I bought a little black dress at a thrift shop for $6.00, and let me tell you, boy, it fits me like a glove. It is sleeveless and lacy, and hits my legs mid-thigh. I embrace my curves and changing body in this dress; I actually feel like a woman. I wore it on a night I thought I’d see you. My hair was big, my skin was tanned, my makeup was right, my scent trailed behind me like a whirl of flowers. I was feeling myself.
But the universe did me a favor, and you messed up. You weren’t warranted the opportunity to think how amazing I looked in it; your hand was nowhere near my lower back, guiding me through the club; you didn’t get to wonder what I’d look like after I stepped out of that dress. ‘Cause boooy, you messed up. You did not get to see me strut my stuff that night. I was the shit and you were not my equivalent.
Because I have decided to wear that dress again only for a man who deserves it. For a man whose eyes will open wide when I open the front door to my house. For a man who will stimulate my mind, my sense of humor, my aspirations, my senses. For a man who will know that if he touches any part of me in that dress, the skin of his hand just might burn. For a man who will be left thinking about me all day after we part ways. For a man who will know that for as amazing as I look in that dress, there is far more to me than my contours while in that dress.
I have no problem letting that little black dress wait in my closet. None whatsoever.