A Companion we have found,
A connection we have made.
When the rain comes down,Our Protection is at hand.
"Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken" (Ecclesiastes 4.12)
I love it when we dance. Even when me and my SugarAnne practice at home in the basement. But tonight's been a great night of "going live". My SugarAnne is looking especially sweet. She's been working out regularly so she's looking svelte and shapely, yet strong and sturdy. She's wearing one of those poofy little "girly shit" skirts that I love so much. "Girly shit" pink, short enough to show her "new" shapely and well exercised legs. I don't have to guess that you can get a peek of her bikini panties when I give her a quick underarm turn in Waltz or dip her in Foxtrot. I saw them myself when she danced with that bastard Leonard. Rumba. But that's another story. Depending on your vantage point you - if you strenuously pursue it - you could catch a quick glimpse of a camel toe in the front. Or you might see them working their way in to the crease of her sweet booty from behind. Her top, white, matches her panties. Spaghetti string, strong enough to hold, accentuate and enhance the beauty of ample breasts. But not so tight as to make artificial the presentation. My SugarAnne don't need no artificial presentation when it comes to her boobs! She has more than enough but not too much. Hmm-hmm-hmm! Beautiful. Damn she looks good! And I'm lusting after her.
Ballroom dancing, that is. "Permit me to have this dance?" The question unuttered has rendered many a teenage boy a wallflower. And many a grown man too! The answer is either permission granted or permission denied. Permission denied, of course, is rejection. But permission granted is permission to touch; permission to hold; permission to guide; permission to lead. And, oh boy, it's more than permission. It is surrender. It is willful surrender.
And even though the question may come from the man. It is in the answer the decision is made. And that decision is made strictly by the woman. For only the woman can choose to be chosen.
As she rises, her reach answers the dangling question of his outstretched hand. Contact! First, the warmth of fingers touching. But then in a whisper: the heat of the hand. Fully now, the whole hand. He draws her to him: a gentlemanly tug. She slips quite willfully into his grip: a confident sweeping grip which finds its completion over the spaghetti strap of her otherwise bare shoulder blade. A gentle grip. Yet firm enough to provide a masculine contrast to her delicate and feminine hand. It finds rest upon his right shoulder. She belongs to him now. They're connected now – if only by two thin threads. He leads, the recipient of power conveyed through willful surrender. And yet, he's aware, he's keenly aware that any victory won is, in reality, her victory. Yet still, he is also aware that her victory is his very own victory. And they dance. They are one now. Sharing the same space. Sharing a "common center" worthy of their mutual sacrifices.
I know, I know, I know: that's some powerful shit ain't it? It sends a jolt of electricity through your relationship that fuses your souls together and reverberates from the ballroom to the bedroom. Me and my SugarAnne have been bitten by the ballroom bug. You would expect that a chick would have a low resistance to said virus. But listen here dude, ballroom dance is where masculinity meets femininity. And it's all set to music. It brilliantly percolates with relational dynamics. The BabyMan guides my SugarAnne. The BabyMan leads my SugarAnne. In the ballroom the BabyMan "handlz hi' b'niz" with my SugarAnne. "A man gotsta have some ballroom". Waltz, foxtrot, classic stuff. Good, good stuff.
A man who's good with numbers
Is likely good with money;
With a man who glides across the floor
They're never lacking "honey".
But if you have not number one
And she looks at you askance;
Just put a twinkle in your eye
And say, "M'have this dance?"
Guide her gently, lead her firmly
through every step and twirl;
Unto her give all of the glory,
Show her off to all the world.
A "piece of change" is good to have
For some that will suffice;
But if you "trip the light fantastic"
You're on the road to rice.
You just might have a "pretty penny"
And always in her pants;
But she won't let you in her heart
Until you learn to dance.
Now, the BabyMan is doing o.k. I mean he is doing aw-right. But look-a-here, I ain't sitting on a pile of it. A little while ago my SugarAnne sprung for a pair of Capezios and I popped some dance lessons. It was fun. But we let it drop. Well it's baaaack!. In the ballroom my broke ass is able to treat my SugarAnne to the MasterCard moments she so richly deserves. And sshhhh – don't tell no-body: my MasterCard ain't got a dime on it!
Ballroom is reinforcing what the BabyMan has already learned about what to do when I get my hands on my SugarAnne. Ballroom dancing confirms Itself. You simply have to do it to understand this: If a man wants to please his woman, a man gotsta have some ballroom.
Here's the deal: There's at least three basic and constant "crossover" realities in both a classic ballroom dance and say, the relational dance of a man and his woman. The first one is simply this:
It's all gonna take some work.
Relationships are like dancing. They simply don't get better without work. The way I dance in my head is remarkably graceful and nimble. Frankly, it's downright stunning! I'm talking Dancing with the Stars here people! But what's in my head is a stark (and dark) contrast to what occurs on the dance floor with me and my SugarAnne right now. Just like anything, we're getting better with practice. There got to be a lot of practice. There's got to be a lot of work: a lot of blood and sweat and (man! oh! man!) lots of tears. Yes, there will be tears - before we even come close to that Dancing with the Stars vision of grace - if we ever come close at all.
Through work we get use to each other's moves (i.e. moods) and tendencies (i.e. sensitivities). We have to take mental notes of the things that keep us in step and the things that trip us up. And ain't that something that comes through constant exposure to (practice, uh...work?) each other? I'm not talking passive exposure here friend. My SugarAnne has to work at being a BabyMan-ologist. And the BabyMan has a responsibility to become a SugarAnne-ologist. And like all PhDs, the education requires constant work. You gotta get past the B.S. (you know what that is). You gotta get on to the M.S. (that's more of the same). And then you gotta climb over the PhD (that's when the shit is piled higher and deeper). It is a daunting task when viewed as a whole but manageable in small steps. So we dance! We dance when we're together. And we dance, mentally, when we're not together because we carry the constant hope that one day we will be Dancing with the Stars. It may sound like an impossibility today but rather than focus on the hopelessness of never arriving - me and my SugarAnne - we concentrate on the hope in our striving. By the Grace of the Lord we have been at love for over 7 years now. Yep - "at" love. It's active. Working. Me and my SugarAnne. Working. Together. One of my mentors used to tell me: Teamwork makes the dream work. It's gonna take work. But I assure you, we will dance. I tell ya, we are gonna dance! Second,
You're gonna step on toes.
Sometimes dance practice goes pretty well and, well, sometimes it don't. But me and my SugarAnne find that with practice we don't step on each other's toes nearly as much as we used to. And when we do, we're so busy diggin' the dance we simply say, "Excuse me", forgive, and move on. My SugarAnne would be the first to tell ya she's got some fickle feet so you know she don't need nobody stepping on her toes. I'm trying.
We went "live" for the first time last weekend. Our first big event. My SugarAnne was looking too hot y'all! I wanted to fry that bacon right there on-the-spot! Yum-yum! I digress. Going "live" for the first time was not one of those times when things went well. I was stepping all on my poor SugarAnne's toes. If there was a rug, I woulda cut that up too.
I tell ya there's a whole lotta stuff going on on a packed dance floor. The Babyman lost his concentration. I was drawn away by how good this couple is doing and how bad that couple is doing. And trying to avoid bumping into people. Listen, you can make yourself feel good or bad by looking at other couples. But good or bad, however you're making yourself feel, the minute you start worrying about what somebody else is doing, you're gonna start stepping on your woman's toes (literally and figuaratively). Not worrying about about what other couples are doing and concentrating instead on what we're supposed to be doing, well, that's half the battle. Holds true for the ballroom. Holds true for the relationship with my SugarAnne.
When we began tour marital waltz 7 years ago. We stepped on each other's toes every now and then. Frankly, we stepped on each others toes a whole lot! But learning was fun. We were dancing. With marital intimacy. And the music of our marriage was bangin'! Pun intended - I mean that's what we were doing: bangin'! - if you know what I mean. We'd waited almost two years! I took incredible pleasure in leading her into the turns. And I turned my SugarAnne every which way. And my SugarAnne delighted in being turned. With joyful expectation she anticipated being turned this way and that way. We were caught up in the delight of sharing our "centers" -hee-hee. We'd come together for the oneness of it all. As long as our boots were clickin' our hearts were tickin' for each other. And, we were numb to the pain of stepping on each other's toes.
A quick word about making love:
Permission granted, is permission to touch; permission to hold; permission to guide; permission to lead. And when the question "Let's make love" (by word or action) comes from the man, where forth the answer comes is really where the decision is made. And the decision made strictly by the woman. And when permission is granted, it's more than permission. It is surrender. For only she can choose to be taken in the marital way. Regardless of position, unless there is a willful "parting of the waters" so to speak (a distinctly feminine gesture and act of compliance), ain't nothing happening. Everything about making love, from its position (any position) is contingent upon the woman opening herself up to receive the man. Making love can only be accomplished in feminine surrender. Willful feminine surrender.
Close quick word.
Making love is a fundamental oil for keeping the wheels of the marital dance turning with minimal friction. The oil is good. Ah Yes! The oil is mmm mmm good! And with it we dance - toe "injuries" notwithstanding. And we dance: with pebbles in our shoes. So we dance: on rugs conspicuously lumpy with miscues of our pasts. And yes, we dance: in spite of missteps of our united present. We dance. With love for the Lord, we dance. With love for the dance, we dance. With love for each other, we dance, we dance, we dance! Oh, we still step on each others toes. We still apologize. We still forgive. We still make love. So true, it is said, "love covers a multitude of sins" (1 Peter 5.8). Finally,
Communication is critical.
There's not very much to say about communication. Everybody knows how important it is. In the ballroom communication rests on a thin thread of contact: my hands. Likely less than 1 per cent of the surface of our bodies come into contact. But that's enough. I hold my SugarAnne's right hand in my left. And in my right, I hold my SugarAnne's left shoulder blade. That's it friends. That's all they wrote on communication in ballroom. My hands are the tools with which I must guide my willfully surrendered SugarAnne through the dance to victory. My left hand guides - every so gently. My right hand leads - firm when necessary.
But the BabyMan is not yet adept at pulling these "strings". So my SugarAnne and I, we're moving through a season where I'll just tell her what the next dance move is. My hands still do the business of guiding and leading. The non verbal cues are still being conveyed and picked up. But because she hears what's coming, she knows what's coming. And she moves. She moves to the command. And if the BabyMan's hands don't match the BabyMan's commands my SugarAnne asserts a suggestion. And well she should. And get this (this is critical): I listen. That's the best way, I think, to learn how to lead my SugarAnne. I have a sincere desire to know what my SugarAnne thinks about the BabyMan's lead. But where the next step leads rests solely in the hands of the BabyMan.
My SugarAnne, she's got kinda a "artsy" side to her. She thinks outside the box. And even in this the early stage of our journey in dance I sense that my SugarAnne is gifted more than the BabyMan for choreography. She simply sees the playing field in a broader more imaginative way than I do. That quality has to be respected. It is to our glory for me to listen. She is free to make suggestions and recommendations (and even insistences) about how she may be better led. Beside, I don't wanna barrell over my SugarAnne. And I definitely don't want to extinguish the essence of her personality or smother her gifts. My SugarAnne's victory is my victory. My contributory responsibility is to enhance her, and present her higher qualities and her beauty to the world through our dance.
Communication ain't no one-way street. Ain't it now? When I listen to her ideas it shows my SugarAnne that I am compassionate and sensitive to her needs. Frankly, I think that's part of cherishing her. Chicks dig being cherish. It also shows her that I have respect and love for her. In turn she grows to trust and respect me more and more (that's admiration - dudes dig that). Before you know it, we'll be dancing without the benefit of words.
We've actually have danced without words a few times. I suggested to my SugarAnne that she close her eyes while I lead her around the dance floor. This takes some trust on her part. After trust, touch becomes the most important thing in communicating which steps we would take as a couple. For a stretch here and there we sensed each other's entire bodies through the thin threads of contact: hands and back. All based on prior communication. We were dancing without words. Moving together in partnership. Enjoying our created "shared centers". We were sensitive to shifts in weight. We moved with the same momentum. We flowed together in a beautiful union of two dancers - becoming one - connecting on the dance floor. (I did see her peak a couple of times on some of the more difficult moves). The whole became greater than the sum of its parts so to speak. We shared a moment, a presence, a responsibility. We found mutual pleasure.
I'm looking for longer stretches of that wonderful feeling. The feeling of being "meshed" body and soul to my SugarAnne: ONE! There's a lot of communication that has to happen between where we are and that Dancing with the Stars vision. Not that we're deficient in it. It's just part of the process in developing trust and respect - in earning trust and respect. And me and My SugarAnne know it's gonna require bringing our whole "being" and "self" to the experience.
We're still stumbling in the ballroom (but getting better with practice). But our marital waltz has moved on to a solid marital foxtrot - with steps, turns and spins. I can't wait until we add the dip! But for now I'll:
Guide her gently, lead her firmly
through every step and twirl;
Unto her goes all of the glory
Show her off to all the world.
We're dancing people. We-are-dancing!
A few weeks back I went shopping - on the 'net - for lingerie. There's no "girly shit" like lingerie is there? Not the risque stuff. But the modest, feminine, demure, "girly shit" stuff. I bought four different outfits - two white, two black. "Baby Dolls" they're called. The "baby doll" thing works for my SugarAnne. It's feminine. It's woman. It's "girly shit". Therefore, it works for me too. So I tuck one of those "babys" deep in the back of my SugarAnne's closet - waiting for the weekend.
om dance class was a load of fun. We were encouraged and excited about how quickly we picked up the steps we'd learned last year. After a short drive in search of a restaurant and a long walk through a street fair (and some silent - and excitement inducing - "girly shit" window shopping by the BabyMan), we settled for lunch at a fine Mexican establishment in the high-rent district of town.Maybe I think my SugarAnne is a babydoll, I don't know. But I was mentally dressing and undressing and dressing her again in some of those outfits and ensembles, and dresses and skirts I had "shopped" for. And by the time we sat down for lunch I was "mad" excited about all the "girly shit" stuff I wanted to add to the other "girly shit" stuff she already had in her closetory inventory. Well, the subject came up over lunch (that's where I officially coined and defined the up till then only in my mind phrase "girly shit"). My SugarAnne could see and hear - probably for the first time - how excited I am about her - especially when she wears "girly shit". My mind kept slipping back to the stash in my SugarAnne's closet. Get this. So she says (and quite sincerely), "I'll wear anything you want". I'm thinking: "Gadzooks! I've hit the mother lode!" My mind flashes to the little "babydoll" surprise I had planted in my SugarAnne's closet a few days before.
So, I ever so coooooool-y take a sip of margarita. And with a recipe comprised of a cup of Denzel smooth, a ladle of McConnaghay tenderness and a tablespoon of Terrence Howard seriousness, I lean over. On the way to their destination my eyes sweep the table: past my own enchiladas, beyond the pre-lunch chips and salsa and up the effervescence of Corona in her glass. Beyond the lip of the glass instinct demanded my eyes take an imperceptible rest to momentarily immerse themselves in the fullness of my SugarAnne's most feminine feature. Maybe there was a slight chill in the air (if you know what I mean).
The BabyMan looked straight into her eyes - right through to her heart - and this is what cooked up:
"I bought you something."
"You did?!"
"Yep. Four things really."
"When?!"
"Last week. I ordered it online. Lingerie. Baby doll. "Girly shit".
"I can't wait to see!".
"Ohhhh! Me either!"
You could see the steam rising. I mean, the moment was Providential poetry. Here: a not so quick "flashback" to explain what I mean by steam. Then I'll close out the story.
In a lot of respects I am a traditionalist. And so is my SugarAnne. We have both had our internal struggles regarding the roles of men and women in society and marriage. And our struggles – due to societal pressures – have caused us quite a bit of trouble.
That part of the BabyMan which desires to be distinctly male, manly and masculine has always been met with society’s pressure to be soft and gentle and tender. I can be all of those things – and have been – and even enjoy being them. The problem is that the assertive, aggressive problem-solving part of me, that is, the real and true me – has no place to express itself when problems arise in our marriage. It seems that I couldn’t get my SugarAnne to comply with my requests – no matter how many times, or how gently, or how sweetly, or how lovingly I made a particular request - until I raised my voice!
My SugarAnne would then feel bad for forgetting and the BabyMan would then feel bad for yelling. We would both hibernate until we could effectively and emotionally sweep the unsolved issue under the rug. Sometimes we would be "gone" for a day or more. This facilitated low-level and growing resentment. She was an expert at walking over the lumps in the rug – seemingly without feeling a thing. And my emotional feet were sensitive. I couldn’t take a single step without feeling the slightest discomfort from unsolved pebbles.
The part of my SugarAnne which desires to be distinctly female, womanly and feminine has been met with the same kind of pressure for independence and aggressiveness (as opposed to assertiveness: which I consider an excellent trait). The societal imposition can cause confusion and loss of self-esteem. And too many a time my SugarAnne wondered out loud quite seriously, “Why do you love me?” And the BabyMan wondered equally (though silently), "How do I love you?"
Well, just as I was about to become resigned to the fact that this was the way it was going to be for the rest of my life (I convinced myself that most if not all marriages are probably this way), when the BabyMan remembered something. My SugarAnne had asked me to slap her bottom about a year ago (y'know during one of them there private marital moments y'see). It excited her. But when I did it, it ran hard against the grain of everything that I had been taught at home and in society. I was pretty uncomfortable with it. I love my SugarAnne and I didn’t want her to lose herself under some heavy handed stuff like spanking - cuz that's what it wuz: spanking.
Result: the spanking thing was more nerve wracking than exciting for me. It seemed to me that it would be emotionally injurious to her. Yet...it was quite intriguing. Particularly the masculine/feminine dynamic of it.
Fast forward a few months.
So one day, as it were, out of the clear blue sky, we're sitting in the den.
"Stand right here" (the BabyMan's command voice). Shocked at the tone she stood next to me as I sat on the sofa.
"Take you pants down to here" (point above the knee, the purpose almost clear).
Firmly: "Take them panties down too" (pointing to her thighs).
Gently: "Come here. Lay across my lap" (a gentle two hand pat on my thighs to show her where). There was compliance through excitement.
Could the BabyMan love, cherish, respect and lead my SugarAnne (the male, manly, masculine charge I needed) and yet still give her the female, womanly, feminine charge she needed through a barehand over the knee spanking? We found the answer to be YES!; the paradox to be amazing; the result abounding in relational resolution and marital fire (uh...I mean...it was HOT!)
But it wasn’t just her behind that was exposed. It was also her heart wasn't it? I mean, there is an incredible amount of trust flowing in this situation isn't there? The BabyMan is honored with the degree of trust my SugarAnne has in me. And I consider it the greatest gift that a woman could give to her man and a worthy endeavor for a man to earn of a woman. And that’s exactly what I told my SugarAnne.
And as I gently caressed her exposed ‘heart’ I let her know how much I love her. I let her know how much I cherish her. I let her know how much having her heart in this way was a privilege. I let her know that I would protect this deep exposure of her inner being with my life, for my life. I told my SugarAnne that it has brought out the man in the BabyMan. And that my desire is to protect the woman in her. And I meant it. And I still mean it - every word of it.
After warming her up with a few soft taps, I proceeded to assert authority as leader and lover: head of our household. My SugarAnne was “under new management”. To my surprise she said, “'Under new management'? I like that!” When I was done she turned to face me and gave me the biggest, warmest, most connecting hug we had shared in a long, long time. And when we kissed? FIRE! The rest of that night is history a blind man can see!
That day I began to adore and cherish and respect my SugarAnne's femininity all the more. I fell in love with my SugarAnne in a new and different way. And she - as well as myself - began to appreciate the BabyMan's own masculinity. Prior to having this outlet for my natural masculine assertiveness, I would have been ticked off about every little thing. The pebbles that went under the rug prior to this aren’t really pebbles anymore! They just don’t seem as big as they used to. They are not even spank-worthy! The BabyMan cherishes and values my SugarAnne's freedom. And my SugarAnne respects and submits to the BabyMan's authority.
End of aside.
So as I was saying:
That's the kind of steam that was rising in me in this moment of Providential poetry.
After lunch we sauntered back to the car window shopping along the way. We stopped at a store or two to look at "girly shit". We confirmed "girly shit" of some of the girly-girls we passed along the way. For me every step was steaming with anticipation. The BabyMan had plans for my SugarAnne when we got home.
"Lock the door”, I said with a firm gentleness (my command voice). That done, my SugarAnne made a jet stream to the closet and put on the babydoll "girly shit". With equivalent speed the BabyMan hit the showers. We knew: today masculinity would firmly meet femininity. The Babyman was gonna apply his loving hand to my SugarAnne's exposed "heart".
We would enjoy a solid afternoon of dynamic masculine/feminine connection. An afternoon buzzing with steamy marital excitement. And we would tap into the deep well of love to which the Hand of Providence has guided us. Problems? What Problems? Cuz when we kissed...oooooooo-wooo...FIRE!
Signed: the BabyMan
I managed to find a dress for my SugarAnne (see picture). I ordered it last week. I can't wait til it gets here. I can't wait to see her in it! It celebrates womanhood; it bleeds femininity, it's modest. Yet, it shouts (and I say this with great affection): this is "girly shit"!
We took our vows, my Sugaranne and me, 7 years ago. It seems like yesterday – even though we tease each other that each year sometimes seems like ten. I didn’t give it a second thought when the pastor said to me right before the wedding ceremony, “You can leave now if you don’t wanna do this. Nobody’s gonna fault you if you do. I’ll walk right out of here with you if you want me to.” Huh?! I thought. I mean, what th-?! “Arent’ you supposed to be trying to get me to the altar – not away from the altar?”
