How Much Honesty Is Too Much?

A scenario:
We never got around to “doin it” when we were together. We both thought we were of age but managed skip that rite of passage. Years later, opportunity presented itself in a reminiscing session. He had dropped out of the sky, relieving me of my dreams of his death. We skipped down Memory Lane, him wearing damn near the same shoes he wore then. Boots. Black. Not much had changed. His boyish appearance had simply been made a little more rugged, but he was very recognizable. According to him I still looked just like the first girl he ever loved. The night grew old. He stayed. His eyes spoke of deeply rooted longing. I at least identified with curiosity. Being nice, I’ll say matter-of-factly that curiosity did indeed kill the cat. Of boredom. Every man in his lineage should be ashamed of passing down crown jewels made of faux gemstones.

Another one:
We worked together, surrounded by a bunch of people who looked nothing like us. The job wasn’t sexy, but he was. His confidence…his walk…sense of humor…his shirts made of expensive cotton and his slacks that were tailored for his almost regular height, for a man. His Issey Miyake cologne drove me insane. I found myself, on occasion, stopping by his cube for a guaranteed laugh and to catch his Issey vapors. I got sloppy and actually walked up on him, seated at his desk, and put my face in his neck to sniff him. So close to his Adam’s apple, I didn’t even realize I’d licked his neck until it was done. If I were a busted chick I would’ve earned a pink slip for sexual harassment. Unfortunately, we all know the double standard S.H. is held to. Office Sexual tension was brewing stronger than Folgers in your cup. Our office Christmas party came up and I was talked into taking a break from my desk, where I was pretending to be an overachiever in an attempt to graduate from temp to permanent. A few chicken fingers, rubbery calamari, and a cocktail later, I announced that I’d be heading back to work before my co-workers who don’t look like me got to drinking in the manner they’re infamous for. Back at the desk I decided to shut down instead and take it home. I got to the parking garage where I was met by sexy co-worker. He’d just won the gingerbread house and was taking it to his car before returning to his own desk. He cornered me, talking greasy and daring me to do some big girl shit right there in the garage. Pressed up against the passenger side door of my Bucket, he licked my neck. Payback is often a treat. He kissed me. I let him. He pressed close enough for me to feel that if we were in class he’d be raising more than his hand. Well, as hot as that moment was, I needed to know if we would be cooking with grease. I reached into his pants to see what he was working with. The kiss ended, abruptly, nice as it was... I did something to slip his grasp, got in my car and sped away from what would’ve been more than one mistake. Apparently the chick who’d later bear him 4 children has different standards, but what I felt in his love below was the trigger for me to acquire Attention Deficit Disorder. No thanks.

Last one(of mine):
Very nice guy (V.N.G.). Do I even need to tell anymore? Blah blah blah, we dated a little bit. I enjoyed his company mostly. We laughed regularly. Eventually, as adults tend to, we disrobed and got it in. He gave me a move I hadn’t seen yet and impressed me. Enough to overlook where he was lacking. Size only matters if the word miniscule can be used to describe the member or if he has NO SKILLS. He got a pass on skills. The next time I thought maybe he was tired from a hard day’s work. The time after that I tried to remind him of what he put down the 1st time, while he was busily making a mockery of other adult activities. The 4th and final time I was forced to stop the madness mid-ep and let him know it would NOT be going down again. By then, his personality had started grating on my nerves too, leaving him with NO redeeming qualities. I wanted him and his V.N.G. routine to go on tour, just so long as the show was no longer running at a theater near me. See, some things are just criminal. I felt like he had a right to know what he was doing wrong, and seemingly with great commitment to whackness, so that he could improve before moving on from ex (me) to the next (some poor soul). Some say it was harsh for me to tell brotha-man that his stroke was badder than worse.

One more scenario, from a man:
They were in the room. Naked. He enters. A horrendous smell exits her body. He’s now flaccid and has a decision to make. One man said he’s just walked away. Another said he did the best he could to get her off as fast as possible and skipped getting his, and then didn’t call her no more.

In my mind we have a responsibility to be honest with people. Most people say they want it but most people don’t know how to listen with honesty. Naturally, if you’re a truth teller, you get to be the asshole scapegoat because people just will NOT take the time to really get into what was said. Some things there are just no words to make the topic sound…better. Negro, your penis is pre-pubescent and your stroke is adolescent. Sit with that a minute and let me know what ways you know of to tell that truth without sugarcoating it so that it is FULLY understood. As a matter of fact, that’s the challenge. I want to know a few things:

1. Do we have a responsibility to be honest with each other in relationships, even when swinging eps, so that people can improve? Some folks just need to cleanse inside and out and they can’t get right. Others might need some practice—though not with me—in order to build their skills. I can see not bothering with the truth with someone who is clear that their combination of ills just doesn’t allow for them to make too many upgrades. Everyone else, IMO, deserves the truth so that they can choose to do better and be better. Also, someone else’s silence may have made it so you (or me) ended up with the whack hand we were dealt at the moment of truth.

2. Do we owe it to the next [wo]man to tell that person where their fault lines are?

3. Would you want to know if your partner felt like you weren’t bringing your ‘A’ game?

4. How would you tell or want to be told if you were a part of some less than mediocre lovin?

Leave your footprints. I know I can’t be the only asshole out here who believes people have GOT TO BE told of their sexual shortcomings. What some folks are putting down is a travesty against all that is good and sacred. Tell me what you think.

Watch me move.