NavelStories™

I'm writing this to tell you about my first (and so far only) sexual experience with a black guy. His name was Yemi and it happened six summers ago, about a year before I met my now husband Steve. I wouldn't say that I was overly promiscuous, although I'm not particularly prudish either, but I can count on both hands the number of lovers that I've had and there were periods in my twenties where I didn't have sex for months - even a year on one occasion. This was was one of those occasions. Yemi was originally from Portmore, Jamaica but moved to Brixton with his family when he was three. It is a Caribbean tradition (so I have learned) to throw a house warming party when you move somewhere new, so, as was his family's custom (his parents had always wanted the family to stay in touch with their Jamaican roots) , they arrived in Bristol on the Wednesday and by Thursday afternoon had invited the the whole street over on the Friday for food and drinks. I lived in Be

The last Friday of the last summer break of my undergraduate degree and where was I? Backpacking through Europe? Hanging out with friends? Earning a little extra cash? No. I was running wind sprints in an almost empty recreation center. And why? Because my dad is an asshole, and I'm an idiot. "Gabe! You should come visit this summer! We'll finally get to spend some time together." I should have known better. From the day he bailed on Mom when I was twelve, it's always been 'next summer,' and 'when things slow down at work,' and 'sorry, champ, I'll make it next time.' I thought that maybe, finally, now that the shine had worn off his new trophy wife and his second family, maybe he could actually make some time for me. That maybe, maybe, he really did want to make up for lost time. Nope! We wasted the first couple of weeks "catching up." This meant him awkwardly guessing which milestones I'd hit in my life and which I hadn&#

 * * * Fingerprints on my Heart * * * I feel the fingerprints That you left on my heart You played a game of love And then you said we had to part You left me all alone And as the teardrops start I feel the fingerprints Of sorrow on my heart Fingerprints on my Heart, Patsy Cline * * * "Hi Kylie," he says as I walk in to the restaurant with my parents. He's right in front of us with his wife. I blush and say "Hi" back. I wish I could think of something else to say but words desert me. With him they always do. Not with my boyfriend, not with anyone else. Just with him. I have a crush on him. A totally major crush. His name's Nick. He's thirty four. He's married. He has two young children. I'm eighteen and I'm a freshman at College and, well, I know what this thing I have for him is. I'm eighteen and I'm supposed to be an adult but this is a teenage girl's crush on an older guy kind of thing and I don't care. It's a crush. I