Meshell Might Be a Cutter.
Let me set a scene for you. It’s half past eight. The sun is reluctantly sinking into its cradle, but it has resolved not to go quietly, and as it goes it throws its protest across the sky, streaking the atmosphere with bolts of sharp oranges and pinks. There is a rumble in the distance. Storm clouds move in, and though the sun is gone the air seems to get hotter.
Across the room, splayed atop your satin sheets, is your lover, legs gently splayed, eyes wide. They watch you as they move closer; the only sounds either of you hear are of a rush of blood quickening in your ears and Meshell Ndegeocello pleading softly in the background:
Put your tongue in my mouth
Make me wet
Run your hands down my back
Grab my ass…
You kneel next to your lover and begin to consider Me’Shell’s words, acting on the lines that send a shiver sliding into the pit of your stomach, watching to see how well the next line is received. The song pulses on. “Does it feel good?” she asks, and then:
What just happened!? How did we get here?? How did we even get here??! We was vibin’, right? We was cool, right? Wasn’t everybody feelin’ good, rubbin’ this and touchin’ on that? Where the fuck this emo come from? What’s this cut on your wrist? Where that come from? You fall? Is that another one? And another–you know what, it’s gettin’ kinda late. I gotta go and um.. walk my cat.