Doomed Romance: Almost Love

It's hard to go through the motions of love and not fall in love. Some people can pull of the act of "best friends with benefits," but often, for one friend, it isn't beneficial at all.

How can you hold back your feelings when you can talk about almost anything, do almost anything, be almost anything but the thing you desire? There can be loveless sex, but when you care about someone it can easy turn into making love and wishing the feeling was real and not just a sometimes situation

For this latest Doomed Romance entry, our writer was someone's "lover," but never his love and her heart still aches long after the affair is over.

ALMOST LOVE

Irony, I must live off it.

I have been talking to one man since January. I actually met him online. In any case, we were just friends. I could handle that, until three months down the road, a seemingly and perfectly platonic relationship turned into just a little more. He said he didn't really want a girlfriend and I could handle that too, that he was really only interested in showing and touching, and hooking up once in a while. We would talk for hours, laugh and carry on as if we hadn't a care in the world. Things I think started to get more serious in the summer time. I started to feel things for him, that I promised myself, I wouldn't, and knew wasn't allowed.

I knew no matter what he said, he couldn't and wouldn't allow himself to feel the same way I felt about him. He's an ageist. I'm only 23 and he's 32. It wasn't until late August when he finally came out and pulled the table from under me. Ended all the good times I thought we were having.

Maybe it was unfair of me to let my guard drop, and tell him how I felt, but being brave and honest are two things upon which I pride myself.

Now whenever I speak to him, its "I want a girlfriend" this and "I am going to make more moves to find a wife" that. He always says women from our region of the country aren't into him. I want to remind him that I was his. With out question.

I miss him now. I sometimes feel helpless, but mostly lonely. I miss our talks, I miss the sex, but mostly I miss my friend. He made me feel invincible, and special, and loved all at the same time. I will always wonder what could have been between us, if we only had the chance. C'est la vie though. I guess better luck next time.

Doomed Romance: What I did to Leslie Nia Lewis in my early twenties

The following submission for Doomed Romance comes from a fellow blogger Bryan Wilhite's blog the rasx() context, originally posted on his site.

Here Wilhite goes into detail how he imploded his own relationship years ago through infidelity, giving a first-hand account of how a man could do what he did, why and what he learned from it. For instance, he now knows he can't juggle two women at the same time.

WHAT I DID TO LESLIE NIA LEWIS IN MY EARLY TWENTIES

I even forgot her name for a time—this kind of forgetting implicates me. Her name is preserved in my primeval print design portfolio in a layout for poetry called “Red Beans and Rice”—in the second issue of Freestyle magazine. Her name is Leslie Nia Lewis.

Leslie Nia Lewis represents the blemish on my intimate relationship record. I am certain you can successfully find more women from my life with a truckload of blemishes but to me this is the one. This was clearly me being completely stupid and inexperienced. You see, she showed up to my crappy, family-issue apartment at the Wilhite Family compound in Inglewood, California during the so-called “Rodney King riot.” The phones were out. She drove all the way from Burbank—from her apartment where she slept on the floor and wrote scripts for a storage container at Disney. She brought a bag of groceries for me. Her car could break down on her any minute. Remember folks: she was driving through streets of burning buildings. I could see the strawberries at the top of the bag. Very romantic.

You see she is a writer. I assume that she is still a screenwriter which makes her a close relative with novel writers. They can completely go into their own world. You kind of feel lonely in their presence sometimes—often in the heat of ‘passion’ when you would expect them to very present and focused on you. Instead, with Leslie Nia Lewis, I felt like a doorman who opened a way for her escape—and she would leave me there just holding the door. I resented this ‘abandonment,’ so when she showed up with the groceries, her romantic riot strawberries, my concern went out for my crappy computers. I think I had a 386sx and a 286 at the time.

I was concerned about my computers because another woman was inside the apartment, she is the woman from the poem “Bryan Wilhite: 0.5 the Sisters”—the one who won’t get off my foot while I was doing all of the cooking—the one who is, by my measure, the most powerful poet I have ever met in person. My stupid-ass assumption was that letting Leslie into the apartment would make a fight start—and this girl fight would somehow break my computers. This was a stupid idea. We all were wearing clothes—and my father told me later via telephone from Decatur, Georgia that I should have invited her in and we would all have a civil discussion (even though the woman who would not get off my foot hid herself in the bedroom).

Outside the apartment door, I mumbled to Leslie that ‘someone’ was inside like a big baby expecting mercy for doing something wrong. She immediately understood that I was just another big baby and began rocking her head from side to side to keep herself from crying as she methodically walked back to her car (with the groceries). She drove away. The car was working. I was not. From that moment on—even though nothing even remotely like this ever happened by me again in over 15 years—I was full of shit. No matter what ideals I have about African womanhood you can always answer, “You are full of shit,” and be correct.

This is what should have happened:

• I should have written “0.5 the Sisters” before I met Leslie Nia Lewis. The understanding preserved in that poem represents the possibility that at least Leslie and I would be friends to this day. This also implies that no ‘great’ poetess would have hiding in my bedroom.
• I should have spoken about my ‘doorman problems’ directly to Leslie. I’m a writer, right? Can’t I be challenged and focused to articulate such an alien feeling to a twenty-something year old? Unfortunately, at the time I was preoccupied with me and self deprecation. This culminated in the “Self Pity Portraits” stored in my chapbook, the adolescence of the cool.

This experience (and many others far less dramatic) leads to some conclusions:

• Two writers might make a lovely couple but a writer and reader—especially a reader that’s an editor—certainly makes for a great couple.
• I’m too “arrogant” to have two or more “girlfriends” at one time because the production of energy required to tell lies (and remember the lies) is expensive, demeaning and disgusting to me.
• The meaning of loneliness is more complex. The meaning of intimacy is more complex. Simply having access to the woman’s physical body is not enough for me. Does this sound scary to you? Well, that’s probably why you haven’t called me.

Doomed Romance: Part-time Lover

They say a bird in hand is better than two in the bush, but that never stopped a lover from pushing a romance, a sexual infatuation that was doomed to fail.

Mama said that everything that feels good to you is good for you, but you choose to feel good, for that moment, anyway, in arms that were never yours to begin with, savoring a kiss meant for someone else.

That's the story of our latest tale of romance gone wrong between a woman and her "best friend with benefits.

PART-TIME LOVER

I loved Jay, way more than I should. Come to think of it, I still do love him. Just from a distance.

He was my bad boy. I had been with my high school sweetheart, and we were going through one of our phases. We broke up. The very next day, I met Jay. He made me laugh, and he had that certain je nais se quoi. He screamed sexuality.

I could feel the electricity coming off him.

He had beautiful thick wavy hair, killer dimples and he was a football player -- which was a plus because I liked athletes and often dated them. He was interested in little me as a conquest. He also had a fiancée. I didn't know about her at the time, and quite frankly I didn't care who he had or what he had. I wanted him. For the first time in my life I decided to take charge. I went for it and him. It was good and he was off the charts. His motto was make every stroke count. And I did.

Things got to be a little too hot and heavy, and I want to cool things off for a while. I went back to my high school sweetheart, but I was still seeing Jay on the side. Finally I got back in touch with my inner good girl. I decided to make him my New Year's resolution, but unfortunately I had let the genie out of the bottle. He and I were destined to try our little fling again. I lasted from January 1 to November 8. I just couldn't leave well enough a lone. This led to the demise of my relationship with my high school sweetheart. Deep down he knew I had stepped out on him.

Me and jay would go on to do the friends with benefits thing for more than a year, and eventually I got back with my high school sweetheart. Eventually Jay called me to tell me that he was getting married, and could he singing "Rock me tonight for old time sake." He said he wanted to be with me because I wouldn't tell -- unlike all the women he slept with in the bridal party. At any rate I turned him down, and he said he knew that I wanted him. I had to let him know that He was just a phase to me, and that the sex wasn't what I thought it was. He was a selfish bastard and it began to show. He was angry with me. He called me back to let me know who he was marrying. It was a girl that stayed across the hall from me in the dorm. I was her mentor at one point. She relished telling me that she was marrying him. He was upset for me wishing him well, and I went on to marry my high school sweetheart.

A man that finds a wife finds a good thing. A woman that finds a man not so much.

Doomed Romance: Love Killer

When love ends abruptly, when desire steals away like a thief into the mist and moonlight, who's at fault? Was love never yours to begin with? Was it all real or imagined? Had the facts in hand made a fiction of all you thought was precious? This latest submission in the Doomed Romance series is from a woman who is a serial love killer wondering if her love is like death to the individuals she meets.

THE LOVE KILLER

I couldn’t tell you what it was about him. I don’t know if I ever knew. We were completely opposite personalities. We didn’t have much in common. Maybe it was his utter infatuation with me. He was there for me in a way no one had ever been before. Maybe I was just in love with the idea of someone being in love with me.

I like to think it was more than that. And I do believe it was. Maybe the connection simply cannot be reduced to paper and pen. Whatever it was, at 19, before we had so much as held hands, I remember thinking that I could not imagine him not being the central figure in my life. I still can’t actually. We just connected. Or I did. Whatever. He was my best friend, the person I wanted in my presence above all others.

And so it was. Our courtship was the stuff of fairy tales. I won’t bore you or depress myself with the details. Suffice it to say, I probably couldn’t have written a more romantic story of college sweethearts falling in love for the first time.

That’s not to say it was perfect. There were abundant communication issues – largely mine. There was a determination to be proven right (I think we shared that one). I wanted him to change, to grow up rather, and there were times my critique or treatment of his immaturity were harsh. But at the end of the day, no matter how moody I was or how childish he acted, there was us. K&M. Always.

Until the day five months into our marriage when he quite calmly explained to me that he could no longer be with me. That God would forgive his divorce because, you see, he cannot love me. He tried and tried and did everything he could, but I am simply unlovable. If he stayed any longer he might actually and physically die. To be with me any more would literally suck the life out of him. Yes that’s right, me, my love and my presence in one’s life equals death. I later found out that the fact that he was already engaged to someone else while we were having this conversation probably had something to do with it too.

I just didn’t see it coming. Which sounds so stupid I am ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t. Whatever can be said of women’s intuition, mine did not work. He wasn’t acting strange or moody or withdrawn. There were simply no clues. Two days before we had a nice dinner and laughed over a movie.

I knew that I was somewhat unhappy, but I thought it was a growth phase. I knew that the unexpected passing of his mother put him in an emotional black hole, but that too, I thought, would pass. But we were a normal couple with ups and downs and relatively OK days. Never did I imagine that he-of-the-flowers-for-no-reasons and the naming of our unborn children could walk away so effortlessly.

I spent probably close to two years obsessing over where things went wrong. While I still maintain that he had growing to do, perhaps I was not as evolved and patient about the process as I believed myself to be. Was I not supportive enough? Was I not nurturing enough? Was I too critical? Did I put my needs above his? I’m sure I could have been better in all these respects. But was it that terrible? He never told me he was unhappy with me, or that our relationship wasn’t working. Had I pushed a man over the breaking point just by being … imperfect?

These are questions my logical mind knows are irrelevant. He ended things. He gave up. I know what the correct answers are. At the very least, he is a jackass, and at best, we were not meant to be. I tell myself I am ... [insert self-affirming qualities here]. And all of that might be true. But eight lonely years later (save a second disastrous relationship), I still am forced to ask myself if he was right all along. Does my love equal death? Perhaps not of him, but as the days and months go by, I know that the weight of my unrequited love is certainly killing my own spirit.

Time has erased neither my memory of his flaws nor of the way I needed his presence in my life. The wounds are no longer raw, but the scars prohibit me from living the life I used to. Do I believe in a universe that sends us our true love before we are ready, only to spend our lives regretting the errors that destroyed that love? Do I believe in my inherent unworthiness? Do I believe that I could spend any significant periods of intimacy with someone who does not garner a modicum of concern for my feelings, or for me? None of these are truths I can accept, but the stagnation is quite literally driving me crazy.

Doomed Romance: Almost Right

Finding love is often a bit like a science experiment. You put two chemicals together and look for a reaction. Sometimes it sizzles, sometimes it falls flat, sometimes it explodes, implodes leaving us wrecked in the mess we helped create. This is just the nature of things. There's no way around it. We have to stumble through the experiments of love until we find a mixture that is right.

The following story is one woman's adventure with the chemical reactions of ill-fated love.

Almost Right

Love gone terribly bad? Sure. Was it just one guy? Nope. Instead, my cynical outlook on love was shaped (warped) by many smaller incidents over the course of the last 15 years.

"E" was my drama king. I landed at my HBCU fresh from an all white school with no clue about black music, sex or alcohol. E helped familiarize me with all three. He listened to Prince, had the most amazing bedroom eyes and a voice to match. We were passion manifest and if we weren’t screaming, we were screwing and everything was SOFA KING IMPORTANT. Where an outsider might have rolled their eyes at the self absorbed 19-year-olds wasting their parents hard earned tuition money on weed and Boones Farm, I only knew the ecstasy and agony of LOVE. Ugh. After graduation, I hooked up with him occasionally on the “buddy” tip, but it was never the same. Now I understand that I was vainly trying to relive the old days when I fell hard and fast.

Another man of note was "K." We blundered our way through four years together and my folks still ask about him. We started as friends, and then fell into a relationship without actually intending it. In fact, that’s how I rationalized cheating on him. We hadn’t officially said we were together, so we must not be. With 20/20 hindsight, I know now that I wanted to hurt him. You see, two years into it, we’d made a baby and after some civilized discussions about our futures, I decided to abort. He was “after school special” supportive, saying all the right things and offering to go with me to the clinic. But when I told him that I’d be fine and there was no need for both of us to waste the whole day there, he believed me. So I went to have an abortion and he went to a barbecue. I never forgave him for that. Hell, I’m still working on forgiving me. In any case, sometime back in the 90s I suddenly became very self sufficient and a little cold natured. Only K and I know why.

Most recently was "S." After gaining some weight, my esteem plummeted, and I went into romantic hibernation. S was handsome, sweet, and loved music. He said the nicest things to me and made me feel beautiful again. So excited to be adored, I ignored the signs that we just weren’t right for each other. The cliff notes version of our relationship was that I was more interested in proving that someone, anyone, would wife me, rather than truly understanding what I was signing up for. S peeped it for what it was, and called it quits. My lesson? I’ve got to be honest – especially to myself.

Man that paints a bleak picture. Please know that I’ve dated many great guys, we just didn’t work out. However, your request wasn’t about “love gone almost right” was it?

Doomed Romance: Mr. Wrong

This story is a part of The Black Snob's two-week series, "Doomed Romance," tales of love lost and love gone wrong. For more click here.

They say everything that feels good to you isn't good for you. That was the lesson learned by this Doomed Romance contributor. She fell in love with a man who was great in the bedroom, but horrible everywhere else. But she was fortunate, she learned her lesson and found a new outlook on romance.

MR. WRONG

I have a list that I wrote one day after a terrible break up that went something like this:

Argument … more arguing … make up sex … more weeks of arguing … the inevitable break-up initiated by me … a few days later a call from a co-worker telling me how she’d been screwing my ex for a few weeks … said co-worker is known as a drunken whore … devastation … anger … death threats to him because of my concern he might have infected me with something that I couldn’t wash off … embarrassment as I sit in the gynecologist office explaining that I need to be tested for everything under the sun because I’d been cheated on … fear … more anger … waiting … many tears … the phone call that I’m perfectly healthy … joy … and finally the strength to move on.

Everything happens for a reason.

I was able to gain some clarity that I hadn’t bothered to have before. I sat my hurt and embarrassed self down and made a list of the type of man I genuinely wanted in my life. As I finished that list it was plain and obvious that I’d played my own self like boo-boo-the-fool because I’d let someone in my life that wasn’t more than a cute face, a nice ass and a great lay.

He wasn’t even half of my list. Don’t get me wrong, he was a very nice guy, but I ignored the fact that he had issues. I should have believed him every single time he told me that he wasn’t good enough for me and that I deserved better.

Here I was, an educated woman, working two jobs, living and loving life, yet dealing with and loving a loser. We really didn’t have very much in common. We fundamentally disagreed on everything other than eating, sleeping, and fucking. No, I don’t have low self-esteem, nor am I needy. I love who I am and love my life. I am a very blessed person. But, at the end of the day I pretty much let myself get dick-merized for a whole six months.

I didn’t get anything out of that relationship but some good sex, a whole bunch of headaches, and a big ass doctor's bill because my insurance doesn't cover testing without symptoms. All of which I could’ve easily avoided via a little imagination and a pack of AA batteries..

A few months after that experience, I ran into a guy I’d known for a couple of years through a mutual friend. He was handsome, but I’d never looked at him twice. He wasn’t really my “type” and I knew a bit about his past that I wasn’t too thrilled about. After a few long, but great phone conversations, we ended up hanging out one evening purely as friends. I have been head over heels in love with him ever since. He measures up to about 90 percent of my list, and I wouldn’t take that plus the other 10 percent from any other man if someone paid me to take it. If it hadn’t been for me freely loving a loser, I might not appreciate the amazing love and man that I have now.

Doomed Romance: The Silencer

A John Legend cover of the ultimate "Doomed Romance" song, Lauryn Hill's "Ex Factor"

As part of my series "Doomed Romance," I've been sharing journal entries and short stories by myself about my failed, but brief and emotionally brutal marriage. The following is a series of vignettes about the emotional turmoil of the relationship before we married. The biggest issue between Harold and I was always the lack of communication, as in, he didn't think that it was important that we communicated -- ever, and would punish me with his silence.

THE SILENCER

December 31, 2000

Unlike other times when others casted shadows of doubt in my mind, this time it appears to be all me coming to grips with the harsh reality.

He will never smile just because smiling is a natural reaction one has when another person they like smiles at them. He will never be able to get along with my family. He will never be able to adapt or fit into my world. He will never enjoy art films and art galleries. He will never celebrate any holidays, religious or secular. He will never be able to ask me questions or engage in conversation with me in the manor that I am accustomed to and enjoy.

He will never be "talkative." He will never be hopelessly, foolishly romantic. He will never dance with me. He will never know or understand why I need to be talked to, consoled and loved in a particular way that he cannot perform. He will never learn how to handle his money in a responsible way. He will never pay back the money I loaned him. He will never learn how to communicate. He will never understand me, or if he does understand me, he will never have the ability to prove this to me because his behavior hints at either ignorance or he knows and is not willing to adapt.

He will never show interest in what I am doing and trying to become.

I both want him to be the one and don't want him to be the one. If he is the one I think of all the things I need and want that I will have to learn to live without. And I don't want that. If he isn't the one I wonder if I will ever met a man like him again in a million years. So brilliant yet so conflicted. So fascinating and memorizing. He's like a novel that I'd love to read over and over again. He's amazingly complex in all the ways I like. He's intelligent, spiritual, independent, strong sense of self, mature, logical ... most of the time, physically strong, nice teeth, beautiful hair, dark skin and patient. He loves animals. He loves his people - in a love/hate sort of way. He's honorable in a way that most men are not honorable anymore.

But is he what I want?

February 4, 2001

My father thinks that it's pity? Is it pity?

Harold thinks I want them to undermine me? Do I?

But this isn't about them, right? Its supposed to be about me. All about me. Only me. If everyone did not exist and it was me and me alone what would want to do? If only I could tap into my subconscious to rediscover how I feel. I know that my love for Harold hasn't been as manic and bizarre as my love for other men. I'd pay money right now to be hypnotized and have a hypnotist discover how I truly feel. I can't tell where my own emotions begin and theirs end. I keep telling myself I have to go through with it because I said I would. And I know that once I'm around him again I will love him again and wish to only be with him.

Cruel fate brought us together. Star crossed lovers destine for trouble. I search for a sign from God, anybody of what to do. Saying is not doing. In the end you must simply chance it all on a roll of the dice. Stop hemming and hawing on fate. I have delayed this decision for far too long.

Tried the magic 8 ball - 3 out of 3 for Harold. But what the hell does it know?

I need facts. Decisions should be based on fact.

Fact:

My sister does not want me to marry Harold
I have given everyone mixed signals
I've given everyone mixed signals because I want to please everyone and can't make up my mind
I originally predicted our relationship to last two dates and end in friendship
I want to die whenever I think he is going to leave me
I can't imagine my future without him
My parents think I don't know what the hell I am doing and believe I will chicken out
I believe in Harold even though my family does not
I am wishy-washy

This all started because I didn't want to lie to my family, but I lie to everyone all the time -- about how I really feel. About what I want. It is time to stop lying to them and myself.

I don't want a wedding
I was immature and angry
It's not my fault things are as fucked up as they are
We can make this work
We are ... supposed to be together ... I think?

Doomed Romance: Disappearing Acts

When you've had a series of romances that are ill fated before they even get off the ground you start to wonder, "Is it me?"

We all have our own pathologies we bring to a relationship. Subconsciously we are looking for people like our parents, but who can give us something our parents could not. Sometimes we're rebels, looking for someone the opposite of what we've known. And some of us just don't know what we're looking for at all.

The following contributor wants love badly, but has trouble holding on to it. With most relationships barely lasting a month or more, love has been elusive and the disappointment has been routine.

"Is it me?" she's wondering. She's not the first person to ask this question.

DISAPPEARING ACTS

I met this guy at the club (of all places).

He was tall, dreads, and all kind of sexy. So I went up to him, put my fingers through his hair and told him "I love your dreads" and left it at that. Later on that night in the club I found him again and asked him to dance he said yes and we exchanged numbers. I didn't expect him to call me, but he did. We hit it off immediately and talked on the phone for hours. He wanted to see me again over the weekend so we made plans.

When we went out we had a good time. We went to the park, the movies, ate out and we kissed which seemed like forever. I told my self a million times don't fall for this guy too quick. But I was tired of putting my guard up, so I put it down.

We spoke on the phone numerous times and then I went up to his house. We had a good time, but no sex. Then I decided to ask him where he thought we were going with this, he kept telling me that he wasn't ready for a relationship and giving me the run-around. A week later he suddenly stopped picking up his phone.

After three days of not picking up the phone I started to notice the pattern, one I had with every guy I dated. I kept thinking he normally calls back, if anything was wrong he knows my email address. I kept telling myself, "It's no big deal. He'll call." I finally decided to email him and then he wrote me back saying that he wasn't ready for a relationship and he knew I wanted one. He said he didn't want to mislead me and didn't mean to mislead me if he had.

I was stunned.

I tried to pretend I wasn't, but deep down I wanted him. I really thought we hit it off. I couldn't get over him. There were nights I just couldn't sleep wondering what was it I did wrong this time? Was I wrong to ask him? What if I didn't ask him? Why does this always to happen to me? I got angry with myself, kept rewinding the past from what he said to me and what we did. Trying to find the signs.

As of now I haven't gone on a date. This happened in the month of October 2007. I decided to take a year off from dating cause I just kept running into the same scenario time and time again. I'm hoping the next time I'm on a date it'll be for keeps.

Snob News Nuggets

Today a couple of my BFFs are visiting. They're my two best friends from Bakersfield -- the newly ordained Anglican priest and the current, seminary attending Episcopalian postulate. They're my two red-headed Irish-Dutch and Irish-German sisters, so I probably won't be doing much updating today. (Although I could talk about strategy to counteract the Palin pick ALL DAY!)

The "Doomed Romance" series should resume this week. I was inundated in political news (obviously) and the series was bumped in favor of the Democratic Convention. Now the Republican Convention is set to kick off and a hurricane is bearing down on the gulf coast just after the three year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Let's hope that everyone is spared the grief that plagued the region three years ago. But if the hurricane is devastating, let's hope FEMA and the Bush Administration doesn't sit idle while people drown. I can't/won't stand for it if I have to turn on the news and see what I saw three years ago. I'm not interested in crying for months, looking at people lose everything.

Tom Brokaw is getting on my last nerves. I miss Tim Russert on "Meet the Press," so much. And even though he's no Timmy, I wish they'd just put David Gregory on there. Brokaw just let's the people he interviews go on and on and he doesn't challenge them very often. Today he had Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty on and didn't ask once if Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin was more qualified than him to be vice president. He was a runner-up. Everyone knew he was being vetted along with Tom Ridge, Carly Fiorina, Joe Lieberman and Mitt "Mittens" Romney. He's on McCain's team. So what was wrong with him? That would have been my no. 1 question. How is Palin more qualified than you who's been governor longer of a bigger and more complicated state? But noooo ... Brokaw just sat there and let the man babble endlessly about Palin's accomplishments -- which more and more sound quaint rather than remarkable, like a high school extra-curricular resume where you rattle off you were president of the glee club and was a member of the Honors Society.

Also, fellow blogger and black nerd, Afronerd, is hosting author Jeremiah Camara on his radio show tonight. They'll be talking about Camara's new book, Holy Lockdown: Does the Church Limit Black Progress? (Hmm. I might have to check out that book.) They'll also talk about Camara's work on a "Holy Lockdown" documentary as well as his response to CNN's Black in America series. The show starts at 7 p.m. EST. To call in "live" dial 646-915-9620 or reach Afronerd via email/IM at afronerdradio@yahoo.

Doomed Romance: Skin Deep

"Reasons To Be Beautiful," Hole

To get over my divorce seven years ago, I drove myself, my cat and our things to St. Louis playing nothing but No Doubt's "Return of Saturn" and Hole's "Celebrity Skin," two rock albums about the absence of love, death (actual and romantic) and self-loathing.

As big of an R&B lover I am, the amount of turmoil I'd gone through seemed beyond the platitudes of Toni Braxton's "Another Sad Love Song" and "Breathe Again." I needed songs about angst and being assaulted in my mind by a poisonous person. In the realm of Pop R&B (with soul as the exception), there were songs about cheating and songs about heartbreak. But where was the song about someone turning you into a perversion of yourself?

When I read the story of "Skin Deep," I could only think of two songs from my post-divorce playlist, No Doubt's "Magic In the Makeup" and Hole's "Reasons To Be Beautiful."

Hole won because Skin Deep's story is that of a woman who in love was prized only for her appearance, and the superficiality of her man's commitment drove her to change everything about herself in the hope love would not go unrequited.

SKIN DEEP

He invades my dreams at night, making them more like nightmares. The man who I swore to love for life is now my boogeyman.

It started four years ago. In a new city for an internship, I begged a friend to introduce me to some of his classmates. A few weeks and several hours' worth of phone calls later, I found myself on a date with a beautiful young man. We walked, talked and ate ice cream. He put his arm around my waist and told me about his family. I put my head on his shoulder and told him about my goals. He walked me to my door and kissed me on my lips. I called my best friend and told her about my new summer love.

Things didn't go as planned. After weeks of picnics, late night talks and love making, it was time for a goodbye that wouldn't come very easily. Phone calls and emails turned into cross-country visits.

We fought during his first visit when he took one look in my closet and announced that my clothes were outdated. I explained that poor graduate students like myself didn't have time or money for shopping. Besides, everyone in my program was too depressed or stressed to care. It didn't matter. He wanted someone with style and class. Where was the fashionable lady he met over the summer?

We fought again in the car on the way to the mall. I asked, "What do you really love about me?" His reply? "Well, you have a beautiful body." This statement would color our relationship for the next two years.

Instead of running away, I stayed around; convinced I could do no better. The distance we had from each other did not ruin our unhealthy bond, and I found myself relocating to live with him and be his ideal woman.

My love for him soon became a competition with ghosts: the "just a friend" phone buddy who never wanted to meet me, the images of naked women on his computer, starving myself to became the black version of bobble-headed starlets. My "sista-girl" hips, thick backside and full breasts vanished, turning me into an emaciated woman I didn't know.

His recognition of me was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to our Titanic relationship. His mother moved in with us unexpectedly. My protests were met with his lament that it wasn't "our home" anymore and he didn't need my approval for anything.

I packed my bags and left the next day. I cried on the way to my new apartment, angry that I put up with it for so long. The unconditional love that I wanted didn't exist with him.

He creeps inside my mind when I least expect it. He's the boogeyman who makes me scared to find love again. My curves are back and sometimes I don't even bother to comb my hair. When I look in the mirror though, I see a fat girl in need of a weave. He stands behind me, giving me makeover pointers while he flips through the latest girlie magazine. He's right, what man would want me?

And then I climb in to bed, close my eyes and pray he doesn't return again.

Doomed Romance: Opposites Attract

This story is a part of The Black Snob's two-week series, "Doomed Romance," tales of love lost and love gone wrong. For more click here. The following is from my journal about the period of time before I married my ex-husband, "Henry." It amazes me how I have all the evidence in the world that he was incompatible in my own writings, yet five months after this was written I married him.

I can still remember him falling asleep at the front table of the Joshua Redman concert and rushing me out in the end when Redman was signing autographs. Then the D'Angelo concert, which he also slept through. I should have listened to my right mind, but as we go along you'll learn that my heart kept getting in the way.

WE HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON

November 1, 2000

One year before my divorce, five months before the marriage

The thing I always hated about my high school one month boyfriend Jeremy was that he wasn't very supportive. Mostly because he was ignorant.

Henry on the other hand is only supportive in the face of adversity. Any other time he's a terrible person to turn to for any support. I don't especially blame him. No one's ever supported him so how would he know how. But sometimes he's so blinded by his "I don't care so why should you attitude" that he becomes completely impossible to talk to.

I imagine that he still hasn't read my email. How I've come to hate talking to him. I can't have a normal conversation with him. Can't talk about politics, he doesn't follow them. Can't talk about film, he'll only talk about the kind he likes and I can't discuss them critically because he accuses me of being like other people who just "diss" things they don't understand. Never mind that I'm a movie buff and studied film in school. Can't talk about history. Can't talk about my job because he seems to hate journalists and he seems to have no interest whatsoever in what I do. He hasn't quite figured out that not asking equates not caring in my book. If he cared about how I spent my time I'd imagine that he'd ask about it.

I hate to think it but sometimes I'm glad we didn't get married. He makes me feel so worthless at times. It's as if the things I enjoy have no value. Like he insists that I pick the movie because he always picks the movie, but when I pick something he never likes it and looks at me like I'm nuts for wanting to watch it. I will watch anything. I just like movies. But our cinematography woes are little. The problem is he doesn't like anything I like. I spend more energy trying to understand his world and he acts like I'm punishing him if he sits through a minute of mine.

He can't be around my family. He can't be around my friends. He can't discuss media or politics or the historical/political ramifications that affect our very lives. He doesn't even vote. He can't learn things with me because he "already knows them." We can't grow together because he's already on a different level. I wanted to marry my equal, not my father. I don't want a teacher and he doesn't understand that. I want a companion. I want to learn things on my own. But something is wrong for me for not wanting him to teach me every damn thing. He got to learn on his own, why the hell can't I? I feel like he spent the last year trying to suffocate me from the world.

Yet I don't want to let him go because I want to be right. I want us to be right. I don't want to think that I put myself and my family through this emotional turmoil for nothing. We went through too damn much, we have to be right for each other. Yet we aren't. And then we are.

I'm tried of transforming my dreams so they will fit with his. He's not trying to change for me. He's not trying to be friendly or engage in a normal conversation with me. Why in the hell am I trying to learn karate? Not because I want to but because it would make him happy and make us closer and then maybe, maybe he would take an art class with me or have dinner with my friends and have it not turn into a complete nightmare. Maybe we could rent a movie that isn't sci-fi, anime, kung-fu or ghetto comedy. He claims to be open minded, yet sometimes he doesn't seem to be at all. The man doesn't even dance. He hates being around people. Even the nice ones.

Damn it. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I wanted to date Allen, my handsome partner in our literature class. Who seemed attracted to me, but was too scared to make a move. Allen, the friend of Henry. The love rays got misdirected and reflected onto an entirely different person. And there's no telling. I could have ended up hating Allen and wondering about his unassuming, quiet friend in the camis.

But the Marine was the one I chose. Maybe I'm making too much of nothing - said the woman stereotypically as usual.

Love is supposed to be frustrating, but I don't think you're supposed to feel worthless every time you open your mouth. Every minute I'm with him I feel it happening. I feel part of me dying. I have to be the extreme version of me to offset him. It makes me miserable and I just want to be happy.

Doomed Romance: The Comedians

This story is a part of The Black Snob's two-week series, "Doomed Romance," tales of love lost and love gone wrong. For more click here.

Dancing around the issue of romance is tricky enough, but to attempt this feat while being a gay black man, a good fellow can be hard to find. Out latest contributor who wrote "The Comedians," chronicles how race relations almost derailed a happy match.

THE COMEDIANS

Reminiscing on past relationships it is sometimes hard to even fathom that I ended up dating the people I did. Being gay it has always been a difficult choice whether or not to date outside of my race, so after strictly dating within my race and having no luck, I eventually decided that I would go strictly for someone based on their personality, motivation and success (things that I hold highly in my book).

Now enter Eric sophisticated, playful, personable…oh and did I mention he was Jewish?

When it came to looks he was a little more on the average side, but when he approached me at the club one evening, I couldn’t resist falling victim to his sense of humor. In our first meeting we talked for nearly three hours, touching on personal topics such as family, goals and future aspirations. Within three weeks, after about a dozen dates, we were already making ourselves official.

As with all relationships the first two months (we’ve been dating for almost a year) were blissful. Being one of the first people I seriously dated outside of my race, we learned early on to make light of our racial differences. We amused ourselves by telling stories about our "racist” grandparents, and teasing each other about the stereotypes coined by our race. (I.E: My adoration for fried chicken and his tendency to be extremely frugal when it comes to money matters.)

At first, I believed that these free-spirited racial exchanges were things that we could treasure. (Our favorite joke always begins with him telling me to "Get back into the kitchen where you belong," and me replying, "Well, Jews know a lot about ovens!") I knew that not everyone could be as easy-going about interracial relationships as we were, and the fact that we had to courage to joke about it openly, meant that in the long run, race wasn’t going to be an issue.

Then it came, that WWIII disagreement that I thought would end it all. We were discussing black oppression and struggle in America, and I found myself extremely annoyed by the naive and hurtful comments he was making about the black community. Opinions that really left me bruised like, "I think all blacks like to use the race card to their advantage," and "After the holocaust Jews didn’t have anything, but we didn’t depend on the government to support us with welfare."

I was not looking for sympathy for the black community; I just wanted him to understand that things aren’t always as black and white (for lack of a better term) as he perceived them. After this argument, which left me in tears, I began to lose faith in him, and our relationship.

One thing a relationship should bring on many levels is a sense of security. In a world that is not always kind to gay men, and even more so people of color, I needed to know that he could be my support mechanism. About a week after the event transpired I sat down with him and expressed these concerns, outlining that race can be a serious issue, and that we need to actively support each other, not just say it.

Since this discussion, things have gone extremely well. We’re stronger than ever. Whenever we run into a situation of racial tension, we take the time to talk about it, and instead of assuming, we ask questions to get the issue resolved.

And don’t worry, our racial jokes are still a very active and humorous part of our relationship.

Doomed Romance: The Impasse

The following is an edited version of short story I wrote based on true events while I was living and working Bakersfield, Calif. -- the place I retreated to after my marriage failed. Entitled "And This Season Too Shall Impasse," it discusses the inertia, loneliness and despair I felt in life life as I struggle to comprehend my new life and grapple with a failed glimmer of love and engage in pointless flirtations with a man I was both attracted to yet despised.

This is all part of a two week series on "Doomed Romance," love gone wrong even if it felt so right once upon a time. I will be contributing my own stories along with readers who submitted their own tales of heartbreak. To read previous entries click here.

AND THIS SEASON TOO SHALL IMPASSE

December 29, 2003

Men don’t like to be called beautiful and weren’t taught to appreciate the sensuality and grace of their own bodies. Men were supposed to be a little ugly, even when they were handsome and no one was supposed to really notice. But being a woman was like constantly having a light shining on you and all your flaws.

He was tall and a sandy, golden brown with closely cropped sandy brown to dark brown hair. She thought he was beautiful, he thought it was OK, but previous rejections by women had let him gun shy. The attraction was mutual, but she had to be the pursuer.

He was the one man who seemed to share in her passion, the one she met almost a year ago. Was the one who wouldn’t and couldn’t make love to her. He’d given his heart to the Lord and he wanted a woman who would do the same. Although she could devote herself to him, she couldn’t devote herself to Bible studies three times a week and all-day in church on Sundays. She wasn’t raised in the church. She believed in God, but not in the way that he did. And even though the desire was more real than anything she’d ever known they parted ways and it ended.

He said it was better to end it now before they fell in love with each other, which was where it was obviously heading, very quickly. He knew he would fall in love with her compromising his faith. She was, the goodiest of good girls, but one Bible study and three hours in church on Sunday was all she could take. She didn't want to give up her "secular" music. He was a five-day a week Christian. She was an Easter/Christmas Christian. She didn't want to say good-bye and neither did he, but religion would have become and issues.

For years when retelling the story of their wondrous month-long courtship filled with ridged formality then passionate temptations, black women would admonish her. How could she break up with a man who knew God? What was her problem? She didn't know how to explain it or defend it, so she didn't.

They said they'd remain friends, but they both stayed away. Some men you can be friends with. She couldn't be his friend and he couldn't be hers. They were either going to be lovers or nothing at all. Desire was too strong.

She often wondered why she didn’t go after him or try harder. But she knew it had to be this way. She’d tell herself it would have never worked out. Besides, he was much younger than her. Still, the fact could not escape her that he could kiss so sinfully, while touching and caressing her head and face. It amazed her. He kept his hands far from her erogenous zones, so all he could tempt and persuade her with were the lips and his lips were so skilled that if he’d been so inclined to press further she would not have stopped him.

She’d never wanted any man so much in her life.

And he was so beautiful. And he made her feel beautiful even if it wasn’t true.

She would cook him such beautiful dinners and they would have such good conversation. And he was so sweet and romantic. He could sing in a lovely, velvety baritone. They could sing Nat King Cole together, talk Sci-fi and politics. She could barely remember how they met. She couldn’t remember their first date. She couldn’t remember their first kiss, but she remembered all the others.

So sitting watching movies and feeling sad over her beautiful boy and feeling fat and like a troll she thought about what the rest of her life would be like. Would every day be like the one before? Her living out this life sentence for a marriage she terminated after a matter of months? Would she die wanting? Would she ever take another lover, another friend, another husband? Would she ever meet anyone? Would she ever feel that way again? Would she live in this place of impasse for all time, nothing changing? She needed for something to happen, anything, but she didn’t have the strength anymore to make it so. And although she didn’t like the term she wanted to be rescued. Anyone would do.

And so tears, round and fat, fell down her cheeks and she stared at her ashy feet and said, “We’re a sorry state. It’s just you and me.”

She didn’t want to feel different. She just wanted to feel like herself again. But she’d gone and ruined herself, she couldn’t feel that way again. But could she feel a new way that was just as satisfying? Could she feel in a way that would make her get up and do something with her life? Could she feel in a way that wasn’t ruined? And could she feel hope again?

So much to ride on a little bottle of little blue pills promising miracles. And the doctor said it could make it all better. And so she thought of her beautiful boy and how she reached out to him when she was in need and how he seemed to sense it and know just what to do. He knew just what to say.

“I’ve never known anyone like you before,” he’d say kissing her eyes. “I thought I was the only one.”

Doomed Romance: The Drifters

"Foolish Love," Rufus Wainwright

This story is a part of The Black Snob's two-week series, "Doomed Romance," tales of love lost and love gone wrong. Aug. 19 we examined just the beginning of my own doomed relationship with my ex-husband.

Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it can also cause the heart to wander. Our first contributor to "Doomed Romance," The Drifter, found love but let it go. Maybe it was too far, too fast, too soon. But as they gave each other space to work out their apprehensions they pushed their love right out of the picture.

THE DRIFTERS

I will admit that my romance with a US Peace Corps volunteer was doomed. We met in the West Indies, me a teacher, and him working with the corps. We dated for a while. I was black, he was white, and although he was the second white man I dallied with, he was the first man with whom I fell in love with.

Dating him was a trip, because "H" really made me laugh just by being. He liked Ernest Shackleton, believed that optimism was the greatest moral courage, liked short stories and yo-yos. H was a great guy, but we thought we were getting serious too quickly, so we took a step back, and another and another... and ended the relationship, no hard feelings. I'd say that H has taught me that love is love, race and culture be damned.

Even though he was from Riverside, Calif. and I hailed from Kingston, Jamaica, we bonded over bad jokes, sibling rivalries, living through bad parental marriages and ska. Being with him, I learned that in order to make a relationship work, you have to throw your heart into it, and not to hold everything back. I stepped back because I was scared that H would thwart my future plans, because I'd throw away everything to be with him. I think H was frightened that we were moving so far so fast, and he needed to breathe. Whatever it was - we both saw the escape route and grabbed at it - something that I've regretted ever since.

When H and I were drifting apart, and trying to get the strength to break off the relationship, I met (my now) husband, "W." W liked me from the get go, he really did, but I was truthful and told him that I was trying to reconcile my feelings with someone else. W allowed me the space to do so, to let H go, to sit down and decide if I wanted a relationship with him so soon after my relationship with H broke down.

Long story short, we got married and we are happy eight years later.

But sometimes, I will admit, that when I see a man of H's height (6 ft) colouring (reddish-blonde hair and blue eyes), I do pause. Just a bit, then I nod to myself and remember him and that year - for a moment. It happens less and less now as I get older, but I'll never forget H. My relationship right now, is one that I've decided to stick through for better or worse (within reason!), because love requires you to be brave and to commit.

Doomed Romance: Two Weeks of Love Gone Wrong

And you thought you had problems.

When it comes to broken hearts I've got one that was shattered and thrashed, along with my psyche, self-confidence and pride. February 19, 2002 I write in my journal these words:

It was like he moved into my brain and started redecorating. A few throw pillows here, hate your parents there. He put the Vulcan mind meld on me. It was like I went to sleep a confident and beautiful woman and woke up three years later fat and miserable.

The "he" was my ex husband. We had a brief and brutal marriage after a two-year uneasy courtship. In my novel, the one I can't finish, I have a character somewhat based on him as I try to explain to those who don't understand how I could find myself in the binds of a poisonous mind.

Her need for (him) wasn’t organic. It was something that had to be molded and pummeled and mollified over time into the desired effect ...

Love took the truths about one another and made them lies, new truths were born and a marriage was created based on the freshly harvested candor of mentally manufactured bliss.

It wasn't real. And I think that was what hurt the most. I was all-in, knee deep in it and he was playing a game I can never pretend to understand.

Over the next few weeks we'll be examining tales of love gone wrong as well as stories about love in the black community. Since several people were brave enough to bare their souls, I will also bare mine.

I've chronicled extensively my doomed romances, but the divorce is the one that gripped my imagination and hasn't let go to this day. Even though the relationship ended almost seven years ago on October 10, 2001.

He didn't call me on my birthday, Oct. 8. I thought he was being rude, but in reality he was being the cruelest of cruel. While I spent my depressing birthday with my parents in St. Louis he was secretly moving his things cross country, spending all the remaining cash in my accounts.

I came home sick, as I'd been for more than a month. All I wanted was to go to sleep but he insisted on taking me out to dinner for my belated birthday. That terrible day before the beginning of the end, being dumped in an Olive Garden, then later sleeping on the couch because I didn't want him to touch me. Him asking sweetly and oddly why I wouldn't share a bed with him when he'd just announced that tomorrow he was leaving. He'd said in July that he was ending this, but he then languished around for months as we turned into roommates, me living with a marriage that was a corpse rotting in our living room, murdering my spirit.

I was hemorrhaging money for myself, for him. And I couldn't see at the time that when he asked for a divorce that he never intended to file for all my savings had run out. The credit card was to the max. He dumped me the minute the money was gone and then expected me to not be mad, to not get upset in the Olive Garden. To not act out. And I didn't because he was my husband. My horrible husband and even then I didn't want to do anything to embarrass him.

The last time I would see his face was October 10, 2001. I can't remember whether I drove him to a bus station or a train station that morning. But I remember wondering how could I love, how could I miss the worst thing that ever happened to me.

I've written about "Harry" in poems, journal entries, short stories, unfinished novels and screenplays. Trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand. But the answer is always the same.

I'll never understand.

-----

September 1, 2001

I don't know what to do.

When he said he was going back I was in so much pain and I was so angry. I wanted him to get out then and now. If he was going to leave me, he should just go. Not be a punk about it and simply walk out. And he told me all these things that were horrible and true and I hated myself for not being what he wanted. Then the other part of me thought that was stupid and got angry. The other part said he wasn't patient enough and was giving up. And it said he didn't try enough.

It thought, if only he could accept me the way I am instead of trying to change me. So what, I'm screwed up, so is he. I told him that we should have waited, but he told me it would be OK. I told him I was too screwed up to be anyone's wife right now, but did he listen? I told him I needed to figure out things on my own and I needed to work out my problems. But he said he could help me. He said we could do it together and I believed him. Now it's like, Oops ... my bad ... I was wrong.

What do you do when the one person you truly believed in disappoints you?

He said he'd take care of me. He said he'd do it. When I told him that I just wanted to write books and have kids and that if he could provide for me I would do that. I would clean the fucking house everyday and be happy. I would make love to him at night and help him raise our children and we'd be happy. But he didn't have a plan. He didn't have anything. All he had was problems and bad credit.

I never wish I never met him. I needed for something to happen. I'd been waiting all my life for something to happen. But now that it's come, turned my world upside down and caused damage beyond repair I don't know what to do next. This is what I've been waiting my entire life for. I tell myself this when I close my eyes at night, when I go to work in the morning ... this is what I've been waiting for.

What kind of fucked up shit is this?

A Fight Agaisnt Taser Abuse and Other News

UPDATES!

Day of Blogging For Justice: The AfroSpear has declared Wednesday a day to spread awareness of the abuse of tasers by law enforcement. These acts sometimes ending in death for the people they encounter. This is a huge problem very few in the press are talking about, other than showing the occasional cop cruiser video of "Don't Tase Me, Bro" taser abuse exploitation.

The reality is these devices, intended to make things safer for police and suspects, are being misused to the point that people are being seriously harmed or tortured for little to no reason. With the false mental concept that tasering doesn't cause lasting damage, it has become the weapon of choice in situations that don't warrant its use, sometimes amounting to a death sentence for the unfortunate individuals being tased.

It's a sad truth, but because it is the poor, the black and the brown who often are the target of this thuggery, little attention has been brought to the cases of a suicidal man tasered on a bridge, causing him to fall to his death or a pregnant black woman being tasered in Ohio or the case of a black man dead when he went to the police for help and was tasered. But the larger reality is if the police feel comfortable with abusing society's "undesirables" and ethnic minorities with them, they're not going to think twice about using them on anyone else. But we don't want to wait for them to taser Lindsay Lohan to death to get people to care.

The blog Tasered While Black has even more disturbing stories of tasers being used as a torture device when in the wrong hands.

For those who have blogs or Web sites and want to spread awareness, you can obtain this anti-taser abuse widget here and place it on your site.

It's sad to know that something meant to save lives is now being abused to end them. With everyone from teenage girls to college students to pregnant women being targets and suspects being tased to death or torture via tasers in prison, it's necessary to spread awareness that this device's use needs to be monitors as closely as the use of a gun or any other form of excessive force.

IN OTHER NEWS:

• I'm still accepting submissions for "Doomed Romance." So far I've received four. I'd like to get at least five or more (the more the merrier) for the series. (Ideally, I'd like 10 so I could do a two week series like I did with "Mothers and Daughters.") You can send your stories to me (500 words or less, if you can) at blacksnob@gmail.com. All stories will be reprinted anonymously.

• There's still time to vote for your favorite (and not favorite) pundits in Black Snob's "America's Next Top Pundit" poll. I'm noticing that a lot of people hate Sean Hannity. Not surprising with his Obama is a secret Muslim who belonged to crazy "whitey" hating black Christian Church. I'm not even going into that nonsensical thinking. (Pick ONE, Sean! Secret Muslim or Crazy Christian. ONE!) And a lot of people lurve Donna Brazile (You're not her boo!) And a lot of folks are not voting for their favorite Republican blonde fembot! C'mon! You have to enjoy the insanity of at least one!

• 

  Today is Big Sis' birthday. The eldest Snob Sister has turned 35. We shall commemorate this day with banana cake and stories of how she terrorized me as a child by telling my my braids were really worms growing out of my head and abandoning me in the scary basement under guises that she's "be right back" after going to the restroom.

  I love you, Big Sis!

The Black Snob Presents: Doomed Romance

Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte in one of my favorite musicals and doomed romances, "Carmen Jones."

Back when I was still living it up in Bakersfield, Calif. I was working on a series of short fiction stories under the title "Doomed Romance." Partly out of humor and partly out of my own romantic graveyard I began collecting the stories of love gone bad.

I'm a romantic malaise mess. My love life is littered with the remains of unresolved issues, drama, disappointment and wayward, misfired seduction. I'm a chronically failed fool for love. Half my fault. Half the fault of those I've dated and like a lot of folks, male and female, sometimes I wanted to give up and for seven years I did.

After a nightmarish starter marriage that left me bruised and emotionally scarred I realized that I need to accept responsibility in some of the poor choices I'd made. So in an effort to educate, entertain and hopefully inspire, my next reader contributed series will be about relationships gone terribly, terribly wrong. Along the way I'll talk about the nine months of pain that lead to my seven years of solitude. Be prepared to know to get personal, because I plan to blare my troubles out as a beacon to warn men and women away from the pratfalls and misfortunes of toxic love. I can't protect you. But the least I can do is reveal the signs, the evidence that a naive heart, not assured in its visions can easily become prey for those who have a plan, a very, very bad plan to save what you thought was your wayward soul.

With each story we will discuss a different issue from incidents that made us chose celibacy over intimacy, considering no longer dating within your own culture or ethnicity (or stopping altogether), caused us to learn something about yourself or the souls of others, made us mad, mad us sad, we'll talk about what we're still hung up on, what you can't let go of, what we've forgiven and how we came to do so, and what we could never forgive.

If you'd like to contribute to my series, just send me your story in 500 words or less. (If you go over some, no worries. I'm flexible.) I want people to be honest, MALE and FEMALE, about these beautiful disasters, these love wars lost. Again, I won't use any names like I did with my mothers and daughters series last month.

I'd also really like to get into the complexities that come with black-on-black love. I want to hear from those who found a way to make love work for them (re: success stories!) and I want to hear from those still struggling (even within that success story). We want to generate ideas and get some catharsis by airing our heartbreaks, joys and grievances.

And I'll be right there with you because if anyone can write about dysfunctional love it's me. From my periods as a trophy girlfriend to a closeted homosexual to loving a narcissistic sociopath to engaging in self-destructive behavior with the poor rubes of Bakersfield until I benched myself from the love game, I got it bad.

I'll be telling my own stories while incorporating yours. So if you're interested I'll be soliciting stories over the next two weeks. Let's get away from the fluff and get down to the real and see what bitter hearts can reveal, can learn and where they can grow from love gone wrong.

**To contribute, write your 500 words or less story to The Snob at blacksnob@gmail.com.