Eighth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Ambra Aurea, by Profumum Roma
Ambra Aurea (1998, Giuseppe Durante, Luciano Durante, Maria Durante, Felice Durante)—a boozy-smoky oceanic amber, comparatively chewy and unadorned, based around not just the labdanum of Le Lion but a real ambergris that would have not just Andy Tauer but even Dmitri Bortnikoff and Ensar Telegrafi tipping their hats—
smells like a zoom in upon the infinitely-comforting amber core of Ambre Sultan or, more precisely, smells like one took Ambre Sultan (with its whiskey-syrup infusion of charred-leathery labdanum, fungal-medicinal myrrh, and pine-sap olibanum) and toned down the greenery (leaving mainly the eucalyptus-like myrtle) and dialed back the earthiness (leaving mainly a chocolatey patchouli) and replaced most of the souk spices with the salty musk of ambergris and the radiant glow of herbaceous cistus oil),
a tweaking of Ambre Sultan that yields a seaside-resin composition close enough in mastic-tobacco aroma to Parfum D’Empire’s Ambre Russe (a boozy-spicy amber) to warrant teasing out their differences (closer, in fact, than Profumum Roma’s own Fiore D’ambre, which takes amber in the vanilla-leather-plus-citrus-powder-plus-spicy-florals route of Habit Rouge and makes for what I now see as fragrance that would beat the best version of Opium and perhaps even Ambre Aurea itself):
(1) Ambra Aurea—despite its urine sourness in the opening (more urine molasses than Amber Kiso’s urine butter)—is denser and weightier (gooey and chewy, nearly as molten as Oud Zhen), which makes its fire seem primal and eternal, whereas Ambre Russe—due to its resin-thinning cade smoke as well as its bubbly booze and citruses and dry-hay elements (fruity-bubbly champagne, icy-crisp vodka, lemon-pepper coriander, black tea)—is airier and thinner (dry and diffusive, nearly as dynamic as L’Air du Desert Marocain), which makes its fire seem more flickering and festal (and brings it much closer to the airy and hypnotic Fiore D’Ambra);
(2) Ambra Aurea, having not only frankincense but also various earthy elements (licorice-mildew myrrh, moldy-dank patchouli), has a deep meditative—even melancholy—feel of groundedness, whereas Ambre Russe’s incense, mainly frankincense, feels more like the rosy-cheeked festive warmth of a Russian drinking hall;
(3) Ambra Aurea seems to have a smokier and more caramelized char (as if resins themselves were bruleed) whereas Ambre Russe—despite its cade and birch—seems more vaporous and aerated in its smoke (as if hay and tea had just stopped smoldering);
(4) Ambra Aurea has a less restrained briny-fungal bite, which makes it feel like you are closer to a sea at low tide (perhaps even next to tide pools), whereas Ambre Russe balances its maritime muskiness with a sweet fruits and tea, which makes it feel that you are more removed (like on the deck of an ocean-side villa);
(5) Ambra Aurea—more focused on the torporific resins (benzoin, labdanum) that make up the fantasy accord of amber (lava resin solidifying into amber)—stays fairly linear whereas Ambre Russe—its brightness expanding and contracting over time with all its tea-steam pizzazz—gives it a livelier trajectory compared to Ambra Aurea’s meditative inertia—
the overall result being a monolithic amber (Ambre Sultan minus the spice rack), more unadorned and ancient and burnt in feel than any other I have tried (and for this reason the benchmark amber), that transports me to sea-sprayed coast around the charred driftwood of a dying fire whose orange embers stand out meaningfully against the overcast sky, a deep gray sky (much grayer than the sky of Ambre Russe, but still not the citrus-powder clear day of Fiore D’ambra) that nevertheless has this eerie backlit glow of near neon brightness (which itself does eventually dim in the deep dry down into a charred tobacco);
the overall result being, in other words, a smoky-sappy amber that, delivering easter eggs despite its comparatively simply monotone drone (like a lovely dirty orange here), I have realized is much closer to Fiore (the citrus and spices especially tie it in) than the gloopiness and its reputation had allowed me to see in the first years, the same applying the otherway arounf too (Fiore itself having enough of a thick sappiness, easy to overlook with its pizzazz of spice-haze dustiness, that it seems like an Aurea flanker, a flanker I think I like better than the OG).
*Let's workshop the eighth section of my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young.
Eight Section of “Hypocorism”
Everything organized around being here, outside of her school, to collect her. He went to bed with that on his mind. He got up with that on his mind.
That did not mean he had stopped being himself. “Parasocial relationships with your fantasies”—he had scribbled that poetry seed down in the book margin before dozing in his wait. And upon waking he found himself, like Dali, with more to add. He changed the plural of what he had to the singular and crafted something more complete but still evocative. “A parasocial relationship with your fantasy can be a bridge into the self-love that it is, which enables you to appreciate others beyond your fantasy.”
She came out the door exactly on time. He felt that relief he remembered from seeing his mom pull into the pre-school parking lot. He had more to say, the why that explained how self-love cleared the fog of projection. Her presence, always a surprise even when he knew the exact time she would appear, threatened to make him forget. But he looked down and wrote the dimming train, drawing an arrow after the “which” to an em-dashed explanatory intrusion—until he thought the better of it and made a brand new sentence to come at the end of what he had. “For self-love entails (1) decoupling self-worth from external validation, in which case you stop reducing people to what they can do for you (idealizing them when they deliver on ‘saving’ you and demonizing them when they don’t); (2) making peace with your own disowned traits, in which case you stop overreacting when you see them in others (God-hates-fags gay preacher syndrome); (3) untying your value as a person from every interaction, in which case you stop taking everything personally and collapsing under the fear of rejection (‘they don’t text back because I’m ugly’).”
She was happier today. That happiness was not a matter, at least not just a matter, of his getting the lines down to his satisfaction. It was in her smile as she chatted with a friend. It was in her high energy, touchy and full of movement.
The boyishness of her attire was like the westerner’s version of the niqab, although covering more by misdirection than by cloth. She had in her arm the college hoodie that had been doubling as her jacket. Having stolen it from him early on, she would let it be washed only on the condition that he wear it with no undershirt before giving it back. “I want to keep your smell.”
Her itty-bitty top, wrapped in an Attack on Titan tee, made her look like she could hold a wheelie for several blocks. The baby-maker below it all seemed hard to blame on gas-station milk alone, though. Her soul—as if it would take decades to come into the right body, wizened—seemed meant for some voodoo sage, the kind that gave bayou kids nightmares merely by mention of her name.
“I want to fuck you so bad, little girl,” he whispered. Decades of writing had afforded much practice at sublimating evolution’s need to load the young with seed. But that cut both ways: the time grinding the pen instead of pussy built up a spiritual deficit. No only that, she was not just any unified trifecta of new holes. Her tightness coupled with her beauty, her heady smell of flash-fried tuberose dusted with salt and cumin coupled with her put-a-ring-on-it persistence—even those were only part of it. She brought a persistence and an argumentative vigor, she had a soul, that had outdone the best of what a fantasy girl in her shoes had ever done.
He shook his head and looked into the mirror. “The fuck you doing bro?” He returned his gaze to her. “You’re just too precious.” She was chatting with a friend. The subtlest peripheral peek, then and again—she knew where he was. But she was not the sort of girl to stage that stale scene: the man in a car while his underage lover and her after-school friend fail to suppress glances and giggles in his direction—an inconsequential blip for the teenybopper, no more than a little brag for a brain still gooey in the Ez-Bake oven, yet the gossip-chain seed of destruction for the silver fox: a parent or teacher, if not explicitly told, at least catching enough whispered fragments to set the cock-block machine in motion. Of that stomach-sinking cliché, run-of-the-mill across America pre-MeToo (like gas pumps right out of Edward Hopper) and still hanging on across black America post-Floyd (since bystanders—whether wanting overdue racial equity or just wanting to duck the scarlet letter “r”—could be more afraid of seeming like bigots than of witnessing a “King” claim “his due,” even his non-adultified little-blonde due), she would never make him its victim. She was too ride-or-die. That had not taken long to learn.
He watched to make sure she looked both ways crossing the street. But a memory—twitching in its slumber every time he sat waiting for her like this—lurched awake in a gasp, seizing his focus. Through the crowd of kids after the release bell at his own middle school, he looked around for her through adolescent eyes. As he climbed the steps of the yellow bus he bent back for the knowing lie of one last peek. Her light required no searching and yet he scanned every seat until he took his own. The plan to walk her home, the picturing of himself pushing through native cringe to ask her (“Can I walk you home?”), had kept him up the previous night. His look went down the aisle and out the window. Skin oil and fretful friction had teased a fuzzy nap along the spine of his textbook cover, a brown grocery bag folded with triple-checked tension into creaking sleeves that required—for he would not cheat the American rite—not a single piece of tape. Down the aisle and out the window and back again his look went, gnawed fingers worrying that paper fur.
Something beyond mere time told him he would not see the light of her smile ascend with her sweet wave to the driver. Sub-woofer bass from beyond rattled his window as if calling him. Groomed to see signs and synchronicities by the very book (The Silmarillion) whose presence on his person and in his conversation ensured choke-on-water rejection by the black girls he liked (especially the hoodrats whose mothers would jump into fights, titties flying in unbeweavable exoticism that caught the eye like National Geographic), all the black girls except for the so-called “ebony sluts” and “ghetto gaggers” he learned soon enough would spread for him (after the lagging foreplay of AOL dial-up at least) wide enough to displace Tolkien—he slid back to the window as if the pumping-pounding outside had an answer ready-made for him. And there she was at its epicenter.
There she was sagged—sagged and yet almost pinned—against the car, sub-woofers no doubt vibrating the slimy center of his fantasies. A duragged thug in baggy black jeans and black Timbs leaned over her, one elbow on the roof. He had been a security guard at their last school, the middle school. The man palmed her ass like prohibited property. “Mine now.” Indentations around his fingers meant squeeze. Divots, not dimples, went too deep into the hoarding greed of Smaug to be spin-doctored into mere tricks of light. “Fuck you.” Each squeeze said it. “Fuck you, white boy. This my shit.” The man twisted the textbook, same math class (Geometry 1), out of her arms and tossed it into the tinted black of his car. Lip bites from the both of them, her eyes like even single-digit girls get—thinking they are slick, thinking adults are dumb—when they climax against any sofa-arm-like thing in the house they can get their thighs around, left no excuse to play hero.
Hydraulics hissed and the bus lurched forward in the spatial direction of a home rendered irretrievable. “Time is never time at all. / You can never ever leave / without leaving a piece of youth.” The driver raised the radio volume. “And our lives are forever changed. / We will never be the same. / The more you change, the less you feel.” The exact phrase he never got the chance to say—“Can I walk you home?”—reverberated as it had throughout the night, only now with a rose heart of mockery infused into the sandalwood background of the song. “And you know you’re never sure. / But you’re sure you could be right.” In the end-of-the-world drama of a teen, he figured there would be no second chances. “And the embers never fade.” The pooled blood around his thumb cuticle left crescents of crimson in the brown cover. “We’ll make things right, we’ll feel it all tonight.” But it would not stop. “The impossible is possible tonight.”
She was smiling at him as she walked up the sidewalk on the other side of the street, his side. The memory made him unsure if she had did the double check for vehicles he had warned her about. The Tranq aroudn the city had bothered him more now with her in his life. What would he do if she had been killed by some druggy driver?
That memory, infused with that worry of her dying, acted like a dark potion out of a Tolkien universe, blurring the present into the autopilot hum. Beyond a few splices—her head resting on his shoulder when they were at a stop light, her farting (“taco Tuesday”), her turning on the song that only boosted the sleepwalking effect—he did not remember getting to the cemetery. But there she was beside him, alive and finishing another one of her minute-by-minute recaps of her day.
“And so fuck that bitch too. Let me stop.”
He shook he head, trying to get his bearings. The coq au vin he had brought her finished and on the floor finished. She was struggling to open the string cheese, the thermos of coq au vin he had brought empty and at her feet.
“Girl, watch your teeth.”
“I know. I know.”
“Look. Like this.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“People think I don’t talk. Crazy right?”
“If they only knew.”
“And you over here all quiet.”
“You got me worried sometimes I don’t have the energy to keep up.”
“Oh, you worry?”
“Little girl.”
“Sor-ry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It just flows out of me with you. I love that.”
“I know that’s right.”
“Nasty.”
“I’m nasty?”
“Tch. For real, though. You got a bitch finna write a book.”
“We can do a joint project.”
“And then we both go crazy.”
“What you mean?”
“Cuz niggas aint even read anymore—talkin to no one and shit.”
“Hey, fuck it. The audacity of hope, huh?”
“Dead.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“But yeah baby—same for me. I never communicated like this.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“I hate when you bring her up.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you was.”
“Jesus. In my head and shit.”
“I am.”
“I—it’s just a way to say just how great this is, how perfect we are together.”
“But I don’t like when you put it like that.”
“Sorry.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Sit with it instead of saying it.”
“Sit with what?”
“With how great we are. Then you won’t be worrying so much. You your own worst enemy with that—every ‘what if.’”
“You’re worth worrying about, Miss. My not going to jail is worth worrying about.”
“You know a bitch aint saying shit.”
“But who knows how shit could get out.”
“So just give up, huh?”
“Stop. Girl, you—. What? What is it?”
“. . . .”
“You know I’d wait a lifetime if I needed to.”
“Me too. But—. Tch.”
“But what?”
“It’s fine. I just hate it.”
“Me too.”
“I mean people.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Care to expound? Seems like you want to.”
“Let’s be real. Men like young girls. Good skin. Energy.”
“A lot of eggs stored up.”
“You put shit weird. But yes. That’s in y’all.”
“I mean. You preaching to the choir.”
“Anyway, niggas see you with me and they asses get FOMO. And then they hate on it cuz they can’t have it. That’s my theory.”
“Sour grapes.”
“What?”
“Never mind. So what about the women, though? They wanna fuck you too?”
“Probably. Niggas and bitches both thirsty for the shit.”
“You’re beauty’s insane—literally insane.”
“But the women, they just mad cuz a man chose a bitch with more eggs.”
“Jinx.”
“But the men making the rules.”
“Well—.”
“I mean that’s how it was! White men making the rules. They want black pussy like this and they can’t have it so they say its bad. That’s another example.”
“You’re wild.—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know about what you’re saying—some of it. I mean, for one—.”
“Here we go.”
“If I wanted some ‘brown sugar’ and I was a slave master I’d just make my little midnight stroll to the quarters. That’s that Rolling Stones shit—that baby-makin shit.”
“He can’t be with her, though—like for good, have a family. He upset because she have a family with someone else, a black nigga. Anyway I’m talkin times after, like a hundred years ago, when black and white not allowed to fuck.”
“Jim Crow era, miscegenation laws.”
“You sound like my teacher. Yes, they want what they can’t be have so they hate on it. Hatin-ass niggas.”
“Ops.”
“Stop. I’m serious.”
“I know. You saying they condemn it so they can feel they didn’t miss out.”
“Yep.”
“You don’t find that a stretch?”
“Not all white men. But yeah. And they know a black bitch gonna turn their lives upside down.”
“Once you go black.”
“So that’s why they say it goes against God and any white nigga who want a black bitch a perv. Like he having sex with a dog.”
“. . . .”
“Why you shaking your head”
“I mean, I see the theory. White men in power created a society where interracial sex was illegal and unclean. So they had to keep demonizing it to suppress their own attraction.”
“You the professor. Yep.”
“Like a psychological barrier to protect themselves from their own forbidden urges that keep bubbling up.”
“White men always up in the head. I swear.”
“Watch yourself.”
“I’m joking. But you in your head. I know that.”
“You’ll never let me live it down, huh? Fine, yeah. I have a problem.”
“Here we go.”
“But just because I go soft every time I worry I’ll go soft, which’s every fucking damn time I go to jerk off—that doesn’t make me any less of a human. But no, you’ll just keep throwing it in my face, making the flapjack jokes!”
“See, that’s how I know I’m onto some shit. Cuz you start on the foolish shit.”
“I just feel bad about having to trash your theory. I’m trying to get out of it.”
“What wrong with it then?”
“Nah it’s good baby. It’s just—.”
“Just what?”
“The bigger problem is your parallel—between black-white sex and adult-minor sex. I—.”
“Men want what they can’t have so they say its bad. Period.”
“I don’t deny that this—. I mean, you’re right about men having that hardwired thirst. Muslims cover girls up at like twelve. There’s wisdom there. And so many people, especially men, seeing us together would feel like they’re missing out—even if they can’t put words to it or frame it a whole different way.”
“Like against God way or whatever. If they say it’s bad they can feel better about not getting any. Period.”
“Or maybe, and I always said this in the Muslim case—maybe it’s even to make the fruit sweeter! So there’s that. But put that aside. The point—. Girl it’s not just FOMO. Every society protects the young. That’s ingrained too. Kids need to be protected until they can have babies. At least that’s the evolutionary root.”
“And? I’m talking like my age. I can have babies.”
“It goes beyond that. There are power differences. The minor is vulnerable.”
“Everyone’s vulnerable, especially women.”
“More vulnerable.”
“Where you draw the line?”
“My point is—. That’s a fair point but my point is it’s not just FOMO. It’s risk management. Look at it this way. When we’re old together, I wouldn’t have FOMO—.”
“Cuz you been had it.”
“Well, maybe because I’d be with you. And you’re not replaceable.”
“We belong together. That’s what I’m saying. Period.”
“But my point—. Hear me out. My point is that I wouldn’t have FOMO not just because of that. I’d be worried about the girl. And girl, come on. You’d be too. There’s a power difference.”
“What about them NBA niggas with tiny bitches?”
“Stink Bug really diggin her heels in, huh?”
“Make it make sense.”
“I’m not talking just physical.”
“I’m listening. And?”
“It’s about dependency. It’s why we say it’s wrong for the boss to date his employee. She depends on him for money, for her job.”
“You don’t think those NBA bitches like that. Tch. That’s a bitch’s dream!”
“Okay fine, but she can be independent. She can survive if he left.”
“Same with the girl dating the boss.”
“You’re right. I’m not putting this right.”
“And like fine if the bitch ain’t have no experience or whatever. But I do. A bitch make shit work with less. I’m more independent. It ain’t an on off switch, feel me?”
“I do. It’s—.”
“I’m a black girl. Half these white bitches wouldn’t know which bus, which train, to take. I do for myself.”
“I get it. These are great points. It’s—. Damn. I don’t—. Just let me reorient. Because power difference is relevant to whether the romantic relationship is relevant. Like it would presumably be wrong for me to be with a girl with severe Down syndrome—well, without at least—.”
“We know nigga: some other bitch watchin.”
“Yes. But why? It’s because the power difference. And it’s not just a physical thing as we said. It’s a difference in intellect.”
“That don’t apply here. You always say ‘this like that.’ You always doing that. What’s the word?”
“Analogies—. I’m big on analogies, no doubt.”
“Yes. And okay, that’s good sometimes cuz it makes things colorful or like opens up how we look at shit—.”
“Time is a thief.”
“Yes. But that’s how you be missing shit too. Cuz time and a thief are different. You make the shit sound too simple sometimes. Feel me?”
“Overlooking key differences—that is a danger of analogous thinking. I see your point. But how does this apply here?”
“Nigga, I look like I have down syndrome?”
“But hold on now. I’m not saying—. Don’t be overliteral here. That’s a danger too.”
“Fine. Forget I said the shit. Cuz then we be on this whole lecture or whatever. Just tell me: the power difference—make it make sense. Cuz the math aint mathin.”
“Intellect is part of it. But it’s a whole bunch of shit, not just intellect: difference in wealth, social status, experience—all that. I own property. What does a kid have? If I had time to write this out, I could make a better case.”
“A case?”
“Yeah—a cumulative case.”
“Tch. What about a rich white man and a poor black woman, an adult? I’m talking back then. That’s imbalanced too. So they shouldn’t have been together?”
“And because of my lifetime of experiences I know what buttons to press to—.”
“I do too, nigga.”
“There’s a lot of insight to what you say. Don’t get me wrong—even the NBA thing. But all I’m—.”
“And everyone bring something different. You can press these buttons but another nigga can press those. We not all the same. And that’s good.”
“No it is. And these are good points. But—.”
“And you think girls my age want to hear you play SWV? You think they—. Tch. Nigga come on. you too nice. You too serious.”
“Gloves off, huh?”
“Tch. Like what bitch wanna hang out with the principal? Shit creepy.”
“Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Stop. You know what I mean.”
“I can take gloves off too. Feeling grown isn’t the same as being grown. How bout that Miss?”
“Listen. I consent. End of story. That’s what this’s about right?”
“I mean that word gets fuzzy. A horse—.”
“Boy.”
“You know how I work. This’s how I think.”
“Yep, bitches my age love to hear a nigga talk like Socrates. Out here pressing buttons.”
“I’m ignoring it.”
“Good.”
“A horse may or may not consent to you brushing it, riding it, or whatever. It gives behavior cues. But when people use the term they mean it in—.”
“And when I try to bring your hand to my pussy that’s the same. The fuck.”
“But just hear me out.”
“And you pull away. So you don’t consent. And do I force it? No.”
“Baby, you passionate about this. But be open.”
“I’ve been open.”
“And let me keep this straight in my head. I forget shit.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“Horses don’t need to know what they’re consenting to in like a verbal way, in language—they don’t need to in order to consent. Behavioral signals, the consent they give with their body language—that’s good enough.”
“But not for me.”
“Obviously not. People get aroused during rape. They don’t want it and yet sometimes they give consent cues, even orgasm and all that.”
“There you go again. You’re twisting my words.”
“No, I’m not. I know you mean more than what you say. But I’m being literal to be careful, so I can make the point.”
“Fine.”
“Hey.”
“Okaaay.”
“Now with a young person, even if they show signs of interest—.”
“Signs of interest. Oh my God.”
“You’re not being in anyway charitable to me tonight, huh? Should we put this conversation off?”
“Are you being charitable to our situation?”
“See, even that. You know better. You’re being stubborn.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Go ahead.”
“Even if the young person wants it too (mutual attraction, all that), the worry is that they don’t know what they’re consenting to. They don’t know the long-term consequences.”
“Don’t know? You talking about a little kid then.”
“Someone even your age.”
“Tch. This not that. If I didn’t want it, it would be. I aint a weak bitch.”
“The minor has such a radically different future to look forward to. So much will change with them. And so even when it’s their decision at the time, they might regret it later. They might think: ‘If only I was more informed I wouldn’t have done that.’ A horse doesn’t have such a radically different future. And neither does an adult human. That’s the key difference.”
“I see that with a baby or a little kid. Cuz so much will change. But—.”
“This gets—. Let me just say this. This gets to the root. Exploitation—that’s the worry. It’s why I say the age of consent should, if anything, go up. Our immaturity is prolonged today.”
“Nigga, no you don’t. You say that to get at people for being unfair, which is my point.”
“Fine. But—.”
“Like you like to say: I have your number.”
“You do. And I love it. But my point now is that just because the attraction’s mutual—.”
“It’s normal to disagree with earlier choices anyway.”
“It’s complicated. But baby, let’s not get lost in the sauce here. Understand my target. I’m just responding to your theory that people hate it because they secretly want it and can’t have it. I’d say that’s true in the interracial sex case, and the adult-minor sex too—in some, if not many, instances. But, especially with adult-minor sex, it could be that people—even the very same people—hate it because they believe it harms the vulnerable.”
“That sound like a cover.”
“You’re being stubborn. I like the insight. That’s the kind of uncomfortable point I like to make in my poetry. I’m probably gonna steal the idea to be honest. It’s just not universal.”
“. . . .”
“If you were my daughter I wouldn’t accept you being with a guy as old as me.”
“That’s cuz you’d be there, loving me every moment.”
“I don’t quite get how—.”
“That’s who you are. You’d care for me like crazy. I’d be your responsibility. I know you.”
“I’ll have to think more on how that relates.”
“Please do cuz it does.”
“But my point is that a desire to fuck you wouldn’t be behind my prohibition. I’d let you date boys your age. That proves it.”
“But you’d be protective.”
“But that wouldn’t mean—.”
“And what if the other guy, the older guy, was just like you?”
“I wouldn’t know he was. I’m not God. So I’d err on the side of safety. We’re talking children. There’s nothing more sinister than one who wants to rob the innocence of a child for their own pleasure.”
“I agree.”
“Children are impressionable. They can be groomed. That’s the reality here.”
“Everyone can be groomed.”
“Kids are more vulnerable.”
“Yeah. But again, where’s the line?”
“They can be easily influenced. I’m talking even your age. I mean, hell. We’re in a time where promiscuity is packaged as the birthright of a woman. We’re in a hookup culture. Everyone is just a disposable object—a sex toy. We get on apps to find strangers instead of being connected through the vettign of friend groups whoa re watching out, sort of serving like the role of the third. Just the music, the shit of your generation—. That literally is speaking right to the loins. I’m talking first-grader, second-grader—straight WAPs!”
“You piss me off but I love you nigga.”
“I sense some edge to your ‘love.’”
“You always got to work in all the shit that pisses you off.”
“But it’s relevant. This makes adult-minor relationships especially dangerous.”
“. . . .”
“Add to this—. I mean, even before all this hypersexual music and hookup culture and porn; and even before this style of feminism where sleeping around, even if it means cheating on you husband, is liberating or payback (a sort of reparations just as much as black looting is)—.”
“You bringing in all this shit that ain’t about me.”
“But it is. If I finish my point, it is.”
“Okay.”
“I mean even if you didn’t add all this stuff in (and I mean this stuff itself is too huge of a grooming factor to underestimate), girl’s your age—.”
“Girls my age. Tch. Statistics aint specifics.”
“But statistics matter. Girls are quick as it is to mistake sexual attention for love. That’s even more true if there’s no parental presence. For all you know, that’s why I zeroed in on you.”
“You didn’t know that, so stop.”
“Doesn’t every kid need validation from a male figure, especially if they don’t have one in their lives? An adult can take advantage of that, of their need to feel chosen.”
“. . . .”
“Okay. So now add all the other shit back in, how shit is today: influencers glamorizing OnlyFans, rap music swelling clits and sliming panties, sex being so casual—I mean, the shit’s primed. That ham’s cooked, glazed, and ready to be sliced! Sucklin ham.”
“If sex so casual then wouldn’t it also be less crazy less wild for a guy to be fucking a younger girl.”
“It is treated more causally. That doesn’t mean it is, especially for girls.”
“But overtime that could change.”
“Overtime, slavery of a certain group of people can become normalized. Does that make it right?”
“I’m not some professor or whatever. But my main point is simple: there’s exceptions.”
“And then there’s the whole future point. Add in that. Even when the kid is in the best environments, that future point is key.”
“That doesn’t change my point about exceptions.”
“It dwindles the exceptions.”
“Also even an adult can have a crazy different future. So like what? We—.”
“Well, they do because of contingencies—at least more so. Like a blow to the head, a stroke. A kid does—just because of the nature of the situation. Their wiring—it isn’t all settled. Heart breakers by nature!”
“What about when people start living thousands of years? The first person who’ll live to a thousand has already been born. You said people think that.”
“That’s an interesting point. And maybe, in consistency, the age of consent will need to go way up. Ahaha.”
“And we tell them Santa’s real. Straight up lie. How’s that okay? How’s it okay that we tell them they go to hell forever if they do bad?”
“Maybe it’s not. I mean even commercials for junk food—.”
“And what you say you hate the most?”
“I know. I know.”
“That you was circumcised.”
“I know.”
“So how’s that okay? You had a future.”
“It’s not okay. I hate it.”
“Let’s be consistent. Nigga, that what you all about!”
“But I’m not saying—.”
“We out here piercing babies’ ears and putting their lives on the Gram. They could grow up and wish it didn’t happen. The fuck?”
“All of it could be wrong. That’s my point.”
“But nigga, cutting off dick skin way worse.”
“. . . .”
“There’s always gonna be regrets. People have to live and learn. I can see with cutting the baby. But I’m older. Tch. I’m more mature than most bitches—even adults. You say so yourself.”
“Maybe that’s an example of my grooming you. I could see—.”
“I been thought that before your ass. So please.”
“Maybe all my pushback here is a type of grooming—some don’t-press-the-red-button shit. Then you now arguing why our romance is permissible. Win for me.”
“Oh my God. Come back to reality.”
“. . . .”
“And nigga, like what’s the gap really? You missed out in school cuz you was in the books. And what you say about all the weed you smoked?”
“It stunted my development.”
“So we even closer in real age. Like see how dumb?”
“Well, what if—. I mean, take that same thing and look at it another way. What if I have a fetish for young pussy because I sacrificed for my career and smoked all that weed everyday? All those hours in the library, and now I’m middle-aged and the FOMO finally caught up to me?”
“Everyone got a story. And?”
“And maybe that means I’m just using you.”
“Nigga, you—. Tch. There’s always some using.”
“I’m talkin in a bad sense.”
“This whole shit is you lookin out for me! Like, what?”
“Maybe I found holes I could fill.”
“But you never do.”
“I’m talking your need for safety as a kid, a poor kid without any adults around; your need for a loving guidance; your need to be recognized for the maturity you had to muster.”
“And? That true for everybody! What, a bitch want a nigga that aint fill her holes? Like what? Pieces in a puzzle nigga.”
“What if I’m just acting the part, I mean. Maybe it’s all show, an infomercial—manipulation of images: how you see me, how I see myself.”
“You doubt everything. Oh my God. Cuz I can do what-ifs too. What if you’re scared? Cuz where a nigga’s precious alone time go if he admit he needs me as much as I need him?”
“Listen, I—.”
“What if brains covering fear? What if a nigga think he aint deserve love so he sabotage the shit?”
“Remember my target. I was just—.”
“But shit’s comin from some place. Cuz that’s what you do: doubt. Like nigga you got a problem. Surprised you aint go back home to check if you left the sink on. Damn!”
“It’s important to be skeptical here is my point.”
“Nigga, you tryna talk to me or tryna win a debate? Cuz I’m confused. Like so I’m just replaceable? That’s a possibility? Any little pussy good enough?”
“Well, are we really calling that shit little?”
“Stop.”
“Sorry. You know I love everything about you.”
“So don’t hurt me to make a point. That’s not how you treat someone you love.”
“It’s important to have logic here. It can’t be all this twin-flame shit and synchronicity when the risks are so high. That’s a higher love.”
“But maybe it’s just for show, right?”
“Touché.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Nigga, we on the same page about your points. I get it already.”
“Okay. Good.”
“But you talking averages. We an exception.”
“You’re biased. That’s why—.”
“Fuck this!”
“Baby.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“I gotta do whatever my parents say or teachers. I’m not supposed to resist. Why? Cuz I’m a kid and they lookin out for me, right? But you lookin out for me more than my mom or any of my teachers. You see me. You want what’s best for me. And I trust you most. I respect you cuz of you—not cuz I’m supposed to or cuz I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not afraid. A bitch’ll be out real quick on anyone—you included!”
“. . . .”
“I know you good. You complete me. You fit.”
“Sweetheart—.”
“And fuck some other person watching me. I hate the idea. You wanna say all this shit. Well, Imma say my shit too. Cuz the idea’s dumb. Yeah I said it.”
“I think it’s—. It protects—.”
“That’s logic not love. How that shit even supposed to work? The fuck?! Real world aint a paper.”
“Maybe that’s the point—that it’s not supposed to work. Your identity is still forming. I take that ser—.”
“Yeah, and it’s forming with you! It always gonna form with some influence. You saying shit I know your ass don’t even believe!”
“. . . .”
“Like, are you even listening to yourself?”
“It’s im—.”
“I know you good for me. Period.”
“So you think.”
“Stop. Please. I don’t like that. I’m really asking you.”
“Okay.”
“And even if you wasn’t good for me—. Tch. I’d make it part of who I am. Cuz that’s the difference. It matters how I look at it. Like if we lived in a place where they didn’t think it was crazy. Even if things go bad, the kid grows up and sees it as a learning experience. You get me?”
“I do. I just feel you’re over—.”
“We give shit power. America crazy bout sex sex. It’s all over but it’s the worst at the same time. Here some nigga pull his penis out and a bitch need therapy. Other places they just laugh. That’s your example, nigga.”
“I know.”
“Like you was sayin about my mom—how in other places the voices don’t say mean shit like ‘Kill yourself’ but just like ‘Clean your room.’ I’m saying I look at it different. How I take it in is different.”
“You take it as a learning experience.”
“My mindset on growth. That’s facts.”
“I get you.”
“Cuz I think there’s always good. Like when a kid gets shot the people come together. It can build people.”
“Some people it ruins though.”
“Cuz they ain’t see it like me. I’m creating a big painting with my life.”
“They are too: brains splattering walls.”
“All the shadows, like my mom—all that’s important to the whole thing.”
“But even if the experience builds your character, that doesn’t mean it was good. It wasn’t good for the kid to get shot.”
“Oh my God. It ain’t all poking holes. Tch.”
“Tell me what you mean, baby.”
“This’s good, what we have. So like you really getting me angry.”
“Baby—sweetheart. You know how I feel. I’m here with you right? I’m just—. Man. And I get what you’re saying. The framing does matter. It’s a smart point.”
“And what about the fact that we having this conversation? Don’t that matter? If it not, I don’t know what does.”
“It does.”
“At the end of the day—. I’m sorry, but at the end of the day it comes down to my choice, my heart. I have one life. You now how many bitches on pills since like the sixth grade cuz they now suddenly a boy?”
“I know baby.”
“Make it make sense.”
“. . . .”
“Shit’s unfair. That’s what I mean. I hate people.”
“. . . .”
“Cuz when you bring all the shit together and don’t just pick at each point like it’s the whole thing, then us being together—that’s less an issue than changing a kid’s school, taking them away from friends—or whatever. Yeah two wrongs don’t make a right. Blah blah. But this ain’t even no issue in the first place.”
“I know.”
“I’m talking about us, not in general. Everything aint a category.”
“I know.”
“You think I ain’t gonna say something if I see some old nigga with a young girl?”
“I know. I know.”
“Cuz I’m extra on-guard. I know that shit creepy. I know kids get exploited. I’m not dumb.”
“. . . .”
“What we have is good. I learn. You learn. You watch yourself. I mean, literally my life’s better with you. I’m happy. I have food. I have love. I have a person. I’m learning all types of shit. You don’t judge me for liking what I like or for doing kid shit. I feel safer than ever, more good about myself than ever. You believe in me.”
“I do.”
“I mean you even say all this shit—all this shit I hate. And I listen.”
“Baby, I get you. I do.”
“We have these conversations. That matters.”
“It does.”
“And see it’s dumb cuz I’m trying to prove why its good. It’s like I’m in a trap. The more I move the more I’m trapped. Love ain’t proof. The fuck?!”
“Baby, it’s okay.”
“Love’s irrational.”
“. . . .”
“And at this point I don’t get it. You sniffin my pussy nigga.”
“. . . .”
“You spit in my mouth. On God—ain’t no other nigga ever gonna do that. Ever.”
“. . . .”
“Like I’m not seeing where you drawing this line.”
“. . . .”
“So I guess we stop it all, right?”
“. . . .”
“Cuz there always be a reason.”
“. . . .”
“I can’t even be in this car then. You can’t pick me up then.”
“. . . .”
“If it’s really about protecting me. Cuz it ain’t even about jail. What we do could get out too. Right?”
“Baby.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“You see how dumb?”
“. . . .”
“You extra. You extra when it makes no sense. You don’t know when to stop.”
“I know.”
“No one needs to know what we on. I’ll deny it. No one gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do. This dumb ass president do it. I’ll do it. The fuck?”
“. . . .”
“No one gonna tell me shit.”
“. . . .”
“And fine you want to be careful and so you pick at what I say but—. Tch.”
“. . . .”
“It’s my life!”
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m born on a floating rock against my will, given an ID number like I’m a cow. I gotta go to school and if I don’t I get taken away from my mom. Then I gotta work till I die. Shit’s not fair. I get it. But aint no one gonna tell me I can’t be with who I love. My life, nigga. Mine!”
“. . . .”
“You shoulda not fucked with me then.”
“Come here baby.”
“It’s on you to leave. Cuz I know what I want.”
“I’ll never leave.”
“Then stand on that!”
“. . . .”
“I’m sorry. I’m just mad. Like we literally on a rock. Make it make sense.”
“You know I agree with you baby. I’m—.”
“I don’t want no third bitch looking at me. I’m telling you that.”
“It was just—.”
“I can wait. You my person. I can wait. That’s it.”
“Maybe it’s good to be in the moment. Appreciate where we at.”
“Nigga, you tellin me—. Tch. Let me stop.”
“. . . .”
“It just gets me heated. We out here killing animals and niggas gonna say I can’t be with you. Like I’m literally gonna die one day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“. . . .”
“My baby gets worked up, huh? Never seen you like this.”
“Like I see what you sayin. But I know what the fuck I know.”
“I know.”
“And now your bullshit all up in my head. Cuz I hear you sayin, ‘See, you being this impatient and bratty shows you a kid.’ Well, nigga I am patient. I’m just tryin to stick up for myself. The fuck!”
“. . . .”
“I know society aint God. It can’t look at all the exceptions. I ain’t even saying it should change. But we worth the risk. What else is life about?”
“Come here. Bring it in baby. Bring it in. Ssh.”
“. . . .”
“I’m proud of you, okay? Your points matter. I just have to watch—. I mean, you need yourself first. That’s where I’m coming from. I won’t let you lose yourself for anything—even me, even us. It’s not just logic. Your health, your mind, your spirit—that’s what I’m trying to make sure you prioritize.”
“. . . .”
“I truly want you to be the best that you can be.”
“I know.”
“You’re wonderful. You know that? I feel so blessed. You’re a dream.”
“And I’m not sayin I’m not a kid. I’m not one of them bitches fake like they grown.”
“I know. And I still want you to be a kid.”
“Just because I got big ideas, big feelings—that don’t mean I’m big. I’m not dumb. I still need reassurance and guidance—rules, love, all that. But that’s the point!”
“. . . .”
“Don’t get it twisted. I love you for the rules, the worry about me. But you say the shit yourself—why the youth important. I gotta play my role too when shit ain’t right.”
“You gotta push back. I get it. Otherwise we get stasis.”
“Like if you ain’t seeing what is, the specifics—the reality beyond the categories. Cuz obviously it’s not good if a kid has a curfew and doesn’t come back or whatever. But there could be a good reason. Stupid example, but feel me?”
“I do.”
“So yeah keep being you. Keep being careful with my future. But that don’t mean be careless with my now.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Pffhahaha! I’m sorry babe. That shit.”
“That shit was corny, I know.”
“That’s some Lifetime shit! ‘You’re so busy protecting the woman I might become that you’re killing the girl who’s right beside you.’ Nnhahaha! After-school special in the piece!”
“Cooked. You make a bitch corny.”
“‘You’re so busy auditing my childhood that you’re ignoring my body.’”
“Stooopp.”
“Aww baby. But I get it.”
“Tch. I’m sorry for gettin mad. Obviously, I agree with you. I’m on my period.”
“Never would’ve thought that.”
“But I stand by what I said. Niggas don’t know what we have. Fuck society.”
“. . . .”
“They don’t know about us.”
“Yo.”
“What?”
“You’ll love this.”
“What you excited about? I’m over here in crisis.”
“Jon fuckin B. This gonna be your new shit! Look up Jon B. ‘J’ ‘O’ ‘N.’ Put in ‘They don’t know.’
“. . . .”
“Yeah. There you go.”
“. . . .”
“Put it through the car. Yeah. And rewind it.”
“Oh he looks like you. Oh and he likes black girls. I like him.”
“I had the cut like that. Fucking 90s.”
“. . . .”
“Had the bubble coat too. Ahahaha.”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Am I your angel too? I’m sorry for getting mad.”
“Of course you are! But yo, right here. Just like what you say.”
Don’t listen to what people say
They don’t know about—’bout you and me
Put it out your mind ‘cuz it’s jealousy
They don’t know about this here
“Exactly. Yep. Cuz its jealousy nigga!”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Jeez. Damn—.”
“You crying?”
“Just crazy how time flies.”
“You so sweet. They definitely don’t know. They don’t.”
“. . . .”
“I love this song. You right.”
“. . . .”
“Come here.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry about how I’m handling this. I don’t mean—. I’m just—. I’m fumblin man.”
“It’s okay. I got you like you got me.”
“I know baby girl.”
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
