Omodara: The Flat-Out Truth

I met Moses six weeks before our first sexual
encounter. He was a successful small business owner in an unglamorous field: He
manufactured boxes or packaging of some sort. But he had a dream of launching a
lotion line, and that’s how we met. He was auditioning models to appear on the
product’s packaging.

Somehow, he came across my modeling comp card and called me in, expecting to
see a light-skinned chick with shoulder-length permed hair.

The woman who showed up at his office looked nothing like her photos. In an act
of liberation, defiance, I-hate-men & devil-may-care, I had chopped my hair
completely off.

I didn’t get the modeling gig, but my short yellow dress and bright lipstick
smile must have caught his attention. We talked – or rather, he talked and I
mostly listened – for three or four hours. He dropped enough sexual innuendo
into the conversation to make me cautious. When I went back for our second
interview, I ensured Nothing Would Happen by:

my brother along.
the tightest pair of jeans I owned. Getting into or out of them was such a
challenge, I couldn’t possibly get naked on a whim.
Making it
a point not to call and then deliberately losing his address.
I did everything right.

Until weeks later, when fate stepped in.

On a whim, as part of my Artist’s Way artist’s
date, I went to a comedy club on a lonely Sunday night. And he just happened to
be there. And he just happened to run up to me as I was heading out the door.
And he just happened to walk me to my car. And he just happened to tell me that
he wanted me in his life “whether it’s personal, professional, or

As if both of us didn’t know that the only place our relationship could go
was personal and horizontal.

First of all, the man was fine. He was a perfect physical specimen. Tall, about
6’3″. Delicious, smooth, chocolate black. Chiseled cheekbones.
Thirty-eight, looking 30. Handsome, successful, prosperous. I nicknamed him
Velvet because he reminded me of a 1970s black velvet painting.

Moses was married. With two kids: a 9-year-old and a five-year-old. I’d met
his wife of many years in passing during my interview, when she shook my hand
and eyed me suspiciously before leaving the room.

I knew all of that. But after months of
abstinence and sexual frustration
, I didn’t care: 

“I want him. I want to have a little fun. I
want some male attention. I want sex. I want fun. I want excitement.

“The truth is, I don’t give a f*ck about his wife, deep down inside. She’s
his problem. It’s his marriage that he’s jeopardizing, his choice, his risk.
The only thing I’m worried about is the disapproval & disgust the people
around me would feel if they knew.”

And in the end, public opinion really didn’t matter
to me:
“I want him, I’ll have him, I’ll accept the
repercussions of my lust, the consequences of my behavior.”
I was predatory.

I wanted him sexually, and I wanted to leverage his business contacts to escape
my horrible secretarial job.

With no apology and no shame, I took a wanton leap into the unknown.

And for the most part, I enjoyed it tremendously.


I used to think turning 21 made you a grown-up. Now
I have a new definition. A grown-up is someone who takes 100-percent
responsibility for the quality of his or her life.

Grown-ups deal with a lot of circumstances that are beyond their individual
control. But they take responsibility for their reactions to those
circumstances and the choices they make. Teenagers, on the other hand, sulk and
pout and blame circumstances – or better yet, the grown-ups.

I daresay that most of us remain teenagers trapped in growing-older bodies, at
least in certain areas of our lives.

We’re taught by psychology to blame mom, dad, our childhood tormentors and all
our ex-lovers for us “being the way we are.” And that blame keeps us
stuck in an immature version of ourselves.

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