinous vacillation left my debilitating heartstrings of goatish pretension, with restrained succulent declarations. I know…I know…but a hot little mami said it best, “I’ve been a nasty girl, nasty!!” They soon established their misgivings, involving my evanescing chastity and spread my dainties all over the church, including our two sister congregations. From then on, I was known as the tabernacle floozy, and my family became banished pariahs. My father disowned me, I hadn’t talk to him since. He died three years later from cancer. But I did hear, that he entrenched himself into a diminutive congregation by the liquor store, around the corner from the house I grew up in. It was very convenient for him too because after we forfeited our church home, he began to drink excessively.

When he went to glory, I honored him the only way my then twenty three year old self knew how; I found Armon and Chance on Facebook, wedded to the same girls three years prior, whatever. Then I went to their friends list, added their father and after I advertised what I gave to his sons, pastor craved it too. So I took him for a ride down by the lake, permitting him to deep bathe in my waters, then left him steeped in my juicy couture, “no parfume”. Being that he was my dad‘s best friend, pastor would have a piece of him now; a momento of sorts. Since I’d been the reason their friendship dissipated, I became the pretext of why pastor grieved a little less. Although it was the sui generis occasion, he’d still call me up for the cat over the next few years. Even when he remarried, he texted me on his honeymoon something about him wanting to smell my tu-lips again. Eyeroll right, like it was a solitary, night of hellish passion, get over it…but he cant!! I kept my girl tight with one hundred kegals a day and pristine at all times with God’s benefaction to woman kind, vagisil. You never know when you need to lay a brotha out, so I stayed ready while never having to get ready. Call yo sista in Christ a repugnant jezebel if you want to, but I’m only speaking on my deliverance from being a street walking church hopper, to becoming prima donna of my kingdom. “Im that girl”, as a fellow queen in Houston once put it. We all have our own ministries, and I won’t be shamed by any mouthpiece belonging to a heathen, who hates. Yes, I abide in my fantasies and praise God all the same. And yes, these tangible phantasms can appear as strange, sinful, or perverted, but “he without sin cast the first stone”…im waiting!! Cause heed here, even though the bible teaches to love your neighbor, you don’t have to love me, but you will respect me.

Sista Starla must apologize, it seems I’ve gotten sidetracked, now back to my man!! Church, he gives my soul rest and my body peace. He entices me to be my “every women”. His love is of a deep longing and it’s tranquil, but also vibrant and ablaze. Hold me, till he parts my soul to glory, thank you heaven for this man. Based on the way I talk about my boo, would you have depicted that we despised one another, “once upon a time”?? You know, in the long run he cultivated me. He remarked greater value in me and considered himself well rounded in the fine, art of yours truly; that is until I blew in the rudimentary version of my inexperience. But then again, in the end, he demonstrated tact and poise. He confirmed through his actions, that I didn’t have to be standoffish or crude. He proved points are meant to be tallied together, in love and in life. “Love, is life and life is living, it’s very special”, or so I’ve heard.

I happened upon him, dripping in jewels at a fashion week in Paris, when I was at the pinnacle of my modeling career. Your girl use to be the baddest one walking any runway, ask Tyra Banks, ask Naomi Campbell; hell, ask Janice Dickinson who I am…I’m that girl!! Now Janice, might have been the first Supermodel ever, but my sista know who the real is. And as I slayed the catwalk in my designer everything (per usual), I espied a Black and Puerto Rican dad in a crowd of his peers and other couture fashionistas. His skin screamed rich and highly melanated, as it glistened off the runway scintillations. If I wasn’t already preoccupied with commissioning the dreams of many small town chickens, I would’ve caught myself a rooster “quick, fast, and in a hurry”; what an elderly turn of phrase, isn’t it?? But, I was a rich bitch with priorities, and still is…you better ask somebody!! After the show, I obtained the cutest single rose with an eloquent missive that read, “who you looking at??”. I was lit up to say the least, and “in my mind, I’ll always be his lady”. Something about his swag, drew infatuation out of me and for a second, I was stunted. I acted in an unlearned manner, a to breath. I took a minute to catch my breath, then ample time ornamenting myself into something slinky, for the after party of course. Bae bae, the party was “jumping jumping”, ill tell you that. Church, I know one thing for sure and two things for certain; the function don’t start till I get there, and these celebrities get significantly undomesticated for me. I traipsed around exchanging pleasantries, until I descried him conversing in a pygmy sized huddled of ballers. Without missing a beat, I assembled my fit with a few adjustments to the girls, confirming all things were sitting pretty. Then, I ambled over to them like I threatened, to lay waste to the marble floor clicking against my seven inch, one of the kind Christian Louis Vuittons; made just for me. The blacked out Balenciaga cocktail dress with surprises of sheer, was bad as hell too; but this body was the sovereign course in an accommodation, full of dessert, honey. Being that I’ve always been a splinter of frisky, I determined that I’d approach him from behind, lacing my left arm around his waist, while entering the group from his right. I must’ve frightened the bejesus, out of him, because he elbowed me in my face. My nose had been fragmented, as blood spackled the transparent material of my attire, my anatomy bestrewed its liquid essence, like an industrial sprinkler system. After he realized what he’d done, he leaned down attempting to help me up, but I energetically biffed him in his mouth with all my might; and thus, started a fued that lasted a generation. We had gone viral back in the day for the ruckus we engendered between us, a few times. The media loved us, no matter what hell, one of us conjured up for the other. Believe me baby, we knew just how to put on a show. Whether, it was an interview diss with Wendy Williams, or a hosted live event gon bad. Red carpets became our beloved space to turn up. After a while, it seemed we had a “hustle and flow” of chaos, that you could consider, “je ne sais quoi”. With every nonsensical antic after another, we pursued each others destruction, relentlessly; but only one could win. I ended up having relations with his childhood companion, Harold, for my get back. And I deplore to say, on that very same night, his best friend hauled and propelled his final breath; before succumbing to a grandma seizure, while still inside me. At first I had my eyelids fastened, assuming, what I thought could be the worst thing (his stroke game); obviously, I was wrong. I’d been completely shooken up to say the least. Life flashed before my eyes that night, and I speculated that I would have to be the mature party, to discontinue our fued for the better; nope, definitely wrong. Your girl couldn’t believe it at first, but he indisputably denounced me for the passing of beloved confidante, and a sparse portion of me felt the same. Over the following two years, I wore death like a panegyric insignia of excruciation and compunction. If I hadn’t been such a vengeful little tart, maybe just maybe, he wouldn’t have pantomimed as a pawn in my mediocre aspirations, belittling the life of an innocent to his unforeseeable death. Unfortunate it may be, but it was also a pivotal moment of clarity. Above all else, what I sought the most, was to decide who I desired to be, and stat.

Many things had been modified, since two years prior of delighting a man into permanent sleep. I began meditating more, operating far from the talons of the blood thirsty blogs and main stream media; focusing on what the world thinks of me, less and less. One and a half years into my self reproach, something clicked for me; my crazed ambition to see a brotha’s destruction, live in living color, dissipated. By the end, I was stepping out as “whole brand new bitch”; ooo, excuse me lord, woman in christ. With all the psycho therapy I endured, I learned to not be so vengeful but be grateful instead. Be grateful that life brings forth a new day and if i’m lucky to see it, live in it like it’s my last. And I revoked the idea of spending my last, scuffling for attention. If I must fight, i’d fight for what I believed in. So with that frame of mind, I began courting again, but for the first time. The first man I sanctioned to be in the space of my brand new self, was interestingly a WO-MAN. Yeah, Sista Starla gets down with a little of everything. That’s only because I was a Jack of all trades, and a master of none; these youngins call it “pansexual”, but I ain’t having relations with pots and pans, so I don’t know what they’re talking about. I fought and freed myself from my own captivity, then met the masculine butterfly named Zouh (Zo). She was a beautiful “stud”, or so they call themselves. Her hands were dainty like mine, but her voice wasn’t dainty at all. She cherished playing basketball, though her scary talent was being a beast ballerina; just because she lived her life as a butch woman, it didn’t mean a stud couldn’t be the Academy femininity with the best of them; and just because she was a woman, it doesn’t mean she could either. I genuinely liked her for who she was, Zouh was honest, funny and reminded me of an old boyfriend, kinda favored him too. Is that weird?? Now look child, if you’re here to pass your unsolicited “righteous” judgment then put down my testimony and pivot to the back of the room; some things are better left unsaid. Speaking of, Zouh had some things left unsaid and according to her, it couldn’t be said on a phone, through email or in passing. She needed to be sitting face to face with me, in a four star Italian restaurant of her choosing, just for her to ask me to marry her and we hadn’t even did the freaky deaky yet. We’d only been dating less than six months, she received the tiniest taste of my cinnabon, due to way too many shots of Don Julio; but that was an accident. See, her and my late father’s friend, the pastor, became wildly obsessed over “ my goodies, my goodies, my goodies, not my goodies”. So I declined the proposal and laid her off as my date, indefinitely. She would’ve been grateful just to smell it again; I should have let the young stud make love to my rich slit, with those “D.S.L’s.”, yall generation cracks me up. I enjoyed time well spent as we built on our comradely reciprocity, I just didn’t want to end up being Zouh’s lesbian concubine, sexual liberation had never made me flinch; although, full blown lady sex, forever?? No god, I can’t do that, It’s not my ministry. It has to be an experience, you know, a moment in time; a trial run even. But not till death, do I part my legs for ol girl, on a whim. Now, I did have a best friend named Stacy, and strangely enough she was in love with this girl named, Tracy. Ain’t that the most fascinating thing?? Anyways, after Zouh’s proffer crashed and burned, Stacy encouraged me to experience an assortment of different women; “every stud, is not a dud”. Her words, not mine. You see, my best friend wasn’t the best at setting me up, because she slept her way through every prospect; she was an even freer spirit than me. But when Stacy met Claudia, she told me, she “met a bad little yaya that would be perfect” for me; her words, not mine. Ms. Claudia!! When I tell you church, the girl was bad, you better believe me. Her skin elicited multifarious remembrances of my husband, the first time I had ever seen him. The only difference being Claduia was full Puerto Rican. Talk about a banging body, she was giving me a run for my money, and I almost paid the girl to lend me her waist’s secrets. Miss maam sported supple everything, everywhere that mattered yet fit to the touch. When she danced, “she moved her body like a cyclone, and she made me wanna do it all night long”. Once she commenced in cutting a rug, with all due respect, you wanna give her your undivided attention. Baby girl merited a witness and I gave it to her. But when it was time to do the bump and grind, I saw nothing wrong with “laying the smacketh down”, real raw like too. We dated over two years and for a while it seemed as if I found my match. I figured, all though this was different and obviously not in my plan, Claudia was also different and I planned to see where it went. An upcoming fashion show needed slay material (“material girl”), so I ended up choreographing something really special for her, that intertwined with work. We took a celebratory cruise down the coast of Mexico, and the day after, I reprimanded the stage with these legs, in my Spanish inspired attire. We sojourned a few of the islands, while being outrageously and flamboyantly inebriated. She solicited me, to provide us with refills of our tiki punch and coconut rum smoothies, one Saturday afternoon on a resort beach; I obliged, of course. Although, as I sat at the bar, waiting for the bartender to fulfill my latest desire, ms. Claudia was supplicating for me to set a used woman loose. Church, I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was coquetting, but that’s not the dilemma here. Standing not even a foot away from her, was Malcolm, the man that initiated it all, with his rich and highly melanated skin. I was so shook, I almost couldn’t distinguish Claudia, pointing in my direction and my arch enemy paralleling my gaze of disbelief. Sista Starla isn’t scared of “nan” person, but when we locked eyes, I hid, by catapulting my body to the floor and army crawling on the sand, along the bar. While crouched in a ball, at the carrefour of the bar, I opening and crawled right into it with no hesitation. The bartender obviously discerned my presence, and quickly began to volunteer my position with just one look of perplexity. But, I knew exactly what to do. Your girl got street smarts, you better believe it. With our eyes locked in a competition to see who would recede first, so I thwacked her with a surprise attack; I dug into my bikini top and denuded an immaculate, fifty dollar bill. I dangled it in the air for a bit, before her face of bewilderment turned into a face of indebtedness and concurrence. That was all the info the young lady bartender needed, she understood the silent conversation of coins; no chatter, when money’s the matter. I know that’s right, help me out little mama, cause she was imperative to the conundrum of my clandestine operation. My jollity for winning her over, came short of too soon; cause before you knew it, she was looking at me again in discombobulation. She glimpsed into the void on the other side of the bar, then back down at me. I witnessed her take a hundred dollar bill, then the trick starred at me for the remainder of my stay, inside her domain. I could perceive she didn’t wanna be a part of any drama, in the same code of silence we shared just seconds before, she beseeched me to leave, with a simple nod of her head, in the other direction. As a born again christian, I consistently battled my greatest impulses. Oh boy, did I have a great impulse to use an abundance of inappropriate language, with said bartender. She pocketed my money and when the serial framer came along, the “little wanch” gave me up. I held up the three necessary fingers, and silently told her to read between the lines. I rose up from my Sandy disposition, to find my nemesis putting away his wallet and Claudia was obviously masquerading, with concern on her face, laughing at me. I…Was…Embarrassed; but the worst was over, at least that’s what I believed. I grabbed my drink that played the role of the sitting duck, from off the bar and faced it. After I big gulped my smoothie, I demanded an explanation of some sorts, before I back “stepped into the bad side”. Yall know im not the one to be played with; “and if you don’t know, now you know”. So I started off by asking, why was he there?? And how they knew each other?? Well the story goes like this. Claudia met Malcolm a few years ago after his best friend died; they dated for a while, before he philandered without accreditation. He admitted it was due to all the grief he’d been enduring and necessitated more than what she could offer. Hearing that, made me nauseated. After they broke up, she met a girl named Stacy, who shot her down in order to acquaint Claudia, to me. Claudia mentioned how he barely escaped, when she set his bed on fire after he got caught cheating. I always knew ms thang was a spicy mami. They both started to laugh which weirded me out, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. On a drop of a dime, he began divulging objectionable information on how we met; the shame I felt a few years before, loomed over me once more. As he verbalized, he threatened my very existence; whether or not I could continue to stand even though I felt weak, was the battle I faced. At the end of his hate filled monolog concerning me, he presented to me one final smirk; then did the unthinkable, by kissing her and she kissed him back. No love, no loyalty, zero backbone. Claudia could’ve had the decency, to impersonate her lack of enjoyment; but the way he gripped the back of her neck, while pussyfooting his tongue in and out, licking between her lips; it made me pissed. They took no brakes, and the fact that I had enough time to light a cigarette, hit it a few times then put it out on his bare chest, was insane to me. But, that’s exactly what I did. Malcolm never flinched, he instead contemplated over his singed chest, blew me a kiss after licking his lips, then persisted in my devastation. God, why was I so wet?? Hatred, covered the basis of how I experienced Malcom, and I discovered my want for him to be of a despicable, supernatural phenomenon. Then without a word, I stormed off. Finally, as I made it back to the room, I lit another cigarette and noticed her suitcase. I lugged her luggage over to the balcony, watched as the sun set; and when my cigarette hit it’s last leg, I threw the lit cigarette butt into her opened suitcase. Hurriedly, I seized my already packed bags from my side of the bed, and shot towards the door. You could hear as the flames increased exponentially, but I never looked back. Once I arrived to the elevator, I rode it down to the first floor, checked out of our room even though we had two days left, and booked a flight back home. I hadn’t seen or heard from her again till it was too late. Down the line, I harkened through the grapevine, they ended up getting married a few months later. Your sister in christ, was at an all time low. And, there was no way I could pick myself up off ground, after a blow like that to my heart; so I remained down there for a while, that is, until I met Frankie aka Fraklin Darelle Barnes.

Being depressed, was laborious work and I was severely preoccupied. You know, having to find the time to be better for myself, was tedious. “Lord have mercy”, I went from presiding as blessed to “being all stressed out, hair falling out. My weight up and down, can’t keep anything down”; I might as well had “two miscarriages”, because I felt like he “took life from me and he never even said, I’m sorry”. At least after my indiscretions, I was genuinely remorseful, and ultimately, I got what I deserved. But after I learned about their engagement, I went out for a night on the town. I thought it was time, to “get up off that thang and dance till I felt better”. I met up with Stacy, and she whisked me off to RuTaos. RuTaos, was the petite aesthetical, hip hop/mexican food spot, we frequented in our youth. We could let our hair down, while enjoying food that slapped you to sleep with the itis; but the music was the primary reason we loved RuTaos, they played the latest and the greatest hits in hip hop. Anywho, the server brought us our food and the world went silent. You know when it comes to black people and food, the better the food the more quiet we become; the meal becomes our first priority. I tore up my two tacos, then wended myself to the women’s facilities to wash up. On the way out of the bathroom, I came face to face with a behemoth of a man; he was extremely tall and thick, at least six foot seven. Last but not least, he was as fine as the tallest glass of wine. My mouth went dry, as I tried to exchange pleasantries. So, I ended up smiling and waving him through. Come on yall, I know, you know all about the you go first wave signal. I thought, it was going a battle of wills, but he politely accepted my attempt of chivalry. And thank the god above because I needed a peek of the sitter (his butt). Sista starla was lonley, and required some eye candy before leaving for the most depressive place in the world, home that is. My goal was to feel something that night, and if it wouldn’t be labeled as harassment, I would’ve brought back slap ass Fridays; yes god, I’m a frisky piece of work. Look, please don’t hghb dissimulate as if you don’t know what I’m talking about, or as if what im talking about isn’t somethin, you’ve known to be true at least once in your life. So instead of going to jail for instant gratification, I got his attention by saying excuse me, then proceeded to ask him if it was possible that I could cop a feel; but he laughed so hard, I began to feel embarrassed. My grandmother always tutored me, “to ask god for what you want”, and I wanted to know what the softest part of him felt like, in the palm of my hands. The darkest part of me wanted to turn this emollient titan, into my very own slutty, silly putty. In the midst of him exuberantly laughing in my face, I stepped towards him then leaped into his arms, like a gazelle dancing in a field of lofty grass; I know that’s right, I snatched ol boy by surprise. He seemed, to need a bit more time to work out some residual feelings, but I didn’t care. For whatever reason, my body quested for him right then, right there. Glaring into his eyes, sidetracked me for a few seconds, but then he began to set me back down, to reality. I apologized to him quickly and just as quick, he hemmed me back up and slobbered me down. I was losing my breath for how good he felt, as I moaned inside his mouth, and he in mine. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly released his gorilla glue grip from my waist and then my lips. With my back pressed into the wall, he rested his forehead on mine and we just breathed each other in. As I regained my faculties, my nostrils drafted zephyrus notes of Chanel number five, secretly hidden in the million miniature knots of his cotton blended white tee. And just as quick as I was hype and ready to make a fool of myself, I began feeling icky. I wasn’t the same person with abnormal desires of destruction anymore, and he started feeling like prohibited produce. I asked him flat out, was he seeing anybody, and his response was perfect; he kept it transparent with me. Frankie was dating, but nothing serious. He also relayed info about his current date and why he went to the bathroom in the first place. I guess she catfished him, but instead of abdicating her where she stood, at her house, he didn’t want to be perceived as mean or superficial.

Ms thang (myself), was already undergoing a barbarous evening while home alone, so in the spirit of getting what I wanted, I offered to help. With confusion plastered all over his face, before he could even question why, I coerced him into retunring to his seat and awaiting my heroics. Shortly after, I ended up back at the table where Stacy sat waiting for me, and I needed her help. If there ever was a time I dreamed to act up, my girl Stacy was gon act up first. Right after I mentioned the plan to her, she stood up from the table and headed towards the behemoth of a man. She was quiet for starters, so I was oblivious as to what their topic of discussion, but then she issued my cue. I headed over to the table, just to find my new behemoth friend sitting in a luxurious velvety booth, with what look like a women who used to be a man. I copped his glass of wine from off the table, and threw it to his face. For the following two minutes, I cussed him out, pretending he was my man on a date with another simpleton. He unlocked his phone, pretending he was going to call someone for security. But I know a game when I see one, so I snatched his phone off the table. I quickly put my digits in his phone, then threw it in his lap, just as quick. Stacy and I, fled the restaurant right after I told him it was over. Forty minutes later, I received a picture message of his wine filled shirt, I texted him back and he invited me over to his place. After I dropped Stacy off at her house, I flew to him like I was a fighter jet, ready with that bombay. Upon my arrival, he was already outside waiting for me; he stationed himself shirtless, wearing light grey sweats, while tilting on the back of his “whip“. You could see his muscles flexing in the moonlight, as the frosty moist air nipped at his skin, decorating his body with goosebumps. It was apparent he was in a state of uncomfortable exhaustion. I’m guessing, the luncheonette pandemonium was a bit overwhelming for a man with so many muscles. Mr. behemothe, had your girl’s knees buckling from underneath her, as he ambled over to my car door with that pimp limp, and opened it. Church, you know that thang was thangin, christ jesus, yes lord!! When I got out, he nabbed me by my waist and lifted me unto the very top of my car. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him slow and passionately. I could feel his body tremor against mine, then he bit down on my bottom lip and my body gave in to the tremor. Eventually, he led me to his living room and we did the nasty, the best way we knew how, condomless. And upon our enfranchising, we were so out of breath we couldn’t move; unanimously, we laid in each other’s arms for a long while. He appeared exactly how I felt, we both were feeling debilitated and delirious. Frankie basked his head in my bosom and held onto me tight, while also putting his weight on me. I felt like a grown ass women with a man who needed her, even if, for the few minutes I spent on his hideaway couch. When he finished breathing in my bath and body works, special edition of midnight sun body mist that I drenched the girls in; he lifted me from off the couch and led me into the bedroom. On my way to his house, I had planned to massacre the front seam of his jeans, with my “lovely lady lumps”, then ghost him. But, when we got in his bed, it felt so natural between us and for whatever reason, I didn’t want this to be a one and done deal. I arbitrated to invest in him, some time to see where we would end up. So, instead of enabling him to love me, like usual, the long way; I awarded him that, along with “something he could feel”. “For the night is dark and full of terror”, and I refused to spend even one more minute not in his arms, nor he in mine. For whatever this was, or wherever we ended up, it was meant to be; contemplate it as fate.