I like to show different sides of my personality when doing interviews

Interview on DTF Radio with The Browneyedqweens

Year End Book Signing/Reading November 20th The Hart Wine Bar!

CHECK OUT THIS PROMOTIONAL VIDEO!

I try to keep my new readers, friends, and fellow authors abreast of what I am working on via social media sites like Facebook, Twitter, Linkendin, Author Central at Amazon.com and of course here on Tumblr.

If for some reason you have not heard my story or taken a glimpse at my book Heads or Tails? Geminis Don’t Choose to date, and would like to learn more about the book and me, follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TishGemini. My website is packed with information about me from works in progress to photos and videos. Access it at www.therealtish.com.

If you are on Linkendin send me a request.       

  Brown Skin Brown skin, you know I love you brown skin, I can’t tell where yours begins I can’t tell where mine ends   Brown skin up against my brown shin, Need some every now and then  
    I listened attentively to India Arie’s serenade coming from my high priced surround sound system, as I traced the outline of the tricep on his left arm, straight across the back of his shoulder, before kissing the nape of his neck. I have a passion for music, always have, but I don’t know what made me put in this old CD. Whatever, the reason, it is truly a dedication to my love and passion for him.  
Every time I let you in, Abracadabra Magic happens as we swim  
The two of us just finished recreating magic, without the oohs and aahs of an audience. As we meshed together his brown skin the Indians blessed with a drop of red, mixed with my honey colored skin, creating alternating hues of gold and caramel. Reminiscing about it makes me want to go to war with his work pants that he slipped on hesitantly, and cut his shirt to shreds before he tries to get it on. But I’ll be patient, victory will be mine again; his garments will lose when he comes back.             “I love you,” he said, before giving me one last taste of his sweet lips. I say it back, yet I feel so much more. He feels what I’m trying to hide, so he embraces me, holding me near to his heart, waiting to hear more as the song plays on.  
Tell-me-what’s-that-thing-you- do That-makes-me-want-to-get-next -to-you
  First he opened me up with his sensitivity and his honesty, letting me see past his swag, and that mask he wears. I saw a man who needed my love and affection; more love and affection than I thought I was willing to give. Lord only knows I didn’t want any more love. There were barriers between us, circumstances beyond our control and high risk. There still are, but we’ll stop at nothing to enjoy our love, that managed to come all too. Due to the way we got together, and the circumstances at that particular time, all that comes with loving someone had to be put on hold. Our affection that was dying to be set free had to stay stifled and contained. That was then, all that I feel for him shows in everything I do now. Never again will I refrain from kissing his brown skin, admiring his glorious arms and chest, tasting his tongue, holding his face while gazing into his eyes. Yet I still can’t seem to tell him that I’m in love with him. I can say I love you all day, especially before he leaves out the door, over the phone, or out of the blue while we’re watching one of television. Only he would understand the power those words possess coming from me. He knows I’m not the type to use those words in vain, he knows I’ve only felt this way once before. It’s one of many things we’ve discussed a long time ago, when we had no choice but to connect mentally, because connecting physically wasn’t an option. Therefore, he would be able to appreciate my being in love, and never take those words for granted. So why not tell him? I ask myself over and over again. My past wounds have healed, but the only other person who’s had my heart for so long might get upset. I promised him that sunny, hot summer’s day as I kneeled down at his casket, that I’d never love anyone the way I love him. I’ve managed to make good on my promise until now. And he’s probably rolling over in his grave. Like the love I shared with the one I made the promise to, my new love wasn’t planned; it wasn’t forced, it’s a feeling that crept up on me and captured my soul. It came right on time too, because I was about to say I do to the nicest man in the world, whose kisses never made my heart flutter. Everyone else’s fascination with him is what almost forced me to the altar, therefore, I owe my brown skin a life time of appreciation for his timing. The first time my new love told me he loved me I didn’t want to hear it; more less, believe it. He was a little annoyed by the fact that I brushed his words off.  I hadn’t explained my life long battle with love before then. Then one day I reached forward to kiss him and his heart beat felt like he had ran a mile and back. Another time I kissed his cheek, then gave him a simple hug, and it evoked a nervous giggle from his core, where his inner child hides. That’s when I started believing him. He took a safer route when he revealed he had fallen in love with me, he wrote it. At the time I was trying to return to just being his friend. We were both with other people, so I attempted to do the right thing by someone other than myself. But he wasn’t having it. I fought loving my new love; even looked for excuses to end our relationship. He fought harder to keep me. I assume my already loving him made the transition to the next level smoother, I questioned myself to make sure , yet the answer remained the same. I was in love and it was real, and when I  looked at him I didn’t see any flaws. A simple tap kiss is all I longed for when he wasn’t around. His smile-well it possessed the power to change my mood from bad to good. I’m in love, and I owe it all to my first love, who taught me how to love. God rest his soul. I laid with that man, prayed with him, but I never made love with him. It wasn’t in God’s plan; I fell in love with the size of his insides, not the size of what he had to put inside me. What young, strong, black man would choose to beat his meat when temptation took over, instead of undressing, caressing then entering a beautiful young woman? My first love that’s who, all  because he wanted to wait until we were married.   There are too many similarities between my only two loves: the height, their smiles, their natures, their persistence,  and the fact I fell in love with both of them due to an intimacy greater than sex. The intimacy created from spending time alone, listening, sharing, laughing and learning one another. This may sound silly, but I think God sent me my new love to make up for taking my first one. For that I have given him many thanks. My love has hinted about knowing I’m in love with him. I still can’t say it. The times I’ve tired to the words became too heavy for my tongue to hold, so they got swallowed back inside me. He’s probably been waiting ever so patiently to hear those words reciprocated. His patience and understanding comes from his age and experience, he’s been on this Earth a few years longer. That’s why he just holds me and waits, hoping each day that we’re together will be the day I say it. Maybe I’m afraid he’ll vanish into thin air, or God will take him from me too, or he might wake up and decide he doesn’t want to be with me anymore. No, maybe I’m afraid he will take my love for granted. I said my past wounds have healed, but they’ve left scars and bad behaviors. Like sometimes I feel vulnerable showing him my soft side, and angry when I tell him I love him repeatedly throughout the day. I’m in love-yes, but it makes me feel too needy, when he thinks I’m so strong. I wouldn’t want him to love me any less if he finds out how truly weak I am for him. You think I’d be a little more together having a Psychology degree and all. Unfortunately, I’m just as screwed up as some case studies I had to research. Yet and still, all of my fears and insecurities can’t stop the twinkle in my eyes when I speak his name, can’t stop me from gazing at him adoringly, almost hungrily, and can’t stop my desire to make love to him. Notice I said make love, not fuck, not have sex with, make love, where my spirit connects with his, forcing me to concede to my emotions. I couldn’t give myself to him any other way if I tried, I’m not controlling this, rather we’re not controlling us, something greater than him and me is. In order for you to understand my ambivalence and how we really came to be, I’ll have to take you on a journey threaded by God, manifested through pain, hurt, despair and love: all the elements that would either make a person stronger, or drive them to drinking and drugging. That journey-my journey, began with love being my greatest nemesis, until I met my muscular brown skinned love.

                                                      Love

            “Listen; put that down…shit doesn’t have to be this way. I understand your feelings.”

POW!

The smell of gunpowder, invades my senses. It’s in my pajamas, on my hands, so is the blood. I roughly touch my face, then look down at my hands, No blood, there never is.

Damn, another restless night!

The shrink said I suffer from P.T.S.D, short for something called, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. With his diagnosis came a prescription, which I gladly told him he could wipe his ass with, I wasn’t about to walk around Riker’s Island jail like a zombie for the sake of sleep. You should see some of the women here, incoherent from all the milligrams of this pill or that liquid. I never knew they drugged people in jail, the way I imagined they would at Bellevue. According to some of the women, there are inmates willing to pay commissary for the stuff my shrink prescribed. I got to give it to drug addicts, they’re resourceful. Some lady just got busted for smoking crack out of a card board, tampon applicator. Don’t ask me how; it ain’t like I’m willing to try it so I don’t need to know the specifics.

“You like I; tell me you like it,” I’ve heard that same pathetic line for the entire six months I’ve been  here, coming from that insecure, old bastard. This is supposed to be someone providing care, custody and control. Well he’s care-fully controlling the mind and body of that young girl in his custody that’s for sure. The dumb chic in cell #44 thinks she’s been bit by the love bug. In all actuality the officer is taking advantage of her. She calls him daddy because she’s looking for one. And he can damn sure be her father. I know damn well she probably wouldn’t look at his balding ass if she wasn’t in here.

But she’s not the only one being used. There’s another girl who turns the broom closet area into a Holiday Inn on a regular basis. Can’t forget the one who cleans the officer’s station when a certain officer works and disappears into the bathroom with him. At least she tries to be discrete. The others are openly stupid, bragging about their gifts, or what I call their fruits of labor: A sandwich straight from the officer’s kitchen, known as the K.K; maybe McDonalds or some type of alcohol in a soda bottle. What would they call real gifts like trips, jewelry and clothes? That’s why I don’t talk a lot; I don’t have anything in common with many of the girls my age or the older woman for that matter. I don’t want to come across as a stuck up, light skin snob who thinks I’m better than them. I’ve had different experiences and opportunities.  Imagine me discussing the gifts I’ve received outside of this place: shopping sprees, trips, helicopter rides around the city, custom made jewelry and fur coats. When I hear some of them bragging about all the money they’ve seen and things they own, I just remain quiet. My lawyer’s retainers fee came from a shoe box out of my closet-need I say more? Between my parents, work, drug dealing boyfriends, drug dealing friends and my fiancé, money was never absent in my life. It wasn’t respected either, call me a batterer because I very much abused it. 

My boys taught me the rules of survival in here. They are hustlers, real hustlers, the majority of which never seen the inside of a jail cell. First rule was minding my business. Second, in order to make sure nobody messed with me, I was told to grab the biggest or the wildest chic and give her a violent beating to gain my respect. I earned my respect quickly, right on the day of my arraignment. I’m facing 25 years to life and this chic tried to phone check me like that old Ice Cube video. She literally told me I wasn’t going to make another phone call, because she needed to use the phone. There were two other phones, occupied by two other women who were monopolizing them the same way I was. She was trying to play me because I was the new girl at the time.

I kept talking, or so she thought. Little did the girl know I told my boyfriend Malcolm I’d call him back, waited for him to hang up then ripped the received off the phone and banged her out with it. Next thing I know, my new nickname was BabyFace Finsta, as in the small gangsta from the twenties.

This place is changing me. To think I’ve traded in my Gucci loafers and Chanel pumps for Jordan sneakers, and Timberland boots. A part of me is already gone so the name that replaced the one I’ve had since I was little suited me. Shy is what everyone who knew me before this place called me. These women don’t know me, they know what I tell them and they see what I want them to see, so now I prefer Finsta. I was bred by people from the streets, but I’m learning I’m not street. No pimps or tricks whipped my ass; I don’t have any addictions, I didn’t hustle to survive, nor, did I steal out of necessity. That’s another reason I’m a listener, because what would I say after the girls tell their war stories, Oh I can sing, dance, model and act. Who gives a shit in here? No one, that’s who. They’d be more interested in knowing I used to orchestrate car jacks, and set up drug spots; that’s how I got to know the guys they think are so handsome that visit and help support me while in here.

As I look around this box they call a room, with its hospital like door, I see pictures of Bart Simpson, Fred Flintstone and different Transformers, compliments of my little brother Anthony, and my fiancé Malcolm’s son M.J. I know my brother is confused about what’s going on; M.J. too. But Anthony’s the one I worry about; I’m his only sibling. Who’s going to be there for him growing up?

I try not to cry when my parents bring him up, I wait. Sometimes I only make it as far as the gate inmates have to go through when visits are over. Once my back is turned, there’s no looking back. Leaving the people I love the most with the illusion that I am strong, is the least I can do for them. I think I am actually stronger than I give myself credit for though. I’m not taking medication, I did contemplate suicide once, but I thought about my family and judgment day. I already got one strike with God, a big one at that. Add it to a couple of other sins and it makes quiet the case for damnation, and automatic entry into hell fire.

And to think this all happened over love. That word has been a porcupine prick in my ass since I was a kid. My grandparents loved me and both died and left me. My first male best friend back in junior high, he loved me and was murdered. My first true love Taylor loved me; he also warned me about the road I was traveling before he too was murdered. I didn’t heed his warning and here I sit. I keep his obituary paper on my wall too. It makes me feel safe; like he’s watching over me. It’s right next to all my pictures of Tupac. I left his tape playing when I headed out the house my last morning in the free world.

They’ll never take me alive…

I’m tired of the strain and the pain.

Unlike the lyrics to Tupacs’ song, So Much Pain, I was determined to live.

            Malcolm decided to stand by me even though the circumstances surrounding my incarceration have caused him so much pain and embarrassment. I asked him on our first visit months ago, why did he want to stay with me? He said, because he loves me. Laying here in my satin pajamas, my room as comfortable as the jail will allow, all thanks to him, my family and friends, I should feel thankful for his love. Yet I don’t; I still feel trapped by it. He is the final web connecting me to the liar I once was. I don’t love him the way he loves me; and probably never will. Yet I keep allowing him to hold on to hope. He pressures me to marry him so whenever I get sentenced we can get trailer visits, and ‘make babies.’ His words exactly, but imagine that. Before I got locked up he gave me a five- karat diamond and I wouldn’t say I do. The possibility of going to prison for 25 years won’t get me to makeshift prison alter any faster. The fact remains, I prefer to masturbate for two decades, than be married to someone I don’t love.

       I damn sure won’t bring a child into this world with someone I don’t love and that’s just the bottom line. At the same time, I don’t plan to be like cell #44, #15, 342 and 11. Even the old ass lady in cell #5 is getting it on with an officer. She’s down here from up north for court. She has a good chance at winning her appeal, after already serving ten years. I dread to the think that pretty soon I’ll grow as old as her in here, thanks to love.

        Many male officers, especially the young ones, sized me up when I first got here, and gave me both direct, and indirect compliments. The blatant, bold ones got checked. Dick is the last thing I’m thinking about right now, and I’ve never been a dumb, cheap chic. They may have mind fucked some of these women into believing they should be flattered by their attention. That would never work on me. I’ve had handsome dudes that make what these cops make bi-weekly, in a day, like Kane and Malcolm. I told one cop he needs to work in the visiting room so he can see the attention I get from real playas.

Most importantly, I let it be known if any male officer stepped beyond my threshold, it better be for a routine search or I’d show his ass a trick I learned with a bobby pin. It’s been smooth sailing ever since. These dudes know I’m not cut out for broom closets or stairways. If anything, all these cops say I don’t belong here once they get familiar with me. A lot of the women say the same, I don’t think so either, Well, I do deserve to do some time, just not the amount the D.A. is suggesting.

            Tap, Tap, Tap

                        “Finsta come to your door.”

                        “Whose that?”

                        “It’s me, Come here.”

       Number 44 holding a Ben Franklin to my glass window. Not severa,l just one. I know people who used to write their phone numbers on the bill like it was a piece of loose leaf paper. I was one of them.

            “I know that’s right girl,” I said, masking my real thoughts.

            “You can’t sleep huh? That means you heard me and my daddy again?”

            “Of course I did Now Ima listen to some music, see what new shit Funk Master Flex is pumping; maybe answer my mail to get my mind off of you and that dirty dick bastard.”

            “Don’t talk about my man like that. You need to get you some, so you can stop looking so mean all the time.”

            “Yeah, that’s what I need, a man with worms running in me.”

            “You crazy Finsta, he ain’t dat ole girl. Anyway, I’ll let you go. I know you sure do get a lot of mail. You got another visit tomorrow? Silly question, of course you do. Love you try to get some rest.”

            “See when the doors pop,” I responded.

            “I’ll make us some coffee.”

            “Bet.”

 Love you, these chics throw those words around effortlessly around here. You don’t just walk around saying that shit. First of all love is an action, and I don’t feel loved by anyone in here. It gets lonely. Sometimes I need to laugh to make it through the day, so I’ve become somewhat sociable. I sat back and watched before I choose who to chill with, and I’ve developed a surrogate family. Like the girl that was just at my door, she’s my jail cousin and our jail mom lives down the hall. She got that title because she fuses over us like one. Always making sure our rooms are clean, or I’m up in time to get ready for my visits. When us young girls act out, she gets in our behinds like a mother. I really like her, but we have an understanding, I have one mother. She can go over board with that mom shit, yelling, screaming and being demanding like I really came out of her womb.

I like my jail family; I laugh with them, fight with them, people know you mess with one of us there will be a hell of a price to pay.  But I don’t know them, only what they tell me, and only what they show me. We’re just passing time together and love has nothing to do with it. Only a certain amount of loyalty can exist without love and I keep that at the forefront.

Loyalty-unwavering in alliance, the meaning according to Merriam Webster’s Dictionary. A double sided work that experience has taught me girls use loosely. There’s my loyalty equivalent to that of a man’s, and other girls lack of it. Take my two female friends out in the free world, Twin and Nikita for instance. I speak to Twin, almost every day on the phone, but she doesn’t visit, and keeps forgetting to mention trying to come on to Kane, my ex-boyfriend, turned  best friend. And Nikita will be testifying for the prosecution against me whenever I go to trial. The statement she made to the cops is something else hanging on my wall. It’s a reminder that girls aren’t shit. They obviously wear smiles as masks to hide their perfidious nature. Since I’ve never thought like one, I couldn’t identify Nikita or Twins true faces. Shit was all good when I had bank rolls of money and they went shopping and clubbing with me. It doesn’t matter though, God blessed me with the opportunity to live and learn. And to think the two of them were supposed to love me also.

I really need to try to go back to sleep, Kane and my mom will be here tomorrow. Now he’s one man I know loves me. Kane never visited anyone in jail before; he used to say it was an omen. Well he’s up here regularly still scolding me, still with the should’ve, would’ve, could’ves but I’m grateful because I need his friendship. He even makes jokes about us getting married. Knowing him and my other friends are watching over my mom ease my mind somewhat. I hope I don’t die after 25 years in here, because I want the chance to repay him somehow.

Let me take a swig of this Smirnoff. You see I get the same things these lost souls around me fuck for.  My love from people on the outside helps me on the inside. A few of my friends have friends that work here. I would’ve never thought my homeboy Tone had turned a female correction officer into a pussy eater. My other friend Mike knows a Captain, a big black guy with a crescent like scar across his face, compliments of a lifer in Sing Sing. The Benz the Captain drives is a remake, that’s a term used when I used to set up carjacks for a car that’s been jacked from someone else, remodeled with new paperwork, stickers and license plates.

My other connections, like the officer who brings in my hair relaxer, I made in my own. Jail is like the streets, you play it straight with people and they play it straight with you. Give respect and you’ll get it. Just because I’m cool with some of the officers I don’t take advantage of our rapports. In the presence of their peers and other inmates, I make sure to do stuff like address them by their last name as opposed to their first the way I would if no one was around.

 In some ways jail is also like high school. You have the popular girls, the ones that get respect from the inmates and the officers. The troublemakers, who go in and out of 23 hour lock up called the Bing. And of course the unpopular girls, who are basically the ones with child, related crimes that get fucked up, robbed or tortured on a regular. Can’t forget the sluts that throw their behinds at all the male C.O’s, and the butches a.k.a the dikes, that look like men, they can be considered the jocks. I fall into a dual category, popular troublemaker. I become the latter only when provoked.

  Oooh, shit, the burn! How can liquor be contraband in jail, when it’s medicinal to me.  It’s sure to quiet my thoughts long enough for me to get another nap in; I wonder if I’ll ever be able to actually sleep again.  

“Anexus I wish you could’ve seen the pair of feet i saw at the gym today. This chic might as well had been from Bedrock, moving her car by foot power, her callouses were so thick. Oh hell no; hold up , did I just call you Anexus? You know this weed is good. I never call you that shit! Fuckin name sounds like you’re one of those rich, bulimic bitches who hangs with Paris Hilton, or that twisted Nicole Richie chic. Did Lionel have her with a white woman? No, she was adopted, that’s right. Anyway, love you Jade. Let me get some work done. By the way i need some foot scrub.”

     “That’s my word I’m going to start charging your ass. And Ash, I thought you gave up smoking weed when Smiley quit?”

     “I did, I just relapsed last week. I  take a few pulls when the boys aren’t home, from time to time.”

      “Bye Ash; kiss my nephews when they get in you drug addict.”