I strutted, fine, bold and mighty with my jet-black hair tasseling down my back. Tight black latex pants and tall charcoal boots. My favorite leather and lace corset lifted my breast, way too high…

In my best “Big Girl” pose…I ordered..”COME HERE!” I fluttered my lashes, perched my lips, and eased a crooked a smile. Quickly, he came…I gave my hand to him..adding..”My fingers hurt.” Taking them in between both of his hands.. he massaged them.. firm and deep.

Ow” I moaned..”My thighs hurt’….fast, he fell down to his knees and rubbed them.

I took the heel of my palm to his forehead, and lifted his head..”Aye YOU!..” I demanded. “My feet hurt! Unzip and remove my boot and rub them good! I’ve been working all day..and they’re tired” (he did)

My toes hurt, too…suck them! (he did)

When he lapped at my feet.. it angered me. I kicked him back by his shoulder and stood on top of his chest.

Over him I shouted..

Your a disgrace!” while choking him with the side of my foot. “Will you do everything that I tell you?” He mumbled something and struggled to nod yes.

What?” I beckoned and pushed harder. “Will you do everything that I ask?” He coughed out a weak yes.

We’ll see.”

I loosened and stepped off of him.. carefully backing away, I ordered him to stand.

Sweating and breathless.. he rose. Beckoning him with my pointer finger..”Come here! Now-kiss me.” Before he could, I pushed him away. “Kiss my hand first… you idiot!” (He did) I snatched my hand from him, took a couple more steps backwards and softly…very sweetly whined.. “Aye you, come here.”

(Smiling) I opened my arms wide..enough for him to enter, then said “Okay, now love me.”

Dumbfounded…he stood.

Slave.. (YES) but not mine.



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Bushy Head Bosh

Image Credit: Krysten Michaels

The nickname developed my signature. It highlights my art. It twinkles in my writing.
It created me. It tattooed my life.

For years I’ve grown my hair wild, wiry, nappy, free, and bushy..

He sings..”Bushy Head Bosh..Bushy Head Bosh”..

For days, actually since the funeral, I have hidden my hair, in ponytail. Tucked behind my ear. Tied tight behind me. Ruffed hair down the back of my neck, crumbled down the center of my back. My long locks hidden from my view, only revealing dark eyes, sunken cheeks, and weary neck.

I guess, I’m too afraid to welcome any sort of normalcy back into my life. Too fearful to “recover”. Frightened of refusing grief.

I guess, I feel that if by chance I would appear functional, normal, usual, or “Myself”, I would be admitting that “it” didn’t occur. If I looked like the same person that I have been for over a decade..would I not be saying that death didn’t come to visit. That death didn’t come to stay longer than expected, then stole my priceless gem.

My life has changed.. it has turned and shook.

He created the nickname that created me…
As a baby; barely walking, he’d sing..”Bushy head, Bushy head Bosh”.. I’d run.. and laugh.. wearing my Mommy’s Afro 70’s wig that would fluff and plump, in my wind.

Years grew old.. and “Bushy Head Bosh”, stayed. It sang loud much so..that it became who I am.
Wild, Free, spiraling here and there, twisted, curled, thick, nappy and bushy. Rarely a scalp to be seen. Full of secrets, entangled and intricate. Stubborn and unruly. But, with a little moisture..I ease, I slick, I lay and rest.

But, now.. I hide..I wrap.. I cover.. I band and bind. Me and my mourning has caused me to question my identity. Or maybe, it’s that it’s just too painful to unloose the me that he helped to create.

I think “Bushy Head Bosh”, needs to rest up, thin out, and think. So, my hair will stay full, tightly wrapped, and behind me..until I’m ready.

I love you Pa Pa.

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