yea, though i walk….

You know what I want to know?

Who in the hell is looking out for the interests of loose women?

Can you tell me that?

Who is watching out for the hoes?

Sure, we all keep warm the hearth for our virgins; for our sanctimonious pillars of propriety.

We make certain our virgins and well-meaning nice girls are fed and spoken kindly to, but—

Who’s lookin’ out for the hoes?

Who’s giving the hoes comfort and succor?

Nobody.

That’s who.

Nobody.

Hoes are walking around malnourished, and unloved, cast out from all good society, and it isn’t right.

It just isn’t right.

Well, I want everyone to know that I, myself, have had something of a conversion.

And my newfound interests and desires have aligned me firmly on the side of the hoes.

I’m championing the plight of the hoes worldwide (I’m not saying, I’m a ho, mind you…keep up).

But, my newfound position has given me considerable insight, and brought forth, from my otherwise cold and constricted heart—empathy.

More on this in a second.
******

There is, perhaps, no more patient a man; no more meticulous or methodical a man, than he that hunts.

To have any chance of success, this man must lay the foundation for his hunt, weeks in advance.  He scouts choice locations. He returns to his designated spot time and time again, spreading feed on the ground , encouraging game to congregate.  Then, and only then, after the animals have become comfortable in their environs, slack in their defenses, does the hunter nestle himself high in the trees, and wait.

And wait he does.

Until he is certain of his target¸ certain of his accuracy. Palm to hilt finger to trigger, he releases.

And it is done.

Granted, there is meat to be enjoyed for a long time after.

But it is done.

And though no one will dispute the feeling of accomplishment that overcomes him when looking at the buck’s antlers stoically mounted above his mantle–it is inarguably done.

The thrill is gone.

The thrill is in the hunt.
*****

Two days shy of the Equinox, I am confronted with the same troubling compulsion I imagine we all have this time of year—the intense desire to have sex with something.

In particular—something new.

For the select few of us—a great many somethings new.

For some time now, I have regarded myself a proficient sportsman; knowledgeable in the ways of big game; a master of the hunt.

But in this, my 30th Spring, my 30th Equinox, discontent has settled in.

Some button, some switch, normally on, is off.

Now, don’t mistake me.

I’m scuttlebutt slut-happy as ever.

The “ fuck me “ battlecry of my wanton girlbox hollers out, loud and clear.

But I’m tired of the hunt.

The patient stillness that was my greatest asset in the wild has abated, and the spirit of restlessness has taken hold.

I fear—

I can no longer work for my meat.

But why?

Because I’ve out-assholed dating.

I am concerned that I may have out-assholed dating.

You see, there comes a point in the life of every educated black person when she begins to question things that, during earlier, less bourgie phases of her life, were perfectly acceptable. In the last five years, alone, I’ve out-assholed: drinking water from a faucet, listening to music from artists anyone besides me and 7 other people have ever heard of, cell phones that flip open, “business” suits that have any type of stretchy material in them, carpet, and domestic “vacation” travel.

Essentially, the art of out-assholing occurs when a hyper-educated, pseudo-intellectual over-analyzes some innocuous, basic, accepted thing or practice to the extent that it loses its utility.

Dating has lost its utility.

Oh, I want the sex.

Just not any of that cumbersome courtship business.

I don’t have it in me anymore.

I don’t want to hear another word about your dreams.  I don’t wanna know about who your friends are. I don’t wanna work through your abandonment issues or your mama issues or the father you never knew. I don’t want to accompany you to work functions, or social functions. I don’t even want to talk to you anymore. I don’t want to hear one more solitary, ill-formed word out of your mouth. I don’t want to hear you butcher known euphemisms and epithets as though English weren’t your first language.

I don’t wanna hear you chew ice. I don’t wanna hear you sing in the shower. I don’t wanna see that elastic-indented skin around the tops of your ankles when you take your socks off.

Mean right?

I know.

I’ve out-assholed dating.

So here I sat…in the valley of the shadow of hoes…

 

 

 

 

 

because sometimes, you do it to a girl…

I have spent 5 months of my life dating a girl.

Yep.

A girl.

She is so pretty that it makes your heart break.

She is thoughtful, and understanding, and compassionate, and
well-intended.

In essence, she is everything that I am not.

Anatomically, we have all the same shit.

Boobies, check.

Girlbox, check.

I like fancy clothes. She likes fancy clothes. Different,
fancy, but fancy, nevertheless.

I like eyeliner and mascara. She likes eyeliner and mascara. Different brands, but eyeliner and mascara, nevertheless.

Mind you-

I’ve never really been attracted to women.

I can’t remember there ever being a time when I have looked at a woman and thought, “My land, she could get it.” Ever.

Conversely, the thought occurs to me regarding men 12-14 times a day.

And those are the days when I stay indoors.

But there she was—so pretty, so thoughtful, so well-intended…

Who was I to say “No?”

Who was I to accept, unthinkingly, this compulsory societally-imposed manufactured standard of human sexuality?

Sexuality was fluid, was it not?

Kinsey Scale and all of that bullshit.

And maybe this was different than everything else.

Because, in all of her compassion, in all of her thoughtfulness, in all of her well-intendedness, she was more than happy to fall back when I took to my moods.

She didn’t complain when I fell silent, or cut short her questions; when I corrected her on grammar or points of order when I felt her wrong.

She didn’t utter a hint of complaint when everything had to be my way, when I said “No” where she would have said “Yes.”

She was nothing, if not accommodating, and accepting.

And, in the beginning, I didn’t mind us being around each other constantly, because she so easily molded herself into my stark world. If an unbreakable silence was the order of the day, she was still. If it was my manic and incessant chatter that colored an empty afternoon, she was attentive and engaging.

She didn’t read the books I read or watch the cable news I preferred, but she was sweet.

She was more an appreciator of jokes than an author of them, but I was at home with my shtick and her rejoining laughter.

And sexually—sexually I was all in. I’m a far cry from prudish, and have certainly engaged in the more unseemly elements of heteronormative sex, so nothing freaked me out. I was down for whatever. And it was good.

And for a while—a quiet, contented while—I was satisfied to let the earth, and indeed, my life, fall away, if, but for one blissful moment, and enjoy the novelty of her. “…and possibly… the thrill / of under me you/quite so new…” as cummings would say.

Here’s the thing—

Failed heterosexual or no–

The fact remains—

My basic, sad, elemental truth is—

That I am a monster.

A devourer of men (and apparently the occasional woman).

I’m all about confronting truths, you see.

I’m not built for sustaining ever-lasting unions with people.

I’m selfish.

And perhaps—even a little bit cruel. Not because of words or sheer abuse of action, mind you.

But because I’m not unhappy.

Neither with my present state or circumstance.

And monsters should be unhappy right?—

Cast out from all good society, grumbling irascibly under their breath, skulking about, ever-present grimace on their goblin-y faces.

We’re not.

We walk among the decent, and the upright.

We laugh gaily (pun intended), and make you comfortable, and you trust us when you shouldn’t.

In the ten years that have comprised my active romantic life, I have never not divulged the truth of my makeup to anyone I’ve been involved with.

And no one’s ever believed me—
Until it was too late.