“Keep it P.I.” was the motto of the age as the game kept me afloat whenever I was economically unstable.
What was seen as a dishonest way to make a living for some, became survival for others.
In my objectification of women, I found gratification for my flesh—a temporal attempt to assuage my lustful desires.
Or perhaps a means to acquire a green-flavored cigar named Peach Optimo, or a warm place to lay my head at night.
I once used a Greyhound employee I met while I was homeless. She became a means for survival to me (forgive me, Brandy).
Another, I convinced to write a check for a significant amount, promising to pay her once I returned home; I never did.
Others, I occasionally “managed.”
One, I left—with six kids.
I say all this to say that I’m sorry—please forgive me.
You were His daughter and I treated you like my slave.
You were once innocent and I introduced you to the forbidden fruit.
I gave you the apple.
My pornographic mind penetrated your Virtual Private Network.
I exposed that which was meant to be hidden for the right time; to only awaken when wedded.
I treated you like I was to lead you, not love you, as the Preacher said.
I treated you like you were stupid, while I was really only insecure around such a wonderful woman of wisdom.
Please forgive me.
For many years I’ve reflected upon how I’ve neglected to love you.
To treat you with value and dignity; as a co-heir to His throne of grace.
For many years I’ve searched my soul to discover why I do the things I do.
And then I remembered.
I was 13, or so, and had gotten sent off to a juvenile camp. It was the first time that I would be away from Nancy; she was the first girl I had ever felt the feeling of love for.
She was my everything. My ride-or-die. My Bonnie.
But as I talked to her that day on the the pay-phone—trying to clear my throat and sound sexy as I state “the name of the collect caller”—I hear Nancy answer with some guys in the background, laughing hysterically:
“Who the fuck is that?!”
That’s when I discovered the truth that she had been cheating on me.
I cried for the first and last time (until much later in life) over a girl that day.
Afterwards I covenanted with me, myself, and I to never give my heart to another woman.
To never allow my feelings to get attached to another woman.
“I’ll chew ‘em up, and spit ‘em out,” I said to myself.
And yet, that’s not the point of my life where I developed a hatred towards women.
That came with my mother selling me out to the police.
I had felt abandoned.
Still, I had no right to take it out on you.
You see, I didn’t know how to process all of this at such a young age. The result, coupled with sway from my surrounding environment, led to the evolution of a player.
But in my experience,
a player is nothing more than a cowardly little boy, passively-aggressively replaying the broken record of hurt within the prison of his own mind.
He knows not the sounds of true love.
Of true intimacy.
That was me. I was that coward.
Scared to love.
Afraid to let myself be vulnerable before anyone.
Afraid to let myself be known.
To my beloved sisters: please forgive me.
I will do better.
Men, we must do better.