He thinks I am gay and wants to take me to see a therapist because apparently, I don’t love his dick enough. Don’t salivate over and praise it or better yet, worship this appendage that protrudes from his nether region...enough. So I oblige. Initially this session, according to him, is to “work on us,” something that sounds like a rare delicacy when it comes out of his mouth. Nevertheless, I attend. We are late. We meet the therapist. We are her last clients of the day, she says so herself. Her attention to us while she speaks is almost nonexistent. I am in my Harvard t-shirt. I eyeball her degrees on the wall. Howard is the only one that stands out. I vis a’ vis her accomplishment with an exuberant but slight head nod, similar to “go awf sis,” but without the words. I’ve always wanted to graduate from an HBCU.
I am not sure if it is because of our untimely arrival or if she just hates her job, either way, it is clear she does not give a fuck. She is uninterested or at least laissez-faire enough to let him speak. Then let me speak. He speaks over me, as he commonly does. The therapist and I exchange glances, in a sistergirl kind of way. He misses it all. I feel that she sees me, even while he is being heard. He says point blank, “Ma’am I think my wife is gay and she is having an affair with her hair dresser.” Shit gets real.
Ms Laissez-faire (Ms. LF for short) appears smitten by this conversation, this counseling session. Maybe not smitten, per se’, but definitely intrigued, fascinated even. Her posture lifts some. The “I am an HBCU graduate” eclectic turban shifts a tad, she is officially all in. She speaks.
“Is this true Viola?” We established first name ground rules at our awkward opening.
I sit still, then fidget, then still again. “Is what true Ms. LF?” The fuck is this bitch implying?
“Are you gay?”
I think to myself, if she was a little softer around the edges I’m sure she would’ve been my type too. “No, I am not gay. I am however, bisexual. Something my husband knew about before we got married.”
“Ah.” Ms. LF turban shifts towards my husband. “Joel, is this true?”
Joel looks...dumb. That is the only word that comes to my mind at this time. Dumb. Joel looks dumb. He’s dumb. I laugh to myself, with a straight face of course.
“Well, yes. Yes I knew she was bisexual but I thought it was just a thing, something fun for her to do. Something fun for us to do.”
“When did the fun stop Joel?”
“When she started having an affair with her hairdresser.”
I vehemently object! “Give me a break Joel! Because I am not slobbing your damn dick down, it means I am having an affair?” This really pissed me off. Joel, just sitting there, with his dumbass face, taking his wife to therapy to what...therapeutically talk the bisexualness out of her? “You sound ridiculous J!”
“Whatever Vi, you are confused because of your history of trauma. It is okay to admit it.” Joel winces. He looks valiant for some reason.
I look up at him with disgust. How dare he use my past as a vehicle to serve his thoughts in the present. Ms. LF looks in my direction, her mind appears to be racing as fast as the rollercoaster ride her turban is on.
“Do you want to provide any detail on this Viola?”
“Well Ms. LF, I was not aware that this was a coming out session for me. I was not aware that this was a ruse disguised as a marriage counseling session and all eyes would be on me. Hashtag No Tupac.” To my surprise she chuckled. Damn HBCU raised her well.
“But he is referring to my sexual assault. But he is wrong and I prefer not to go any further at this time.”
“No problem.” Her eyes become sympathetic, or empathetic. She does become someone I could become attracted to.
We arrived back home with one single directive from Ms. LF, “speak nothing of this session until we are back in her office again.” We oblige. We try to oblige. We don’t oblige.
A voice recording replaces Ms. LF’s voice. Her voice. She tells us that “due to the Pandemic she is no longer doing in person counseling. If we want to reach her to call blah blah blah - blah blah blah blah.” So we are one and done. That is all that I hear. That is all that I heard. We no longer oblige and it is all hell in this bitch. The “War of the Roses” meets “Breaking Bad.” The kids are sucking at school and I am facilitating the suck. Joel is working in his little hole of an office and he is facilitating the suck as well. We are drinking nightly. It has only been two months and we realize we have to pace ourselves. We pull back and decide to try a different approach. Because after all, this is almost over, right?
I am baking all kinds of ridiculous pastries, just to pass the time. I can barely cook and somehow I find myself being fascinated by flour and sugar turning into something remotely edible and filling. I declare myself an Instagram baker. I follow Chrissy Teigan and even tag her in some of my shitty concoctions. I become one with messy manicures and exploiting my kids on viral Tik Toks. Each day seems the same and now I am grappling with the idea that my husband thinks I am gay. Ha. Pandemic +1, Viola - 3.
We are drinking daily and nightly now. We are in the thick of it. This pandemic seems to have taken over our lives. Our 3 kids are stir crazy and not one pool is open. And apparently, according to Joel, I am having an affair with Sia, my hairdresser. I am not, but I understand why he would think I am.
Sia is washing my hair. Her fingers dance in circles on my scalp. The water is hot, just enough to tingle, warm enough to soothe. She whispers in my ear.
“Is the water too hot?” She leans closer to my cheek. I know it’s because we are double masked, but I fantasize that it is because she wants to get closer to my face, my lips.
“Nope.” I smile hard under the masks. I place my hands under my hair washing cape, under my thighs. I tap my feet. They dance slowly to the rhythm of Sia’s hands pulling my hair under the water. “Nope, It’s good.”
She says cool and goes back to doing finger pirouettes on my head. For some reason I get aroused. Damn maybe I am a lesbian.
My head is pulled back, gently. She rinses cool water on my scalp. I look up. She is smiling with her eyes.
August comes and goes and school is back in session. 3 kids, 3 different grades, 3 different teachers. I have zero clue what the fuck is going on, I just know that the middle kids’ teacher is fine. I mean supermodel meets R & B singer, fine. His name is Mr. Green. I make jingles with his name in my head at night.
Mr Green, he’s tall and pristine...I bet he can sing...or sling, better yet slang...yeah slang that ding-a-ling on me, while you sing, Mr Green.
The jingles are always whack.
I find myself volunteering for all kinds of zoom exhaustive activities. I am the art director, the health and welfare counselor and now I am the new class mom. I have to meet one on one with Mr. Green weekly. I make sure I have mascara on and that only the top part of my outfit is showing; the chances that I have on the same damn black leggings are too risky to take.
“Hi Mrs. Vi. Thanks for filling in and taking a double shift for me this week. One of the parents got COVID and was not able to do it.” Mr. Green’s voice sounded like vacation. He was the type I needed to hear every weekend.
“Mrs. Vi…” He sounded concerned. I was severely distracted.
“Yeah for sure Mr. Green. Anytime...any-time. You teachers do way more than enough so just let me know anytime that you need me and anytime, I will be right there.” Jesus I sounded desperate...anytime...anytime.
Mr. Green smiled, hard. We went over lesson plans and I offered to do an evening zoom with him the next day. I fantasized about the size of his dick and could not keep from pulling out the old faithful to satisfy myself. One day he stood up in zoom and he had a nerve to have on gray sweatpants. I swear it smacked me across my lips and I’m talking through the camera. That’s when I thought, damn, maybe I was not gay. So what the hell was my problem with Joel's dick? Could it have been that I was sick of it? It was, afterall, decent and fine. But maybe this urban/suburban marriage has taken its toll on me, on us. I liked dick, well the thought of Mr. Green's dick anyways...but I was enamored by the vajayjay and the total woman concept. What to do...what to do.
Halloween during a Pandemic is as fun as being the only married person on vacation. Everyone has candy but no one can get any. So we buy the kids costumes, well I, I buy the kids costumes and do a makeshift trick or treat around our house. The two younger kids loved it, the oldest, not so much. (Of course I volunteered to host the middle kids virtual trick or treating night, the same one I initiated.) Mr. Green was going to get this bat girl vibe.
Earlier that day I saw Sia, beautiful, big booty, silky skin Sia. She told me to come to her house because she opened a salon in her basement and the shop was at its State mandated Covid capacity that day.
“Hey girl, I see you with your glittery tights just popping like a Miss Poppington.” We black girls do the most with our compliments. Sia blushed, at least it looked like it through the mask.
“Thanks girl, Instagram store.” We both busted out laughing. She walked me through her house. Wedding pictures aligned the foyer walls. My eyes glanced down at her ass. I shook my head and bit my bottom lip, I’m a monster. She turned around and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my mouth through the mask. I smiled and kept walking. I wondered if she did pirouettes on everyone's scalp?
After I left Sia’s home salon I had a message on Class Dojo. I fucking hated seeing that little green monster pop up on my phone. I hated Class Dojo. But this message was from my fav teacher.
Mr. Green wanted to do a quick zoom with me to go over the flow of the virtual trick or treating event. I obliged, of course.
It took all of 10 minutes to walk him through the concept. I started singing my janky jingle in my head while he talked. Mr. Green...so fine and pristine… I did switch it around every now and then. I tried to tilt my camera down...hoping he had those gray sweats on again. Maybe he was going to be the dick slanging teacher for Halloween.
He stood up. Robin tights. I heard another male voice in the background.
“Ms. Vi, this is Fred, my husband.”
Fred stood up beside him. Batman tights...put my Batgirl vibes to shame. Go fucking figure.
After the event I decided to take a long bath. I found some leftover cookie dough from my Instagram baking days and made them to keep the little ones at bay. Joel was in his little work hole, per usual. I poured myself a glass of Merlot and locked myself in instant indulgence. I slid my quarantined thighs, which looked like balloons filled to max capacity, in the water. Lavender bubbles consumed them. So Mr. Green is gay. I said a different jingle. I wondered what Sia was doing. I wondered if she would let me fuck her, while Joel watched. I wonder if Joel would watch. How is it that I am having so much sex in my head but none in real life. Go. Fucking. Figure. I attempted to please myself but got scared of what the bubbles would do to my PH balance. I’m a weirdo.
Turkey Day marks the beginning of the end of the year for us educators and honorary educators (I’m really just an out of work school volunteer, but an honorary educator sounds better). I quit being the activities coordinator and health and wellness bitch. I hated it anyways. Plus Mr. Green had Fred to help him with that shit. But more power to them. They are a cute couple. I can’t wait until this school year is over because I am also ready to relinquish my class mom duties, like yesterday. All in the name of gray sweatpants dick. Suburban moms bullshit. Now I need a new jingle.
Fuck 2020 is a thing. We all hate it here, that is also a thing. Joel still thinks I’m gay and fucking Sia. I’m not, I wish I was, but I’m not. There are no more appointments with Ms. LF, but that isn't by choice. She is still virtual but with 3 kids, it is damn near impossible to have a regular phone call let alone a virtual zoom to do a deeper dive into “mom’s sexuality” or dad’s lack of knob being slobbed (And I’m sure I’m known as Vi the Bi mom to her ass anyways). So yeah...Fuck 2020.
Miko Reed Collins is a native Washingtonian, Army Veteran and has been writing poetry for over 20 years. She completed a spoken word CD, titled Eargasms, in 2002, finished her Executive Masters in Leadership from Georgetown University in 2019 and became an Amazon bestseller of her new book, Eggshells In Soft Black Hands, in August 2021. She is currently in her second year at Johns Hopkins University, pursuing a second Graduate degree, a Masters of Arts in Writing.