Funk-The-Janitor, Part 2
Sometime during the 500-mile trip back to Nashville from our wedding that took place in West Virginia, I turned in my seat and asked my husband-of-two-days, “Does this mean I can’t have fun anymore?”
Funk, nine years my senior, had been with dozens of women before he met me, and while I’d been no nun, he was the only person I’d ever been with in that most intimate way. At the time, I thought myself incredibly virtuous for keeping myself pure, but I panicked the instant I said “I Do.”
My husband is the only person I know who has an unshakeable self-worth.
Not wanting me to feel regretful down the road, six months after we married, he encouraged me to live out my youth in a dorm room at San Francisco State University.
I was barely 21, so of course I wanted to go, still, I felt immensely guilty to be leaving him.
He had to push me onto the Greyhound bus. Before he did, he volunteered that I could have an affair. And then, without me asking, he promised to remain true to me. I got as far as Memphis before calling to say I wanted to come home, but he urged me on. I arrived California two days later.
The experiment was a complete failure.
Funk and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. At the end of our first date, we argued about how we would raise our children. Both of us came from violent homes, and where Funk saw nothing wrong in disciplining with a mild slap to the hand, I told him no one would ever hit my kids.
Fast forward to San Francisco. We were already poor from paying his massive student loans, and now that I was living in the Golden State, we were racking up expensive long-distance phone bills—our daily knock-down drag-outs having followed us across the wires.
Back to the juicy part. The prospective affair. It didn’t take long to find a man of interest. But as it turned out, I couldn’t go through with doing the nasty with him.
Not even close.
One afternoon, after coming in the door from a long day of classes, I found my roommates tee-heeing above a Playgirl Magazine. They waved me over, and there I saw the object of their mirth was a well-endowed man of color. This guy had an immensely long, exceedingly narrow and very shiny you-know-what. It looked like a weapon. Since my potential date was also black, I immediately pictured that centerfold’s THING coming at me. The image was so scary that I cancelled my plans and remained faithful to my one and only.
Here’s to you if you’ve also married a strong mate to share your life with. I’ve been with Funk since I was 19, and to this day, I still wish the goddess would’ve given me a few more years to sow my wild oats. Instead, she gave me a man who “allows” me to do whatever I want. However, I’ve yet to meet anyone who was worth taking a detour for.
Like, Funk is the high bar? Whatever.
The Photo: Me, near my beloved spot on the Big Island of Hawaii. Something extreme always happens to me whenever I’m there—both good and bad. And soon, this 65-year-old gal will be going back to begin the planning phase for my artist retreat. I can’t wait! Someday, I hope you’ll get to experience it too.
The first two eBooks in the C’mon Funk Trilogy is $3.98 for both: C’mon Funk Series