little ho outfit

I’m trying to prepare to do something different. To function alongside the grief that is riding me, causing my neck to stiffen and burn, and my shoulders and upper back to tense. You know what tomorrow is. I have to start something new, or restart something to try to minimize the effect of that day of the week.

So, I have a funny moment. As I am cleaning my room, folding these weeks old baskets of laundry, and putting away my wrinkly clothes, I remembered one time walking into my room and Love was standing in my closet, looking through my clothes.

(I had seen him standing in my closet in the past. He was in awe of the amount of clothes and shoes I had. “See,” I told him, “that’s why I can’t have a man live with me. There is no room for his clothes.” He smiled and said that that was false, and that I could move all of my clothes into one closet. I said, “Fuck that. He can put his shit in the other bedroom.”)

I stood behind him, wondering what the heck he was looking for, and doing. He turned to me, holding a very short skirt by the hanger and said, “I had this vision of you wearing a little ho outfit.”

OMG. I cracked up so hard…because of how he sounded saying that sentence. Ho outfit?

He was smiling but serious. He went on to basically tell me that he wanted me to wear something like the short skirt he was holding. I can’t remember when or where I was supposed to be wearing it; but I remember telling him, okay. I still wondered why he envisioned that when he mostly preferred for me to have on nothing, which was not out of the ordinary for me.

Most of the times, I had to put clothes on to come to answer the door for him, knowing that it would be otherwise uncouth if anyone else in the house awakened and saw me nude with him (because seeing me nude without him, would never be a big deal). When we would get to my room, he would give me those eye like, Okay, when are you going to take that off?

It wasn’t for sex. He was a looker. I mean, like, he really enjoyed staring at me. In fact we have a history, going back to when I first met him, of him staring at me, intensely, every time he saw me, from near or far, [and without speaking]. He would appear in the bathroom when I was showering, and just stand there and stare (and I would think I was alone sometimes). Or other times, if he got out of the shower first, he would dry while staring at me while I was still in. Staring at me as I got dressed. Staring at me while I put on lotion. Maybe I shouldn’t say “stare” because that sounds creepy. But before I knew him, it was kinda creepy. Presently, it should be more aptly referred to as “gazing.”

And so, eventually, when he would come over, I would get him to get out of his clothes after the initial hugs and kisses. We would just sit, sometimes only shirtless…or maybe with just undies, together, holding each other, touching each other, wrapped up in one another. Gazing into each other’s eyes. Priceless.