The Christmas Wish of a Middle-Aged Black Woman

Dear Santa,

This Christmas, I want a man.  I don’t need a man.  I want a man.  Santa, I don’t want any kinda man.  I want the kinda man who knows it is far greater to be wanted than to be needed. I want a man who is gentle enough to run his fingers over the soft curves of my body, yet strong enough to not flinch when he reaches the jagged edges—'cause there are jagged edges, and they cut. They cut deep. Those edges have a history; I have a history. I ain’t no blank slate.

I want a man whose interest is peaked by my history, my story, my losses, my gains.  I want a man who knows that my history and my hard edges make my soft curves all the more sweet. I want a man who understands that you cannot have one without the other. I want a man who can see me beyond my brown eyes and full breasts and deep into my soul. Santa, I want a man who will allow me to cry and completely fall apart in his arms and lay close beside him just underneath his armpit to inhale the faint musk that only a man can emit. I want to be intoxicated by his essence. But, I want this man to reciprocate.  I want him to gift me with his tears, his pain, and his deepest pleasures. I want a man who loves my vulnerability and my strength. I want a man who leaves his ego at the door and embraces his full humanity and mine.  I want a man who is not afraid to fail, a man who is contemplative, a man who lives life in shades of gray. 

I want a man who sees sex not as an end, but as the beginning of a deeper connection that merges the body with the spirit in a way that he feels my pleasure as intensely as he feels his own. A man who sees my body equally as a place of pleasure and a place of refuge but never a place that he owns. I want a man seasoned enough to appreciate the life lived on the surface of my body. Every scar, dimple, crease and gray hair deserves his respect, reverence even. I want a man who understands when he enters into my sacred space, he owes me nothing, yet everything.  Everything is wrapped up in respect. I want a man who knows when I shed the artifice and allow him to see my bare body, my nakedness, I have granted him access to a part of me that is inextricably connected to my spirit, and that spirit reaches the depth of my soul—the part of me that yearns for a deep connection beyond the body…I want a man who understands this does not mean I seek marriage.  Marriage is a social construct.  What I seek is love.  Marriage is a contract made by man that can be dissolved at any time. Love is an agreement between souls. Love is a deep respect for another—another’s strengths, weaknesses, desires, freedom, growth and purpose.

I want a man who truly loves women. Not just women’s bodies, but their soul, their spirit—the essence of a woman.

The serious look on my face--some call angry--is not because I haven’t loved; quite the contrary.  I know love very well. I have loved deeply. My love runs as deep as the Atlantic where my ancestors are buried. But in that love, I have met pain—love's first cousin. And that pain has left me weary.  Weary of giving my heart and soul to another.  Because that is how I love, this middle-aged Black woman. I love with my soul.  I give all of me—the body and the spirit.  I don’t know no middle ground.  After many years, Santa, I am ready to love again.  I have filled up many cups.  Now, I want my cup filled. I want the love to runneth over. I want to receive in every way all this man has to offer.  But, if you can’t find this man, Santa,  I don’t want a man at all.  I’ll take the rocking horse.