I remember the first time I went to the MEChA meeting he was there to the side with his Ché mane sad eyes and I liked him (no, you don’t understand) he’s a beautiful brown man he reminds me of my brother lost, rocky childhood, angry, charismatic, womanizer but wants to be a lawyer or politician do right by his people (his mother) first time he holds my hand, we’re at the movies watching motorcycle diaries his sweaty palm, let’s go stares and for a moment I imagine revolutionary love (wack right?) that’s when he tells me I’m naïve I don’t know anything about people people aren’t good. He reads Langston Hughes, I too sing America I am the darker brother…. and then say’s he’s a feminist because he believes women should have sex before marriage (sex with him to be exact) I tell him I’m a virgin, I don’t want to have sex anytime soon he’s totally into it until we make out and he gives me a guilt trip that I’m a tease “blue balls” to be exact “can’t you take care of that?” I ask “no, it’s not the same” he says. The first time it happens I’m in complete shock (he didn’t even ask) I didn’t feel a thing. Whenever “it” happened I was never there, it was never about me. I tried saying I love you, once searched his eyes for a loving gesture but never found one I felt my body an object a woman archetype to get off when I finally asked how many women he’d been with he looked down and said “two” (seriously?) “I don’t know….14-15?” he’s 21. “You’re too difficult.” his response when I plead for him not to enter me from behind, again… and when he walks out enraged, I know it’s over. Overdue. About time I realize romance and revolutions don’t mix.