My bedroom is a place of release. For me. For you.
I live a calm, stoic, structured, ambitious and very well-respected existence. To do that, I have to hold my shit together.
At work, people need to see a man who is put together. Calm. Assuring. I have people’s jobs at stake if I fuck up and get all careless with my emotions. I have other people’s kids to think about.
I have my own too. They need to see the example of a man who they will seek when their time comes to sift through all the trash to find a real man. Not one day goes by that this doesn’t stick in my head. Sure, I love them up, cuddle and giggle and dance around like a moron while I Whip and Nae Nae and two girls giggle at an old man looking a fool. But I absolutely cannot run on emotions in my decision making. They need to feel secure.
So I have conditioned myself to be stoic. Precise. In life, I am this man. This is why, in the bedroom, I am a bastion of emotions in the one chance I get to be that man.
Pure raw unfiltered “get the fuck over here I am not fucking around and you don’t even need to wonder cause I’m gonna run you into the fucking ground and am saying it with my eyes” type of emotions.
Anger. Rage. Above all. Alive.
Hair yanked. Ass slapped. “You are not gonna be able to go shopping later cause your body is pretty much wrecked for the day” kinda fucking.
I need this.
I need to feel centered. I need it to be whole.
I need it to be a better man.