Caribbean And The City – Real life interviews coming soon…

My tale with Mr.Caribbean may have come to an (arguably) untimely end but it seems I am not the only girl to have fallen head over heels with someone from the Islands.

Over the coming weeks, I will be publishing real life interviews with women of all ages who have experienced Caribbean love…their tales will further challenge, validate and query the stereotypes and generalisatons surrounding Caribbean men.

If you have a Caribbean love story that you would like to share, you can E mail me anonymously or with an alias to mariacostasme@hotmail.com or caribbeanandthecity@gmail.com

Both Caribbean And The City and Me And Mr.Brown are updated once a week, every Monday.

In the meantime, Caribbean And The City part 2, entitled Me And Mr.Brown is in full swing if you care to peruse…

Caribbean And The City – Mr.Caribbean Has Left The Building…I thank you for reading, you were right there with me.

So that was that for another whirlwind relationship.

The vortex of pain, paranoia, love and confusion had stopped swirling and I was finally free.

And so I transpired as a dating fiend, a ‘girl about town’, a painter of the sky. Life was fun for much of the time but not quite as sweet without my fix of – him. Whoever he may be.

It was when I was leaving a North London nightclub that my eyes met with the he who was…and so with Mr.Caribbean exiting the building of my mind, began the tale of Me And Mr.Brown…

Caribbean And The City – We Can’t Go On Together…With Suspicious Minds

Be happy with the man you love. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.

Concern about whether or not Mr.Caribbean loved me had long surpassed and now all I had to do was to be happy with him, right?

As it turns out, my wonderful mind – not to mention my old faithful intuition – had instead, invoked in me a sense of paranoia about Mr.Caribbean’s fidelity.

It is difficult for me to pinpoit the exact moment my mind became eclipsed by images of him with other women, but it was probably around the time I noticed that he wouldn’t let his mobile phone out of his sight. Coupled with the fact that he was now unanticipatedly spending more and more time away from me with a conspicuous distance to his stance – forthwith; an insecurity was born. And in its tracks, it left behind the unenviable task of having to independently deal with my hijacked mind, the permanent churning in my stomach and my heavy – oh so heavy heart.

I became a master at following his gaze to see where he rested it; in the vain hope that it would offer a clue as to what he was thinking. His phone became my anathema and at the same time, the beholder of all knowledge. Who was he texting? Who was calling him?

At the end of every evening, I would hold my throbbing head; the unrestricted fear of losing him to another woman had wholly encompassed me with a potent clout and I was powerless in my acquiescence.

As a natural introvert, I was adept at self reflection and I was the first to admit that my paranoia more than likely stemmed from my own insecurities but…could his behaviour still be to blame?

We already know about the history of Caribbean men with regards to the encouraged promiscuity but even so, I knew my hopeless romantic heart could never accept infidelity even if there was a logical – or indeed historic – reason.

Mr.Caribbean was one of those guys who looked in car windows at his reflection constantly, checked out who was checking him out and spent hours at the gym. And it was when he was at the gym one evening that I realised he had forgotten his mobile phone at home. My heart beat erratically as I picked it up and went straight to his messages.

There they were. Text after text sent to someone called ‘K’.

”I’ll be there at 7” read one.

”See you on Friday sexy” read another. They went on and on. If I didn’t require the phone as evidence, it would have had a long overdue meeting with the concrete wall.

Myriad emotions pervaded through me instantaneously. Palpable pain seared through me along with nausea, shame, fear, and perhaps most poignantly, relief. Relief that I wasn’t going insane and that my intuition had guided me to a truth which although my heart would struggle with to begin with, it would eventually deal with. (I say this but I still cried for like, an hour).

If you can find me a girl who, when with her boyfriend can act like she’s fine when she’s not, I’ll show you the best actress the world has seen – and I was no exception. So that evening when Mr.Caribbean asked me if I was okay, I said no. Of course, he looked shocked (which tells me that when people ask you if you’re okay, they rarely care for the answer).

A cataclysmic effusion is what followed complete (of course) with the teeming of torrential tears. Within nano seconds, every repressed paranoid thought was swiftly transpiring to the surface in an unconstrained and free flowing fashion before I thrust his mobile phone in his face. If I wasn’t crying so much, I’m sure I would have marvelled at the fact that my overtly free spirited emotions were an outright antithesis to my trapped mind.

Unfortunately, the surface was a man who positively reeked of guilt.

There was no hug, no (albeit faux) declaration of innocence. There wasn’t even a gesture to serve as a signal of disparity between myself and a stranger to him. Instead, my long term boyfriend pressed his fingers on to his eyebrows in an exasperated fashion, proceeded to rise and say that he was going to bed. This ‘K’ character was just a flirty friend and he had no time for paranoid girls.

Because, that’s what I was to him; just a paranoid girl.

Now I may not be able to name every US president or remember directions the first time I’m told them but I did know that if someone you loved was in pain, you would and damn well should run to them.

Did I really want to spend my life checking his phone, holding my throbbing head and feeling sick to my stomach every time he went out?

Yes, I love him but…I love me more. That night I packed a bag.

Because good instincts usually tell you what to do long before your head has figured it out.

Caribbean And The City – To Smoke or Not To Smoke

Someone once said that sometimes you have to get to know someone really well to realise that you’re really strangers.

Having spent a year with Mr.Caribbean and known him for three, I thought I pretty much knew all that I needed to. That was until I arrived at his home, turned my key in the lock and attempted to open the door but struggled to do so. It wasn’t until I was welcomed by a suspicious piquant aroma that I knew why I couldn’t open the door; he’d put a towel under the aperture to disguise the smell.

Mr.Caribbean was smoking marijuana.

Before I entered the living room, I tried to control my breathing. He was well aware that I abhorred the idea of smoking drugs.

I would always urge his friends who smoked to instead seek pleasure or solace in our surrounding world.

With an indefinite amount of beauty in our vistas, words, people and nature, how can anyone want to deliberately cloud their mind?

I eased open the living room door to find him sitting there with his friend.

”What’s going on?!” I asked, trying my hardest to remain poised and relatively calm.

I silently marvelled at how strange the feeling was when you expect a person to be apologetic and seek your forgiveness and then they suddenly retort with a nonchalant stance instead.

“What? A man can’t relax in his own yard?”

His friend scoffing at this, made me want to take that marijuana cigarette from behind his ear and stick it someplace.

My facial expressions had always lent themselves well as distinct warnings and the friend soon left, leaving the two of us in an open room which was slowly closing in on us.

I sighed as the diffusing smoke ominously signalled the onset of an argument with the pungent scent forcing its way in to my lungs and pervading through me until finally it entered my mind, satisfied with its veil over my thoughts.

”What are you thinking D?!”

“Relax yourself! Always trying to tell me what to do! I enjoy it, it relaxes me, I won’t stop. Not for you or anyone!”

My heart sank and my energy levels appeared to instantly deplete at the prospect of a full blown fight. My face was becoming hot and I could feel salty tears preparing themselves to claim their locus on my cheek.

I left before I became the girl who cried because her man was smoking drugs.

And so I did what I see lots of thinking people do; I found a lonely bench and graced it with my forlorn presence.

In my love for him, I tried to reason that perhaps it was a culture thing. His father had smoked and his father before him. It wasn’t a constant thing; he enjoyed it now and again and it helped him to sleep. Afterall, it even had a reputation for aiding in the case of chronic pain for some unfortunate people suffering from disease.

Could certain drugs ever be viewed as a positive thing?

With that last thought, I realised that I was compromising myself for a man. A man who couldn’t stop something that was in his benefit to do so.

I couldn’t lie to myself; I knew not how to do so. Without exception, I wholly loathed drugs and he knew this.

And then he kissed me.

As I withdrew from him, my eyes still closed, I took his hands.

If you want to relax, lucidate your mind don’t cloud it.

If you want to laugh, embody good company don’t ignore them.

If you want to be creative, embrace your intellect, do not eradicate it.

If you want me, be yourself and not an inferior version of you.

Drugs couldn’t ever be condoned. That’s just me.

And then I kissed him back…and he put that in his pipe and smoked it instead.

Caribbean And The City – Dress (Not) To Repress

Does anyone know the exact moment in a relationship when the qualities which attracted you to the person in the first instance now threaten you?

For some people, it is their partner’s confidence which poses a fear of losing that person, for others it may be their beauty.

For dear Mr.Caribbean, it was my dress sense. Although he was rather enamoured with my figure hugging clothes when his eyes first set eyes on me, my choice of attire was now becoming somewhat of a hindrance and we were at that wonderful stage in the relationship where insecurities were flying about all over the place.

”Why do your clothes have to be so tight?” His vociferations permeating any room he chose fit.

Now me being the opinionated girl that I am, my initial reaction was to defend myself.

”I didn’t hear you complaining when you approached me”

”Well you’re mine now so you don’t need to show off anymore. I’m sick of seeing every man staring at you!”

His last comment was enough to instigate a feminist enriched tirade but I bit my tongue; we could easily go ten more rounds. I knew I would win the argument, so why bother having it? (He also hated my cockyness).

I knew my image and my body; I knew that with my curves; if I wore the wrong types of clothes I would quite simply, look fat. Besides, is it just the way someone looks that lures the opposite sex? Or is it simply the way you project yourself which attracts the admiring glances?

That weekend, Mr.Caribbean was waiting for me to finish getting ready so we could go shopping.

”Five minuuuuuuuutes!”

My emergence was met with gasps and shock. There I stood, my sleek hair replaced with a high bun, my face devoid of any make up and I was proudly clad in a grey tracksuit which could rival Rocky Balboa’s.

Before my female fans disown me in horror, I was doing this to prove a point. (Proving a point – a major aspect of a relationship).

En route, I had never seen him so relaxed! There he was; singing to the radio, looking up at the sky, smiling to himself. All because he though his girl would no longer be thought of as attractive to the opposite sex. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry (or slap the back of his head).

Did it stop me from receiving admiring glances? No. Did it interfere with my confidence? No. I was still attractive to the opposite sex and this was made apparent around the same time Mr.Caribbean’s smile disappeared. Perhaps he realised that genuine confidence will always reign over superficiality.

Of course, I reverted back to my signature dress code but occasionally, I would don the baggy jeans or the Rocky Balboa tracksuit and when I did, we would both be reminded that people would seldom notice my old clothes if I wore them with a big smile.

Caribbean And The City – You make me feel…like a Natural Woman

The girl is always supposed to be the ‘pretty’ one in the relationship, right?

When I first met Mr.Caribbean, I was on holiday and our eyes literally locked from a distance, followed by a swagger and a point in my direction ”You’re beautiful!” He proclaimed with palpable conviction.

I smiled whilst simultaneously thinking ”Erm…actually, I think it’s you who’s the beautiful one”. (A thought I kept to myself, naturally). With his soft eyes, petite nose and full sensuous lips (I would later refer to them as my ‘pillows’), I thought he was stunning – and my body agreed with my mind.

I found myself on the unfamiliar territory of being intimidated by my boyfriend’s beauty. I mean, sure I could scrub up well but like many girls, I needed ‘stuff’ to look the way I did when he had met me (and that ‘stuff’ wasn’t permanent) whereas Mr.Caribbean looked the same all.of.the.time. (Man, I hated it).

What could I do? I daren’t tell any of my friends for fear of appearing superficial and insecure so instead, I set the wheels of operation in to motion.

I would begin by sleeping with my make up on (If I listen carefully, I almost hear a thousand dermatologists scream) and avoid sleeping on the pillow with my hair carefully placed behind me. A plan which worked until that dreaded moment when I turned up to see him and he had prepared a romantic bath for us both.

My smile did its best to cease betraying my sinking stomach. All I could envisage was frizzy hair, make up washed off and me as natural as the day I was born. Well, almost.

My mind cwent in to overdrive, conjuring up a myriad excuses not to but they all dissipated when I saw his damn cute face and I gently immersed myself in the moment – and the bath tub.

I was right of course; my make up had completely come off, my hair was au naturel and the goosebumps all over my body betrayed the fact that I was freezing. Suddenly Mr.Caribbean carefully moved the hair away from my face and draped a soft towel around me. His face was so close to mine, but it wasn’t a moment for a kiss. It was a moment to smile.

”Baby. You look so beautiful when you smile”.

Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t but that night, I slept on Mr.Caribbean’s chest and when I woke up, I had his imprint on my face and his hands in my hair. And I never felt happier.

Caribbean And The City – Ride or Die…and just say No

That moment when you realise your man is flailing and needs not just your affection but your support, help and guidance.

How does it make you feel; are you honoured that you have the chance to prove that you are not just a fair weather girlfriend, but you can also be there during the difficult times too? Or does the idea of putting yourself out for your partner remind you too much of something far more serious than you bargained for…young relationships are supposed to be fun, aren’t they?!

When Mr.Caribbean came to me with eyes full of sorrow and asked me to help him fill out a job application form, I was only too happy to help. After all, I adored him in every way possible aand I had a degree in writing; why not amalgamate my passion for him with my passion for writing?

And so we turned the task in to literary foreplay and by the end of the night, I could see in his eyes that lust had transiently been interspersed with gratitude (and although I may have ceased to admit it at the time, a touch of dependence)

He managed to attain the job in question and for a fleeting moment, I was his saviour, his ‘ride or die chick’, his love. Of course, I basked in the glory of being the only person to have portrayed loyalty towards him and our euphoria lasted all of a week until he realised he needed to borrow a few hundred pounds until pay day. The sorrowful eyes made another appearance and I caved. What more could I do, you have to stand by your man through thick and thin…don’t you?

That feeling where although you know your partner loves you, you are also well aware that the niggling doubt that they’re taking advantage of you just won’t go away. A feeling which seemed to adopt a life of its own when we were out shopping and Mr.Caribbean spotted that brand new pair of trainers. I knew what was coming and so I pre empted the sorrowful eyes and narrowed mine instead.

Trying overtly hard to not sound like a mother screaming at her 6 year old son, I near bellowed

”No way! Nu-uh. I’m not buying them for you. You can forget it” .

Whilst I didn’t mean my voice to sound as aggressive as it did, something within me appeared to have made up its own mind for me. My heart was scared and angry and it wasn’t going to let this one go.

Naturally, I waited until we had actually left the Oxford Street Footlocker before I elaborated (with the condemned trainers remaining firmly on the shelf).

I knew not a gentle way to tell my boyfriend that although I loved him, I just couldn’t do everything for him. I opted instead of boosting his current achievements and hinting at how amazingly sexy an independent man is. Of course, the possible rewards of this kind of approach take time to reap so I could do nothing else but hope that it would work.

Would he realise by himself? Or would he eventually see me as a selfish girlfriend whose sole relationship predilections were for sunny days and blue skies?

I attempted to alleviate my guilt with the notion that although it is a distinct pleasure to be able to provide a safety net, it has been noted that more often than not it is the people who love you the most who take advantage.

We all want to be there for our partner but is there any shame in putting your put down first as you’re catching their back?

Caribbean And The City – Mum’s The Word

Here I was with my Mr.Caribbean, curled up together watching tv, my legs stretched out on to his lap. Arguably, a loving image which was reflective of many couples so why then, was I searching avidly for a brick wall so I could bang my head against it?

”NO, I swear, I’m not cheating on you!”

Safe to say that the honeymoon period with me and Mr.Caribbean was well and truly over; cue his irrational fears projected on to me full force. It was as if suddenly out of nowhere, he had decided that I was definitely, 100% going to betray him with another man.

At first he blamed my clothes, (apparently my attire which formerly excited him was now his number one threat), then it was my confidence, then my self assured nature and then finally, it was the way I walk (who knew a teeter could be so ominous).

At first I tried endlessly to convince him; being overly affectionate, staying in with him more, laughing a little harder at his jokes, telling him how gorgeous he was but my patience was wearing a bit thin and I was beginning to miss my friends. And hey, after 50 daily phonecalls and innumberable accusations, a girl gets kinda annoyed.

Just as I was about to cut him off cold turkey from my indulgence of him; I suddenly remembered something; his mother leaving him at the age of 14.

Damn my morals and caring side! Now I would have to delve a little deeper…

With much psychologist interest in to men and their mothers, Karen A.P.McGibbon writes that ”…Emotional immaturity is evident among some Caribbean men …where adults are still attached to parents (especially mothers)…”

It was evident that Mr.Caribbean had missed out on his relationship with his mother but that didn’t mean he still didn’t have the urge to be attached to a female in his life. Was I being perceived as the mother figure? * Gulp *

Or perhaps it was a simple case of being afraid to lose yet another person whom he cared about?

And so, armed with all of my evidence, we sat and we talked and we cried and we laughed; with sun rise providing our perfect backdrop, we experienced a trust-neissance.

Because what’s the use in love if you don’t have the words to back it up?

Caribbean And The City – His Moment

If life really is a ticket to the greatest show on Earth then surely a Caribbean man is the host?

I’m not talking songs, dances or comedy. I am referring to that all elusive, rare and inextricably enlightening ability to quite simply, love life.

Life with Mr.Caribbean was like the antidote to boredom. Literally every fragment of my every moment turned in to drops of fun with mundane tasks magically transformed in to sensual foreplay.

But what was it that made driving to the shops, buying groceries or watching a film so exhilarating?

I mean, these were things I had done a million times with a million other people but somehow, with a Caribbean man, the fun factor was always on full blast.

As with many a time before, my curiosity was sated when I started to analyse a little deeper and I realised the answer was that Mr.Caribbean never really moaned. He was just…well…happy; in his moment.

Yes, moaning! That ever present, ever boring aspect of every stressed out person in today’s world. We’ve all been there; moaning aboout being tired, being too busy, being too poor, being ill. Worrying about what to do tomorrow, what will happen next week and foresaking the present was all too familiar and overtly common.

But with Mr.Caribbean, it was different.

He would often wake up after only a few hours sleep and happily get ready to face the day ahead whilst I lay asleep with the covers over me, half laspsed in to a coma.

”How can you be awake, we only went to sleep 3 hours ago?” I’d mussitate.

”It’s a new day baby! See you tonight” and with a kiss firmly planted on the covers, the front door would slam; his aftershave taunting my lack of energy and elan.

I secretly loved his ‘get up and go’ attitude of course. I found it incredibly attractive and his hard working ethos was a major turn on. Come rain or shine, Mr.Caribbean was out there, living his life, laughing his laughs and perhaps most importantly for him, earning his crust.

Embarking upon a quick, ten minute car journey? I’ll turn the music up and start singing; who cares if people are looking; the streets are ours, baby!

Buying a new pair of trainers? Why wait until a special occasion, I’ll wear them today!

In the middle of a packed train? I wanna kiss you anyway, here we go!

Yes, life was fun with Mr.Caribbean and his happiness was contagious. I’d catch his smile every so often and every night we would go to sleep and the next morning, we would wake up as virgins because it’s not what IF; it’s what NOW.

Caribbean And The City – Back to Black

Once you go black, you don’t go back.

It’s a modern day adage that makes white men quiver, myriad women nod in agreement and turns black men in to transient kings. Kings of the bedroom that is.

The question on everyone’s (and by everyone I mean non Caribbean men) lips, is it true; are black men better in bed than non- black men…?

When I was first intimate with Mr.Caribbean, the first thing to excite and more importantly, ignite me, was his skin. From his head all the way down, it was just so…smooth. As if that wasn’t enough, the caramel feel of his skin encased a toned, honed and athletic body. You know, the sort where when he lifted a heavy box, his forearm muscles flexed just enough to make you want to bite your – or his – bottom lip.

Although the media – and many women – have referred to black men as being better in bed because genetically they are well endowed, that was not my deal cincher.

For me it’s the throwdown. The fact that his passion makes it clear that in these moments, there isn’t anywhere else he would rather be in the world other than right here with me. Mr.Caribbean isn’t worried about what I want because he is damn sure of it and there is no doubt that he will deliver.

And let me take a moment to recognise Mr. Caribbean’s energy. Whoever stereotyped black men as being laid back were definitely referring to aspects outside the bedroom because wild horses wouldn’t get a look in. The kisses are sensual, the arms are placed in the exact right place, the confidence…aah the confidence! Who could fault it…?

Does this set things in stone? And where did this all begin?

It’s that old tale, History. Which once again, dictates our present and grants us that all important insight.

A long, long time ago, rich white women purchased black men based on the size of their genitaelia and looked to them for sex whilst their white plantation owning husbands were out sleeping with young girls. Black men were used solely for the woman’s physical pleasure.

This behaviour on the part of Caribbean men may still be perpetuated but (and allow there to always be a but where debates are involved), sex, love-making, getting laid – call it what you will – is always best when you know, love or hold a connection with the other person.

Mr.Caribbean’s body and skin tone may have sated my personal preference, but ultimately, it was his vista, passion and zest for life which manifested itself in to good love making skills.

The truth? Be you black, white, yellow or brown; if you possess confidence in your masculinity and sexuality, you’ve already turned us on. Lifting a heavy box in a T-shirt won’t go amiss either…

Non-Caribbean men; you have permission to breathe a sigh of relief.