Archives for November 2019

TRIGGER ALERT: THIS POST CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND VIOLENCE: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

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This past weekend I invested in myself by doing a personal growth program. My divorce finalized a little over a month ago, and I had a reaction that scared me. I started to binge eat carbs. For a dry alcoholic, eating carbs is the equivalent of having a Long Island Iced Tea to relax. 

I am in the final stages of publishing my next best-seller and launching my 20/20 tour, which includes my one-woman show. 

I didn’t want to relapse and trash all I have given my life to. 

So, I started attending AA meets, which I haven’t had to do since 2011. And I did a personal development program.

The course is about the very nature of what it means to be a human being. It’s a profound inquiry about how there hasn’t been a significant shift in what it means to be a human being since Descarte’s, “I think therefore I am.” During the program, we deep-dived into various concepts: how language creates reality, to relating to our feelings, and our thoughts as “true” to various tests for what is real.

One of the past incidents I hold/held as “real” was when momma said I lied.

When I was 10, Momma was working two, sometimes three jobs to feed us four kids. One night, while she was working, one of her friends came by. He was drunk. Hennesy and coke. I know the smell. Remember the texture. The taste. 

I grew up unprotected. We all did. So when Mr. H&C passed out, I carefully unfolded me from his heavy limbs and crept upstairs so as not to wake him and locked my three siblings in the bathroom, out of harm’s way. 

Then I made the quiet panic jail-break down the creeky stairs, past his snoring drunken body, out the door, and ran across the street to Mr. H’s house to tell him what had happened and that Mr. H&C was still inside our house on Montford Street. My siblings were still locked in the bathroom.

Mr. H was a kind older man who looked out for all the neighborhood kids while their momma’s worked. And he packed a 45. He grabbed his gun, called Momma and went with me back to my house.

Mr. H&C was in a dead drunk sleep. He didn’t wake up when we came in. Mr. H started yelling, then the neighbors heard and came. First outside the window, then in the living room. Mr. H told them what I had told him. Outraged, our neighbors began yelling to wake Mr. H&C up to leave. 

Aunt Barbara showed up. I think Momma must have called her from work to come to check on us. By now the living room is crowded with screaming people, my siblings are still locked in the bathroom upstairs banging on the door to be let out, screaming, and crying because they are scared, and hear all the screaming downstairs.

Finally, Momma rushes in with a bunch of her coworkers. She is scared and worried about her kids. Mr. H didn’t tell her what I said, he just told her she needed to leave her job and come home immediately.

She enters into mayhem. People screaming, Mr.H&C is waking up and dazed. Momma sees him and looks at me. Mr. H tells me to speak up and tell her what happened. The room goes quiet, and I tell. Silence. Momma’s face transforms from fear to rage. She says something to the effect of this:

“You lying little b%tch. Mr. H&C did no such thing! You are just trying to get attention! Look at all the trouble you have caused! Take your sorry ass upstairs and take off your clothes. Run a tub of hot water. Then wait for me to beat your a$$ for lying and causing all this trouble just to get attention.”

I lost language that moment. 

My voice died at the hand of her accusatory gaze and diminishing tone. It was here, at this moment in time, I stopped standing for myself.

Other women and even Mr. H asked Momma to wait a minute. Momma said, 

“I know my child. She’s lying. She is jealous of her oldest sister. One of my other friends had said some sh*t to her, and I pulled a knife on his ass for trying to f@ck with my child. But Venus? This ugly, good for nothing, manipulative kid? No. Nothing happened. She’s lying. Mr. H&C would never do anything like that. He is MY friend. She’s lying and I will beat her a$$ for lying. Everybody go home. Venus, get your a$$ upstairs. Now.”

So, I did. 

I went upstairs, unlocked the bathroom door, my siblings ran out. I ran the tub of hot water, took off my clothes and went into the bedroom next to the bathroom. I sat on the side of the bed and waited for Momma.

Aunt Barabara came up first. 

She sat beside me on the bed and hugged me. I remember saying, 

“I can’t ever do anything right.”

She held me as I cried.

Then Momma came upstairs…

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From 10 until now, I have fought for, protected, and stood for those I call my own fiercely–but never myself. I see myself as damaged with no credibility, no right to be heard, valued, or believed. Maybe that’s why I have four degrees. My word isn’t good enough. I have lived my life doubting myself, second-guessing myself, and wondering if I am being “too” much. I have only let myself become successful–but not TOO successful–least I be attacked, humiliated, called a lier, and discredited. 

I have lived a small life.

A life where I am safe. I think the reason I marketed to Black Women was that I felt safe. I felt credible. Believed. And Sisters didn’t mind my bigness, my passion, and self-expression. They embraced me. Just as I am. But beyond my tribe, I hid in plain sight. I don’t do JV partnerships because I don’t feel safe to be myself. 

But this weekend all of that changed.

This weekend I let go of being damaged. I surrendered, “Be on my side! Believe me! Don’t hurt me!”

I am no longer living a life where I silence myself. My truth. My shine. My voice.

I declare, decree and proclaim, that from this moment, I am creating the possibility of being spectacular. 

Spectacular

(spektækjʊləʳ)

adjective 

Something spectacular is very impressive or dramatic;

unusual to a striking degree; characterized by a great display, as of daring…

I choose to create and live a life being spectacular and creating the space for everyone who comes in contact with me the opportunity and permission to do the same. 

It was a good weekend. 🙂

Not only did I create a new future to live into, but I also made friends! Here are some photos. 

I love you. Today I am working with my publicist on our national press release. We begin in earnest 12/2/2019. 

2020 is going to be SPECTACULAR!

I Love you.

Thanks for witnessing.

Dr. VenusOpal

WARNING: Sexually explicit. Subversive Christianity. Reader discretion is advised. 

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Dear God,

I miss being touched.

Breath on the back of my neck.

Fingertips on my thighs, in my mouth…

But I don’t have the shoulders to bear the dead weight

of emotional responsibility.

Is it too soon, Lord?

You said to ask, and I would receive.

Knock, and the door would be opened.

I have wants, desires, Lord…

My flesh is screaming.

My heart is hiding behind you,

like a child clinging to the back of her mother’s leg

as she peeps from behind momma’s knee.

Can I handle intimacy?

Not sex. But really soul sharing?

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted—not needed.

I want to know what it feels like to brim with a passion so all-consuming 

it slurs my thoughts into one titanic ache in between my hot wet hungry lips, quivering, shimmering, reducing me to guttural utterances, sighs, wails, and moans.

I want to know what it feels like to be so connected with another

our souls kiss, intertwine and become one with you God.

Do I want too much, Lord?

Am I worthy of such a love?

I wonder…

Would someone ever truly care enough to learn me?

To understand my hurts and comprehend my cries?

To give me space but catch me, should I fall?

The loneliest place in the world is to love someone, who won’t let you in.

I want in.

I want to know all your secrets.

The things you are ashamed of and the places you hide.

I want to see every scar, jagged and raw and pour love on 

them until they are as smooth as a pearl.

I want to be the breath that gives you life in the morning 

and the tender, precious embrace you need 

at the end of the day when life has been just too much.

I want to make love with the lights on.

And for you to look me in my eyes, see God, 

as we cum… at the same time.

I want passion Lord.

And protection.

Nurturance.

I want to kiss you hard and long in Paris and make you forget your name in Rome.

I want to surprise you with heels, red lipstick, garters, and a belted trench coat, catch you 

on your lunch break and fuck you in a corner of your parking garage.

I want to be so safe with you, your hand around my throat is a blessing. 

You make sex, sacred. 

Holy.

God—do I want too much?

Is a want a need?

You said you would supply my every need…

What do I do with this, Lord?

Let me hear from you.

In Jesus name, I pray,

Amen.

vor 11/11/19

Title: Wants

#erotica #loneliness #faith #sensual #desire 

I am in the thick of publishing my new book, launching my podcast, building my entertainment industry team, crafting my solo performance, AND staying sober. It’s a juggling act, to say the least. I get proud, sometimes. I don’t want to ask for support when I have not given it. And the truth is I have been treading water since my surgery and divorce.

I simply haven’t had the energy or clarity of mind to be useful to you.

I am well. I have a great therapist and I’m attending AA meetings. I have too much riding on me, to leave remaining well to chance, risking it by “being strong.” I have slowed down to not overwhelm me. And I am bringing on amazing experts to take things away from me, so I only do my genius. God is faithful.

So, I didn’t reach out to you. I apologize. I should have communicated and let you choose instead of silencing you by not letting you in. So today, I am swallowing my pride and asking for help.

I am reaching out for feedback, specifically concerning my book description. I don’t know if I should include gender in the description. Does the description communicate?

The title of the book, tour and performance piece is The Raw Truth: A Pimp Daughter’s Diary. 

The tour has a different subtitle: “How to (or The Alchemy/The Art of…) Pimp Pain into Peace, Purpose, Passion, and Profits.” The solo performance has the same name as the book but with an image of me (see attached graphic) while the book has a beautiful cover design.

The book description is below:

From the mean streets of Baltimore to Stanford Ph.D., to a multiple seven-figure earner, this is a relentlessly honest and emotionally intimate account of spiritual healing, salvation, and reclamation of personal power. Ruthlessly authentic, sensually erotic, and viscerally explicit, this story is a road map to guide anyone (brave enough to tell their “real and raw truth”) from socially acceptable acts of self-hate to self-making, self-love but most importantly… self-respect.

SHOULD I ADD “…THIS IS ONE WOMAN’S RELENTLESSLY HONEST ACCOUNT…” OR LEAVE IT AS IS?

IS THE DESCRIPTION CLEAR AND COMPELLING? IS IT TOO THICK? OR IS IT JUST RIGHT?

Thanks in advance for your feedback. I know I don’t deserve it, but I thank you for taking the time out of your life to read my words.

Sincerely,

Dr. Venus Opal Reese​

Ps: This graphic is a work in progress. It will NOT be the cover for the book. It may be the cover for the solo performance. To grab a seat, go here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-raw-truthtm-a-pimp-daughters-diary-tickets-73737343379