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Love For The First Time

I’ve heard “I love you” plenty of times from men. Some of these I love you(s) were real while others were a tactic to make my panties come down faster than they normally would have. I fell for the okie doke until the responsibility of that phrase had to come into action on their part and they failed me miserably. I soon learned that “I love you” is something that is displayed, acts that are done to make a person feel special and even untouchable when it comes to negativity. And here I was, in a situation with a man where we were spending quality time, learning one another and I was observing his acts, all of which pointed to I love you, but the words never left his mouth. I fantasized about the moment when he would finally tell me he loved me. Would he blurt it out one day? Would it be while we made love? And if so, in my head, it wouldn’t count because you’re liable to say anything while having sex. Would he sneak up behind me and hold me close while I prepared dinner and whisper it in my ear? I had no clue and since I held on to the secret that I loved him we played the waiting game.

I soon became obsessed with knowing if he loved me or not. It had been eight months since we had been exclusive and at that point he made me feel comfortable in knowing that he only wanted me and acted this way as well. It snuck out in his mannerisms and gestures. He’d hold my face with both hands when kissing me. After making love, our bodies would form into a pretzel like position and we’d fall asleep only for me to wake up in that same pose with him. And when I would rush out of his apartment the following morning after having spent the night with him he’d become agitated with me and tell me that I’m “abrupt.” So then why hadn’t he said it?

The obsession only got worse when I actually voiced it. I knew I loved him, but there is something about saying it out loud and to someone that made it real. I confessed my secret to my mother, who had come out to New York to visit me and had just met my man for the first time. She fell in love with his charm and affection toward her and was sold on him almost immediately. After their meeting, mom and I went about our day and she went on and on about how much she liked him and how she couldn’t wait for the three of us to have dinner together. I sat there daydreaming, wondering if I should tell my mother how I felt. I knew what her response would be, but was hoping for her to give me some type of guidance on how I should go about handling this now obsession.

As soon as the words left my mouth, “Mommy, I love him”, she turned her head to me, squinted her eyes and said, “Don’t tell him first.” I was immediately discouraged and decided to do what I had been doing, hold it inside. But then that fateful day had come when I could no longer hold it, when all of my insides where burning to express how I felt and was praying that he felt the same way. It didn’t happen at all the way I had imagined or fantasized and it pissed me off that my reality and my fantasy didn’t collide. I sat on his bed with my back against the wall watching him as he cleaned his room, admiring all of his quirks and manliness. I beckoned for him to come join me on the bed. He stopped what he was doing and climbed on the bed crawling toward me like a mysterious black cat. This was it! I was about to woman up and just tell him. After all, once I told him the obsession would be over and I could get the hell on. These feelings would no longer be a burden to me. As he approached my face, kissing me all over it I pulled away, grabbed his face with both of my hands and took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I wanna tell you something.” He looked inquisitive and replied, “What’s up baby girl?” I froze. It felt like an hour had passed in one minute as his inquisitive look turned into a slight frown. “Uh, uh... I really care about you.” He smiled and gave me a casual, “Baby I care about you too.” As he backed away from me to resume his house duties I shouted, “WAIT, that’s not what I was going to say...” My tone startled him and he slowly crawled back toward me, his head slightly cocked to one side. “I.. I, uh...” I could hear my alter ego, the sassy Trudi coaching me through this, “girl, go on and tell him shit.” “I love you.” There was silence and he just stared at me. As he opened his mouth to respond I imagined what would come out of it. “Baby I love you too, I’ve wanted to tell you all this time, but I was afraid.” Instead, I got, “Awww, thank you babe” and a forehead kiss.

I patted my face with both hands to see if it were still there and watched him recede from the bed. It took me about two weeks to regroup and then I told myself that at least I had gotten the feeling off of my chest and it’s up to him to do what he needed to do with it, but he’d never hear it from me again unless it was in response to him saying it first. Two months had passed and I held my silence and my game face, so well that he questioned if he heard me right and if I even meant what I said. I would play dumb as if those words that it took months to build up the courage to even say meant nothing to me, but I was still dead from the thank you and the forehead kiss. And then it came, the words that I obsessed over him saying to me, never imagining that I’d be the one to say them first. It was 2:00 AM and we were having pillow talk; as we laughed silently talking and looking at each other in the dark; he asked me if I meant what I had told him two months prior. “Honey, I tell you a lot.” I wanted to drag it out of him the way I had to drag it out of myself. “You know what you told me.” I sat there for a moment feigning to be recollecting what he was referring to and then said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Tell me what I said.” Now it was his turn to stutter, stammer and take deep breaths. “You told me you loved me.” I acted very casual, “Oh, oh yeah. I do.” “Then why haven’t you said to me again?” Was this guy serious? I replied, “Well, I could see that you were put on the spot and I don’t need to beat you over the head with it. I told you and that’s it.” He was silent so long that I thought we stopped talking and he was falling asleep. As I turned my head opposite of him I heard, “I love you Trudi." I stopped breathing. WAIT! Did I hear him correctly? He scooted closer to me and continued, “You hear me? I love you Trudi. Marie. Russell.” His tone was confident as if he pondered this for a while and was firm in his decision. As he took me in his arms I exhaled, the front was over and I could be free in my expression. This “I love you” was nothing like I had ever heard from anyone before. It was real and finally, finally it was the link between us.

Baby Got Back

It wasn’t until third grade that I noticed I didn’t look like the other girls in my class. It was pointed out to me one recess as I was playing with my friends. I sang a song about my butt being swung around the playground, a friend said to me, “Trudi, your butt is big enough to be swung around the world.” As the other girls laughed at her quick come back and clever joke, I played it off and laughed as well, but I was dying inside. In my head, I thought we all looked the same, but we didn’t. Throughout the day I was teased about having a big butt and I hated it! Also, it didn’t help that my name rhymed with booty and the annoying song; “Trudi with the big booty” was made up by some asshole that stamped the mark on my insecurity even further.

I remember looking in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting a side profile of my body. I stared at my butt and tried to do things that would make it look smaller than it actually was. I’d put both hands on my rear end and push my pelvis forward, hoping that in some way that would flatten my plump behind. And when it was time for me to lay my clothes out for the following day I’d try to pick things that didn’t show my behind as much. Just the day before my butt wasn’t an issue and suddenly over night it was the biggest thing on my body and I wanted to get rid of it, maybe then my personal song sang at school wouldn’t apply.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore; I went in my mother’s room and told her what was said to me at school that day. I questioned why I didn’t look like the other girls; they didn’t have big butts and no one teased them about it. My mother listened intently, took me by my hand and led me to our living room where there was a stereo system with two huge speakers. After having asked her why she brought me to the living room she replied, “I need you to hear something.” “Baby, those girls are jealous because they don’t look like you. You’re a brick house baby!” A brick house? Wasn’t it enough that I wanted this big butt of mine to go away, now I’m being called a house? I could feel the lump in my throat and the tears about to well up in my eyes and then it came. The beat was so loud I almost covered my ears and the base vibrated through the living room. My mother started dancing, her hips swayed from side to side and her arms followed to the same rhythm. She moved in a way that made her butt pop out emulating the dancers in some of my favorite videos. Suddenly there was a loud whistle and I looked out of the window to my left to see if it were coming from outside, but it was the music. As mommy moved to her own beat, letting the music take over her body, she faced me smiling and the chorus started, “She’s a brick hooooouse. She’s mighty, mighty just lettin’ it all hang out.” I was relieved to know that a brick house wasn’t a bad thing, but what was it exactly? Mommy sang each line directly to me and she believed it so much that I started to believe it. She sang to me about a woman who is lusted after because of her body. And when I really started to pay attention to the words in this sing I didn’t understand everything, but what I did understand was that the men singing about this “brick house” woman, were losing their minds over her and I suddenly wanted to be like her. The Commodores described this woman as being stacked, a stallion who not only had the body, but the confidence to go along with it. I asked mommy if the woman in the song had a big butt like me and she said, “YES BABY! Bigger.” Well that was all I needed to hear because somewhere there was a woman who had a song made about her and she had a big butt like me!

The next day at school recess came and I waited for the little boys to tease me about my behind and like clock work they came. I stopped jumping rope with my friends, put my hand on my hip, looked them directly in the face, smiled, dusted my shoulder off the way mommy taught me the night before and said, “I may be Trudi with the big booty, but I’m a brick house too.” My friends laughed and cheered me on, “Oooooooooo, get um Trudi!” As I looked at the friend who exposed what I thought was my flaw just the day before, I replied to her cheering, “That was for you too.”