His Hands

@shantellewrites started May 22, finished November 9th, 2022, My experience becoming trauma-bonded to a narcissist.

“THE MOMENT YOU’VE CONVINCED SOMEONE THAT YOU TRULY UNDERSTAND HER DREAMS AND FEELINGS (THE WHOLE WORLD THAT SHE INHABITS), MENTAL AND BEHAVIORAL CHANGE BECOMES POSSIBLE, AND THE FOUNDATION FOR A BREAKTHROUGH HAS BEEN LAID.” - Chris Voss, Never Split The Difference: Negotiating as if Your Life Depended on it.

His hands are what I love most about him. I’ve sat at the foot of his bed to massage his hands and his forearms from a work injury I can’t even remember right now. I doubt he remembers injury because he fearlessly approaches each day. I doubt he remembers I cared for him. I watch him wake without the anxiety, that keeps me from slumber. I don’t really sleep because I panic about waking up.

He’ll quietly meditate and smoke his black before slipping into his work clothes. Well he doesn’t really slip into them, but he puts them on fast. When he gets up, his side of the bed is instantly lighter. I yearn for him to lay back down, but instead I pretend I’m also a productive person waking up. I adjust the eyelashes I slept in the night before, try my best to roll into a sexy position, and expose my naked hip through the sheets. I’m always surprised to see he’s fully dressed.

He checks his phone first, and when we get up at 8 or 9am, I note that this is when my read receipts come from him. When he’s not with me, does he read my pitiful texts from the night before, begging him to come over? I wonder if he reads them from another woman’s bed.

He may call his workers and give them orders to get started without him, and it’s those mornings—when the boss decides to go in late, that I love. On those late-start mornings, I laugh from my gut and admire his every movement. He jokes and inspires life,  and our legacies, with his storytelling. These morning conversations are my favorite time with him (even better than when he leaves me a wad of cash).

I wish he wouldn’t smoke blacks because I want him to live forever, but I wouldn’t dare tell him what to do. He loves to work as much as he loves to be the boss. I love that He’s the boss.  

I awake to the loud buzz of the lawnmower vibrating through my body. It reminds me of the calm I felt as a kid listening to my mom vacuum on Saturday mornings. Still squinting from sleep, I hobble to my bathroom window to peer through the blinds. I’m surprised to see him out there, with his tool out; cutting my grass. I don’t take my eyes off of him. My lust for him never fades. He is tall and muscular, and most important to me, focused—laying precise lines. He always lays the lines and the pipe too!

Our first life story conversation happened at night in one of his cars. We told each other our deepest desires for intimacy. He wanted a woman, who was strong enough to hold her own, but soft enough to let him lead. I’m a woman who’s tired of leading; looking for a man who finally has some new ideas and business savvy that I can trust to lead. He promised me I wouldn’t have to be so masculine anymore.

We parked in his backyard that night; not the driveway this time, because we had no intention of leaving. We both love home. More than me, as a Pisces, he creates a comfortable home to thrive in. I’m an Aquarius, so I suspect he just needs to live in water—in ME. I can give him the true comfort he seeks. With me, he can live anywhere he wants. Yet still, I strive to stroke my feminine focus on detailed beauty and smell. I want to buy perfumes and light candles like my Scorpio daughter, but living out of my suitcase in a dorm-room like bareness is simpler to me.

The morning after we broke night talking in the car, he called me to let me know his workers would be coming with a truck of furniture. They brought what I mentioned I was missing. 2 young boys in their 20s carried big comfy suede couches and a dining room set, with a fancy high table and bar stools, through my front door. They did not talk to me, disciplined not to talk to the boss’s lady. Before then, I never met a black man who’s respect commanded men  from a distance. Every man’s friend will be slick with the tongue if he has the underhanded opportunity.

Only the young one would ask me, in a low humble-mumble, where I wanted to put things. He was the designated speaker because later he’d be entrusted to bring me gifts or knock on my door to pick up a dinner packed with love. He asked me where I wanted to put up a bed and so I walked them to the guest bedroom. He put up a guest bed before I put up my own bed. This man I met had the power to make moves quickly.

“When you love someone, you’ve gotta trust them. There’s no other way. You’ve got to give them the key to everything that’s yours. Otherwise, what’s the point? And, for a while, I believed, that’s the kinda love I had.” -Casino, 1995 Film, (Robert DeNiro) Ace’s opening line before his car blows up with him in it…

Because I was concerned with the optics, I never again told him I was in need so he could help me. I couldn’t get closer to him. He finally told me that he could not let me in because I had too many secrets. So I stopped lying. I love him. I pray to God and apologize that I want to be in His hands just as much.

I didn’t let him move so quickly as he wanted to on our first date. He finally showed up to celebrate his birthday, and I chastised him for triggering the old emotional wounds of waiting for my dad. He loves  nice things and I’m a sucker for nice cars, so I forgive his lack of attention just like I justify my dad’s neglect as: strong work ethic. Later, he’ll pull up my driveway on one of his custom Harleys and I’ll get weak in the knees.

I slid my leopard-print spandex ass into his leather front seat, built to cradle the ass of a NASCAR driver. I haven’t been to the racetrack yet, but that’s one of the reasons I moved to Charlotte. He can change the interior lighting to different colors, and I make a mental note that his favorite color is red. We pull off and he pushes the car to the dangerous speed only a bad boy can handle, but not past it like an insecure show-off. I’m not scared; I trust his control.

He handled that steering wheel and we did donuts. It was my first time so I kept my cool, imagining myself a sexy vixen passenger in a rap video. He pulled over and we stepped out on the pier by the water view. The rush was exciting and romantic and he kissed me. He turned me around and kissed the back of my neck. He slid his hands smoothly down my silhouette and bent me over the hot hood with perfect force. But as his hands traveled the silhouette of my Fashionova dress, I pushed them away. I told him, “Not too fast: I’m really attracted to you, but I’m a respectable girl that doesn’t move too fast.” That’s an awesome line I got from a YouTube with actual phrases a girl can use in the heat of the moment—even when she feels pressured to please.

I paid for the second round of drinks before we left the bar; to show him I was self-sufficient. He didn’t seem to notice that but he did notice me checking out other women. I knew it turned him on. To be honest, in this situation, it was definitely my insecurity response. I also was listening to the drama about their cards being charged multiple times and was worried I’d have to pay a bigger price for these drinks later. I dread refunds, returns, and customer service in general.

It was his handshake, not what was in his hand, that locked my heart. His hand was so big it swallowed mine, and his strength dominated me without him trying. My mom taught me etiquette as a kid like I was in one of her favorite movies, My Fair Lady. To be taken seriously and professionally, I should interlock the web of my fingers between the thumb and pointer finger with the other person for a strong embrace and give one firm shake to leave an impression. I’ve met people overdoing it, shaking my hand up and down like a malfunctioning seesaw or gripping too tight into my flesh with their bony fingers. The cringe lingers after a clammy release, just as the violence does after a big fella’s grip. Weak floppy-handed people can be dismissed with the germaphobes, unwilling to brave society.

His hands were rough because he did manly work, but not calloused like someone slaving at the bottom. I’m the type of girl who needs a man that can change a tire. My dislike of manual labor empowers my femininity. In our brief conversation, we learned that our birthdays were this month but we didn’t share the same sign. I’m a giver, water, for him, a fish, to swim in. He said we could celebrate his birthday when I got back from visiting my mom back home. I was excited.

His handshake had me so intrigued. I’d never felt something so powerful and protective. He was in no rush, and would later tell me how he watched how I moved first. I never noticed him watching because I’m never looking for a relationship. I don’t have men around because my daughter is my first priority and I’ll never put a man before her. I’ll be an empty-nester before 40, so I always figured, ”I got time!”.

Yesterday he asked me, as I braided one of his young worker’s unkempt hair, he asked me, “How long you been knowing me?” I said, “2 and a half, maybe 3 years.” He already knew, and corrected the stretch.

“Okay, yeah closer to 2 and a half years.”

 “And how has trying to outsmart me worked out for you?”

I snorted, chuckled at the lesson. “It hasn’t worked out well.”

When I placed myself in his hands, he threw me to the floor. I was watching Living Single and Regine asked Queen Latifah why men always fail her. The Queen responds, “You always looking for them to carry you, then they drop you.” I always said if he ever hit me I’d be done. His hands are so big. I learned that they also move really fast. I learned that when I reached up to him, in surrender, to help me up, that they don’t do that. I’ve watched his hands so much that I know an uninhibited hit will break my jaw. It’s what I have to remember to keep from going back. I just can’t take a real hit. He hardly used his strength. Two fingers on my chest had thrown me back into the chair. I imagine all five would have flipped it backwards.

I should’ve looked in his eyes. I can’t remember any light or corner wrinkles with his smile. I can’t conjure his happy face in my mind, though we’ve laughed on the phone.

I guess cause I always looked down.^[1]

I write to face myself. This piece started off as adoration that I even shared with him. Now it outlines gaslighting and coercive control in an intimate relationship. It ended in violence. I read women go back 6.3 to 7 times, and so as always, I’ve got to be smarter to beat the odds.

Update: I’m back for the 4th time. Comment if you want to know more about this story.

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[1] Grey rocking is a technique used to divert a toxic person's behavior by acting as unresponsive as possible when you're interacting with them. For example, using the grey rock method involves deliberate actions like avoiding eye contact or not showing emotions during a conversation.