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A flash of anger hit his eyes, when he saw Obama embrace Jennifer Hudson on the stage. Rahm thought to himself, "this is the thanks that I get?" "After I hustled my ass for him in New York!" "After I raised tons of money for his campaign!" and Rahm began to wonder why the money that he raised for The Obama Campaign in New York City wasn't enough to buy him an embrace that was at least equal in length to the hug which Obama gave Jennifer Hudson on the stage in Chicago.
Rahm raced around the deep & dark corners of his mind, until he tripped upon an emotional treasure chest that held the question, "Was Obama using me?" "No!" "No!" Rahm told himself, as he swiftly slammed the chest shut and brought himself back to full conscience.
It wasn't long after the Chicago fund raiser that Obama called Rahm and spoke their secret code words, "Going Down to Jew Town"-which was a term that Obama used to summon Rahm into various hotel rooms across the U.S.
After their encounter, which was "make-up sex" for Rahm while simply being just another "Going Down to Jew Town" Rump for Obama, it was as if nothing had ever changed between them, as they managed their secret long distance relationship.
While these quarterly tryst were nothing but Obama "getting off"; these secret encounters started to mean the world to Rahm.
It was yet another doubt & conflict that Rahm had tucked away, deep down into his treasure chest and once again, these doubts would be placed under his emotional lock & key. He enjoyed all that Obama had to offer in the hotel room bed, while he had him. It was a night to remember. Rahm thought back to the Kanye West/Jay Z Song, Niggaz in Paris, because it was a Glorious Occasion.
Now flash forward to present: Rahm is back on his high horse for his man. And is now obsessed with painting an empty headed Obama, as being Abraham Lincoln in his mind. Yes. Rahm wants to take it to the next stage being that he has built Obama up to epic levels in his head.
Rahm could not help but to project his silly delusions about his lover, Obama, onto the realities of the innocent schmucks in the public, which came to hear him speak.
After having a heart to heart talk with Oprah and doing some holistic candle burning, we saw Michelle head back to the U.S. and standing proudly by her man's side for his 4th of July speech. While, she wore her care free hoop ear rings and a casual but smart sun dress, I noticed that her smile appeared a bit forced while viewing the footage of her on MSNBC.
Michelle Robinson has been in the media alot lately for what the public is viewing as her being a hypocrite. Here she is pimping GMO corporate food for the DOLE Corporations and hoola hooping in Nevada, to push her message about staying in shape but yet her husband, Obama, has given McDonalds, the worse GMO cancer causing food company in the world, a waiver in his health care bill, plus Michelle Robinson was busted eating a big cheese burger and fries, which was a matter for debate on Fox News this week.
But why is Michelle Robinson comfort eating? Could this be about Michelle not getting any lovin at home from Hussein Obama? Could it be that the weight of being married to a bi-sexual Muslim man, with a jewish boyfriend, is finally taking a toll on her mind and spirit?
Let me walk people through the events that led up to Michelle Robinson eating that cheese burger.
Michelle arrived back to the White House and looked around as if disconnected from reality. The White House, was merely a house for Michelle but it would never be her home. In fact, Michelle Robinson hated the White House so much that she simply left it the way she found it after moving into that house of horrors, which means that Laura Bush's interior design preferences was exactly how Michelle preferred to keep it because she knew that it was all a fraud.
Michelle Robinson was trying to be a modern Big City black woman and that means being not only a feminist but also anti Laura Bush, which amounts to hating the whole Stepford Wife scene but she also saw the beauty in being a woman that knows how to decorate and bake a Betty Crocker Pie.
What good was it being a career woman anyway? At the end of the day Michelle knew that even with all of her work, she still ended up the thing which she most feared of becoming, which was not only a Stepford Wife but a phony one. One that had to keep up a front........ a political front. A show. She was a girl putting on a political show for her man. Yes, Michelle was a political show girl. And she hated it!
(Michelle Robinson transformed into Michelle Obama, by Bush Sr and the CIA. We call this look-The Black-ford Wife)
Perhaps if Michelle would have listened to her Southern Negro Grandmother, she would have a good man and a better life. Perhaps she would know how to bake an apple pie from scratch, put it in the window sill and still know how to rock a business suit. Perhaps, Michelle could be a whole woman with an authentic marriage instead of stressing over a life and man, that was only for a show that wasn't even playing in a theatre which she owned!
She sat down in the three way mirror and looked at all three images of herself and she thought, "this just isn't me" as she began to rub the Pink Lotion hair moisturizer, in hopes of soaking up all of the African heat out of her hair.
She slid out of her dress and let it fall down the full length of her long legs. Michelle thought about all of the drama which came with being a political showgirl and show stopper and how she just wanted to let it all go.
Those legs had taken Michelle very far in life and she knows that simply by unleashing them, that she could at least get some attention from Hussein Obama. But why, must it take a trip all the way to South Africa and having her legs broadcast all over the media wires, just to entice her husband?
Michelle wondered why her relationship with her own husband couldn't be more like the relationship that he had with Rahm. Rahm was simply allowed to just be and just by him being, he could command Obama's attention. Where had she gone wrong?
Michelle Robinson thought back to the night, when she spent hours applying her MAC makeup and waited on the bed with a pair of sheer panties and stiletto heels in hopes of getting some good lovin from Hussein but he simply got out of the shower and fell asleep.
In fact, Hussein Obama often went into the bathroom for hours with his crack pipe and the more that Michelle thought about it, the only times that she was able to move Hussein to get in the mood was the time when she stormed out of the room with his dress shirt on. Could her wearing a business dress shirt, remind Hussein of Rahm and could that be the reason that he had shown interest in her that one night? It all started making sense to Michelle.
The phone rang and it was Bush Sr. down in Texas, said the CIA Agent on the other end. It was a strange phone call because the CIA Agent didn't want to speak to Hussein Obama but instead he wanted to speak directly to Michelle. Bush Sr. wanted to ask Michelle if she would travel to California with him and attend the the funeral for former first lady, Betty Ford.
Things couldn't be going worse for Michelle. First, she has a revelation about having to dress like Rahm in the bedroom just to get Hussein Obama to perform and now this old white man wanted to drag her to some California desert hick town, to attend a funeral for a woman, which she didn't even know nor particularly like. This was Michelle's life and it was the life of a political show girl.
Michelle arrived in California State in a fitting tight black dress. A black dress that hugged her hips and fit on her like fine couture. She just wanted to let it all go. The foolishness of it all, had taken its toll and Michelle just wondered what it would be like to let herself go. Let herself go like Oprah had done. Why couldn't she eat a cheese burger and fries? Then Michelle thought back to her Southern Negro Grandmother and also to Oprah's words of wisdom to her, which Oprah delivered in South Africa over lunch.
Michelle's Southern Negro grandmother-"Gal, woman folks gotta be eating food too! Now if you want you some of dat there food, then you just go on right ahead and get you some of dat there food."
(Oprah and Michelle in black and silver, looking like they are going to a New Orleans Zulu Mardi Gras Ball)
Oprah-"Michelle you cant be glamorous 24 hours a day. That's why we have make up artist, digital enhancing and photoshop!" "Shit, sometimes on my ranch in Indiana, i would eat a whole two pizzas and sometimes it would be a few hours before The Oprah Show would tape, which is why I screened my audience and made them sign non disclosure contracts before coming into the studio." "I mean, they can always give me a waist line in the editing room!"
Michelle sat down in public and had her a cheese burger, fries, ice cream shake and didn't even care if the paparazzi were outside taking pictures. She knew that it would be all over Fox News but she didn't care because the comfort which she was not getting from her man, she found in that cheese burger. Yes, the cheese burger loved her......just like Oprah said it would.
Obama walked pass Michelle, who was sitting in the mirror and putting pink lotion into her hair. He barely noticed that her sun dress was now off and sitting by her feet on the bedroom floor. Obama had walked into the bed room door and right into the bath room, where he always went to seek out privacy and handle his most intimate of business affairs. Obama went into the bathroom to call Rahm.
Mean while in Chicago, Rahm was adding names to his Chicago Political Hit List while having dinner which included a bowl of brown rice, steamed vegetables and Kosher Chocolate Milk. Rahm heard his blackberry go off and saw that it was Hussein Obama. Rahm jumped up and ran pass his kids and wife, to his inner sanctum, which was also the bathroom but rahm was smart enough to use the bathroom in the guest bedroom, to do any down low business.
Rahm, got out a bug detector, which his brother sent from The Spy Shop in Beverly Hills, to sweep the room and make sure that there were no Rupert Murdoch listening devices lurking about and after he secured the premises, it was only then that Rahm answered the call from his man.
Rahm greeted Obama with his usual low and soft sexy voice, "Hi Mr. President." It was very Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy,a game which Obama and Rahm often played in the Oval Office, when Rahm lived back in Washington DC. Obama was in a panic and he felt alone, so he had to call Rahm to handle his issues.
Hussein was nervous about having to work out a debt deal and fearful of the mafia bankers which placed him into office and were now holding a gun to his head, while these bankers demanded that he not do anything else until he pushed Congress to raise the debt ceiling and Obama explained to Rahm that this may stop him from having a rendezvous with Rahm in Tel Aviv, Israel.
Rahm jumped up in a fighting stance and began swinging at the air, while chanting "Kill" "Kill" "Kill" like a crazed Israeli working at a Gaza Check Point, that was known for suicide bombers. Rahm would not stand for no one stressing out Hussein Obama without his permission.
Rahm had to calm himself down because now that he was Mayor of Chicago, he simply couldn't be his man's personal body guard anymore. Instead Rahm had to think before he went looking to kick someones ass. Rahm had to macro and micro manage Obama's life via the telephone. Rahm had to "handle" the situation for Hussein Obama.
Rahm told Obama to shut up and listen. Rahm reminded Obama to turn on the shower head, to fool Michelle into thinking that he was taking a shower; so that the water would drown out his voice to anyone who may be trying to hear their private conversation. It was a trick that Rahm and Obama had done so many times before but Rahm knew that Hussein wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed and often had to keep reminding Obama about how to go about doing things.
Rahm could not have his man being so shaken and shook by people who were pressuring him to raise the debt ceiling and he dam sure could not have his man, bogged down with this issue, especially if it interfered with Obama being able to see him. Rahm thought for about two seconds on how to solve this problem for his man and came back with the words........"Executive Order."
Rahm explained to Hussein Obama, that there was a little known clause in the law, that Obama could use to raise the debt ceiling without having it approved by the US Congress. And Rahm said, "while you're at it, go ahead and ban guns with an Executive Order."
Rahm knew that the press about Hussein Obama arming Mexican Cartels was getting out of hand and a little too hype, so Rahm needed a way to shift the heat back onto American Gun Owners and blame them for gun violence. Yes! Rahm had solved all of his man's problems and now they could go back to being happy.
Obama was thankful and told Rahm that he wanted him back in Washington DC but Michelle started banging at the door and asking him what was going on and Rahm told him to hang up and delete his out going call logs, in case Michelle checks.
Rahm wanted to know what was up with he and Obama on the other level & when could they justify their love, but he would just wait until they got to Israel to answer these questions.
Michelle Robinson surely does appear happy now that she is back home and by her man's side. She even had her hoop ear rings on and had her hair pulled back.
From what I have researched Oprah was also in South Africa and she had lunch with Michelle. So, what went down?
From what I gather, Rahm and Michelle are both doing Voodoo Spells on Obama. Michelle trying to keep him and Rahm trying to get him. So, allow me to tell you what is going down with this 3-some.
Michelle Robinson, Oprah and Voodoo in South Africa:
Oprah saw Michelle and gave her a big hug and asked her how Africa was treating her hair? Michelle said that when her oldest daughter gets out of the swimming pool, that her hair looks like it is bouncing on hydraulics but when she went swimming her hair began to get a little too frizzy. Oprah said, "you mean your hair napped up?" Michelle wanted to know where could she get some Dark and Lovely Relaxer being that a hair perm doesn't work on African Hair but only on hair that comes from the African American Stock. Oprah was like, "Girl I be having the same problem." Oprah sent her assistant to go back to her hotel and get her stash of hair care products and delivered it to Michelle's room.
Michelle began to tell Oprah about issues that she was having with Obama but Oprah could feel that she was holding something back. Michelle had issues...down low issues regarding her husband but she couldnt face these issues, even in her own mind let alone tell them to Oprah. What if Oprah did a show on her and Obama? Michelle couldnt risk harming her man & looking bad in front of Rahm.
Oprah asked her what was on her mind and reminded Michelle that while she didnt know what it was like to have kids for a man, she did have a man, named Stedman and maybe that if Michelle would talk to her about what was on her mind, that maybe she (Oprah) could help her understand some things. Michelle quickly changed the subject to the smell of the Shanty Towns being carried on the S. African breeze. Oprah called her assistant and told her to grab some of her holistic scent candles along with the Dark & Lovely Hair Perm Kit.
They spent the rest of the time having some South African "Rainbow Cuisine" which included fried caterpillars and crocodile steak. They both joked that there was no difference between South African Food and food back home in The Southern U.S., where Oprah had grown up.
Michelle got back to her hotel room and her daughters were arguing with their grandmother about what to wear out to the pool. The grandmother wanted them to wear a Maxi Dress, while she would wear her new bikini. When the daughters complained and asked why they have to wear a Maxi Dress but she gets to wear her bikini, the grandmother replied, "Cuz I'm grown!"
Michelle having the hotel suite all for herself, went out onto the balcony that over looked the South Africa landscape which was draped with hills and mountains in the distance and she began to open up the candles, which Oprah had delivered over to help alleviate the scent of the Shanty Town surrounding the city.
Michelle hadn't heard from Obama in over four days, even though he had called to talk to their girls. Michelle thought back to a Summer spent in South Carolina with her big mama aka grand mother, and remembered something about getting a man with a Voodoo Spell.
Michelle tried to think hard about those days and remember what her Big Mama had told her. She saw that one of the candles burned Sage and the other used Myrrh. She yelled down to the pool, from the balcony to ask her mother about doing Voodoo with Sage and Myrrh at which time her mother yelled back up," You better get you some Jesus girl and leave that voodoo alone!"
She went to the shower and started perming her hair to get it back straight, relaxed and correct the damage to it, done by the hot and humid weather of South Africa. She went into the room and after rubbing baby oil all over her body and applying Shea CoCo Butter to the tough spots, she took out that picture of Hussein Obama and lit one of Oprah candles, then she decided to take a nap.
Michelle heard her Southern Negro grandmother's voice again in her head, "Listen here lil gal. You dont be asking no man if he loves you. You TELL a man dat he loves you & he gonna keep on lovin you! And if dat right there dont work, you get em with that hoodoo spell."
Michelle, like so many black women do in America, got a silk pillow and tried to fall asleep on her face, so that she wouldn't mess up her new perm and the phone rung. It was her man! Obama called to say that he missed her and inquired about if she would come back home to America. Michelle just listened to him talk as she tried to physically breath in his every word.
Obama mentioned that he saw the photo of her and the girls with Nelson Mandela, and of Michelle showing her legs. Her man wanted her home and she was ready to go home and be all the woman that she could be, for her man. Before Michelle hung up the phone she told Hussein Obama that he not only loves her but he gonna keep on loving her.
Michelle packed her sun dresses and hoop ear rings and made it back, just in time for the 4th of July Press Conference at The White House.
Rahm Thinks of a Scheme in Chicago to be with Obama.
As Rahm went to the tallest building in Chicago, The Sears Tower, and looked out over the city which he now ruled, he couldn't help but feeling that pieces of his soul had been left back in Washington D.C. The missing pieces of his soul were being held by Hussein Obama.
How nice would it be, Rahm thought to himself, to be sitting down at a quaint little cafe, having some beer batter Chicago Deep Dish after he had naked brawls in the Congress with Obama's enemies. But life has changed for Rahm and Obama.
After his CNN Interview with Wolf Blitzer and after doing the whole Mayor Thing for the cameras, Rahm felt that the nightly phone calls were not enough. Even though Rahm was now macro-managing Obama with phone calls and editorials, defending his man in the Washing Post after Obama angered his people during a speech to the Jewish Lobby, Rahm missed the in person daily contact, which he had become so accustomed to having with Obama.
Indeed, Rahm needed to also micro-manage his man, Obama, because he was suffering from the with drawl symptoms, of being in a long distance relationship.
Rahm missed the way he used to straighten Obama's neck ties because Michelle wasn't there to do it, right before Obama would step out on stage to give one of his scripted "original" world renowned speeches, read from a TelePrompter. Rahm missed the Oval Office shoulder massages, which he gave to Obama after a hard day of lies, alibis and made up narrative to push bad policies through the government.
There were just so many moments that Rahm and Obama spent together, moments that Rahm desired to wish back into his life. There's so many things that a man could give another man, things that Michelle couldn't give Hussein Obama. Like the way that a man can walk up behind another man, after noticing that he is having a hard & difficult work day & lay his hand on the man's shoulder and give it that masculine buddy squeeze.
A buddy squeeze always gives a guy, that is feeling down, just the right boost of electricity to lift up one's spirit. Rahm just wanted to drop everything and jump the next flight at Chicago's O'Hare Airport and make it back to Washington DC before Michelle made it back to the U.S. from South Africa but his new life simply didn't permit him this luxury....and Obama was his forbidden luxury. Yes, Obama was Rahm's Islamic Taboo.....Sweeter than Sade's Taboo.
After all, Rahm had this mess involving his new Chicago PD Chief, Gerry McCarthy, to deal with and even though he could travel by stealth to see Obama, which is a skill he picked up in the Israeli Military, perhaps Obama would not be smart enough to carry out the steps on his end & the last thing he needed was Michelle Robinson having confirmation of her suspicions regarding he and Obama.
Rahm got out his Blackberry and waited, and waited and waited until he felt a clearing in his gut, then he made the call to South Africa. Rahm was waiting for just the right gut feeling, that would indicate the phone call would not be answered by Michelle or her mother.
Rahm had already gotten numerous dirty stare downs from Obama's Mother-in-Law and the last thing he needed was for Michelle's mother to answer the phone and ask him why he isn't home with his wife.
So, at just the right moment, Rahm made the call to South Africa and heard a cheery little voice say, "Hi Uncle Rahm." It was one of the daughters and he asked what Michelle was doing and the voice on the other end of the line explained that she was in the room burning some candles and looking at family photos. Rahm thanked her and hung up the phone.
Rahm knew what Michelle was now up to in South Africa. She was doing some South Carolina Voodoo Spells to fix her marriage with her man.
Rahm needs a way to get Obama back into his arms, the arms of an angel.
Rahm couldn't have Obama under Michelle's voodoo spell. Rahm wanted to do a better spell than Michelle's Voodoo Spell, so he called Obama and demanded that he travel to Tel Aviv, Israel. In fact, Rahm said that he had already set up a meeting and has announced it to the press on Obama's behalf.
Who is Michelle Robinson? Poor Michelle Robinson aka Michelle Obama. What can you do when you have kids for a man that also has a boyfriend? Well, I guess you could pack your short skirts and family, then take off to S. Africa and conduct interviews, like Michelle has been doing all week.
Like I said, if I was a woman, there aint no way that I would be dealing with Hussein Obama and his boyfriends. Once a woman has a kid for a man, they get trapped for life. This is why women shouldn't be going around having babies with a man, that cant even show you his birth certificate! Emmmmmmmm. What kind of black woman do shit like this? Emmmmmmm
I have seen Michelle Robinson conduct two interviews from S. Africa and not only is she a bad liar, when she says that she believes in her man's policies but she came across as a bit stand offish, when pressed about her man's policies.
Now, Michelle Robinson is a woman that is competitive to a fault. When Michelle was hoola hooping in Nevada with Harry Reid and a bunch of little school girls, Michelle didn't even let the school girls win the hoola hoop contest but instead she won! Michelle Robinson is only with Hussein Obama because she cant stand to loose and we saw her in action, during the Presidential Elections, when she went after Hillary Clinton after Hillary's poll numbers picked up and came a little too close to her man.
Michelle Robinson has a brother that is an athletic coach in Seattle, Wa. so she is from a family that is just competitive and she was raised to be competitive, by any means necessary. But this doesn't seem to be the case when it comes to loosing her man to Rahm Emanuel. I mean, this triangle between Obama, his boyfriend and his wife is all too obvious unless you are a dumb ass.
Allow me to explain just what is happening with Rahm, Obama and Michelle.
Michelle-vs-Rahm: Dueling TV Interviews by Obama's Lover & Wife.
Michelle Robinson woke up in yet another empty bed without her husband in South Africa. She heard the mating calls of the male African orangutans looking for some early morning monkey booty, far off in the distance. She stared at the still packed suitcases on the floor, as she walked over and felt the silk of yet another useless Victoria Secrets outfit, that she had planned to wear for Obama back in the U.S.
As she walked to the bath room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and thought she saw a gray strand of hair sprouting up from her scalp. She hurried to the bath room mirror to get a closer look at herself and wondered if her Black Clairol Hair Color Dye was still matching her own natural black hair or was it time for a touch up.
Michelle walked back to the bed room and grabbed some Shea CoCo Butter, and applied it to her knees, while looking at a photo of Obama, which was resting in the suitcase, over her unused Victoria Secrets outfit, before closing her eyes, so that Obama's image would be embedded in her mind's inner sight. Oh how Michelle wished that it was her man's hand rubbing her legs with the CoCo Butter.
Mean while back in Chicago, Rahm was rising for his morning routine and definitely not in the mood for his Yoga class, due to the late night conversation with Obama. Being the Mayor of Chicago was much too slow and boring for Rahm and the days appeared to get longer and longer for him. Rahm just didn't think the whole Mayor of Chicago thing through and how it meant being so far from Obama. Rahm was used to having Obama-On-Demand, fighting Obama's battles and bullying members of Congress to make sure that his man would be a successful President.
Rahm thought for a second about what life would be like if Michelle wasn't in the picture and how fun it would be to raise his kids with Obama's kids,,,I mean Lenny Kravitz had a Jewish Father and Black Mother and he turned out all right.
(If Michelle doesnt step her game up she will loose her man cuz Obama is just sitting back and taking all of Rahm in, from head to toe.)
Rahm got out of the bed and adjusted his package because it shifted the wrong way in his boxer briefs, which always appeared to happen to him in the mornings after midnight phone calls with Obama. Rahm, like so many men, propped himself against the wall and assumed a wide stance because his morning condition, after a phone call from Obama the night before, didn't allow for flexible urination at the toilet.
While in one of his Israeli Military stances, Rahm caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wondered if his hair was getting just a little too gray. He had often bitched at Obama about not keeping up his look and allowing the press to photograph him with graying hair and now Rahm, being Mayor of Chicago, had to make the adjustments of looking after himself & his own cosmetic PR image due to the Chicago Press.
Rahm leaned in closer and wasted about three hours counting the gray hairs on his head, because he had a certain personal gray hair count maximum and if the number of gray-hairs, on his head, exceded 25,000then he knew that it was time for a touch up. (The average human head hair count is about 100,000)
The Show Down.
Michelle Robinson heard the South African hotel door buzz and figured that it was the room service guy bringing up her coffee. Normally Michelle would just yell out for the hotel employee to leave it at the door but being that she was in S. Africa with out Obama, this time she decided to answer the door and check out if the grass was greener on the other side of the fence and besides, Obama had kept her waiting for a phone call which he never made.....to her.
On the other side of the door, stood a mahagony Black African man with a British Accent. The guy had a thin waist and gave her that black man crooked smile, the way that all black men appear to do when they see an attractive woman. Michelle had forgotten to tie her robe as she tipped the man and shut the door, but that crooked smile was enough male attention to satisfy her needs, which were not being met by Obama. How long could Michelle continue to do this to herself? How long could she keep up this facade?
There was an interview with some South African White Reporter and Michelle already knowing how ruthless the S. African and British Press were during interviews felt herself fighting the temptation to skip doing press all together but not wanting to make head lines or be called a "difficult black woman" she squeezed her South Carolina American Hips into a pair of True Religion Jeans before catching herself and realizing that she was safer in dressing like Ca. Senator Diane Fienstein, which meant looking like a cast member from the old tv show, Bewitched.
How Michelle hated her life and what her role meant to her woman hood. How she hated being a political show girl but the guilty finger of her Southern Negro grand-mother was conjured up in her head with a voice saying, "please your man."
Her Southern Negro grand mother's voice grew louder in Michelle's head saying again, "Please dat there man you got over there Michelle, he even got that good lite skin."
Michelle took a seat across from the S. African Reporter and found herself trying to convince the reporter that she supported her husband's policies but her voice cracked and Michelle appeared to be floating outside of her body, as she looked at this black woman giving an interview, and wondered if she could even recognize herself anymore.
Had she been lying to the public for so long, in defense of her husband, that some where along the way, she even started lying to herself about who he was?
Rahm: CNN Interview on 06.29.2011
Rahm not to be out done by Michelle, popped his multi-vitamins and warmed up with some plie ballot moves at the CNN studios.
Rahm was preparing for his own interview with CNN's Wolf Blitzer. Wolf Blitzer pressed Rahm about phone calls to Obama and Rahm, being very careful in his word choice, admitted that he did speak to Obama....as friends but the adoring love was written all over Rahm's face.
The shine which Rahm radiated, whenever he heard the words "President Obama" almost came through like a giddy freshman school girl dating a senior, who was on the foot ball team. Rahm knew that Michelle was out of the country and even if he couldn't be with Obama, in person, he could send him down low signals across CNN's airwaves.
When Rahm was asked about Ma. Gov and zombie, Mitt Romney, Rahm pretended that he had never heard of Mitt Romney because he was so insignificant but in reality Rahm was still bitter over the double vacation to Hawaii, which Obama took with Romney last year and when Wolf Blitzer didn't buy the "I never heard of Mitt Romney" line, Rahm referred to Mitt Romney as only being "that man from Massachusetts."
Could Rahm still be a little bitter over that vacation? I mean, whose to say that Obama wasn't playing Rahm like he was playing Michelle?
Rahm even went so far as hinting that he would kick Mitt Romney's Ass if he didn't stay away from Obama, when Wolf Blitzer asked Rahm about being scared of Romney. Rahm confused this question with being physically scared of Romney, when Wolf was really asking if Romney was a political threat. But none the less, Rahm was ready for a cock fight, if it meant defending Obama.
Rahm was defending his Obama and his man's policies. But was it Obama, that Rahm wanted to impress with his loyalty or was it a challenge to Michelle Robinson? A challenge for her man.
Who will win Obama's heart? Will Obama choose Rahm or Michelle?
Why is Michelle Robinson doing this to herself? So, now Michelle is in South Africa and Obama said that she would be really really "fine" with him not being President anymore? Let me run down exactly what is happening in Michelle's head.
Michelle Robinson has been complaining to Obama about his crack habit, which seems to have picked up since he has gotten off of tobacco.
She is a woman that has grown weary of a man, who she thinks considered her a political show girl and baby making machine. Obama and the CIA needed a way to make him appear an authentic American Negro and Michelle Robinson of South Carolina/Chicago was the image that they needed in this endeavor. But at what cost to Michelle's emotional health? I know that if I was a woman, I dam sure would not want to be married to Obama and all of his lies.
Obama keeps answering that he only experimented with his Pakistani room mate in New York in regards to the coke and sex but Michelle knows that an experiment doesn't last for nearly 30 years! Michelle Robinson began to panic like Jodie Foster panics at the sight of a Puerto Rican but it was already too late for Michelle because she had gotten herself in way too deep.
She was deep under cover with a down low man but little did she know, that he wasnt just down low but also low down.
There's an utter disgust that Michelle has for her fraudulent marriage and husband. When she went to England and signed the guest book with the year as being 2008 instead of 2011, indeed she felt quite embarrassed but knew that popping two ambiens was the only way that she could make it through that trip.
England Trip with Obama:
The night when they slept in the Queen's Palace, she didn't share a bed with Obama and wondered if her husband might be sleeping with Prince William, after all, she had already surrendered herself to the fact that her husband had a lust for young white men.
She lay awake in the bed, which she shared with her daughters' photos and her thoughts began to race on if her husband found Prince William attractive or if the male pattern baldness that has left Prince William without much youthful hair on the crown of his head, would maybe make him appear older and therefore Prince William would not catch the eye of Obama? Michelle could only hope and pray that this was the case, as she lay still in the Queen's cold dark room, which was void of all life force except for her own.
(Would Obama ride in a limo with William, even with the bald spot?)
Michelle has been having a very, very tough time making it through her public life as being the happy wife of Obama. She doesn't know how long the jig can go on and often wonders if the powers that be will one day arrest her husband, after they get their desired policies and he is of no more use, on grounds that he forged and faked documents.
Yes, she knows that they were told that using fake social security numbers and birth certificates were o.k. but how o.k. will it be, when her husband fails to deliver on selling wars, death and deadly vaccines to the American People? Would it still be under the cover and protection of the CIA and Bush Family, when the public backlash comes whipping around their backs like a Virginia Cotton Slave Owner from the 1700's? Would the public whip in America get a little too crackin? Would that whip crack enough to the point where the scam would all be placed on her and Obama?
Terrified, this once independent and successful black American woman lay awake in a bed absent of her husband, as she did so many nights before in Chicago. How she thought that being in the public eye and living in the White House would wake her man from his down low phase and fetish for young white men.
The home which Michelle Robinson thought that she could create with Hussein Obama, had begun to turn into a cave, beneath a dungeon of lies, where her heart began to tear due to Obama's ice cold stalactites & stalagmites of frauds, aliases and tokenism. Indeed her entire life started caving in on her mind and soul.
Michelle Robinson had high hopes and big dreams on being a family & having a strong male figure in the home but she only learned that her husband was a punk...a token.....a dressed up crack whore-monger of the CIA.
She tried to reason that her man was still the President of the United States and there is something to be said for that much but still having a husband that not only spends a little too much time staring at pictures of Rahm Emanuel and a husband that only takes & follows orders does kinda make him a bitch and being married to a fraud bitch isn't what Michelle had signed up for in this whole arrangement.
After leaving London and embarrassing themselves with the guest book signing and Obama's clueless toast, showing that he wasn't really a black American but had to be a confused half-frican being that no black man would make a toast in the middle of a band playing but then again, this is something that blacks learn in America but not in Kenya, Michelle had to admit that her man was a dumb ass. In America, a black knows not to interrupt old white people at a dinner event but in Kenya, they have a more jungle mindset with no home training.
What had she done? Why is she putting herself through the public humiliation of being married to a man that didn't love her back in return? She had given him a light skin daughter that was commerical and marketable to white America but maybe if she would've had a son, then things may have been different between them, Michelle thought as she wrestled with her own mind of self-hatred and asked herself questions which she already knew the sad answers to deep down inside her heart.
Events that led to Michelle skipping off to Africa:
She would try one more time to make bacon with Obama before he started campaigning, by wearing her new Victoria Secrets outfit, that high lighted her firm butt and still perky breast but Obama only wanted to talk to Rahm over the telephone and bitch about the Jews misunderstanding his pre 1967 borders speech last month. But of course Michelle knew that this was only a front and that Obama was making plans....down low plans with one of his men.
How fatigued had she become with the secret mid night phone calls back to Chicago, that Obama was making from Washington DC? Michelle took comfort in knowing that it was not another woman but how long could she tolerate Obama's special friendships with Rahm & others?
Finally after suffering through the whispers of strangers at White House Events, seeing embarrassing photos on the Huffington Post with Obama holding hands with Rahm in Chicago and reading my tweets about the dual vacation that Obama and Mitt Romney took last year in Hawaii, she fired back at Obama and once again she threaten to leave him, walk away from this unholy arrangement and expose him for the fraud that he is and that she had become in this public relations game of being a happy family.
One of the secret service men over heard the heated exchange and called Bush Sr down in Texas, who arranged for Michelle to travel to Africa since Obama would have a full schedule of campaigning at gay rallies in New York City. Bush Sr. knowing that Michelle always became a little uneasy when her husband had access to young gay white men, and Bush Sr. also knew that this was the only way to avoid any more embarrassment about Obama's lifestyle. So, Michelle packed her short skirts and dresses then headed to S. Africa where she was determined to show her legs and made sure the photos would be seen by her husband and maybe, just maybe, he would come to his senses and love her.
To be continued.
(Michelle Robinson wearing a dress that is too short and showing legs in S. Africa)
The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobinôt, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child's attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer's store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.
"Mama'll be 'fraid, yes," he suggested with blinking eyes.
"She'll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin' her this evenin'," Bobinôt responded reassuringly.
"No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin' her yistiday," piped Bibi.
Bobinôt arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he retumed to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father's knee and was not afraid.
Calixta, at home, felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window sewing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sacque at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors.
Out on the small front gallery she had hung Bobinôt's Sunday clothes to dry and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alcée Laballière rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with Bobinôt's coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alcée rode his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner.
"May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over, Calixta?" he asked.
"Come 'long in, M'sieur Alcée."
His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance, and she seized Bobinôt's vest. Alcée, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi's braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out.
"My! what a rain! It's good two years sence it rain' like that," exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alcée helped her to thrust it beneath the crack.
She was a little fuller of figure than five years before when she married; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting quality; and her yellow hair, dishevelled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples.
The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining room—the sitting room—the general utility room. Adjoining was her bed room, with Bibi's couch along side her own. The door stood open, and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious.
Alcée flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing.
"If this keeps up, Dieu sait if the levees goin' to stan it!" she exclaimed.
"What have you got to do with the levees?"
"I got enough to do! An' there's Bobinôt with Bibi out in that storm—if he only didn' left Friedheimer's!"
"Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobinôt's got sense enough to come in out of a cyclone."
She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alcée got up and joined her at the window, looking over her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon.
Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry, staggered backward. Alcée's arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him.
"Bonté!" she cried, releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window, the house'll go next! If I only knew w'ere Bibi was!" She would not compose herself; she would not be seated. Alcée clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm, palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms, had aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh.
"Calixta," he said, "don't be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many tall trees standing about. There! aren't you going to be quiet? say, aren't you?" He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of Assumption.
"Do you remember—in Assumption, Calixta?" he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now—well, now—her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.
They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world.
The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached.
When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life's mystery.
He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders.
The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.
The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched Alcée ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud.
Bobinôt and Bibi, trudging home, stopped without at the cistern to make themselves presentable.
"My! Bibi, w'at will yo' mama say! You ought to be ashame'. You oughta' put on those good pants. Look at 'em! An' that mud on yo' collar! How you got that mud on yo' collar, Bibi? I never saw such a boy!" Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobinôt was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and his son's the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Bibi's bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst—the meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back door.
Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in.
"Oh, Bobinôt! You back! My! but I was uneasy. W'ere you been during the rain? An' Bibi? he ain't wet? he ain't hurt?" She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobinôt's explanations and apologies which he had been composing all along the way, died on his lips as Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return.
"I brought you some shrimps, Calixta," offered Bobinôt, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table.
"Shrimps! Oh, Bobinôt! you too good fo' anything!" and she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek that resounded, "J'vous réponds, we'll have a feas' to-night! umph-umph!"
Bobinôt and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves, and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballière's.
Alcée Laballière wrote to his wife, Clarisse, that night. It was a loving letter, full of tender solicitude. He told her not to hurry back, but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi, to stay a month longer. He was getting on nicely; and though he missed them, he was willing to bear the separation a while longer—realizing that their health and pleasure were the first things to be considered.
As for Clarisse, she was charmed upon receiving her husband's letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was agreeable; many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay. And the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband, their intimate conjugal life was something which she was more than willing to forego for a while.
So the storm passed and every one was happy.
This is my poetic take on Creole Writer, Kate Chopin's "The Storm"
by Ted DuPlessis
We come from 2 different stations
You live in a cottage; I own a Belle Chase plantation
Our love had to be hidden and never seen
Your a Cajun girl from Assumption; I am a Creole gentleman from New Orleans
I came by on a rainy Louisiana day; Voluez Vous-remember me" How you do?
The storm outside was wet and cold
What would have happened if we were; would we grow old?
I should have up and ran for the door; but you look so good staring out that window
Kiss me. don't worry about my wife; she across state lines.... in Mississippi
Sorry mademoiselle; that I do not have any flowers
But it was too late, she rocked me during passion's hour
Then calmed me after wards so slow & gifted; Suddenly the mood shifted
I didn't mean to make you a sinner; you said it was o.k. and started up making dinner
The storm lifted, and the reality of life grew so sour
Au revoir. See, you again my love; when the hands of time; once again strikes.....passion's hour
Creole Folks-"Kate's mother, was from an aristocratic Creole family. Young Kate attended a Catholic convent school in Louisiana and at 19 married Oscar Chopin. Oscar was a Creole cotton broker from New Orleans. The Chopin's lived on a plantation near Cloutierville,La. Cloutierville was populated with White French Creoles, Cajuns and Creoles of Colors. Cloutierville was a place that many New Orleans Creoles settled into after many hostile, uneducated whites migrated into Louisiana after the Civil War and even more uneducated, hostile African Americans-who were freed from slavery, also resented the Creoles of Color.
From my research, Kate Chopin's mother was from a very rich Louisiana French Creole family. Her mother met an Irishman from St.Louis who was also well off and married him but Kate was raised by her La. French-Creole family. I guess the fact that she wasn't close to her father's Irish family, could be why she took the name Chopin instead of her father's surname, O'Flaherty.
Many white French Creoles migrated into more rural parts of Louisiana, where the River couldn't carry in immigrants from other parts of the U.S. very easily. Plantation rural areas like, Cloutierville, were a refuge for many Creoles, Cajuns and Creoles of Color who wanted to escape the low social rung American population that poured into North Louisiana and New Orleans. White non-French Protestants and African Americans just destroyed the entire vibe of Creole Louisiana after the Civil War.
Kate's writing created literary scandals due to her very frank and blunt observations on American culture that included many unpleasant truths and on her strong, female lead characters that were very sexual and free, which was unheard back in Kate's day! It took almost a decade for an audience to become open and sympathetic to Kate's ahead of her time, writings."
In Fact, I am reading "The Storm" and it is about a desperate housewife named Calixta, who cheats on her family with Alcee Laballiere, who is an old flame from Assumption Parish. In her book, there is a mild Hurricane and her husband and 4 y.o. old son gets stranded at a local supply shop, while she is left alone, at home, with Laballiere and they rekindle their missed passions. Laballiere also has a wife and kids in Biloxi, Mississippi and it appears that his wife is also cheating on him!
Calixta could not be with Alcee because Alcee was from a noble Creole class and Calixta was from a more working class family and background. Her writings must have taken so long to published because outside of Louisiana, people must not have been used to reading a woman talking about having sex and cheating on her husband in the 1800's. Either way, her books are very very good.
From 1869 to 1902, she wrote short stories for both children and adults which were published in such magazines as Atlantic Monthly, Vogue, the Century, and Harper's Youth's Companion. Her major works were two short story collections, Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). Her important short stories included "Desiree's Baby," a tale of miscegenation in antebellum Louisiana (published in 1893); "The Story of an Hour" (1894), and "The Storm "(1898)."The Storm" is a sequel to "The 'Cadian Ball," which appeared in her first collection of short stories, Bayou Folk.
A STRANGE INTER-ETHNIC SHORT STORY-OF PASSION AND MYSTERY FROM THE MIND OF NIKKI VIVIAN.
"Sexy drumbeats at midnight
Ya fingers touching me light
Sunrays on earth at sunrise
Your love shines in your eyes…"
Maxxee loved that song! Its beat seduced her memory, making her want to dance. She clenched her legs, eyeing the dark underground. She thought of the stranger’s eyes. Green dish bowls laden with curiosity. He wore a wedding ring. "Shit! I don’t believe in love at first sight anyway." Maxxee spied an old woman sitting across the car, watching her. "She knows what I feel. She’s staring at me, smiling. What’s funny? He’s married."
"Kirse’d be pissed if she knew what I was thinking. I can’t help it. She’s drawing me to her. She’s spinning a web around me. Her eyes are squeezing my throat, stealing my breath. I’ve never been attracted to a Black woman. This is new! Intense! I wonder if she’s ever been with a white guy. She’s nothing like Kirsten. My wife’s slim, great boobs, blond, leggy. Hell, everybody at the job wants to do Kirse. Yet here I am on a moving train, scoping a Black woman! For Pete’s sake, I’m on fire down here. Her eyes are so dark, so warm, moving over me like blind hands. I’m going closer…"
The train rumbled in the darkness. Bouncing roughly, it careened away from the bowels of the
metropolis, carrying the city’s run-off from the lavish excess. Some foreigner remarked that it’s only peons that ride the subway in New York. The person standing next to you could be a millionaire. The subway disguises. It covers, hiding identity like a public war fought for independence cloaks private greed. The noise of the trains drowns out the cries against conformity. Once inside the machine, everyone is equal.
"He’s moving closer! Is he crazy?" Pause. Breathless. Fear. Hope. "Damn, he could be a serial killer or some shit like that." Maxxee moistened her lips, pressed them together, parted them slow. Her right eyebrow arched slightly. It always did when she became disconcerted, or aroused. Her eyes never left his as he closed the space between them. He finally stood in front of her, looking down.
Maxxee coolly glanced around, searching for rescue from this dilemma. There were people everywhere. In every seat someone laughed, read, slept. No one seemed to care that the white man crept closer. No one noticed except that strange smiling old lady. She never looked away. She just sat there staring intensely at Maxxee and the man, gripping her oversized purse. Maxxee pressed her hands deep into her lap. A small moan escaped her as she touched the bottom of the seat. She didn’t realize that as she moaned, her eyes were on his face.
Dillon exhaled, pushed her sack towards her, and sat down. His gaze never left her. "I’m married," he whispered.
Maxxee could only stare. She’d become a top, spinning and weaving. She felt free. A caught butterfly, released. Her spirit recognized him. "What?" she asked softly.
Dillon could see she was mystified. It didn’t occur to him that she could be afraid of him. No, he was too busy inhaling her scent. He was too occupied with her visual landscape, scenery so divine she must have been on earth by accident. "I said I’m married." Dillon lifted his index finger and traced her eyebrows. He lingered over her right eye. Maxxee didn’t blink. She sat perfectly still as his finger arched from nose to cheek.
"Have we met before?" Dillon questioned, his hand now cruising through his own wheaty curls. "Déjà vu."
Maxxee found her breath. "Yes, déjà vu. You’re so familiar, and yet, it’s not possible." She reconsidered. "Well, anything’s possible, but…"
"It’s not possible for you to feel what you’re feeling, right? Not for a white boy like me?"
"Not for a white boy. It never crossed my mind. I stick to the brothers."
"Why? You don’t think my love is as good?"
"Don’t you? You married to a woman like me? Or are you hitched to ‘Barbie’?"
"Barbie." Flat. Dillon wondered at the lack of dimension in his response. Yes, Kirse was Barbie, and he was her Ken.
Maxxee watched his eyes narrow and cloud. She knew what he was thinking. Somehow, she was inside him, feeling his confusion, his love for his wife, and this incredible emptiness. "Why do you have this great chasm in you?" Maxxee put her hand on his, palm to skin. Her eyes searched his. "You have it all. You love your wife, house, job. You love your body, making love to your wife. Why the emptiness?"
Dillon mouth unhinged. How did she know? How did she know things about him? His sea glass eyes scanned the train. No one else seemed interested in their interaction, unusual for the subway. Wait. One person was watching, an odd-looking old lady with a bag two sizes bigger than her body. That’s not an uncommon subway sighting, but there was something unusual about her.
She had piercing grey eyes that did not waver. She looked like one of those old New Orleans quadroons in the family heirloom books he kept at home. She had black ringlet hair that escaped the tight cell of her red scarf. For some reason, he had to see her feet.
He aimed his view towards the floor. She wore the most horrific old shoes. They were soiled with mud, and pieces of rubber protruded from the soles. Dillon thought, "She’s been walking for a long time." Suddenly, he understood what he must do.
Maxxee observed the old woman, too. She and Dillon’s gazes joined forces in the inspection of the woman. Simultaneously, they saw her shoes. Then their eyes broke apart. Maxxee turned towards Dillon, pregnant with expectation.
Dillon caught her breath with his lips, firm yet soft. His tongue explored her depths, and she tasted him in a kiss. Nothing moved, no noise sounded. All that existed was the inhale exhale of time.
Maxxee allowed herself to submit. Dillon kissed her like she hadn’t been kissed in three lifetimes. She could feel Dillon pouring himself into her. She could feel pieces of herself entering him. They never closed their eyes.
Hands rested on their shoulders. The old woman was right behind them, grinning. Her eyes resembled molten slate, thunder with lightening highlights. Her lips never moved, but Maxxee and Dillon heard her speak. A slow Southern drawl commanded them to make love, demanded that love receive its due.
"Here on the train? What about these people?" Dillon looked around. Everyone was laughing, talking, reading.
Maxxee shook her head. She couldn’t have sex with this white man. She was not that type of woman. Who was this ancient hag?
The old woman spit lightly on her fingers. Reaching over to Dillon, she put those spitted fingers at the base of his throat, tracing a line from his chest to his navel. Dillon, first shocked, completely relaxed. He looked at her as if he were seeing her all over again. He reached for Maxxee, grasping her. In one swing he positioned her on his lap. She was nude. She started to scream. The old lady touched spitted fingers to Maxxee’s belly, just below her navel. Maxxee released herself. She wanted this.
They loved forcefully. Oblivious to the other passengers, they made love viciously, two souls long separated, reunited. Dillon entered Maxxee, felt himself grow and lift. He trembled as his empty caverns flooded with her warmth.
Maxxee clung to Dillon, moving with him, feeling no strain of the motion. She felt full of him and his need for her. She had never felt this needed. How delicious! Her head thrown back, Maxxee let Dillon ease her loneliness. She let him open the door to her spring. She wanted to feel love once more.
The train kept its speed in and out of broken darkness. The old lady watched Dillon and Maxxee, satisfied. Another piece of rubber loosened from the sole of her shoes. She paid no attention, only smiled. She viewed the other passengers who were unaware of the passion unfolding in their midst. The old lady sat motionless, fingers gripping the worn handles of her bag. She remembered.
It was my first quadroon ball in New Orleans. It’s where I first fell in love. Only it wasn’t with another Creole like me. No, chere. He was Allen Thibodeaux, the most handsome richest white man in all the South. How he swung me as we danced. How he took me after that, telling me I was the most beautiful girl. "Mademoiselle, you are one fabulous, wonderful creature. So beautiful, so very beautiful…" He said he wanted to take me away, to marry me. I believed him.
Instead, he married a girl from a rich white family. He returned to the balls, but I was no longer allowed to attend. I was pregnant.
Once he knew, he came to me. He put his head on my lap and knelt at my feet. "Anything you want, anything, ma cherie. You have only to speak it."
"Marry me," I said. "Leave her, and stay with me." Allen lifted his head. He spoke icily.
"I can not marry you. You are four steps removed from a nigger’s seed. Father would never stand for such a tainting on our name. He would disinherit me."
I slapped his face. He slapped me back, knocking me to the floor. He raped me. He took from me what I would no longer give. No one helped me though I screamed and fought. I was in disgrace because I had lost my virginity before there was a proper arrangement. Therefore, Allen was not obligated nor obliged to provide for me. He raped me, and no one cared.
The train jolted. Moans of Dillon and Maxxee came and went between the screams of the train. They clung together, skins damp. Maxxee’s head rested on Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon’s hands gripped Maxxee’s hips, lifting her, lowering her. The old lady sniffed the scent of ecstasy and rubbed her arms in the heady perfumed air. She thought on.
I was, alone, pregnant. Tanta sent me to see the priestess. She was supposed to relieve me of my baby. Nothing worked. The baby was strong and clung to me inside. Instead, my family paid the priestess to put a curse on Allen for his disregard. He knew the quadroon rules. No taste until the price was paid.
Suddenly, Allen began to send money. He arranged for a charming cottage for me and our child in the French Quarter. Once I was installed there, with a maid of my own, Allen visited me. He spoke of love. I took him to my bedroom. I’d been without a man for so long that he, in spite of his cruelty, was a welcome site. He gave me a beautiful antique ring to wear. Then he told me his wife died a week before he purchased my house. I did not ask how she died. I didn’t care. Allen was mine now.
When Allen’s father discovered me, he tried to force Allen to marry another white woman. Allen refused, saying that he’d had his fill of proper white girls and if he couldn’t marry me, he simply would not marry.
We shared one final night. When our lovemaking was over, we slept. Allen was still inside me. I heard a noise, and opened my eyes just in time to see a white hood leveling a pistol. I looked at Allen. He met my eyes, covering me with himself. I heard the blast. Then, nothing…
Small droplets fell from the old woman’s steel eyes. She sighed, removing the scarf from her head. Instantly, she was young again, and lovely. She watched as Dillon and Maxxee exploded in unison, a synchronized birthing. She watched as they struggled to breathe in their afterbirth. Their power made the blood surge faster through her veins. She gathered her things, and vanished.
Dillon stood, staring at the Black woman. His stop was next. Kirse would be waiting for him. Dillon thought, "As soon as I open the front door, I’m getting a piece of that." He looked down at his pants. Dry. How could that be when he just felt himself explode?
Maxxee turned away from Dillon. Her nipples shown hard through her silk blouse. "Who is he," she shakily asked herself. She reached for her sack and was shocked to see it on the floor. She slowly lifted it, glancing around the car. People were still doing people things. A cigar scented old man replaced the girl that had sat in front of her. She looked behind her. The old lady was gone. Maxxee gathered her sack. The next stop was hers.
Dillon moved towards the exit. Maxxee stood up and stepped in front of him. The car lurched forward, backward, then halted. Maxxee slammed into Dillon. Dillon put his hand intimately on her waist to steady her. At that moment, they both looked at the floor where the old woman had sat. There was a piece of old rubber. Dillon reached for it. It lay warm and flexible in his palm. Maxxee looked incredulously at the thing in Dillon’s hand. Dillon took Maxxee’s elbow and gently led her onto the platform.
Dillon peered deeply into Maxxee’s eyes. He saw her buttercream skin and curly black hair. He was speechless. His hand cradled her elbow, refusing to relinquish it.
"That was some train ride," was all Maxxee could think to say.
"Yes, it was." Dillon let go of Maxxee’s elbow, clearing his throat.
"Do I know you?" Maxxee hesitantly asked.
"Oh yeah, right. Name’s Dillon." He didn’t move.
"I’m Maxxee." The name rang no bells. She offered her hand. He squeezed it gently.
"Look, I don’t know what happened back there. It was weird, you know?"
"I know. Maybe we should return to the land of the living. My dog awaits me." Maxxee smiled.
Maxxee began to walk away from him, legs shaky. She felt lonely again.
Dillon watched her leave, and the emptiness returned. He followed her. "Wait!" He caught her. "Listen, here’s my card. We need to talk. Call me." He held out his card, an offering. "Please."
Maxxee slid the card from his fingers. She raised her eyes from his hand. He kissed her lips, lingering. He turned and sprinted off.
Maxxee stood there, sack hanging limply. This strange white man had just kissed her on the subway platform. "Shit, I need a joint," she thought. She pocketed the card and left the platform. Once at street level, she removed the card. What was his name again? Maxxee held the card under a street lamp. She read the card twice. It read, "Dillon A.Thibodeaux, IV."
Maxxee removed her red scarf from her sack. She flung it around her face and neck, sashaying into the misty dampness of nightfall. She became a shadow, and was gone.
(NIKKI VIVIAN is a former resident of Plaquemines Parish,La-who now dwells in Manhattan -New York, Nikki Vivian can be reached at Joyqt@aol.com)