Candles in the Window: A Generational Blessing of Hospitality

Abstract: “Lex Dunbar reflects on their self-acceptance journey and the hospitality lessons passed down through their great-grandmother. Lex recalls how their great-grandmother kept candles burning in the window every night, a symbol to the community that her home was a safe and welcoming space. Through their own exploration of queerness, Lex discovers that they, too, have inherited this spirit of openness—not only towards others but also towards themselves."

I miss the groans of preaching.

I miss the deep longings of the choir, hoping to sing themselves into another realm.

I miss the blood songs.

I miss the praise breaks - the pain of hand clapping - the horse voice of exhortation.

I miss the embodied work of communal spirituality.

Living in Denver is to live in a perpetual state of homesickness.

I miss the southern-eastcoast sound of Black Pentecostalism.

****

Homesickness forces me to remember that I left so that I could live.

I’m learning to live with longing instead of trying to escape it.

To long is to live. To live is to choose freedom whenever we can.

No matter the cost.

And for me, the cost of freedom is homesickness.

I didn’t come out as queer until I was 28, and I didn’t have my first serious relationship until I was 29. Eight years later, I’ve been married and divorced, dated a few other people, and experienced my first (dear God, let this be my only) situationship. Outside of hookups and flings, I’ve only dated three women (including the situation), and what is VERY clear to me now is not dating in my younger years really screwed me over.

At almost 37 years old, I should know the signs and red flags, right? I should know what I want and what I’m willing to negotiate. I should know my desires. I should know. But I didn’t.

Being a hopeless romantic with bad boundaries has resulted in my own heartbreak. And I’m angry.

Angry at myself for giving too much of the benefit of the doubt.

Angry at my religious upbringing that starved me of my queerness and this abundant life I am seeking.

Angry at my compromise and appeasement.

Angry at so much wasted time.

What I hope I’ve learned is

You can’t love anyone out of their own chaos.

You must attend to your own chaos.

Liars lie, and cheaters cheat - you are not the exception.

If it don’t feel right, it ain’t right.

Love yourself enough to leave SOONER and STAY GONE.

Love ain’t enough, and love takes work - only entertain both.

Giving more when you’re getting nothing won’t get you what you want.

“If one nigga don’t work, get another one. If that nigga don’t work, get another one” - Monique.

Life goes on. Time heals some wounds. Love will show itself again.

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For more information on the Colorado Black Health Directory, please visit

https://blackhealthresources.org/

For more information about the importance of this directory, please listen to or read

‘The care just is different.’ Directory aims to provide comprehensive source of health information for Black Coloradans

Two readings of Zora Neal Hurston’s short stories (“Big Talk” and “Why the Sister in Black Works Hardest”) and a discussion with the folks around the fire.

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Podcast Summary: Iliff Student Lex Dunbar and host Amanda Henderson share their personal stories about their relationships with the anti-abortion movement and journies toward championing equitable reproductive health and justice. These stories are powerful and eye-opening - unveiling the truth behind the manipulation, harm, and misuse of religious ideals that uphold the anti-abortion movement in their missionary efforts.

**Accidents happen when you’re talking on the fly. We know Mike Brown was murdered in 2014. Sorry for the mistake!**

Podcast Summary: Host Amanda Henderson and Iliff graduate student Lex Dunbar dig into the key takeaways they hope our listeners come away with after the first two episodes: 1) The idea that there are clear god-ordained, universal religious teachings about gender, sexuality, and marriage as we know them today is a myth. 2) Regulation of bodies, sexuality, and marriage relationships has been a part of the business of the State since the founding of the U.S. and before. With these two realities in mind, how are we to understand and navigate the deeper questions tied to gender, sexuality, and marriage?

Watch Me Own My Power

“The removal of the social stigma attached to sexual inactivity would amount to a change in sexual norms” (hooks 152)

Nii and Shah were the only two Black students in their Master’s program and the only people who openly identified as queer. Nii was a tall femme whose presence was captivating - long locs, bamboo earrings, lashes, and a smile that touched the darkest parts of your soul. Her laugh was contagious, even on the days when nothing was funny. Shah was a short king - 5’5, nonbinary transmasculine boi from the East Coast who had a tough exterior but was really a teddy bear. 

Nii and Shah would often meet at coffee shops to do homework together, regularly sharing flirtatious looks, but today, Nii invited Shah over to her apartment. It was a snowy day in Denver, and school was closed, so the two decided to take advantage of the break and enjoy a little downtime. 

When Shah showed up, Nii had prepared cozy snacks and margaritas; she knew that Shah loved margaritas as it was the only drink they’d order whenever the two went out. Touched by the thoughtfulness, Shah quickly smiled at Nii, showing the dimples they’d always been complimented on. “You got all of my favorite things,” Shah said. 

“I know what you like,” Nii responded, giving Shah a wink. 

Shah had known they had a crush on Nii for some time now but never made a move because if it went south, they would lose their only Black friend in the program. But there was something about Nii that turned Shah on. The way she could work a room, never knowing a stranger. How she paused before answering questions, making sure to never be rushed into anything. The way she could switch her style from high femme to soft stud and still be the most beautiful person in the room. How she made everyone feel like she was their best friend, even if she’d forgotten their name. Shah knew that Nii was special, one of a kind. The type of Black woman that they’d always dreamed of loving. 

The two sat closely on the couch, Nii’s legs draped over Shah’s thighs, eating snacks, drinking margaritas, and watching Sex in the City. They’d both loved the show for its iconic cultural relevance but mostly loved how each episode would trigger some deep conversation about race and sex and power in ways that felt more relevant to their lives than many of the similar conversations they’d had in class with their peers. 

“I fucking love this show,” Nii said “But I swear I wish there was a Black queer version! Like, come on! Us Black homos like sex and cities too!” They both laughed. 

“Yeah,” Shah responded, “Can you imagine seeing people like us on screen living and fucking  and going to expensive brunches? All without shame!” 

“Yes!” Nii yelled, “That’s the part! The shame part! I don’t think we talk about that enough. Like I’ve had to work through so much shame around my Blackness, queerness, and my desires to fuck and be fucked. That shit is hard work!” 

“Yep. Hard af. I feel like I’m still finding areas in myself where I am ashamed of my sexual desires, especially being transmasc and bisexual. Shit is hella complicated.” 

“Complicated as fuck,” Nii said reflectively, “But like, since we started the new module in class on queer theory, I’ve been asking myself how I can be intentional about finding and owning my power as a sexual being.” 

“Well,” Shah said, looking at Nii with a slyish grin “What did you come up with?” 

The two were about 3 margaritas in and sitting even closer to each other. Nii got up from her position on the couch to sit on Shah’s lap, looking at them in the eyes. She put Shah’s head in her hands and began giving them small pecks all over their face. “Is this ok?” Nii asked. 

“Yes,” Shah said in a deep whisper. Shah had been waiting for this moment, and it was finally here. Or so they thought. 

As Nii kissed Shah’s face and neck, never letting their lips touch, she whispered, “I know you want to fuck me, Shah.” 

Shah smiled, slightly embarrassed but highly turned on. “I’ve been wanting you since we met,” Shah responded. 

“Ummhmm. I know. A lot of people want me.” Nii said in between kisses. 

“So what we gonna do about it?” Shah asked, forgetting the earlier question they were still waiting for Nii to answer. 

“Right now, standing in my power means that no one gets to fuck me,” Nii whispered in Shah’s ear. Confused with her answer, Shah didn’t respond. “It means my body belongs to me. My orgasms are mine to give, my wetness is mine to taste. It’s me season, baby.” 

“Oh damn,” Shah said, full of desire and excitement. “So what you doing on my lap?” Shah said with a slight laugh. 

“Well, do you wanna watch?” Nii asked 

“Watch what?” Shah said, again confused. 

“Watch me own my power,” Nii said as she got off Shah’s lap. 

“Fuck yeah” 

“Come in the bedroom then,” Nii said as she slowly walked away from the couch into her room. 

 Shah quickly got up off the couch to follow Nii. When they entered the room, Nii motioned for them to sit in the recliner facing the bed. 

“Sit there. Watch, but don’t touch. This is all mine.” Nii instructed Shah. 

Shah had never watched a person masturbate before. In fact, their own experience with masturbation was very utilitarian - quick, disconnected, and straight to the point. This would be a new experience that would challenge their own sexual praxis. 

Nii got on her bed and directly faced Shah. She began rubbing her body, gently caressing her breasts, slightly moaning at her own touch. Her hard nipples were erected so that Shah could see them through her shirt. Shah started breathing heavily; they were full of desire. Nii moved her body sensually to the beat of the music she’d put on before Shah walked into the room. Her body swirling, her locs swinging, and her hips gyrating on the 2/4. Nii was fully engaged in her own pleasure. She slowly removed her shirt, her large, perky breasts finally exposed. She continued to touch herself all over, never breaking eye contact with Shah. She knew that she was driving Shah crazy, and she loved every minute of it. 

A few minutes passed, and Nii got off the bed and walked over to her nightstand. 

“Wait. You done?” Shah said eagerly. 

“No. I need this.” Nii opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the Rose toy. Shah’s face lit up. The Rose toy was a small vibrator that stormed social media in 2021. Black Twitter is where many Black women learned about this new vibrator that promised to close the orgasm gap. Shah had heard of the toy but had never used it or experienced its pleasure. They moaned in excitement - this was an unexpected but intoxicating moment.            

Nii got back on the bed, this time laying on her back toward the edge, legs open so that Shah could watch her every move. She turned the Rose on and began rubbing her nipples with the toy. “Oh fuck” she moaned as the vibrator sent sensations up and down her body. 

“I know you want me,” she whispered loud enough for Shah to hear. 

“Ummmhmmm. Real bad,” Shah responded in a low raspy voice. 

“Good. Now watch.” With one hand on her breast and the other holding the Rose to her clit, Nii began fucking herself, keeping her eyes locked in with Shah. She started off slowly and sensually, every so often moaning, “My body. My power,”  which sent Shah to the moon in desire. This was the sexiest thing they’d ever experienced, and they took in every moment graciously.    

Nii turned up the speed on the Rose. “Ohhh Fuuuuucckk!” she yelled as the orgasmic anticipation intensified. “I’m. I’m. I’m cumming!” she let out with an intense moan and heavy breaths. Her body collapsed on the bed, her eyes still locked in with Shah. “Fuck. That was good. I love making myself cum” she said finally closing her eyes to take it all in. 

“Damn. That was hot as fuck, Nii.” Shah said, trying to slow down their passionate breathing. 

“You liked that, huh?” Nii responded, eyes still closed like she was replaying it all. “Well, Good. Let’s do it again.” 

The End

You - Brown skin 
Soft 
Beautiful 
A sight to behold 
Gentle, delicate, warm, 
You invite me to hold You 
Our bodies intertwined 
Hearts finding shared rhythm 
We feel safe in each others arms 

You - Brown skin 
Bright 
Bold
A smile that makes my knees weak 
Fierce, passionate, holy 
You welcome my pleasantries 
Our tongues swift with the possibility of what could be
Our minds and souls feel what’s right, what might, what will 

You - Brown skin 
Radiant 
Majestic
My solid rock 
Pretty, wild, sincere 
You see the deepest parts of me 
Our path unconventional yet divine 
We found refuge in our nakedness

You and You and You and Me 
Complicated 
Longing, yearning, desiring 

Is this God? 

I want to be enough for You 
I want to be enough for You 
I want to be enough for You 

None of it makes sense 
It all makes sense 

I want You. 
And I want You. 
And I want You. 

But I’ll wait 
Love and Romance ought not be rushed 
You deserve the wait 
You deserve the wait 
You deserve the wait 

Wine 
Bold deep flavors 
       Body like smooth red 
       Fully bodied - 25% 
Grapes from vineyards picked with care 
   Only the best ones make it in 

Silence -  thoughts 
    Deep as the winter’s moon 
    Bright as the summer’s sun 

You - wine - classy, crisp, buttery
      Supple on the lips 
      Complex on the tongue 
      Wet on the fingers 

Like Tequila 
     Love that sometimes burns
     Except when it’s top shelf - no limes needed 

Sweetness of agave - 100% 
    moments 
     Wrapped in unexplainable love 
    Always real - pure and unashamed 

Like wine and tequila 
    Connection that makes no sense 
        Unconventional in its pairing 
            Unlimited in its living 

A unique match 
You - wine and tequila 
My daily choice 
     

Jemma sat her things down at the only open table in the coffee shop. It was a rainy day, so everyone in the neighborhood decided to work from home at the same place. Typically, mid-afternoons in Denver are sunny and bright; the sun shines about 300 days out of the year, which makes the long winters somewhat bearable. Jemma, dressed in a Black knee-length Northface puffer coat, Black sheep-lined Lulu lemon leggings, lavender Doc Martens, and a lavender and black headwrap, placed her laptop bag on the table and walked over to the counter to order her usual. She brought her laptop in case Mx. @BLKENBY decided to stand her up. 

“Hi! Welcome to The Sojourner; how may I help you?” The barista asked as she finished her text message, not looking up at Jemma. 

“Uhh… can I get a double caramel latte with an extra six creams and six sugars?” 

“Coming right up.” The Baritsa never looked Jemma in the eyes. But Jemma had gotten used to the white people in Denver refusing to look at her, or worse, looking through her, unwilling to acknowledge her presence. After all, she was a 6-foot-tall Black woman with a huge afro and an audacious voice. White people had the habit of being intimidated by her very presence. 

Jemma sat down at the small two-person table in the back corner, making sure to face the door, hoping to avoid missing @BLKENBY walking in. 

I'm so fucking nervous, Jemma thought as she opened her laptop, trying to look busy and not like she was waiting to meet this person she’d met on the LEX app just five days ago. This is the third date this month. The first two were fine, but Jemma just didn’t feel those sparks. You know, the butterflies in your stomach as the blood rushes to your private parts in anticipation of this new person successfully knocking the coins outta you. Jemma never got that with those first two dates. The first woman was simply boring, and it was like pulling teeth to keep the conversation lively. The second woman was a “we was kangs” hoptep who only drank sea moss because, as she put it, that’s the drink of the gods. Jemma has been single for a while, and if it weren’t for the increased horniness that comes with your mid-thirties, she would be just fine being alone. Trying not to give up hope on finding her person in this new and very white city, Jemma agreed to meet @BLKENBY for a coffee date as a last effort before swearing off relationships and buying that $300 vibrator she’d saw in the sex shop last week.  

Jemma opened the LEX app so she could read @BLKENBY’s profile again. 

@BLKENBY - I’m a loverboi. Black non-binary transmasc. Womanist. All Black Lives Matter. 

It was “Womanist” that intrigued Jemma the most. She’d never seen that on a dating profile before. They’re so fine. AND a womanist?!?! I can’t wait to tell the group chat - I found the one! Jemma thought as she scrolled through @BLKENBY’s profile. 

Jemma swiped over to her own profile, checking it again to remember what she’d written. 

@TallDrinkofWater - Queer Black Anarchist. Hoodoo. Spiritual. ACAB. I’m looking for the one. 

While reading her own profile, Jemma got an “On This Day” Facebook notification. It was the last photo Jemma, her mom, and her younger brother took together at Jemma’s graduation. She tried to hold back the sadness that instantly swelled in her chest. I miss them so much. Jemma thought, trying to ground herself not to let the tears roll down her face. Breathe. Jemma. Breathe. This is not the time.  

As Jemma looked down at her phone, she heard, “Are you, Jemma?” 

Looking up, she was flustered because she had planned to be alert for their arrival. “Yes! It’s me. You’re Max?” Jemma stood up to greet Max with a hug. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Max said as they wrapped their arms around Jemma’s waist. Letting their fingers linger on the top of her ass. Max was strong; Jemma let her fingers caress the muscles she could feel through Max’s hoodie as they lingered in a tight hug. In their messages before meeting, Max told Jemma that they had been on testosterone for two years and had started weightlifting six months ago. As Jemma’s fingers traced Max’s biceps, she could feel the sparks flying; I’m gettin' fucked tonight! 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jemma whispered back. “Wanna grab a drink before we sit?” 

“I’m good. I just wanna get to know you,” Max said as they sat down. Max was a 5’8, non-binary transmasc person with deep honey-brown skin, locs that ran down the back of their neck and pierced eyebrows, nose, and septum. Their voice was low and deep, like the radio host for the midnight smooth jazz station back in the 90s. The one who the aunties listened to at night when they thought you were sleeping - the panty-dropping voice. Max smiled with their entire face, which only enhanced the sexiness of their budding facial hair. 

“So, how’s your day been,” Jemma asked as she stared into Max’s big brown eyes. 

“Fine. Work is kicking my ass but being here with you has made the day perfect” 

Jemma tried to hide her face as she blushed. She’s such a sucker for a good compliment, and Max had game. In the middle of telling a story, they would pause, stare intently into Jemma's eyes, and tell her how beautiful she was, how sexy her smile was, or anything else that would make her blush.  

 Max went on to talk about their 45-minute drive to meet Jemma and how much they hate Colorado drivers. They are both from the East Coast and moved to Denver around the same time in 2020 with an ex. They talked about how hard it is to find Black queer people to date, how white the state was, and how in their professions, they’re often the only Black person in the company. They discussed Black movies and TV shows and realized they were obsessed with PValley, especially Mercedes. They even got into their first debate when Jemma asked if Max preferred sugar or salt on their grits. Max is sugar, and it was the first time Jemma would be disappointed in their conversation.    

Jemma was loving her time with Max, especially the laughs. She kept trying to stay present and not let her mind drift into planning the next 12 years of their lives together. Finally, a first date that would end in some lovemaking. It had been 8 months since Jemma had broken up with her ex and 10 months since she’d had sex. Max was sweet and affectionate; they held Jemma’s hand while they talked and kept solid eye contact. I think I found the one, Jemma thought as Max finished their story about that time they had foolishly gone hiking with white people and nearly witnessed a white get mauled by a momma bear for attempting to hug its cub. Jemma’s laugh roared through the coffee shop, causing the other patrons to look at their table and stare, which only made Jemma laugh more. She was committed to holy irreverence as a way of life - never quieting herself for anyone, not anymore. 

After calming down a bit from laughing at white people, Jemma said, “So, you’ve never really told me what you do for work.” 

Max's face changed from a joyful expression to a worried one. “Uhhh…let’s not talk about work on the first date; this is going so well,” Max said, nervously taking his hand off Jemma’s and putting them in his hoodie pocket under the table.

“Wait. What just happened?” Jemma said, confused by Max’s body language. “Are you embarrassed about your job or hiding something? As long as you ain't a cop, we should be good, boo. What’s up?”

Max took a deep inhale and said, “I’m not a cop. I’m a prosecutor.” 

Jemma’s mouth dropped wide open. “I’m sorry. What?!” She said, being completely taken off guard. Had Max not seen “ACAB - ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS” on Jemma’s profile? Was this a joke? Surely, Jemma misheard. 

“A prosecutor. I help people,” Max replied 

“By throwing them in jail and enslaving them? I thought your profile said womanist?” Jemma’s chest started pounding; she wouldn’t be able to hold back the rage that was making its way from her stomach, through her throat, and out of her mouth. 

“I am a womanist. And I get the opportunity to help domestic violence victims. I  give perpetrators lesser sentences than anyone else so they can start over in life. I mean, someone is gonna do that job, why not me? I actually care.” Max’s face was still worrisome; they could tell that Jemma was getting increasingly angry. Her rage was no longer hidden in the pit of her stomach.  

Jemma started packing up her things.  “Fuck you, Max. For real, for real. Fuck you. Fuck 12. And Fuck the horse you rode in on. Lose my number.” Jemma stood up with her things and walked towards the exit. Her ears ignored Max’s pleas for her just to understand how they were really a good person. Jemma didn’t care that they were causing a scene. She’d hoped the entire coffee shop heard her. 

As she walked to her car, Jemma could no longer hold back the tears. I can’t believe this shit. A fucking cop. The Top Cop. I will literally never find love in this damn city. I hate it here. Jemma wept in frustration, anger, disappointment, and fear as she drove home. She couldn’t stop thinking about her brother, caged in on Rikers Island. Fuck Max.    

Words: 1625 

Dallas- the person, They/Them 

Dallas, TX- the place 

Since identifying as solo-polyam and living my best life in these streets, I’ve gotten into the practice of giving nicknames to folx with whom I’ve had a sexual and/or romantic connection. Some of these nicknames are based on what that person does in life or something unique/weird/interesting about them, like massage bae and Hotep. Or about their physical characteristics like yt bae, titty milk, micro peen, BBL… you get the point. Others are named after their location, like Austin and Massachusetts. This is a story about Dallas. 

From 2014-2016, I lived in and around Dallas, TX; I was a different person than I am now - frankly, this is another story for another day. What matters here is that this time in Dallas, TX, was full of traumatic, harmful, and unstable events - one being that for the entire two years, I was housing insecure and couch-hopped until I’d left the city to move back to Philly. I spent much of that time in Dallas, TX, praying the gay away, praying my sexual desires away, and feeling utterly disconnected from my body and spirit. I left Dallas, TX, profoundly wounded, and for the next six months, I would experience severe full-body panic and anxiety attacks that sometimes lasted for hours. It would be six years before I entered the city again. I had no idea that a 33-hour trip would be a practice in restorative power - standing in a city that damn near took me out of this world, in the fullness of my Black ass, queer ass, non-binary trans masc ass life - I felt powerful. I am alive and thriving. 

On Monday, March 20, 2023, at 10:38pm, I texted Dallas and asked if I could visit them from Friday to Saturday of that same week. I was confident they wouldn’t see the message until morning, which was perfect because Tuesdays are always better days for flight purchases. After a few questions and clarity, at 9:17am the next day, they responded, “I would love for you to come.” My flight was booked, and I sent them the confirmation at 9:26am. I would arrive at 11am on Friday, March 24th, and fly back to Denver on Saturday, March 25th, at 8pm. 33 hours. I was full of anticipation and excitement - the nerves wouldn’t set in until I entered their apartment. 

A friend who’s witnessed the care between Dallas and me commented on how my entire body smiles when they’re around. It’s true. Dallas’s presence melts me - like a red popsicle on a hot summer day, I find myself deliciously overcome by the cosmic heat of Dallas’s company. My tough-guy persona slowly melts away, not in fear but rather in honor of the companionship of this goddess. So when they pulled up to the airport to scoop me, I felt this melting all over again. It’s wild that someone’s presence can be so calming and free. I remember looking into their eyes before we greeted each other with a kiss and thinking wow, I hit the jackpot! 

The drive to their apartment was both exciting because, I’M HERE, and slightly triggering because I hadn’t been in Dallas, TX, as I am now. In some sort of cosmic satire, Dallas lives eerily close to where I used to live, work, and go to school. Pretty much central to the locations of my trauma. So much so that every time we drove or I walked in the neighborhood, I’d repeat these affirmations in my head: I am safe. Those fuckers did not win. I am safe. I am good. I am loved in all of my fullness. I am good. Over and over again, I held tightly to these words and reminded myself to breathe. After all, I was here with my lover and was committed to being present and open to whatever our spirits wanted. Those fuckers did not win!

The week leading up to the Friday of my arrival, I’d decided that I would forgo masturbation - I wanted my body ready to receive whatever. Needless to say, when Friday came, my dick felt like it was finna fall off; I was ready, eager, and longing. When we got to Dallas’s apartment, and I stepped foot in the door, everything in my body shifted. I had just entered holy and sacred ground - there would be no fucking on this trip. Surprisingly, I welcomed this shift openly - I wasn’t quite sure what it all meant, but I knew these 33 hours would be unlike anything I’d fantasized about - there was an overwhelming sense of safety in this unknowing. It’s not that sex isn’t or can’t be holy and sacred; rather, this trip would be about something else, something definitely new for me and maybe even new for Dallas. After being given the short tour of the apartment, I had a shit ton of sobering thoughts and feels. It was like when you think you know but don't know until you know. I knew that their home was intimate and sacred, but I didn’t know until I knew - until I walked in and felt this knowing in my body. Some call this sort of knowing epistemological - a knowing that involves more than logic and information.

Thoughts immediately shifted from my dick is hard af to this nigga is grown-grown. I gotta step my pussy up. This wasn’t an accusation of the ways I don’t measure up but rather an exploration into the realization that the nature of this connection is entirely new to me and requires a different level and capacity for building intimacy. I had not stepped into the bachelorette pads of which I am familiar - I stepped into a family home, one that was full of the spirits of both Dallas and their kin - holy ground. Ironically, I wasn’t disappointed or scared. For a while now, I’d been slowly reading “The Spirit of Intimacy” by Sobonfu Somé. I had prayed before my arrival that my time with Dallas would be one that honored the Spirit of the cosmos and the individual spirits within us. I’m learning from Somé that intimacy with a person, especially a lover, ought to be fueled by Spirit, and the practice of inviting Spirit into the connection leads to healthy, sustainable relationships. This is my deepest hope for my connection with Dallas - that our spirits would be honored, respected, and in the driver's seat. So if no sex was Spirit’s plan for our time, it would be welcomed with open arms. 

I’d initially planned for us to get dressed up Friday night and go on a date, but again, following Sprit's unction, staying home felt right. Dallas drove us 24 minutes so I could get my favorite cupcake in all of the united-states-of-the-kkk - Sprinkles, Red Velvet. We picked up wings at Wingstop and a burger, onion rings, and a shake from Whataburger and headed back to the apartment. That 20ish minutes in Whataburger was all the rowdiness we needed for the night. We would spend the night eating, talking, laughing, and watching Joan update some rooms for $500. No real plans for the next day except only doing what felt right. 

Saturday morning, I woke up to the sun aggressively shining in Dallas’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I peeked under the cover to discover them journaling and spending time with Spirit and self. I tried not to smile too hard or make it obvious that I was swooning over the honor of witnessing a morning ritual. What an intimate experience! Dallas made us some bacon to go with our cupcakes and an entire pot of French press coffee for me as I went outside to smoke and meet more friends. While I desperately want to give up tobacco, there is something unique and special about the smoker’s section - always an opportunity to meet new friends, share weird stories, and then go about your day, probably never seeing each other again. Shoutout to Mo, Tina, Netta, and the other smokers I vibed with and gave the short of my joints to. 

The rest of my time in Dallas, TX, was spent in regular-degular intimacy. The regularness of this intimacy doesn’t diminish the power of intimacy; rather, it heightened it. I got to see Dallas as they are in the every day. There is a sacredness that the every day brings - ritual, practice, cleaning, organizing, making snacks - all make the intimacy feel more real, more present. Seeing them work through their feels about my arrival, watching them care for their body when stress and fear caused back pain flareups, and holding them as they pulled Tarot cards for me about my trip to Puerto Rico was all wrapped in this regular-degular intimacy. Intimacy was full in a way that I don’t often experience. 

My 33-hour trip to Dallas, TX, to visit Dallas made me feel more secure in our connection than ever before. Being present together in their space, not tied to an agenda, affirmed that they were in this with me. While many of my anxieties about our connection dissipated in previous months, there was still a smidge of questions about where I stood in my relationship with them and our connection. Am I too much? Are they just being nice to me? Are they really letting me in, or is a strong arm still stretched between us? These thoughts swirled my mind and fueled my anxiety in unproductive ways. I didn’t need sex; I needed to know they felt safe with me and wanted to bring me in. Even in the slow pace of our connection, one unfamiliar to me yet deeply necessary, I found that presence and being would sustain me. The way that Dallas lives their life and loves and protects themself invites, inspires, and initiates within me a desire for the same. What is life like when it is slow and intentional? Why do I have the habit of moving so quickly? What am I learning about slowness? Can I give up my fear of potential regret - because most things don’t last forever, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it all right now. These questions are what’s left for me to process and work through. I am grateful to love and be loved by someone who navigates life this way - slowly and intentionally; there is no need to rush. 

Dallas is one of a kind. They possess captivating beauty - a beauty that makes my heart skip a beat. They are among the most brilliant, bountifully passionate, and deeply steady people I know. I have no idea where this intentional connection will lead us, and I am learning that it is none of my business - that is the work of Spirit. What I do know is that for as long as this is good for both of us, as long as this is life-giving, safe, and intentional, I will be here: learning, knowing, and loving Dallas. What a joy, honor, and pleasure to be on this journey with them. Asé.