because occasionally, there’s a win inside your loss…or, “Happiness Weekend 2011…”

Editor’s Note: So, I had to leave out 2-3 big details in telling this story, lest I distract y’all. I just thought I should mention that for the sake of almost-full disclosure….so…you know…

**A PROLOGUE**

A casual observer would have described my reaction to his leaving as “indifferent.”

In truth, he had been leaving for some time, slowly taking himself out of the picture, his own defense mechanism to my unyielding emotional resistance.

I’d felt it. I’d had ample time and sufficient opportunity to right it, to say just one encouraging word to indicate that I, too, had felt the shift in what was to be our casual time passing.

But I hadn’t.

I’d let the silence between us take over because it was comfortable for me; familiar. I played it cool better than any other, and this was my go-to zone.

This time was different, however. I was literally “playing” it cool. I was acting the unaffected. But I was affected. And I hated it.

His last attempt to reason with my stubbornness came in the form of an email.

My glacial reply was the stuff of legend. Fingers knew no compassion as my relationship antipathy took hold, pouring over my keyboard in a rush of abrupt, clipped tones.

And that was that.

I had known he wouldn’t reply, and he didn’t.

And I hadn’t wanted him to.

Only part of me had.

Tucked away in the furthest recesses of my heart, that part of me had wanted some forceful showing. For him to make a mad dash to my door in the rain. For him to shove his way inside my home. For him to shout at me words of frustration until I relented; relented and just once, in my small life, surrendered the steely guard that had kept so many others out, and me too long in.

But I wasn’t relationship ready. Or relationship stable. And I’d thought the same of him.

Until I signed on to Facebook.

“_____________ is in a relationship.”

I’d known he’d been nursing a situation with someone else, biding his time, attempting to make odds and ends of my own volatile behavior.

But the cold reality of his new union on bold display for all the internet to see was jarring. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Repeatedly. By Wendy Williams’ Louboutins. With Wendy Williams’ big assed feet still in them.
My eyes returned again and again to the one sentence that would be my dignity’s undoing.

I downed the scotch that had long sat idle by my laptop.

I exed out the Facebook window, and opened my gmail account.

“THIS motherfucker right here, though……” I said to myself aloud through clenched teeth.

***********************************************************************************

**DOROTHY PARKER AND THE VICIOUS CIRCLE……………..OF ADOLESCENT AGED GIRLS MASQUERADING AS ADULTS……**

“Dear friends,
I will not waste your time re-hashing what I think we will all agree are my somewhat complicated, and indeed, well-documented relationship struggles.
The sad fact remains that I’ve continued on in my pattern of destructive interpersonal behavior, and have, once again, due to my emotional retardation and sensitivity failings, managed to make yet another romantic interest hate my guts forever.
Bygones.
As we all know, the person who appears the least affected by a break up wins.
I don’t need anyone to point out the juvenile tenor of my argument.
I know it’s childish.
We ALL know it’s true.
As such, my continued dignity requires that I have Facebook pictures documenting me having a great time without this motherfucker.
I would like to call this project “Happiness Weekend 2011.”
This weekend, I would like us all to commit to making sure lots of pictures are taken of me having the best time of my life. Even if they’re entirely manufactured. Actually, the more perfect
the production, the better.
Naturally, I will serve as Creative Director on this project, and as such, humbly request that my approval be sought for any and all depictions of me intended for public consumption.
I also need there to be looooooots of pictures of me smiling and laughing, preferably with my head cocked back in raucous delight, but most especially of me in the intimate company of men. Think me having shared whispers with men, me sitting on men’s laps, me with my hand affectionately placed on a man’s cheek, me receiving a delicate butterfly frontal lobe kiss from a man, and lastly, Linesister’s suggestion of me tucking my hand in a man’s back pocket.
They need not even be men with whom I’m acquainted. I welcome stranger motherfuckers into the fold.
Now, I realize that this is something of an unusual request, made even more so by the fact that it’s coming from me.
I’m generally above all of this shit, and can seldom muster up enough energy to care.
I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve actually been sad at a path-parting….
Whatever.
We need to make this happen, ladies.
As always, I appreciate your help in the resolution of these matters……

Xoxo,
F”

We hit Tabaq with fastidious determination.

If any of my friends thought my plan ridiculously stupid, they had the grace not to say so.

Except Linesister. Her oath of loyalty and pledge to hold my literal and metaphorical brick obligated her to do my bidding. But she wasn’t happy about it. Linesister is a first rate hater.

I’d known that the girls were surprised by my behavior. My airtight code of privacy allowed for little investigation into my personal life. I also was not prone to emotional attachments or displays of regret. But one by one, they appeared lock-step at my side, prepared to support me in all of my fuckery. I was grateful.

I was also grateful for the fact that the Howard-Morehouse Classic made the U Street Corridor the perfect backdrop for my photo shoot. Tabaq was wall to wall with available men, and I’d arrived in Kelly Green silk and complicated eye makeup with a crew of beautiful, smiling girls.

Emboldened by the spirits raging through all of our systems we got to work. It was almost sad how easy it was.

Asia: “Excuse me. Hi, are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Can you take a picture with my friend?”

Bewildered man: “Uh? What?”

Me: “Hi. I’m so sorry. I know it’s weird. But I’ve just had an awful breakup, and I know it seems pathetic and crazy and psycho, but I assure you that I’m not. I just need a couple of pictures with men who look like they adore me so my get-back is sufficient. Do you mind? I’m really sad.” (I had to embellish a bit. Men love to feel like they’re rescuing a bitch.)

Bewildered man: “Uh. Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Me: “I just need you to look really interested in what I’m saying.”

*Asia starts snapping pictures*

Me: “I’m also going to need to touch you a little bit. You can touch me too.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just going to rest my hand on your cheek real quick.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “That’s right. Just inch a little bit closer. A littttle bit closer. Niiiiiice.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Bewildered man: “What should I say to you?”

*I grip his face, cock my head back, kick up my heel, and roar with fake raucous laughter*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. What’s your name?”

Bewildered man: “Paul.”

Me: “You’re really cute Paul. So you don’t have a girlfriend, huh?”

Time and time again, me and my faux paparazzi accosted lingering men, my tale of woe becoming larger and more grandiose with each new male subject.

The more I complimented them on how good looking, or tall, or sexy they were, the more willing and active of a participant each man became.

I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing.

Me: “Michael, you have the most beautiful mouth. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Karen, with her camera phone ever at the ready, began a quick succession of snaps.

Michael: “Um, well…I mean…I don’t—“

Me: “Honestly. Your lips are seriously sexy. I can’t even focus right now. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”

*Rests hand comfortably on Michael’s chest.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “Um, no. Not really. No.”

Me: “Where do you live, Michael?” (Note how often I’m saying his name. Dudes love bitches who say their names.)

Michael: “Manassas.”

Me: “Word? That’s quite a drive to DC.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “You know it?”

*Leans in to whisper to Michael.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Sure. I’m in Prince William County all of the time for court. I’m a lawyer.” (Men love bitches who are lawyers.)

Michael: “Really?”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Really. I wish I had a card with me to give you.”

Michael: “I could just take your number.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Swag.

By night’s end my ego was on one hundred thousand trillion, and I had a portfolio to rival anything Wilhemina could put out.

I soberly looked to my friends, who were all smiles and laughter at our embarrassment of photographic riches.

And my heart was decidedly less heavy. They’d backed me up without question or (visible)scorn, and made all of the night’s achievements possible.

Especially considering the fact that I didn’t own a working camera.

I promised myself, then and there that, irrespective of my communicative failings in the romantic department, I’d never stop letting these women know how much I appreciate them, or how entirely awesome they are (starting with this entry. I really love you guys. Thank you so much).

Gathering our things, and preparing for our next venue, a goofy smile plastered across my face, I looked at Asia. “Yo….why the FUCK haven’t we ever done this shit before?”

“da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo,” or, “my love letter to dc….”

Last night I lay prostrate on the third floor landing of a house in Ledroit. I’m unclear as to whether my eyes were open or closed. It was dark, though.

Laughter, the sounds of bodies moving in rhythmic cohesion, clinking glasses and filling cups , all thundered beneath me.

With each new musical selection, each newly minted guest, the party gained momentum–as if in contest with itself to reach some epic crescendo.

And I lay there, still and quiet, praying against being discovered. Despite the early hour, I’d been relegated to a state of suspended animation. My mind raged, tirelessly, trapped in a body felled low by its vices.

I thought in images, as opposed to succinct concepts—my condition would allow for little more—but each flashback was clear. I recounted, again and again, one after another, similar nights like this one—nights when the party didn’t stop, when the music never died, when the fun never ended.

And the only sentence I could thoroughly process, the one that continued on and on throughout my reverie, was a refrain from an old Billy Joel song: “I’ve loved these days.”

And I have.

*****

All of my hard-partying friends, my personal squad of derelicts, hover just under and just over the “30” mark.

And while we all have good degrees, better professions, mortgages and car notes, in the general scheme of “traditional” life, we have little else to recommend us.

And as our betters nestle themselves in the certainties of matrimony and parenthood, their decisions pre-ordained by Domesticity, we’re treading water in a sea of unknowns. We’ve met all of our goals. And now we struggle to create new ones. No one ever taught us how to manipulate this vacuous “what next?” part of our lives.

And it would be vacuous; by all rights, it should be vacuous.

Only, me and my derelicts—

We’ve filled it. Filled it full.

Bottomless mimosa brunches on Sundays, where the vulgarity of our humor is as low as our blood-alcohol concentrations are high.

The familiarity of strangers drunkenly learning a line dance under a copse of trees at a barbecue in Rock Creek Park.

Bodies slick with sweat, eyes closed, voices in unison, belting out “Magdalehna” on a Monday night at Marvin; “Heartbreak Hotel” on a Saturday night at Axel F.

I’ve loved these days.

Looking out at the Washington Monument from the balcony of the W, in the company of some of the most fascinating people I’ve met, and feeling so overwhelmingly lucky to be alive, in just this moment.

Drag Bingo at Nellie’s, Salsa at Habana, raucous margarita-inspired laughter on Wisconsin, slow, lazy Hookah smiles on 18th; vomiting outside of my car after a failed post-night-out-church-attempt-on-Sherman Avenue, getting pulled over on 15th in a car filled with a thousand drunk lawyers…………..

I’ve loved these days.

While we might not have run these streets, we certainly ran hard and fast in them.

And with every passing week, we run harder and faster still.

We’re well aware…………..there will be a time—

A time for the payment of debts; for the closing of tabs and the settling of accounts. A time for sensible shoes and moderation of drink.

There will be a time for severity.

A time for minivans and coupons, for talk of the market. A time for chastity of speech and even more chastity of action.

There may even be a time to be sorry for our current excesses.

But not yet.

Last night, I lay prostrate on the third floor landing of a house in Ledroit, my fellow party-goers, politely stepping over my near-dead body as the celebrants down below danced happily into oblivion.

Make no mistake about it—

I’ve loved these days.

buy groceries. when you don’t buy groceries people you don’t want to do it to you try to do it to you….

“You have a really strong aura,” the woman seated in the booth called out to me from her darkened corner of the room.

“Um,” I said, furrowing my brow, “Thank you, I guess.” I tipped my Old Fashioned in her direction and swiveled on my bar stool so that my back was, again, to her.

“Doesn’t she have a strong aura?” she asked of her seatmate in a volume loud enough for me to hear her.

Her company mumbled something in concession to her assessment, and the woman clapped her hands wildly.

I couldn’t tell you what had possessed me to eat in the bar. I never ate in the bar. In four years time I had never eaten in the bar.

This shit shack had the best fries in town, and was open later than anywhere else in town, and served food and booze until 2 am during the week.

But I’d always taken my food home.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’d ordered an Old Fashioned and the veggie sub and fries I’d had yesterday, and taken a seat at the bar.

It quickly proved a momentous decision.

“My husband and I would love it if you’d join us,” said the woman, who was, all at once, behind me. She was in her early forties with fiery red hair and sharp features, and intent on looking directly into my eyes.

I was caught entirely off guard. “Oh—um…no. No. I couldn’t.”

“Please, please, please, please!!!?!?” she continued to clap her hands emphasizing each word. “You’re all alone, and we’d love the company!  We’re here visiting and don’t know anybody.  Besides, I want to give you a reading!! Your aura is incredible. Please??!”

I looked to the corner where her husband was still seated, watching us, closely.

“Come on! We won’t bite. Let us buy you another drink. It looks like you’re out.”

DING DING DING DING DING.

“Well, all right. But just for a moment,” I said, making a show of reluctantly picking up my plate in the face of getting a free drink.

Now, I know what y’all are thinking.

You’re thinking, “These people are going to try to fuck her. This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck her.”

And you know what?

Fuck it.

I’ma spoil the shit out of my own story because it is just that unbelievable.

This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck me just now.

Now, when we return to the tale, our heroine (me) is just sitting down to dine with the two merrymakers.

“Mark” and “Caroline” were in town on business. Mark did something in marketing and Caroline had joined him for the week, employing a team of sitters and relatives to watch their three children while away.

“Are you married, Fooler?” asked Mark, looking at me in that You-wanna-do-sex-to-my-dead-body-Bob? kinda way.

“Um, no. No, I’m not.”

“Lovely woman like you? Dimple like that? You can’t tell me no one’s tried to make an honest woman out of you,” he said, slowly sipping his drink.

I’m generally unresponsive in the face of extreme awkwardness, so I simply offered a nervous shrug.

“I want to give you a reading!” exclaimed Caroline. “Sweetheart, tell her I’m a mystic.”

I looked to Mark who was eyeing me, saying nothing.

“Is that what a person who gives readings is called?” I asked her. “A mystic?”

“I love that you’re drinking bourbon,” said Mark, seemingly out of nowhere.

I looked at him plainly. “What?”

“Sweetheart!!! Tell her I’m a mystic!” Caroline exclaimed, clapping her hands, again.

Mark’s eyes didn’t waver from mine. “She’s a mystic,” he said. I knew I hadn’t imagined the sardonic tenor of his words.

“Please, Fooler?!” Caroline began, “Please, please, pl—“

I held up my hand.

“You can give me a reading, Caroline.”

“Yay!” she clapped. Everything was an exclamation with this broad.

“You’ll have to let me hold your hands. I want to prepare you because I can already sense that you have some trust issues.”

I looked at her and was confronted with the most earnest facial expression I have ever seen on a woman.  “I’ll need to finish my drink for this, I think,” I said.

“Oh, do!! Do!” she commanded.  “Mark,” she barked out at her husband, to whom she’d been paying little attention, “Go get Fooler another drink.”

Now, trust me, I think it is the height of impropriety to let strangers buy you an endless succession of drinks, but I had the distinct impression that I was working for my supper. So, when Mark looked at me for confirmation and asked, “Another Old Fashioned?” I merely nodded in agreement.

I swigged the remainder of my drink, and placed my hands in Caroline’s. Her thumbs encircled the tops of my fingers. She inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes.

In a heavy, breathy voice, she began.

“You are going through a great transition in your life, right now. There are some major changes on the horizon for you.”

I sat still, neither confirming nor denying.

“You are scared. You’re really scared, but you’re trying not to show it. Oh God, don’t be afraid, Fooler!”

I shifted in my seat, a bit, in reaction to her passionate outcry.

“You feel trapped. You’re always trapped and unsettled. You always keep one foot outside of the door. You always want to walk away. You never involve yourself in a situation you can’t walk away from.”

I looked at her closed eyelids. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I thought.

Mark returned, and pushed the drink in front of me. “Did I miss anything good?” he asked.

“You have problems with men,” Caroline answered.

“They have problems with me,” I countered.

“Ahh, ‘The lady doth protest,’” sang Mark.

“One in particular. No, no. More than one. Maybe two or three. You have a few unresolved—“ She opened one eye and looked at me accusingly, “You’ve been busy.”

I shrugged and attempted to keep my face impassive.

“You’ve got such an adventurous spirit. You just don’t know how or what to do with it. You’re lost. You’re so, so lost.”

“Caroline?” I interrupted.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t mean to be rude. You both have been very nice, but—“ I withdrew my hands from hers as her eyes shot open, “You gotta get the fuck outta here with this shit.”

Caroline’s brow furrowed. “But, Fooler! Am I off? I’m right, aren’t I?! I’m right. I’m right and I’m too close and that frightens you. Don’t be frightened. Quick, give me your hands!”

Caroline reached out for my hands and placed them square in the middle of her chest.

“Can you feel my heart?” she asked, looking at me with pleading moss-colored eyes.

I looked around and was met by the curious gazes of the other wasted bar patrons, no doubt wondering why I had my ebony hands on this white woman’s titties.

“Steady, right?” she asked.

“Uh…what?”

“My heart,” she answered in that breathy talk. “Can you feel how steady it beats under your hands?”

This shit right here is the second gayest shit I’ve ever done in my life.

“Open yourself to it, Fooler. I’m giving you good energy.” She was looking at me expectantly. I wouldn’t even give her the benefit of a head nod. I tried to recollect how I’d gotten to this place.

“Look, it’s getting lat—“ I began.

Caroline closed her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

She was doing that whisper that I use when I’m trying to irritate my linesister; that date rape whisper.

“It’s early,” she continued.

I looked over to Mark who’d been unusually silent. A glazed expression covered his face. I suspiciously eyed the drink he’d pushed toward me. I hadn’t taken a sip.

“Fooler,” Caroline whispered sternly, taking my hands and placing them on either side of her face.

I can’t believe this shit is really happening.

“Fooler. FoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFooler. Fooler. I think you should come back to the hotel with me and Mark.”

Oh hell no.

I sat upright, maneuvering my hands from her face. “You know what? No. I have work in the morning—“

“We’ll see you home in time,” said Mark.

Oh, now you wanna chime in, motherfucker?

“My dogs need to be walked. I can’t just—You know what? No.” I stood up.

“Fooler, come onnnnnnnnn!” Caroline whined.

I rumbled through my bag, and grabbed my keys .  “It was very nice meeting you both. I hope your business goes well, Mark. Caroline—“

I searched in my bag some more, trying to think of what the fuck to say to this crazy sexually ambiguous bitch. “Caroline, thanks for the reading. Really. I wish you all the best.”

I found a twenty at the bottom of my purse, and placed it on the table.

“Y’all have a great night,” I said, turning to walk away. I took two steps forward, before turning around again and walking back.

I grabbed the twenty from the corner of the table.

“Forgot. Drinks were on you.”

the return of Fooler Fridays part ii: my take+rob’s take+tre’s take+an experiment…

 

Fooler—

Your opinion on women approaching men?  Had a discussion about this with one of your sorors, and the idea was deemed ridiculous. A man should approach a woman and blah, blah, blah. That traditional bullshit makes no sense to me. It seems to me that a woman approaching a man would cut through a lot of bullshit on both ends…Anyway, hope you discuss.

This is such a fantastic question, I don’t even know where to begin.

Full disclosure.

I was totally going to answer this question with some quippy, snarky, retort, heavy on the progressive, modern woman sentiment, light on the substance.

But my point was going to be simple: It’s 2010. Of course women should hit on men. I was going to regale you with all of my thoughts on the matter, and then laughingly conclude with, “But I seldom hit on men.”

Fate intervened, however, and I will now commence presenting you with both my researched findings on the matter at hand, as well as—do try and contain your excitement—an experiment on the same.

First of all, let me give you my prevailing theory on why more women don’t hit on men.

Wait.

Lemme see if I can draw you a diagram. This blog has never utilized a diagram. You will see why, shortly.

                        TYPES OF WOMEN WHO DON’T HIT ON MEN

                                                                      /\

                                                                   /      \

                                                              /                \

       Women who don’t hit on men b/c                     Scared Broads

      they think it goes against the  natural                                /\           

      order of things & men should be the                               /         \

       aggressors.                                                                           /                \

                                                                                                  /                         \

                                         Women who are embarrassed                      Women who believe

                                       about the nature of the potential                  that a man would

                                       rejection.                                                                  hit on you if he were

                                                                                                                             truly interested.

 First things first.

Forget about those broads in category 1. Lost cause.

Category 2, however, and its subsequent subsections—there’s hope, there.

I happen to generally fall into category 2, both subsections.

Now, when I got your question, I was with my friend, Rob, who gave me tremendous insight with his own male perspective.

However, to understand his perspective and appropriately qualify his rationale, you must first hear mine.

And it goes like this:

Granted, while many of us can agree that women should hit on men, there are external forces to consider; namely, rejection.

And, realistically, that’s all category 2 boils down to: rejection.

Here are our dominant thoughts on the matter:

The Object of My Affection (OMA) Might not Like me Physically-

-This is absolutely more significant in the realm of women hitting on men than the inverse. Why? Because women are infinitesimally more forgiving of what we perceive to be physical flaws/defects than men.  And I stand by this shit so firmly. (I know many of you will have examples of this not being true, but keep them. You cannot dissuade me of this notion. ) A broad will date a gremlin and talk up his dickmedown abilities so strong to her friends, and dare anyone to challenge the mythicalbeastiness of his grill. A man could love the shit out of a homely broad; I guarandamntee his friends won’t see hide nor tail of that ass until he’s engaged to be married to her, his betrothal ring solidifying her entrenchment in the youbetternotmakefunofthisbitchcauseshe’sabouttobethemotherofmychildren camp. Thus, the probability of not liking how the other looks and it affecting one’s willingness to engage  is greater for you than me.

Despite Allen Iverson’s Vehement Protestations to the Contrary, Practice DOES Affect the Outcome of (the)Game, and We Ain’t Practiced.  Like, Not Neva.

-No matter where you stand on the issue, you cannot refute (as you will be bested by history) that women have not been raised in the tradition of hitting on men. Throughout the ages, the exact opposite has been the case.  So, we have no definitive mating cry; no well-honed skill-set designed to suavely come-hither the menfolk with our words. And we have thrived within the confines of the existing schematic—men,  aggressively driving it down the middle in the hopes of a layup; women, off in the wings of the foreground, prepared like fuck to rebound that shit, and pass it back. And we’re GREAT at passing the ball back. I can assist like you wouldn’t believe. Take my panties off and wrap them around the ball and eva-ree-thang. Only now, the tables have turned. Life has fouled me. And suddenly I’m at the line with Shaq hands, and the ball I’m trying to get in might as well be a screaming baby. And everything that occurs to me to say to you sounds so lame when I play it back in my mind. Lame and creepy. Lame and creepy and desperate. Like, not smooth at all. Bumpy and acne’d as a bitch. And even if I pass your physical standards, you might be disinclined to forgive my lame ass wack ass delivery. Cause no matter how open-minded you are, you don’t particularly fancy broads with muscular dystrophy of the mouth.

Women are Sometimes Immobilized by Rejection.

-Everybody simmer down. Not all women. Certainly not the types who eagerly hit on men.  And I don’t mean throughout life. I just mean in terms of male/female romantic interaction. And there’s a reason for this: we’re not used to it. And there’s a reason for that: we aren’t traditionally charged with the responsibility of hunting dudes. So when a woman puts herself out there, takes a risk, and babysteps into foreign territory, only to be told “No,” she is devastated. Know the last time I was rejected by a man when I put myself out there? 1992. Know when I recovered from it and tried again? 2009. Men, on the other hand, are rejected by women all of the time. This isn’t a matter of right or wrong, just simple statistics. Men hit on more women than women hit on men, therefore, more women will reject men than vice versa. And the likely result—men are more accustomed to rejection. Y’all have developed—through an evolution of rejection—a tougher skin when it comes to things like this; you know, romantic webbed feet, if you will. Y’all can just bounce back and move on to the next one. My friend, Justin, used to say, “If you hit on 100 of them in one night, 98 will probably say ‘No,’ but, who cares? 2 will say ‘Yes’!!!” You see that? You see the optimism that man exhibited? If 98 dudes told me “No” in one night, I’d kill myself. Tout de suite.

But, I digress.

On to Rob.

His answer to all of this? In a nutshell—Bullshit. Who cares. Get over it. Be me, ho! (He didn’t say the “ho” part, there, but I took some license as it’s my blog)

To my “What if he doesn’t like me physically?”—

-Relax. Nine times out of ten, any man that you hit on is going to be nice to you, and engage you. No matter what. This necessarily excludes jerkoffs, who will be rude and vile irrespective of how you look, and really, who gives a damn about them? The guy is going to be so impressed by the fact that you came over in the first place, and so flattered, he’s going to talk to you, and make you feel at ease. Women shouldn’t even give this any consideration. He’ll probably find your boldness, itself, attractive.

To my “I’m going to sound like a complete jackass when I approach him.”—

-The answer to this one is similar in kind to the first. The fact that you even bother to approach sets you apart from all of the women in the room. You are immediately in a better position than the legions of women occupying bar space, whose sense of entitlement inclines them to do little more than look pretty while awaiting the generous outpouring of drinks his wallet is expected to produce. He doesn’t expect you to be a comedian or a pimp (although both are appreciated); your sincerity and brazen attempt at forwardness are enough.

To my “But y’all are used to rejection. We’re not.”— Though I will paraphrase, note the quotes

-“Seriously? In your lifetime, how many men have hit on you? How many? I bet HUNDREDS. I bet HUNDREDS of men have probably hit on you. Do you know how many women have hit on me? NOT.ONE. NOT.ONE. For every man that rejects you, there are another ten, in your direct line of vision who won’t. So, let’s say you get up the nerve and hit on a guy and he’s not interested. So what? As soon as you climb down from your seat and turn around, you got ten other dicks there in the room pointed straight at you. Yeah, the first guy rejected you. So.the.fuck.what. Know what happens when a girl rejects me? I gotta start alllllll over again, from scratch, and build up the confidence again to hit on another girl, who will probably, also reject me. Why? Cause that’s just what girls do. And then they want to get mad when we build up these super arrogant alter egos to counter all of this rejection we get. Then we’re douchebags. I tell you what. Women create the traits they loathe in men.”

I was floored. Floored.  I’d never considered half of the knowledge Rob was dropping on me. I should state, for the record, that Rob is really good looking.  It was unfathomable to me that no one had ever blindly hit on him in a bar.

And while all of his wisdom was something of a roundhouse kick to the throat, I needed to be sure. He was vehement in his assertions, yes. But was he right?

I needed an experiment.

Yes.

An experiment.

I hit Tabaq with a determined sense of purpose. I was clad in my special iridescent JudyJetson-style dress that I’d had delivered from the UK, and my gorgeous, exceedingly high, dominatrix-strappy, giveittomehardandfast pumps.

Your girl was going all out.

The trick would be to find a man who wouldn’t normally be attracted to me (in my estimation—I won’t fall into the trap that would entail telling you who this type of man is; damned if I’m gonna let y’all flay me over that shit) initiating a conversation with him, and making a pass at him.

The night, overall, was a resounding failure. When I’d start to give a man that knowing look, he’d give me that knowing look, back.  Or hit on me outright. No bueno. I needed the stakes to be high in order for my venture to be legit.

I had almost given up all hope (I had no idea so many men would be responsive to my completely ridiculous dress), when—

There he was.

Christopher Williams lookin’ dude, clad in a seer-sucker jacket, posted up by the bar, cold chillin’, not saying shit to anybody, encircled by a group of his friends, looking disinterested in the array of people before him.

The moment I spotted him, I knew he was perfect.

He wasn’t my type at all, either (and that’s saying something, believe me).

And I knew this was an experiment. Not real in the slightest. In real life, I didn’t give a fuck if this man found me to be a belching, putrescent troll, and yet—

I was scared as a motherfucker.

I could hear my heart banging in my ears. My palms got a little sweaty.  Ohmygod! What if he hates me?! What if he thinks I’m lame?! What if his friends laugh at me!?

I took a deep breath, and, quite literally, manned up. Relax, Fooler. You’re clever as a bitch. And you’re naked. And you just got your hair cut. You’ve got the smoothest taper in three states right now. Don’t let this baby-haired man bitch you up.

So I sauntered over—this is the part where I like to fantasize that my mere presence parted the body-bumpin’ dancers like Moses and the Red Sea, however blasphemous that may appear on paper—and took a spot next to him at the bar. I observed him in my periphery as I requested a Chardonnay from the bartender.

This was my moment.

I took that bitch.

Me: “So, I came over here and ordered this drink just as a diversion.”

New Millennium Christopher Williams (NMCW): “Oh yeah? What’s the diversion for?”

Me: “I needed it as an excuse to come and talk to you.”

*imaginary fist pump to the sky* You-a pimp, bitch!!!

NMCW: *chuckle, smile, chuckle, laugh*

Me: “So, as a precautionary measure, as I care a great deal for my general safety, are you with any of the women here?”

NMCW: “Nope. I came with my boys, here.”

Me: “And you left your girlfriend/wife at home? (I should note, I HATE it when dudes don’t just come out and ask me if I have a boyfriend rather than dance around it like this—that shit is NOT cute at all—but, alas, I was new at this shit, and nervous.)”

NMCW: “No wife. No girlfriend.”

*imaginary double fist pump to the sky*

And on and on we went, in that fashion, for a solid 10 minutes. And after a while, he was asking me the questions. He was engaging me like hell, and I easily fell into the rhythm, that, honestly, was similar in kind to that which I’m generally accustomed.

 It ended with his boys getting ready to leave, and him saying his goodbyes.

And all I could think about was how right Rob had been. This man hadn’t been interested in me, no. But he’d engaged me—been a willing and active participant, as a matter of fact—in conversation. He wasn’t rude at all. Quite the contrary. And, true to form, when he and his friends left, 4 other men ended up hitting on me, and making sure that the man with whom I’d been talking hadn’t, in fact, been my man.

By the way, I hasten to note that I’d thought my experiment (conducted over a month ago) had yielded perfect results ——————–until 3 nights ago…

My friend, Tre, brought up—quite casually, really—that I hadn’t taken the experiment to its full finish. As a matter of fact, I’d taken it all the way to the edge, only to turn around at the last moment.

You see, I’d expected to do all of the work: the initiation, the flirting, whathaveyou; but in the back of my mind, I was still thinking that, at the end of the day, my boy counterpart would take the reins, and bring it home, with a request for my number.

Tre’s revelation almost made me crash my car.

I should have asked NMCW for his number!!!

Then, and only then, would my makeshift foray into the woes of man-kind have been complete.

I’ll have to try that next time…

And by “next time,” I mean, “in a couple months.”

Really fellas, that shit right there is HORRIFYING.

Well done, you.

I’m giving ALLA Y’ALL my number on GP, next time I’m out (now, it might be an office number, but y’all brave bastards will NOT walk away empty handed).

But, the takeaway is the same—

Outside of the initial buildup of anxiety, ladies—nothing to fear, here.  Holler at those sexy ass men.

So, I know it seems like i hate the ADA, but I don’t. The ADA hates me.

A little piece of me died on the Fourth of July.

Once again, I underestimated the power of a motherfucker with no legs to creep into my body, and steal my very soul.

You see, I’d assumed, that if your legs were all fucked and paraplegically janky, you would generally err on the side of shutting the hell up, and not letting any manner of crazy shit come out of your fully-functioning mouth.

Wrong.

Wrong.

As it turns out, a Gumbylegged bitch will roll up on you and ruin your entire evening just as quickly as a bitch with good, working knees.

There I was, clad in my fresh, white dress, shoulders out, hair all black and shiny (by “shiny” I mean, glossy-enough-to-look-fantastically-HalleBerry-in-good-lighting, but just-short-of-greasy-so-any-white-man-or-not-typically-associated-with-black-girls-devoid-of-color-man could run his fingers all through it and escape confusion or awkwardness), sitting solo (ON PURPOSE) by the bar on the first floor of the W.

I was jotting down notes from the previous evening, and my neck was still flushed from the ribald guffaw I’d just delivered to my barkeep’s face when he’d informed me that my glass of chardonnay was seventeen dollars.

All I’d wanted was to pass some time; to avoid the fray of south-bound holiday traffic.

And I was doing so, peacefully, when my thoughts were interrupted by the, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” coming from down below.

Seated in one of those half wheelchair/half walker contraptions (for the sake of today’s entry, we’ll refer to said machine as a “wheelwalker”), was a Chinese girl, seemingly my age, wearing one thousand rings on her mere ten fingers, and a tiara on her head.

Mellowed out by my first glass of wine for the evening, but, truthfully, probably my fourth for the day, I answered, simply, “Not at all,” and moved my purse from the coveted spot.

Let me use my favorite hood preamble so you can appropriately gage the gravity of the following set of circumstances.

Now,me,myself,personally—I don’t just roll up on other broads while I’m out and strike up conversation with them for no reason. That’s either some Ilovemesomebitches type shit or some I’mwarmandoverlyfriendly type shit. I profess no particular talent for either category.

Which is why I was surprised—and by “surprised” I mean “shocked” and “fucking appalled”—when this broad proceeded to do just that—strike up a random conversation with me.

WheelwalkerBroad: “I love the Fourth of July, don’t you!?”

Me: “Er—I’m not particularly big on it as far as holidays go, no.”

WWB: “I think a lot of black people feel that way.”

Me: “Uh, I didn’t mean it from a—“

WWB: “Cause like, I know a lot of black people are angry about slavery and racism and stuff, but, like, I’m like, I mean, get over it.”

Now, I want to stop the narrative, at this point, and inform everyone that, when shit like this happens to you, you never respond the way you think you’ll respond. For instance, me,myself,personally, I assume that I’d get all righteously indignant, stand up, and shout out my Angela Davis/Stokely Carmichael-style schpiel detailing 200 years of slavery, three decades of Jim Crow, and present-day continued systemic, institutionalized race-prejudice, followed by an angered pouring of my drink on her non-working, ignorant, babylegs.

But she was handicapped.

And my drink cost seventeen dollars.

So, instead, I just sat there, mouth agape, as she continued, barely ceasing for breath, about black people being angry for good reason, but, you know, beleaguering the point and “not getting over it.”

And she had lots to say. LOTS.

She talked about hating the people she’d gone to college with, because they were all spoiled, rich types; not people like her and “probably [me]” who’d come from hard-working, but poor families.

She talked about how she’d thought that sororities were so stupid, and how her roommate had pledged a sorority and she didn’t know what all they’d done, but she was certain it was stupid. And besides that, even if it wasn’t, they were mean black girls, and probably discouraged her roommate from being her friend. They were Deltas. All Deltas were mean. She hated Deltas. Only after she’d vomited this sea of unwanted information all over my person, did she inquire: “Did you pledge a sorority when you were in college?” Me: “Yes.” WWB: “Oh really? Which one?” Me: “Delta.”

Between her repeated and conspicuous flip-hair-over-shoulder-then-flip-it-forward-to-hang-on-shoulder movements, she told me about her one million careers, one of which had included doing hair and makeup for “lots of designers.” She let me know that I should probably wear a little bit more make up; that while my eyelashes had sufficient length, they could use a bit more volume.

And I wanted to scream. I did. I wanted to tell her to shut up. I truly did.

But the bitch didn’t have any legs.

What do I look like screaming “Shut the fuck up!” to a bitch with no legs in a bar? How am I gonna look, being all, “BITCH, you’re wearing a FUCKING TIARA in a BAR” to a broad with Teddy Pendergrass  quadriceps in the foyer of the W? It’s kind of a classy place. It just isn’t done.

So there I sat, considering the ramifications of simply setting myself on fire, and the likelihood of her continuing her one-woman conversation with my charred, smoky, engulfed in flames black body, when she suggested: “So, I’m on the list for the party upstairs. Wanna come? It’s free top shelf booze til 12.”

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!!!!

I called to mind the countless times throughout my childhood when my mother and grandmother had informed me, “God can do anything but fail.” And I knew that my willingness to bind my tongue, just this once, had paid off. And my reward would not have to wait til Heaven. Oh no. My reward was in a chilled glass on the rooftop of the W.

Once upstairs, a lot of people stared at us.

I had been drinking, so it was hard to say if they were staring because we looked ridiculous together, or because I looked so dope in my white dress with my glossy hair.

But, were I a betting woman, I’d guess that they were staring because my companion was in her wheelwalker JAMMING.

I mean, gettingthefuckdown.

She was doing half-sexy half body rolls in her wheelwalker (Here’s something you don’t often think about: a full body roll with full-sexy is a luxury only able-bodied bitches can afford. You don’t realize how lucky you are til you see a bitch attempt a half body roll in her wheelwalker).

And while she wasn’t doing wheelies or spins in the WW, she was definitely on the floor grooving with her machinery. Like, make-the-crowd-of-people-around-us-hype grooving.

At some point, I became really self-conscious about all of the eyes on us. And then it hit me—the depths to which I’d sink for free alcohol.

I feigned dizziness, and tried to gracefully depart, but WWB followed me to the bathroom. She chatted incessantly about nothing even as I peed.

As I washed my hands and told her I was ready to go home, she suggested we hit up another spot a few blocks up and go for a swim in a rooftop pool. Free entry, of course. More free booze, of course.

And I thought about my life, just then. I thought about the woman I’d become. I thought about how far away I was from home. I thought about the next time I’d get to go skinny dipping in some rooftop pool with a bunch of strangers and free booze, without a care in the world.

Then another scene entered my mind. This one involved me explaining to EMS workers how I’d gotten some pseudo-legless broad wasted and then dumped her little drunken naked ass in a pool, where her efforts to swim like everyone else had resulted in an irrevocable, fatal fail.

The party was over.

“Naw, dawg,” I said. “Thanks, but, I gotta get home.”

She looked crestfallen, but it couldn’t be helped. I wasn’t gonna end my future over this bitch. She hated Deltas and had called me poor.

“All right,” WWB sighed. “By the way, what was your name, again?”

Fooler Fridays–delayed, condensed, and….on Saturday…but, for what it’s worth….

My apologies for the delay, guys…my real life got in the way. Here you are, fresh for your consumption, two weeks worth of Fooler Friday questions…..

Fooler, great blog. Here’s my question. Hope you answer it. Should I be worried that my boyfriend won’t let me go through his phone?

No.

Know why?

It’s his phone.

I know a lot of women will disagree with me on this one, but, I am, and have always been, vehemently anti-snooping.

It makes you look crazy and irrational.

More importantly, it is a complete invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend has a right to his privacy. That’s the bottom line.

I know that’s not what you want to hear, right? In your mind, you’re probably all, “If he didn’t have anything to hide, I could look through his phone.”

You’re probably right. But here’s the thing: Most people have something to hide.

I’m sure your boyfriend has a gang of exposed titties on his iPhone. I’m sure some skank with an itty bitty waistline and a big ole booty has sent him every manner of suggestive “sext.”

And while that shit is the “proof” of wrongdoing, your preferred method of “procurement” is unnecessary, and equally violative.

Here’s how I see it.

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution grants all persons in this country an inalienable protection against unreasonable search and seizure. Bear with me for a moment.

In criminal law, if a suspect is stopped and detained unlawfully, and subsequently searched, no matter how gruesome or incriminating the find, said contraband is subject to a determination of inadmissibility. This is generally referred to as the doctrine of “The Poisonous Tree.” All of the shit illegally recovered—the “fruit” of the “Poisonous Tree.”

Invading someone’s privacy to substantiate your suspicions is a toxic practice. Scrolling through someone’s call log is the figurative epitome of Poisonous Tree branches. It undermines the trust, security, affection and respect people agree to share when first they embark on a relationship.

In essence, it’s fucked up.

Further, it’s unnecessary. In my mind, the mere fact that you want to search his phone is telling. It suggests either a problem with you, or a problem with him and how he’s behaving. If your suspicions compel you to need proof of his fidelity; if he has to literally prove that to you—that is to say, it’s not otherwise evident—you might want to give some thought to whether this is the type of space you want to be in.

Besides-

If he’s not a complete jackass, his phone is clean, anyway. All that means is that he’s A) erased her texts and photos, or B) has her number saved under “Brian” or “Mark” in his contacts.

Fooler, I love the writing on this blog. I do some freelance writing, myself, and love and admire your use of language. Do you have a favorite word? I’m obsessed with words.

I love this question!!! I ask people this question ALL of the time! I do have a favorite word, actually. Ready for it?

“decadent”

Permit me a non sequitur.

One of my favorite indie movies is this film called “Flirting” with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman. There’s this scene where the high society Nicole Kidman is describing this off beat relationship she has with some random blue collar man. She describes this practice they have which involves her sitting in a chair, perfectly still, and him simply walking around her, periodically touching her. Then she exhales deeply, and says, “Just the thought of it makes me feel shivery delicious all over.”

This is one of my all-time favorite movie lines, and it goes straight to the heart of how I feel about the word “decadent.” I’m fairly certain that anything categorically characterized as such has the capacity to make me feel “shivery delicious all over.”

Whew. It’s hot in here.

Hey, Girl. I’ve always loved DC, but I never get to spend any real time there. I’m planning a trip for a week or two towards the end of the summer. What’s your favorite thing to do in DC and why?

Wow, this is a huge question.

With lots of answers.

Generally, I like to kick it with my friends. And I make it a point to always, always set an extra place setting for my favorite “roll dawg” of choice, bourbon.

As it happens, DC is chock full of places to just chill and imbibe seven days a week. I’ll be damned if drinks on a moonlit rooftop terrace, with good company, amidst a backdrop of centuries old triumphs in architecture don’t beat all.

Now, when I want to go somewhere no one will recognize me; when I’m feeling frisky, and in the mood to dangle my participles and substitute “ph” consonant blends for “th” consonant blends (“wiph” for “with,” “earph” for “earth” and so on); when I want to don my palm-sized doorknockers that my linesister has forbidden me to wear beyond the four walls of my home–I go to Lux.

But, I’m an only child, so I’m pretty big on basic things as well. I’d equally consider, among my favorite DC to dos:

-walking my dogs downtown.

This is best affected in a quasi-revealing sundress and large sunglasses. The combination of dogs, flesh, and “stunnas” is lethal for the average DC male, and you are bound to return home with approximately a 46-68% boost in confidence.

-visiting the monuments…at night.

Guarandamnteed BEST makeout spots in the Greater DC Metropolitan Area. Careful not to get arrested.

-the zoo.

It’s hot as FUCK to do, and it goes on for years, but I love the National Zoo. And I’m a non-meat eating zoo-hater, generally, so it’s saying something that I love it so. I make everyone who visits go at least once.

Finally, I have this elaborate fantasy about getting on the train and riding it to no where in particular, but simply watching people along the way. People in this area are out of their minds crazy, which makes for good blogging. When I finally get the time to do it, I know it will quickly overpower any previously enumerated thing on this list.

Fooler, I have a crazy situation. Me and my best friend have been cool since we were kids. We’re both 31 now. She has been dating her boyfriend for 4 years and he is a great guy. They’ve been through some stuff along the way, but he’s great. We’ve been cool for a bit and have always gotten along, but I recently moved to a new apartment and we live closer to each other so we’ve been spending more time together. I know I’m attracted to him and I know he’s attracted to me and we’ve talked about it but haven’t acted out of loyalty to my girl. But she’s cheating on him! And he suspects but doesn’t know. People can’t help who they fall in love with. Should I tell him she’s cheating?

This is a great time for me to restate my general Fooler Fridays caveat: I am NOT a relationship expert. I am not a people expert. I am not qualified to advise any person on any thing outside of the shit I hold degrees in (and even that is occasionally suspect).

That said—

Girl, HELL NO.

What.in.the.fuck.are.you.playing.at?

That dude is NOT your man.

He is your friend’s man. Period. The end.

This isn’t some ridiculous surrender to the arbitrary dictates of Girl Law shit, either. What you are contemplating is pretty broad strokes fucked up.

I literally, two days ago, came across this great E.M. Forster quote: “…[I]f I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I should hope I have the guts to betray my country.”

Maybe your girl is a shady character. Maybe she’s not worth a damn. But, you’ve thrown your lot in with hers and, by your own admission, have cleaved to her since you were children. Why would you betray her trust?

I obviously don’t know you.

I don’t know this man.

Maybe he is the answer to your soul’s siren song.

Maybe you are two tragic, star-crossed lovers, thrown into the chaos of this crazy, unpredictable world, and as the foundations of everything else you knew, and were indeed, certain of, crumble about you, all you’ve left is a desperate, love-wrought, adhesion to one another.

But my money’s on your being two horny, selfish, sonsofbitches.

Look. Who among us hasn’t been attracted to a friend’s boyfriend or girlfriend at one time or another? It makes perfect sense. Friends are drawn to each other often out of some commonality of purpose or perspective, so it’s in keeping with shared ideologies and tastes that they’d occasionally overlap in their affections for the companions of the other. No harm, no foul. It’s logical even.

But, girl, when you start creeping around that man’s house under cover of night, not telling your girl—or worse, telling her, because she has every reason to trust that the two of you will comport yourselves appropriately, you’re treading dangerous waters.

I hate it when people say “You can’t help who you fall in love with.” That’s bullshit. The heart may indeed want what it wants, but the heart is trapped inside of your body; your body has an ass attached to it; you and that ass ought to be at home, in your own house, with your own man.

But you didn’t ask me all of that.

You asked me if you should dime out your best friend.

No.

Here’s why:

1. You’re not acting out of his best interest. You’re acting out of your own. Telling him is only going to unleash hurt and anger. Maybe it will make you feel better because you’re not guarding a secret, but it will make him feel worse. Further, your loyalties to her outweigh any loyalty you feel you have toward him. Not to mention the fact that this is kind of a hater thing to do, no? Snitching out your friend so that he can fall for you.

1. He’s gonna be mad. Know why? Cause his girl is cheating on him. How’s that going to make you feel watching him freak out over her indiscretion? And let’s say he gives himself permission to fuck you silly after finding out. How will you know that his actions aren’t in whole or in part motivated by some vendetta he has against his whoremongering girl (who I’ll remind you is your best friend)?

1. What if he tells her you told him? Men are notorious for getting angry and telling shit they don’t have any business telling. NOTORIOUS. How are you going to explain your telling to your friend? She’s done him dirty for sure, but, damn, she thought she could confide in you.

Look, I’m all about freedom, and doing your own thing, and moral relativity, and situational flexibility and all that and all that. And in defense of my EXCEEDINGLY judgmental depiction of your situation (and I apologize for it), I am simply a stranger responding to a stranger’s anonymous question. I don’t know you. I don’t know your love, and therefore I lack the capability to see any “special” in your particular set of circumstances. In fact, all I see is typical. I see, in typical, girl fashion, one broad going for another broad’s man.

I’ve done my fair share of dirt, but I punish myself severely when I’ve fucked over a friend.

Just once, for the sake of the historical analysis; for the analogs of Womankind; for the edification of our gender, whose time-worn chronology has seen more than its just portion of boys destroying the unions of girls—

Be atypical.

Choose her.

Go ahead…pour a lil’ out for the homies who ain’t here…

Tupac once told us, not too long ago, that, if you mix a drink that is one part Alize, and one part Crystal, you will magically be transformed into a thug.

Prior to ‘Pac’s elucidation, I profess to having always deemed malt liquor and “Henny” to be the preferred refreshments of thug greats.

He blew my whole mind with that revelation.

But, the man was a legend.

As I sat here, tonight, working, listening to the song that compelled so many of us from the depths of our thug ignorance, I began to wonder whether I’d ever kicked it with a thug.

I concluded that I’ve certainly passed time with some rather sketchy characters.  I kept reaching a mental impasse, though,  with respect to actual application of the “thug” label.

So, I did what any intellectual worth her salt would do.

I devised a “thug test.”

That’s right.

A thug test.

I’ll walk you through it.

There are eleven categories crafted to encapsulate the complete thug experience. Within each category you will find several thug identifiers to which I’ve assigned point values, ranging from 1-10.

After having finished the test, participants can rank their potentially thuggy candidate by way of the thug scale I’ve designed. See below:

0-10 pts—Your man possesses thug attributes, but falls short of needing to be kept a secret from your parents and work colleagues.

11-21 pts—Thug. Abort.

21+ pts—Really, bitch? Are you really fucking this dude? Really?

Without further Ado, I give you…..

THE FOOLER THUG TEST

(I kept the title basic. Thugs hate complicated shit.)

 Category: Guns

-Your man has a gun at home +1

-Your man is not a cop/security guard/bodyguard and keeps a gun on his person in the event that he might have to a) jack some fools, or b) lest he, himself, become a victim of jack-timization +4

Category: Smoking

-Your man smokes Blacks, Swishers, Newports, or Parliaments +2

-Your man smokes one of the aforementioned and places one behind his ear for safekeeping +4

-Bitch, please. Cigarette smoke is nasty. That’s why your man only smokes weed. ‘Cos it’s from the Earth +4

                –Add +2 bonus points if your man pronounces “Earth” “Earph.”

Category: Children

-Your man has a child +1

                –You may deduct a point if the child is the product of a marital union

-Your man has two or more children +2

                –same deduction applies

-Your man has two or more children by two or more women +4

                –don’t deduct shit

-Add +2 bonus points if your man refers to his child/children as his “seed(s).”

 Category: Apathy

-Your man, at least once daily, can be counted on to give a vehement assertion of any of the following:

                -“I don’t give-a-fuck.” +4

                -“Ain’t no thang to me.” +4

                -“I’ma make it do what it do.” +2

-Add +3 bonus points if he precedes any of these with an, “Ay, you know me.”

-Add an additional +1 point if the “Ay, you know me” is accompanied by a shoulder shrug.

Category: Fighting

-Your man won’t shy away from a fight in public +3

-Your man starts fights in public +4

-Your man tries to fight you +6

                –in public +3

 Category: Drugs

-Your man has had any drug selling experience +3

-Your man has referred to said experience through a series of colloquialisms thereby romanticizing it and emphasizing his thuggyness (including but not limited to: “flippin’ pies,” “bakin’ cakes,” “slangin’ yay”) +4

 Category: Undershirt Savvy

-Your man expresses his creativity through his undershirt, and to this end:

                -ties it around his head in a fashion akin to Islamic Jihad +4

                -swings it around in the club when he’s hype +4

                -tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans and lets it hang down +2

                -wears a wifebeater outside of the home as a mainstay of his outfit +2

 Category: Jail/Prison

-Your man has been arrested +1

-Your man has been in jail for a period exceeding two days +4

-Your man has been to prison +6

-Your man has referred to any of the aforementioned time as having done a “lil’ bid.” +10

 Category: Tats

-Your man has a tat of praying hands anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if you’ve never seen/heard him pray

-Your man has a tat on his neck +4, knuckles +4, or face +6

-Your man has a tat of a person’s face anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if the person is his child or very much alive mother

 Category: Alcohol

-Your man drinks malt liquor +1

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag +2

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag while sitting on a stoop or front porch +4

-Your man refers to Hennessy as “Henny” +1 and/or Cognac as “Yak” +1

 Category: The life

-Your man refers to street life as “the game” +2

-Your man refers to his childhood or neighborhood friends as his “soldiers” +3

-Your man has lost two or more “soldiers” to “the game” +4

 Enjoy!

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

For my linesister, who has suffered as i’ve suffered…..

“ A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where will they build their nest?”

So, when you get to be my age—a whopping not even 30, all of your friends start getting engaged and married and having kids.

Which is fantastic—– if that’s your particular brand of awesome.

As it happens, my particular brand of awesome involves a little Woodford Reserve, a bit of sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters (if you’re being fancy), two Maraschino cherries and a couple cubes of ice thrown in; not to mention an especially witty young man, clad in his fresh-off-the-job-attire, top button undone, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his sinewy forearms–who is quick with the jokes, easy on the eyes, and fairly comfortable noticeably, yet inoffensively resting his gently calloused hand three fourths of an inch above my knee.

It takes all kinds.

Here’s the thing. Unless you’re one of those single people who desperately wants to be a non-single person, there comes a point when you are forced to evaluate your relationships with these soon-to-be-indefinitely-booed-up types. Because people change.

The soon-to-bes, that is.

Y’all change.

We don’t change for shit. It’s completely you guys.

And that’s fine. You’re supposed to change. You’re adding a whole other entity to your dimension. And that’s amazing and wonderful and beautiful.

And I love your happiness, and respect it.

But there is a very real probability that you will not be able to affect this transition to domesticity without metamorphosing into a complete bag of feminine hygiene products. And I recognize this.

And I don’t love it. Or respect it.

So, around the time that you’re picking out your China pattern, and monogramming towels, and going on and on ad infinitum about the joys of little Mikey finally taking a shit in the potty (something, I personally, think he should come out of the womb understanding) I’m trying to determine the most diplomatic way to tell you that you are no longer welcome here.

And by “here,” I mean, “in this friendship.” You know…with me.

I love you, but I swear, some of y’all are on some whole other shit.

And I’m not jealous, Boo boo. I’m not a hater. I happen to know full well what marriage is. I’ve seen my parents do it for over 30 years. I can already see, 5 years down the road, that monogrammed towel being flossed between your monkey husband’s ricotta cheesy ass cheeks.

To me, engaged/married/parenting people have been perpetrating what can only best be described as “party fouls” against single people for years, and it’s time for it to stop. I’ma put the kybosh on this shit right now. Y’all better ship up, or ship the fuck out.

Now, I’m not waging war on all domestic types. Some are patently aware of their people’s proclivity for becoming the veritable pap smear on an otherwise perfectly good evening. These single-friend sensitive types are always welcome at a gathering. Not douchey at all.

But y’all are a fucking rarity.

Crouching Married Person, Hidden Tool: 5 Mentalities that Make Engaged/Married/Parenting Persons Intolerable to their Awesome Single Friends

1. “My married shit is private.”

Ooh ooh ooh. Look at me. I’m married. All of my shit is top secret. I can’t tell you my shit cause it violates the super secret trust that me and my soulmate have established. Okay, look , bitch. I don’t give a damn about your top secret marriage shit, okay? But since I’ve detailed all of my date’s bodily orifices to you and called them by name—at your request– I do think some small measure of reciprocity is in order. And news flash, SirMcSketchALot. I don’t really give a damn about your married life. I’m just trying to be polite. I could give a shit about Jimmy’s Roth IRA and the discoloration of his ruddy ballskin. But don’t prod me about my relationship difficulties, and reward me with a shrug and whispered, “You know, married people stuff—kinda private,” when I ask about yours. Why not float me the benefit of the doubt and assume that I’m not trying to get in your business. Just like I’ll float you the benefit of the doubt and assume that your repeated efforts to know the minutiae of all the goings on in my life is not a last ditch, pathetic, and desperate attempt to live vicariously through me.

2. “Be me, ho!”

Okay, this is the part where you do something deceptively innocuous like, ask me about my day or whatever, and I tell you that I had a rough day, and then you’re all, “Well if you think that’s rough, try having a husband away on business and a child that needs to be picked up from daycare.” Bitch!!! I didn’t ask you what in the whole expanse of the Universe could possibly be more difficult or long-suffering than my shit! This isn’t Show and damned Tell whose life is the most horrible-estshitever. Please stop thinking that no matter what I say, your shit is going to be harder because you decided to go the whole andbabymakes3 route. Number one, that shit does NOT presumptively equal “checkmate,” okay? You don’t instantly win. There is plenty of insurmountably hard shit going on in my life. Only you don’t know about it cause I don’t feel the need to cry about it cause this is the life I chose and I’m not a whinycrybabybitchass. Grab a pad and pencil and note how that’s done. Two, stop acting like being married and having kids is like, some hard shit that you decided to do, and no one ever told you that it was some hard shit to do; like, that marriage is hard is the world’s best kept secret. Um, look around, bitch. We all know it’s hard. That’s why we’re still out in these streets ho-ing and drankin’. Cause this shit is easy. It’s easy as a bitch. And I’ll demonstrate such by doing so just as soon as I finish this entry.

3. “I’m too old for that now.”

Umm. Don’t think I didn’t recognize that backhanded slight about your perception of my behavior as immature. And don’t ask me what the fuck I did last night if you’re only gonna be all judgey about what I tell you. This just in. I’m going to live to be about 85 (presuming my liver keeps). I’m not even 30. I’m spry as a motherfucker. And young. And you’re not too old for it. You’re too wack for it. Chronologically, is there a time to come out of the club? Yes. Is there a point where your presence there is more death-knell-of-pathos as opposed to SnoopDogg-life-of-the-party? Yes. Do you get to say when enough is enough? No. And here’s why. You’re the bitch who couldn’t stay all night the slumber party because you didn’t want to be too far away from your mom. You’re the bitch who didn’t want to play Tag anymore cause Matt hit you too hard, so now you’re just going home. You’re the bitch who lost the senior class treasurer election, so you don’t want to participate period, cause if they don’t want some of your help then they can’t have any of it at all. Bitch, you’re the bow-out bitch. You’re the forfeit bitch. You’re the early night bitch. And it just so happens that me and mine—we’re the ride it til the wheels fall off it, then coast on those motherfucking wheels bitches; we’re close out the party then hunt for the afterparty, oh, there’s no afterparty, let’s go get breakfast bitches. We go hard. So, all that “I’m too old for that” shit—is loosely translated to our awesome ears as, “I’m a weak, go easy type bitch.” And really, shame on you.

4. “Wait til you get married.”

Well now, that statement presupposes two very large assumptions, doesn’t it? The first being, that I’ll ever be married like you. More importantly, the second being, that I’ll ever be wack like you. I’ll acquiesce to the possibility of the former, and justifiably beat the hell out of you at the mere suggestion of the latter.

5. “You can’t have my life in the span of a weekend”/ “Stop tryin’ to get it back you look ridiculous.”

This one is nearest and dearest to my heart. This one is my gift to you engaged/married/parents. Look, I’m as down for a wifey’s/mommy’s night out as the next one. But, invariably, your otherwise repressed existence that is offered this brief reprieve and freedom takes it a little too far. You’re so intent on letting your caged bird sing that you end up doing some off the wall shit that is entirely unacceptable, even to the downest bitch. Cause, while I’m a go hard, type bitch, I can’t be mistaken for a go to jail type bitch, K? Ya’ll spend all of your time washing dishes and baking soufflés, so I’m honored to be your guide through the pathways of the Underworld. I’m happy to get you out on some so-there’s-a-party-goin’-on-in-there-well-let-me-shake-my-stankin-ass-in-there type shit. It’s an invitation to do some shots, dance seductively with strange men, and, idunno, I suppose if you want, I’ll turn a blind eye should you suddenly decide that you want to make out with some drunk, blonde, female co-ed. But that’s it. I don’t expect to have to pull you out of the car of aforementioned strange man intent on taking you home and doing things to your anus your rational, sober mind would never even conceive of. I don’t want to “fight” any “smack-talkin’ bitches” outside in the street. I don’t want to tear the bar apart trying to find the wedding ring you saw fit to take off somewhere between Jaeger bombs and flashing your little married titties. And I for damn sure don’t think that the only thing that could possibly make the night “more awesome” would be if we could someway, somehow “score some coke.” Bitch, you are off of the fucking reservation, and you need to find your way back. Stop trying to copy my life, ho. You can’t do this shit in a weekend. Or, at all. Cause you’re married. Put those titties away. Please.

And, just to be clear—

The aforementioned message isn’t going out to all of my engaged/married/parent friends—just the wack ones (who seem to comprise a significant majority of all of my engaged/married/parent friends).

xoxoxo

Preachers and Hoodhollas and Gold Fronts, Oh My! Or, 17 Things that Annoyed me this Weekend

-(fri) Paying $20 bucks to park across the street from the gay bar in Northeast. And while I was annoyed at the outrageousness of the sum, I was doubly so by the courage of the parking attendant to look me dead in my eyes and actually say, with a fair degree of confidence, “Twenty dollars.” In my mind, asking someone for twenty bucks to temporarily house a vehicle is some shit that should be mumbled in hushed whispers, and negotiated in back alleys under extreme cover of night. Reaching into my bag to grab the crisp bill, I returned his bold stare and said, “You know this is complete bullshit, right?”

-(fri) Standing in line, period. Standing in line in the cold. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us and not being able to confront them because I wasn’t trying to get into a fist fight with two baby homothug queens.

-(fri) Getting to the front of the line, only to have the bouncer tell me that I had to throw away my brand new pack of gum, and spit out the piece in my mouth. Later on that evening, a grown man in a leather cowboy hat got on stage and performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation. But I couldn’t chew gum inside. Cause the joint was too classy for that.

-(fri) Ordering a gin and tonic at the bar, and having the bartender scoff when I requested Tanqueray. Know what, bitch? I just paid twenty bucks to park my car, 15 bucks to get inside, and $1.25 on a brand new pack of chewing gum that is now resting in a trash receptacle, outside. You can shove that Bombay Sapphire straight up your own ass.

-(fri) Resigning myself to biting my bottom lip when my mouth went dry while a grown man in a leather cowboy hat performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation, as my brand new $1.25 pack of chewing gum was resting in a trash receptacle outside.

-(sat) Dancing with a man (and, graciously doing so, as he was apparently part-Wookie), only to have him get overly excited and outright palm and cup my ass, mid-dance. Well guess what, Johnny Two-Thumbs? No more pity dances for you. I tell you what, no good deed….

-(sat) Dancing with another man who treated me like a simpleton. “You’re pretty,” said he (I’m not). “Add me to your facebook page” (I don’t even know your monkey ass). “I’ve been watching you and I can tell you’re a nice girl ( You “watched” me down 3 screwdrivers and a Chardonnay, and booty thrust to “Da Butt.” Not sure if I entirely trust your data compilation methodology).

-(sat) My linesister giving me the “thumbs up” on aforementioned idiot. #1. I’ma need her to NEVER give me the “thumbs up” on anything, ever again. The “thumbs up” met its demise as a respected means of communicating approval roughly twenty years ago. #2. While Jackass-part-deux wasn’t exactly unattractive, I would not have been entirely surprised if he counted among his active likes vigorously fist-pounding his chest, branch-swinging, and eagerly searching the scalps of his companions for tics and insects.

-(sat) The sexiest man in the club opening his mouth to reveal, among his pearly whites, a single, shiny gold tooth. Whoa!! Flashback, who’s that, dancin’ to the latest, Randy Watson! Really, dawg? Really? You don’t even have the decency to have a grill. Like, you’re rockin’ the granddaddy to the grill. And you lured me in all seductive like with that fedora and fitted vest. How you gonna have young ass clothes, and old ass fronts? It’s like your mouth is embroiled in a civil war with the rest of your body. I’ll pass, kind sir. You’re shit is all conflicted with itself.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that my forehead is huge. Like, unforgivably so. Seriously, I’m officially on the lookout for a second Census questionnaire in my mailbox as this shit is absolutely worthy of its own zipcode.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that all of those bitches have their own foreheads covered up. Like, that I was the only one that didn’t get the “Hey-we’re-all-going-out-tonight-ten-bucks-at-the-door-don’t-forget-to-cover-up-your-big-assed-forehead” text.

-(sun) Witnessing the christening of two children at the socially progressive church Michael and I were attending, and having the pastor begin, in measured, rhythmic steps; without musical accompaniment, and in complete and utter seriousness: “I believe—the children are our future. Teach them well—and—let them—lead the way. Show them—all—the beauty—they possess—inside. Give them—a sense—of pride. Let————the children’s——laughter….remind us how—-we—-used to be.”

-(sun) Witnessing aforementioned debacle, and having to look straight forward and not laugh (as Michael and our friend, Reggie, kept shooting me pointed looks that I saw in my periphery) when fellow parishioners urged the pastor on with outcries of “YES!” and “AMEN!” and “MMHMMM!!” and “SPEAK IT!”

-(sun) Witnessing, a mere 37 minutes later, the same pastor, take each child, hold him/her in the air above his head, and say, very solemnly, “Behold, (insert child’s name here) the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sound’s beautiful, right? Well, take some time out and check your betterknowablackperson archives, cause it should sound familiar, too. Who said it, first? John motherfucking Amos, during his portrayal of KUNTA KINTE in “Roots.” “Behold, KIZZY, the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

That I did not stand up and walk out is a phenomenal testament to the existence of my oft-questioned maturity.

-(sun) Leaving church, huge palm leaf in hand, walking past a row of low-income buildings, where two men promptly shouted, “Damn, you sexy as a motherfucker. Sweetheart, come over here and sit down with us for a minute.” Word? Well let me just put my bible and HUGE PALM LEAF down right here, malt-liquor drinkers! Don’t mind if I do! (Editor’s note: I didn’t really have my bible with me, but the hoodholla was still wildly inappropriate.)

-(sun) Going to Panera and ordering a green tea with “little” ice, only to have my attendant reach behind herself, grab an already-prepared green tea that was obviously 75% ice, and hand it to me.

-(sun) Having to resist the overwhelming urge to say, “BITCH, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE FUCK I JUST SAID???” because it would have been bad form, not to mention the fact that I was still carrying a rather large palm leaf in my hand. Upon greater reflection, the fact that I’m still having these urges post-Sunday Message is a troubling commentary on the depths of my depravity. Either that, or the Sunday Message completely lost its credibility amidst a barrage of Whitney Houston and John Amos quotes.

Church, we go hard, we go hard.

My friend, Michael, and I are sinners.

Like, we do it big.

Now, I’m not saying this with any measure of pride.

In fact, I am shaken to the core at the prospect of being as woefully tethered to the pursuits of the flesh at nearly 30 as I was at 23.

Well. Maybe not shaken to the core.

But I am admittedly ill at ease with what is beginning to seem like my permanent residency on the Wayside.

Now, much like myself, my friend, Michael, at times, can hear the faint whimpers of his soul crying out—sometimes on his way to class, other times while a dashing, sinewy man whispers hushed verbal caresses into his boy/boy-inclined ears.

One day it occurred to us that our love for high risk behaviors might bring an abrupt, and premature end to our lives on this Earth. We were desperate to negotiate amends with our Maker.

So, together, Michael and I took to the streets.

The church streets.

And for a period of close to 8 months now, we’ve been on the hunt to find the “right one.”

Now, our quest has gained us some haters.

My linesister has long protested, in no uncertain terms, the mess that is our “church gypsy,” “congregationally promiscuous” existence.

But Michael and I are steadfast. We know our church home is out there. And we’re not resting til we find it.

And we haven’t made any pre-set determinations with respect to denomination, either. In fact, our only rule concerning the matter at all is that, no matter how late we stay out the night before, we go to church the next day. No matter what. This is the law.

Now, generally, we hear of a church, and go visit. But, the majority of the time, Michael has come up with the selected choices. Be it resolved that black gay boys have the franchise on all things church-related.

This is not to say that I haven’t chosen a church myself. Cause, up until the point of today’s story, I had chosen a church. One, to be exact.

You see, I’d selected a Pentecostal number in Northeast. And, Michael was hesitant, but relented against his better judgment.

What followed was a full fledged concert, interrupted once for an awards and recognition ceremony, and then succeeded by a sermon whose message carried us well into the 3.5 hour mark before a wild-eyed Michael abruptly turned to me and whispered harshly, “Can we leave?”

I was precluded from making any further church selections for several months after that, until two weeks ago, when Michael informed me that my probation was over. I was, once again, free to choose a church.
I hadn’t had much time to really give the matter much thought. And I’d long fielded an invite from my fairly religious cousin to check out her church.

When I’d called to inquire about the time service started, she’d indicated eleven. I even thought to myself how perfectly such a late time slot would accommodate our night-before activities.

When I saw the address, I was further delighted still by the fact that it was only minutes away from Michael’s home. I gave him the details and forewarned him that the church might be a megachurch (we aren’t really interested in those).

And then we partied.

We partied hard.

I sported my new slinky, tight LBD, and just knew I could get the biznass with the sweetheart neckline and my lone, exposed mocha truffle-colored shoulder.

It was a night rampant with seductive dances, buckets of liquor with our equally debauched group of friends, not to mention the occasional random outburst of song in the traffic packed streets of the Corridor.

It was a colorful night. A night characterized by bouncers—bouncers we (meaning I) let touch and feel all up on us (me), and bouncers at the Diner who my friends, led by my belligerent, righteously indignant linesister, harassed and assailed with verbal lambasting.

It was a solid night.

And when I walked into my home at 5:30 in the morning, I was certain that death was sure to follow should I dare open my eyes before ten solid hours had passed. But, recalling Michael’s and my rule, I begrudgingly set my clock for 9:30.

Later that morning, as I drove to pick up Michael, I was deeply contemplative about my physical state. My red-rimmed eyes freely gave away the secrets my waning liver seemed to keep. Michael was unresponsive to my calls and texts, but I drudged onward. When I arrived at his home, he finally picked up the phone, sounding like a pre-revolutionary Marcus Garvey. He indicated that he was naked, and in bed, but would rush to get ready and be down momentarily. When Michael got to the car, 15 minutes later, I quickly dismissed his apologies. My gps indicated that the church was only 2 minutes away. We’d actually be on time.

A few short turns later, my gps (programmed to be a British man named, Tim), kept repeating his familiar refrain, “You have reached your destination.” But I saw no signs of a megachurch. I saw no signs of a church, period.

“I think we’ve passed it,” said I.

A disgruntled sigh answered my assertion.

“No———we haven’t,” said Michael.

I turned my eyes to the same direction as my passenger, and saw the reason for his ire.

The church was, in fact, a row house.

A dilapidated row house.

A dilapidated row house with two equally dilapidated row houses on either side of it.

Every single space that would have housed a window was boarded up by wooden panels.

Every single space——–but one.

Cause in the space reserved for a living room bay window was one, sole, colorful stained glass window.

I parked my car a block away, behind a tricked out teal blue Mitsubishi Eclipse and braced myself for the onslaught.

Michael erupted.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!!! WHAT IS THIS?!?!? WHAT IS THIS?!!?!?! EXPLAIN YOURSELF?!?!? DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?!?!?!?”

Laughter-prompted tears began streaming down my face.

“Michael, I swear I didn’t—“

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!! YOU ARE 0 FOR 2!!!! YOU ARE 0 FOR 2!!!! YOU HAVE, ONCE AGAIN, PROVED YOURSELF TO BE THE WEAKEST LINK IN THIS CHURCH HUNT!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS A-GAIN!!!”

“Michael, my cousin really loves this church. I’m saying. We gotta try.”

Michael just looked out the window, refusing to meet my pleading eyes. “I need some coffee right now,” he tersely replied. “If I’m going to do this, I need some coffee.”

We proceeded to the world’s worst McDonalds, located squarely in the hood, where Michael picked up “coffee” and “chicken” McNuggets.

I knew I had to make a play for it.

“It’s gonna be fine, Michael. You’ll see.”

I drove us back to the same spot as before, and urged Michael out of the car.

“My cousin loves this church. Promise me you’ll behave. Promise.”

My friend looked at me resolutely. “I can’t promise that.”

“Michael—“ I protested.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me you won’t look at me while we’re inside. Not ever. No matter what,” I suggested.

“I’ll try. I promise you I will try.”

Ours were sluggish steps, each one sounding heavier on the trash strewn broken pavement than the last. When we reached our destination, I gave Michael one last, lingering look as I held the splintered rail and climbed the rickety wooden steps. I noted paint chips falling from the columns and determined that I had to contain myself. I had to.

I placed my hand on the cool door knob. At that exact moment, an older woman’s voice carried over us from a sound system inside. She was singing soulfully into a microphone that I imagined looked like a Don Cornelius throwback. Because there was no musical accompaniment, her time-worn voice was all we could hear. I firmly gripped the handle, and looked back at my friend.

“You ready?” I asked.

And then it happened.

Michael had a meltdown.

“I CAN’T DO IT!!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!!! OHJESUSLORDHELPMEI’MSORRYICAIN’TDOTHIS!!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!!! I CAN’T DO IT I CAN’T DO IT I CAN’T DO IT DON’T MAKE ME DO IT I CAN’T!!!! I JUST CAN’T DO IT!!! OHJESUSICAN’TDOIT!!!”

I almost peed on myself.

On and on he went until I was convinced that we could in no way affect this particular church journey without me being forever-scorned by my family.

Dejectedly, we turned and slowly headed down the steps, Michael faintly whispering, “I just cain’t do it,” all the while.

When we reached the car, Michael again apologized, and we agreed to return to a nearby church we’d attended before. I put the keys in the ignition and a thought occurred to me.

“I think I have to throw up, Michael.”

Thinking i meant metaphorically, Michael replied, “Girl, you might as well. We’re sittin’ here parked behind this spaceship.”

I opened my car door, and before I could even be particular about a choice spot to gift with my stomach rumblings, vomit surged from my mouth. A full minute passed before I was done hurling the last bourbon-soaked vestiges of the prior night from my insides.”

I climbed back into my car, mascara running down my face, and looked to Michael to apologize. “Michael, I’m—“

“THE WEAKEST LINK. THE WEAK-EST DAMNED LINK. Oooooooo, I am so done with you, right now! I am so damned done with you.”

Needless to say, the ride back to Michael’s place was a somber one. I exhaled deeply and noted, “My cousin is going to hate me forever. I can’t believe we didn’t go inside.”

Michael turned to me, and with all the earnest he could muster, said, “Listen. Today was a fail. But there’s a lesson in this. You have to know your limitations. And it just so happens that we are two severely limited people. Now, maybe we’ll go back to that church another time. But, after last night, today was not the day. Today was not the day.”

“But my cousin—“

“Trust me. You did her a favor. She woulda hated you ten times more if we’d actually gone inside. Especially after that number you just pulled behind the spaceship.”

“I’m an awful, awful person,” I said, mournfully.

Michael simply returned to looking out of his window. “Mmmhmm.”

Because I’m the kinda girl who likes to look out for her boys….or, “you, too, can get laid.”

I have heard it said, time and time again, that a woman knows whether she will sleep with a man within five minutes of her meeting him.

This is a bunch of bullshit.

More incredulous still, is the context where this faulty (I will call it “logic” but please note my reticence to do so) “logic” is most famously applied. As I’ve heard it, men gift other men with this gem as a consolatory “chin up” when a fellow penis-haver has failed to seal the deal with his lady love. Invariably, this theory is met with a chorus of “Yeah, man, women stay bullshittin,’” followed by the obligatory anecdotes detailing how each individual tenor has similarly experienced said “bullshittin’.” Ultimately, the cerulean-testicled friend’s confidence is reassured, his belief in the female libido eviscerated, and once more, all is right with the world.

Only-

This is a bunch of bullshit.

Now, I’m not speaking, personally, mind you, but I happen to have it on good authority that a woman can wake up in the middle of the night with a man, and wonder aloud, to no one in particular, “How in the fuck did he get here?” I can also attest to, again, not personally speaking, mind you, this feeling being immediately followed by an intense compulsion to call your local police, as surely some egregious wrong has been perpetrated on your person.

No, bitch, you went with that mongrel free and clear. You all but begged him back to the crib.

But the question still remains: How did he get there?

And if the late night troll-in-bed scenario is entirely possible, how can one account for the gaping chasm between the hobgoblin under your duvet and the smurf-nuts idiot-philosopher above?

I have the answer.

Men—
y’all are fucking up.

Simple, isn’t it?

I’ve found that most things in life generally are.

Now, before I continue, I’ll break to disclose the purpose of my no-doubt startling revelation, as many of my fellow vagtastics will assume that I’m betraying the sisterhood.

I’m not. I’m trying to save us all a little bit of time and heartache, and you know what else—a little dignity.

There is nothing worse than a man who has taken some fatal misstep, unbeknownst to himself, who continues to nip at a woman’s heels, salivating at the jowls for the ass he will never see.

And I would imagine that–for a man paying a sky high rent or mortgage, in the midst of a recession, in an area boasting one of the highest costs of living in this country–15 dollars per drink for a chick planning on riding shotgun in her girlfriend’s camry at the end of the night, ain’t exactly what’s hot in these streets.

So my motives are pure.
I’m fighting the good fight, people.

Now, as is the case with all things beautiful and magical in this world—such as the prospect of unexpected monkey sex with the whiskey-handsome man before you—there is a delicate balance to be observed. Any slightest thing can potentially burst your monkey sex bubble.

Fellas, please understand that a woman at the ready is something like a unicorn one happens upon in a mythical, enchanted forest. One must take care to tread softly and with the greatest degree of caution, and, if at all possible, with the most conservative use of communication feasible, limiting any talking at all to the sparsest, most hushed whispers.

So many times I’ve listened to men vent about that unicorn that’s escaped into the wood, leaving nothing but fairy dust in her midst. Each one has stood before me, gesticulating wildly, righteously indignant in his stance, shouting out protestations of, “She was bullshittin’!!!”

Never does it occur to them that maybe even some small, seemingly innocuous, undetected thing that they’ve done (and more often than not said), has lit a fire to that unicorn’s ass.

As a woman, personally maligned by these rants of rejected suitors, I’ve taken it upon myself to divert from the beaten, trodden path, and offer some advice by way of example.

That’s right, fellas.

I’ma help you fuck your unicorn.

Now, before I give you the rules, a few disclaimers, if you will.

1. Sometimes a woman’s a bitch. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t want to fuck you. These are not interrelated concepts. That is to say, part 2 doesn’t mean part 1. Got it?
2. I’m no doctor, but I bet there’s research to support the contention that one finds higher incidences of herpes among the type of bitches that routinely walk out of that door with strange man in tow, Friday after Friday. That being said, a woman’s sexual prerogative is motivated by any number of things: maybe she had a fight with her boyfriend and is on getback; maybe she’s pushing 30 and needs some cheap validation of her youth; shit, maybe she just got her hair done and is feelin’ extra fly. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to sniff out the non-dirty whore in the bunch. Then again, maybe you’ll wake up and pee fire.

And…………. The Rules.

I. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

This shit is in all caps for a reason. It is the number one most violated rule in all social interaction in the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan Area. The more you talk, the more likely you are to say some out of hand shit that will no-doubt render you the most unfuckable man ever. Nobody likes a talky man. UNLESS he’s funny. And even that’s a delicate card to play as it can sometimes be confused with “young acting.” Trust me on this one. Just shut the fuck up. We’ll think you’re mysterious. And that makes us want to get to know you. Biblically.

II. Stop bragging. Please.

Contrary to popular male thought, a woman couldn’t care less about what you have. This is especially true for the typically high-achieving, educated group of women who flock to this city in droves. If the chick is in the same spot as you, she probably has everything you have. Yes. Everything you have. Including that one thing that you know you have that she doesn’t have. And she has it in hot-pink, lavender, and chocolate thunder. We’re not exactly husband hunting at the spot blasting Roscoe Dash that has chewing gum under the counter, so stop telling me about what all you’ve got. Nothing makes hot run cold like a man obsessed with how awesome he is. While most women will tolerate, and indeed be mildly attracted to, some measure of arrogance, we cannot abide vanity. It’s gross and effeminate. If we were in the habit of fucking bitches, we’d be in a different kind of bar.

III. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I’m sorry. I just got off the phone with a talky ass dude. I just needed to say it again in case the message isn’t getting through.

IV. Don’t dog my steps.

Look. I want to dance with you, cause I think you’re kinda cute, and you smell like heaven. And maybe you’re confused because I just did a handstand while gyrating my crotch in your face. But, I don’t need you to be all up under me all night. It’s annoying, and frankly, a bit scary. We’re not engaged, random-man-at- the-club. You haven’t exactly approached my father with a tureen of basmati rice and a goat. So let me be for a minute. I’ll be back, promise. You saw me do like a hundred shots, already. *whisper* Relax. You got this.

V. Compliment with care.

Now, personally, I am made uneasy by excessive compliments, as they have an air of disingenuousness about them. However, feel free to compliment my dress, my hair, whatever if it gets the ball rolling. Now, I apologize to anyone for whom this is old hat, but based upon past experience, I am compelled to note that, “Man you gotta fat ass,” and “Damn that fat ass is lookin good,” or even last week’s curbside cry of “I got two hun’ned dollas on that ass raaaiiiy—tt nay-ow!!!” are not compliments. I curse, and I drink, and there may be some question as to whether I’m a proper young lady, but make no mistake about it, I’m a woman. And I deserve respect. Also, I will make a scene and get us both thrown the fuck out. As an editor’s note, the best compliment a man ever gave me that made me want to go home with him was, “I think you’re so talented.” Granted, it’s inapplicable in the instance of a random encounter, but– food for thought.

VI. DUDE!!! Is that your breath?

We’re in a crowded space that demands intimate communication (Lord, PLEASE don’t forget the cardinal rules of numbers I and III). We’re drinking. BRING GUM. It’s not that hard. Your harsh, salty breath is a DEAL BREAKER. NO MATTER WHAT. And I know it’s just the alcohol’s aftertaste, but I swear it cultivates all kinds of unpleasant thoughts surrounding the probable petri dish of disease that is your inner mouth space. A woman can’t hold her breath the whole time she’s doing you. She’ll pass out mid-stroke. And you know what you got now? That’s right. Aggravated –sexual—assault.

VII. Full disclosure of shit that will freak me out once we step out of this darkened venue.

If you have a speech impediment, I need to know it. If you have a gimp leg, tell me now. If you have a vestigial tail, you better make mention of it. I need to be apprised of everything that could categorically be described as a deformity prior to exit. I don’t care how you do it. “I got punched in the mouth while I was in ‘Nam and now all my t’s sound like s’s.” Make a joke about it. “Girl, don’t make me take this prosthetic arm off and beat your tail with it.” Whatever. I don’t care. I better know about that shit before we hit the street lights, or else someone’s face is getting busted. Nobody likes surprises. ESPECIALLY when she’s naked. If I’m to be subjected to your uncontrollable mouth spittle for the remainder of the evening, I better damn well be informed several moments prior.

All right, kids. Good luck. Just remember, once upon a time, a Bobby married a Whitney. But you know what? He nailed her first.

why i fux with lux

—I fuck with that; I fucks with that; I fux wit’ dat—euphem. Eng. Derivative of 1970s, “I can dig it.” I like that very much. That’s awesome beyond all recognition. I can certainly appreciate that.—-

Educated black people, in large quantities, enlightened by their life’s experience and matriculation through the upper echelons of The Man’s world—— fucking suck.

That’s right. I said it. Y’all suck.

I don’t want to see your fucking business card. I don’t give a damn about your Ivy education. Your fancy foreign car can suck meat. Y’all suck.

Unduly harsh? I’ll take a step back, for a moment.

I’ve always wanted to live in DC.

Ever since I was a child.

For me, DC represented this sleek city life, teeming forth with urbane sophistication. A Tidewater native, DC was the polar opposite of my staid, suburban upbringing. And while some of the outlier contingents of Tidewater’s “seven cities” provided a slight deviation from the quiet, nuclear family mold my parents and neighbors tirelessly worked to cultivate for myself and my peers, the mean streets of South Norfolk (pronounced naw-fuk) and Newport News (affectionately nicknamed, “Bad News”) wasn’t exactly what I was shooting for. Mind you, I wasn’t naïve. I knew that DC had its less than desirable elements (I cannot even tell you what my mother calls it, and my father outright refuses to visit). But, if there was a place where blacks could thrive, DC was it.

When I went to college, this DC fantasy flourished. I met a group of people who I knew would be my lifelong friends, and they all had similar aspirations of DC living. By the time I reached law school, this fantasy, now epic in stature, was the only thing that kept me from shooting myself in the face. But, by this point, the dream had matured. My college friends had already preceded me and set up shop in the District. And I just knew that someday, soon, we’d sit around drinking glasses of red wine, engaging in deep discussions that were both esoteric and “down,” laughing in that self-congratulatory way that one does when she’s “made it,” our backs to the White House, and our eyes to the heavens.

And it all happened. With some minor tweaks, of course. We’ve grown and fused our networks, met new people and friends, but, the original concept is still there. And when we go out, we go to lounges or bars. Because, apparently, that’s what urban sophisticates do. They lounge. Even when I hang out with my newer friends, a decidedly more blipster (black hipster) set, we go to artsy lounges. Or rooftops set up like lounges. I imagine, like myself, everyone had grown long tired of the “club thing” in our late teens, early twenties.

Here’s the thing I didn’t bank on-

Educated black people, in large quantities, fucking suck. (I know I said it before, but trust me, it bears repeating.)

Everywhere I go, there’s some new mixer for “young, black professionals.” And everyone does the same thing. Everyone is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And everyone is so excited that he/she is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And it’s gotten to the point where those are the only people we seem to want to be around. Like your drink doesn’t even taste right if the girl next to you does hair for a living.

And then, one day, it was there…like a mirage in the desert. Lux Lounge.

Now, don’t be fooled by the “Lounge” part.

That shit is a club.

Through and through.

And it doesn’t seem like one at first. And by “at first,” I mean, from the outside.

Situated on New York Avenue (mmmhmm), Lux is a beautiful four storey building with elaborate molding, and a velvet rope. But once you get through security and step beyond those wood paneled doors– thug motherfucking life.

And this is the thing about growing up. Sometimes, you never know what you’ll miss until you happen upon it again.

And what I didn’t know that I missed, was that shady, hood element to be found in South Nawfuk and Bad News.

I didn’t know that what I really need, once in a while, is to put on the shortest, tightest, nakedest bitch dress I can find, with my doorknocker earrings, and get gully with DC’s finest.

At Lux, dudes come up to you, grab you by your waist, and hold you close. They whisper in your ear and call you “ma.”

At Lux, the wifebeater is an actual part of the outfit. The shirt is technically a jacket, meant to ultimately come off.

At Lux, bitches wear wigs. And not like, day-to-day, my hair is a mess wigs, either. Like, they’re on some, “Girl-it’s-about-to-be-on-tonight-and-I’m-wearing-my-good-wig-too” shit. You didn’t even know there was such a thing as a “good” wig, did you? Like, a wig that’s gonna help you get ass quicker than the wig you wear to work.

Know how many times I’ve been to Lux? A lot.

Know how many times a man has asked me for my card? Not a damned once.

And while there are plenty of good looking people at Lux, there is always a strong ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld element.

And they re-pre-sent.

Do you think that they care that their face game isn’t the tightest?

Hell no.

Why?

Cause even the ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld gets ass at Lux.

Let me tell you something. The other night, my linesister (who had treated me to Lux because she knows I love it so) was near the bar, and this troll-looking dude, this Chem lab project, rolled up on her (cause that’s how they do—they roll up on you), did the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver, and started grinding on her. Even though she’d thrown a few back, she had the presence of mind to incline her head to see the manner of man thoroughly assailing her hip bones with thrust after pelvic thrust. When she again, turned her head forward, I saw the panic gripping her face. Calling to mind the oath I’d taken, so many years ago, I immediately interjected myself between soror and orangutan, and started dancing with her, myself.

Now, at a typical DC lounge, said facemonster would have mentally relegated me to haterassbitch status, and moved on, perhaps even defeatedly walking away, tail dragging between his cloven, hoofed feet.

Not at Lux, baby.

What did horriblestgrillintheworld do?

That’s right.

Effectuate the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver on me, and start grinding on me.

Cause he didn’t give a fuck.

Cause dudes don’t give a fuck at Lux.

Know what I did?

That’s right.

I thrusted back.

Cause I don’t give a fuck when I’m at Lux either.

At Lux, I once saw this little, bite-sized man dancing with this extremely large woman.

Not such a big deal, right?

Wrong.

He was eye level with her gargantuan breasts (at Lux, we call these “titties”), and with his left hand, took her left breast and swung it into the right breast, and watched them swing at each other, knocking each other back and forth like measured balls, all the while keeping his head rhythmically in time with the music.

He did this several times.

Why?

Cause he was at Lux, and he didn’t give a fuck.

And the girl let him. She didn’t feel violated, or objectified, or maligned, or aggrieved, or any of those fancy words we like to toss around at our young, black professional mixers.

Why?

Cause she was at Lux. And she didn’t give a fuck, either.

Now, trust me. I’m sure there are people who do big things, and go to Lux. I’m sure there are mortgage brokers, and nuclear physicists, and philosophy professors who all, from fair to fair, enjoy passing time there.

The point is, you’d never know. Because it’s not about who you are or what you do. It’s about having a good time; about stripping yourself of your titles and modifiers and losing yourself in the anonymity of a booty clap.

At Lux, the vice president of a bank can be found in the middle of the dance floor next to a nail tech, each of them bending over and touching their toes in perfect, cohesive harmony.

And THAT is why, I fucks with Lux.