Every Time I Think About Sex I Get Vexed

By Michael L. Morgan

Hold on. This wasn't how I envisioned this would be. I mean, in the movies the music is right, the girl is patiently anticipating the love, and the guy is mentally psyching himself up for what is supposed to be the most life-altering, man-producing moment of his life. But that did not happen. Not even close.

The stupid cassette tape was skipping, so Baby Face's "I only think of you" came out as "I only tink on you." Really romantic song, eh? I only fart on you on two occasions... just great.

This magic moment wasn't magical at all. Fine, she was in her element as an older seasoned woman who was body-aware and confident and in control. Me, not so much. I had laboured breathing, sweaty palms, and a severe case of hebetude thwarted my cool "mojo," as it were. My first time was a flop of epic proportions.

Oh well, there's a reason it's called the first, not that I was already looking forward to my second, but I knew there was at least a mulligan to come, and it could only get better from here, right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jul 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228828730

Michael L. Morgan

MICHAEL MORGAN works an office job downtown, is a member of a social committee, and loves to cook. An ordinary man trying to live an extraordinary life, this is his first book.

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Every Time I Think About Sex I Get Vexed

Copyright © 2020 by Michael L Morgan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-2872-3 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-2871-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-2873-0 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Green Juice

This is the Problem with our Relationship

Whatever

Are You Serious?

I’m Thinking About It

On and Off Again

The First Time

God, When?

Take it in: The Music

Road Trips

Acknowledgements

I want to extend thanks and gratitude to everyone who spoke words of encouragement to me during this process.

Your words were like a cool breeze on a sunny day.

It was, however, my brother, Dr. V. Regisford, who lit a fire under me and kept me going. Thank you, brother, for illuminating the fact that there is another level to living. The embers of your words have helped inch me further forward with purpose and a newly found happiness. Thank you, brother. Love and appreciation always, with enduring respect.

To the Reader

This book begins the questioning and continues the wonderment into our most sacred possession—our relationships—and how they flourish, flounder, and flop.

Thanks, Peanut signed Bestie. What does bestie mean, anyway?

Green Juice

Praise Him, Praise Him,

Praise Him in the morning, praise Him in the noonday…

Church is so good this morning.

Ha-ha-ha, there goes Sister Enid; she must be doing at least twenty-five kilometres per hour down the church aisle, wow! I’m not sure if the Spirit is moving, but she sure is.

This is one of the many fond memories I have of church from my early teenage years—learning biblical principles, strengthening my moral standards, and pleasing the Lord. Hallelujah! Man, it feels good to praise the Lord.

I didn’t have many friends in church at the time, but I had my sister, my brother, and my two good buddies, Junior and Junior. It’s weird how the same name can represent two different beings. Anyway, this circle was my circle, and it was good enough for me.

We were always in church, sometimes as many as four times a week—twice on Sunday, Bible study on Wednesday, youth service on Friday, and the occasional outreach on Saturday. Church was where it was at. Apart from securing your ticket to heaven and becoming, hopefully, a better person in the grand scheme of things, being a part of the choir ministry was the bomb. Hands down, if you were not in a choir back in the day you weren’t saying anything. Everyone sang, or it seemed that way.

Young people, old people, all over the city, packed churches and convention halls, two Saturdays a month, to sing high praises. Half of the participants didn’t even subscribe to the principles of Christianity and, at that time, it didn’t matter. You just had to be a part of a choir. It seemed as if every church in the city had a choir, and then there were the special choir groups. One of the coolest at the time was YOMC. Like, YO! MC. Get it? Hands crossed across chest. The acronym meant Youth Outreach Mass Choir. Lord have mercy, they could sing. Their organization started a yearly event called Teen Jam. The best choirs would compete and produce an evening of melodious vibrations that communities could feel a mile away. Did I mention the number of girls that attended Teen Jam? If you had game of any sort, be it a Hey, sup? Nice long frock you’re wearing, or What will you be doing after this event is done, young lady? there was an opportunity for even the most sheepish guy to meet a Philly. This was social interaction at its best. No apps required. The event also helped to keep young people off the street. It helped communities throughout the city become cohesive. It taught tolerance and instilled what I like to call stick-a-bility in the youth. As I mentioned, quite a few of the youth who participated in the event were not God-fearing. However, they learned the value of committing themselves to something and sticking to it. Lessons of what it meant to be a team player and the power of one were indirectly taught and imparted to the youth. The girls were definitely a bonus, but the values obtained were priceless. Ah…those were the good old days, but times change, communities change, and people have changed. Even church has changed since then.

Junior, who is still my good friend today, the first one, right over there just in front of the balcony, sitting on the north end of the church, made Sister Enid look like she was sitting still. And though he’s not credited for it, I’m sure he’s responsible for half the dances you see on TV today. Amen.

I grew up fast in church. Its culture was different from the secular world; it was harder. Not only did I have the norm of sin to deal with, but I also had disappointments that I never dreamed would find refuge in the sacred walls of God’s house. How on Earth did lying, cheating, backbiting, and gossip all slip in through the back door of the church? And all at the same time? Obviously, the gatekeepers were sleeping or too busy chasing their own demons.

Cliques formed quickly while attending Friday night youth services. Not that cliques are good, but they helped us figure out where we wanted or didn’t want to belong. It was still a refreshing reprieve from the five-day party called high school. My clique kept me grounded and in the company of good people, at least people with better intentions—godly intentions.

At church I met community kids of all types; the church being located in the west end of the city ensured that. Kids of every colour under the rainbow. Every kid had a story of their own, which they inexplicably carried on their sleeves and sometimes, unfortunately, on their faces. With so many youth, it was hard to tell this one from that one; however, one did stand out, actually it was a small tribe of them, and the leader’s name was Lisa. Lisa Sahara.

She was small in stature—a small frame carrying her small head, and small hands providing a small handshake at greeting time. The only things big about her were her eyes and her lips, which I would grow to appreciate later. Such big, beautiful eyes.

Lisa’s three siblings completed the tribe—two lasses and a lad—each unique and dedicated to the tribe, but none like Lisa. She was the glue that kept them together, the honey that made them sweet, and, at times, the lemon that soured them. Being of African descent, these were mentally strong and sound individuals. They were opinionated, inquisitive, and very calculated. I was sure they had high IQs, like a seven out of ten. Lisa and her older sister were the brains and talent. They knew how to sew, cook, and clean, like a woman should, right? A dated description of a woman, for sure. All that’s left to be said is the quip about being barefoot and pregnant—a saying that became popular in the early twentieth century that has since faded. These siblings were very resourceful. That drive would later lead them to own their own businesses and gain numerous achievements. The two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, were the most fun, entertaining, and streetwise of the siblings. They could make light of any situation with an ease that would make a trained comedian jealous. Being younger, they were often not invited to events that included the older kids, but when they were around, they made sure to make their mark. They were always fun, with a sprinkle of rebellion and mischief.

The cliques became youth-produced weekend buddies, Canada’s Wonderland troopers, and, more importantly, basketball teammates. We played ball all summer long. We all swore we were NBA material. And we honed our skills on the basketball courts at our sacred place on Jane Street, just up the road from the convenience store, under the street lamps, just beyond the parking lot. Dreams were formed, friendships were solidified, and destinies were birthed there, at The Hut—Lisa’s house.

It was a six-storey apartment building on the west side of Jane Street, with loft-like features and