Object of Your Intention
Oh the way you touched me
Sent chills down your spine.
I live for your attention
You live for mine.
Many a man have loved me
Many of them have let me go.
All I want is to be wanted
Someone’s touch makes me whole.
I sit here alone, old, misused, and unappealing. I wear beauty marks of the hands that have touched me gently with passion and sometimes frustration. I know am not easily overtaken. I am not the easiest to be in a relationship with. It takes time, but I have every intention of opening up. If I could put a sign on my body it would read,
“If you want me, you have to fight hard, and you have to know how to make me please you. I am here and willing, but you have to communicate with me or our relationship won’t work.”
Then maybe the next Jo Shmo would know what he is getting into and wouldn’t dispose of me so quickly. I feel like no one has gotten to know me yet. When I first meet someone, they look at me with passion and yearning, but they usually don’t show it to me. They touch me, but it’s not enough.
I want to be sensuously touched.
I want someone to feel my most intimate curves.
I want someone to caress my neck with a stroke of intimacy.
I want someone to make me let out a scream-a passionate scream- the kind of scream that awakens all of the neighbors-a scream so loud and powerful that it echoes sweetly in your soul days after hearing it.
I want and am still looking.
I guess I should tell you my name. My name is Mary Jane. I was previously known as Janet and Bubba. These were pet names given to me, probably names of ex-girlfriends or women that these clueless men or women obsess about.
I am looking for love. I don’t want to hear it though. I want you to show it to me. I want physical, raw and gratifying love. I want public displays of affection, private hardcore banging sessions, and soothing strokes all throughout the day.
Gawd Dammit!
I just want someone to give a fuck about me!
Now maybe I should tell you about the men (and one woman) that I have encountered in the past. I should tell you in detail the reasons behind the bitter and desperate solicitation. You see… The frustrating part of this is that each and every one of these people that have held me in their arms has shown me glimpses of greatness. At times that passion was directed at me, but most of the time I saw it as they tauntingly poured their passion into people whom in the end left them. I was always there, but I was always the one neglected, and in doing so they missed out on the best (and I mean best) relationship that they could ever have had.
So I feel like I am rambling in an abstract and nonsensical way. Without the details, you can’t possibly understand where I am coming from. You wouldn’t understand, I guess, you’re not me. You’re not miserable and lonely- Tired and dejected- Ragged and in need of tender loving care. Okay so this is why I am this way. I’ll start with Ras Martin. He is the one who gave me my current name.
So look at me. Keep looking… Look a bit closer. Look into my soul, past your reflection. My scars will tell you the story if you just keep looking. Yeah there you go…
…
Bubba sits on a curb surrounded by mattresses, cheap lamps, pass due bills, an art easel, and scattered clothes. The red curly haired woman Bubba was living with had just been evicted from her Logan Square studio where she had been daydreaming for the past two years. The woman’s daydreams are now publicly sprawled out on Kedzie Avenue. The woman is nowhere to be found. Bubba hasn’t seen her in weeks. No one has seen her in weeks.
What would become of all her belongings?
What would become of Bubba?
Bubba sits, sits a little longer, and just a bit longer until an old, rusty, and loud car pulls in front of the yellow brick apartment complex with the confetti of unclaimed goods. A gentleman with red thick Rastafarian dreadlocks stares out of the window of the beaten, antique car. One of the thick fuzzy ruby dreads hangs over one of his blue eyes, touching the tip of his nose and the middle of his thin lips. He looks at all the enticing belongings and pauses when he sees Bubba. As he watches Bubba sitting there, alone, unattended, and desperate looking, he takes one hit from his shiny blue one-hitter and coughs violently as if the smoke is choking him. The dreadlocked gentleman looks over his shoulder in a frantic paranoia as he gets out of the car.
“Your coming with me beauty, I treat you real good,” he says as he grabs Bubba swiftly, shoving him through the driver’s side door into the passenger seat.
They drive silently down Kedzie Avenue. Bubba sits in the passenger seat slouched down, his neck resting on the worn seat of the car. Buju Banton’s voice echoes out of the raggedy car’s speakers sweetly as the scent of herb and gasoline pollute the air.
“Walk like a champion, talk like a champion.” The dreaded gentleman sings along and sporadically shouts, “Rastafari!” He appears clueless and indifferent to the crime he has just committed.
The raggedy car pulls in front of a two story brick building not far from their previous destination. He silences the car and grabs Bubba as he gets out of the car. Bubba’s journey with Ras Martin begins.
Ras Martin holds Bubba across his arms leaned up against his chest like a groom holding his bride on their wedding night. As he walks up the stairs, he sings mashed up versions of reggae songs, his ruby locks swaying to the rhythms in his head. The wooden stairs leading up to his apartment whine beneath his light brown Timberlands. The sun from the glass window on the entrance door shines on Bubba’s body enticingly, creating a spotlight, highlighting the best attributes, the newness disguising anything unfavorable and unappealing.
As Ras Martin opens his door to his apartment, the mixed aromas of Nachampa, Ganja, and mold welcomes them. He lays Bubba down on his cream colored vintage couch, his body facing upward. Ras Martin walks into the next room. Soon the sound of water drops beating against ceramic and the shower door fill the apartment. Ras Martin reappears shirtless, wearing only boxer briefs; his red dreads caress his smooth pale but sculpted chest. Ooh I couldn’t wait for him to touch me.
He anxiously grabs Bubba from the couch rescuing him in his arms, touching his cold body, hammering away methodically, making his way up his neck, bending away all past neglect, pleasuring this heart of steel, enjoying their nakedness together, communicating their souls through touch. Wow he knew what he was doing. Mmm.
Although the two were strangers, Ras Martin’s fingers touching Bubba’s body triggers a sensation in the two that make them feel like they have known each other forever or have at least met once before.
“Ooh wee. You are a true beauty,” Ras Martin says in amazement of the rejuvenating experience.
He lets Bubba lay across his warm chest. He reaches for his glass bowl on the wooden coffee table; burnt green leaves are still in it from the previous night. The tall flame ignites a spell that Ras Martin in turn inhales, coughing, softly convulsing, smiling as the spell swims through his body, and settles in his mind.
“Hahahahahahahahaha!” Ras Martin roars still lightly coughing.
“I have an idea. Yeah… I think I will call you Mary Jane. Yeah… Mary Jane.”
Mary Jane sits in silence letting Ras Martin mold her into whatever his heart desires. She enjoys the attention and excitement in Ras Martin’s eyes, and his touch shows her hope, a newness not experienced in the past, a feeling of ecstasy, a touch that made her yearn for more and more.
Ras Martin pours prolonging passion onto Mary Jane for days. They enjoy timeless hours together, naked without need for outside intrusion, just the two of them filling the silent apartment with an array of sounds: screams, melodic wails, love songs. Didn’t take long for this precious honeymoon period to end though.
Ras Martin’s passion begins to dwindle after the first week. He touches her less and at times does not even look at Mary Jane. When he does look at her, there is no more passion in his eyes. His eyes begin to lack the passion that gave them instant connection. His gentle caresses up her neck turn into annoyance-filled shoves. He begins to treat her like an object in his way.
Mary Jane’s nights once filled with Ras Martin, are now spent alone, trapped inside an apartment of false dreams. The aromas that once welcomed Mary Jane, now taunt her. The spell has been broken, the disguise is off, and the once appealing beauty marks are just old scars that are accumulating by the second.
Ras Martin begins to bring women home impressing them with his eclectic reggae vinyl collection, wowing them with his Bob Marley Live DVD’s, and explaining the differences between the shit their smoking before finally unleashing uncontrollable affection onto his guest, which they welcome.
Mary Jane would now sit in the corner in the midst of the empty moans and repeated Bob Marley DVD’s. Amidst the oohs, ahs, and have mercies, Mary Jane would imagine herself in Bob’s arms as he redeems her soul and asks her to help him sing songs of freedom, hitting her G spot, making her screech loudly but consonantly, his dreads caressing her neck as he nods his head under the intoxication of chords, sending praise to Jah through his voice and her body and her heart of steel. She would imagine her and Bob naked on stage in front of millions as the audience finds pleasure in their pleasure. Yes a million person orgy. And every little thing would be alright except the DVD would eventually end. Reality remains. She remains neglected.
After months of invisibility Ras Martin one day unexpectedly picks Mary Jane up. As he picks her up, she could see glimpses of that lost passion in his eyes as he looked at her. It was as if he was missing her although she had been in arm’s length for the last few months. He stares at her longingly but quickly changes demeanor. He picks Mary Jane up and heads out of his apartment. He runs down the stairs clumsily holding Mary Jane by the neck. His steps on the stairs are hard and hurried. He throws her in the passenger seat awkwardly sprawled across the seat and the dirty floor. The loud car drives swiftly down the bumpy streets. Ras Martin is silent and frantic, agitated. A short drive through oniony, exhaust pipe smells, and industrious sounds, and the car halts. He grabs Mary Jane roughly and walks into a small building with a big sign that read…
…
Oh sorry. You still there? Yea you… I think I just heard the doorbell on the front door. Ha a new customer. I really apologize, but the story has to end there. You never know this might just be the one.
Oh the way he’ll touch me
Will send chills down your spine.
I’ll live for his attention
You’ll live for mine.
Many a man have strummed me
Many of them have let me go.
All I want is to be played
Let his strum make us whole.