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My life is complicated. It's complicated, stressful and, oftentimes, overwhelming, but I would not trade it for anything in the world. Men have not made it any easier. I do not know if they are taught the "macking game" in elementary school, but by the time most boys reach high school, their main objectives in life are getting paid and making sure that girls get played. The first boy ever to break my heart was named Kevin. Two years after he made me want to evaporate after embarrassing me in the hallway at school when he dumped me for Claire, I looked back on it and wondered what I had ever seen in his ass. I graduated from high school having had three serious relationships and many others that lasted no more than a few weeks and consisted of a bunch of late-night phone calls, provocative talk that led absolutely nowhere, and not a single real date.
I have always had the gift of gab, as my mother calls it. She claims that I came out of the womb ready to shout, kick ass, and take names. It is true that I am the most determined person I know. My family calls me stubborn and I have no problem claiming that, if stubborn means that I want to achieve my goals in life. Failure is not an option for me, and I come from a family full of people who share a similar strength of mind. Sometimes it can be like the clash of the titans in the James household, but everyone is always supportive of one another.
From an early age, I knew that I would end up doing something that involved convincing others to do something. As it turned out, during my senior year of college, I got an intern position at Flava Cosmetics. That was the big break that I was looking for, and I was determined to impress everyone from the CEO to the receptionist. I strutted into the office like I owned the joint from day one. I had all sorts of marketing ideas for the various cosmetic lines, and people loved them, everyone except for Kerrigan, but that is a different story for a different day. Let's just say that Kerrigan is the thorn in my side, but the majority of the time I pay no heed to the ignoramus. We have our moments, but it is all good in competition. It helps to keep me on my toes.
Kerrigan does not realize that women need a different slant on marketing from men. Men will be satisfied with half-naked women in ads looking like they want to fuck the living daylights out of somebody. Yes, sexuality can go a long way in advertisements, but "sensuality" can go a whole lot farther. Women do not want to feel threatened when they look at ads. In other words, women want to see advertisements featuring women who look like them, not some impossible dream version of them. A lot of companies, like Dove soap, are catching on by embracing normal-looking women in their ads and commercials. Average women, especially women of color, are not a size four and do not look like they stepped out of Playboy. They look...normal.
Let me quit talking about my job. You can see that I am passionate about it, and that is what matters in life: being passionate about what you do -- and whom you love.
Love. That can be a good or dirty word for me, depending on the time period in my life. I have had many good men in my life, but all of them eventually faltered and none of them appreciated me until I was history. Devon wanted to control me. I was not then nor am I now the one for that. William had a big heart but he also had a big recreational drug problem. He had to go, but we remain friends. Lincoln was my cheater, the man who wanted to be in a committed relationship without actually making a commitment. I am sure he is somewhere, at this very second, trying to convince a sister to drop her drawers.
Lincoln, ironically since he was the one trying to fuck everything moving, was the most difficult to get rid of. He was so full of himself and so conceited that he never fathomed that I would dump him after he cheated. To this day, he still emails me and even tried to get me to join his network on Facebook. No way, not me. Lincoln broke the cardinal rule: he tried to creep out on me during Christmastime. Every real player knows that you keep your ass home on holidays. He tried to make me believe that he was meeting his best friend, Chris, in Denver to go skiing. Lincoln's ass had never been anywhere near a ski, rather less a slope. When a massive snowstorm hit and the Denver airport was shut down, he still insisted on going, stating that he did not want to disappoint Chris and that the airport would probably open back up. His stupid ass ended up stranded in the Chicago airport on a layover for two days. Dummy. He finally made it back home with his tail tucked between his legs. By that time, I had gone through his cell phone bills and, lo and behold, he had been conversing with some hooker candidate named Bonnie for months. He had been sweating pussy on the internet, surely having met her on MySpace where he spent hours a day, and was trying to go collect his award for putting in so much email and phone time.
I really should not call Bonnie a hooker candidate since I don't know her. She is probably some woman suffering from low self-esteem who can't find a local man to save her life so she fell for Lincoln's okey-doke. A lot of people go on the internet to flirt and call it a day. However, in today's time, the internet has become a breeding ground for more than pedophiles. It is a breeding ground for adults seeking out dick and pussy all over the globe.
I must admit that I found it fascinating, which is how my "double life" first came about. I went into a chat room a couple of years ago and even though my profile was a skeleton with nothing intriguing to make someone approach me, men instantly starting blowing up my screen with instant messages. They would ask my name, and there was not a chance in hell that I was going to say that I was Patience James. That is when "Zane" was born. I had always thought that name sounded cool. Later I found out that it means "God's gracious gift." I embrace every day aboveground as a gift so it actually fits me to some degree, even though the selection for that reason was unintentional.
I met this guy named Marshall in a chat room. He was from Atlanta and we started flirting. Then he asked me to "cyber," and I had no clue what he was talking about until he sent me a link to a private room and started typing shit about blowing my back out. I thought it was hilarious and wondered if he was actually getting off on the other side of his computer. I played along and typed all kinds of nasty things, about licking him from head to toe and riding his dick. He asked for my number, and that was when I exited the room. Not the kid. Marshall could have been an ax murderer and I was not about to find out. Granted, I was kind of in the middle of a dick drought at the time. Not because I could not find any men to take me to bed but because when I allowed it, they either disappointed me by not living up to my fantasies or they broke my zero-bullshit-tolerance policy and did or said something stupid.
Some women do not mind a man saying things to them like, "You can't control this dick!" or "I can get pussy when I can't get sleep!" I find that to be totally disrespectful and will not occupy my time with Jerry Springer nonsense. I watch the show because it lets me know how many women are really stressing over men who probably would not spit on them if their asses were on fire. I realized that there are a ton of women who are completely confused about relationships and their sensuality. So...I started writing my fantasies on the computer. Stories about hot, enticing relationships where feelings and efforts are reciprocated.
The first story that I ever wrote was called "First Night." I fantasized about meeting up with that fellow Marshall, whom I had cybered with but would not give my phone number. We rode up the coast of Maine on the back of a motorcycle, checked into a romantic bed-and-breakfast, and made love on the balcony. I posted it on my free web page provided by my internet host and people went absolutely bananas. Strangers started emailing me, asking to be put on my mailing list. They said it was the hottest shit they had ever read. I thought it was amusing and wrote two more stories, "The Seduction" and "The Airport." Within three weeks, I had eight thousand hits from word-of-mouth before my provider took the pages down for vulgarity. From there, I moved on to posting stories on the ACLU Black Erotica Board, where I met a lot of fellow erotica writers. We became friends, albeit only via email. I was Zane and they were whatever fake name they were using.
Eventually I started Eroticanoir.com, my home away from home, where I now post stories, answer advice mail, and do a monthly e-zine called The Sex Chronicles. Blogging came along, and now I find myself posting whatever, whenever, so that I can get an immediate reaction from people. I might vent about anything from my favorite subject -- women being undervalued in society -- to spawning discussions on whether or not pussy juice is left on the poles at strip clubs when the next dancer comes out. Like I said, I have the gift of gab. Being able to communicate with strangers from around the world excites me. I can say off-the-wall things that I would never say to my friends or family. Speaking of which, none of them know that I am Zane. They talk about Zane all the time, though, even my coworkers. "Have you read her latest blog, Patience?" "Patience, isn't Zane's shit hot?" "Patience, I'm going to write Zane for advice." "I can't wait to try that shit from Zane's story on my man!"
Not only do they have no clue that I am Zane, they act like I have damn near committed a crime by refusing to buy into the entire thing and read her work. Even the men that I have dated since I became "the Queen of Erotica" do not know that I am Zane. However, Patience and Zane share a lot of the same characteristics. We both believe that if women are going to have sex, and most will at some point in their lives, there is no reason for them to walk away from the experiences any less satisfied than the men. We both believe that there is something wrong in a society when the main sexual position is referred to as the missionary, as if we are merely vessels for a man's pleasure.
Honestly, I believe that if men could fuck themselves, they would see no need for women altogether. We are seriously undervalued in society, even though in many households the women are bringing home the majority of the bacon. I have friends who are lawyers and doctors and their men expect them to carry a heavy workload and still have dinner on the table every night. Their men refuse to help drop off and pick up the kids from school, take them to extracurricular activities, or even wash their own damn drawers. I get tons of mail asking for advice, and most of them are from women. A lot of them are sex related, like failure to have an orgasm ever to being scared to ride a man's dick to wanting to know how to give a decent blow job. Yet, hands down, most of them deal with relationship drama, and many of the women know in their gut what is really going on; they just need another woman to validate it and they are too embarrassed to talk to their friends or -- more important -- the person they are in the relationship with. Lack of communication is the downfall of most relationships.
To all the women in the world out there reading this, let me make something clear: You have nothing to be embarrassed about. A thief is always going to be a thief, no matter what situation you put him in. A con artist is always going to be a con artist and a doggish-ass man is always going to be a doggish-ass man. Nine times out of ten, men do not hurt women because the women deserve it. Men hurt women because the world is full of damaged people inflicting pain on other damaged people. Similarly, a lot of women seek out men to hurt, but women tend to do it in another fashion. Women try to withhold sex, which is asinine because the men will go handle their business elsewhere. If you get to the point in a relationship where you feel you have to clamp your legs shut to get him to behave, the relationship is already over. The imminent breakup is merely a formality. The same goes for suspicion of cheating. When two people truly love each other, they will not do anything that can even be misconstrued as cheating. If you find yourself searching pants pockets or reading emails or -- in the case of me with Lincoln -- scanning cell phone bills, your shit is already over.
I could go on and on, but I will refrain. I do enough of that on Eroticanoir.com so if you really want to hear me vent, log on. Off-line, I have a set of friends that I adore more than life itself. I try to help them out as much as possible, but I am not a psychiatrist. I have known Lyric and Ana Marie since high school. Lyric has a wonderful husband, Estaban, but certain strains are taking a toll on their relationship. Over time, I believe that they will work things out because I have never seen a couple more in love. They share a medical practice and need to reignite a few sparks here and there, but it will be all good.
Ana Marie is hooked up with Taariq and I have mixed feelings about those two. They seem to care for one another, but both of them are struggling entertainers and money is always running low. I believe in pursuing a dream, but you should never lose sight of the fact that you have to pay bills. They could work regular jobs and still do the comedy thing (in Ana Marie's case) and the rap thing (in Taariq's case) until something breaks.
Maricruz works with me at Flava. I wish I had a magic wand that I could wave in front of her face and make her realize that she deserves better. Maricruz is still caught up with her ex-husband, a disrespectful poodle -- he is not man enough to be a pit bull -- who is shacking with another woman but still thinks Maricruz belongs to him. In many ways, she does. Her family is old-fashioned and does not believe in divorce. At least she got over that hump and legally got rid of him. Other than that, though, they might as well still be married because she is at his beck and call when it comes to giving up some pussy. Granted they have two kids, but he never took that into consideration when he started banging Stacy. I am getting too overheated, merely by typing this, so I better move on.
I met Eboni at an expo. Some "manwhore" named Raphael was dogging her out in front of everybody. I distracted her and told her to -- in a nutshell -- "fuck him," and we have been tight ever since. Eboni is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and her family is as traditional as they come. Her father thinks men should be working and women should be in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Eboni decided to break camp right out of high school, and I admire the fact that she never went back. She was determined to start her own business, make her way in life, and she struggled until she got there. On a sour note, I will mention that she believes in using several men to satisfy her sexual needs. I do not think that she can ever truly find a good man until she realizes that satisfaction is more about quality and not quantity.
As for me, I am not sure what I want when it comes to a man. I know that I want him to be attentive but not overbearing, compassionate but not hostile, appreciative but not an ass kisser, goal oriented but not a workaholic, attractive but not so metrosexual that I have to fight him for mirror time. Damn, maybe I do know what I want in a man. The only question is: Does such a man exist?
Copyright © 2008 by Zane