Read Smoke!

Read Smoke!
My latest book, "Smoke: poems of love, longing and ecstasy" is available for purchase on Amazon in e-book and paperback. Click book for link.

Monday, July 13, 2009

My New Blog: "Noni Jones in Harlem"

Hey divas-

It has been awesome serving you style and culture here at Fly Funky Diva. This is not the end of FFD, but I will be updating it significantly less. I have a brand new literary endeavor in the blogosphere

Ladies and gentleman the Fly Funky Diva presents--

Noni Jones In Harlem!

This is a fictional blog, an on-going saga, that takes place amongst 3 funky divas living in Harlem; Noni, Caroline and Geneva.

Take a look at excerpts. Visit the site and if you love it, pass the good word onto a friend.:


Fast forward to the good part. Carter comes home Wednesday night. We haven’t had sex in a good week and I’m feeling horny as hell. I welcome Carter to Merlot and Sushi (take out) and then we have one of our royal sexcapades…. A twelve pack of condoms on the night stand, right next to the KY and massage oil. Incense burning, candles and his locks in my face… all night… all morning… all afternoon, into the next night. Close to 24 hours we stayed cocooned in the bedroom, only breaking to eat, get water and use the bathroom. It was the perfect way to reconnect.

The next day, I contract a UTI. I tell Carter about it and we both assume that we just went way too hard. The following evening while Carter is playing with a new composition, I took a hot bath before retiring to bed. I soaked for a good twenty minutes, dried off. Then I pulled back the comforter and sat on the bed applying lotion. As I carry the lotion back to the bathroom, I get this weird sensation between my legs. I stop walking and look down at something hanging out. Lord have mercy…. I pull. IT IS A SOGGY CONDOM THAT HAS BEEN LODGED IN MY DAMN CERVIX SINCE I DON’T KNOW WHEN.

I call Carter into the bathroom demanding an explanation. “Baby, I have no idea….” He’s smiling at the sight of the stretched out condom but ain’t shit funny. I could be pregnant. I mean, I’m not on any form of birth control except…. latex-latex-latex!!! Clearly he and I were so doped up on love and alcohol that we could have overlooked an umm… missing condom. (???) I send him to CVS for Plan B. I’ve never taken it before and it gave me a killer headache, but I realized as panic overtook my entire body… I am not ready to be anybody’s mother right now. Not even if my sable Clarke Kent is my baby’s daddy. Clearly, I have some growing up to do.


11:13. I’m now watching a Sex and the City rerun. It’s the episode where Carrie loses her Manolo Blahnik at a get together and her friend decides to be trife. I mean, I feel her pain but really… at 11:13 I’m feeling the throbbing between my legs. I’m sitting on my couch in a burgundy negligee, no panties. Flexing my toes, realizing I need to stop in for a pedicure tomorrow after work. Still no call.

What the fuck?

So I text him. “Hey. Are you on your way?”

I lean back in my couch, stomach churning with butterflies. I’m staring at my phone, waiting for the buzz from his return text. Ten minutes later, the phone vibrates against the glass coffee table.

“Hey. Something came up.”

Oh hell no. No this clown didn’t. My mouth is agape, literally for like two minutes. I’m staring at the text with my mouth wide open. I get desperate. In a move, I’d never pull with a man for whom my feelings surpassed my vagina, I call him. Not once. But twice. I realize as I listen to his voicemail that it wasn’t something that came up, but probably someone….else.


It’s 4 AM. Do you know where your man is? In the damn bathroom. Wait, is he peeing. No, he’s talking. To himself…? No, not to himself.

I sat up in bed, afro all smashed out of shape. He was speaking so low with the damn door cracked I could barely make out what he was saying. It coulnd’t have been an emergency. WTF? I laid back down but I didn’t close my eyes. He knew I’d heard him. He walked back in, beautiful and butt naked, put the phone on the night stand, rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning he woke up and made us eggs and sausage. I threw on my robe, brushed my teeth, washed my face, sprayed on some scent. He acted like he was all into his food.

“What happened last night?”

“Whatchu mean” he said reverting to his Brooklyn Speak.

“You were in the bathroom on the phone?” NEGRO!!!

“Nah. I’mma need you to not be in my business like that right now.”

Say what. I preceded to tell his nappy headed ass that it is my business because it’s my bathroom and that if he wanted to have private conversations at the crack of dawn then he could go outside on the sidewalk with the damn crazies and do so.

We got in an argument that consisted of me saying twice as much as he did. Arguing with Paul is like having it out with a wall. He left. Haven’t heard from him.

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